This morning, my daughter came into the room holding a copy of Matthew’s book, Motive for Murder, and at once all the memories, faded over the years, came rushing back.
‘Wasn’t it through this book that you met Dad?’ she asked, as, taking it eagerly from her, I began to flick through the pages.
‘That’s right. Goodness, how formal it all was then – Mr this and Miss that.’
‘And presumably not a word processor in sight?’
‘Goodness no, this was bashed out on the old steam typewriter.’
Sophie perched on the arm of the sofa, looking at me curiously. ‘Didn’t you tell me once that there was some trouble while it was being written?’
I nodded, suddenly sober. ‘Three people died during the course of that book. In fact, the writing of it was as much a story as the book itself.’
‘Then why not write about that?’ Sophie suggested. ‘You know, “The Making of Motive for Murder.” Everyone does it nowadays, and people would be interested – it’s become a classic, after all.’
I looked across at her, startled. ‘Oh, I couldn’t!’
‘Why not? You say there’s a story in it.’
‘But it was so much a part of all our lives.’
‘An autobiography, then. Oh, go on, Mum! You said you’d be at a loose end when I go to university – here’s a way to fill in your time. And don’t try to update it – write it as it was then: formality, typewriter and all.’
I made another token protest, but the idea was taking root and, with it, a feeling of excitement. By going through it all from the beginning, perhaps I’d be able to glimpse the first, misty hints of what was to come; hints that were too obscure to notice at the time.
I went on flicking through the pages, the memories growing stronger. This was the chapter I typed after the swimming incident; this one while Kate was there. Long-forgotten incidents flickered at the back of my mind; I probably remembered more than I’d realized.
By supper time, I’d decided to give it a try. And I’ll dedicate whatever results to the shades of those no longer with us – and, of course, to my husband, who very definitely is.