Secrets Between Sisters: The perfect heart-warming holiday read of 2018. Kate Thompson
That’s a real achievement, in my eyes.’
‘It is incredibly exclusive, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Dervla, with just a trace of smugness. ‘It’s probably the most exclusive address in the city. Adair Bolger was responsible for the development, you know.’
‘The bloke who owns Coral Mansion?’
‘Coral Mansion?’
‘That’s what the locals call it. He calls it the Villa Felicity.’
‘Yes. That would be Adair.’ Dervla set down the calendar, and opened her book. ‘The turf-cutter’s cottage,’ she said, regarding the illustration on the first page, ‘at the edge of the bog.’
‘And the lights of home shining through the darkness,’ added Río. ‘I remember that picture so well.’
Dervla gave Río a level look. ‘I am sorry, you know, Río. About Coral Cottage. But you know it would have been an absolute nightmare to restore–a complete money-pit. Knocking it down was the only viable option. And Adair had everything on his side. Money, contacts, influence…’ She trailed off, and looked back down at the picture.
‘I know.’ Looking at her sister’s downcast eyes, Río had a suspicion that the all-powerful Adair Bolger was not solely to blame for the destruction of her dream. Had Dervla been motivated too by a desire to get even with her sister over the Shane debacle? Río pushed the thought away. That was all in the past now, and if she and Dervla were to resurrect their relationship they would have to work hard at letting bygones be bygones. ‘I would never have been able to afford to put the joint right, anyway. It was just a silly dream.’ She tossed the Sugar Stack brochure back into the box. ‘Show me the picture of Seamus and the eagle!’
‘When he steals the bird seed?’
‘Yes. I love that one!’
Dervla leafed through The Turf-Cutter’s Donkey until she found the illustration, and as they looked at it, memories came flooding back to Río of her and Dervla tucked up in bed with their mother reading to them, and how she’d pause now and then to show them the illustrations. And she remembered how safe she’d felt, and how fuzzy and warm with love for her mother and sister, and she decided there and then that she’d never let Dervla go again.
‘Now start to work!’ announced Dervla, echoing the words of the Wise Woman in the story. She laid the book down and put on her bossy big-sister face. ‘We’ve stacks and stacks to do. You take that side of the room, and I’ll get cracking on this half.’ Negotiating her way past a broken clothes horse and a wire cat basket, Dervla set about untangling a Gordian knot of electric cable.
On the other side of the room, one door of a double-sided wardrobe stood half open, as if inviting Río to examine its contents. She crossed the floor on cautious feet, wishing she could take off her shoes, which were beginning to pinch. She knew it was unlikely that there would be mice lurking in the attic, but she had inherited their mother’s fear of creepy-crawly things, and there could be lots of spiders. Stepping gingerly over a raffia basket that looked as if it might once have belonged to a snake charmer, she glanced at Dervla, who had finished twisting the cable into a neat figure of eight and was now busy pulling open drawers and delving into boxes and upending cartons. Río admired her sister’s sang-froid, but then she supposed Dervla was well used to exploring old houses. It was funny. When they were growing up, Río had been the feistier of the two–the tomboy to Dervla’s Barbie. Río had plunged into the sea with panache while Dervla shivered in the shallows. Río revelled in stormy weather, dancing in a garden lit by lightning, while Dervla hid under the bedclothes. But Dervla had always been the cleverer of the two, and that, Río supposed, was why Dervla lived in a penthouse apartment and drove a nifty little Merc while Río lived in a rented doll’s house and drove a hackney cab.
The door of the wardrobe creaked spookily when Río tugged on the handle. This is like the scary bit in the movie, she thought, the bit where you put your hands over your eyes and tell the stupid girl to get out of there right now because—
‘Jesus Christ!’ came a screech from behind her. Río spun round to see Dervla clutching her hands to her heart. ‘Jesus Christ, W.B.! You gave me such a fright!’
‘What happened?’
‘Bloody W.B. jumped out at me from behind a box.’
W.B. stalked indignantly towards a threadbare sofa that sagged like a sinking ship in a sea of junk. He leaped onto it and began to wash himself self-importantly, as if to reinforce his status as top cat in the household’s hierarchy.
‘That cat always did have a wicked sense of humour,’ said Río, turning to resume her inspection of the wardrobe. Dervla’s yell had fazed her not a little, and her heart was ricocheting against her ribcage as she pulled again at the handle.
Behind the right-hand door was a rail upon which hung a confusion of fabrics: the dresses, skirts, blouses and scarves that had belonged to their mother. Running a hand along the hangers, Río paused now and again to rub the collar of a chenille cardigan, a corduroy jacket, a merino sweater, remembering how the material had felt against her face when she had cuddled up with her mother on the sofa and leaned her head on her shoulder.
Mama had always smelled of vetiver, from the fragrance she favoured. Río hadn’t been surprised when she’d learned from an aromatherapist that vetiver was renowned for its calming properties. She took a step closer to the wardrobe, hoping to get a trace of her mother’s scent, but the clothes just smelled of mildew.
The door on the left-hand side of the wardrobe refused to yield when she tried the handle. She tugged and tugged, thinking it might be locked, when it gave abruptly, catching Río off balance. She stumbled backwards and fell clumsily onto the sofa where W.B. was grooming himself. Dust rose at the impact, and W.B. slanted her an indignant look.
‘Sorry, puss,’ she said, giving his ears a rub before turning back to face the wardrobe. There, behind a veil of dancing dust motes, suspended like ghosts of girls, were two kimonos. They were of fine foulard silk, patterned with birds and flowers. Frank had brought them back as presents for his daughters after a junket to Japan, and had instructed them how to wear them. The most important detail to remember, he had told them, was always to fasten them at the front with the left-hand side over the right. Right folded over left, he’d said, was bad luck, because that was the way the Japanese dressed their dead. One kimono featured a bird of paradise motif, the other, sprigs of cherry blossom. Below the kimonos on the floor of the wardrobe lay a small valise, the lid of which was open. It was crammed with letters.
‘Dervla,’ said Río, ‘come here.’
Dervla looked up from the filing cabinet she was rummaging in. ‘What’s up?’ she asked.
‘Our kimonos. The ones Dad brought back from Japan.’
Dervla joined Río by the open wardrobe door, and stood looking at the wraithlike garments. They were both suspended from misshapen wire hangers, and as they swayed gently from side to side, it was plain to see that the one with the cherry blossom motif had been arranged to be worn by a living girl, while the one with the bird motif was arranged to be worn by a dead one. The kimono with the bird of paradise emblazoned upon it had belonged to Río.
Río shuddered. ‘That’s really spooky,’ she said. ‘That’s horrible. Who could have done it?’
‘I didn’t do it,’ said Dervla hastily. ‘I didn’t hate you that much.’
‘Then Dad must have done it.’
‘Don’t be daft. It was probably somebody who came in to do housework for him,’ suggested Dervla.
‘No. None of the neighbours would ever have intruded as far as the attic. And anyway, who would have known the significance of the way they’re folded? Look how neatly the sashes are tied. It had to be someone who knew what they were doing. It had to be Dad.’
‘Making a drunken mistake.’