When It Rains: The bittersweet romance you won't want to miss Read online

  ‘Look at these,’ Ben says, pointing at a mountain of neatly stacked cardboard boxes of various shapes and sizes. ‘Nana was a hoarder. Who knew?’

  ‘Is, Ben,’ I correct. ‘Nana is a hoarder.’

  I can’t believe he’s talking about her as if she’s already gone. It’s not like him to be so callous. It must be stress.

  ‘I meant when she was young, Holly. Jesus,’ Ben snaps. ‘I didn’t mean it like she’s … like she’s …’

  Ben looks as if he’s about to cry, and I feel awful. ‘Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just weird. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.’

  Ben turns his back on me and lifts one of the largest boxes off the pile, almost dropping it before he places it on the floor with a loud thud that makes me jump. He peels back some yellowed and not very sticky tape, and the noise hangs in the air for a moment; exaggerated because neither of us are talking. And I can’t speak for Ben, but I’m not breathing, either.

  ‘Records,’ Ben announces gleefully as he rummages in the box. ‘There’s loads in here.’

  ‘Careful,’ I warn. ‘If they’re original vinyl, they could be worth a fortune. Nana would freak out if we damage them.’

  ‘I wonder if they still play?’ Ben beams.

  I shrug. ‘Yeah, probably. But play on what? They’re a little big for the CD player, don’tcha think?’

  ‘Hang on. Hang on …’ Ben says, sticking one finger in the air.

  He bounces over to the far side of the attic, making the boards beneath us shake. It’s terrifying, and it feels like they’ll snap and we’ll tumble through the ceiling at any moment.

  ‘Ah-ha,’ Ben shouts as he pulls back some cloths covering a large and oddly shaped mound.

  ‘A record player,’ I shout back.

  I forget my concerns about the dodgy flooring and race over to investigate.

  ‘Oh, Ben, we have to bring this down to Nana. We could play some of these records for her. I bet she’d love that. I bet it would make her feel good.’

  My brother looks at me despondently, and I quickly look away, my excitement quashed by the sadness in his eyes.

  ‘Let’s check and see if it works first,’ he says softly.

  I’m about to explain that no sockets are up here when I notice a lever on the side. Wind up?

  ‘Wow,’ I say twisting the lever around and around. ‘This thing must be as old as Nana.’

  ‘It’s from the fifties, I’d say,’ Ben explains.

  Ben is way more into history than I am. He actually asks Nana to tell him stories from back in the day over and over. It drives our mother crazy. She’s heard them all so many times; she knows them all by heart. I suspect half of Ben’s enthusiasm is seeing the look on our mother’s face as Nana begins one of her never-ending tales. Sometimes, I wonder if he does it more to rub my mother the wrong way than anything else.

  ‘Let’s try this one,’ Ben says, dusting off one of the records he’s chosen from the top of the box. ‘It’s Mac the Knife.’

  ‘Oh. I know this one.’ I start to hum much to my brother’s disgust. ‘Shut up,’ I moan. ‘Mom says I’m a great singer.’

  Ben snorts playfully. ‘Yeah, and Mom also says she doesn’t have favourites. But she’s clearly lying.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. I’m totally her favourite.’

  Ben sticks his tongue out at me, but he can’t keep a straight face, and he almost bites his lip as he laughs.

  I snatch the record from Ben’s hand, and he’s too busy giggling like a schoolboy to protest. I’m no movie buff, but I’ve seen my fair share of the classic black and whites. They almost always feature a vinyl record playing at some point. It invariably looks straightforward. If I can figure out that Wi-Fi speaker system thing that Nate bought me last Christmas, I can definitely tackle a record player from the past. I pop the record on the turntable, drag the arm across, taking care not to let the needle scratch the record, and set it down in the middle. But nothing happens.

  ‘It must be broken,’ I say, dejected.

  Ben doesn’t say anything, but he reaches across me and flicks a little switch on the bottom right of the gramophone. Music immediately fills the attic.

  ‘Works better if you turn it on,’ Ben teases.

