by Julie Corbin
I rub my hands over my face. ‘I wish I’d read those bloody letters.’
‘This isn’t about letters,’ Euan says. ‘It’s about control and it’s about revenge.’
‘Revenge for what?’ I watch two more sheep move in close to the hillside huddle. ‘I honestly don’t get why she would come back after all this time.’
‘It’s like that sometimes for people, isn’t it?’ He turns to look at me. ‘Grievances fester for years. Then a catalyst comes along and bingo.’
I drop my hands and turn sideways too so that our faces are close. ‘What did you say to her?’
‘When?’
‘Just now. Before you had her by the throat.’
‘To back off. Crawl under the nearest stone.’
‘And what did she say?’
He shrugs. ‘Nothing worth repeating.’
‘The bit that made you really mad? When she spat at you?’ I say.
He shakes his head. ‘Swearing. Nonsense. She isn’t a rational human being.’
I have to agree with him. Her eyes, just before we left, were lit with an unhealthy euphoria; the kind that speaks of madness rather than joy.
‘Rain’s easing off,’ Euan says. ‘We should head back.’
‘I’m not going to let her anywhere near Paul on Sunday,’ I say. ‘I won’t stand by and watch her say it.’
‘One step at a time.’ He turns the key in the ignition. ‘It’s not over yet.’ We rejoin the road and he settles to a reasonable speed. ‘Not by a long way.’
I try to relax back in my seat, silent, prey to my own thoughts. I feel like the past has caught up with the present. It’s as if the last twenty-four years have been reduced to a single day. I’m right back where I started. I’ve just killed Rose. I feel the push of my hand against her chest as if it were yesterday. I am the fifteen-year-old me in the body of a woman. I feel panicked and scared and ready to jump from the car and run.
I look at Euan, now in the body of a man, but still very much the boy I remember at sixteen. For all his sober driving and fancy car, for all his money and success, his loss of control back at the convent – that wasn’t Euan the husband, father and upstanding member of the community, that was Euan at sixteen, impulsive and headstrong.
Neither of us speaks until we drive across the bridge and into Fife.
‘Do you want to stop for something to eat?’
I look at my watch. It’s just gone three o’clock. ‘I mustn’t. I have to get started on the piece for Margie Campbell. I’m already days behind. It might even take my mind off this.’
He nods his agreement and carries on driving.
When we get inside the cabin I sit down behind my desk and immediately stand up again and start to pace. Euan has the kettle on and is making a sandwich in the small kitchen between the workroom and the bedroom. ‘Maybe I should go for a walk first,’ I say. ‘Clear my head.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He points to the breadboard. ‘Do you want some?’
‘No, thanks.’ I open the front door and realise I don’t want to go for a walk. I want to talk. I go back to Euan and blurt out, ‘Orla was right, you know, about me living with one foot in the past.’
He glances at me quickly then away again.
‘Do you ever feel like you’re still sixteen?’
‘No.’
‘Not even a wee bit?’
He thinks about it. ‘I have some of the same feelings I had when I was sixteen but I don’t feel like I’m sixteen.’
I hate it when he does that – splits hairs and corrects me, as if I’m simple. My stomach heats up. ‘Do you know what she said to me when we were leaving just now? She said I should think myself lucky that she doesn’t tell Paul about us.’
He stops pouring milk into his cup and gives me his full attention.
‘How can she know about us? How can she know we had an affair?’
‘She doesn’t know!’ He shakes his head at me, exasperated. ‘She’s just taking a punt and no doubt the look on your face told her she was right.’
‘It’s not just my face that gave it away. At the girls’ party she said you gave me a hungry look. That’s what she said.’
He throws out his arms. ‘So what if I did?’
‘We had an agreement.’ I bang the flat of my hand on the work surface.
‘I haven’t broken any agreement.’ He moves past me to the sink. ‘Look at yourself! She winds you up and you’re off across the floor like a tin soldier.’
‘Well, she had you pretty bloody wound up by the end! You had her by the throat. You could have hurt her!’
