by Julie Corbin
He starts back. ‘Is this a serious question?’
‘Yes.’ I lean back against the worktop and wait for him to think. He is a scientist. He thrives on facts, proof and evidence. I haven’t given him much to go on but still he does me the courtesy of thinking about it.
‘So hypothetically?’ He raises his eyebrows and I nod. ‘Someone comes and tells me something that you did when?’
‘A while ago.’
‘Before we met?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it an offence? In the eyes of the law?’
‘Probably.’
‘But you got away with it?’
‘Yes – actually no!’ I say quickly. ‘I didn’t get away with it. It might look that way but I have made up for it.’ I take a hesitant breath. ‘I believe I have made up for it.’
‘Then that’s good.’ He strokes the back of his hand down my cheek. ‘And no, I wouldn’t listen to what anyone has to say. If you choose not to tell me then I respect that.’ He shrugs. ‘I find it odd though, Grace.’ His smile is confused bordering on hurt. ‘I didn’t think we had any secrets from each other, but still.’ He gives a definitive nod of his head. ‘It happened before we met and I respect your right to privacy.’
‘Thank you.’ My eyes well up and I blink fast to keep away the tears.
‘What’s brought this on?’
‘Thinking back . . .’ I shrug. ‘You know how it is. Age and time.’
‘Just one thing.’ He frowns for a moment. ‘You don’t have to give me the details but I’m interested to know why – why can’t you tell me?’
His eyes are gentle, encouraging. We have been together for more than twenty years and I can count on the fingers of one hand the times we have wounded each other. There was the day I lost Ella on the beach in France and he was angry at my carelessness and then there were the months following our move back to Scotland when I sank into a depression and I would catch him watching me, wary of challenging my lethargy in case I might break completely. ‘I can’t tell you,’ I whisper. ‘Because I’m afraid you won’t love me any more.’
Immediately, he reaches for me and I cleave to him like a barnacle to the hull of a fishing boat. We stay like this for a minute or more until I cry myself quiet and then he holds me at arm’s length so that he can look right into my eyes. ‘Listen, I know you. I know you are a good person. Whatever this thing is – it doesn’t matter! I will never stop loving you. Never.’
His words slide deep into the well inside me and for a moment my fear is diluted, but almost at once I know that the feeling won’t last.
He looks beyond me towards the front of the house. ‘Sounds like Sophie’s car. Are you up to her visit? Shall I ask her to come back another time?’
‘No. I’ll be fine.’ I give him a watery smile. ‘I’m sorry to make such a fuss.’
‘I expect this is something that has assumed a greater importance than the sum of its parts.’ He gives me a quick hug. ‘So let’s just forget it.’
He walks away, leaving a cold space where he stood. I splash my face in the sink then go to the back door and take a couple of deep breaths, blink back the tears and have a smile ready for Sophie when she comes into the kitchen.
‘So how’s it been, Grace?’ Sophie is small and dark and exudes calmness and capability from every pore. She tips her head to one side. ‘Are you all right? You’re looking flushed.’
‘I’m fine. Nothing to do with Ed. Trials and tribulations of raising teenagers. You know how it is.’ I feel guilty blaming the girls but it’s the easiest thing to say.
‘I’m a bit behind you there. Mine are only two and four right now. Two boys and the one in here.’ She strokes her bump protectively. ‘Another football player by the feel of it. Makes it nice and easy for hand-me-downs.’
‘Two sugars, isn’t it?’
She nods.
‘Enjoy them while they’re young.’ I pass her a mug of tea. ‘It’s gone in a flash. One moment they’re running around in nappies and the next they’re towering over you telling you, in no uncertain terms, just where to get off.’
‘How are you, Sophie?’ Ed comes in through the door and holds out a hand to her. ‘Just been finishing a spot of gardening. Weather like this is too good to waste.’
We all sit down and Sophie takes Ed’s details from her bag. ‘Now last month we were discussing the memory lapses and different strategies you could use to help.’
