Page 1 of A Summer Scandal

CHAPTER ONE

Violet stared at the spikily handwritten letter from her recently deceased beloved Grandpa Henry, unsure what it all meant. She’d heard of Swallow Beach, of course, from a couple of old photographs and the very occasional reminiscence when her mother had had a glass or two of wine, but as far as she knew it was part of her family’s history, not present.

She glanced up towards the house, aware her mother was up there in the kitchen right now reading her own letter from Henry, probably explaining all of this to her too. He’d lived in the Victorian villa next door for as long as Violet could remember; her family’s connection to Swallow Beach lay in the past, a lifetime ago. Another read through of the letter did little to shed any light, so Violet sighed and let herself out of her workshop at the end of her mum’s garden and made her way up to the house in search of answers.

‘Mum?’

There was no sign of her mum in the kitchen, nor on further exploration in the living room, dining room or study. Frowning, Violet called out again, running her hand over the familiar curve of the smooth mahogany handrail as she headed upstairs.

‘I’m up here.’

Violet tracked her mother’s voice to the small, twisting attic stairs.

‘In the attic?’ she called, even though there was no need because the sound of something being dragged overhead made it clear. ‘What are you doing up there?’

Like most people, her parents used their small eaves room for storage. Childhood toys that were too precious for Violet to part with, suitcases that only saw the light of day a couple of times each year, shelves full of dusty school projects and old CDs. And sitting in the middle of it all on the bare board floor, Della, Violet’s mum, pulling old photograph albums and yellowed paperwork out of a large, blue-and-white-striped cardboard storage box.

‘I’m guessing this has something to do with Grandpa Henry’s letter?’

‘Silly old goat,’ her mum muttered without looking up. ‘I can’t believe he never told me he hadn’t sold the place.’

Violet dropped down on her haunches and touched her mum’s shoulder. ‘Mum? What are you looking for?’

Her mother looked up at last, her blue eyes red-rimmed from crying.

‘What’s the matter?’ Violet said, startled. Her mum wasn’t a crier; she’d only cried once since Grandpa Henry died and she’d loved him beyond words. ‘Was it the letters that upset you?’

‘I’m not upset,’ Della said. ‘These—’ she jabbed her finger towards her eyes ‘are tears of bloody anger. How dare he land this on you?’

Violet tucked her chin-length, blue-tipped hair behind her ears, trying to read between the lines and work out what was really going on.

‘What are you looking for?’

Her mother didn’t answer, just pulled an unfamiliar black leather album from the box and blew the dust from the cover. She didn’t open it straight away, just held it in her lap and sighed heavily. ‘This belonged to Monica. My mother.’

Della so rarely spoke of her mother that Violet was stumped for what to say.

‘She loved that bloody pier.’

Again, Violet was lost. What was all this about a pier? Henry’s letter was the first she’d ever heard about any pier, yet it seemed to be central to both her inheritance and her mother’s current distress.

‘I don’t understand, Mum,’ Violet said. ‘What’s this all about?’

Della tapped her fingers slowly on the cover of the photograph album. ‘This. I thought it was all long gone, but it seems I was wrong.’

Violet slid onto her bum beside her mother and crossed her legs like a child sitting on the carpet for a story at the end of the school day. ‘Shall I look?’

Her mum shook her head. ‘Not yet.’ She didn’t look at Violet. ‘He shouldn’t have let things go on like this. If he’d told me, I could have sorted it out, but now he’s gone and saddled you with it.’

From what Violet could see, the album hadn’t seen the light of day in many, many years. It had been put to the very bottom of the box; some might say it had been hidden away.

‘She was a free spirit. That’s what everyone always used to say about my mother.’

Violet sat quietly, waiting for Della to go on.

‘An artist. A performer. A dancer.’

This was all news to Violet. Monica Spencer was an enigma; never spoken of fondly, no photographs on the hallway wall amongst the various family shots. So many questions filled her head … A dancer? A performer? An artist? Violet herself was an artist, of sorts. Was that where her artistic bent came from? It certainly wasn’t from her pragmatic mother or her accountant dad. Even her lovely grandpa had never revealed much about his long-deceased wife; it was as if everyone felt it best to pretend Monica Spencer had never existed at all. Until now.

---