Tell Me No Secrets

by Julie Corbin

  The train arrives and I alight first. Waverley Station is buzzing with people and the hum echoes up into the steel rafters high above my head. I have five minutes to spare and I go into the bookshop to choose a book for Paul’s birthday which falls just two weeks after the girls’. I know the one to buy. It’s an autobiography by a famous musician, an entertaining and revelatory account of his life. I pay for the book and walk out into the wind, stopping for a minute to fasten my jacket and look up at Edinburgh Castle. Built on a plug of volcanic rock, it watches over the city and the Firth of Forth beyond. Sometimes sunlit and benevolent, today it is brooding. Gloomy grey clouds cloak the ramparts, casting long shadows on to the jagged rocks below.

  I dodge a throng of tourists heading towards Princes Street Gardens and make a slow climb up Cockburn Street. My stomach grumbles and grinds, as if eating itself, but behind the anxiety I feel curious. I want to see her. I want to know what she’s been doing with herself for the last twenty-four years. And most of all, I want to know why she got in touch.

  I’m about ten feet away when I spot her, just inside the doorway. I’m surprised by how she looks. She isn’t wearing any make-up and her black curly hair is pulled back in a plain band highlighting the grey that spreads at her temples and forehead. Her clothes are simple – a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, a navy blue cardigan and flat lace-up shoes. Up in the castle, the one o’clock gun goes off and it startles me so that I automatically step towards her and she sees me, calls my name, rushes forward and kisses me on both cheeks. She smells of lavender.

  ‘You look wonderful,’ she tells me, standing back and holding on to my elbows.

  We are the same height and our eyes are level; hers are deep brown, almost black, like cocoa-rich chocolate.

  ‘You haven’t aged a bit.’ She laughs, looks me up and down and shakes her head. ‘Adult life suits you, Grace. Come!’ She gestures behind her and starts to walk backwards, almost tripping over a chair leg. ‘I’ve bagged us a table in the corner here.’

  We sit down. I feel happy, sad, nervous, but most of all I feel awkward. She looks so much like herself and yet the spark is missing. Even at fifteen she was glamorous, mischievous, sexy. Boys trailed behind her, bug-eyed and tongue-tied, and she would flash them smiles so sultry, so promising, that they would melt into puddles of hormones.

  She takes a breath, holds on to it as she looks at me, then lets it out slowly. ‘It’s so good to see you! I’ve thought of you such a lot over the years.’ Her eyes grow wistful and then warm again. ‘Do you have any family photos with you?’

  I haven’t spoken yet and now all I can do is shake my head. I don’t know how to articulate my way past the strangeness.

  ‘Well, never mind. Hopefully, I’ll be able to come up and meet them in person sometime soon.’ She gives me a playful smile. ‘Let’s play catch-up. Last twenty-odd years.’ She leans her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands. ‘Start wherever you want.’

  Her stare is piercing and I pick up the menu to occupy my eyes while I think of a reply but before I have a chance to read it, she snatches it from me and says, ‘I’ve ordered for us. I hope you don’t mind.’

  I do mind. It’s presumptuous of her. She has automatically assumed the right to make decisions for me, just as she did when we were children. It ignites an irritation in me. It’s a small flame but hot enough to power me past my silence and into speech. ‘You ordered for both of us?’

  ‘I didn’t want to waste any time. The food can take a while to come. You know how it is in these little places; they can’t always afford enough staff.’

  I sit back and look pointedly around the room. There are a dozen tables and three waitresses. I debate with myself whether to take a stand and insist on choosing my own lunch but decide not to. It will only delay matters and I want to get to the crux of the meeting as soon as possible.

  ‘So how have you been?’ I say.

  ‘Good.’ She gives me a Gallic shrug that reminds me of her mother. ‘I’ve lived all over, kept myself busy. Nothing as meaningful as having babies. So tell me! I know you have at least one daughter. Any more children?’

  ‘So you’ve spent the last twenty-four years on the move? That’s a long time.’ I swallow down some water. ‘And a lot of travelling.’

  ‘I guess so,’ she acknowledges. ‘Far East, Australia, Peru, Italy, Mumbai, all for three years or so and then time in Canada where I settled for twelve years.’