‘Yes.’ Ed takes his notebook from the back pocket of his trousers. ‘I keep notes so that I remember who’s been to see me, what’s been said, that sort of thing. And Grace very kindly wrote me out some lists. I have them here.’ He opens a page. ‘This is a copy of all the phone numbers I might need.’ He puts on his reading glasses. ‘This page reminds me what to do if I am lost. And this one reminds me what to do before I go to bed, switching off the television, locking up, that sort of thing.’ He gives a wry laugh. ‘Of course, it’s not much help if I forget that when I forget I need to look at my notebook. What happens then?’
Sophie has a repertoire of reassuring expressions and she uses one now. ‘I hope you find that doesn’t happen, Ed. It’s all about rhythm and routine.’ She changes tack. ‘And have you been getting out and about?’
‘Yes. Two or three times a week I play bowls.’ He looks at me. ‘I have a lot to do here.’
‘Ed is invaluable to our family,’ I say. ‘Gardening, handles on doors, helping with the shopping – he fills in all the gaps. I’m not too sure how we ever managed without him.’
Ed smiles gratefully and Sophie writes a few words in his file. ‘And how have you found your memory?’
‘Well, I have lapses, of course. I’m hardly the man I was but, mostly, I think I’m managing. Adding up is difficult and sometimes I don’t know who people are.’
‘We play Scrabble most evenings,’ Paul chips in. ‘That helps Dad’s confidence with words.’
‘And we have Australia to look forward to,’ Ed says. ‘I’m not forgetting about that! Letter should be here any day now.’ He smacks a hand down on Paul’s knee. ‘I’ve every confidence that Paul’s application has been successful and then we’ll be living close to my daughter Alison. Both families will be able to spend lots of time together.’
Sophie starts to ask questions about Australia and I tune out, find I can smile and nod in the right places without really listening. But the voice in my head is more persistent and much as I keep pushing the thoughts away, back they come like a boomerang. I try to work out what I know for sure and what is merely a possibility. Orla is joining a convent and, before doing so, wants to salve her conscience. If she tells the truth about that night, I will be found out. The result will be catastrophic.
Trying to tell Paul was a mistake that I can’t repeat. It’s automatic for me to seek comfort from him but this is not something he can help me with. I have established that he loves me and is completely on my side but it is cold comfort because the fact is that I am deceiving him. He has given his support without full possession of the facts. Were he to know the nature of my secret, I am sure he would feel horrified and betrayed. It’s doubtful that he could ever forgive me. Instead of re assuring myself of his love, I have made myself feel worse than before. Compounding one deception with another – I feel like I am on a slippery slidey slope and I have to haul myself to safety before it’s too late.
16 June 1984
One of the junior girls lands on my head. ‘Ow! Angela!’ I push her away from me and massage my scalp.
‘Sorry, Grace.’ She starts to giggle. She has one leg in and one leg out of her trousers and is hopping around in what little space there is between the sleeping bags. ‘I’m just trying to get my jeans on.’
‘Well, sit down then before you land on someone else.’ I take some clothes out of my rucksack and put them on. Lynn is asleep. Mary and Susan are getting dressed. ‘Where’s Rose?’
‘She must have gone to the toilet,’ Angela tells me. She
now has both her legs in one side of her trousers and is inching across the tent. She falls full-length on to the sleeping Lynn who starts to flail around, knocking a mug of water over the notes for Mary’s camping badge. That sets Mary off. I’m not in the mood for this. I hardly slept and when I did Orla’s face was there in my dreams, larger than life and twice as cruel.
My own face feels puffy, my skin tight with dried-on tears and I grab my soap bag, unzip the tent and go outside where the sun is just beginning to warm the ground. The heavy rain has left puddles all through the campsite. The pile of firewood is soaking. It doesn’t bode well for breakfast.
It’s already seven o’clock and most of the patrol leaders are up. Last night seems unreal. Could I have imagined it? I look around for Orla. Somehow she’s found dry wood and is building a fire with some of her patrol. She is bent down next to it trying to blow it into action. One of the girls asks her a question and she looks up. Her face has the beginnings of a bruise over one cheek and she has a scratch at the side of her right eye where my ring tore the skin. I didn’t imagine it then. My stomach lurches as her words come back to me. I tried him out for you. He could be a better kisser but otherwise he was a pretty good shag.
