A Hidden Life by Adèle Geras Read Free Book Online Page A

to manage that, or how to keep Mum from swooping down and swallowing her and Poppy up and taking themback to Haywards Heath. She wanted, above all, not to have that happen. Not to become the daughter who couldn’t cope, the one who’d been abandoned by her partner because even though there was talk of domestic violence
you had to see both sides and there was no smoke without fire.
That’s what Constance would have said. The bitch. The vindictive old crone. Fuck her.
    â€˜Fuck you!’ Lou shouted at the walls and felt only a tiny bit better afterwards. She rested her head on her hands and let the tears run through her fingers. Oh, God, she thought, I must stop. I can’t do this. I won’t be able to see tomorrow. Poppy – I have to be in a calmer state to look after Poppy.
    Lou sniffed and tore off a piece of kitchen towel and blew her nose. It had only just occurred to her that her grandmother’s bequest was a double whammy. She’d ensured that Lou got nothing, but to do that she had to proclaim to the whole family that she thought her late husband’s work was worthless. Nothing. Nothing anyone would ever want. That dealt with his memory too, just in case there was anyone around who might still be inclined to admire him.
    But I do, Lou thought. I always have and I always will. As a child, she’d been impressed and awed by the books he’d shown her. She knew every one of the covers so well that she could have drawn any of them by heart. They came from a time when novels had dust-jackets showing repeating patterns, sort of lime green or pale orange or pale blue on white, with an oval shape left blank for the title and author’s name to appear in an attractive font. The first of his five novels was
Blind Moon,
and that was the one he’d read out loud from to Lou – the one she remembered a little, though the details had disappeared from her mind entirely. As for Grandad’s other four books, she’d never read them and knew very little about them. She went to the shelf where the Barrington books stood together, took out
Blind Moon
and read the first few words again:
    Now he could tell the whole story. He could speak about what happened during their time in the camp; in the bamboo-gated prison overshadowed by the blue mountain, under the eye of a moon that looked at everything and saw nothing; like a blind, white eye gazing down at them all.
    Lou closed the book. At first, it had seemed quite different from how she remembered it. She couldn’t find, at least in the first few pages, any passages she remembered. Grandad must have chosen particular bits to read aloud to a child and much of what she’d glanced at didn’t look suitable. It would probably, she realized, be a harrowing tale. She would read it carefully now, from cover to cover.
    She looked at the dust-jacket. The reddish-brown pattern of palm leaves showed that it was mainly set in foreign parts. The pages felt brittle and dry and the edges of each one had been stained yellowish-brown from years and years of the smoke from Grandad’s cigarettes. She leaned closer to the book and breathed in the fragrance of ancient tobacco. Then she read the dedication
(To my mother)
and the blurb. There were several old cuttings from newspapers, carefully folded and placed in the back of the book. I’ll read those in a minute, she thought. And I’ll read this properly. That’ll show Constance. Then I’ll go on to his next and then the others. I’ll read every word. They’re mine now. I own them.
    The thin shrilling of her mobile sounded very loud in the empty flat. Lou reached for her handbag and found the phone. She glanced at the number displayed on the little screen. It was Nessa, who scarcely ever rang her. What on earth could she want now, only hours after they’d been together in Milthorpe House?
    â€˜Hi, Nessa,’ she said.’ What’s up?’

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    Matt