Making Marion

by Beth Moran

  I moved over to Stephen’s chair and put my hand on his arm. He tensed, but remained completely still. I saw a carrier bag tucked behind him. Gently pulling it out, I looked inside and discovered a grubby stuffed penguin, a dummy, a tiny racing car and a book, Pumpernickel Party, about a baby penguin’s birthday party. As I opened the book, Stephen’s eyes swivelled around to land on the first page. I carefully took one finger and turned the page. His tiny hand shot out and flipped it back. Stephen briefly flicked his eyes over to my shoulder and down again, his hand still resting on the first page of the book.

  He wanted me to read the story. This poor, wee, wretched boy wanted me to read the book. Aloud. A gathering rush of heat pressed at the back of my eyes. I forced my arms hard against my thighs to try to stop the tremor that jigged them up and down. Kept glancing back at the door. Where was Father Francis?

  Stephen kept his hand on the book, his gaze downcast. One eye of the baby penguin peeked out from between his fingers. He suddenly sucked in a hiss of air and I realized he had been holding his breath.

  Okay, that’s it. I don’t care any more. Forget my mother. I’m not listening to the girl inside me who thinks my words are verbal venom. I am going to read this book.

  “It was a very…” I stopped. Cleared my throat. Swallowed back the roaring rush of panic. Stephen flicked his eyes across in my direction again. His fingers trembled on the page.

  “It was a very special day. For… for Pumpernickel Penguin…”

  Page by page, one creaky, wheezy, halting croak at a time, I read the book. All six pages of it. Forty-six words. By the time I had finished, sweat dripped down my forehead and the blood pounded in my ears. Stephen turned the book back to the first page and patted it. I guess he didn’t notice I was about to have a heart attack. By some strange coincidence, right then Father Francis stepped back into the room. He grinned at me: a wide, open, honest beam of happiness. I ducked my head and nearly knocked him flying as I hurtled out of the door.

  Late that night, hiding under my blankets, by the light of my daddy’s electric torch, I opened up the spine-shattered Selective Mutism and started to read. I was still reading at seven o’clock that morning when my alarm clock went off.

  I didn’t speak again that week. I was spent, empty, exhausted. But after school the following Tuesday I found Stephen sitting in the flowery armchair, clutching his carrier bag on his knees. My journey out of the maze had begun.

  Autumn exploded in the forest. Every tree – every leaf – reflected a different hue as it span and crackled in the October winds. Rich clarets danced with copper and bronze, purples so intense they were nearly black, rose, gold and every shade of brown from soft fawn all the way to burned coffee. Squirrels skittered through the heaps of crispy vegetation, obsessively gathering the never-ending carpet of nuts. I had upped my regular walks through the woods to a jog, crunching past holly bushes sprinkled with crimson berries, entangling myself in vast networks of silken spider webs, sucking in the earthy, smoky, glorious scent of decaying nature with heaving lungs. I was in paradise, pounding longer and longer routes as I learned the secret footpaths of the forest, the tiny trails rabbits and badgers used. There were no other sounds but the scuff of my trainers through fallen leaves and the rasping of my breath, puffing out clouds of steam in the sharp morning air.

  Early one Saturday, as I leaned on the trunk of an ancient oak tree stretching my calf muscles, I discovered Grace’s secret. Never in a million years would I have guessed what she was up to as I watched her flit through the shadows. I followed behind her as far back as I dared, until I saw her disappear into a huge sprawl of rhododendron bushes. Creeping through the narrow spaces between the twisted limbs of the plants, I came right up against the tiny shed before I saw it. The door was closed. Moving around to the side of the rickety building, scraping my arm on a rough branch as I squeezed past, I found a window. I used the sleeve of my sweatshirt to scrape away the worst of the dust and the webs. Then I slowly moved my head across to peer inside.

  A light came on. It reflected off the glass, casting the interior of the hut into distorted shadow. I could see Grace moving around. Was there anyone else there? Was this where she met her boyfriend? Or her drug dealer? I crouched back down underneath the window. What should I do? Pretend I hadn’t seen anything? Go and fetch Scarlett? Wait until Grace came out again, then look inside?

