by Julie Corbin
‘Nuisance? Surely a prison sentence is more than just a nuisance?’
‘Is that the wrong word?’ She tries to communicate surprise but her eyebrows can’t dent her unlined forehead. Her command of English is near perfect. I know that and so does she.
‘What was she in for?’ I blurt out. ‘Was it serious?’
‘Yes. Well . . .’ She stands up. ‘Orla was always attracted to the meanest sort of men . . . The details? I will leave her to tell you herself. But really, Grace! I think we’ve spent enough time catching up, don’t you?’ Arctic smile. She starts a brisk walk to the front door and I follow her. ‘It’s for the best that you don’t come here again. I’ve moved on with my life. Perhaps you need to too. A new chapter. Delving back into the past is never a good idea.’
‘But we’re all a product of our pasts, are we not?’ My legs are shaking as I go down the front steps.
She chooses to ignore this. ‘Orla’s married name was Fournier. Quite a scandal.’ She half closes the door. ‘And Grace?’
‘Yes?’
‘All this nonsense about the convent? I’m sure that were they aware of her past, she would be shown the door.’ Her eyes are blank. ‘So now you have what you came for?’
I turn away before she does – a small victory – and just about manage to resist the urge to run down the driveway. I drop my keys on the ground, pick them up again, unlock the car door and look back at the house. Bloated clouds are suspended over the roof, low and heavy, ready to tip and smother it. Angeline is standing at the window. She is too far away for me to see her expression but still it unsettles me and my skin crawls. I climb into the car, start the engine, drive about two hundred yards then pull into a parking space and just sit there, thinking, trying to make sense of everything that was said.
It’s as if she’s given me the colours – abortion, suicide attempt, addiction and prison sentence – dark colours with which to paint a picture of Orla’s life. I don’t know what to make of it. It’s all much more dramatic than I expected. I wonder how much Angeline is twisting the truth, making brutal statements about Orla while leaving out any details that might help me make sense of her.
It strikes me that even Orla’s memory isn’t loved; no photos on the piano, no tender words or empathy. Angeline’s fine speech about a mother doing anything for her children? I don’t believe it. Not this mother.
I ring Euan. ‘Can you talk?’
‘Give me a sec.’
I hear him close the door behind him and walk outside.
‘How was it?’
‘Worrying. If Angeline’s to be believed, Orla sounds like a loose cannon. But then Angeline is no doting mother. If I had to sum her up in one word it would be utterly ruthless.’
‘That’s two words.’
‘I almost feel sorry for Orla,’ I say quickly.
‘Why? She’s out to ruin you. Don’t get sidetracked, Grace.’
‘I know. I know. But listen, if I ever complain about my mother again just remind me of Angeline.’
‘That bad, huh? But did you find out anything useful? Anything that might persuade her to back off?’
‘Maybe. Are you near a computer?’
‘I can go down to the cabin. Why?’
‘Wait for it.’ I take a deep breath, not prepared to believe what I’m about to say. ‘According to Angeline, Orla had an abortion then tried to kill herself, was a drug addict and was in prison.’
‘Shit. What the hell for?’
‘I don’t know. Angeline wouldn’t say. She made a point of pretending to be open but then pulled back on the details. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was exaggerating. Downright lying, even. Are you there yet?’
‘I’m just switching it on.’
‘And talking of lies, Orla told me that her father was dead and he isn’t. How weird is that?’
‘Sounds like a woman who’ll use anything to get what she wants,’ he says drily.
‘Can you Google her? Her married name was Fournier.’
‘It’s warming up.’
I think about connections, threads that link one event with another. When did it start to go wrong for Orla? With Rose? Or was it before that? ‘Have you found anything?’
I hear him typing. ‘Nothing coming up so far.’
‘It can’t have been anything major then, can it?’
‘Who knows. I’ll keep trying. You coming into work tomorrow?’
‘Yeah.’
‘See you then. And Grace?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll fix it.’
5 May 1984
‘You will be coming to Guide camp, won’t you, Grace?’ Miss Parkin says.
‘Well, I was hoping . . .’
My mother gives me a look.
‘When is it again?’ I say.
