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and
little handwritten sign tacked inside the glass
window: No junk mail please with
smiley face. This is
real. This is my nana’s house.
close my eyes and touch my fingers to the
horseshoe for luck, and before know it I’ve rung the bell.
stare at the door, my heart hammering.
Nothing.
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wait for minute, holding my breath. Braver now,
and slightly hopeful that there’s no one in,
ring the
doorbell again like
kid playing chicken—peering
through the window as the bells resound through the
empty house.
close my eyes, swallowing my
disappointment, dizzy with sudden relief.
It’s
sign. I’m not meant to find her. She’s not
meant to know.
take
last long tender look at the house, smile,
and turn away—just as car sweeps into the driveway.
stare at it, totally exposed, frozen to the spot. The
door opens and
small white-haired woman steps out,
shrugging her handbag onto her shoulder. The lady from
the church. My nana.
“Hello.” She smiles, locking the door and walking
toward me. “Can help you?”
“H-hi,” stammer, my feet as immobile as the plastic
gnome’s. “I’m …”
I’m what? Hey, surprise, I’m your long- lost
granddaughter? She’d probably have
heart attack right
here on the driveway!
“Sorry, do you live here?”
check. “You’re Laura
Fisher?” don’t wa
heart
attack!
“I am.” She smiles. “Forgive me, you look familiar,
but
do know you?”
“I’m …” stare at her, lost for words, dumbstruck by
her sparkling blue eyes, her easy smile. She’s old—so
old—and yet there’s something youthful in her eyes.
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“I’m Holly,” say finally.
She looks at me afresh, recognition sparking in her
eyes.
“Of course you are!” She beams, her whole face
lighting up. “Hello, Holly!” she smiles, her eyes twinkling
at me. “I’ve been expecting you.”
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Rosie
The sliding doors hiss open with
blast of warm
air, but Jack just stares at them, unable to move, his face
unreadable.
“Jack?” say gently. “Jack, are you okay?”
touch his arm and he looks up, startled.
“Yes,” he says, “yes, I’m fine—it’s just …” He
hesitates, his eyes sweeping over the door, the entrance,
the reception within. “Jeez, the last time was here …”
nod. “I know,” say quietly.
Memories slide across his face, clear as our
reflections in the glass as we step inside. The warm air
breezes through my hair as our footsteps squeak on the
shiny lino and I’m bombarded with smells—cleaning
fluids and disinfectant and mashed potato
and million
memories hurtle back at me: broken arms and ankles as
child
that awful night of the prom
visiting Mum
my
encounter with Jamila just few weeks ago
glance at
Jack, unable to even imagine what he’s going through.
Somehow we arrive at the reception desk.
“I’m here to see my daughter,” Jack tells the
receptionist. “Holly Woods? She had an accident.”
The receptionist checks her computer screen.
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“Woods?” she says. “I’m sorry, Ms. Woods was
discharged earlier this morning.”
Jack stares at her. “She’s not here?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, do you know where she went?”
She looks up at Jack, then glances at me. “No, sorry,
don’t.”
Jack looks as if he’s about to burst.
“Hang on—Nurse Willows!” My heart jumps as she
calls over our shoulders toward the entrance. “Miss
Woods was your patient, wasn’t she? Do you know where
she was heading to?”
We both turn as
blond woman looks round,
pulling her coat on over her uniform.
She starts to speak, then stares at me.
“Rosie! What are you—”
“Hi, Sarah,”
say, my cheeks burning as
glance
anxiously at Jack, whose face is draining of color.
“Sarah?”
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Holly
stare at Laura, dumbfounded. She’s been expecting
me?
“Andrew rang
couple of days ago.” She smiles,
unlocking the door and ushering me inside. “He said you
might pop round. understand you know Rosie?”
“Yes—yes, do.” stare at her uncertainly. What has
Andy told her?
“Come in, come in!” She beams. “It’s freezing out
there!”
follow her nervously into the house. It is warm
and homey and smells of toast.
“Now, you make yourself comfy in the lounge.”
Laura smiles. “And I’ll pop the kettle on.”
step gingerly into the living room, my feet sinking
in the deep red plush carpet, my jaw dropping as gaze at
the dozens of photographs covering the wall. These must
all be my ancestors—my great-grandparents
my
grandfather
my dad
My heart stops.
There she is.
move forward slowly, my breath trapped in my
lungs, my eyes flicking from one photo to the next, the
same hazel eyes shining out from each one.
Trudie.
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I’d only ever seen the one photo Rosie gave me—
had only imagined her at one age, in one setting—but here
she is as
child,
teenager,
young woman
gri
and posing, beaming proudly at her graduation, laughing
happily at her wedding. And there she is on park swing,
glowing with pride as she cuddles the tiny dark-haired girl
in her arms.
That should have been me.
finger my own hair, the hair I’ve always hated, till
now. Now it’s our bond, my inheritance, the exact same
shade. Gingery-chestnut.
“Ginger nut?”
“What?” turn, startled.
Laura is holding out tin of cookies. She smiles. “I’m
afraid there’s not much choice—it’s ginger nuts or
chocolate digestives.”
“Oh—thanks.” smile, taking chocolate cookie.
“I rang Andrew, but
got one of those awful
messagey things,” she says, following my gaze to the wall.
“That’s lovely photo, isn’t it?” She beams, passing me
steaming cup and saucer. “Rosie wasn’t even two there,
but she was already right little minx—into everything—
you couldn’t take your eye off her for second! But then
she’d grin at you with those big green eyes and you’d
forgive her anything. Butter wouldn’t melt.”
smile uncertainly.
“And that’s her mother, Trudie. My own little girl,”
she says tenderly.
“She’s beautiful,” breathe.
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“Yes.” Laura smiles. “She was.”
“What was she like?”
ask quietly, holding my
breath.
“She was beautiful.” She sighs. “Inside as well as out.
She was the kindest, most loving girl you could ever meet.
An amazing mother to Rosie.”
My heart aches. “Rosie said she’d died recently?”
“Yes.” Laura’s face clouds over. “She was very ill.
She had Huntington’s disease.” She glances at me. “Rosie
told you?” she asks slowly.
nod. “I’m so sorry. It must’ve been awful.”
“It was,” she says. “It’s
hideous disease. It was
horrible seeing her suffer, watching her slip away. And the
awful thing was we hadn’t even known she was at risk—
I’d never heard of Huntington’s before, and Charles …” She
nods at
photo of
handsome police officer. “My
husband, Charles, died before his time, so we never knew