‘Hmm…well, look at that,’ Sister Ignatius said, flicking through the thick cream woven deckle-edged pages, which looked as though they’d come straight from another time. ‘Blank pages waiting to be filled,’ she continued with her voice of wonder.

‘How exciting.’ I rolled my eyes.

‘More exciting than an already filled one. Then you definitely wouldn’t be able to use it.’

‘Then I could read it. Hence it being called a book,’ I snapped, once again feeling this place had let me down.

‘Would you prefer to be given a life already lived too, Tamara? That way you can sit back and observe it. Or would you rather live it yourself?’ she asked, her eyes smiling.

‘Eh, you keep it,’ I said, stepping away, no longer interested in the thing I’d been hugging, feeling let down by it.

‘No, dear. That’s yours. You use it.’

‘I don’t write. I hate it. It gives me bumps on my fingers. And headaches. I’d rather email. Anyway, I can’t. It’s the travelling library’s. Marcus will want it back. I have to meet him again to give it back.’ I noticed my voice had softened on the last sentence. Quite immaturely, I fought a smile.

Sister Ignatius noticed everything and she smiled and raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, you can still meet up with Marcus to discuss the book,’ she teased. ‘He’ll understand, as I do, that somebody must have donated the diary to the library, mistaking it for a book.’

‘If I take it don’t I break a Commandment or something?’

Sister Ignatius rolled her eyes as I had been doing and, despite my bad mood, I had to grin.

‘But I’ve nothing to write,’ I said, a little softer this time.

‘There’s always something to write. Write some thoughts. I’m sure you’ve plenty of those.’

I took the book back, making a song and dance about how uninterested I was in it and ranting about how writing diaries was for dorks. But for all my talk, I was surprisingly relieved to have it back in my arms again. It felt right sitting there.

‘Write what’s up there,’ Sister Ignatius pointed at her temple, ‘and what’s in there,’ she pointed at her heart. ‘As a great man once called it, ‘’a secret garden.’’ We’ve all got one of those.’

‘Jesus?’

‘No, Bruce Springsteen.’

‘I found yours today,’ I smiled. ‘Yours isn’t a secret any more, Sister.’

‘Ah, there you have it. It’s always good to share it with someone.’ She pointed at the book. ‘Or something.’

The evening was closing in by the time I made my way back to the gatehouse, with my stomach grumbling, not having eaten since Zoey’s Mum had made American pancakes and blueberries for lunch. As before, Rosaleen was standing at her open door looking out, her face furrowed with worry, frantically searching from left to right as though any moment I would emerge. How long had she been doing that?

She jumped to attention when she saw me coming, pushed her hands down near the crotch of her dress to smooth it out. The dress was chocolate brown with a green vine climbing from hem to collar. A humming bird flitted near her boob, and later I noticed another by her left bum cheek. I don’t think that was the designer’s intention, but her height dictated their ironic placement.

‘Well, there you are, child.’

I felt like snapping at her that I wasn’t a child but I gritted my teeth and smiled. I needed to exercise more tolerance with Rosaleen. Tonight, Matthew, I’m Tamara Good.

‘Your dinner’s keeping warm in the oven. We couldn’t wait any longer, I could hear himself’s belly talking to me from the ruin.’

Many things annoyed me about that sentence. Firstly, that she hadn’t called Arthur by his name; secondly, our discussion was once again revolving about food, and thirdly, she’d referred to the castle as a ruin. Instead of stomping my feet, Tamara Good smiled again and said sweetly, ‘Thank you, Rosaleen. I look forward to it in just a few moments.’

I turned to make my way to the stairs but her sudden movement, a jerk of some sort like an athlete at a starting line anticipating the gun, kept me rooted to the spot. I didn’t look at her, just waited for her comment.

‘Your mother’s sleeping so you’ll not bother her now.’ She’d lost that stammering eager-to-please tone. I couldn’t figure her out but probably nor could she me. Tamara Not-So-Good ignored her and I continued to make my way upstairs. I knocked gently on Mum’s door while Rosaleen’s searing eyes branded me with her stare and, not expecting a response from Mum anyway, I entered.

The room was darker than before. The curtains had been drawn but it was the sun that had slipped into something more comfortable for the evening that made it cooler and dimmer. It was the first time Mum had appeared mummy-like to me for the past month, but it wasn’t for her maternal instincts. The yellow blankets were pulled up to her chest, her arms were constricted down by her side under the covers as though a giant spider had rolled her into its web to kill her and eat her. I can only imagine Rosaleen had tucked her in this way; it was physically impossible for Mum to have trapped herself under the blankets so tightly. I loosened the blankets, lifted her arms out by her side and I kneeled down beside her. Her face was peaceful as though she was merely having one of her favourite crème fraiche and yoghurt wrap spa treatments. She was so still I had to move my ear to her face to make sure she was breathing.

I watched her then, her blonde hair around her on the pillow, her long eyelashes closed over her perfect blemish-free skin. Her lips were ever so slightly parted and were breathing soft, sweet, warm breaths.

Perhaps as I’ve been telling this story, I’ve been giving the wrong impression of my mother. The grieving widow mindlessly looking out of a window while sitting in a rocking chair in a bell-sleeved nightgown makes her sound so old. She’s really not old at all. She’s beautiful.

She’s only thirty-five, much younger than all my friends’ mums. Mum had me when she was eighteen. Dad was older than her, at twenty-eight. Dad loved telling me the story about how they met, though it always differed slightly each time. I think he enjoyed it, leaving the truth as something Mum and Dad only ever knew. That was a nice thing about Dad, and I never minded if they never told me the whole truth. Perhaps hearing it wouldn’t have lived up to all the other stories I’d heard and visualised. The common denominator in all of his stories is that they met at a posh banquet dinner somewhere and when their eyes met he knew he just had to have her. I started laughing and told him it was exactly what he’d said about the filly he’d seen when he came back from the Goffs sale.

He shut up then, lost the smile and the distant look, and momentarily wished he hadn’t got a teenage daughter, while Mum seemed to ponder my words in a long silence. I wanted to tell them that I didn’t really mean it, that it was just the way I was, awkward, and bitchy remarks dropped from my mouth without intention or preplanning. But I couldn’t say that to my parents. I was too proud. I wasn’t used to saying sorry. But refusing to take it back wasn’t just because I was too proud, it was also because a part of me thought that it could be true. It is exactly what Dad had said when he came home from Goffs. It was also exactly what he said when he saw a new watch, or a new boat, or a new suit: ‘You should see it, Jennifer. I have to have it.’ And when Dad had to have something, he had it. I wondered if Mum was as powerless as the filly in Goffs, as the yacht in Monaco and everything else in the world that Dad had to have. And if so, I don’t pity her at all for her weak-mindedness.

I don’t doubt that Dad loved Mum. He adored her. He was always looking at her, touching her, he opened doors for her, bought her flowers, shoes, handbags, constant surprises to show her he was thinking of her. He was always complimenting her on the most ridiculous things which annoyed me a lot. He never complimented me on any of those things. And don’t go all Sigmund Freud on me, I wasn’t jealous-he was my dad, not my husband, and I know the same rules do not apply, nor would I want them to. But. You can’t lose a daughter, can you? A child of yours will always be your child, whether you see them or not. A wife, now that can more easily be lost. She can grow bored and wander off. She was so beautiful she could have had most men she met, and Dad knew this. His comments to Mum, meant in the most endearing way, seemed patronising to me.