Some Old Lover's Ghost Read Online Free PDF Page B

wind.
    Patrick spoke as we descended the steps of the terrace. ‘Tilda told me that you’re a writer.’
    ‘I’ve written a biography of Ellen Wilkinson.’
    ‘Just the one?’
    ‘And a television programme.’
    ‘Oh yes, the mental asylums. Are you a journalist?’
    When I shook my head he seemed relieved. ‘The Ellen Wilkinson biography was an expansion of my MA thesis,’ I explained. ‘I’ve written several articles for History Today.’ Myachievements sounded thin and unimpressive. I didn’t mention my A level tutoring: it would have sounded pathetic.
    We walked beneath dripping trees, beside crimson and lime-stemmed dogwoods. Crocuses shot purple and gold heads through the soil. The winding brick paths led us to a small, circular clearing made of a whorl of moss-covered bricks. A stone nymph, bruised with lichen, stood on a plinth in the centre of the circle.
    ‘Fancy Tilda agreeing that her biography should be written.’ Patrick’s palm rested on the nymph’s head. ‘I never thought she would. Various publishers have tried to persuade her over the years, you know. She’s sent them all away with fleas in their ears.’
    I made my position clear. ‘Nothing’s definite yet. Tilda would like me to write it, but I’m not sure.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘It’s a big commitment. I’d have to be certain that I’m the right person to do it.’
    Patrick’s eyes were bluer than Tilda’s. A small smile twisted the corner of his mouth. ‘Tilda seems to think you’ll do it. Though to be honest, I’d be relieved if you turned her down. I tried to persuade her to give up the idea, but she can be as stubborn as hell.’
    Angrily, I wondered if that explained Tilda’s altered attitude today. Because of her meddling grandson, she was having second thoughts. ‘Why don’t you want her to? Because of me? Because I’m not sufficiently illustrious?’ I knew I sounded sarcastic.
    Again, that lopsided grin. ‘Oh no. I should think you’re as good as anyone. Better than most, perhaps.’
    I wasn’t sure what to make of that. I was sure it wasn’t a compliment. ‘Then …?’
    ‘Tilda is old and frail. She thinks she isn’t, but she is. I’m afraid that it’ll be too much for her. Digging up the past – reliving it. She’s had a hard life, in many ways.’
    ‘Is that why you’ve come today? To warn me off?’
    His eyes, as he glanced at me, were cold. ‘I came here to check you out.’ His bluntness was unnerving. He began to walk backto the house, and I followed him, half running to keep up with his fast, lengthy stride.
    ‘Hell of a hard job, too, I should imagine.’ The words were flung over his shoulder, whipped away by the wind. ‘My grandmother isn’t always the most forthcoming of people.’
    There’ll be other sources. Journals … newspaper articles … family …’
    He laughed. ‘Now there’s a challenge.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ I scuttled along the path, trying to catch up with him.
    ‘Some of us are rather peripatetic. And we’re a big family, if you include all the adopted and fostered children. And everyone is so … opinionated.’
    I thought that he was being intentionally irritating. His eyes met mine, challenging me. He was quite disgustingly good-looking. I was aware of his proximity, and of a tingle of excitement – I’d had a similar feeling when I started work on Sisters of the Moon … a similar feeling when I’d first met Toby. Cross with myself, I pushed through the briars and old man’s beard, showering Patrick with raindrops.
    Tilda was awake when we returned to the solar. The photograph album was open in front of her.
    ‘Rebecca, this is Daragh,’ she said, as though introducing us. She indicated the snapshot I had earlier noticed, of the dark-haired man and the child. Daragh’s hair was dark, raggedly cut, and his deep-set, slightly tilted eyes laughed at me through the years. His features were an unusual mix of innocence and rapaciousness.
    ‘You must