by Beth Moran
Ginger and Archie looked like ghosts. They were lost thirty years in the past. If I’d stretched out my hand to touch them, surely it would have passed through the illusion of their bodies.
Reuben spoke. “It wasn’t suicide. But why… why didn’t Daniel speak up? Why did he let Amanda get away with it? How could he let everyone believe Henry killed himself?”
Ma turned to face Reuben, her eyes defiant. “He was eighteen years old. A child. And one who had lived through the murder of his parents. He was bewitched by her. She told him she was pregnant, and he was the father. Did he want his child to be born in prison? To be taken away? To grow up with no mother, like he had done? She swore it was an accident. What good would her going to prison do? And when he realized it was lies, that there was no baby, Amanda told him that if he said anything she would say that Daniel had caught them together and thrown Henry off the tower in a jealous rage. He was frightened, and confused, and devastated. He hated himself for what he had done, but couldn’t see how to make it right.”
“So he left.”
“Yes.”
“How do we know this is true? That Daniel didn’t push Henry?”
“Reuben!” Ginger turned and glared at her son.
“Someone has to ask it. He ran away and changed his name.”
“Henry and Daniel were brothers in everything but blood. If you knew him, you wouldn’t question it.”
“Yes, but I didn’t know him, and if this is true, we need to do something about it. I’m only saying that we need to think carefully about making accusations if we have no way of proving them.”
“There is proof.”
We all looked back at my mother as she shifted on her chair.
“Go on, Ma.”
She carefully opened her bag and pulled out a small greying envelope. “I have a letter. I’m sorry for not showing you sooner. I had my reasons and, well…”
“You’re here now. And we are very grateful.” Archie leaned over and patted her knee. “Shall you read it to us, or would you like me to?”
She handed him the letter, closing her eyes.
“Very well.” Archie began to read. “My darling Daniel, you won’t see me or talk on the phone, but this is dead important, so PLEASE read this and don’t just chuck it in the bin. I know you think it was my fault what happened to Henry, but I didn’t mean to push him off. It wasn’t what it looked like – he hurt me and I was defending myself. I didn’t know the tower would break. You CAN’T tell anyone what you saw. Not the police or his mum and dad or anyone, Dan. Not if you love me. And even if you don’t love me any more (which I hope you do because I have always loved you) you musn’t say anything. I’m pregnant. You wouldn’t want our baby to be born in prison, would you? If I get done they’ll take it away and you’ll never get to see it. Or me. Please come and see me. I love you and need us to be together, you and me and the baby. You promised you would always take care of me. You know what Mum will do when she finds out. I love you and I never meant for this to happen. I can’t stop crying. I miss you and just want to be with you. Please come so I can tell you what really happened. I need you, Dan. Your Mandy.”
Archie and Ginger went straight over to see Amanda, taking Reuben with them as back-up. We thought it best if Ma stayed at the campsite with me. By the time the Hatherstones returned, it was dark outside and the first drops of the coming storm were thudding on my caravan roof.
It took them five minutes to explain how the conversation had gone. As predicted, Amanda had refused to let them in, refused to talk about it, denied ever writing a letter, accused my mother of being a shrivelled-up, jealous old hag who was trying to frame her, and slammed the door in their faces.
What now? Did we show the letter to the police? It didn’t implicate Amanda in murder, only an accident. Yes, she had lied and covered up the truth, but was it really worth raking all that up again?
And yet… Her vicious threats and ugly, menacing rage simmered on the back burner of my memory. I was fearful of what Amanda might do now. I said to my mother, “I don’t think you should stay in the van by yourself tonight.”
Everybody looked at me, their faces tight with worry and exhaustion. All except for Ma, who bristled at the very thought of it. “I’m not afraid of that woman.”
Archie frowned. “Afraid, no. But it might be wise to feel apprehensive enough to proceed with caution. Would you consider coming to stay at the Hall for a bit, until we’ve agreed on a course of action?”
“I will not be forced out of my home.”