  Usually, I’d blush, but I’m too distracted by the jazzy saxophone notes kissing my ears. I stretch my arms out as wide as they go and begin swaying from side to side, singing and dancing. For a moment, I’m lost in the music, and I forget about how sick my grandmother is. But it only lasts a few seconds. I stub my toe on the edge of a box and reality pinches my heart once again. I take a deep breath and gather myself, glaring at the box that’s left my right big toe pulsating uncomfortably. This box is different from the rest. This one isn’t cardboard. It’s small and around the size of a shoebox. It’s not anything you’d use for packing, moving, or tidying. This box is obviously a memory box, and I know it’s what I’m looking for before I even open it. It’s dusty pink and shaped like a pirate’s chest. The stitching around the edges tells me it used to be a much darker colour, cerise maybe, but time has taken its toll. But it doesn’t detract from how pretty the little chest is, or how excited I am to bend down and run my fingers across the top.

  ‘You okay, Holly?’ Ben says, hurrying over to where I’m huddled in a little ball. ‘Did you hurt yourself?’

  I shake my head and point. ‘Look.’

  Ben pulls a face as he squats beside me with his arms folded across his knees. I haven’t seen him make this expression before. It falls somewhere between confused and constipated, and I can’t hold in my giant, snorty laugh.

  ‘Ben. Look,’ I say again, sounding a little cross – warning both myself and my brother to be respectful.

  ‘Hols, this looks personal …’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I don’t think we should open it.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Because …’

  ‘Because nothing. This is exactly what we’re looking for,’ I beam.

  Ben stands up and rolls his shoulders, back and down. ‘Holly, what exactly are we looking for?’

  ‘Memories.’

  ‘Memories?’ Ben echoes.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Holly,’ Ben scowls. ‘What are you up to? Are you snooping?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ I raise my hand and wave it back and forth, dismissing Ben’s concern as I fiddle with the lid of the box with my other hand.

  ‘This thing is worse than Fort Knox.’ I moan.

  ‘Holly. Stop it,’ Ben warns. ‘This is Nana’s private stuff.’

  ‘Jesus, Ben. You sound like Mom.’

  Ben’s upper body stiffens, and he pulls his lips so tight together, they crinkle like a fan.

  ‘Got it,’ I announce, triumphant as the lid finally lifts open on the chest.

  Ben can’t help himself, and he flops onto his knees beside me to look inside. The smell of old paper assaults my nose as I lean my head over the chest to investigate. It’s full to the brim with sheet upon sheet of paper. They’re yellowed and crinkled as if they got wet or damp and have dried out over the years within the limited space of the box. They’ve taken on the shape of the chest, bowing in the middle and rising at the edges like a paper boat. The page on top is blank, and I’m desperate to see the drawings I’m certain are hidden underneath, but I’m almost afraid to touch them in case they crumble to dust at first contact with my fingers.

  Sucking in a nervous breath, I slide my hand down the side of the mound of paper to create a gap between the pages and the edge of the box. I decide the best approach is to scoop all the pages out at once. There’s strength in numbers and all that. I hope it’s true, and I am able to preserve the delicate paper this way.

  The pile is heavier and sturdier than I anticipated. Instinctively, I fall back onto my bum as I cradle the paper in my arms. Ben is staring at me as if I’ve lost my mind. I gather myself and exhale sharply. I cross my legs and place the pile on the floor in the spa
ce between Ben and me.

  ‘What is it?’ Ben says, mesmerised.

  ‘Paper.’ I wink.

  ‘Holly. Be serious. Is it … is it Nana’s will or something?’

  I scrunch my nose. ‘Jesus, Ben. No. God, no. It’s art, I think. Paintings. Marcy told me about them.’

  ‘Marcy?’ Ben squeaks in a high pitch that doesn’t match his body size. ‘How did Marcy know about them?’

  ‘Nana told her.’

  Ben looks dejected. And I can tell he’s not impressed that Nana shared secrets with Marcy that she never shared with us. I know he feels this way because I feel it too. I’ve no right to, I know. My grandmother is entitled to share whatever she likes with her friends. And Marcy has become a friend. I guess it just hurts a little. My grandmother knows me inside out, and I thought I knew her too. But I didn’t even know that she liked to draw when she was younger. What else don’t I know about her? I’m hyperaware that time is running out. There aren’t enough days left to hear all of Nana’s old stories again, to hear the ones I never had the patience to listen to before. I should have paid more attention. I shouldn’t have been so obsessed with travelling or work. I can’t get that time back now, but I wish I could.

