by Julie Corbin
I stand up and lean against the wall, shocked, and remind myself that there is no room for sentiment. I have to keep my wits about me and deflect Orla away from me before she pushes her way back into my life. I can’t afford to make a mistake with this.
I take the photograph off the wall and go into the kitchen where my mother is spreading pink icing over the surface of a twelve-inch cake. As I open the door, she looks up, startled. Her face is flushed a raspberry hue and she’s breathing hard as if she’s just been running.
‘Oh, it’s you, Grace,’ she says, moving around the table to greet me. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ She gives me a perfunctory hug then steps back and looks at me, exasperated. ‘If you’ve come for the cakes then I haven’t finished them yet.’
‘I know they won’t be ready until Saturday.’ I kiss her warm cheek. ‘I’m not here to rush you.’ I show her the photo. ‘Do you mind if I borrow this?’
‘Of course not.’ She waves the palette knife. ‘Keep it.’
‘Thank you.’ I slip it into my handbag, not really sure why I want it.
‘Wonder how Orla’s doing now,’ she says casually.
I shrug. ‘No idea. She just upped and disappeared.’
‘She did write to you, Grace.’ She gives me a sharp look. ‘You were the one who let it slide.’
There’s no arguing with that. I lift a couple of mugs off the hooks. ‘I’ve just been chatting to Dad. I came in to get us a cup of tea. Why don’t you stop for a minute and join us?’
‘No, no, no! I’m busy with the finishing touches.’ She examines the smoothness of the icing from several angles. ‘You go and talk to him. He has some ridiculous notion about painting the house. I have the cakes to do and lunch will be ready soon. You’re staying, I take it?’
I hesitate. ‘Only if it’s convenient.’
She frowns at me. ‘Since when have I given my own daughter the impression that her visits are inconvenient?’
‘I didn’t mean it like that, Mum.’ I put teabags in the mugs. ‘Of course, I’d love to stay for lunch. I know it’s a lot with the cakes, that’s all.’
‘I’ve been making the girls’ cakes since they had their first birthday.’ She reaches over and takes the teabag out of my father’s mug. ‘Not those teabags, Grace! Give him some peppermint. He’s been having trouble with his stomach.’
‘What sort of trouble?’ I try to sound casual, add the boiling water to the mugs and look her full in the face. ‘Mum, is Dad not well?’
‘Oh, you know your father.’ She breezes past me and takes another knife from the drawer. ‘Always in denial.’
I wonder whether to mention the blood on the hankie but she’s left the kitchen and is inside the pantry, humming purposefully. I take the tea outside and sit down on the bench beside my dad. ‘I hear your stomach’s giving you gyp?’
‘Who, me?’ He looks behind him as if there might be someone else around. ‘Fighting fit and raring to go, I am. It’s just an excuse for your mother to get me started on a health kick.’ He takes a sip of the tea and screws up his face. ‘So how are my granddaughters?’
‘Why not have the doctor check you over, Dad? One of those well man clinics, you know?’
‘I know I’m getting old, toots. That much I know. No point in digging around. It’ll only stir it all up. Look at Angus. Never a day’s worry until the hospital got their hands on him. And Mo.’ He gives a weary shake of his head. ‘She was the same.’
‘Please?’ I take hold of his hand and bring it on to my lap. ‘Please, Dad. For me.’
‘Well . . . I don’t know, lass.’ His face moves through reluctance and irritation, eyebrows meeting in a frown and then rising again as he settles on maybe. ‘You were always one for getting your own way.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then,’ I tell him, smiling.
‘So how are the girls? Keeping you busy?’
‘The girls are great.’ I nod, remembering that since I confronted her yesterday, Ella is acting like I don’t exist. I have yet to resume the conversation about ‘boys’ and I know that when I do it will be an uphill struggle. ‘Ella has the lead part in Romeo and Juliet so that will be one for your diary.’
‘I’ll look forward to that.’
A car draws up next door and a young couple climbs out. We all wave. They walk up the path and my dad pulls his chest up and sighs. ‘It’s never been the same since Mo and Angus passed on. Spring comes around again and the house changes hands.’
