‘What about?’ asked Evelyn, her hand still outstretched to receive the diary.
The woman tucked a piece of flyaway hair behind her ear and shuffled from one foot to the other. ‘Are you Evelyn Mountcastle, the actress?’ she asked.
For a second, something in Evelyn’s heart soared. Evelyn Mountcastle, the actress. The mere words evoked in her a nostalgia so strong that the corners of her mouth turned up a little. She fought to push them back down.
‘I am,’ she replied grandly.
The woman smiled then, her entire face lighting up so that instantly she looked younger and less ravaged.
‘My mother told me you were,’ she said. ‘I gather you were quite famous.’
Evelyn shrugged. ‘I had my moment,’ she replied. ‘Although that’s all in the past now. I don’t act any more.’
‘Why not?’ asked the woman.
It was such a direct question that Evelyn was at first taken aback by it and then intrigued by the questioner. ‘The opportunities just never presented themselves,’ she said.
The woman nodded as if considering this, but still made no effort to hand over the diary. She was bold, Evelyn would give her that. Well, two could play at that game.
‘And you? You work in a charity shop, you say.’
The woman nodded, but the accompanying expression in her eyes suggested something that Evelyn couldn’t quite put her finger on. Was it a disappointment that that was what her life amounted to – not that Evelyn could see anything inherently wrong with the job herself – or sadness? Or loss? Yes, that was it. Evelyn could see loss in the woman’s face. It was something she recognised because she saw it reflected in her own features every time she caught sight of herself in a mirror.
‘But there’s more to it than that,’ Evelyn continued thoughtfully, as if she were a stage medium. ‘That’s not your job of choice, is it?’
The woman gave a brief shake of her head. ‘I’m a barrister,’ she said, her eyes no longer meeting Evelyn’s and focusing on the wall of the house instead. ‘But I’m not currently practising.’
She didn’t say any more, but there was more to be said, Evelyn could tell. Perhaps she should let her in? She could try to get to the bottom of this story as well as getting the diary back. She didn’t seem like a scammer or an axe-murderer, and Evelyn realised suddenly how much she ached to have a conversation with another human being, someone who did not feel obliged to be there and talk to her.
She opened the door a little wider and invited the stranger in.
32
Pip followed Evelyn inside. The door closed behind her, the sound heavy in the silence of the house, and suddenly the hum of the street outside was gone.
She found herself in a dark corridor, the air cloying and thick with the smell of dust. Evelyn led the way, and after a moment’s hesitation opened a door on her right into what Pip imagined would be the sitting room. There was no daylight in there either, but Evelyn stepped sure-footedly and opened the window blinds to let the sun in. The dust, so recently disturbed, floated around her, catching in the rays of light that now sliced through the space. There was a musty, neglected feel to the room, and Pip wondered how long it had been since the door had last been opened. She longed to fling wide the windows and let fresh air circulate, but instead she instructed her lungs to accept the poor-quality oxygen without complaint.
‘Please, sit down,’ said Evelyn, indicating the high-backed chairs that sat on either side of the tiled fireplace.
A thick layer of sticky dust caked the chairs as well, so it was almost impossible to discern the colour of the tweed upholstery. Somewhere between green and brown, Pip guessed, and definitely from the early part of the twentieth century. Somebody somewhere would part with a fortune for this retro look, but here it just had an air of being forgotten and unloved.
She chose the seat with its back to the window and managed to resist her natural urge to brush away the dust before sitting down. Aside from a general lack of use, the room retained the formality it must have had when it was used for best. There was no television, for a start, and none of the day-to day-clutter that family life usually generates. Through the murky glass of a Victorian display cabinet, Pip could see several pieces of china in the distinctive pale blue and white of Wedgwood jasperware, together with various other ornaments that looked like expensive collectors’ pieces rather than tacky souvenirs. Her sharp eye also spotted a coffee service that she thought might be an original Clarice Cliff. There had clearly been money here at one time, Pip could see.