‘Would you care, Grace?’ He is speaking quietly, his face up close. ‘Would you really care?’
I think about how angry she makes me: when she stood at the top of the steps at the girls’ party; when I left her just now at the convent, a catlike smile denting her cheeks; when she sat in the restaurant smiling her way through a meal only to threaten to blow my world apart. Was my threat to hurt her an empty one? I can’t answer that. Would I step forward and save her? No, I wouldn’t. I definitely wouldn’t save her.
‘I just want her out of my life,’ I say lamely.
‘Well, that won’t happen unless you take measures to stop her. Wake the fuck up.’
I flinch. ‘Don’t swear at me.’ I point my finger at him like I’m talking to Ella and he laughs. ‘It’s not funny, Euan.’
‘No, it isn’t funny,’ he says. ‘And look! She’s got us fighting now.’
‘I hate it when you swear at me. You sound nasty. You don’t sound like yourself.’ I press my fingers against my temples. Thoughts are flocking around inside my skull, not in the socially orientated way that birds have but in an altogether uncoordinated way, banging into each other, screechy and chaotic. I feel like it’s only a matter of time before my head shatters completely. I press my hands against it and start to rock backward and forward.
‘Come here.’ Euan puts his arms around me and at once I feel something else: something sweet and familiar, deadly, to be avoided. I push him away from me.
‘Don’t,’ I say.
He draws back, sighs.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m confused. I can’t think straight. Fucking hell, I don’t know what to do.’
‘Well, when you make up your mind, let me know. In the meantime, I’m having something to eat.’
He goes through and sits down behind his desk and I try to stop pacing, shaking, going over the same worries – but I can’t. My head is full of fear and reproach, a treadmill of what if and what now and how to save myself before it’s too late. There’s some whisky at the back of the cupboard. I pour some into a glass and swallow several mouthfuls down quickly, shivering involuntarily as it burns its way down my throat. Within minutes I experience a deadening in my limbs but the voices in my head are still raging. Seeking oblivion, I pour myself another glass. More minutes pass, a comfortable fuzz swells through my skull and I am able to shut out the noise and tune into quieter thoughts: a memory.
I am seven years old and my dad and I are out on our bikes. It’s summer time and every evening we come to the neighbouring field to feed the horse carrots and then his favourite Polo Mints. He comes running across and lets me stroke his velvet muzzle and then laughs, showing me all his teeth and it makes me giggle until I can hardly catch my breath. But this day, just as we arrive, we witness the horse being shot in the head. The instant the bullet makes contact with his skull, he drops to the ground, the sound splits the air and crows scatter and cry up into the sky. I fall off my bike and start to scream. My dad helps me up then speaks to Mr Smith, the owner, and to the vet.
‘He was sick, Grace,’ my dad explains to me. ‘The vet had to put him out of his misery.’
‘He wasn’t miserable!’ I shout and it’s the first time I realise that adults aren’t always to be trusted, that they don’t tell the truth.
I have nightmares. I see blood and guts and all sorts of things that didn’t e
ven happen. The only person who comforts me is Euan, not by anything he does or says, just by letting me sleep beside him in his bed. For three whole nights I lie beside him. I think of nothing, just lie there with an empty head, my sore heart soothed by the sound of his breathing.
My limbs feel heavy but I can just walk without falling over and I go through to the room and look at Euan. There’s a ringing in my ears and my heart is pounding against my ribcage as if it’s trapped inside. What I am about to do is wrong but I truly believe that I am doing it for the right reason.
‘Remember when Smithy’s horse had to be shot?’ I know my lips are moving but my voice sounds far away. ‘You let me sleep in your bed.’
He has finished eating and is leaning back on the seat, his feet up on the desk. ‘What age were we?’
‘Seven.’
‘I didn’t take advantage of you then?’
