Chapter 25
M irren debated with herself. Then she thought about heading back down south and having to deal with everything. And when would she be up here again? And it was such an incredibly beautiful part of the world, the wild east coast. She’d never known it before, never visited the beautiful Northumberland National Park. And the road went right alongside it ...
Even as she started up the car, she wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do, until she put on the indicators, almost without meaning to. She pulled out on to the newly gritted tarmac, and hit the beautiful, winding road.
Melrose was a glorious town, just on the border, with an old abbey and gracious grey buildings, perfect little squares and picturesque views. It was quite lovely, and Mirren couldn’t believe she’d never even heard of it.
She hadn’t known what to expect from Ramsay’s description, but the address he’d given her led her to a large Victorian house in the middle of a residential street. Huge glass windows fronted on to the garden; it had clearly been a beautiful grand property in its day, but it was sadly neglected – it needed painting and the window frames were peeling. The path was cracked and overgrown. Mirren frowned. She wasn’t really quite sure what she was doing there. What would she do, just go up and ask them for the book? That was probably what Theo would do, she thought. March in there with his self-confidence. She could do that, surely.
She marched up to the old wooden storm door and looked around for a bell. It appeared to be a lever that you had to pull. She did so, and heard a chime deep inside the house.
For a long time, nothing happened, and Mirren stood there. She had raided her suitcase and added a couple of extra layers, but the wind cutting through was absolutely bitter and she didn’t have gloves. She rubbed her hands together and shivered. One more time?
Just as she stooped down to pull the lever, she suddenly thought she heard something. Sure enough, it was a voice. Saying, ‘Wait a minute!’
It took an age for the bolts to be drawn back. Standing in front of Mirren was a tiny old woman, as old as Violet it looked like, her face all wrinkled. She was very short, her back bowed over so she couldn’t stand up straight at all. She winced at the effort of pulling the bolts.
‘Sorry,’ said Mirren.
‘That’s all right,’ said the woman in a soft musical accent. ‘Normally, people come round the side ...’
‘Oh ... sorry!’ said Mirren again.
‘That’s all right. Now, what is it? If it’s a religion, I’m afraid I’ve put all my chips on the Church of Scotland and it’s far too late to change now. No God likes a ditherer.’
‘It isn’t,’ smiled Mirren.
‘Oh, good,’ said the old lady. ‘Also, if it’s swindling, I gave out my bank details over the phone to a very convincing young man two years ago and there’s nothing left. My children were FURIOUS.’
Mirren smiled again. ‘It isn’t that either.’
‘Oh. Well. Would you like to come in? Oh, also ...’
‘Uh huh?’ said Mirren, happy to follow the old lady inside, out of the wind.
‘... if you’re my physiotherapist and I’ve just forgotten we had an appointment, I have absolutely been doing my exercises every day.’
Most of the house was full of large closed wooden doors, but Mirren followed the old lady slowly down a passage to a kitchen at the back that had a Dyson heater running. It wasn’t beautiful, but it meant the room was delightfully warm.
‘My children insisted,’ she said. ‘I think it’s making me soft.’
‘Well, I think it’s lovely,’ said Mirren vehemently.
‘I’d rather a real fire,’ said the lady. ‘But it was doing for me knees. Tea?’
Mirren smiled gratefully as the woman poured her some tea from a freshly boiled kettle and asked if she would like a Penguin biscuit, which turned out to be exactly what Mirren felt like at that moment.
‘So,’ said the lady. ‘Tell me!’
‘Well,’ said Mirren. ‘Someone told me the artist Aubrey Beardsley used this place?’
‘He did indeed!’ said the old woman. ‘He was my great-uncle!’
‘That’s really weird,’ said Mirren, ‘because I’m looking for something on behalf of my great-aunt.’
‘Hmm,’ said the woman. ‘What are you looking for, exactly? All of his pieces are sold, mostly. I had a couple, but they needed to be sold after the whole ... charming young man incident.’
‘I am so sorry about that,’ said Mirren again.
‘Ach, it’s only stuff,’ said the woman. ‘At my age, I’d rather have my knees than all the stuff in China. And that’s a lot of stuff.’
‘It is. No, what I’m looking for is a bit different ... It’s actually a book.’
The woman looked up at her then and for all her slowness and infirmity, Mirren caught in her eye the beginning of a bright gleam, like a bird.
‘A ... a book?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Mirren. ‘My great-aunt ... she remembers a book. That she thinks he illustrated.’
There was a very long pause.
‘And would that be a Robert Louis Stevenson book?’ said the old lady finally, her voice sounding slightly tremulous.
‘YES!’ said Mirren, her heart suddenly leaping in her chest.
The old lady nodded. ‘Well, well, well. I haven’t thought about that book for a very long time.’
She gave Mirren a long, appraising look.
‘Tell me. By any chance, is your aunt’s name Violet?’
‘Yes!’ said Mirren.
‘Well then, it’s very nice to meet you. I’m her best friend, June.’