  I waited a few minutes, listening for the sound of voices, but heard nothing over the thump of my heart clanging in my ears. I began to make my way carefully back around to the tunnel through the bushes. This was not my business. Grace was not my friend. She clearly had issues, and I didn’t want to become one of them (or more than I was already). If I discovered something awful in that shed, then I would have to decide whether or not to tell Scarlett. Right now, my best plan was to get away and then decide what to do next.

  Except this plan didn’t include me tripping on a tree root, crashing into the wall of the shed and punching a hole in a rotten panel with my fist. Grace screamed. I screamed louder. Half the birds in the forest whooshed up into the watery blue sky above us. I instinctively yanked my arm back, bringing a dozen jagged splinters with it in exchange for half the skin off the back of my hand. Grace flung open the hut door and stood there, staring at me, her tongue stud glinting in her open mouth. She recovered first.

  “You followed me!”

  I cradled my hand in the other arm and bit the side of my mouth to stop myself wailing as the damaged nerves sent shock waves up my arm.

  “What. Are. You. Doing?” Grace was yelling now. Her face was a bitter white, a high spot of colour on each cheekbone. “You’re spying on me, aren’t you? Did my mum send you? She did, didn’t she? And you couldn’t wait to follow orders, could you – for the perfect, fabulous Scarlett? Yes, Scarlett; no, Scarlett; oh please teach me your lessons on exactly how to think, Scarlett.” She smashed her own fist against the wooden wall, and let out a stream of curses. “I should have guessed! This was the one thing I had for myself. I spend my life living in that blue shoebox with my mother and her latest reject. Why won’t she trust me?” Grace’s face scrunched up. She leaned her body forwards, hacking up sobs from somewhere deep in her guts. Her voice was like a piece of cloth being ripped in two. “Why can’t she trust me?”

  I sat on the dry earth at the side of the shed and took a moment to pull off my sweatshirt and wrap it around my bleeding hand, wiping the dirt and sweat from my face with a dangling sleeve.

  “Nobody sent me, Grace. I was out running when I saw you and was curious. Not curious. I was snooping and I’m sorry. But I was leaving when I fell.”

  “So you wouldn’t have gone running straight to Mum to tell her what you’d found?”

  “I don’t know. I would have thought about it first. Maybe asked you what you were using the shed for.”

  Grace tossed her head. She knew I wouldn’t have asked her about it. I adjusted my position on the dirt.

  “So what now? Are you going to show me what’s inside? I can’t walk away and pretend I haven’t been here.”

  She slammed the door of the shed behind her. “I’ll have to move anyway, now you’ve broken the wall.” She scowled. “I’ll show you if you promise not to tell. Anyone. Not Valerie, or Jake.”

  “I promise. As long as it’s legal.”

  She held out one hand to pull me up, then hesitantly began pushing the door open, before quickly turning back to face me. “And you can’t laugh.”

  I smiled. “You’re not making an internet movie, are you?”

  Grace didn’t bother answering. She propped open the shed door with one boot, and reached over to turn the camping light the right way up. I stood at the doorway, speechless for a moment, before moving inside the room to take a closer look.

  “Grace! These are beautiful.”

  They were.

  Shoes. Eight pairs of stunning, elegant, simply beautiful shoes.

  They were stacked up along a short benc
h. Next to this stood an ancient deckchair, and a cardboard box containing plain, ordinary, pre-customized footwear. There was a large toolbox filled not with tools, but all the decorations and accessories for the shoes. Miniature silk flowers, hundreds of different coloured buttons, little paint pots, embroidery threads neatly arranged by shade. There were ribbons, squares of lace, butterflies, pieces of coloured glass in different shapes, beads, ruffles and even feathers. On an upturned bucket sat a glue gun and an old ice-cream box full of sewing equipment and cobbler’s implements. In one corner sat a carrier bag with a multipack of crisps poking out of the top, and a pile of coke cans. Every available inch of wall was covered in A4 pieces of paper filled with shoe designs. Some pretty, some spectacular, they ranged from flip-flops and sandals through to trainers and wellington boots. I was absolutely astounded.