“Please, Ma. It’ll stop the rest of us worrying about you.”
“Worrying about what? Do you think she’s going to break in and murder me in my bed?” There was a beat of silence. Ma looked at me. “And while I’m dreaming sweet dreams all cosied up at the Hall, who will she come after then, hmm? I’m not the one whose smile she threatened to slice off.”
“What?” Reuben was incredulous. “That’s it. You’re both coming.”
“We can’t do that. Someone needs to be here to supervise the campsite.” I shook my head. “This is getting ridiculous. I don’t think any of us actually think Amanda’s going to try to hurt anybody, do we? Maybe we’d be better off staying here and keeping an eye out, in case she decides to break another window or smash something up.”
Eventually, I persuaded Ma to let me bunk down in her van for the night. Who’d have guessed it? Me voluntarily spending the night under the same roof as my mother. I spent an anxious night, ears pricked in the anticipation of an intruder’s furtive rustling.
Five more nights passed with no sign of Amanda. The torture of prolonged proximity to Ma, combined with the continual unease about what, if anything, Amanda might do, was surely more effective than any other form of retaliation she might have come up with.
The following Friday, beyond weary from my restless nights on Ma’s couch, desperate for a distraction, I suggested to Grace and Valerie that we hold another Fire Night. They cautiously said yes. We agreed it would be a tribute to Scarlett, but by no means an attempt at imitation of her blissful evenings. Katarina and Sunny had taken their three gorgeous monkeys to the seaside for the week, but Ginger and Archie, Reuben, Jake and Samuel joined us as we toasted our absent friend in the glow of the bonfire.
It was a cool evening, despite the time of year, and when the light began to go, Valerie squeezed herself in next to me on my sun lounger.
“Valerie, you’re covered in goose bumps. Where’s your fleece?”
“I left it on Jane’s kitchen table this morning.”
Heaving her off me, I rummaged in my jeans pocket until I found my keys. “Here, go and fetch it then. You need the big key, here.”
“The oldest lock was found in some palace ruins near Nineveh. It’s four thousand years old and made of wood. But it didn’t have a key.”
“How can you remember so many amazing facts but keep forgetting your jumper? Now, hurry up and I’ll make you a hot chocolate for when you get back.”
Twenty minutes later the party was winding down, and Valerie’s drink had gone cold. I waited another few minutes, wondering if she had taken a quiet moment to have a cry, then found the energy to pull myself up off the lounger again.
“Ma? Did you see Valerie come back?”
Ma, busy clearing up the remains of dessert, frowned at me. “No. I’ll go and check on her.”
“No, you’re busy. I’ll go. Can I take your key, just in case?”
“If you think you’ll need it.”
Ma’s caravan was down near the lake, tucked behind a cluster of trees and reached by a woodchip path that bypassed most of the tourist plots. Our peace-loving, quieter campers generally went to bed with the sunset, and the lack of lights glimmering through the few tents I did pass told me tonight was no exception.
Or maybe someone still remained up and about? Nearing the trees, I began to detect a scent of smoke in the air that was different to the gentle wafting of our bonfire. Harsher, mor
e astringent. Someone was burning something they really shouldn’t be. I paused, looking around for the tell-tale flicker of flame, ready to go and sort it out.
I heard it first. A muffled roar, distant pops and cracks that made my heart stutter, and all the air seemed to leave my body in one go. I ran around the edge of the copse just as Ma’s caravan window exploded. Through the empty hole in the frame, wild, rampant flames danced with murderous rage.
The heat was terrifying. The smoke whirled and whooshed into the night air as I stood among the falling embers, oblivious to the hundreds of tiny shards of glass that now pierced my skin.
Valerie.
Ignoring the primal instinct that screamed at me to go, get away, jump in the lake to escape the searing heat, I pushed myself closer to the building, calling out her name before breaking off in a sudden fit of coughing.
I ran around to the furthest end, banging my fists on the bedroom and bathroom walls, shocked by how hot they were, hollering, crying, choking. A face appeared in the shadows of the bedroom window.