I resist the temptation to banter. ‘On the fourth night you got fed up and kicked me out because I was making you hot but for those three nights you were everything to me.’ I move closer, pulled towards him on an invisible rope. ‘And when Rose died you were the only person I could tell.’ Closer still. ‘And when you came back to Scotland, you set me right again. I know we’re married to other people and I know I shouldn’t be saying this—’ I stop, sway, try to swallow but my tongue is taking up too much space in my mouth. ‘But you’ve always known how to fix me. Always.’
His face softens. ‘Grace?’ He stands up.
I tune in to the detail on his shirt. I focus on the buttons. There are six of them, pale blue and ridged around the edge. The top one is undone. I unbutton the next one and slip my hand inside, just below his collarbone. His chest is covered with soft hair that curls around my fingers. My face follows my hand. He smells like ginger biscuits and warm chocolate and something else that makes me feel crazy. Relief. I’m not thinking – instead I am sliding into the groove of a deep and powerful connection. I kiss the quickening pulse in his throat and whisper, ‘Please.’
He says my name again but this time it isn’t a question and I feel the last of my inhibitions fall away. He turns me around so that my back is against his chest. I look through the window back up the garden where Muffin is lying full stretch in a patch of sunshine. He puts his arms around my waist. He rocks me from side to side and I lean back against his chest. When he starts to kiss my neck, I close my eyes. His hands travel up my back, unhook my bra and cup my breasts. He pulls my trousers down, slides his hand to the inside of my thighs and separates me with his fingers. He hooks them inside me and I gasp, lean forward and when I hear him unzip his jeans I start to moan. At first he moves in short, shallow strokes and when I ache for more he pushes hard and deep until I tell him I’m coming and he stops, kneads the back of my shoulders, waits for me. I am relaxed to my fingertips and I smile from the relief and wonder of it. I murmur no as he withdraws and I turn around to catch him in my hand.
He backs away from me and into the bedroom. He sits on the bed, leans against the headboard and I ease myself down on top of him. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘More.’ He looks at me quickly, holds my hips and pulls me further on to him. ‘I’ve missed you more.’
We don’t rush it. We linger and we prolong the moments and then, when we’re both satisfied, we lie back on the bed: me on my front, Euan on his back. I lean on my elbow and look up into his face. I feel languid and soft in my bones. His hand strokes me lengthways, from the small of my back up into my hair. We lie like this for several minutes and then he says quietly, ‘We have to decide what to do about Orla.’
Memory crawls up from the pit of my stomach and bites me. ‘We do.’ I rub my face across his chest. ‘Any ideas?’
‘We could buy her off?’
‘I don’t have any money.’
‘I do.’
‘No.’ I frown at him. ‘I’m not taking your money. Not that. God knows I take everything else.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ He lifts my fingers and kisses them. ‘If she’s about to wreck your life and some money will keep her quiet then let’s just give it to her.’
I am grateful to him. Tears are never far away and I blink hard, climb out of bed and pull his shirt on. ‘I would pay you back.’ I nod my head. ‘I would.’
He smiles. He looks relaxed, free, like the boy I remember.
I lean forward and kiss him. ‘I’ll get us a drink.’ I go through to the kitchenette, fill a pint glass with ice and orange juice then go back to bed. We both sit with our backs against the headboard. I take a drink then pass it to him. We sit like this for a while, passing the glass backward and forward.
‘When I was in the graveyard the other day,’ I say, ‘I was trying to work out what Mo would think of all of this.’
‘My mum was a practical woman. If she’d known a phrase like damage limitation I think she would have used it.’ He looks at his watch and stands up. ‘Let Orla come to Sunday lunch. Get Paul out of the village. All of you, the whole family, should go out for the day.’
‘And when she turns up?’
‘I’ll meet her,’ Euan says. ‘I’ll offer her money.’ He bends down to pick up his clothes. ‘I’ll get rid of her.’
I stand up alongside him. ‘But what if—’
He puts his hand over my mouth. ‘Trust me,’ he says. ‘I’ll deal with her. Then we can all go back to normal.’
