Humming to herself, she went into the larder and chose a tin of chicken soup.
‘Hello.’
Barbara froze.
‘I’ve been waiting ages for you.’
The little girl was standing barefoot at the kitchen door. She had curly blonde hair and a sweet, angelic face. Dressed in jeans and a blue T-shirt, she looked much happier than she had at the cemetery.
Barbara gasped, unable to believe what she was seeing.
‘It’s time for my piano lesson.’
Barbara shook her head. This was madness. The little girl moved closer.
‘Stay away from me,’ Barbara cried.
She knocked over the chair as she moved backwards. The child shimmered, at one moment clear and real, the next transparent.
‘You promised on Mama’s Bible to take care of me.’
Barbara pressed herself against the sink.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Emily. I’m seven years old. I’ll be eight in two months’ time.’
‘No! No!’ Barbara shouted.
‘YES, YES, YES,’ Emily shouted back gleefully. ‘Come upstairs. It’s time for my piano lesson.’
‘No,’ Barbara repeated.
She was terrified. Her heart felt as if it would burst out of her chest. She moved cautiously to the door.
Tink-tink-tink came the sound of the piano. Just as Barbara had heard when she stayed previously. She picked up a candlestick and, gritting her teeth, headed into the hall.
With her free hand on the banister, the other holding the candlestick on high, she moved up the stairs. She looked into the various rooms and headed up another floor. She moved towards where the sound of the piano was loudest. Scrawled writing on the wall read ‘Emily’s Room’.
The child carried on with her scales. Barbara edged further into the room. Emily stopped and swivelled round on the piano stool.
‘Do you know “Chopsticks”? Aunt Margaret used to play with me.’
Barbara’s mind was churning. This couldn’t be happening.
‘Margaret is dead,’ she whispered.
‘I know. She’s gone to be with Mummy and Armande. She wanted that for such a long time. But she couldn’t because there was no one to look after me.’
Emily swung round on the stool again, her legs dangling.
‘I was conceived here. I was born here.’
‘You’re dead too,’ Barbara said.
‘Yes, but I’m alive for you, only you. And in return for taking care of me you inherit everything. Just like Aunt Margaret. I was her secret and now I’m yours.’
Barbara turned and hurried from the room. She made her way back to the kitchen, gulping for air. The panic attack was making her stumble and lurch around as she gasped for breath.
She leaned on the table, telling herself to calm down. She pinched her arm until it hurt and at last the dizzy feeling receded. Then she heard the footsteps running across the room above.
Needing the warmth, she sat close to the fire, going over in her mind every moment she had spent with Margaret. She recalled how she had placed her hand over the cross of the Bible. She had sworn she would never tell Margaret’s secret. How could she explain what being Margaret’s heir entailed? Who would believe her? They’d probably take her away, just like Margaret.
Barbara gave herself another hard pinch, to make sure she was awake.
Then she began to think...
Would it really be so bad? She was alone. She had always been alone.
Barbara sat a while in silence.
She didn’t even take a candle to light her way back to the room. Walking slowly up the stairs, she pushed open the door and Emily turned towards her.
She was writing her ten times table on a blackboard with a piece of chalk.
‘I can play “Chopsticks”,’ Barbara said softly.
She picked up a chair and placed it by the piano stool.
‘I knew it would be you,’ Emily said as she joined her.
‘I will keep my promise, Emily. I will take care of you.’
Together they began to play the piano.
And Barbara realized that she had never felt so contented or at peace.
Acknowledgements
Special thanks and gratitude go to all my team at La Plante Productions: Liz Thorburn, Richard Dobbs-Grove, Cass Sutherland and Sara Johnson for all their committed and valuable support.
Many thanks also go to Duncan Heath and Sue Rodgers at Independent Talent Agency and Stephen Ross and Andrew Bennet-Smith at Ross, Bennet-Smith.
Many thanks for the constant encouragement from my literary agent Gill Coleridge and the team at Rogers, Coleridge & White.
The publication of this book would not have been possible without the hard work and support of Susan Opie, Lesley Levene and the team at Simon & Schuster: Ian Chapman, Suzanne Baboneau, Nigel Stoneman, Jessica Leeke and Rob Cox; I am very happy to be working with such a terrific and creative group of people.