Wickham Hall, Part 2 by Cathy Bramley

you. But not here.’
    â€˜Tonight then, at home?’
    She dropped her sunglasses down over her eyes. ‘Yes, love, tonight.’
    My stomach fizzed as I pulled her into a hug; in a few more hours, I’d know the truth. Finally.
    â€˜Oh, Holly,’ she whispered, ‘I miss having someone special in my life and I worry I’ve left it too late.’
    My gorgeous mum; I could have cried for her.
    â€˜I don’t think you realize how lovely you are,’ I said, pressing a kiss into her hair.
    â€˜Ignore me, I’m a silly old fool and I’m spoiling your day.’ She sniffed and rooted around in her handbag for a tissue.
    â€˜Mum, you’re only forty-seven and I’d love you to meet someone.’
    â€˜I’m hardly much of a catch, am I, darling?’ she said,dabbing her eyes. She handed me a clean tissue. ‘That mud should be dry now.’
    I peered at her out of the corner of my eye as I brushed my dress down. We were beginning to get to the root of her hoarding, I was sure of it. Perhaps then she’d feel more confident about herself. Maybe our big talk tonight would help, too.
    â€˜Excuse me?’
    I looked across to the entrance of the pearl garden to see a boy in baggy jeans with a camera around his neck.
    â€˜Hi,’ I said.
    â€˜Do you mind if I come in to the garden and take some close-ups of the oyster shell?’
    â€˜Sure, help yourself.’ I smiled.
    He beckoned to two others – students by the look of them – and the three of them began taking pictures. Of course . . .
    â€˜Are you students at Hathaway College?’ I asked.
    But before they could respond another deeper voice answered for them. ‘They are indeed. Hello again, Holly.’
    I turned to find myself face to face with Steve. He was even more tanned than when I’d seen him a few weeks ago and his eyes crinkled merrily as he shook my hand.
    â€˜Steve, how lovely to see you!’ I said and then lowered my voice, turning my back on Mum. ‘I haven’t had a chance to ask my mum yet about those back issues of the newspaper we talked about and she’s a bit sensitive so . . .’
    â€˜That is your Mum?’ exclaimed Steve, his eyes out on stalks. ‘Wow, she’s . . . very . . . young.’
    I heard a snigger from the group of students and pretended not to notice Steve’s face colour a bit more.
    â€˜Mum?’ I turned back to her.
    â€˜This is my mum, Lucy,’ I took a deep breath, ‘and this is Steve. He’s the photographer who covered the festival for the
Wickham and Hoxley News
for years. He’s interested in seeing your collection of old issues.’
    â€˜My newspapers!’ Mum raised her eyebrows.
    â€˜That’s right, Lucy,’ said Steve, pumping her hand. ‘If your archives are as extensive as Holly intimated, I think you could be sitting on a very valuable resource.’
    â€˜Oh goodness, I’d better get going,’ I squeaked, suddenly conscious of the time. Suzanna Merryweather would be arriving soon and I wanted to be there to meet her taxi. I left Mum and Steve having an animated discussion about the fire that had destroyed the old newspaper building and they didn’t even notice me go.
    I looked over my shoulder as I turned the corner: Mum had pushed her sunglasses up into her hair and seemed to be hanging on Steve’s every word.
    Hurray, I thought, allowing myself a small smile, maybe a bit of encouragement from Steve is just the push she needs.

Chapter 9
    When I reached the festival entrance, I found Jim patrolling the area between the ticket booths. He didn’t appear to be carrying out any official role but was happily producing lollipops from his pocket for children and pointing visitors in the direction of the toilets.
    Edith Nibbs in the gift shop had confided in me recently that Lord Fortescue kept her and Jim on purely because no one could imagine Wickham Hall