Making Marion

by Beth Moran

  “I’m sorry.” His voice cracked. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand.

  “I forgive you.”

  “Don’t.” Jake released a shuddering breath. “Every time my mum hit my dad, or threw a vase at him, or smashed his head into the wall, she would wait until she sobered up, then beg for his forgiveness. Every time I prayed he would refuse. That this would be the time he threw her out, hit her back, pressed charges. He never did. And she always did it again.”

  “Will you do it again?”

  He stared at the floor. “I went to the police.”

  “To the station?”

  “I asked them to arrest me.”

  “What happened?”

  “Brenda signed me up to see a shrink – said there was nothing she could do if you denied anything happened.” He shook his head. “I’d rather face a judge.”

  There was silence for a few minutes before I stood up.

  “I’ll see you around, then?”

  Jake looked up at me. “I don’t think so. Not for a while. Not until I’ve sorted my head out.”

  I had to stop more than once as I cycled home through the trees, to gather myself together. I’d thought I was safe with Jake because he was my friend. I’d been wrong, but I had learned something. I didn’t need my friends to be perfect. I didn’t want them to be. I needed honesty, and to know that I didn’t have to be perfect either. I would miss Jake.

  It was one of those days where the sunlight never quite manages to push back the winter gloom. I found Scarlett in the reception office, surrounded by piles of scattered papers.

  “Morning, Scarlett.”

  She blinked at me through tortoiseshell glasses. “Oh. Hi, Marion. Isn’t this your day off?”

  “Yes. I’m going into Nottingham. Do you need anything?”

  Wrinkling up her brow, she thought for a moment. “I think Valerie could do with some more thick socks. Her feet are always cold this time of year. You know she likes the stripy ones? Made of wool?”

  I did know this. I had bought Valerie a three-pack of new socks when I took her shopping in the January sales only the week before.

  “She needs more socks? We bought some last week, remember?”

  Scarlett took her glasses off. “Yes, of course. Forgive me, Marion, I’m a little distracted at the moment.”

  I eyed the calculator next to her coffee mug. “Can you make it work?”

  “I have to, sugar. I have to.”

  I bumped into Grace as I left, on her way to catch the school bus. We walked toward the campsite exit together.

  “Is your mum okay? She seems tired, and – I don’t know – not quite herself.”

  “What, even more annoying than usual?” Grace shrugged. “She’s been staying up really late freaking out about money. She’s just stressed. Either that or it’s the menopause. That turned my ICT teacher into a zombie on steroids overnight.”

  “Something to look forward to. Can I give you a lift to school?”

  Grace sniffed. “Well, other than that I’d rather go to school wearing cling-film than be seen in your death-trap car, I am actually meeting a friend.”

  I chose to tactfully ignore the fact that Grace’s nose, beneath the silver stud, had gone pink. Then I saw the boy waiting at the bus stop fifty yards along the main road. I raised my eyebrows.

  “Grow up, Marion. He’s a friend.” She said the word slowly, like I was a small child.

  “Of course he is.” I smiled, and waved at the boy just for fun. “He looks like a very nice friend. I like his hair. And his jacket. And if he smiles at all his friends like that, well – ”

  “If you say anything to Mum, I’ll never make you a pair of shoes again!” Grace began hurrying down the grass verge, trying to go as fast as she could without it being obvious.

  I grinned and backtracked to my car, resisting the urge to beep my horn as I drove past them huddling together at the bus stop.

  I left the car in one of the city centre car parks and walked down to the Old Market Square, a large pedestrianized space surrounded by shops and pubs on three sides, the grand Council House on the other. It was simple to find the road that led from there to the Central Notts Library. I ducked inside, pausing to suck in a big, comfortable breath of familiar surroundings before I climbed the stairs to the local studies section on the first floor.

  Two women stood behind the help desk. One of them showed me the filing cabinets where copies of old newspapers were kept on tiny rolls of film. She pointed out where I could find the Nottingham Evening Post, and I pulled out the boxes containing August and September 1981. I threaded the film through the spool and settled forwards in the chair, winding it on until the first page came into focus.

