Forget Me Not

Permissions

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Bibliography

Keep Reading – Ghostwritten

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same Author

About the Publisher

PERMISSIONS (#u8798a5ca-f69b-53de-ae5f-a8243b788d0e)

The publisher and the author have made all reasonable efforts to trace the copyright owners of the lyrics of the songs contained in this publication. In the event that any of the untraceable copyright owners come forward after the publication of this edition, the publisher and the author will endeavour to rectify the position accordingly.

‘From a Distance’. Words and music by Julie Gold © Copyright 1986 Cherry River Music Company/Irving Music Incorporated/Wing & Wheel Music/Julie Gold Music, USA. Rondor Music (London) Limited (50%). Used by permission of Music Sales Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.

‘From a Distance’. Words and music by Julie Gold © Copyright 1986, 1987 Julie Gold Music (BMI) and Wing & Wheel Music (BMI) Julie Gold Music Administered Worldwide by Cherry River Music Co. Wing & Wheel Music Administered Worldwide by Irving Music, Inc. International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved.

‘Another Suitcase in Another Hall’. Music by Andrew Lloyd-Webber. Lyrics by Tim Rice © Copyright 1976 & 1977 Evita Music Limited. Used by permission of Music Sales Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.

‘Vincent’. Words and music by Don McLean © Copyright 1971 Mayday Music, USA. Universal/MCA Music Limited. Used by permission of Music Sales Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.

‘All The Way From America’. Words and music by Joan Armatrading. Published by Onward Music Ltd.

ONE (#u8798a5ca-f69b-53de-ae5f-a8243b788d0e)

‘It’s hard isn’t it?’ said Dad. ‘Saying goodbye.’ I nodded, shivering slightly in the mid-February air. ‘It’s sad seeing it with everything gone.’ We gazed at the back of the house, its windows glinting darkly in the late-afternoon sunlight. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have come.’

I shook my head. ‘I wanted to see it one last time.’ I felt Milly’s tiny hand in mine. ‘I wanted Milly to see it one last time too.’

I’d been down several times to help Dad pack up, but this was the final goodbye. The following day Surrey Removals would arrive and our long association with the house would cease. As I stood there, memories spooled across my mind like the frames in an old cine film. I saw myself in pink shorts, on the swing; my parents, posing arm in arm under the cherry tree for their silver wedding photo; I saw Mark throwing tennis balls for Bob, our border collie; I saw Cassie doing cartwheels across the lawn.

‘I’ll just go round it once more,’ I said. ‘Just to check … you know … that I haven’t left anything.’ Dad nodded understandingly. ‘Come on, Milly.’

We went inside, picking our way through the expectant crates, our footsteps echoing slightly over the bare floors. I said a silent goodbye to the old-fashioned kitchen with its red and black quarry tiles, then to the big, bay-windowed sitting room, the walls stamped with the ghostly outlines of pictures that had hung there for thirty-eight years. Then we went upstairs to the bathroom.

‘Starbish!’ Milly announced, pointing at the curtains.

‘Starfish,’ I said. ‘That’s right. And shells, look, and seahorses … I used to love these curtains, but they’re too frayed to keep.’

‘Teese!’ Milly exclaimed. She’d grabbed Dad’s toothbrush. ‘Teese, Mum!’ She was on tiptoe, one chubby hand reaching for the tap.

‘Not now, poppet,’ I said. ‘Anyway, that’s Grandpa’s toothbrush and we don’t use other people’s toothbrushes, do we?’

‘My do.’

I opened the medicine cabinet. All that remained were Dad’s shaving things, his toothpaste and his sleeping tablets. He said he still needed to take one every night. On the shelf below were a few of Mum’s toiletries – her powder compact, her dark-pink nail varnish, streaked with white now through lack of use, and the tub of body crème I’d given her for her last birthday, hardly touched. I stroked a little on to the back of my hand, then closed my eyes.

How lovely, darling. You know I adore Shalimar. And whata huge jar – this will keep me going for ages!

‘Mum! Come!’ I opened my eyes. ‘Come!’ Milly commanded. She’d grabbed my hand and was now leading me up the stairs to the top floor, her pink Startrites clumping against the steps.

‘You want to go to the playroom?’

‘Yes, Mum,’ she panted. ‘Paywoom!’

I pushed on the varnished door, inhaling the familiar musty smell of old dust. I’d already cleared most of the toys, keeping a few that weren’t too wrecked for Milly. But there was still a stack of old board games on the table, a jumble of dressing-up clothes in a basket and, scattered across the green lino, a selection of old comics. The debris of a happy childhood I reflected as I picked up an ancient Dandy.

Milly reached inside a little pink pram. ‘Look!’ She was holding up one of my old Sindys with the triumphant surprise of an actress with an Oscar.

‘Oh… I remember her …’ I took the doll from Milly’s outstretched hand and it gave me a vacant stare. ‘I had lots of Sindys. Five or six of them. I used to like changing their clothes.’ This Sindy was wearing a frayed gingham shirt and a pair of filthy jodhpurs. Her once luxuriant nylon tresses were savagely cropped, thanks, I now remembered, to Cassie. As I ran my thumb over the bristled scalp I felt a stab of retrospective indignation.