Normal. Normal is good. Normal is fine. Normal means we return to nothing more than childhood friends, grown-up workmates. Normal is Paul never imagining that I know anything about Rose’s death. Normal is going off to Australia for a year, more, for ever.
‘Euan?’ I bite my lip. I haven’t told him about Paul’s sabbatical in Australia. I haven’t told him because I had a feeling he would try to talk me out of it and now that we are intimate again it’s even more important that I go away.
‘Yeah?’ He is half dressed, disappearing back into his clothes. And then he’ll be gone. It makes me want to push him on to the bed and climb on top of him.
‘Thank you.’ I pull his shirt off, over my head and hold it out to him. ‘This is yours.’
He looks me up and down, slowly.
I watch his eyes move and focus. I wait. And when he pulls me into him, I breathe into my relief.
‘Forget the shirt.’ His hands are everywhere, roaming, along my spine, my neck, my hair and down again. ‘This is mine.’ He takes my hand and puts it between my legs. ‘Don’t forget it.’
I smile. ‘Actually, that’s mine.’
‘You were never any good at sharing.’ He kisses my neck and I grow taller inside. ‘Only-child syndrome.’ He tugs my earlobe. ‘I’ll soon tease that out of you.’
I don’t resist and an hour later when he leaves me at the gate, I look up and down the street, don’t see anyone and risk turning my head back for a last kiss.
My family are at home. They all shout hello as I come in. Daisy and Ella are either side of Paul. They are watching a film.
‘Where’s Ed?’ I say.
‘Out at bowls.’
Paul goes to stand up but I wave him down again, manage to kiss his cheek and hang back at the same time. ‘I’ve had a hectic day. Do you mind if I go straight up to bed?’
He looks concerned. ‘Can I bring you anything?’
‘No, thank you.’ I drop my head as if I’m tired. ‘I just need to sleep.’
I say goodnight and go upstairs, shower and then lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. My head is quiet. All thoughts have disintegrated. They are ephemeral, see-through, powerless. I am simply a feeling machine. My body is still resonating with the aftershock of what I’ve done. My limbs are pliable, softened to the bone and my core is not made of blood and tears but of air and music. Self-loathing lurks in the background – I haven’t forgotten that adultery is a sure road to misery – but for now, I feel like I’ve been rinsed through with honey.
Hours later, when Paul comes to bed I’m still awake. He moves in beside me an
d the length of his body lines up with mine. I love him – that has never been in any doubt – but at the moment he can’t help me. I need to protect him from the truth, as much for his sake as my own. Some memories are like cuts that never heal. The skin above them remains so fragile that one little scratch makes them bleed. Rose is that memory for both of us and we share the same sorrows: a deep regret, a sense of disbelief and a heartfelt wish to live that time again and this time live it differently.
19 June 1984
It’s three days since we found Rose’s body and I’m in bed. I’ve spent the day lying here, hardly moving. Whenever my mum or dad come into my room I close my eyes and deepen my breathing, make it long and slow. Shortly before teatime I hear Orla at the front door. My mum tells her I’m asleep and then says, ‘But join us for tea! I’m sure Grace will get up when she knows you’re here.’
No, I won’t. I absolutely, bloody won’t.
Orla says no, she can’t come in. Her parents are expecting her back any minute. But she’s written me another note – her third since it happened. My mum brings it in with my tea.
Dear Grace
Please! I’m so worried about you. Please stop ignoring me. I’m upset too. I’ll drop in again tomorrow at four o’clock. Please speak to me. I have something to tell you. I think we’ll be able to help each other.
Love
Orla xxxxx
When my mum leaves the room I tear the note into tiny, insignificant pieces, stand at my window, open the palm of my hand and watch the pieces blow away.
Just before seven thirty the doorbell rings again.
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you—’
‘Mr Adams,’ my dad says. ‘Please come in.’
I lie completely still in my bed. I daren’t blink or move a muscle.
‘First,’ my dad says, his tone grave, ‘my wife and I wish to express our heartfelt condolences for the loss of your daughter.’