Night Music by Jojo Moyes Page A

delay and a slight creak, as if every move was an effort. A year ago today, I was happy, she thought. She had kept last year’s diary, and checked everything she had done so she knew this was true. Sometimes she tortured herself with it: ‘Dad picked me up from school. After dinner we played chess and I won. Neighbours was really good.’ Sometimes she wondered where she would be exactly a year on. It was hard to believe they might be back in London. Harder to believe they might be happy.
    Thierry, in the back, raised his earphones briefly. ‘Almost there, T,’ she said.
    ‘Oh, come on , Dolores, you know you can do it.’
    Kitty winced. It was so embarrassing that Mum called the car by name. Suddenly they drove out of the trees into a large clearing. ‘There’s a sign.’ Kitty pointed.
    ‘“ Cave! ”’ read Isabel. ‘Mmm . . . “Take care.”’
    ‘That’s it,’ said Kitty, relief in her voice. ‘That’s what they said in the shop.’
    Isabel peered through the streaming windscreen. There was an orderly two-storey flint house on the left, which looked nothing like the photograph. The car crawled forward, round a tree-lined bend, and then it was before them. A red-brick house, three storeys high, its walls half covered with ivy, the roof lined with incongruous battlements. Tall windows gave out over a front garden so overgrown that only the box hedge showed where it had once ended and the wilderness began. The house was a hotch-potch of designs, as if whoever had started it had got bored, or seen a picture of something else they liked and adapted it accordingly. A flint wall led to the battlements; Georgian windows nestled against Gothic arches.
    The Citroën swept into the drive and pulled up outside the front door. ‘Well,’ said Isabel, ‘this is it, kids.’
    It looked cold and damp and unwelcoming to Kitty. She thought wistfully of their Maida Vale house, with its cosy rooms, its smells of cooking, spices and perfume, the comforting mumble of the television. It’s derelict, she almost said, but stopped herself. She didn’t want to hurt her mother’s feelings. ‘Doesn’t look very Spanish.’
    ‘If I remember right, it was meant to be Moorish. And there’s the lake. I didn’t remember it as big as that. Look!’ Isabel had tugged a large envelope out of the glove compartment. She rummaged around in it and took out a key with a sheaf of paper. Beside the car a huge magnolia had burst into early life, its pale flowers glowing like white lanterns in the dim light.
    ‘Now, according to the solicitor, we sold off sixty acres to pay the death duties, and twenty to put some money into our bank account. But that still leaves us seven acres to the left there . . .’ The sky was darkening so it was hard to make out much beyond the trees. ‘. . . and to the front of the house. So we’ve got the whole view, the woods and the lake. Imagine that! We own almost as much land as we can see.’
    Great, thought Kitty. A muddy pond with a scary forest. Haven’t you seen any horror movies lately?
    ‘You know, if Granny was still alive it would have gone to her. He was her brother. Can you imagine her living in a house like this? After her tiny flat?’
    Kitty thought she couldn’t see anyone living in a house like this.
    ‘That water. Oh . . . it’s magical. Daddy would have loved the lake – he could have gone fishing . . .’ Isabel trailed off.
    ‘Mum, he never went fishing in his whole life,’ Kitty said, gathering up the rubbish bag by her feet. ‘We’d better get out. The removals men are here.’
    Thierry pointed towards the trees.
    ‘Good idea, darling. You have a scout round outside.’ Kitty could tell her mother was glad that Thierry had shown any interest at all. ‘What about you, lovey? Do you want to explore too?’
    ‘I’ll help you get organised,’ said Kitty. ‘Thierry, put your coat on, and don’t get lost in the woods.’ The slam of the car doors echoed round