Extract from My Great-Aunt's Diary by Laura Sweeney

Today it's my pleasure to share with you an extract from the Prologue for My Great-Aunt's Diary by Laura Sweeney. But first a little about the book. 

Heartbroken and searching for a new beginning, Emily is shocked to learn she has inherited her great-aunt Violet’s cottage. She remembers summers spent running through its rose garden, but she hasn’t seen her great-aunt in years… So why did she leave her Clifftop Cottage?

Deciding this is the fresh start she needs, Emily travels to the seaside village of Dovecote. Not long after she arrives, she bumps into her childhood love, Will. As he runs his hand through his chestnut-brown hair, she can’t help but think of what happened between them all those years ago…

When Will offers to help redecorate the cottage, Emily is unsure. He broke her heart once before; could he do it again? But she is soon distracted when she finds a leather diary dating back to the Second World War hidden inside an old desk. Turning the pages, she discovers a wartime romance she knew nothing about. Why did Violet keep this secret?

As Emily and Will grow closer while investigating her family history, she wonders if Dovecote could be the place she finally calls home. But can she trust Will to help her uncover a long-buried family secret? And, if she does, will this forgotten diary mend her broken heart, and give her the happy ending she’s looking for?

PROLOGUE

VIOLET

June 1945 I flashed my bravest smile as I walked the length of the trestle table, refilling teacups. Beachfront Road had been decked out in red, white, and blue bunting. The town’s children were proudly wearing cloth party hats. We were happy, of course we were. The war was over, and it was a party after all. But, a month since victory had been declared in Europe, some of us were still fearfully waiting for news. My friend, Lily Morrison, placed a delicate hand on my arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

‘He’ll be home soon, Violet,’ she said. I blinked back tears.

A train whistled as it pulled into Dovecote station, barely audible above the shrieks and laughter of the children, fuelled by sandwiches and jellies, running up and down the road.

I placed the teapot at the end of the table and turned towards the sea. A gentle breeze ruffled my hair. I pulled a strand that had fallen loose from my bun back behind my ear. Salty spray settled on my lips. I rubbed the band of my engagement ring with my thumb. He was out there, somewhere.

‘Still daydreaming, Violet Saunders?’ A familiar voice cut through the noise.

I whipped around, not daring to believe it was him. But there he was, at the far end of the table, knapsack in hand, looking dashing in his uniform.

‘Hugo?’

My feet barely touched the ground as I ran and flung myself into his arms. Our lingering kiss was met with whistles and whoops from the gathered residents of Dovecote. I couldn’t give a fig. My fiancé was alive, he was home.

I couldn’t sleep that night. A shaft of silver moonlight on the bed rippled as I slowly peeled back the covers and slipped out. Hugo snuffled in his sleep, and I held my breath for a moment, but he resumed his soft snoring.

Having tiptoed out of the bedroom and down the stairs of Clifftop Cottage, I crossed the sitting room to my ebonised oak Charles Rennie Mackintosh-style writing bureau. Silently I pulled open the top drawer to check that the sketchbook and the brown-leather diary were still in there before closing it again. I turned the key and removed it from the lock.

Lowering the writing shelf, I removed a small panel at the back of the desk revealing a tiny secret compartment. The key just about fit. I replaced the panel and shut the bureau. It was an old piece of furniture, so it was feasible that the key to the locked drawer had been lost decades ago.

I slipped out through the French doors in the kitchen and tiptoed along the path to the old potting shed I’d not long before converted into my art studio. Tucked behind a stack of unused canvases were two paintings, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. A smile pulled at the corners of my mouth as I ran my fingers over the address on the package: Mrs Z Petherington-Smyth, Sommertown House, Oxford. I’d wrapped them the day after Hugo proposed. It was time to send them to her. They would be a fitting first, and last, reply to her letters.