Tell Me No Secrets

by Julie Corbin

  By the time I pull into the driveway my head is so full of fear, remorse and what-ifs that I want to bang it against a wall and knock myself out. Instead I open a bottle of pinot grigio and watch it glug-glug into the glass. I stand leaning against the counter and drink one full glass down then pour myself another, and another. My life, my girls, my husband, my house, my dog, even my armchair all look like the best anyone could ever have and I know I’m going to lose all of it.

  Ella comes into the kitchen. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Edinburgh.’

  ‘Jesus! You might have said. You could have bought me those jeans I wanted.’ She kicks the fridge closed with her foot and looks me up and down. ‘What, drinking already? It’s only four thirty.’

  My head is starting to fuzz over. A blessed distance is opening up between myself and the words in my head. Sure, Orla is a bitch but I will find a way to shut her up. I will. Perhaps Euan will help me. I wasn’t entirely truthful with Orla. After Rose died, we made a pact not to tell anyone, but I did. I told Euan. I told him a couple of days after I’d done it. I couldn’t keep it to myself. As a secret, it was so much bigger than me.

  My limbs feel heavy and loose and I roll my head around on my neck to ease the tension in my shoulder muscles.

  ‘So?’ Ella is watching me. ‘What’s with the drinking?’

  Suddenly I feel like everything is within my control. ‘Ella.’ I smile. ‘We still need to talk.’

  ‘Well, obviously you’ve been in my room, so what is there to talk about?’ She leans back against the counter and folds her arms across her chest. ‘So you know I’m on the pill and you don’t like it and you don’t like Jamie. Big deal!’ She sneers down into my face. ‘This isn’t the nineteenth century. Girls choose their own boyfriends. And by the way, it was Daisy who suggested I go on the pill. She’s not as perfect as you think.’

  ‘That’s great. I’m glad you girls have been giving each other advice. Sisters should support each other, and you know what? You’re right.’ I wave the glass at her. ‘Why should it matter what I think? You go right ahead! Do what you want, live your life any way you want to, see where that gets you.’

  I pour my fourth glass of wine, toss the empty bottle into the bin and when I look back at her I see that disquiet is edging in at the corner of her eyes, forcing her to speak.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘What’s the matter with me?’ I laugh. ‘What’s the matter with me? I know! I’m tired of your attitude. You want to be an adult? I’ll treat you like one.’ I turn my back to her and scrabble about in the back of the cutlery drawer until I find what I’m looking for.

  ‘You smoke?’ She is incredulous.

  ‘What? You think you have a monopoly on that too?’ I hold the packet out to her. ‘You want one?’

  ‘Mum!’

  I light up the cigarette and inhale, holding my breath for several seconds before I blow smoke up towards the ceiling.

  She starts to add up my symptoms on her fingers. ‘You’ve been crying, you’re smoking, knocking back the wine like there’s no tomorrow?’

  ‘No tomorrow?’ I laugh. It sounds maniacal. ‘Well, now you’ve hit the nail on the head!’

  ‘Jesus, Mum, are you ill? Shall I call Dad?’ A tear trickles down her right cheek and she pushes it into her hair.

  I wave her away. The wine is lulling me, relieving me of inhibitions and it makes me want to confess. ‘No, I’m fine. I’m not sick. It’s just—’ I stop. Articulating what I feel will involve the truth. And I can’t do that. I look at my daughter and know that she must never find out. Never. ‘Really, I’m fine. Just wallowing in a little self-pity.’ I shrug. ‘It happens.’

  She hugs me hard and I feel her woman’s body press against mine.

  ‘All part of being an adult.’ I make an apologetic face. ‘Every so often you feel a failure or a bitch and wish you’d done something differently.’

  ‘But you never do anything wrong, that’s why you get on my nerves!’ she shouts. ‘You’re always patient with me even when you should be grounding me or telling Dad. You never lose it with Grandad even when he’s confused as hell and you have to repeat things a hundred times and you’re kind and you laugh and you can paint – you’re like the best artist I know and you look good! You’re a milf!’

  ‘What’s a milf?’

  Her eyes widen. ‘Oh, don’t make me tell you!’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to now – and as we’re both adults.’