‘I’ll never get used to it either, Dad.’ I rest my head on his shoulder and we watch the sea grab at the shore, then retreat and gather strength to try again. ‘Time and tide wait for no man, huh?’
‘Aye, it’s a bugger.’
‘I’m going to Edinburgh tomorrow. Is there anything you want while I’m there?’
‘What would you want to be going all the way to Edinburgh for?’ My father is deeply suspicious of all journeys. He can’t imagine why anyone would need to travel beyond a ten-mile radius of St Andrews. ‘Anyway, I thought you could get everything delivered over the Internet these days?’
‘I like to browse the art shops and galleries. Gives me ideas.’ I pause. In my head I say the words: Remember Orla, Dad? She called me twice. She wants to meet me. I don’t know why, but I do know that I’m scared. How much do you love me, Dad? How much? I want to blurt it out and I almost do but just then my mum sets a tray down in front of us.
‘Don’t stand on ceremony, you two. Tuck in.’
My mother knows how to make a good sandwich, and when it’s time for me to go, my stomach is full. As I drive off, I watch them in the rear-view mirror, their inside arms around each other, their free hands holding on to the gate.
It’s already two o’clock by the time I round the path to work.
Euan is on the phone and watches me as I come in. ‘Sure. No bother. We’ll catch up next week.’ He puts the phone back on to the cradle. ‘Morning off?’
‘I was taking photos. Then the churchyard. Had lunch with my mum and dad.’ I drop my bag down on the floor. ‘Is Tom well?’
‘Yeah. He’s fine now.’ He pushes his chair away from his desk and the wheels spin on the hardwood floor. ‘Back at school.’
I walk over and sit on the edge of his desk. ‘She called again.’
His eyes widen and then focus on mine. ‘Did you ask her what she wants?’
‘She wouldn’t say.’ I sweep some crumbs off his desk and into the bin. ‘She said she has to tell me face to face.’
‘So how did you leave it?’
‘I’m meeting her in Edinburgh tomorrow.’
He looks down at the floor, thinking.
‘She also said it wasn’t what I thought.’
He looks back at me. ‘She’d say that to get you to go.’
That thought has been at the back of my mind all morning and my heart sinks to hear Euan say it out loud. ‘But there’s really nothing else I can do, is there? I have to go. And when she finds out who I married . . .’ I try to laugh. ‘She wouldn’t say anything then, would she?’
He stands up in front of me, hands in pockets and moves his shoulders forward and then back again. ‘I wouldn’t put it past her.’
His chest is level with my eyes and I resist the impulse to rest my head against it and cry with fear and frustration. ‘You really don’t have much of an opinion of her, do you?’
‘She’s trouble, Grace. She always was.’ He lays a hand on my arm. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No.’ The palm of his hand feels warm, his fingers firm around my upper arm. Safe. I shrug him off and move away, put the desk between us. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll manage.’
‘I might be better at talking her round than you.’
‘I doubt it, Euan. She never liked you. I think I can do it.’ I take a purposeful breath. ‘I know I can do it.’ I go over to my own desk and sit down. There’s a stack of photographs for me to look through. They are views from Margie Campbell�
��s home in Iona: my next commission and one I was looking forward to. I love painting the sea in all its colours and moods and she has given me free rein to interpret the photographs however I want. The canvas is primed and I hoped to start today but I already know that I won’t be able to concentrate. Orla’s intentions loom large in my head. I just want to know what I’m up against and can’t wait for tomorrow to be over so that I can get back to my life.
June 1976
Euan and I are playing in our den at the edge of the forest. He’s just joined the Scouts and now he always carries a penknife and string in his pocket. He’s been practising his knots and I have both my wrists tied together and then the string is looped around the trunk of the tree. ‘I’m going to go back home and get us something to eat,’ he says, running off. ‘Wait for me.’
I wait for him. There’s not much else I can do, tied up as I am, so I rest my head against the bark and watch ants crawl up and over my hands. I drift off into the gap between sleep and wakefulness and the next thing I hear is the sound of my mother’s voice.
