Secrets Between Sisters: The perfect heart-warming holiday read of 2018. Kate Thompson

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СКАЧАТЬ the right-hand door was a rail upon which hung a confusion of fabrics: the dresses, skirts, blouses and scarves that had belonged to their mother. Running a hand along the hangers, Río paused now and again to rub the collar of a chenille cardigan, a corduroy jacket, a merino sweater, remembering how the material had felt against her face when she had cuddled up with her mother on the sofa and leaned her head on her shoulder.

      Mama had always smelled of vetiver, from the fragrance she favoured. Río hadn’t been surprised when she’d learned from an aromatherapist that vetiver was renowned for its calming properties. She took a step closer to the wardrobe, hoping to get a trace of her mother’s scent, but the clothes just smelled of mildew.

      The door on the left-hand side of the wardrobe refused to yield when she tried the handle. She tugged and tugged, thinking it might be locked, when it gave abruptly, catching Río off balance. She stumbled backwards and fell clumsily onto the sofa where W.B. was grooming himself. Dust rose at the impact, and W.B. slanted her an indignant look.

      ‘Sorry, puss,’ she said, giving his ears a rub before turning back to face the wardrobe. There, behind a veil of dancing dust motes, suspended like ghosts of girls, were two kimonos. They were of fine foulard silk, patterned with birds and flowers. Frank had brought them back as presents for his daughters after a junket to Japan, and had instructed them how to wear them. The most important detail to remember, he had told them, was always to fasten them at the front with the left-hand side over the right. Right folded over left, he’d said, was bad luck, because that was the way the Japanese dressed their dead. One kimono featured a bird of paradise motif, the other, sprigs of cherry blossom. Below the kimonos on the floor of the wardrobe lay a small valise, the lid of which was open. It was crammed with letters.

      ‘Dervla,’ said Río, ‘come here.’

      Dervla looked up from the filing cabinet she was rummaging in. ‘What’s up?’ she asked.

      ‘Our kimonos. The ones Dad brought back from Japan.’

      Dervla joined Río by the open wardrobe door, and stood looking at the wraithlike garments. They were both suspended from misshapen wire hangers, and as they swayed gently from side to side, it was plain to see that the one with the cherry blossom motif had been arranged to be worn by a living girl, while the one with the bird motif was arranged to be worn by a dead one. The kimono with the bird of paradise emblazoned upon it had belonged to Río.

      Río shuddered. ‘That’s really spooky,’ she said. ‘That’s horrible. Who could have done it?’

      ‘I didn’t do it,’ said Dervla hastily. ‘I didn’t hate you that much.’

      ‘Then Dad must have done it.’

      ‘Don’t be daft. It was probably somebody who came in to do housework for him,’ suggested Dervla.

      ‘No. None of the neighbours would ever have intruded as far as the attic. And anyway, who would have known the significance of the way they’re folded? Look how neatly the sashes are tied. It had to be someone who knew what they were doing. It had to be Dad.’

      ‘Making a drunken mistake.’

      Río shook her head. ‘No. This has been staged. This was done with intent. There’s some kind of message here. A message from beyond the grave.’

      ‘Get a grip, Río! This is no time for melodrama.’

      ‘I’m not being melodramatic. We were meant to find this. And we were obviously meant to read those letters too.’

      Río steeled herself, then bent down to pick up the valise. She recognised it as having belonged to her grandmother. It was one of those silly little cases lined with frilly-edged elasticated silk that had once contained manicure kit and hairbrushes and lotions and potions for personal grooming while travelling. But its function as a vanity case had become redundant once their grandmother had died, for Río and Dervla’s mother, Rosaleen, had never had an opportunity to travel anywhere.

      Río carried the case over to the bockety sofa and sat down beside W.B. Dervla brushed dust off the armrest before perching herself at an angle that would allow her to look at the letters over her sister’s shoulder.

      The first letter Río drew out of the case was in an unfamiliar hand. Because there was no envelope, it was not possible to tell who had been the recipient. ‘“Darling one,”’ Río read out loud. ‘“It’s only Tuesday, and already I miss you unspeakably”’

      ‘Who could “darling one” be?’ asked Dervla. ‘Our father?’

      ‘No,’ said Río, scanning the page. ‘This was written to Mama. Listen.

      I know what hell you are going through with Frank, my lovely, loveliest Rosaleen, and I wish I could help in some way. You tell me my letters help ease the pain of your joyless marriage, but any words I write seem woefully inadequate. I want to speak to you, so that I can feast my eyes on your beautiful face while I tell you over and over again how wildly, how besottedly I am in love with you…’

      Río raised her eyes from the page, and regarded Dervla. ‘Mama must have had a lover,’ she said.

      ‘A lover? Mama?’ Incredulity was scrawled all over Dervla’s face. ‘No!’

      ‘What else could this mean?’

      ‘But…Mama?. Mama was a kind of saint–she was such a good person! She was so wise and gentle, and she put up with Dad for all those years…Oh God. Maybe that’s why?’

      Río nodded. ‘Maybe putting up with Dad was just too much.’

      ‘But who might–the lover have been?’

      Río looked down at the bunch of letters. ‘Looks like we’re going to find out.’

      ‘Is there a signature?’

      ‘Not on this one. It’s just signed “P”.’

      ‘A date?’ said Dervla, leaning over and taking a second letter from the valise.

      ‘No.’

      ‘There is on this one.’ Dervla unfolded a sheet of pale blue vellum. ‘October, 1970.’

      ‘What does it say?’

      ‘My love. I’m writing this letter on the beach, where I came to leave it in our secret place, and I saw you just now with Frank and baby Dervla. I didn’t dare approach because there were too many people talking to you. Presumably they’re all curious to know when the new baby will arrive. You looked blooming. Beautiful. I felt so jealous to know that everybody will imagine Frank to be the father—’

      Dervla stopped short, and bit her lip. Río heard herself saying, in a peculiarly calm voice: ‘Give me that letter.’

      ‘I…I’m not sure that we should—’

      ‘Give it to me.’

      Wordlessly, Dervla handed it over.

      “‘I felt so jealous’”, murmured Río, “‘to know that everybody will imagine Frank to be the father of our baby. If it’s a girl, my lovely Rosaleen, I should hope that you might call her Ríonach…’”

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