I feel like I want to start crying all over again and am grateful when Miss Parkin blows her whistle. ‘Fall into patrols please, girls. Who’s on breakfast duty?’
Faye’s patrol raises their hands.
‘Bacon butties all round, I think. Get started. You’ll find everything you need in the supplies tent.’ She eyes the rest of us. ‘Sandra, your shirt should be tucked in. Angela, stop giggling. Grace? Where’s Rose?’
I look around and notice for the first time that she isn’t part of the circle. That’s odd because she has stuck to me like glue since we climbed into the minibus. I glance over the other girls’ heads expecting to see her coming towards me, trailing through the woods carrying sticks or water. Something helpful. And then the details of the night before come back to me. I remember ignoring her when she came to speak to me. And I pushed her. I remember now. Quite hard and if she’d skinned her knee or banged her elbows I wouldn’t have heard her cry above the sound of all that rain. Maybe she’s in a huff somewhere.
‘I’ll go and find her, Miss Parkin.’ I move out of the circle. ‘She’s probably cleaning her boots or something.’
‘Be quick about it, Grace. Orla, you go with her.’
I’m already at the edge of the wood. ‘I can go myself,’ I call back. ‘She won’t be far.’
The last person I want to spend any time with right now is Orla. I think of Euan with his tongue in her mouth, his hands all over her. And the rest. I shudder. What the hell? How could he? We are supposed to be going out.
Orla runs to catch me up. ‘Wait!’
She’s almost alongside me. ‘Fuck off, Orla.’ I push her backwards. ‘I’m never talking to you again.’
‘For God’s sake!’ She rights herself and grabs hold of my arm. ‘I was just winding you up! I didn’t really have sex with him. He fancies you! Everyone knows that.’
I fold my arms and face her. I want to believe her but on countless occasions I’ve watched her lie: to teachers, to parents and to other children. She does it seamlessly. There is nothing elaborate about her lying and it’s the straightforward aspect that makes it so believable.
‘How do I know you’re not lying?’ I say.
‘Because we’re friends. Best friends.’ Her hair is wild around her shoulders, curls jump out all over her head. Apart from the bruise and the scratch, her face looks paler than normal and it occurs to me that she probably didn’t get much sleep either.
But it’s her eyes that give her away. They are uneasy. Sad, even. I remember something else. ‘Why didn’t you fight back last night?’ I ask her.
‘Because you were right to hit me.’
‘But you’ve just said you didn’t do it.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me that last night?’
‘Because. Because . . .’ She puts her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, lifts her shoulders and shrugs. ‘I deserved it.’
She’s not making sense but still I feel sorry for her. She looks miserable, bloody miserable. ‘We can talk about this later. We need to find Rose. I’ll look over by the pond.’
I trudge off over the squashed ferns and tangled brambles and Orla holds up her hands on either side of her mouth and shouts, ‘Rose! Breakfast time.’
My chest feels lighter and I take some deep breaths. I’m not totally convinced that she’s telling the truth but it doesn’t look as black as it did last night. I decide to give my face and hands a quick wash, so kneel down at the edge of the pond and take my soap out of the bag. My mother has packed me off with Yardley’s lily of the valley: With no proper facilities you’ll want something that smells nice.
I dry myself on my T-shirt and sit back against a rock. All is quiet apart from Orla’s voice and the intermittent calls from one blackbird to another as they busy themselves in the trees. The air is unusually still and the sun warms my face. I feel myself sliding back towards sleep and quickly stop myself, stand up, automatically brush both hands over my backside and look all around the pond but can’t see any sign of Rose.
About twelve feet into the water ahead of me I spot a jacket. I can’t see the front of it but it looks like one of ours. We all have the same navy blue waterproofs with the Girl Guide motif and our unit number printed over the left breast. Angela’s mum works in the factory and got us a special deal.
Orla pushes through the woods behind me. ‘She isn’t out in this direction. Let’s go back before we miss out on the bacon butties.’ She stops beside me. ‘What’s that nice smell?’
