The Memories of Us by Vanessa Carnevale

Author:Vanessa Carnevale [Vanessa Carnevale]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2018-02-12T00:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN

Tilly’s house, enclosed by a small cottage garden at the end of a narrow road lined with trees, wasn’t difficult to find, just like she promised. Her flower cart, stacked with empty buckets, is retired in the front yard under a large jacaranda waiting to blossom.

I knock once and the door immediately groans open. Tilly’s hair is pulled into a bun and she’s wearing an apron, an oven mitt still on one hand.

‘Come on in,’ she says.

I follow her, closing the door behind me as she limps down the corridor to the kitchen. The house smells like a bakery—deliciously warm and sweet, apples caramelising on the stovetop, ribbons of steam laced with the scent of cinnamon, brown sugar and raisins rising up and causing the window to fog. She switches off the gas and pulls a steaming loaf tin from the wall oven, the aroma filling the compact kitchen.

‘You didn’t need to make any effort.’

‘Who said anything about it being an effort?’ She sets the tin on a cooling rack. ‘Now, we should get down to business. What did you do with the gift I gave you?’

‘Um, nothing, I wasn’t sure when to plant them exactly.’

‘Sit,’ she commands impatiently, nodding at one of the kitchen chairs.

I pull out a wooden chair from the table. A white cat pounces to the floor.

‘What’s a girl to do? Swat you over the head with what’s obvious to me but not obvious to you?’ She turns the tin upside down on the wire rack and starts tapping it with a wooden spoon.

‘I’m sorry, Tilly, but I’ve no idea what you mean.’

She flips around to face me. ‘Why did you come to Summerhill, Gracie? What is it you think you’re looking for?’

‘I wouldn’t know. Because I don’t remember anything that came before.’

‘Well, that sounds like you’re in a perfect position to start afresh, don’t you think?’ She takes two teacups from the cupboard. ‘Tea?’

‘I don’t drink tea, aside from chai. Water will be fine,’ I reply, twisting the cuff of my sleeve around my thumb. I still have my coat and scarf on.

She tsks under her breath and carries a teapot over anyway, setting it on top of a crocheted doily.

‘Well, then?’ she asks, peering at me tetchily.

‘I don’t know, Tilly. I don’t know what I’m doing here. All I know is that I don’t belong anywhere else.’

Tilly raises an eyebrow. ‘You came to my flower stand eight times in seven days.’

‘Yes.’

‘And somehow, even if not by choice, you’ve been given a clean slate, a way to create a life you want that’s free from all the baggage and the drama that most people spend their whole lives trying to escape.’

‘But what to do with it, Tilly?’

‘Well, it’s darn obvious, isn’t it?’

‘What is?’

Tilly reaches for a pair of glasses on the table and slides them on. She sits down and reaches a knobbly hand for an envelope. She pulls out a handful of photographs and flicks through them before selecting one and passing it to me.

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