  The pages are all the same size, and it only takes a couple of seconds to realise that I’m not holding paintings as I’d expected; I’m holding a handwritten manuscript. And suddenly, everything makes sense. Nana is the greatest bookworm I know, so it doesn’t surprise me that she took the time to write a book of her own. I take off my cardigan and flatten it out on the floor next to the mound of paper. Every time I lift a page from the top of the stack, I place it face down on my cardigan. Something tells me it’s important to keep the pages in order. No numbers are on the bottom of any page, so I decide this is the best way to keep them organised for now. Ben smiles and nods his approval of my method.

  ‘Is this Nana’s writing?’ Ben asks as we work our way through the pile of paper between us.

  ‘Looks like it.’ I swoon.

  We rifle through some more pages. They’re all laced with handwritten paragraphs, top to bottom, in blue ink.

  Ben’s smile flatlines, and he puts the page in his hand back on top of the pile, messing up the order. I quickly swap it to rest face downwards on my cardigan. Ben doesn’t notice, I think. He’s busy sliding his bum back across the timber floor, but he doesn’t stand.

  ‘Holly, I don’t know if we should be doing this. It feels wrong to go through Nana’s stuff. I think this might be a diary or something.’

  I don’t reply. Ben’s always been afraid of his own shadow. I don’t have time for panic right now. Nana doesn’t have time. I twist forty-five degrees on the spot so I don’t have to see my brother scowling at me as I continue to skim through the pages.

  ‘Holly. I said stop it,’ Ben barks after a minute or so. ‘This is Nana’s diary. Stop.’

  ‘It’s not a diary, Ben.’

  My eyes nearly burst out of my head as I notice a pattern jumping out at me. Sketch. The word is mentioned every so often, at least once a page and sometimes more. It’s a name. A nickname, I guess. Nana wasn’t telling Marcy about paintings; she was telling Marcy about a person. A man. A man named Sketch.

  ‘What the hell, Holly. Why are you smiling like that?’

  My smile grows much to Ben’s frustration.

  Nana wasn’t an artist. I knew it.

  ‘That’s it,’ Ben snaps. ‘I’m out of here.’

  I reach up and grab the sleeve of Ben’s jumper, pulling him back down as he attempts to stand and storm off.

  ‘Nana wasn’t an artist, Ben,’ I say elated. ‘She was a writer. Can you believe it?’

  Ben scrunches his nose.

  ‘This isn’t a diary, you wally,’ I say. ‘It’s a book.’

  ‘A book? No way.’

  ‘Yeah. I know. Awesome, right?’ I grin. ‘And I think it might be an autobiography.’

  I point at Sketch’s name jotted in various paragraphs. ‘Nana’s been mumbling about art, right?’

  ‘Um. Okay. Yeah.’ Ben says as he concentrates on what I’m saying.

  ‘Well, I don’t think she means art. Well, not art as in painting and drawing and stuff like that. Sketch wasn’t a hobby. It’s a person. He’s a person. And a boyfriend, I think.’

  ‘But Grandad’s name wasn’t Sketch,’ Ben says.

  ‘Sketch is a nickname, I’m guessing. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. The point is, Nana didn’t paint — she wrote. And this is her book right here.’ I shrug and look at Ben. He’s listening, and he believes me. Or at least he wants to believe – maybe. ‘This is what Nana is looking for, Ben. This is what she’s been telling Marcy about. This is Sketch’s story.’

  Ben strokes his chin between his forefinger and thumb like a dodgy James Bond villain. It’s hilarious, and I struggle to keep a straight face.

  ‘Go on, say it,’ I tease, knocking my shoulder against my brother’s.

  Ben rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

  ‘Go on …’ I probe.

  ‘Okay, fine.’ He moans. ‘Good job, Hols. Your snooping paid off.’

  ‘This is awesome, right?’ I begin to gather the pages resting on my cardigan and place them back onto the original pile, taking care to keep them in precise order. ‘I can’t believe Nana wrote a book. I know she reads like crazy, but I didn’t know she ever wrote anything. It’s so cool. Oh, my God, I’m so excited to read it.’

  ‘Jeez, Holly. Calm down. It’s just a book. And you hate reading.’