‘What in God’s name?’
I jump guiltily. ‘Euan’s coming back in a minute.’
My mother wrestles with the knot. ‘What sort of a game is this, Grace? Look at the state of you!’ My skirt has ridden up almost to my waist and she yanks it down. ‘And those are your new sandals!’ When the knot comes loose, I try to wipe the dirt off them but my mother shakes me roughly and gripping on to my arm marches me back up the road.
Mo answers the doorbell, wiping her hands on her apron. The smile dies on her face as my mother speaks. ‘I have just found Grace.’ She jerks me forward. ‘Tied to a tree down at the far end of the field. By herself. Her skirt practically up around her neck. Anyone could have found her. Anything could have happened to her.’
Euan appears at Mo’s side. ‘I was going back.’ He holds up a bag of sandwiches, some home-made gingerbread and two bottles of lemonade. ‘I’ve got the supplies.’
‘Next time, Euan, bring Grace back with you,’ Mo says, stroking his sticky-up hair flat.
‘But I was guarding our den,’ I say.
‘Yeah.’ Euan is frowning at both our mothers. He drops the food on to the ground and pulls the ends of his fingers until his knuckles crack. ‘We weren’t doing anything wrong.’
‘He had her tied to a tree, Mo.’ My mother is shouting now and Mo takes a step backwards. ‘Tied to a tree.’
‘Now, Lillian, a wee bit of freedom doesn’t do them any—’
‘You have the cheek to tell me how to raise a child? With Claire hanging out with the local boys and George drunk of an evening – and Euan! What of Euan? Never out of trouble!’
Mo’s face turns whiter than her freshly laundered sheets that buffet and bounce on the line.
My mother looks down at me. ‘You’re not to play with Euan any more.’ She looks back at Mo. ‘I’ll be making other arrangements for after school.’
My mother turns and I am half walked, half dragged down the path. I look back and see Euan still cracking his fingers and then he punches the doorframe and Mo urges him to come inside.
At school the next day, he won’t speak to me. ‘I’m a bad influence on you.’ He kicks dirt up on to his trousers. ‘Mum says I have to give you a wide berth.’
I am mortified and I try to explain that I’ll win my mother round. He’s not interested. I feel angry and then unbearably sad, my chest aching as if I’ve been punched. I don’t join in with the skipping. I scuff my new sandals along the ground and watch Euan play football with the other boys.
I spend the next month going to Faye’s after school. She won’t play outside or climb trees. She says the sea’s too cold to paddle in. She doesn’t have dogs or chickens or Effie the goat and her sister is always correcting me. ‘It’s not shined it’s shone . . . Don’t put your elbows on the table . . . It’s please may I, not can I!’
We have tea at five but I won’t eat so I spend evening after evening with a full plate in front of me. After a couple of weeks of this, I grow tired and listless and my mother has to do the thing she hates most – take time off work – because I can’t go to school.
I move three peas on top of a pile of potato and pat it down with my fork. ‘I hate Faye and I hate her sister,’ I say. ‘I’m not going there any more.’
‘How about the new girl, Orla?’ my mother asks, in her too bright voice.
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know her yet.’
‘How about Monica? She’s a lovely, clever girl.’
I scream so loudly that my father comes through from the living room. ‘What’s going on in here?’
My mother is scouring the pots. She doesn’t turn around, just carries on scrubbing. ‘She’s acting up again.’
‘Then perhaps we should listen,’ my father says to my mother’s stiff back. ‘What sense is there in all this misery?’
‘Misery? Who’s causing the misery?’ She bangs the pressure cooker down on to the draining board. ‘Always wanting her own way.’
‘Lillian!’ my father bellows and I force a forkful of food into my mouth. It catches in my throat and makes a lump as if I’ve just swallowed a gobstopper. ‘She’s eight years old. She’s making herself ill. Now climb down from that high horse of yours and go next door to Mo.’
‘I will not!’ my mother shouts back, turning round at last, her mouth twisted, her eyes wide open and fierce. ‘I will not, Mungo! She will not run this house with her tantrums and her temper.’
