Page 51 of Secrets and Seashells at Rainbow Bay
Charlie shrugs. ‘Like I said, they don’t like change, that’s all. I guess they’ve lived here a long time – a lot longer than we have.’
I open my mouth to speak, and then I close it again. Something Charlie said has struck a chord. I’d been so busy thinking about the future of the castle, I hadn’t ever stopped to think about its past all that much. No wonder Arthur was resistant to all my changes; this had been his home for a long time too.
‘I understand,’ I say quietly. ‘I guess I should be more considerate of the castle’s past. But . . . ’ I hesitate as we walk under the portcullis and into the courtyard. ‘If your . . .friendcould pass on a message for me . . . to the others?’
Charlie nods.
‘Tell them . . . tell them I only mean good in anything I do. I only want what’s best for Chesterford Castle; it’s my home now as well as theirs and I want it to survive and prosper well into the future.’ I look at Charlie. ‘Will you do that for me? Will you tell this Ruby what I just said?’
‘I don’t need to,’ Charlie says. ‘You just did.’
‘What do you mean?’
Charlie looks towards one of the doors that leads off the courtyard into the part of the castle that houses the Great Hall.
‘Look,’ he says, pointing.
‘Look at what?’ I say, turning in that direction.
‘Can’t you see her?’
‘Who?’
‘Ruby. She was here with us when we came into the castle grounds. She heard everything you just said.’ He holds up his hand and waves. ‘She’s waving at you, and smiling,’ he says, smiling back. ‘I think you’ve made her happy.’
I feel my hand reach up and give a tiny wave. ‘But I can’t see anything,’ I whisper to Charlie.
‘You will do,’ Charlie says, ‘once your belief becomes stronger, Mum. You will do.’
Twenty
The next day I go back up upstairs to finish sorting the rooms.
I’m still not one hundred per cent convinced that everything Charlie was saying is true – I don’t think he was lying, but I’m still leaning towards Tom’s explanation that it might just be his imagination creating all this.
But a ten-year-old’s overactive mind doesn’t explain the things I’ve seen and heard myself since I’ve been at the castle. Perhaps my imagination has been working overtime too? I mean, why wouldn’t it? We’ve gone from living in a modern high-rise flat that had been built in the early eighties to an ancient castle that had been built hundreds of years ago. It’s understandable our brains might need a little time to adjust to the more unusual aspects of living here. But since my conversation yesterday with Charlie, I have to admit I do feel much more confident about the situation, and strangely not so afraid of things I don’t understand.
But as I enter the room to recommence my clearing, I’m amazed at what I find waiting for me on the corner of the packing case where I’d sworn I’d left it yesterday: the diary.
‘How did you get here again?’ I ask, lifting it up and looking around as if I expected to see some magical fairies flitting away after doing their good deed.
I tuck the diary safely into the top pocket of the dungarees I’ve chosen to wear today. ‘You’re not going anywhere this time,’ I say, tapping the pocket. ‘I’ll look at you later.’
But after I’ve sorted a few carrier bags and moved a few boxes around, the pull of the diary is too much. So I sit on the edge of an old toilet (goodness knows how that got up here), remove the book from my pocket, and open the cover.
It only takes me a few pages (and a bit of skipping forward) to work out whose diary this is: it belonged to Clara, the Countess from the painting downstairs.
I know this because each entry is dated in the year 1910. Most of the entries talk about the daily running of the castle, interspersed with anecdotes about dress fittings and parties. Then in the later entries the light tone becomes much darker, when Clara begins to talk about her money worries after the death of her husband, and finally her debt.
‘Gosh, this must have all happened so fast for you,’ I say to the diary. ‘One minute you’re living this comfortable carefree life of parties and social climbing, and the next you seem to have all the cares of the world on your shoulders.’
A bit like you did, I think, suddenly reflecting on my own struggles.You were happy and settled, and then – boom – one day it all changed.
But my husband didn’t die – he left me. And you didn’t have a child to look after, Clara – you had a castle instead.
But still, the similarities in our two situations are easy to see.
‘You okay?’