‘Six weeks’ time. And with Rose recently joining your patrol, it will be such a boon to have you there. I know she’s very young but she really is a sweet child and her father is a wonderful man. Very handsome too.’ She looks wistful. ‘He won’t stay a widower for long.’
Miss Parkin is around at our house because my dad is making her a rocking chair. It’s bad timing for me because I had hoped to avoid the Guide camp in June, but now, with my mother breathing down my neck, it’s impossible to say no.
‘Grace will be happy to come along, won’t you, Grace?’
I nod and then try to smile. ‘I’m off to Orla’s. I’ll be home around eleven.’
‘No later!’ my mum shouts and I resist the urge to bang the door on my way out.
It’s a ten-minute walk to Orla’s house which is pretty in a fairytale kind of a way and sits back from the road in a natural hollow as if sprouting from the rock behind it. It’s early evening and I’ve come around to hers so that we can get ready for her sixteenth birthday party. This last couple of days she’s been moody or distant and I’m hoping that she’ll be back to her old self and that we can have a good time tonight.
When I knock on the door I hear Orla and her mother arguing. That’s not unusual. They often go at it hammer and tongs, until one or other gives up. But this time it sounds particularly fierce. I ring the bell and seconds later Orla throws the door wide, doesn’t acknowledge me but turns back to her mother and continues her rant.
The French is so rapid I can barely make out what they’re saying. I catch phrases like ‘none of your business’, ‘how dare you!’ and ‘your father is a gentleman’ from Angeline while Orla hurls insults: Salope! Garce! Putain!
I don’t stop in the hallway. I know there’s no point in getting between them. I tried that before and ended up catching the tail end of a punch. Instead I climb upstairs to Orla’s room, sit on her bed and read an old copy of Jackie magazine. We’re really too old for it now but one or other of us still buys it for the Readers’ True Experiences. I start to read ‘I Knew He Was Married But I Didn’t Care’ and am halfway through when Orla comes crashing into the bedroom, banging the door so violently that a shelf of books tilts to one side and drops on to the bed beside me. The right side of her face is red where her mother has slapped her.
‘Jesus, Orla!’ I put Jackie aside and start to gather the books into a tidy pile. ‘What on earth were you fighting about this time?’
‘You couldn’t follow it?’ She pushes me aside, scoops at the books with her arm and tips them all on to the floor where they land in a heap of twisted spines and crushed pages.
‘I don’t think those were the sort of French words Madame Girard would normally teach us,’ I tell her, trying to straighten the shelf back on the wall.
‘Will you leave that!’ She grabs the corner of the wood and hurls it across the room. It hits the edge of the windowpane and cracks the glass. Several jagged lines fan out from the crack. One stretches halfway across the window.
‘Fuck’s sake, Orla!’ I hold on to her shoulders and shake her. ‘Calm down! You’ll end up not being allowed to go out. You can’t miss your own party.’
<
br /> She pulls away from me and rummages in the cabinet beside her bed. Behind the hair ties, make-up and loose change she has hidden a packet of cigarettes. She throws herself down on the bed and crosses her legs. The bed shakes as she uncrosses them, bangs her fist on the wall, re-crosses her legs, then agitates her left foot backwards and forwards. ‘My mother is a bitch, a putain, a whore.’
‘Look, everybody hates their mother sometimes.’ I hold on to her wayward foot. ‘It’s only natural. God, sometimes I want my mother to die she’s so bloody annoying but it blows over.’
She looks at me and I see there are tears in her eyes. My own eyes automatically fill up in response. I have rarely seen Orla cry. She has never to my knowledge been even close to tears since she fell off the harbour wall when we were ten and broke her arm in two places. She is fierce and feisty and will take anyone on, suffer anything. It’s part of the reason I like her.
She looks away, picks at the wallpaper and says quietly, ‘You don’t know the half of it. My father is an arse for putting up with that bitch.’
I am reminded of Edinburgh, standing in Jenners department store and watching Orla’s mum, her lipsticked smile, her body leaning into Monica’s dad. ‘Orla, it’s your birthday!’ I reach forward and hug her. ‘Let’s just forget all this and have a great time.’
‘Yeah, exactly.’ She heaves in a shuddering sigh. ‘On my fucking birthday, as well.’