Before my father has a chance to shout back, I bolt from the table and up the stairs, spit the potato into the toilet and sit with my hands over my ears until I can no longer hear the muffled sound of their voices.
Minutes later, the kitchen door bangs shut. I run to the back window and watch my mother walk down the path and into Mo’s garden. I can only hear snatches of words . . . wilful . . . wearing me out . . . was wrong. Halfway through my mother puts her hands over her face. Mo reaches out and hugs her like she does with children. She gives her a handkerchief and my mother blows her nose then comes back to the house. I hold my breath. She comes into my room. She doesn’t speak, just looks at me. I clutch her around the waist, tight as I can, then run down the stairs. My father glances up from his paper and I catch his smile as I whizz past him. I run through the gate and into Mo’s arms.
She laughs and pushes me away from her. ‘You’ll be knocking me over next.’
I jump up and down. ‘Where’s Euan?’
‘Down by the cove. And don’t forget your bucket!’ she calls after me.
Still running, I lift the pail and shout back, ‘I love you, Mo,’ then head off down the beach. The wind whips at my dress, my hair. I run barefoot, making squidgy footprints on the sand, my arms aeroplaning either side of me.
I see him along the shore bending to look at something in a rock pool. I call out to him but the wind lifts my voice up and away. When I reach him I can barely speak I’m so excited and I jump up and down and turn around on one leg. ‘Euan! Euan! Guess what? We can play again! My mum gave in. I went on hunger strike like they do in Ireland and my mum gave in!’
He squints up at me. His face has sand stuck all over it in little clumps. ‘Who says I want to play with you any more?’
I stop, deflated, feel tears sting at the back of my eyes. ‘But you do,’ I say. ‘Because we’re best friends.’
‘Aye, maybe. But no more crying and no more showing your knickers.’ He grins at me. ‘Unless you want me to pull them down.’
‘That’s rude!’ I push him and he pushes me back. I fall over and he sits on top of me, holding my arms. Seawater laps at my feet and I try to dig my heels in but they slide away from me.
‘Do you submit?’
‘Never!’ I struggle and push as hard as I can but he holds my wrists into the sand and ignores my knees kicking into his back.
‘Do you submit?’
His weight is pressing down on to my stomach. ‘All right, all right! I sub
mit!’ I grumble. ‘This time. Only this time, mind.’
He climbs off and lies beside me, lining up his head with mine. We stay together, catching our breath, squinting up at the clouds.
‘Those big round ones that look like cauliflowers’ – he points up and to the left – ‘are called cumulus and those ones over there, see, really high up, are called cirrus and they’re made at thirty thousand feet from ice needles.’
‘Who told you that?’ I ask him.
‘Monica.’
‘Monica!’ I turn to face him and giggle. ‘You played with Monica?’
He shrugs. ‘She kept on following me around. She knows a lot of stuff. She even knows about fishing.’
I pinch him hard on the arm.
‘Ow!’
I jump up and start to run.
‘I’ll catch you,’ he shouts. ‘I will.’
4
I take the late morning train through to Edinburgh. I try to read a magazine and flick through articles jauntily titled, ‘My Husband Left Me for Another Man’ and ‘Babies Who Never Learn to Breathe’ before settling for a piece on foods with a low glycaemic index. After a couple of minutes, I throw the magazine aside. I can’t concentrate. I’m impatient to get there and get it over with.
I pace up and down the aisle. The carriage is empty apart from one teenager who is attached to an iPod and spends the entire journey texting on her phone. As the train crosses the railway bridge over the Firth of Forth, I stop and look out of the window. The water is a gunmetal grey. A container ship has just passed underneath the bridge and I start to count the multicoloured boxes on board, stacked high like building blocks. It reminds me of the game I played as a child; the one that was meant to break up the monotony of a long journey. Count the number plates beginning with V or the number of caravans driving north. Count the red cars, the hatchbacks and the cows that are lying down. Count the number of times I have thought of Rose since she died. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Too many to count.