‘I’m not surprised. I thought the knife would be worth a bit, but that was an amazing result.’
‘Yes.’ That kind of amazing just made her feel uneasy. ‘Thanks for insisting on dragging me along to the T or T roadshow today.’
‘Oh, I just wanted to get on the telly. Trust me to miss the big moment. Never mind. I’ll get a thrill out of watching you when the programme is broad cast next week.’
Violet pulled a face, hating the thought. ‘I must have been mad to sign the release form.’
‘It would have made no difference. You’ll be front page news in the local paper tomorrow.’
This time she just groaned. ‘What on earth made me say all that stuff about Great-Great Grandma Fatima? I must have been mad.’
‘Was it true? Really?’
‘You think I could make up some thing like that?’ She nodded at the pictorial family gallery that her grandma had always kept on the dresser. ‘That’s her, at the top in the middle.’
‘Goodness.’ Sarah took the picture down to take a closer look. ‘You’ve got a look of her, Violet. Something about the eyes. Hers are light, too. That’s strange, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose…’
Sarah put the picture back. ‘I’d better get home and feed the brute before he chews through the table-leg.’ She stopped in the doorway, pausing to look back. ‘You will be careful, won’t you, Violet? Once this gets out… Well, a woman with a nice little windfall is likely to find herself the target of all kinds of smooth-talking men looking for a soft touch.’
More likely find herself the target for every local villain, she thought.
Then, realising that Sarah was waiting for an answer, she laughed. ‘You mean I might get a life?’
‘And not before time. You’ve spent the last three years as a full-time carer. No holidays, scarcely a break. Nothing in your pocket but your carer’s allowance and the little bit of money you make on your stall. Believe me, I know how hard it’s been.’
‘You’re wrong, Sarah. It hasn’t been hard. My grand mother was the one person in the entire world who was always there for me, who never let me down, and I loved her. I’m trying to tell myself that she isn’t suffering anymore, but what’s really hard is not having her here.’
Sarah gave her a hug, then, leaning back, said, ‘You’re so vulnerable just now. I’m afraid you’re going to lose that tender heart to the first man you meet with a killer smile.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ she said. ‘Getting a life is going to have to wait a while. There’s a ton of stuff to do here first. I’ve got to sort out Grandma’s things. Find some where to live…’—the finance people had given her until the end of the month—‘…and get a job.’
‘Well, at least now you’ll have some money behind you.’
‘Yes…’ Then, ‘Thanks again for rushing to the rescue this morning.’
‘Any time. Just scream.’ Sarah grinned, hugged her again, and finally left.
Violet closed the door and leaned back on it for a moment. Much as she loved Sarah, it was a relief to be on her own for a moment, to be able to think.
Could it possibly be true? About the exotic Fatima being a princess? She’d dismissed the idea as nonsense when Sarah had asked her, but was it? Really?
The TV expert had said the knife could have belonged to a sheikh or sultan, and it was worth a great deal of money. So why had she kept it? Hidden it beneath the floorboards when, presumably, her jewellery—according to family legend—had been sold to fund the purchase of this house?
As if it were too important, too precious, to part with? Hidden it and never told a living soul. Because if she had someone would have sold it long ago. If her grandma had known about it she wouldn’t have sacrificed the house to raise money when she’d needed it. Would have passed on the secret when she knew she was dying…
She sighed. She didn’t need more questions. It was answers she wanted. And upstairs, in the bottom of her gran’s wardrobe, was an old Gladstone bag, stuffed with the kind of stuff that women couldn’t part with. Dried flowers. Letters. Embroidered handkerchiefs. Bits of lace and ribbon. Wedding invitations, school reports—whoever would want to keep those!—theatre programmes. Greetings cards for every possible occasion. Great-Great-Grandad’s Military Medal.
Generations of the stuff.
There had been a time, when she was a little girl, when it had been a magic bag, and being allowed to “tidy” it had been a special treat.
Then it had become an emotional ambush to be avoided at all costs. Full of things that just to look at, hold, brought tears welling to the surface: a postcard from her mother on honeymoon in Venice; a Mother’s Day card she’d made when she was so little she’d needed her gran to help with the letters; a button from her father’s jacket that she’d hidden there.
At the bottom, hidden by a false base, was the big envelope that she had not been allowed to open. The one containing family documents. The certificates—birth, marriage, death—that said who they were, where they came from. An envelope that her grandma had said she could open “when she was older”.
Except, of course, the temptation had been too much for a curious ten-year-old. Which was how she knew about the Arabic letter, although at the time she hadn’t realised what it was. How she knew why her grand mother had had to raise money in such a hurry…
She had a new document to add to the family archive, but she’d been putting it off. She’d been ignoring the bag ever since her grand mother had died, delaying the moment when she became the family matriarch. The keeper of its history. Its awful secrets.
Now she needed the letter from Fatima—there was an Iraqi woman who worked in the market who might be able to translate it for her—but she couldn’t bring herself to simply dump the contents of the bag on her grandmother’s bed.
It was not just the trivia of their lives, but the small tokens of love and remembrance that women clung to. Family history was written in the names of men, but this bag contained the women’s story. In cards, tiny treasures, a crumbling corsage worn by some unknown girl with her heart full of hope.
It was only when the hall clock struck one that she realised how long she’d spent reading old letters, scanning cards that had nothing to do with her hunt for the truth about Fatima but everything to do with her life.
Her mother’s life.
A school exercise book full of gold stars. An old blue passport. School photographs full of hope and promise that was never realised.
She put them to one side and pulled out the envelope. The certificates were all in there. And the letter written in flowing Arabic script that made her heart beat faster just to hold it. Only Fatima herself could have written it and she held it close to her heart as if she could feel the words, make some direct connection with this extraordinary woman.
She did not open the last envelope. The one containing the equity release documents that her grand mother had signed and the letter from her father.
Being old enough made no difference, and, as she had done when she’d defied her grandmother’s ruling and opened it, she crawled into bed, pulling the ancient quilt over her. Except that this time there was no one to come and find her and comfort her.
It was the phone that woke her. Dragging her from some where so deep that she was certain that it must have been ringing for some time.
She ignored it and finally it stopped, allowing her to concentrate on her headache, and the fact that her eyes felt as if someone had been shovelling grit