  ‘Mother I Would Like to Fuck.’ She screws up her face. ‘Jamie said it.’ She starts to laugh. ‘I’m sorry, Mum, but really it’s a compliment.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that.’ Somehow I’m being allowed to stroke her hair. ‘So will you come and visit me in prison?’

  ‘Oh, Mum, stop it!’ She pushes me away. ‘Like you ever did anything wrong!’

  15 June 1984

  Lightning wakes up the sky and I count the seconds – one . . . two . . . three . . . four – until thunder cracks across the tents. It’s raining so hard that the water stings my cheeks. I pick my way over exposed roots and fallen branches keeping my torch pointed down, just ahead of my feet, shining a path. It takes me only a couple of minutes but by the time I reach Orla my hair is plastered to my head and my boots are sopping wet. She is waiting for me close to the pond. The pond is out of bounds because it’s less than a hundred yards from where the boys from the youth club are camping. Somewhere, just beyond the trees, Euan, Callum and several other boys from our year are in their tents, most likely getting drunk.

  Orla is throwing stones into the water. I watch one skim along the surface half a dozen times before it sinks. ‘This better be good,’ I shout to her as I draw within earshot. ‘Parky will have our guts for garters if she catches us out here at this time of night.’

  ‘Live dangerously, Grace, why don’t you?’ she shouts back, lobbing another stone. ‘What’s the worst she can do? Throw us out of the Guides?’ She turns and looks at me. ‘Would either of us care?’

  ‘I don’t suppose so,’ I admit.

  Orla often accuses me of playing it safe; that, and caring about what other people think. I don’t share her ‘fuck-em’ approach. I wish I did but I am burdened by expectations. I am the longed-for child, the apple of my parents’ eye. I am Grace. I am polite. I am kind and considerate. I never make trouble at school. My grades are good. I always do the right thing.

  It’s close to midnight and as the clouds blow across the sky, the moon is revealed, full and bright as a silver coin. But still the rain pours down, filling the forest with watery sounds: dripping, gurgling, bubbling, swirling, hammering on the leaves until they bend with the weight and shed their load in a puddle on the ground. Water slides off my hair on to my cheeks and down on to my lips. It tastes cold and fresh. I tip my head back and drink it in, ignoring the wet that misses my mouth and runs down my neck inside my clothes. Soon I’ll be freezing.

  ‘So what, Orla? What?’ I shout to her. ‘What did you want to tell me?’

  She comes right up beside me and whispers loudly into my ear. ‘It’s about Euan.’

  ‘What about Euan?’

  ‘I tried him out for you.’

  I frown, confused. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I tried him out for you. He could be a better kisser but otherwise . . .’ She stops talking, looks upward as if contemplating the universe and all its secrets then glances back at me and shouts, ‘Otherwise he was a pretty good shag.’

  I stare at her, my stomach hollow as if scooped out with surgeon’s metal. I am wet through to my skin and yet still a fire sparks up in my throat.

  ‘What’s with the face?’ She laughs. Water drips off the end of her eyelashes, nose, hair and off the end of her smile which is both knowing and sly. Sleekit, my father would say. ‘You look like your dog’s just died.’ She pushes me on the shoulder and my feet slip on the muddy bank. I fall down on to my knees and catch myself just before my face hits
the ground. The wet earth smells bitter and I cough into my hand then stand upright again, plant my feet firmly between a rock and a clump of heather and push my hair out of the way behind my ears. Orla is skimming stones again. Not a care in the world. I shout across the space between us.

  ‘You had sex with Euan?’

  ‘What?’ She holds up her hand to her ear. ‘I can’t hear you!’

  I reach forward, grab her and pull her towards me. ‘You had sex with Euan?’ I repeat. Her eyes look straight into mine. I see spite, anger and something else that I don’t recognise. ‘How could you, Orla? You could have anyone! How could you?’

  ‘He’s nothing,’ she says to me. ‘Shag him and get it over with.’

  I feel someone tugging at my back. I keep hold of Orla and turn around. Rose is standing there. Her lips are moving but I have trouble making out what she is saying. I hear the words lost and sleep but that’s it.