  ‘And is there a man in your life?’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Let’s not go there. Me and long-term relationships – always a disaster; until now, that is.’ Her face softens and she smiles into her neck.

  ‘Until now?’ I’m interested. Maybe this is why she’s come back. ‘Are you in love?’

  ‘I suppose.’ She grows thoughtful. ‘Yes, I am. But please! Now you! Tell me how you are.’

  ‘I’m good. I’m fine.’ I reach for some bread and tear it in half. ‘Not much happens in my life. Same old, same old – you know how it is. Time moves slowly in the village.’

  ‘I don’t believe you for a minute!’ She makes a petted lip. ‘Come on! Tell me about your children. How many? What are their interests? How old are they?’

  ‘I have two girls, identical twins but Daisy has short hair and Ella’s is long. They have their dad’s eyes, and smiles that are all their own. Daisy is good at science and likes to make things with her hands. Ella loves to act. She’s more outgoing than Daisy.’ I stop talking while the waitress places a salad in front of us: buffalo mozzarella, melon and watercress. ‘They’ll be sixteen on Saturday,’ I finish.

  ‘Sixteen? Wow!’ She shakes out her napkin and places it on her lap. ‘Are they having a party?’

  ‘Yes. In the village hall. It’s been repainted since you left but otherwise it’s no different. We’ve hired a DJ, ordered lots of food and drink.’ I shrug. ‘All the kids do it now. It’s just a round of parties from one weekend to the next.’

  ‘Do you remember my sixteenth?’

  I nod. ‘I was thinking about it yesterday. First the fight with your mother and then all that business with Monica. I’m hoping we get away with a bit less drama.’

  ‘I never did forgive my mother.’

  ‘What, even now?’

  ‘She always had to be the centre of everything.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘But, yeah, sure. It’s all water under the bridge.’ She finishes her salad and pushes the plate away. ‘So, two girls? Almost grown-up.’

  ‘Well, Ella would like to think so.’

  ‘Is she difficult?’

  ‘Not exactly but she knows her own mind.’

  ‘Like her mother then.’

  ‘I was never difficult.’ I give her an appraising look. ‘I would have had to work hard to catch up with you.’

  ‘I did have my moments, didn’t I?’ she concedes. ‘Thank God we don’t stay fifteen for ever.’ The waitress clears our plates and Orla reaches down into her bag and brings out her mobile phone. ‘I need to make a quick call,’ she says and steps outside the restaurant.

  It’s a good opportunity to watch her and I do. She is relaxed and smiling as she talks into the receiver. She looks completely harmless. There’s not a hint of the conniving or spite that she used to be capable of and I’m beginning to wonder what I was nervous about. She’s not the dangerous, impulsive Orla that she once was. She’s a calmer, more civilised version, I think.

  She comes back to her seat. ‘So what about the old gang? Monica, Euan, Callum, Faye.’ She reels them off. ‘What happened to them?’

  The restaurant is in full lunchtime swing. The waitresses weave between the tables, plates held high above their heads. Our main course is red mullet with spring vegetables and I take my first mouthful before answering. ‘Tastes good,’ I say, pointing with my fork.

  ‘My mother comes here. You know how fussy she was . . . and is.’

  ‘Is she well?’

  ‘Yes, very. In her element, actually. New husba
nd, lots of money, busy social scene.’ She shakes her head. ‘Sometimes I wonder why my father put up with her for all those years. She was the reason we left the village, you know.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ At the back of my mind I had always thought it was because of Rose, because Orla and I could never have lived together in the same village, looking each other in the eye day in and day out, after what we’d done.

  ‘Did you think it was because of Rose?’

  I nod. She was always in the habit of second-guessing me.

  ‘It wasn’t.’ She looks beyond me. Her eyes are still her most stunning feature. A cocoa and caramel blend. ‘Anyway, tell me about the gang.’

  ‘Faye left the village . . .’ I think. ‘It must be twenty years ago now. She lives on the Isle of Bute. She married a sheep farmer. Has four bairns last I heard. Callum runs his dad’s business now. Employs half a dozen people on the boat and in the fish shop. Hasn’t changed. Talks non-stop and is still into football. His son Jamie is Ella’s boyfriend. Euan is an architect and Monica is a GP.’

