The History Room by Eliza Graham Page A

existed
between teacher and taught, transmitter and receiver, that allowed ideas to grow.
    ‘You’ve no idea who put this on your desk?’ I waved the sheet.
    He shook his head.
    ‘May I take it with me?’ I stood up. ‘I’d like to check my email. Someone must have hacked into my account or something.’
    ‘I suppose they could have.’ His face seemed to brighten. I’d forgotten how clueless he was about technology. Most of the first year would have more understanding of what was
possible on a computer than he would. Samantha, his secretary, sent his emails for him. Mum had built up the school databases, taking herself off to evening classes to master the programs. Samantha
was learning how to do it now. He stood up too.
    I waved the sheet. ‘I’ll let you know what I find out about this.’
    He reached out and took my free hand. ‘Oh, Meredith. All we want is for you to be happy.’
    I stared at our joined hands. ‘You still think it’s me, don’t you? You still think I’m . . . disturbed?’ I closed my eyes for a second. ‘You keep thinking
I’m going to have another breakdown.’
    ‘I just want you to be happy,’ he repeated. ‘Ever since you were a little girl, that’s what we wanted. And you were such a sunny little thing.’ On the fireplace
still stood the silver-framed photograph of me on a tricycle out on the tennis courts, Clara standing behind me, an arm draped round my shoulders: the protective elder sister. We’d never have
been allowed to ride our trikes on the courts in term time. The photograph must have been taken during the summer holidays when Letchford belonged to the family again. There was a big grin on my
freckled face. Merry, they’d called me as a child. Still did on occasions. Not so often these days. I wondered if I could find my way back to this sunny person I’d once been.
    My email folders showed no signs of an order placed for reborn dolls. I could find no confirmation messages, no delivery alerts. There was nothing in the deleted emails folder either. When I
started to type the Internet address into the search engine it showed no signs of predicting the site. I checked the Internet history for sites I’d visited over the last month or so. Nothing
matched the Delicious Confections address. Nor did any of the sites I’d actually visited have any connections with reborn dolls. So I hadn’t actually ordered the doll in some kind of
depressive trance as my father had implied.
    He’d been thinking of that week after Mum’s death. It had all fallen to bits then, my life. Dad had gone to Clara’s for a change of scene. I’d stayed here, in this flat.
I hadn’t left it for five days, not even to walk Samson. I’d simply opened the door to let him out three times a day. If I’d moved from my bed it was only to sit on the sofa with
the television turned on. Eventually I’d come down the stairs into the courtyard because Samson hadn’t come in after one of his outings. I hadn’t realized that Clara and Dad had
returned to Letchford. Lucky for me that they had. Weak from not eating, I’d fainted out in the courtyard and banged my head. Lost consciousness briefly. They’d heard the dog barking
and found me lying there on the ground beside the pot plants. I brushed this memory away.
    Of course it would be possible for someone to use another computer and order the reborn baby in my name. The doll. I had to keep reminding myself that it really was just a doll, made of painted
vinyl with metal filings in its head. But how lifelike it was, with its mottled newborn skin, expressionless eyes and curled-up wrist. My father still kept the thing out in his office. No wonder it
was haunting him.
    If anyone had accessed my account to print off the order confirmation they’d have needed my password. My password was Hugh’s service number plus the first letter of his name. Nobody
else would be able to guess the combination and it wasn’t written down anywhere. I