  “Grace, this is amazing!”

  Grace ducked her head. A hint of a smile creased the edges of her mouth.

  “Can I touch them?”

  She nodded. I squatted down in front of the bench. The first six pairs were simple ballet pump styles, all white or cream. Grace had decorated the first pair with thin dark green ribbon in a twisty vine design, then added burgundy metal beads, to create miniature bunches of grapes. She had continued the ribbon to make ankle straps, with more bunches of grapes dangling off these.

  Another pair was entirely covered in brightly coloured birds, the embroidery threads intertwining with one another. She had given them shiny crystals for eyes, and added the smallest feathers, only a centimetre long, to every bird’s tail, and around the edge of the shoe. A third pair was smaller, child size, and Grace had stuck on buttons in the shape of different sweets – jelly babies, dolly mixtures, mint humbugs and liquorice allsorts.

  “Can I…?”

  “What size are you?” Grace squinted at my feet. “Here, try these.” She handed me a pair of six-inch stilettos in navy blue satin. Tiny silver stars decorated the surface, including the heel, and the buckle was a crescent moon. I slipped them on, and we laughed at how ridiculous they looked with my jogging bottoms.

  “These are so wonderful, Grace. How did you ever learn how to do this? Why did you start? Why are you keeping it a secret? Why do you always wear those boots when you have shoes like these?”

  Grace lingered by the door while I laced my trainers back up. “I don’t want Mum making a fuss.”

  “Where did you get all the tools and stuff from?”

  She shrugged.

  “Okay. But you can’t keep working in here through the winter, even if we can patch up that hole. You’ll go blind trying to sew with only a camping light.” I looked at her nervously picking at her nails, and realized what a gift she had entrusted me with, letting me in here. I took a deep breath.

  “I’ve got loads of space in my van. Most of the living room cupboards are empty. Why don’t you move all your stuff in and work there? We can hide everything away, and your mum will be really pleased that you’re spending time in my caravan instead of roaming the woods with dangerous drug-dealers old enough to be your father.”

  “I don’t care what Mum thinks.”

  “Don’t tell her then.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me, but I could see her wavering. “So… what’s in it for you?”

  “A kick-ass pair of shoes.”

  We waited until Sunday afternoon, when Scarlett and Valerie went out shopping and Jake was busy sorting out wood for the evening’s Fire Night, then transported Grace’s workshop to my caravan. We had to carry everything through the shrubbery by hand, before balancing as much as we could in a wheelbarrow lined with bin bags to haul back through the woods. We left behind the chair and the bench, returning the lamp to the shop in reception from where Grace had stolen it.

  Once everything was safely stowed away, Grace’s drawings neatly filed in plastic sleeves in a folder, I put the kettle on.

  “Can you stay for a drink, or will Scarlett want you to help get ready for tonight?”

  “If I turn up on time she’ll only get suspicious.”

  I made us both tea, and we sat on opposite sides of the living area.

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “What?” I steadied myself, but not before I had spilled hot tea onto my lap. Grace found a dishcloth and threw it over at me.

  “I didn’t break your window.”

  “Oh. No… I didn’t think…”

  “Yes you did. You’d be stupid not to. But it wasn’t me. My leaving had nothing to do with you.”

  “Right. Well, thanks for letting me know. I suppose.”

  “You suppose?”

  “Well, if it wasn’t you, who was it? And what the heck did that note mean?”

  “I dunno. No offence, but you don’t seem interesting enough to make that many enemies.”

  I thought about it. “May seems to think I’m pretty hideous. She told me I should be sacked because of my offensively ill-fitting bra.”

  Grace laughed, splurting out some of her drink. I passed her the dishcloth.

  “May hates everyone.”

  “I got another note.”

  “What? When?”

  I told Grace about the festival, by which time she reckoned she had left it late enough to suitably annoy Scarlett. I gave her my spare key, a voice at the back of my head hollering, “What are you doing?” and went to shower off the bits of rhododendron bush caught in my hair.

