November 26 1926.
Who the Hell is Sylvia Stubbs and what on earth happened to her? One moment I’m vowing to find out, then ten seconds later I’m vowing with equal vengeance to pawn the bloody wedding ring and forget about the whole thing for ever. These thoughts have been ricocheting around in my scull till I’m quite dizzy and sick. I addressed a letter to Sylvia Stubbs at our address and slipped it into the pile of mail as soon as the postman dropped it through the door. Then I picked up the whole pile and wandered into the kitchen and casually asked Mrs Pankhurst who she was. She looked at the envelope and frowned and said she’d never heard of her. I didn’t expect that. Which makes me a bit thick. Because I don’t use my real name here in London. I don’t want my parents to be able to find me. And that put a big chill up my spine. If I was murdered or just fell down dead in a ditch, no one would know who I really was. Was Sylvia just like me?
I want to ask who lived in the room before me. But then I tell myself to forget it. Pawn the ring and buy something frilly.
The other woefully dark thought that keeps pestering me is Christmas day. Mrs Pankhurst asked me if I will be spending it with them. My parents always hosted a huge Christmas Feast. And half my father’s faculty would file through the house drinking brandy, eating my mother’s mince pies and spraying their pompous opinions all over the sitting room.
Does Sylvia’s sister Emma know what happened to her? Does she care? Is she sick with worry? Is my mother sick with worry about me? These thoughts turn my stomach. So I decide to buy some magazines and some chocolates and be glad I’m still breathing. Maybe Sylvia just got wise. Decided she didn’t want to be reminded of her husband and death and flew the coop without her ring and will. Maybe she found out sister Emma was having it away with hubby and she wrote herself a new will and moved to Spain with a Latino lover.
Maybe I’ll eat this whole box of chocolates right now.