‘Let’s make each other up.’ I find some rouge, eye shadow and mascara. Orla leans forward and closes her eyes.
‘I can’t wait to get out of this dump.’
I paint two shades of green over her lids and up as far as her eyebrows. ‘There are probably worse places.’
‘Like where?’
‘Close your eyes!’
‘There’s a whole world out there,’ she grumbles. ‘And we’re living in a place the size of a postage stamp where everybody knows everybody else’s business.’
‘Couldn’t you go to your aunt’s in France?’ Orla’s aunt is even more glamorous than her mother. She is a fashion buyer for Galeries Lafayette and whenever she comes to stay she oozes couture and elegance. ‘I’d love to live in Paris.’
‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,’ Orla says, lifting the hand mirror to admire herself. ‘America would be better. Wide open space. Cowboys. Men with muscles bare-back riding.’ She pouts at her reflection in the mirror. ‘Take me, I’m yours.’
By the time we get to the village hall she’s back to her old self. The disco is set up and we spend the first ten minutes dancing then we stand back with some Irn-Bru to watch the others.
‘Shall we get some fresh air?’ Orla says. ‘I’ve hidden some vodka under the second bush past the phone box.’
We go outside just as Monica comes around the corner. She is positively shimmering with animosity. She glows like the red forty-watt bulb in my bedside lamp and her chest is heaving like she’s just run a mile. She stops in front of Orla. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Not now, Monica.’ Orla gives a weighty sigh of boredom but I’m close enough to see that the pulse in her neck begins to beat faster. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy? I have a birthday to celebrate.’
‘Your mother is a filthy French whore.’
‘Monica!’ I move in front of Orla. ‘What the hell? Go away! You’re not even invited!’
‘This is between me and Orla,’ she shouts. Her eyes are wild and her hair is standing up on end like she is possessed.
‘Now move out of the way.’
I look back at Orla for an answer.
‘It’s okay, Grace,’ she says, shrugging, nonchalant. ‘We’ve already had a run-in about this. Looks like she’s come back for some more punishment.’
‘Don’t think you’ll get away with this.’ Monica points a shaky finger into Orla’s cheek. ‘May you rot in hell, Orla Cartwright. May your whole family rot in hell! Every last one of you.’ She throws the last words at Orla like a witch delivering a curse and I’m not surprised when she finishes it off by spitting on the ground at our feet.
As she turns away, Orla’s hand moves out and grabs the back of Monica’s blouse. It all happens quickly and I am slow to react. By the time I try to separate them Orla is sitting across Monica’s back and is pulling her hair. The screaming and swearing is louder than my entreaties to stop and I can’t match Orla for strength. I need Euan’s help but he hasn’t arrived yet. I know where he’ll be – down at the harbour hanging about with Callum.
I run as fast as I can and hear them before I see them. They are sitting on one of the two picnic benches that are on the grassy area opposite the harbour wall. They have cans of lager next to them and are arm wrestling.
‘Come quickly!’ I am puffed and I lean my hands on my knees. ‘Monica and Orla are fighting.’
They both jump up and we run back together to the village hall. Callum hauls Orla off and holds her back while Euan helps Monica to her feet. He tells her that she should see a doctor about her head. There’s blood trickling down the side of her cheek on to the collar of her blouse. She touches it with her fingers. ‘I think it’s just superficial,’ she tells him. ‘I want to be a doctor, you know. I’m going to get out of this place.’
‘Right.’ Euan takes a few steps backward to stand level with me.
Monica’s face twists. She looks a complete sight. I wonder how she’s going to explain this at home.
‘I’ll walk you home,’ Callum volunteers.
Monica looks him up and down. ‘Don’t bother,’ she says. ‘Enjoy your party.’ Her eyes fill up. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’ She turns and lurches off.
I watch her retreating back and I shiver.
‘Show over.’ Euan takes my elbow. ‘Fancy a dance?’
We all go back into the hall. Orla wipes the back of her hand over her bloodied lip but otherwise she seems to be none the worse for her fight. She starts slow dancing with a boy from fifth year. His hands slide down across her bum and pull her closer. Euan takes my hand and leads me on to the floor. He puts his arms around me.