  Scarlett was not impressed with the frozen cheesecake I had brought along as my contribution to Fire Night.

  “What is this?” She inspected the plate at arm’s length, as if it was rancid. “Honey, it’s nearly a month since your cookin’ lessons started. I was hopin’ to sample some of what ya learned back there.”

  I took the cheesecake off her and slid it to the back of the food table. “Erica’s been really busy with a problem at work, so I haven’t seen her since the first lesson.”

  Reuben leaned past with a tray of kebabs, grinning. “And believe me, Scarlett, you would not have wanted to try anything from that first attempt.”

  “Reuben!” Scarlett smacked him on the arm. “Keep your negative nose out of it. How would you know anyway?”

  “No. He’s right. And Erica’s work thing kicked off in the middle of cooking, so actually Reuben took over as my instructor. I think it’s fair to say his input was largely responsible for the failure of the lesson.”

  Reuben winced in mock offence. “Without my input you’d have burned down the kitchen.” He opened his mouth to go on, but glancing at Scarlett thought better of it.

  “Reuben, darlin’. No one is expectin’ Marion to be able to cook. That is the whole point of the lessons. Sounds like you need to practise teachin’ as much as she needs to learn. I think you just volunteered yourself to continue the course. Next Fire Night is Bonfire Night, last one of the season. I expect you two to come up with somethin’ finger-lickin’ fabulous. And you know who I’ll be blamin’ if it isn’t.” She began to glide away, then thinking of something else she called back over her shoulder: “Oh! If you teach her well, you can get Marion to cook you a wonderful dinner as a thank you!”

  Reuben raised his eyebrow at me. “A wonderful dinner?”

  I shrugged. “Dinner, maybe. Wonderful sounds a bit ambitious.”

  “I’m not going to do this if you’ve been bullied into it. As painful as it is to me, some people are content to spend their lives living on tinned carrots and frozen roast potatoes.”

  I remembered Jake’s salad pots. “No. I want to. If you don’t mind? It might be a lot of work.”

  “As long as you don’t hassle me about listening to the scores, or about my dog.”

  I shook my head.

  “Fine. I’ll teach you how to cook.”

  It was the first Friday in November. I had arranged a lesson with Reuben for the following afternoon, in time for Bonfire Night; but meanwhile, I had a deal to keep. With the high season over, the mobile beauty parlour only visited the campsite i
f somebody had made an appointment. That afternoon the somebody was me, and at one o’clock I dragged my frumpy heels across to the lavender van. It had turned cold enough that May and Ada now both remained inside with the doors kept shut, each with a work station at either end. Soft jazz music played in the background as I climbed the steps. Ada clacked her scissors together, brandishing them around her head.

  “Get in here, girl! I’ve been dreaming about having a hack at that scrap heap since August. Unflattering, unstylish, unkempt. What a splendid challenge! What do you reckon, May?”

  May didn’t bother looking up from sorting out her nail polishes. “I’ve seen more attractive hair on a corpse.”

  Professional haircuts are torture for selective mutes, however far we may be along our road to recovery. The expectation to make small talk with a stranger intensified by the stereotypical atmosphere of cosy gossip creates pressure akin to diving into one of those black crevices deep under the ocean. Not being blind or an idiot, I knew how bad my hair looked when I cut it myself, but I would have chosen baldness over crossing the threshold of a hair salon.

  Yet here I was. Knowing Ada helped, but I still closed my eyes from start to finish, gripping the arms of the chair to still my quaking jelly body. I took slow, deep breaths and listened to Ada’s story about when she had actually cut the hair of a deceased prince. She ended the story abruptly.

  “Any luck with the stolen documents?”

  “Not really. There’s just that picture of my dad in the programme, laughing with the other guy, but the caption only calls them Robin Hood and Little John. I’ve hit a dead end.”

  “Well, what else do you want to know?”

  “I don’t know. Where he lived. Why he kept his past such a secret. He must have had a reason for changing his name. I might have relatives in England. Grandparents, or cousins. And I’m sure some people know more than they’re letting on. They remember Daniel Miller, but won’t talk about him. Why not?”