‘I’m sorry I scared you.’
She looked up at him and smiled nervously, although he still felt that he was somehow scaring her. Perhaps this visit hadn’t been a good idea after all.
‘I’m sorry to put you through all this,’ he told her. ‘I’ll be on my way.’
He made to move and found that he couldn’t. His head felt as if it was going to explode and he cradled it in his hands.
‘Oh!’ Orla cried.
‘It’s okay,’ he assured her. ‘I’ll be fine in a minute.’
Orla shook her head. ‘Perhaps – erm – you should rest? Just for a little while.’ Her fingers were tying themselves into knots and she’d gone horribly pale.
‘No, no – I’ll make a move.’ But the truth was, Luke found that he couldn’t. ‘Whoa!’ he said as he tried to get up again. He glanced up at Orla, who was looking around the room as if in distress. ‘Just give me a moment.’
Orla took a deep breath. ‘Look, you’re obviously exhausted. Why don’t you rest here? Or I can make a bed up for you if you think you’d be more comfortable.’
Luke felt awful at putting her out like this. ‘But I can’t stay here.’
Orla looked as if she were instantly regretting inviting him to stay.
‘I don’t think you’re in any state to go anywhere,’ she said eventually, her voice full of anxiety. Luke felt it was more for herself than for him and felt guilty all over again.
‘But I’ve caused you enough trouble already. First I scare you and then I go and pass out.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said, but she sounded far from sure about the situation he’d put her in.
He shook his head. ‘No, it’s not.’
‘We don’t need to talk about this now,’ Orla said. ‘The important thing, I think, is to get some rest.’
‘I should just go home.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘Kent.’
Orla looked momentarily shocked. ‘You’re seriously thinking of driving to Kent?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
‘Because you’re as weak as a kitten,’ she told him. ‘You really shouldn’t move at all.’ She chewed her lower lip. ‘Why not just lie back and rest and I’ll make a bed up for you?’
‘I can’t,’ Luke said, attempting to get up again and swaying unsteadily once more.
‘Still dizzy?’
He sunk back onto the sofa. ‘Maybe I’ll rest – just for a moment.’
Orla nodded and gave a hesitant smile.
Still feeling anxious and perplexed by the events of the day, