Tell Me No Secrets

by Julie Corbin

  ‘Indeed.’ My mother has joined them in the hallway. ‘We are so terribly sad for you.’ Her voice catches and I know she will be leaning into my dad for comfort.

  ‘Come through,’ my dad says. ‘Sit with us for a moment or two.’

  They leave the living room door open but although I strain my ears, all I can hear is the slow murmur of Mr Adam’s speech and my parents making sympathetic noises. I get out of bed and go to the top of the stairs. It’s better – I hear words like ‘disturbing’ and ‘beautiful’ – but it’s not enough to follow the gist of what’s being said so I creep down several steps and sit just above where the banister starts, pulling my feet in so that I can’t be seen from the living room.

  ‘And I want to thank Grace. I want to thank her for trying to save Rose.’

  ‘We’ll pass on your message, Mr Adams.’ It’s my father who’s talking. ‘Unfortunately, Grace is not up to visitors at the moment. The doctor has been round and he says she’s in shock.’

  ‘I was hoping she could help me understand why Rose was out of her tent.’

  ‘She’s told the police everything she knows,’ my dad says. ‘She’s an honest girl, a sensitive girl.’

  I wince at this.

  ‘Of course, and I wouldn’t want to bother her. Not at all. Rose was delighted to be in her patrol. The night before she left, it’s all she could talk about, how kind Grace was and how much fun they all had together.’

  I wince again, draw up my knees to my chest and press hard to stop myself from crying.

  ‘Shock affects people in different ways. She’s not saying much.’

  ‘Not saying much,’ my mum echoes.

  ‘I understand,’ Mr Adams says. ‘There’re just so many unanswered questions and I wondered whether Grace could help me make sense of what happened. You see, Rose couldn’t swim. She was afraid of water. She would never have gone into it without a very good reason.’

  ‘It was the middle of the night. She must have slipped. That’s what the police think, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but why would she be out of her tent? She was nine years old. She was a good, obedient girl.’

  ‘Perhaps she needed the toilet and didn’t want to disturb anyone,’ my dad says. ‘And then she must have lost her way in the dark.’

  ‘She wasn’t in the habit of getting up to the toilet during the night. Never. I feel sure she must have been out of her sleeping bag for another reason.’

  ‘Why don’t I make us some tea?’ my mum says with forced lightness. ‘And I baked some macaroons this afternoon.’

  As she walks below me to go into the kitchen, I sit further back on the step and hug into the wall. Mr Adams has thought this through. Like me he is obsessed by the detail – detail he doesn’t and can’t ever know. For how can I tell him? Tell him that Rose was out of bed at midnight because she had something important to say to me. Tell him that I wasn’t interested in what she had to say. Tell him how she ended up in the water. I imagine walking downstairs into the living room and announcing, It was me! I killed Rose. I pushed her into the pond. I imagine my mother screaming, my father frowning, asking me why I would make up something like that. The ruckus it would cause. Orla and I questioned again by the police. Both of us branded as cruel and heartless – the worst sort of girls.

  My mother comes back with the tea and I am still glued to the stairs. It’s too late for honesty. I have set off on the journey of a lie and there is no going back.

  ‘Have you got someone looking after you?’ my mum asks him.

  ‘My parents have come to stay.’ The teacup rattles on the saucer. His hands must be shaking. ‘They live in Skye, close to Portree.’

  ‘They must be devastated too. Their little granddaughter. Such sadness.’

  ‘Yes. Rose meant a great deal to them. We spent a lot of time up there especially after my wife died.’

  ‘Such awful bad luck,’ my mum says and I don’t have to see her face to know that she will be holding her mouth tight to stop herself from breaking down.

  ‘I wish I’d never let her go to Guide camp. I wish I’d been there,’ Mr Adams says, sounding distressed. ‘I was at home reading or sleeping while my daughter was drowning. She was young and vulnerable and I wasn’t there for her.’

  My dad murmurs something soothing and then there is an awkward silence, a full minute or more, until Mr Adams clears his throat and says, ‘I won’t keep you back. Perhaps if Grace is ever able to talk about what happened, you might get in touch with me.’

  ‘Of course,’ my dad says.

  As soon as they all stand up, I sneak back upstairs, pull back the edge of the curtain and watch Mr Adams climb into his car. He doesn’t drive off straight away. He sits there in the dark, thinking. I know that, like me, he is tormented with thoughts of her last moments. Did she struggle and fight before she slid under? Did she cry out? When her lungs filled with pond water instead of air were the pain and fear overwhelming? Did she drown because she became tangled in the weeds or did her body float and settle there after she was dead?

  Finally, Mr Adams starts the car’s engine and drives off, slowly, like he’s lost his way.

  11

  The village I live in is tranquil and slow. Nothing much happens here beyond the simple activities of daily living: shopping, cooking, raising children, a pub lunch on a Sunday or a weekend picnic down on the beach. People are friendly – nosey some would say – and as in any small village, gossip is currency to be exchanged as a mark of friendship and belonging. The weather is always the first thing to be discussed, and then people move on to who has just had a baby, who is on their last legs and who is responsible for any vandalism. Invariably, it’s either one of the McGoverns or the Stewarts. Two families – that’s all it takes – and with four sons each and none of them good citizens, they keep the gossips going for days with which one of them is responsible for the graffiti on the church gate, who smashed bottles atop the harbour wall and are they bringing drugs into our midst?

  When we were young, the village felt constrictive and boring and we used to fantasise about moving to the lively streets of Edinburgh or Glasgow – even Stirling would have been better than this – but now I love it. Every day, come rain or shine, wind or sleet, I walk along the cliff path and enjoy the sensation of salty air in my lungs and the wind cutting in from the North Sea, lifting my clothes and hair as it tries to carry me away with it.

  But life can turn on a sixpence, as Mo used to say and my life as I know it is under threat. Why couldn’t I, all those years ago, have done the right thing? Fifteen was surely old enough to face up to what I had done. Old enough to recognise that the consequences of keeping such a hulking great secret would far outweigh the pain of confessing at the time.

  My body is aching for Euan and a repeat of yesterday afternoon but I’m ignoring it and I’m ignoring him. He called me twice this morning. I didn’t answer so he sent me a text: I know you’re avoiding me. Come to work. I’m barely there this week anyway. Nothing will happen.

  There are advantages to someone knowing you this well: they anticipate your needs, they know exactly where your funny bone is and they can lift you when you’re down. They know what to say to make it better. They know how to boost your confidence.

  And the disadvantages? They are the flipside of the advantages: Euan can hold me in the palm of his hand. He makes me feel simultaneously powerful and helpless, pliable as play dough.

  I know him and I know myself. If I go to the cabin today we will make love. All it takes is a millisecond of unguarded desire and I will be pulled back into his orbit. Once was an emergency, a last-resort bid to escape the chaos in my head – and it worked. I feel clearer, less afraid, more able to see a way through this. But twice would start a pattern and lead us both back into an affair. I’ve been there before, and for the love of Paul and my girls I’ve worked long and hard to haul myself back from it.

  The sign reads Mind yer heid!. I duck obediently and walk through t
he doorway into Callum’s fish shop.

  ‘Here she comes! My favourite customer,’ he says. ‘Much mess after the party?’

  For a moment I wonder what he means. The twins’ party seems like weeks ago. ‘No, it was fine. We had it cleared up in no time.’

  He crosses his arms over his waxed apron. ‘So what was Orla doing turning up like the ghost from Christmas past?’

  ‘You tell me. I didn’t know she was coming.’

  ‘You were good mates once, you two.’

  ‘Once. Yes.’ If only that friendship had been enough for Orla to change her mind. Yesterday’s visit to the convent has taken away any hope of that. ‘Many moons ago.’

  ‘No love lost there then, eh? The aggro was fairly brewing. Thought Euan and I might have to separate you both.’

  ‘Even worse, Paul invited her to lunch this weekend.’

  ‘Just tell her she can’t come! Simple, innit? Make something up. You’re going to Aberdeen to visit a sick friend or your stomach’s upset from a dodgy curry. White lie never did anybody any harm,’ Callum continues, scrubbing down his work surface. ‘So what are you after?’

  ‘I was thinking of making crab pâté. Family picnic.’ For Rose. In her memory. Remember her, Callum? I killed her. Me. How can that be? How could I have done that?

  ‘Just want the white meat then?’

  I nod and he starts preparing the crabs.

  ‘Couple be enough?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Don’t forget a grating of nutmeg. Brings out the flavours.’

  ‘Aye, chef,’ I say, saluting him, but, truth is, my heart’s not in it. Tomorrow is the anniversary of Rose’s death. It’s exactly twenty-four years since she died. It’s a special day for our family and since the girls were small our routine is to take a photograph of Rose up to the cemetery and remember Paul’s daughter and the half-sister the twins never met. As the years have gone by, I have learned not to dread it but this year, with Orla ready to blow the safe open, I feel more on edge than ever.

  ‘Euan got a lot of work on?’

  ‘He’s working on a barn conversion, for the Turners.’

  ‘Thought he might fancy a fishing trip. Busman’s holiday for me but I’m up for it. There’s some good salmon to be caught up near Inverness.’

  ‘He’s doing a lot with the school this week. They’re having organised activities for the fourth years.’

  ‘Jamie’s signed up for sailing right enough. Teenagers, eh? Who’d have them?’

  He starts telling me about his son’s wasted opportunities and I nod in the right places. Fishing? It sets me thinking. It’s a while since Paul and Ed have been to Skye. The house Paul grew up in is still in the family. It stands close to Portree with the Cuillin Hills behind it and the sea in front. I’ll suggest it. The girls and I can go down to Edinburgh for a shopping spree. They never turn down an opportunity to shop, especially when I offer to treat them. Orla will still come to lunch but she will meet Euan instead of Paul.

  Callum hands me the crab.

  ‘Cheers. Put it on my tab, will you?’ I say and another customer comes into the shop behind me. Mrs McCulloch. A good friend of my mother’s, we exchange hellos.

  ‘Wind’s not quite as bitter as yesterday,’ she says. ‘But still, it should be warmer than this by now. I only hope we get a decent summer. Give me that piece of haddock there, Callum.’ She turns to me. ‘Of course! You’ll remember her, Grace! Roger Cartwright’s daughter. Bonny girl, her mother was French.’

  My heart skids to a halt. ‘Orla?’

  ‘That’s her! An Irish name. I knew that! And she has a foreign-sounding surname. Must have married but I didn’t see any sign of a husband. The rundown cottage at harbour’s end – the one that’s inaccessible by car – she’s renting it. She’s moving in soon.’

  My stomach contracts and suddenly the smell of fish threatens to make me vomit.

  ‘Apparently she came up the once, a couple of months ago, to have a recce round. She didn’t stop by to see you then?’

  I push through the door, not caring that my hasty exit will be seen as something to speculate about, and run up the steps to the High Street. I need more shopping: milk, bread and tomatoes but I don’t stop. I keep on running until I get home. Once inside, I lock myself in the downstairs bathroom and sit down on the lid of the toilet seat to think.

  So. Orla is moving back into the village. Came a couple of months ago to have a look around. If Angeline is to be believed, that would have been soon after she left prison and weeks before she called me. She has clearly been planning this. I wonder how much she knows about us. In fact, I would bet every last penny I have that when I met her in Edinburgh, she knew exactly who Euan and I had married, how many children we both had and that we were working together in his cabin. And more besides. She has played us both for fools. Euan is right: she is conniving and spiteful and out for blood. I ring his mobile. ‘It’s me. Can you talk?’

  ‘Mum!’ Daisy giggles. ‘I have Euan’s phone. He’s windsurfing. It’s really funny actually cos—’ She breaks off. More giggling. ‘No, you’re wet!’ she shouts.

  I hear a boy’s laughter in the background. ‘Daisy? Ask Euan to call me when he has a moment, will you?’

  ‘Yup.’ She’s still laughing when I hang up.

  I come out of the bathroom. Ella is lying on the sofa watching MTV. She is eating her way through a packet of custard creams, scraping the cream in the middle out with her teeth and giving the biscuit to Murphy. He is lying by her side, his head positioned beside her trailing hand waiting for the titbits.

  She sees my face. ‘I only like the creamy centre.’

  ‘It’s not good for him.’

  She leans her cheek on his furry back. ‘Doesn’t she just spoil everyone’s fun?’

  I grit my teeth. As I thought – our getting along was short-lived. ‘Have you walked him?’

  ‘He doesn’t need walked! He’s fine.’ She stands up and throws him the empty packet. He takes it to his bed, starts ripping it up.

  ‘Did you at least stack the dishwasher?’

  ‘I’m going to Sarah’s in a minute. Monica’s giving us twenty quid to clean out her attic this week.’ Her mouth drops down in a huffy pout. ‘She doesn’t expect slave labour.’

  I have an almost overwhelming urge to hit her: for her insolence, her carelessness and her don’t-give-a-shit attitude. I flex my fingers and call on Murphy. I’m better off outside. Big skies, endless sea, perhaps my problems will shrink and I won’t feel so bloody desperate.

  I walk briskly, the coastline stretching ahead of me to St Andrews. Orla moving back to the village is one thing but Orla moving back to the village with the intention of coming clean about how Rose died is too much even to contemplate. I try to walk my thoughts into some sort of order but it doesn’t work. There is no way to reconcile this. Orla can’t live here. She has to be made to see that.

  There’s a figure walking along the sand towards me. At first too far away for me to make out whether it’s a he or a she, as we draw closer I see that it’s Monica. ‘I forgot how strong this wind can be,’ she shouts to me, holding her hair down into her neck. ‘Do you mind if I walk with you?’

  ‘No.’ My face is smiling. Yesterday, I made love to her husband but somehow I’m behaving normally. She falls into step beside me. ‘Ella tells me she’s going to help Sarah clean out your loft.’

  ‘I haven’t been up there in years and with Euan off doing activities this week, I thought I’d take a couple of days off myself and clear out the junk. Some of it’s his stuff. He can’t possibly want it after all this time.’

  We are at the end of the sandy beach and we climb up and over the grassy hillocks that border the pathway to a ruined cottage. It’s even windier up here and we both hold on to our coats. We’re puffing by the time we reach the top and I turn to breathe in the view that stretches out before us. The pewter sea roars, yawns and bites at the shore while the blue sky above
is almost completely obscured by huge dirty white clouds that are being chased eastwards by the wind.

  ‘This place is so depressing,’ Monica declares. ‘Dark, brooding, dour. Everything I hate about the Scottish character is reflected in the landscape.’

  ‘Hardly!’ I turn towards her profile. ‘It’s exciting and dramatic and when the sun comes out there’s nowhere like it in the world.’

  She grabs my arm and propels herself around to face me. ‘Do you believe history repeats itself, Grace?’

  She said this to me already, the other day, after the girls’ party. I take a moment to think. Monica waits. Her eyes are wide and seem to reflect my own sense of foreboding. She is expecting me to say something profound, satisfying, solve a puzzle for her. ‘I believe that, eventually, what goes around will probably come around,’ I say at last.

  ‘Did you know that my father killed himself?’

  ‘Well . . .’ I suspected as much. When I was sixteen, I overheard a whispered conversation between Mo and my mum.

  ‘Over Angeline.’ She climbs up on to some fallen stones and looks down at me. ‘Do you think there’s a suicide gene?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I’m out of my depth with this.

  ‘But what do you think?’

  ‘I’m not a scientist! And I’m not an expert on human behaviour. Sometimes . . .’ I hesitate. ‘There might be an explanation.’

  ‘My father committed suicide and my mother drank herself to death. How else could that be explained?’

  ‘Neither of your parents was able to cope with their lot but that doesn’t mean it will happen to you.’ Then I remember that, like me, she is an only child. But, unlike me, she lost her father at sixteen and her mother at twenty. How hard must that have been? I reach for her hand. ‘Look, Monica, I feel for you, I do. And I wish I had done something to help you when we were young.’

  She turns blank eyes to mine. ‘So now you know why I hate Orla so much?’

  ‘Yes . . . and no.’

  ‘She didn’t care, Grace. She didn’t care that her mother was destroying my family.’