“Valerie!”
She put her hands on the glass, the whites of her eyes round and full of horror.
“Open the window!”
“I can’t.” Her voice was a million miles away. “It’s locked and I can’t find the key.”
Think, Marion. Think. I took a deep breath to try to quell my panic, sending my lungs into another spasm of violent hacking.
“You need to break the glass. Look around for something heavy to bash it with.”
She disappeared for a few seconds, returning with a shoe and a plastic hairbrush.
“Where’s your phone?” I mimed making a phone call. No time to feel the helplessness of my own lack of mobile phone signal.
“In my fleece. In the other room.” The air around her was darkening with swirls of grey smoke. She tapped the hairbrush on the glass, pointlessly.
“You need to block the gap around the door frame. Use the duvet.”
“I have.”
“Okay. I’m going to find some wood to break the glass. Don’t worry. We’ll get you out.”
I dashed from tree to tree. July was not the month for fallen branches, but I stumbled on a rock the size of my fist on the edge of the clearing.
Valerie crouched down under a blanket while I feverishly bashed at the window with my weapon. More crashes from the other end of the van, wails and ripping sounds, and it grew hotter than I had imagined possible. We covered the bottom of the jagged frame with the blanket, and Valerie did her best to wriggle up and through the gap. I leaned in as far as I could, grabbed on to her top half and pulled, desperation overcoming the lack of breathable air in my lungs, the slick sweat that drenched our skin running into our eyes and blinding us.
As she toppled out into my arms, knocking us both to the ground, cool, dry hands took her from me, pulling and tugging at me to move away from the scorching heat and suffocating fumes. I scampered back, using my hands as well as my feet, and collapsed under the shade of an oak tree.
Archie and Ginger. They peered at us, the concern on their faces flickering in the orange glow. “Have you called the fire brigade?”
“No phone.”
At that, Ginger clutched at her husband. “I’ll go. You get these girls away.”
“No!” Valerie sat up, her voice a painful croak. “Mum!”
“What?” Our rescuers froze in alarm.
“Mum’s in the kitchen.” Valerie fell back onto the dusty earth. She retched, bringing up thick, dark mucus. “She fell. Bumped her head. Unconscious.”
Archie and Ginger did not hesitate. Yanking the blanket left half hanging out of the bedroom window, they plunged it in the lake before taking Ma’s key off me and rushing across to the caravan door.
“Wait!” My throat felt as though I had swallowed a pincushion. I wanted to tell them not to go in, not to do it; that they didn’t have to do this. It was hopeless, impossible. We would end up losing three lives, not one. There was no shame in not walking into a death trap to save a woman who was surely beyond saving.
Archie and Ginger turned toward me, their silhouettes tall and straight. I didn’t have to see their faces to know they understood.
“Be careful.”
Whipping the blanket around them like a superhero’s cape, they unlocked the door and flung it open. A torrent of scorching black smoke surged out, engulfing the blanket.
I crawled over to Valerie, my head spinning, and curled myself around her. The thought that Valerie would be here to see Archie and Ginger bring out her mother sat like a ball of lead in the pit of my stomach. The likelihood that she wouldn’t get to see it, I couldn’t bear to think about.
But Archie and Ginger didn’t disappear into the cackling furnace. They stooped down, still huddled in the blanket, and began to half drag, half carry the figure of Amanda out onto the caravan veranda, before slowly lifting her down the steps and across the clearing. She must have fallen right beside the doorway.
Ginger and Archie lay her down on the grass, and wrapped her gently in the blanket. Ginger began to weep. She took off her jacket and folded it up, placing it underneath Amanda’s head. An old woman, in the shadow of a raging inferno, scorched, shaking, wracked with sorrow.
“Oh!” she cried. “Oh! You poor, poor girl. What have you done? You poor, poor girl.”
She cradled the limp body of the woman who had killed her son and lied about it for thirty years. Stroked her hair, patted her hand. Wept.