  ‘Go back to the tent, Rose!’ I bawl into her face and she is startled, draws away but doesn’t let go of my jacket. I turn back to Orla.

  ‘He doesn’t matter! Forget him!’ she shouts. She is laughing, her features harsh and feral in the moonlight. She shakes her head and water sprays around in all directions. I realise she is enjoying this. She has planned this quite deliberately and has chosen this exact moment to tell me. We’re in the middle of nowhere. I have no one to turn to.

  ‘You bitch.’ I say the words so quietly I can’t even hear them myself. Rose pulls at me again and I turn and push her hard, backwards, down the muddy bank away from me and swivel round to face Orla again. ‘You bitch. You fucking, fucking bitch!’ I slap her hard. She reels sideways, almost loses her footing, but at the last second finds her balance and stands upright. I hit her again and this time she falls down into a kneeling position and stays there. She doesn’t slap me back. She lets me hit her over and over until my hands are sore and the strength is gone from my arms.

  I head back to the camp, tripping over boulders and fallen branches. Twice I slither on wet ground and fall down, bang my shins and scrape my cheek. I stand up again and keep going until I reach the campsite. Monica is standing outside the supplies tent. ‘I thought it would be better to put these under cover,’ she tells me, shifting plastic boxes of breakfast cereal, and cooking utensils under the awning. ‘There’s no point in them getting wet. You can help if you like.’

  I ignore her, unzip my tent and feel my way through the darkness to my sleeping bag. I take off my wet clothes and throw them into the corner. My towel is right at the top of my rucksack. I dry myself and climb into my pyjamas. All around me is the sound of heavy, contented breathing. My knuckles are sore and I rub them. I do it automatically, not wanting to think, holding off the point when I start to cry.

  In my sleeping bag, curled up like a foetus, I think about what just happened. Orla is – was – my best friend. We were friends, weren’t we? How could she? And Euan? How could he?

  I pull the bag tightly down over my head. I resolve never to speak to either of them again. I don’t need Orla and I don’t need Euan.

  5

  Sophie, the community psychiatric nurse, is coming for a visit this morning so neither Paul nor I have gone into work. Paul is marking papers in his study and I’m in the kitchen making flapjacks, Ed’s favourite. It’s keeping me busy. But not busy enough. I can’t get yesterday out of my head: the disastrous lunch in Edinburgh, Orla and her revelation. She wants to be a nun. Of all the unlikely people in the world, Orla has decided to take holy orders. As a teenager, not only was she irreligious but she was also a consistent bully and often a liar and a cheat. There was nothing sensitive or gentle about her and looking back, I am amazed that I remained friends with her for as long as I did.

  I can’t forget her parting shot: ten days. I have ten days to tell Paul how Rose died otherwise Orla will come and do it for me. But I have no idea how to tell him and I’m driving myself mad with the worry of it. The optimist in me hopes that she’ll reconsider without persuasion. Before we met yesterday, she didn’t know that I married Rose’s father. Surely that will change her mind. I know it would change mine; but then the pessimist in me reminds me that I’m not Orla. And while her words spoke of closure and conscience, her tone and facial expressions said something else altogether. She was smirking by the time I left. I’m sure of it.

  I try to focus on the positive – somehow Ella and I ended the evening closer than we’ve been in ages. She and Jamie haven’t got as far as actually having sex but she was worried that it might happen and wanted to be careful. They are planning on using the ‘Double Dutch’ method: condoms and the pill. The doctor explained the side effects but she was feeling fine. She’d only been taking it for two weeks and she felt a little bit tearful but then, ‘I’m not exactly an easy person, Mum, am I?’ she said.

  ‘I admire your frankness,’ I told her. And we laughed like we were the best of friends.

  I don’t expect it to last but it’s such a leap in the right direction that I want to enjoy it, wallow in it, celebrate the fact that for once I’m getting it right with my daughter. And of course, I can’t because of Orla. I know that I dealt with her badly: losing my temper and walking out of the restaurant was not the best plan. And now everything is left hanging.