‘I don’t want to stay,’ I tell him. I pull away. ‘I think I’ll just go home.’
‘I’ll walk with you,’ he says. He looks around. ‘Nothing much happening here anyway.’
I put my arm through his and we go down on to the beach so that we can walk home along the shore. We both have torches in our pockets and we shine them ahead of us.
‘What was the fight about?’
‘Orla’s mother and Monica’s father are having an affair.’
‘Shit.’
‘I know. Monica’s never been my friend but I feel sorry for her.’ I lean my head against his shoulder. ‘I wonder how she’s going to be able to show her face at school on Monday.’
‘Wasn’t a good idea to start a fight, though. Especially with Orla. Monica was bound to come off worse.’ We’re close to the water’s edge where waves stalk us, stretch out and cover our shoes. Icy water splashes my ankles.
‘It’s freezing!’ I shriek and pull him towards the sand dunes.
His arms circle my waist and he kisses me gently on the lips.
‘What was that for?’
‘Because you’re the prettiest girl I know.’
‘Simply irresistible.’ I blow him a kiss and start to mime a model’s catwalk. He’s shining the torch at me and light reflects back up on to his face. I expect him to be smiling but he’s not. His expression is serious as if he’s working through a maths problem.
‘Do you want to go out some time?’ His voice is low. ‘Grace?’
‘We’re always together.’
‘I mean out. Out together.’ He scrapes his right shoe in an arc across the sand. ‘Properly.’
I frown. ‘Like a date you mean?’
‘Yeah.’ He waits.
I think about it. Euan and me. Me and Euan. A couple. ‘Okay then.’
‘Okay then?’
‘Okay then.’ I start giggling and then I push him. He
pushes me back and I topple, give a scream.
‘Grace, is that you?’ It’s my dad’s voice.
Euan pulls me up straight.
‘What’s going on down here?’ My dad appears over the sandbank, shines his torch right at the two of us. ‘Oh, it’s you, Euan. I’m just on my way down to the social club for a game of snooker. Better head on home, the pair of you. It’s too cold to be out gallivanting.’
9
When Paul leaves for work and the girls for school, I take Murphy for a quick run on the beach and then drive to work. Euan is already there. ‘Was there anything on the web about Orla?’ I say as I come in the door.
‘Nothing. Whatever she was in prison for, it couldn’t have received much press coverage.’
‘Shit.’ I start unbuttoning my coat. ‘I was hoping we’d find out what she’d done.’ I think back to Angeline’s words. ‘I thought she said her married name was Fournier but maybe I heard her wrong.’
‘I’ll try other spellings later but, in the meantime, I’ve been ringing round and I’ve found the convent she’s staying in,’ he says. ‘St Augustine’s. It’s close to Hawick.’ He logs off his computer and stands up next to me. ‘Shall we go?’
‘To the convent?’ I stare at him. ‘Now?’
‘Why not? Like you said – we can’t just sit around and let her make all the moves.’
‘Are you sure?’ I didn’t expect this. ‘It’s a long drive. We’ll be gone the whole day.’
‘I wasn’t planning on doing much work this week anyway.’ He’s already putting on his jacket. ‘I won’t say much. I promise.’ He takes hold of my elbow. ‘But I’ll be there if you need me.’
‘Do you think we should let someone know we’re coming?’
‘No. I don’t want her spinning us a line about no visitors,’ he says. ‘Better just to turn up. That way she can’t fob us off.’
He locks the cabin behind him and we start off up the path and past the house. Visiting Orla when she least expects it seems like a good idea and I’m glad that Euan is prepared to come with me. The clock is ticking, the seconds, minutes and hours bearing down on me. It’s less than a week until Sunday lunch when Orla plans to – what? Make an announcement as we eat? Oh, by the way, everyone! Has Grace mentioned that she killed Rose? Yes, really! She pushed her into the water. Left her there to drown. Or is she intending to take Paul aside, into his study perhaps, where his research papers and textbooks are piled high on the desk and photos of the girls smile down from the walls; Ella, Daisy and Rose witnessing Paul’s distress as he hears about the sorry fate of his first daughter. Will she even hold Rose’s photograph as she tells him?