Archie pulled the letter out of his pocket. Hauling himself to his feet, he limped across to the caravan, ripping the envelope into pieces as he did so. He tossed the fragments into the air, where they span and floated on the hot current before disappearing into the night.
I heard the voice of Lara. Love wins.
The caravan still burned, rising flames dancing dangerously close to the trees. Despite my growing weakness and overwhelming nausea, the need to get help drove me to my knees and then my feet, and then somehow to take enough faltering, stumbling, steps through the forest to fall in a crumpled heap at Reuben’s feet.
I woke up in hospital. A zillion tiny cuts covered my face and arms from the exploding window. One impressive, angry gash snaked down my chest, where a piece of glass had ripped it open as I yanked Valerie out. For three days I was pumped full of drugs, itched beyond normal levels of human endurance and was hugged, gently, by more friends than I knew I had. They filled me in on the rest of the story.
As soon as Valerie entered the caravan, the door had opened and Amanda walked in. Taking the key off her daughter, she locked the door before proceeding to cajole, demand and shake the whereabouts of the letter out of her. Together they turned every room upside down searching for it, Valerie terrified, her mother increasingly frenzied.
Finally accepting that Valerie knew nothing, half-crazed with the bitterness of vengeful wrath, Amanda decided to torch the van, and hopefully the letter with it. When Valerie came out of the bedroom and saw the fire starting, she tried to intervene. Amanda slipped as they wrestled, cracking her head on a metal doorstop and knocking herself out.
By this point, the curtains on the far side of the van had caught. Valerie dragged her mother to the front door, but it was locked and she couldn’t find the key. As the fire grew in intensity, she could only think to build a barricade to shield Amanda from the flames, before being forced back into the bedroom. At that point, she heard me knocking on the window.
Amanda would spend a long time in hospital and rehabilitation. She pleaded guilty to breaking and entering, arson, and several smaller charges, sparing her daughter the trauma of testifying in court. Someone cleared out her house and took her things away. We didn’t ask where.
The Robin Hood Festival was held during the third week of August. A thick red circle on my calendar, it marked my deadline for launching the new campsite eatery. In the days leading up to it, I spent all my time, energy and hope on getting the café kiosk fit to open. Valerie chose its n
ame: “Scarlett’s”. Cheesy, but I could hardly argue with her about it. We towed an empty static caravan up to the grassy area behind reception, hiring builders to gut the insides (apart from the bathroom) and replace the fittings with all the equipment needed to run a professional kitchen, including a first-class grill for Ma to flip breakfast pancakes on. Outside, Jake built an oven for potatoes and stone-baked pizza, and a barbeque to rival the one used on Fire Nights. I scoured the local car boot sales and discount shops for tables of varying sizes, some tall enough to sit round on chairs and eat a meal, others coffee-table height. I matched them with chairs and rattan sofas, and found an antique hat stand, the perfect place to hang blankets so customers could help themselves when the evenings grew chilly sitting out under the trees.
We opted for a fire pit and chimeneas instead of gas patio heaters, stringing fairy lights through the trees to complement the table lamps. The builders deftly assembled a wooden gazebo and additional decking, fixing shutters where I had removed the glass from the main window of the van to provide a serving hatch.
I planned a menu, with Vanessa’s help. She also convinced me that building a climbing frame and a sandbox would be essential if we wanted to give parents the chance to relax over their drinks. I splashed out on a giant chess set and quoits. By the second week of August, all I had left to do was purchase the stock. That, and freak out. A lot.
Oh yes, and officially offer my mother a job.
This was not my idea, rather the terms under which Grace agreed to cash in the cheque from Big Johnny. And she insisted on using half the money to pay for Scarlett’s. It was her business now, and her money. I could only graciously accept, and pray very, very hard that I didn’t mess it up.
Ma said yes. I went back to my van and pictured the night of the fire. In the privacy of my caravan, I spoke out loud the now partial truth that I forgave my mother for some, if not all, of the miscellaneous iniquities she had committed. Lara was right. I barely needed to grit my teeth now as I said it.