  Through the kitchen window I can see Ed weeding one of the flowerbeds. He is kneeling on a mat, every so often shifting his weight to the opposite knee. He has arthritis in his joints and I know that gardening is painful but he loves to do it. ‘I can’t just sit in a chair idling away the hours,’ he says. ‘I may be down but I’m not out.’

  I admire his courage and his sheer bloody-mindedness. One day at a time is his maxim and at the moment it seems like a good one.

  Paul comes into the kitchen and starts to fiddle with the toaster. ‘Ella says it’s broken.’

  ‘She set off the smoke alarm when you were walking Murphy but I think it’s just blocked,’ I tell him. ‘She keeps putting those thick teacakes into it.’

  He takes it to the back door and tips it upside down in the compost bin, shaking all the crumbs out. I stop what I’m doing and watch him. He is twelve years older than me, but aside from the fact that we grew up liking different music, I can’t say the age difference has ever been apparent. It has simply never been an issue for us. Like most couples, our marriage has had its share of ups and downs, but through it all I have never doubted my love for him or the choice I made to marry him.

  When he puts the toaster back, I grab both his hands. ‘Why don’t we go to Australia early? Now? This weekend?’

  He laughs. ‘I haven’t had word from the university yet.’

  ‘But there’s no way you’ll be turned down. The acceptance letter is only a formality.’

  He laughs again. ‘I don’t think we should jump the gun, sweetheart.’

  ‘Why not?’ I keep pushing. Suddenly it seems like the easiest solution. Surely Orla wouldn’t follow us to Australia. ‘Let’s be spontaneous!’

  ‘But the girls haven’t finished the school year. Ella has yet to dazzle us with her performance as Juliet.’

  ‘I don’t think she’ll mind so much. And it’s their birthday party tomorrow. They can say goodbye to their friends.’ I hug him tight and then draw back to look up into his face. ‘Just think! We could live out all those dreams we’ve been sharing.’

  ‘And we will! But not for another couple of months.’

  ‘Please.’ I force a smile. ‘I just want us to be together as a family.’

  ‘But we are together as a family and you have Margie Campbell’s painting to complete and we have to rent out the house.’ He puts his hands either side of my face and kisses me. ‘And I have to finish up at work. There are all sorts of ends to tie up, aren’t there?’

  ‘Paul. I . . .’ I stop, not sure what I’m going to say next. After all these years, I can’t just come out with it. When I was first married, I had this theory that I would be able to tell him about what happened to Rose
and that we would be close enough for him to forgive me. There would be a moment, an opportunity, an opening up in time and space, a redemption gap for me to slide into. But, of course, although we talk about Rose, that moment of truth never comes and gradually I had to accept that I would never be able to tell him.

  He is waiting for me to speak, his look unhurried. I remember reading once about the necessary attributes for a lasting marriage: patience, humour, kindness . . . and forgiveness. I know that Paul is blessed with the first three. But forgiveness is a tall ask and I know how he feels about responsibility. He has always wanted to know who was responsible for Rose’s death and I know that if he ever found out, he would want that person taken to task. What I don’t know is what he would do if that person was me.

  ‘What’s up? I can see you’re worried about something.’ He tugs my hair playfully. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Paul . . .’ I hesitate, remind myself that once out in the open, the truth can never be put back. I will have to live with the con sequences for the rest of my life. My marriage will be over, my life will change for ever and the girls – what about them?

  ‘Grace?’

  I have to say something but I’m not sure what. I can’t risk telling him about Rose and my part in her death, yet somehow I have to warn him about Orla. ‘There’s a threat – not to our lives,’ I assure him quickly, knowing how he feels about the girls’ safety. ‘But to our happiness.’

  He smiles uncertainly and gives a small shake of his head. ‘What sort of a threat?’

  ‘The past. Something from the past.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just a moment. A moment in time when I did the wrong thing.’

  He thinks about this. ‘You’re not secretly in debt, are you?’

  ‘No. I—’

  He tips my chin up so that our eyes meet. ‘And you’re not having an affair?’

  ‘No. I’m just . . . I. Well . . . hypothetically, if someone came to talk to you about me,’ I say in a rush, ‘to tell you something bad about me, something you didn’t know and hadn’t imagined, would you listen?’