ANN BENNETT
Third Edition 2019
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by the copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book was published with the title BAMBOO HEART in the first two editions.
Copyright © 2019 Ann Bennett
All rights reserved.
Cover design: Cover Kitchen
All enquiries to: [email protected]
In memory of my father, Dick Bennett
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Ann Bennett
1
Hurrying out of the tube station on to Highbury Corner, Laura shivered in the chill drizzle of the winter afternoon. She glanced at the darkening sky and pulled her coat tightly around her. Hovering on the edge of the pavement, she scanned the lanes of stationary traffic for a cab, but seeing none, stepped onto the road, and nimbly threaded her way through the cars.
Her ankle turned as her left heel snagged between two uneven paving stones, and she cursed her tight work skirt and high heels. A goods lorry splashed past with a hiss of air brakes, spattering her legs and the hem of her skirt with filthy water.
‘Bloody hell!’ Ducking her head against the rain, she carried on, past the assortment of dusty charity shops, ethnic grocers and empty cafés, towards St. Paul’s Road. Soon she was away from the heavy traffic, hurrying along the broad pavements of Highbury New Park in the grey-green light filtering through the plane trees
As she rounded the final sweep in the road, and the old house came into view, she quickened her pace. There it was, still stately despite its shabby paint work. In years gone by it had not looked out of place, but now it stooped apologetically between its two smarter, recently gentrified neighbours with their white windows and scrubbed brickwork.
Laura saw that someone was standing in front of the house. She slowed down, panting from the effort of running. It was an old man. Dressed in a battered hat and grey overcoat, he was almost indistinguishable from the tree under which he sheltered. He seemed to be watching the house. Laura hesitated, puzzled. Then, taking a deep breath to steady her thumping heart, she ventured a few steps towards him. He turned and began to move away from her, shuffling rather than walking.
‘Hey,’ she called out, but he didn’t turn.
She watched his retreating form for a second then shrugged. He was probably one of the tramps who slept rough around Finsbury Park Station and was straying from his normal patch.
She paused before lifting the latch to the front gate. How overgrown the garden was. The scent of damp grass conjured a memory of pottering around behind Dad as a toddler, watching him weed the flowerbeds and prune the honeysuckle that smothered the front wall. She glanced up at the house. The curtains on the second floor sagged across the windows. A few greying socks hung from a clothes horse on the balcony, soaking in the rain. Ken, the lodger, would be fast asleep in the studio, amongst his paint pallets and whisky bottles, where he had been staying since he turned up for a brief visit in the summer of 1962.
There were no curtains on the top floor. It had been empty since the Chaudhry family had moved out. A couple of pigeons nested under the broken guttering, their white droppings streaking the front wall.
The windows of Dad’s study were shut today. Normally he would have them open to let out the smoke as he sat puffing away on roll-ups, reading or working at his desk.
Letting the gate slam behind her, Laura rushed up the path. As she clattered up the front steps, the door to the basement clicked open.
‘Is that you Laura, love?’
She hesitated. She’d wanted to avoid this.
‘Marge?’
The old woman appeared beneath the parapet; her hair was hennaed but grey roots were showing through. She was dressed in the same nylon overall and slippers she’d been wearing for decades. A tabby cat rubbed itself against her legs. Laura caught the bitter tang of cat-piss wafting up from the basement.
‘Thank goodness you’ve come, my love! Your dad’s in the back sitting-room. Ken brought his bed down for him when he came home from hospital.’
‘How is he? You really freaked me when you phoned this morning.’
The old lady’s gaze slid away from Laura’s. Her lips quivered.
‘Not so good, my love. He’s had an awful shock. Poor old Tom.’
‘I’d better see how he is,’ Laura took another step. Why didn’t the old bat just go back to her cats and let her get out of the rain?
‘Coming down for a cuppa later, love?’
‘Yes, sure,’ Laura answered automatically, fumbling in her bag for the key.
She let herself in through the front door. She stood still for a second, taking in the atmosphere and silence of the old house, its familiar smells of tobacco and stale cooking.
Then she kicked off her shoes and threw her coat on the hall table. The door to the back sitting room was shut. She pressed her ear to the panel. There was no sound, so she opened the door. The curtains were closed and she had to pause to let her eyes adjust to the gloom. The room’s furniture had been shoved together to make space for Dad’s bed. His portable radio chattered softly from the corner of the room.
‘Laura?’
She crossed
