Eighteen months ago, I would not have traveled so far to meet a man who had known Francis Aggrey. Eighteen months ago, I was Robert’s wife, and that came with its own preoccupations, an entire set of people and holidays and activities that I now see had everything to do with Robert and nothing to do with me. But there was an Anna Bain before there was an Anna Graham, perhaps the real Anna, the interrupted Anna who had always been curious about her father, maybe even desperate for him. And who was this Anna, hurtling towards Edinburgh? Anna unrooted and untethered, free and lost as a balloon in the sky.
The train broke into some sunshine. We were by the coast. A lone figure walked on a beach. A dog ran ahead. Beside me the snacks trolley rolled past in the aisle.
“Welcome to Edinburgh Waverley. Please remember to take all your belongings with you as you leave the train. We wish you a pleasant onward journey.”
The station is named for a novel by Sir Walter Scott, a historical romance. The streets are paved with cobblestones: beautiful to look at, impractical for modern transport. I bounce in the back of my taxi. I cannot understand my driver’s accent. I let him keep the change.
I stand at the cafeteria entrance watching the student life drift in and out. The fare is better than I remember from my own time at university—a salad bar, five dessert options, gluten-free, Halal, vegan, and the price of all this choice written in bold. Everyone knows what to do. They pick up trays, read menus, queue and pay, only briefly looking up from their phones. I walk around until I see Adrian seated in a window booth. I recognize the silver hair. I draw closer.
“Anna?” he asks.
I can still walk past.
“I beg your pardon. I’m expecting an Anna Bain.”
“I’m Anna. Are you Professor Bennett?”
“Adrian is fine.”
He stands to shake my hand. He is tall and his belly is flat under the checked shirt tucked into his dark jeans. He rises with ease and his grip is strong.
“I hope you had a pleasant trip from London. Will you be staying long?”
“I leave this evening,” I say.
“In your e-mail you mentioned some family business?”
“This is it.”
“Of course. You have a family connection to Francis,” he says. “Can I offer you anything? A cup of tea or a coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
A herd of students walk past, braying at a joke. I bring out the diary and place it on the table. His eyes shift to the book. He leans forward but does not touch it.
“So you found this in your mother’s possession? What was your mother’s relation to Francis, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“He was a lodger. My grandfather was his landlord,” I say.
“Does Francis mention me in the diary? Is that why you contacted me?”
“Partly. And I read your book on Bamana.”
“May I?”
I nod, and he picks up Francis Aggrey’s book. He opens it gently, like it might crumble. I look around. In an opposite booth, a boy and girl eat hunched forward, watching a single screen.
“This is remarkable.” He is scanning those arresting opening lines. “How did you say your mother came by it?”
“They were friends.”
“May I take photographs? I’ll need more than a glance to make a judgment. I would not reproduce it, or even allude to it, without your express permission.”
I will have to trust Adrian because he knew my father both as a student and as prime minister. He can tell me more than I can tell him.
“Yes. That should be fine,” I say.
We take the lift to his office. It is a large box on the fourth floor. There are books on the shelves, on the carpet, on his table, even on the windowsill, blocking out the sunlight.
“Excuse the mess. Please have a seat. Now, where did I put my camera?”
I sit, and he moves around me, opening and shutting drawers, crouching to look under the table. His haunches are firm against his jeans but when he tries to rise from all fours, he falters and his knees stay on the ground. I look away until he stands.
“I’m so sorry. It must be at home. Will you wait while I go and look? Or perhaps you could come with me and have some tea. It’s only a ten-minute walk and it would be more comfortable there than here.” His manner is scrupulously polite. A gentleman, my mother would have called him. “A toff” would have been Aunt Caryl’s description.
I am surprised that he is so trusting. The diary might be fake, a trap to lure him to some disaster. But he is male. He ignored all those warnings about strangers.