A Woman on the Edge of Time Read Free

didn’t explain any further and I didn’t ask for more details.
    I was thirty years old, had been a journalist for six years, had recently published my first book — an investigation into the mysterious death of a young woman in Africa. There were things I could easily have done to learn more about Hannah. I could have tracked down Anne Wicks and got her side of the story. I could have asked Susie for the boxes of my grandfather’s diaries and read them. I could have talked to my brother, who had told me once that he remembered Hannah, could have asked him for his son’s-eye view of her, but I didn’t — as I didn’t show him the article, as I never told him about her note, never shared with him the message she had left for us.

Spring 1952
    Cher Tash, I am sick of French I already almost dream in it, but to be quite honest I dont think I will improve much, if people talk slowly I understand pretty well but you would be surprised how silent I am I hardly say anything.
    This isnt a school at all, and there are no other children here but me. At first I was terribly lonely at the thought of spending three weeks without company of my own age, but now I don’t mind nearly so much, but I certainly miss male company, do you know I haven’t spoken to a young boy for over two weeks, and the French boys are so attractive — its most frustrating!
    Monsieur is a funny old chap — he reminds me of a walrus — he has a large moustache which he combs with a little pink comb! he cracks jokes all the time — feeble ones at that, half of which I dont understand, but I just laugh when he stops and thats ok.
    I have the most wonderful view from my window, out across the Seine, over the Bois de Boulogne straight to the Eiffel Tower, and a little to the left is the Arc de Triomphe. The Bois de Boulogne is beautiful. If I ever get married I shall cart my fiancee here and make him walk through it with me.
    Coming over on the plane I had an affair with a man of about 30, who is the personal assistant to Lord Beaverbrook, and works on the Express. He bought me some brandy, and a cup of coffee, and invited me to go to St Tropez with him — I was very tempted. He gave me his card and said that he was always in Paris and I was to ring him at the offices of the Express and he would take me out for dinner! You know I rather think I will!
    Madame raised her eyebrows when I told her that I went to a mixed boarding school, they consider me a little innocent nevertheless! — little do they know!!!!

One
    IT IS THE last day of March 2005, and I am driving with my wife and two daughters, aged nine and seven, down to the Sussex coast. We are heading to the barn my father bought when I was about nine myself, shortly after the second of my half sisters was born, as a holiday home for our new family.
    As we leave the city, I get that familiar feeling of shedding troubles and responsibilities, that the trees and hills can renew me. Driving through the Downs, I have an urge to stop and follow one of the footpath signs pointing across a field or into a shadowy wood. But we only have three days away — I need to be back in London next week for the publication of my new novel — and the girls are eager to get to the Barn. I left my phone at home, and when we set out I suggested Judy turns hers off, too. Visits to the Barn are a chance to escape the call of the electronic world. For the next three days we will fish for crabs in the tidal pools on the beach, and play charades in front of the fire.
    When we arrive, we unpack the car, and while Judy drives off to the village to shop, the girls and I open up the bike shed. We share the Barn with my brother’s and my sisters’ families, and I am irritated to see that some of the bikes have flat tyres. I find two that will do for Leah and Jemima; they take them off to ride on the tennis court, and I wheel a couple of others out onto the grass to fix