Fiona Harper - The Memory Collector - The emotional and uplifting new novel from the bestselling author of The Other Us

‘Yes?’ she says to Jason, who’s still got the hint of a smile on his lips, and she knows her tone has added bite because of her lousy afternoon. Another thing that’s Faith’s fault.

‘Thought I’d mow the grass and give the borders a bit of a weed,’ he says cheerfully. ‘Now the weather’s turned nicer, I was also thinking about having a barbecue – you know, the housewarming I didn’t get round to organizing – just a few friends over to have some burgers and sausages.’

Heather nods. Oh, so that’s it. While it’s a shared garden and Jason is perfectly within his rights to mow, cook or even turn cartwheels in it, he’s being polite. He’s asking if she minds. ‘Go ahead,’ she says. ‘Although it’d be nice to know the date and time when you’ve arranged it.’ That way she can make sure she keeps to the bedroom and the kitchen that afternoon, then there’s no chance of her being mistaken for an undead scarecrow again or having people peering into her space like she’s an exhibit in the reptile house at London Zoo. She might even go out.

His smile gets wider. ‘Well, I thought maybe you’d like to join us? It seems rude not to ask, especially as we’ll be hanging out right in front of your living room.’

Heather checks his face for the usual telltale signs of a pity invite: the tightness around the edges of the mouth, the narrow pupils and fixed jaw (she’s thinking of Faith’s face as she does this), but finds none of them. However, she can’t believe he’s asking because he actually wants her there, so that leaves her standing in her garden, worrying whether aphids from the nearby roses are attaching themselves to her hair, and not knowing quite what to do.

‘Okay?’ he says as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to offer invitations to strangers, bring them into your world, your stuff.

There’s no excuse she can give. Not yet, anyway. So she just nods and says, ‘Okay.’ And then she turns and goes back inside her flat without looking round. She desperately wants to, though. She wants to know if he’s still smiling or if his brows are drawn together in a deep frown of confusion.

Heather heads for her bedroom, but as she passes the spare room she pauses.

It’s in there. The photo. The thing Faith wants. She doesn’t know exactly where, but it’s in there somewhere. Probably. Heather stares at the blank door for a full minute, and then she thinks to herself, Not today. I’ve had as much as I can handle today. I’ll do it soon, though. Maybe tomorrow.

CHAPTER SIX

NOW

‘She’s in tears, Heather! Everyone else in her class has brought their family-history projects in already. The teacher has given her until Monday, but that’s absolutely her last chance! I am driving over to you Sunday afternoon and picking a bloody photo up. Have you got that?’

Somehow, looking for a photograph ‘tomorrow’ had turned into the day after that, and the day after that had turned into a week, and then that week had become two. There have been texts from her sister, hard, barking little questions fired into her phone like missiles. Heather hasn’t exactly ignored them, not really, not when each one has lit a fire of shame and guilt inside her, but she hasn’t exactly replied to them either. And now it’s Friday evening, almost two weeks later, and Faith is on the warpath.

‘Yes, got it,’ Heather whispers penitently. What else can she do?

There is a relieved sigh on the other end of the line.

‘Okay.’ Mamma-Bear Faith is standing down. Heather exhales, mirroring her sister.

There is so much Heather wants to say to her: that she truly does love Alice and Barney; that she knows her sister doesn’t believe that because Heather’s just so useless at acting normal around them. But that is only because she wants so desperately to see that love reflected back in their eyes that she second-guesses every move, every word. She wants to tell Faith that she’s gutted she’s made Alice cry and feel ‘the odd one out’ with the kids at school because she knows how awful that is. But Heather says none of this. It’s as if, when it comes to Faith, her mouth is perpetually glued shut.

‘Right. I’ll give you a bell on Sunday morning to let you know what time. Matthew has a meeting after church, so it’ll depend on whether he can take the kids too or not.’

‘Okay,’ Heather says meekly, but a chill is unfurling inside her. They say their goodbyes and she puts the phone down slowly. Then, before she can chicken out, she turns and walks down the hallway and stops in front of the innocent-looking closed white door. Blood rushes so loudly in her ears that it drowns out the sound of traffic on the main road outside.

She doesn’t move for the longest time, just stares at the door, and then, when it feels as if she has almost hypnotized herself into a catatonic state by staring at the blank white paint, she reaches out and her palm closes around the door handle.

This is how to do it, she tells herself. Like it’s not real. Like it’s a dream.

She has a vague memory of something that looked like photograph albums in the left corner of the room, in a box on top of a bookcase, next to piles of her mother’s old clothes, still bagged up in black sacks. She pulls up a mental image of that box and fixes it at the front of her brain.

She inhales deeply, resists the urge to hold her breath, and twists the creaky old brass knob. The door swings open.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Just move.

She’s fine at first, as she’s crossing the bare patch of carpet near the door, even as she treads carefully down the narrow path between the boxes and bags on that side, but there’s obviously been a landslide at the back of the room. One of the storage boxes containing some bric-a-brac that was sitting atop a pile of newspapers has toppled, spilling itself gleefully over the space. She needs to go forward, but she doesn’t want to bend and clear the mess up. She doesn’t want to touch it. She doesn’t want to touch any of it.

So she doesn’t. She just keeps moving, walks over the top of the contents of the spilled box. It was what her mother did when she was alive, after all. When the ‘rabbit trails’ were devoured by the growing hoard, she’d just walk over the top, changing the topography of the house from flat carpeted floors into hills and mountains of rubbish. In her later years, they’d grown so huge that in some places they were four or five feet deep, and spaces that should have been doorways had turned into crawl spaces.

However, when Heather’s foot crunches on one of the photo frames, one that’s just a wooden surround, already having lost its glass, memories come flooding back, things that have nothing to do with this room, this hoard – the lack of light, the perpetual twilight caused by the skyscraper piles, the sting of cat urine in her nostrils and the particular smell of dirt that’s built up over years not months. A sob escapes her, but she thinks of Alice and pushes forward.

Blindly, she throws the black sacks full of clothes out of the way until she spots a ragged cardboard box, one so weak and old it might disintegrate if she tried to lift it. So she grabs the forest-green spine of what looks like a photo album, clutches it to her chest and retreats as fast as possible. It’s only when the door is safely shut behind her, the key turned in the lock, that the swirling feeling in her head stops.

She takes the photo album into her living room and lays it on the desk – a coffee table would have been the perfect spot, except Heather has no coffee table. What’s wrong with a shelf or a side table to put your mug on? A coffee table would fill up the centre of the room, rob her of that perfect, precious space in the centre of the rug. She leaves the album there, then goes back to the spare room, removes the key and carefully places it in her desk drawer. For some reason, it just doesn’t feel safe leaving it in the door any more. She then makes herself a cup of camomile tea.