Eglantine Read Free

the truth, please. Do you know anything about this?’
    ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Cross my heart.’
    ‘Bethan? If you’re lying, Bethan, I’m not going to forgive you for a very long time. Do you understand?’
    ‘I didn’t do it!’ he squealed.
    ‘He couldn’t have done it, Mum,’ I said, as something else occurred to me. ‘Some of this stuff is written on the ceiling. How could he have written it on the ceiling? The ceilings in this house are so high.’
    ‘Well . . .’ She was starting to sound uncertain. ‘We do have a ladder . . .’
    ‘But how would Bethan get the ladder up those stairs? All by himself?’
    We stared at him, Mum and I. He growled, ‘Well, don’t ask me .’
    ‘Perhaps I’d better have a look,’ said Mum. ‘Bethan, why don’t you go and get Ray? He’s out the back.’ She wiped her hands on a tea towel, followed me down the hall and began to climb the stairs. ‘You don’t suppose this writing might be the old stuff?’ she suggested. ‘Soaking through the paint, for some reason? Maybe it was written in something that’s reacting with the paint, as it dries.’
    ‘I don’t know,’ I said. It was a reasonable explanation. But when we reached Bethan’s room, and studied the writing, we began to have doubts. Surely, if the words had soaked through the paint, they wouldn’t have been so clear and dark? Surely they would have been blurry?
    ‘You don’t think Bethan’s lying, do you?’ Mum asked me, in a low, worried voice. ‘You don’t think he’s doing it himself?’
    ‘No. I don’t.’
    ‘Not even to attract attention? I just – oh, dear. I hope this isn’t a symptom of some kind of – I don’t know – emotional problem.’ Then she muttered something about therapy, and I was afraid that she might start mentioning alternative treatments like acupuncture again. (She’s always suggesting that we have acupuncture, which I don’t fancy at all. Injections are bad enough.)
    ‘No, Mum,’ I said firmly. ‘That’s not Bethan’s writing. If only Bethan could write like that. It’s grown-up writing.’
    ‘That’s true,’ she admitted.
    ‘In fact, it’s more than grown-up – it’s old-fashioned. Like Granny’s used to be. Oh!’ And that’s when I realised. ‘You know what it looks like?’ I gasped. ‘It looks like the writing in that book from under the stairs!’
    Mum shot me a quick, startled glance. I could see a hint of alarm in her expression.
    ‘But it’s probably a coincidence,’ I added quickly. I didn’t like what I’d just said any more than Mum did.
    Then Ray appeared, with Bethan. They were slightly out of breath.
    ‘Ray, where did I put that book?’ Mum asked. ‘Do you remember? The old one, from under the stairs?’
    Blinking, Ray thought for a moment. Without Ray, Mum would be losing things all the time. He’s very tidy and logical for an artist. In fact he doesn’t look like an artist at all. He has short hair and glasses, and he irons his shirts (even his T-shirts), and he’s always cleaning the paint from under his fingernails.
    ‘I know I packed it,’ Mum continued, ‘but I can’t remember – did I put it in the bedroom bookcase or in the bookcase downstairs?’
    ‘Neither,’ Ray replied, with decision. ‘It’s in that cupboard in the studio, with the old magazines.’
    So I was sent to fetch the book. Naturally, I studied the writing on its flyleaf all the way back to the bedroom, growing more and more uneasy as I did so. When I finally reached Mum, I couldn’t get rid of the thing fast enough. Suddenly, I didn’t want to be touching that mouldy old book.
    ‘God,’ said Mum, staring at it. ‘God, Ray, would you check this out?’
    ‘Lordy,’ said Ray, adjusting his glasses. Bethan squeezed between them, and all three peered at the inscription on the flyleaf. Then they gazed at the wall. Then they fixed their eyes on the book again.
    ‘Jeez,’ said Bethan. He sounded both anxious and awestruck.
    ‘It can’t