‘Lily of the valley soap.’ I touch my wash bag with my foot. ‘You know my mum – good at the details.’
‘Unlike mine,’ Orla says, her expression cloudy. ‘She won’t even notice I’m gone this weekend.’
I point ahead of us. ‘One of the girls has lost her cagoule.’
‘We can come back for it later,’ she says, but I am already picking up sticks and discarding the shorter ones until I find one long enough.
‘I think I can reach it with this,’ I say. I take off my shoes and socks, roll up my jeans and wade in. The stick catches at the body of the jacket. I try to give it a tug but it doesn’t shift. ‘It’s lodged on something. I’ll have to go in deeper.’ I come back out and take off my jeans.
‘You really hurt my face, you know.’ Orla is lying back on a rock, rubbing her cheek. ‘It bloody hurts like hell.’
‘Serves you right. You shouldn’t go around making up stuff like that.’ I throw my T-shirt down on top of my jeans and wade in some more. The cold water reaches up past my knees and makes me gasp. ‘I hope whoever’s jacket this is appreciates it.’
‘We’ll make her scrub the pots,’ Orla says. ‘Parky has Irish stew planned for dinner. Stew on a camping trip! She’s completely barking.’
When the water hits my thighs I stop. I’m only a few feet away now and the movement in the water sets up a small wave. The arm of the jacket slides out to the side. I go to grab it with the stick then stop, blink once, twice, three times. Each time my eyes open I see the same thing. There are fingers coming out of the end of the jacket.
‘Hurry it up!’ Orla is growing impatient. ‘She’s probably back at the campsite by now eating the last of the bacon.’
I turn back. ‘Orla, in . . . I . . .’ My voice gives out.
‘What?’ She frowns and looks to the end of the stick. ‘What the . . .’ She splashes in behind me and we grab the body, haul it back to the bank then up on to the flat ground.
When we turn her over we both let out a scream. It’s Rose. Beautiful, blonde Rose. Her face is greyish-blue and bloated, her hair tangled with weeds and small splinters of wood.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck. Grace! Fuck.’
She is stiff and cold. I roll her on to her side and press down o
n her back to expel the water from her lungs. Some dribbles out. I roll her on to her back again and thump her heart once. Then I feel the bottom of her sternum and begin cardiac massage. I pump her chest counting as I go . . . five, six, seven and then blow air into her mouth. The stench from her mouth is nauseating but I manage not to retch. ‘Get Miss Parkin, Orla!’ I say between breaths. ‘We need help.’
‘Grace! She’s dead.’ She pulls me away from her. ‘Can’t you see? She’s long dead.’
‘She can’t be.’ I frown, back off, rub my hands on my bare legs, stare at Rose, now merely a body. Her eyes are blank, empty, devoid of the spirit that made her Rose. I can’t think. There is nothing in my head. No words to help me make sense of this. I look round at Orla.
‘It was . . .’ Her limbs are jerking and her body is contorted. She grabs her hair and howls.
I place my T-shirt over Rose’s face. It doesn’t feel right; her eyes open watching this.
‘It was you.’ Orla claps a hand over her mouth. ‘It was you.’
‘What are you talking about!’ I am horrified.
‘When you pushed her!’
‘What?’
‘Was she in the tent when you went back?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Think, Grace.’ Her eyes are wide and feverish. ‘Think.’
I think back. I didn’t check that Rose was in her sleeping bag. I didn’t check on any of them. It didn’t even occur to me. I was too upset. And before that, the memory of Rose’s hands on the back of my coat. I see myself turn around on the very spot we’re standing on now. She was trying to tell me something but I couldn’t make out the words and I didn’t give her the chance to repeat them.
I look down at my hands. A heavy weight drops down into my pelvis. ‘Christ! I pushed her. I pushed her down the bank.’
Orla moans and starts to pace, huge long strides that cause her to trip over boulders and clumps of grass, wobble and then steady herself. ‘Think, think, think.’ She is banging her head with her fist. ‘We have to get our story straight.’