  It had been a while since I used one of these machines, but it felt as familiar as tying my shoelaces. The library was far larger and busier than the one in Ballydown, but it still felt like an old friend to me: the rustle of other library users flicking through journals, the clicking of computer keyboards. I had forgotten how much I loved the warmth and the indoorsy atmosphere of libraries – how closed off and protected they are. Anything could be happening in the world outside these walls, but in here an oasis of calm prevails; the reassuring silence of strangers gathered to share a common goal of finding peace and space to browse and read, search and study. A library – the one place where talking is frowned on. What a safe haven for a recovering mute.

  I got to work, scrolling through to the middle of the month, just before the date of the first festival, when I knew Henry Hatherstone was still alive. It went quicker than I thought – the newspaper was a world away from anything you could read now. I found at least a dozen different stories on every front page. In the first edition I examined carefully, on the 26th August, a Wednesday, the biggest story involved a jug of water thrown over a judge during a court session investigating a riot. Page four informed readers of a local poetry evening at a village church. By page seven the news degenerated into the utterly uninteresting wedding of a local solicitor.

  I knew that the trivial nature of the stories meant that although each edition covered a lot of ground, something as serious as the accidental death of a lord’s son would make front page news. The main headlines for the subsequent two days covering a twelve-year-old boy burning a house down after he sneaked in “for a crafty fag”, and a family’s slightly unpleasant coaching holiday, confirmed this opinion. But I didn’t rush between front pages. I dilly-dallied in the world my father had inhabited, hung around in the petty trivia, the minute details of the Nottinghamshire he had known. I got lost in the people and places of his past, wondering if he had been at that concert, or played in that cricket match. The coverage of the festival was fun, and brief. It had only been a small affair in its first year, and so many faces crammed the photograph accompanying the story that his was a tiny smudge in a Robin Hood hat.

  But on September’s reel, on the third day of the month, the festival came up again: “LITTLE JOHN DIES IN SHOCK ACCIDENT”. Most of the front page, and the second and third, described how local lad, Henry Hatherstone, died after falling from the roof of an abandoned tower on his family’s estate. Police were still investigating, but it looked as though a verdict of accidental death would result.

  Crucially, the accident had two young witnesses: one named as Daniel Miller, the other a local girl of unknown identity. A couple of comments from local residents followed, both mentioning how much everyone loved Henry. A subsidiary column reported on the tower’s dangerous state of disrepair. Many villagers had believed for some time that an accident was inevitable. There had already been calls for the Hatherstones to make it safe or fence it off, particularly as everyone knew it to be a hang-out for teenagers looking for a place to meet up undisturbed.

  I scrolled on, skipping through front pages now. In October I found a follow-up story. The tower had been proved structurally sound all except for the stone balustrade surrounding the roof, which had crumbled in certain places.
Later on I read a brief report of the inquest findings. Henry had been drinking. It was a tragic accident. The family had no comment.

  I felt unsure of what this meant for my mission to find out about my father. Did witnessing the death of his best friend amount to a reason for him to leave? Maybe. But to change his name? Keep his past totally hidden? Not keep in touch with, or even mention, any of his family again?

  He had left England very soon after Henry died. The two incidents must have been connected. And now I had another piece of the puzzle to pick at. The other witness, the unnamed girl: who was she? Had she too fled the scene after the accident?

  Somebody must know her identity. I only hoped that if – when – I managed to find her, she would be willing to tell me what had happened.

  I sat in the blue caravan with Valerie, filling vases with pink and white roses for our latest money-making venture. Except for the school half-term week, February was usually our quietest month for bookings. Valerie had suggested trying out a Valentine’s special, providing flowers and chocolates, champagne, and a fridge stocked with the makings of a luxury breakfast in bed. Scarlett had arranged a great deal with a local restaurant for dinner and we had provided maps of romantic forest walks, along with a voucher for a treatment at the nearest spa. Because it was Valerie’s idea, she took charge of all the finishing touches, and I worked alongside as her assistant.