  ‘So Euan’s still in the village?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘You didn’t marry him, did you?’ Her eyes widen. ‘Tell me you did!’

  ‘No!’ I look at her as if she’s mad. I knew this was coming. ‘God! That would have been like marrying my brother.’

  ‘Grace, you don’t have a brother and the looks you used to give each other had nothing to do with sibling love.’

  ‘Really, Orla.’ I fake a bored expression. ‘That was a hundred years ago.’

  ‘So is he married? Do you still see him?’

  ‘He married Monica.’ I say it casually, let it slide off my tongue like cream off the back of a warm spoon.

  ‘What, Euan and Monica?’ She sits back in her chair and frowns at me. ‘I don’t believe you!’

  ‘Mmm.’ I swirl some mineral water around in my mouth. ‘They have a couple of kids, boy and girl. Monica works in the practice in—’

  ‘Wait! Wait!’ she interrupts me. ‘Euan and Monica? Are married? That just doesn’t make sense!’

  ‘Love doesn’t always, does it?’

  ‘Euan didn’t even like Monica.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It was obvious!’

  ‘Well, sometimes that’s the way it is, isn’t it? You think you don’t like someone, in fact you positively dislike them and then wham!’ I bang my hands together. ‘Cupid’s arrow strikes and you’re lost.’

  ‘How did you feel?’

  ‘Me? I was happy for him!’

  ‘You didn’t feel jealous? You were inseparable!’

  ‘No, we weren’t. You and me.’ I point to her, then back to myself. ‘We were inseparable.’

  ‘Euan loved you,’ she says quietly. ‘Even at sixteen I could see that.’

  I laugh. This is harder than I thought. ‘As I said. We were like brother and sister. Still are.’

  ‘So who did you marry?’

  ‘Paul. He works at the university. He lectures in marine biology.’

  ‘Would I know him?’

  Our desserts have arrived and I swallow a spoonful of pavlova, sweet meringue breaking into the sharp taste of the raspberries. It occurs to me not to tell her my husband’s surname, to fudge it or even make something up but my marriage is not a secret; she can easily find out for herself. And I’m hoping that Euan is wrong. If she intends to tell the truth about Rose’s death, then this will surely stop her. ‘I married Paul Adams.’

  She stares at me. I watch as her jaw slackens and drops open. I don’t look away. I am prepared for this. I have rehearsed it. I knew she would take issue with my choice of husband. She’s not the first. Why do people think they know me better than I know myself?

  I stare her down and at last she looks away, lifts her glass of water to her mouth. Her hand is shaking and she tries to steady it with the other one. ‘I won’t pretend I’m not surprised,’ she says quietly.

  ‘I’m sure.’

  She lets out a breath. ‘Paul Adams?’

  I don’t respond.

  ‘Grace?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The same Paul Adams?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Rose’s dad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’ She sits back and pulls at her hair. ‘I just don’t know what to say.’

  ‘You think he’s a poor choice. Why? Because of what happened to Rose? We fell in love. We got married. We have the girls. I love him – still. That’s it.’ I fold my napkin into a tidy square on my lap. ‘Now drop it, please.’

  ‘You’re happy?’

  ‘Yes. I am.’

  She smiles at me. ‘Then I’m glad,’ she says. ‘I am, really. You deserve to be happy. We all do.’

  I can’t believe she means it. I wait for her to throw something else my way but it doesn’t come. We finish our desserts and I sit back and rub my stomach. ‘Good food.’

  She gives me a watery smile.

  ‘Are you staying with your mum?’

  ‘No. At a convent in the Borders.’

  ‘A convent? A Catholic convent? With nuns?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Never!’ I laugh.

  ‘You’re surprised?’

  ‘Well . . . yes. I seem to remember your mother couldn’t get you to church for love nor money. By age twelve, you were calling yourself an atheist, weren’t you?’

  ‘Mmm, I was. But I’ve changed. I’m joining the order as a novice. I want to become a nun.’

