The Skylark's Secret, стр. 19

‘There’s me with my bucket and spade on the beach at Slaggan Bay. We’ll walk there one day in the summer and take a picnic, shall we? And this is your mummy in the school show, singing a solo. One of my earlier stage appearances. This one looks like Carousel – a publicity photo of me as Louise Bigelow. And here’s a nice one of your mummy and your granny in London, see?’

‘Mmm?’ Daisy asks, pointing at the picture.

‘Yes, that’s right. That’s Mummy. And your granny, Flora.’ It strikes me that we could almost pass as sisters, Mum looks so young in the photo. We shared the same russet-gold curls, in her case faded a little and drawn into a neat sandy braid, whereas mine tumbled over my shoulders. We were outside the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, standing in front of the poster for Piers’s production of A Chorus Line in which I’d just landed my role. If you look closely you can just about make out my name, which Mum is pointing at. My London name, that is. Those dance classes were killers, I remember; my legs were sore for months. But it was worth the pain. My career was on an upward trajectory then. I was being given bigger roles, expanding my repertoire.

In this photograph I can see that I look radiant. My happiness had something to do with the new production. It had a lot to do with the fact that my mum had come to visit and I always enjoyed showing her London, sharing my new life with her, which was hundreds of miles – both literal and metaphorical ones – from Keeper’s Cottage on the shores of Loch Ewe. But most of all, I remember, I was overflowing with joy because I’d so recently met Piers.

Looking at my face in the photo, I feel sorry for that girl now, the girl I once was. She felt invincible, golden, chosen from among so many other singers and actors. She was oblivious to the fall that was to come.

The show was a hit. With my first pay packet, I went shopping and bought the beautiful suede jacket that I’d coveted in the window of the boutique I passed each day on my way to the theatre. The minute I slipped it on I felt like a star. Like someone who’d made it, a girl who had successfully shrugged off her previous persona and become somebody else altogether. And now it hangs in the back of the wardrobe, a useless piece of clothing that’s entirely unsuited to the place I’ve washed up in, creased and stained, as forlorn as its owner. I should really take it to be dry-cleaned, but that would involve a day’s trip to Inverness and another day to go and pick it up: the thought of the petrol and the cost of the cleaning and the effort it would take to bundle Daisy into the car defeat me.

I sigh and settle the photo frame back in its place on the sideboard.

Daisy begins to fuss, as if she can sense the slide in my mood. I pick up another photo. This one is of Mum and she’s wearing the dark uniform of the WRNS. The severity of the tailored uniform contrasts with the informality of her pose, leaning against the bonnet of a military jeep, her hair blowing in the wind. She’d have been about twenty then, I suppose. The most striking thing about the picture, though, is the expression in her eyes. Just like my own in the previous photo, they are shining, radiating the purest joy as she gazes at whoever is taking the picture. I swallow hard as tears threaten to spill on to Daisy’s rose-gold curls. Mum looks so carefree, even though they must have been hard times, those war years. I feel almost certain that the person taking the photo was my father, even though I know so little about him. I remember my conversation with Bridie Macdonald on the road the other day and wonder again what it might be that she is so loath to reveal. Next time I’m passing her house, I’ll invite myself in and get her to tell me what she knows, I resolve. It’s my history, after all, my parents’ story.

I run the tip of my finger over the outline of my mother’s face, gently tracing the contours of her smile.

Yes, I think, my dad must have been the one behind the camera. Because I know how much she loved him. There was no one else who could have made her look that way.