  “Fifteen per cent of women buy themselves flowers on Valentine’s Day.”

  “Really? I wonder how many of them pretend the flowers are from a secret admirer.”

  “We don’t need to buy flowers. We can look through the window.”

  “Absolutely. I love the snowdrops. A tiny shoot of hope poking through the snow.”

  “Have you sent a card?”

  “No. Have you?”

  Valerie shook her head. “I’m waiting for the right man. I haven’t met him yet; but if I do, I want to be available. And if I don’t, that’s okay too. Enough people love me already.”

  “That’s a pretty good attitude!”

  Valerie shrugged. She stuck another pink rose into an already overstuffed vase. “No Man is a whole heap of trouble better than Wrong Man.”

  “Sounds like something Scarlett would say.”

  “She didn’t have to. I’ve met Wrong Man. I didn’t like him.”

  I snipped the ends off the rest of the flowers – at a forty-five degree angle as Valerie had instructed. I wondered who Wrong Man was. Maybe her father. Or Grace’s.

  She asked me, “Have you?”

  “What?”

  “Met Wrong Man?”

  I thought about that. “I met Right Then But Wrong Now Man. It took me years to realize that I was better off with No Man. You’re way smarter than me, Valerie.”

  Valerie nodded. “Don’t worry about it. You’re a fast learner. You’ll catch up.”

  Scarlett stepped through the front door, kicking the snow off her shoes. She wore only a thin, lightweight cardigan over her red dress. Her skin was blue.

  “Oooeee. They don’t make winters like this back home. I got caught out a little there.”

  Valerie looked down. She concentrated hard on her roses.

  “How are you girls gettin’ on? This all looks beautiful. Valerie, if I could afford it I’d give you a raise. For now, I’ll have to settle with a hug.”

  She sat down next to her foster daughter and wrapped her arms around her. Valerie smothered a yelp as melting snow dripped off Scarlett, forming wet patches on her clothes and hair. But instead of pulling away, she pulled Scarlett toward her, fiercely holding on until Scarlett gasped out that she needed to breathe.

  “I do love you, sweetheart. But I came to fetch my purse. I must get to the shops before it snows again.”

  I handed Scarlett her bag from the worktop next to me. She put it down on the counter and took out a packet of paracetamol, popping two out and swallowing them dry.

  “Are you sure it’s safe to drive?”

  “The roads past the village are gritted, and Samuel’s giving me a ride in his truck. It’s all kitted out for ice, snow, tornadoes and quite possibly the end of the world, so we’ll be fine.” She pulled the door open again, letting a blast of icy wind whip inside the van. “See you girls, then. Don’t forget the ribbons are in the carrier bag in the bottom cupboard.”

  “Scarlett!” I called after her as she began to let the door slam behind her.

  She pushed it open again. “What, Marion? It’s cold out here and Samuel’s waiting.”

  I handed her the bag. “Aren’t you going to wear a coat?”

  “Oh.” She looked down distractedly at her shivering body and seemed to notice for the first time that she was wearing a summer outfit. Frowning, she looked about for a few minutes before spotting her coat and gloves draped over a kitchen chair. As she left the second time, I realized how disorganized the caravan looked in comparison to its usual peaceful and homely order. I hadn’t noticed before. I’d been thinking about the flowers.

  “Is Scarlett coping all right?”

  Valerie shrugged disconsolately, her face miserable. She hadn’t said one word while Scarlett was present, which answered my question.

  “Is she still not sleeping?”

  Valerie blew her nose. “She has these headaches all the time. Because of the stress. She’s so busy working that she forgets to cook, or shop, or talk to us. Yesterday she didn’t get up until after I’d left for college.”

  “Does she often get like this?”

  Valerie shook her head, bursting into tears. “What if we lose the campsite, Marion? What will they do then? I’ll have to go back and live with Mum, but what about Scarlett, and Grace, and you and Jake? And Little Johnny and Madame Plopsicle?”

