I must have looked unsure because she stopped what she was doing for a moment and turned to face me.
‘Not convinced?’
‘I just, I’m not sure why someone would want to collect someone’s letters. How could they even be sure they were authentic?’
‘Very good question, we’ll make a literary sleuth out of you yet. Who’s your favourite author?’ she asked.
‘Easy,’ I said. ‘Emily Bront?.’
‘Right, well, isn’t there anything you’d like to know about Miss Bront? other than the fact that she lived a quiet life on the moors?’
I thought about it for a moment. There were many questions I had, like did she ever fall in love? Was she happy or sad?
‘What I’ve always wondered, I mean, the one question that always frustrated me is whether or not she began writing a second novel before she died and if so, what had happened to it?’
‘There you are then. Now you have your question you can start searching for the answer.’
Chapter Eight
MARTHA
‘Well, that was mortifying,’ I muttered to myself, as I let myself back into the house.
‘What are you talking about?’ Madame Bowden called, startling me. She was stood in the doorway of the parlour, cigarette in hand, mischief in her eyes.
‘Oh, nothing, I didn’t realise I was talking out loud,’ I said, taking off my jacket.
‘Well, your face is the colour of beetroot and I’m bored, so tell all.’ She took me by the shoulders and led me into the room as though I were one of her guests.
‘I-I just, there’s this guy …’
‘A man, why didn’t you say!’ She laughed, her eyes widening with pleasure. She pulled back the curtains and scanned the street. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s nowhere. He’s gone. It’s not important. Is there anything you need before I get started on dinner?’
‘It’s cocktail hour, Martha, and I still don’t have a drink in my hand,’ she announced with that put-on upper-class accent she used when she had company.
‘It’s three in the afternoon,’ I said, hardly bothering to keep the judgement out of my voice.
‘Exactly,’ came the reply, so I went to the kitchen to ‘fix her a martini’， whatever that meant.
As I was searching through the bottles for one called martini, my mind wandered back to my old life. I hadn’t had any contact from my parents, but then again, they didn’t know where I was. Even if they did, they probably wouldn’t bother. They were embarrassed by me. My mother would fold her arms and look out the window when I tried to talk about Shane. I assumed she was ashamed of me – not because I married a violent man, but because I didn’t listen to her when she warned me off him. My father already acted like I didn’t exist, so life would not have changed much for him. Except maybe at the pub – there was bound to be talk. He would hate that. Which made me smile in a vindictive way. This was what they had made me. All of them. I was so lost in my memories I hardly remembered what I was meant to be doing. I still hadn’t found any martini, so I just sloshed a measure of gin into a tall glass and threw in a slice of lemon. Then I knocked it back myself and poured her another.
‘Coming!’ I called, hearing Madame shout my name. I almost threw the drink on the table beside her.
‘So, this man, was he attractive?’
Yes.
‘It wasn’t like that, he was looking for an old bookshop that used to be here. I don’t think he was all there, if you know what I mean.’
‘A bookshop?’ she said, her eyes glazing over, probably from the gin. ‘How amusing.’
‘Is it?’ I took her ashtray and emptied it into the fireplace.
‘I’ll tell you a little story,’ she began, crossing her feet on a cushioned footstool in front of her. ‘When I was the grand dame of Ha'penny Lane in the eighties … ah, the parties we used to have. That was with my third husband, Vladimir. He was a Russian mathematician, which sounds boring, but, my girl, he was anything but! He served the best vodka and caviar. People came from every walk of life to our parties.’
I pulled a J-cloth from my pocket and began wiping some invisible dust from the mantlepiece. I’d hardly had any interest in listening to her stories when I first arrived, but now I was curious. It was possible that both of us were softening a little at the edges. We had nothing in common, but we were starting to realise that maybe we weren’t such bad company.
‘Anyway, there was one particular evening, midsummer, or was it midwinter? Well, either way … no, it was winter. I remember there was frost on the pavement. One of the guests arrived late and she was very shaken indeed. As she warmed her posterior by the fire, she told us of how she had got out of the taxi and walked into what she thought was our house. But when she got inside, she realised that it was a bookshop – a small, old-fashioned little place, full of charming old books and knick-knacks. Anyway, she came back out on to the street, turned around and poof! The shop was gone and there was my front door again. Of course, we all thought she was on something – so many people were in those days. But isn’t that funny how it happened again?’
I felt a chill run through me. I didn’t like ghost stories and this was starting to sound like one.
‘Well, not exactly. He just said he was looking for one.’
What had he said? This house must have been attached to it or something. I shook my head vigorously and got up to prepare her dinner. When Henry had asked for help, it reminded me of the person I used to be – open, giving. I should probably tell him this story; maybe it would help him in his search, or at least give him a clue. But helping people only seemed to lead to trouble and regret these days. So I decided I would keep it to myself and keep my blinds closed.
It’s funny how people complain about boredom. God, how I ached for a boring day when I was living with Shane and his unpredictable moods. A day where the worst thing you could expect was that nothing much would happen. But now that I had it, I wasn’t sure what to do with it. My routine was taking up less and less time as I grew more accustomed to it and I found myself with some free time in the afternoons. Madame Bowden, not being one for tact, dropped as many hints as she could that my clothes were ‘uninspiring’ and ‘depressing’。
‘It’s the uniform of the invisible!’ she scolded, putting a hand across her eyes.
I looked at my jeans and jumper in the long bathroom mirror and frowned. They seemed fine to me. Maybe a little old. I studied my face then. The bruising had healed and was almost invisible now. If you didn’t know better, you’d say it had never happened. Then the images rushed through me like a speeding train: cowered in the corner, back against the kitchen cupboards, screaming for him to stop. I put the flat of my palm against the wall to steady myself. The trick was not to remember; not to let the fear catch up. Always look ahead, keep busy.
I looked again at my clothes and saw that small town, the curious neighbours, the guards that did nothing. I suddenly wanted to burn everything I owned that came from that place. It was time. With my small wage packet （cash in hand, no sense bothering the tax man, she said） I took myself down to O’Connell Street and into Penneys. It was wall-to-wall denim. That woman would put me in a maid’s outfit if I came back with more denim. I decided to start with new underwear and picked out a cotton bra and knickers. It felt strange, having this time to myself, money in my pocket and no one to please but myself. I looked around almost feeling guilty. It was the middle of the day and here I was acting like … what? A free woman, I supposed. Just then, I felt something I hadn’t experienced in a long time. It was like my heart was smiling. So I moved on to the shoe department and picked out some black slip-ons. Then I spotted some black capri pants and I hooked them over my arm to bring to the changing rooms. I found a white blouse that looked sort of professional and I even bought a red hairband with white polka dots! I was so impressed with myself and my good eye that I threw caution to the wind and picked up a new backpack, so I could get rid of the duffle bag I’d had since secondary school. I tried everything on and put my old clothes in the duffle bag. I took the tags up to the till, just like you’d see in the movies, and felt the thrill of starting my life right there.