.."It's a diary," I said."It looks really old!" I know, I'm afraid to touch it," I said. The box hadn't beencompletely watertight and book inside hadn't ridden out the years wellat all. Flaky chunks of some of the bottom pages had slid out onto thebox's bottom, probably from my banging on it."November Something 1964, it says here at the top." You can read that?" asked Anemone."Barely..." Well then read it to me," she said. So I did:Our skipper, the man we trusted to lead us, to get us through the weeksor months until we were found and rescued from this wretched island hasgone insane. The big jolly oaf has grown gaunt, his eyes haunted byinsane visions, by the terrible voices in his head. And he's draggedthe girls into his madness, like it was some new improved type ofsanity. Sweet wholesome innocent M and maybe not innocent but basicallygoodhearted G are unrecognizable to me now, and not because of theblood they've smeared all over their faces in strange lines andsymbols. It's that. “Oh, I’d love to experience love like that!” Enid sighed. “My flatmate, Hyacinth, well … she’s alright … but she’s just a friend. She’s not a lover. It’s not the same thing. You’re so lucky. Josephine is so beautiful.” She turned towards Charlotte, a mournful expression on her face. “Why can’t I have a lover like you? Will I always be lonely?” Charlotte put a reassuring arm around Enid’s shoulder and pulled her head onto her breast. The office was empty. The working day had finished and the cleaner was busy on another floor of the building. She had stayed late to finish some paperwork that she had allowed to accumulate and hadn’t expected Enid to stay late too. She suspected that the young girl had stayed on precisely for the reason of chatting to her, something which Charlotte actually rather appreciated. She often felt quite an outcast in the office. Sometimes, she reflected on her own foolishness in expecting her colleagues to share her attitudes and outlook. “You’re very young..
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