  I handed her another tissue. “It won’t come to that. You’re smart, remember? Think about how well Christmas went, and now you’ve had this fab idea. The campsite will probably end up doing better than ever. And if the worst does happen, then you can all move in with Samuel and take the animals with you.”

  Valerie sniffed. “He’s her Mr Right.”

  “I know.”

  “We’ll leave Denver here, I think. And his ladies.”

  “Are you sure that’s safe? Have you read Animal Farm?” I finished the last vase, and began sweeping the rubbish into a bin bag. “Don’t worry about Scarlett. Once we start making a bit more profit she’ll be all right.”

  But Scarlett was not all right. An evil, mutant tentacle had begun digging its way into her brain. Soon the tentacle would spawn more, equally evil, mutant baby tentacles, and in the days to come her brain would be taken over by a malignant spreading mass that did not care about campsites, or profit, or daughters who needed their mother. No respecter of persons, undeterred by a kind heart, or a selfless soul, or a life unfinished. Scarlett had been invaded, betrayed by her own brain cells. She would not be all right.

  The following day, after placing ten boxes of Sunny’s homemade hazelnut chocolates in our fully booked caravans, leaving mini-hampers on each table containing, among other things, expensive coffee, luxury biscuits and locally produced cheeses, and arranging baskets of organic toiletries in each bathroom, I took Pettigrew to Hatherstone.

  The trees along the path to the village had formed an arching canopy bending forward, heavy with snow, to welcome me. Cycling into the tunnel of frozen branches felt like entering fairyland, an enchanted world of silver and white. The path had been gritted, but in the deep drifts either side of me I caught glimpses of footprints, tiny three-pronged bird prints and larger paw marks where dogs had chased the snow-flurries. The dark grey clouds had given way to watery sunshine, half-heartedly dissolving the snow in odd patches here and there but mostly leaving its magic to transform the forest for one more day.

  I left the trees and made my way down the high street, weaving to avoid a cluster of snow people complete with not just the traditional hats and scarves, but sunglasses, bikini tops and in the case of one muscle-
bound snowman, a leopard-print thong worked in between his trunky legs. Red-cheeked children, making the most of cancelled school, pulled sledges down the centre of the deserted road toward the hill behind the chapel, while their older brothers and sisters lobbed snowballs at parked cars, each other and unsuspecting cyclists.

  I pulled up at Ada and May’s picture-perfect cottage, stamping snow off my Sherwood Forest boots while I rapped the brass knocker against their yellow wooden door.

  Ada called for me to come in, and I stepped inside the winter quarters of the beauty parlour set up in Ada’s living room. I had an appointment. I was having a cut and blow dry and my nails painted. Tomorrow would be Valentine’s Day, which obviously I didn’t care about, being footloose and fancy free for the first time in eight years; but hey, if I coincidentally felt like taking some time out to look good, that was no big deal.

  I flipped through a magazine about adventure holidays in the world’s most dangerous corners (which made me think about Harriet) until it was my turn in the chair.

  We covered the standard chat: small talk, but a big deal for an ex-mute. I congratulated myself on not only being at a beauty parlour, which is way worse than a hairdresser’s, but behaving like a normal person too. Then, as Ada stuck her face so close to mine that I could map the mini-rivers of veins across her skin while she snipped my fringe, we progressed to the conversational main course. “What have you found out about your dad?”

  “I’ve stumbled across something, but it could hurt some people if I dig it up again. I’m trying to keep it quiet.”

  “Now, girl. Didn’t I tell you I’ve signed the official secrets act? If I was ever tempted to spill even a fraction of the secrets that are up here – ” she tapped her head with the scissors – “it would leave my clients with more than just a new cut. Hairs. Would. Curl.”

  Greedy for new leads, I told her about the newspaper report, and how two teenagers had witnessed Henry’s accident, one of them being my father.

  “So you want to find the young lady.”