Page 24 of Forgive Not Forget
Something tugged in Anna’s chest. “I love museums,” she said. “Anytime you want to go, you let me know.”
Abigail looked up. “Really?”
“As long as your mum agrees.”
“She will! She can’t take us far anymore. She’s not very well, and it’s so boring sitting at home.”
“Hopefully she’ll get better soon, and I will let you know anytime I need a helper. Perhaps we could tag along on a tour of the abbey one day or I could give you a private tour.”
“That would be so cool.”
With the registration table set up and a box of pens available beside the bunny trail sheets, they were ready for their audience. Anna placed two chairs behind the table for them both, and they waited. Carrie would be opening the site in five minutes, and a queue was already forming in the car park.
“Do you miss being a tour guide?” Abigail asked.
Anna thought for a moment. “I’ll always be one at heart,” she decided. “I love sharing stories of the past.”
Abigail’s lips twitched with excitement. “Can you tell me some about the abbey?”
Anna hesitated, unsure whether to tell Abigail the story about the two nuns who fell in love at the abbey. She decided it wouldn’t be appropriate; it had a terrible ending that involved a bricked-up wall.
“Maybe a ghost story?” she suggested.
Abigail nodded eagerly.
When Anna had been a tour guide, she was constantly asked about ghosts, so much so she ended up including them in the tour at relevant spots around the site. She racked her memory for the least scary one in her repertoire.
“There is supposed to be the ghost of a nun who appears to people in the chapel and beckons them with her hand to follow her, only to then disappear into the wall.”
Abigail crinkled her nose. “Is that true?”
“I’ve never seen anything myself, but what is truth anyway? It’s only someone’s version of what happened. Someone else could have been there at the same time and told a completely different version of it. That’s the fascinating thing about history; it’s often written and told by the winners, whether that’s about war or how people lived. The rich wrote the books, so they would record the poor as lazy people who stole from them. The poor, if given a voice, would say they were hungry and were taking what was kept from them by the wealthy landowner.”
“A bit like Robin Hood.”
“A bit, yes. Robin Hood is documented in history as a fictional character, but it is possible he may have been real. Often these stories that pass down are based on a real character. Unfortunately by the time they reach us and our books, they are so distorted from the truth that they seem fanciful.” This sparked a thought in Anna’s mind, and she turned fully to Abigail. “It’s not just history this happens with; it happens with you and Tom. He has one version, and you have another of a falling-out you have. It doesn’t mean either is lying; you’ve just interpreted the situation differently. You both have your version of the truth.”
“Is that why Mum never takes sides?”
Anna laughed. “Quite possibly.”
A large group of mums with a brood of enthusiastic youngsters and countless pushchairs piled into the barn, much to Anna’s relief. The worst part of any event was waiting for the first attendees to arrive. She armed them with trail sheets and pens and sent them off in the right direction.
A woman with four children was next in the queue. All of them looked to be under the age of ten, and their mother’s forlorn face and puffed eyes said that even though the bunny trail hadn’t even started, she was already at her wit’s end. Anna had always been baffled as to how one woman could look after so many children. One or two would be a good number. Surely it was just crowd control after two.
She watched as Abigail drew on the back of the trail sheet. It always amazed her how creative children could be; they had the least experience of anyone in the world, yet they could conjure the most wonderful things from their imaginations. A naivety towards the world was likely the cause; their view hadn’t yet been distorted by the reality of life and all its struggles.
“What do you want to be when you’re older?” Anna asked, genuinely intrigued to hear Abigail’s answer.
“I want to be a journalist… I think. I want to tell people’s stories. I’d like to hear people’s stories of the past before they all die.” Abigail rested the end of her pencil in her mouth and pouted. “I don’t think that’s a job.”
“You should meet my dad,” Anna said. “He always has a story, and I think he’d like you.”
“Can I? I love old people.”
“Of course, again as long as your mum agrees. One piece of advice: If you do become a journalist or anyone with any influence in the world, always tell the truth.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
