The Truth About Melody Browne by Lisa Jewell Page B

and there it came again, memory, clear and fresh: a matted sheepskin rug, a scrunched-up paper tissue, floorboards painted brown, a dark bed with someone in it, her own voice, whispering urgently: ‘ They’re going to call the police! They’ll put you in gaol! Mum! Don’t you understand? ’
    Melody gasped. ‘My mother!’ she whispered, louder than she’d expected.
    ‘Oh,’ said the woman, looking slightly confused. ‘That’s fine.’
    ‘Um, I have to go now,’ said Melody, trying to regain her composure. ‘But thank you.’
    ‘Well, as I say, I am fully booked until the end of summer now …’
    ‘Oh, yes, that’s right. Never mind. Maybe in the autumn?’
    ‘I’ll give you a brochure.’
    Melody let her eyes take in as much details as they could hold as she passed back through the house and down to the entrance hall, but the owners had done such a beautiful job of restoring the house that only the layout offered any sense of remembrance.
    ‘So, this place, when it was a squat – any idea who lived here then?’
    The woman looked at her sadly, as if the very notion of her house ever having been home to something as unsavoury as squatters was too much for her to bear. ‘No idea whatsoever,’ she said sniffily. She handed Melody a very tasteful brochure and saw her to the door. ‘Remember,’ she said, ‘book in advance. We’re busy all year round.’
    Melody turned to leave the house, and that was when she saw him. A man – battered-looking, time-ravaged, bearded and dirty, clutching a can of Diamond White and careening towards her.
    ‘Are you lost?’ he said, breathing putrid cider into her face.
    ‘No, I’m fine,’ she said, trying to get past him.
    ‘You look lost to me. You sure you’re not lost? I can tell you where to go. I’ve lived here since I was seven. I know this place like the back of my hand .’
    The man was of average height and probably only a bit older than her. If he wasn’t so unkempt and so drunk she might have liked to ask him about the town and what it was like when he was growing up.
    ‘No, honestly,’ she said, ‘I’m fine. I’m just wandering.’
    ‘Me too,’ he smiled. His teeth were discoloured but surprisingly straight and intact for a man of the street.
    She smiled back at him, willing him to go away, to leave her alone.
    ‘My name’s Matthew. What’s yours?’
    ‘Mel,’ she said, not wanting to give her full name in case he found it interesting and prolonged the conversation.
    ‘Nice to meet you, Mel. And what brings you to Broadstairs?’
    She shrugged. ‘Just fancied a day away from London,’ she said.
    He smiled again and passed his can of cider from one hand to the other. ‘Nice day for it,’ he said. He looked as though he were planning to join her so she drew herself away from him. He peered at her through slanted eyes, still smiling. ‘Off you trot, then,’ he said.
    She threw him a nervous smile and headed off.
    ‘Nice talking to you!’ he called after her.
    ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you too.’ She gave him another smile and watched as he turned away from her. And it was then that it hit her:
    A grubby tennis ball, a brick wall painted white, a painting of a flying boy, the sound of … a cricket? No, not a cricket, but a scratchy noise, like wood being whittled. And a child’s voice saying, ‘ Get your mum away from him before she’s giving him baths and having babies for him too .’
    She stopped to catch her breath.
    By the time she’d recovered herself the man called Matthew was gone, swallowed up by the crowds, taking with him, Melody was sure, some vital clue about her childhood.

Chapter 11
1977
     
    Everything about Melody’s old life had been stripped away, not all in one go, but slowly, torturously, layer by layer. First her dad had gone to live in a room in Brixton with mice behind the skirting boards, then her mum had resigned from her job and started getting the dole, which meant that they couldn’t afford things