  ‘Great . . . good.’ I shrug. ‘Whatever presses your buttons.’ I smile like I mean it. I realise I do mean it. It seems completely out of character but I want to wish her well. ‘Surprising but good.’

  ‘More surprising than you marrying Paul Adams?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You expect me to say nothing? You drop a bombshell like that and I’m supposed just to smile and congratulate you?’ Her voice grows harsh. ‘Paul Adams? What the fuck possessed you? Rose’s father? You married Rose’s father?’

  I sit back in my seat and fold my arms. ‘Interesting language for a would-be nun,’ I say quietly. ‘But then I have been wondering when the old Orla was going to make an appearance.’

  ‘Well? I’ve found God, not so unusual for someone our age. While you . . .?’

  ‘You know very little about the grown-up me, Orla, as I know very little about you.’ I feel tired suddenly. I push my hair back and force myself to sit up straight. ‘So how about we just stop the pretending and you tell me exactly why you got in touch.’

  ‘Okay.’ She takes a breath, pushes her water glass to one side and leans elbows and forearms on the table. ‘You’re not going to like it but I want you to remember that I bear you no malice.’

  ‘Just spit it out.’

  ‘I need to put my wrongs to right. And I need to make peace with those people I hurt.’

  Ice starts in my fingertips and freezes a path beneath my skin, travelling inwards until I shiver. ‘What exactly are you saying?’

  ‘I’ve made my confession to the priest. Now I need to confess to the people who were affected by my actions.’ Her tone is light as candyfloss. ‘What happened to Rose: it was cruel. What we did was wrong and then we compounded it by lying to ourselves and to the police.’

  ‘You’re telling me?’ I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Since when are you entitled to take the moral high ground?’

  ‘Don’t be angry, Grace.’ She tries to take my hand. I pull away. ‘This is not about you and me. This is about doing what’s right.’

  ‘I have paid my dues, Orla. I have.’ I keep my voice low. ‘I may not have been honest with my family or the wider community but I have always been honest with myself.’ I pause; choose my words carefully. ‘I have made good any sin that I committed.’

  ‘There is a penance to be paid.’

  ‘I’m not a Catholic,’ I remind her. ‘And this isn’t about religion for me. This
is about doing the right thing.’

  ‘Me too.’ She lets her head drop to one side. ‘I need to do the right thing. Surely you can see that?’

  ‘And what would that entail, exactly?’

  ‘Telling Paul.’

  ‘Why? Why on earth would you do that?’

  ‘To give him some closure.’

  ‘At the expense of his marriage?’ My voice is getting louder. I sense the women at the next table glancing across at me. ‘His daughters’ happiness?’ I am horrified. ‘We agreed to keep this a secret.’ I bang my fist against my chest. ‘Paul is my husband. We have two girls together. If you tell the truth about what happened that night, you will ruin all of our lives. Is that really what your priest advised? Is that truly what your God wants?’

  ‘Put yourself in my shoes.’ Her voice is silky smooth, her eyes black and shiny as hot tar. ‘I need to join the convent with a clear conscience.’

  I stand up and lift my handbag from the floor. ‘I knew you hadn’t changed. You almost had me fooled but I bloody knew you hadn’t changed. You are your mother’s daughter. Everything is always about you.’ I rummage in my bag, find my purse, pull out thirty pounds and slap it down in the centre of the table. ‘Go back to where you came from, Orla. Stay away from me and stay away from my family. I’m warning you.’

  As I turn away she grabs hold of my wrist. ‘Ten days. That’s all you have. Either you tell Paul or I do. The choice is yours.’

  I wrench her off me and, careless of the other lunchers, say loudly, ‘You come near my family and I will have you, Orla.’ I hold her eyes for several long seconds. Her look is fearless. ‘I won’t hesitate to hurt you. I mean it. That choice is yours.’

  I leave the restaurant and hurry along the road back to the station. I realise that I’ve forgotten the book I bought for Paul but I can’t go back for it. I know that I’m crying but I don’t care. I board the first train back home and wonder what the hell I’m going to do now. Always, always, I knew. I knew that this would come back to haunt me. I drive home from the station, rigid, gripping the wheel.