59 Memory Lane. Celia Anderson

May’s husband. Not many people did, come to think of it.

      Ida’s eyes are shining with goodwill. She’s always had this annoying habit of thinking everyone should be fond of each other just because they live in the same village, thinks May. Most of them do get on, but May prefers to choose her friends for herself.

      ‘Yes, of course she sent her love – why wouldn’t she? Julia speaks very highly of you.’

      ‘She does?’

      ‘Not only that, but she’s asked me to see if you’d like to pop over there for a visit tomorrow.’

      ‘Are you pulling my leg, Ida? Why would Julia suddenly want me to go and see her? We haven’t spoken a word to each other since Don’s funeral, and that was only in passing. Anyway, I don’t get out of the house on my own these days. I’d end up flat on my face on the cobblestones.’

      Ida smiles. There’s something of the shark about her when she’s got an idea in her head. ‘That won’t be a problem. I’m sure Andy will take you across the road when he finishes work.’

      ‘But—’

      ‘Now, there’s no need to worry. He’s working in my own garden tomorrow, as luck would have it, so I can make sure he gets home in good time. Julia’s expecting you at half-past five. And if you’re lucky, she might show you some of her treasure trove. I’ve never seen so many old letters in my life.’

      May is silent. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of this before? She should have snapped Ida’s hand off straight away. Those letters. All the memories just waiting for her. Can it be that her prayers have been answered? She’s never been sure about God, but it doesn’t hurt to hedge your bets, and she always likes to send up a few requests while she’s listening to the Sunday morning hymns on the radio.

      Some of the words to the hymns are quite poetic, and she sings along with gusto. Her favourite is the wedding one. She likes the lines:

      Grant them the joy which brightens earthly sorrow,

      Grant them the peace which calms all earthly strife.

      It paints such a lovely picture of marriage. Hers wasn’t at all like that, especially after May found Charles in bed in the middle of the morning with the baker’s delivery boy, if you could call a strapping nineteen-year-old a boy, but there’s no need to be cynical about the institution in general.

      She rustles up a big smile for Ida. ‘Well, it sounds as if you’ve got it all sewn up,’ she says. ‘But I still can’t see why Julia would choose to invite me over? In truth, Andy told me he was anxious because she wasn’t seeing anyone at the moment. She’s turned into a bit of a hermit.’

      ‘I know, and it’s been a worry to us all. She hasn’t been to the morning service for months. She’s taken Don’s death very hard. They were true soul mates, weren’t they?’

      May presses her lips together. She’s always hated that expression. As if souls could talk. If that was the case, there’d be a lot fewer arguments and misunderstandings in the world. Her own husband wasn’t so much of a soul mate as a pain in the backside, especially in the later days, when he had dark suspicions about his health issues. If only he’d had the sense to see the doctor. After Charles died she began to appreciate his finer points again, but while he was with her the temptation to smother him was sometimes almost irresistible, the awkward sod. Pedantic, waspish and far too fond of flower arranging.

      Ida’s peering around the room now. Nosy old bat. ‘You’ve got some lovely ornaments and pictures,’ she says. ‘It’s hard to imagine how anything can be around so long and yet still be so perfect.’

      ‘Like me,’ says May, with a cackle.

      Ida smiles. ‘You’re absolutely right. Everyone always says how young you look, May. How do you do it? What’s your secret? Do you use some sort of fancy face cream?’

      ‘You must be joking,’ says May. ‘I wouldn’t spend good money on that muck. No, my looks are down to a small daily dose of port and brandy, plenty of heathy food and clean living, that’s all.’

      May has trotted this mantra out so often that she might almost believe it if she didn’t know the truth. When she first realised that it was possible to pick up vibrations from certain objects, or whatever she liked to call the effect that she got, May was young enough to think that all children got a sparkly feeling of wellbeing when they touched things that had an interesting past. It took quite a while to match her magical moments to the treasures she sometimes managed to collect by trawling the local jumble sales and junk shops with her mother.

      Pocket money didn’t go far when you were an avid collector, but her father seemed to understand her needs better than her mother, and if he took her out shopping he would indulge her by slipping a bit of extra cash into her pocket at vital moments. And when May realised how many people in the village had memories hidden away in their possessions, the harvesting really began to move into gear. A special, secret sort of magic, that’s what it is, and it needs to stay that way.

      She remembers the first time she was overcome by the feeling that she must have something precious that didn’t belong to her, even though, at ten years old, she knew very well it was wrong. May’s mother took her to their nearest neighbour’s house for tea, and while the two ladies were busy in the kitchen May spied a tiny enamelled box with a tightly fitting lid. She picked it up and cradled it in the palm of her hand. Patterned with purple violets, the box seemed to hum to itself, as if it had secrets that only May could hear.

      May prised off the lid with a fingernail, all the while listening in case the grown-ups came back. Inside was a curl of hair, soft and blond. May held her breath and put her finger into the middle of the hair. The warmth and energy that flowed from it was so dramatic that she withdrew her hand with a gasp. After a moment, she tried again, preparing herself this time. Bliss. Glancing over her shoulder, May slid the curl into her pocket, then closed the lid and returned the box just as her mother reappeared carrying a plate of fairy cakes.

      Since that day, there have been many other chances to find what she needs, but May has had to be careful. Now and again she’s come very close to being caught.

      Unaware of the unsettling thoughts racing through May’s mind, Ida checks her watch and gets to her feet, accidentally treading on Fossil, who hisses his disapproval and runs for the cat flap. ‘Whoops! Sorry, cat. So that’s settled then. Andy can fetch you as soon as he’s finished at mine. I’m very excited about this new scheme, May. It’s going to benefit so many people. Poor Julia is so lost nowadays, and you’ll get a lot out of it, too.’

      ‘Oh, yes, I do hope so,’ says May.

      A tiny bubble of excitement shivers inside her. She’d better take her largest handbag when she goes across the road tomorrow.

       Chapter Four

      Andy calls for May the next afternoon on the dot of half-past five. She is wearing her best dress, which is cornflower-blue, and a pair of low-heeled court shoes in honour of the occasion. She’s not about to let Julia think she’s gone to seed while she’s been stuck in the house. The dress is sprigged with tiny buttercups and daisies. It makes May think of the rolling meadow behind her old home up the hill. She sighs. Oh, well, no point in looking over her shoulder – a beach on your doorstep is worth a dozen grassy fields and woods, after all. You couldn’t see the sea properly from the big house even though it was high up on The Level because the trees in between blocked the view.

      Andy gives an impressive wolf whistle when he sees her. ‘Blimey, May. You still scrub up well. You don’t look a day over seventy.’

      She bats him with her handbag and turns to the hall mirror to tidy her already immaculate hair. She’s always been glad that when the rich auburn of her hair eventually began to fade, it turned a beautiful snowy white. May misses being a foxy redhead sometimes, but her hairdresser thinks she’s very glamorous and calls every