  My eyes growl at my brother. Just a book, my arse.

  ‘I hate reading that history fact crap that you’re into, Ben. But I do like chick lit, actually. Anyway, this isn’t just a book. It’s Nana’s book …’

  I finish reuniting the stray pages from my cardigan with the larger pile and relish the depth of the mound. An entire book handwritten. By. My. Grandmother. This is so bloody fabulous.

  ‘It’s not just any old book, Ben. It’s her book. Her life.’ I sigh deeply, half broken-hearted and half overexcited.

  ‘Yeah. Okay. Okay,’ Ben says, standing up and shaking his legs out one at a time. ‘Ouch. Pins and needles. Oh, fuck. Ouch, ouch, ouch.’

  I scoop the stack of paper into my arms, taking care not to dogear any corners, and stand too. ‘Should we read this to her?’

  Ben’s bottom lip twitches to one side. ‘Um. I don’t know. Do you think it would upset her?’

  ‘Marcy says talking about Sketch makes Nana happy,’ I explain.

  ‘I thought Marcy said talking about art makes her happy?’ Ben corrects.

  ‘Yeah.’ I pull a face at my know-it-all brother in frustration. ‘We’ve been over this. Marcy doesn’t know the full story.’

  ‘And you do?’ Ben moans.

  ‘Well, no.’ I twitch. ‘Not yet. But I will when I read this.’ I tilt the pile of paper towards Ben. ‘Art is Sketch. I told you!’ I snort, raising a smug eyebrow. ‘Jesus, Ben. Sketch is Nana’s lover. Or he was. It’s obviously all a secret, or we would have known about it before now.’

  ‘Yeah, a secret. Nana’s secret. Oh, Hols. What are we doing?’ Ben’s face grows suddenly pale.

  I’m not used to seeing my brother like this. Ben is two years older than I am, and I’ve always looked up to him as if he could protect me from anything. But he can’t protect me from how much life without Nana is guaranteed to hurt. But right now, I’m holding a piece of her in my arms. And in spite of how frightened I am about what faces us downstairs over the coming days, coming hours, I feel content to have found this book. I was meant to find it.

  Five

  I wake up to the sound of cows mooing. I’d forgotten the noises of the countryside in the mornings, but it all feels so familiar now like a warm hug from an old friend. I stand and stretch. I’ve a creak from hell in my neck, and I decide I’m too old for this sleeping on a couch business. I knew I wasn’t going to get much sleep, so sitting up on the couch reading for a while
was appealing. I must have fallen asleep sometime in the early hours and never made it as far as the single, lumpy bed in the downstairs spare room. I’m regretting the decision now as my bones creak and my muscles groan, unimpressed by dozing for a few hours curled up in a ball.

  I run my hand over my trousers and straighten them out against my legs, trying to dismiss how grubby starting the day in yesterday’s clothes is making me feel. The house is eerily silent, and I want to check the time. I wish I hadn’t left my watch on the kitchen counter last night. Pulling back the curtains, I decide it must be early. Good. Maybe I have time to go to the local grocery shop before anyone wakes up, even if it’s just to pick up a toothbrush and a comb. Smearing some toothpaste across my teeth last night with my finger didn’t really count as brushing. If the bakery in the village is open, I could buy some scones. They might be a nice pick-me-up for everyone. I scoop Nana’s handwritten manuscript off the coffee table in front of me. For safekeeping, I had wrapped my scarf around the bundle of paper when my eyes grew too tired to read any more last night. Curly blue letters peek out at me from under the silk turquoise bow. It’s rather pretty and calling to me to read more. But my tummy rumbles loudly, and I remember that I never got around to grabbing a snack last night. I’m starving. I sneak up the stairs, taking care not to make the old timber steps creak under my weight. I peek my head through the gap of the master bedroom door. Nana is sleeping, and she looks comfortable. I sigh and instantly feel lighter. Marcy is also asleep. She’s wrapped in a light blanket in the bedside chair. Her neck flops to one side, and I hope she hasn’t been in that position all night. I tiptoe to the edge of the bed and place the manuscript across Marcy’s knee. I watch for a moment to make sure I haven’t woken either of them. I consider leaving a note, but I know I don’t need to. Marcy will understand as soon as she sees the paper.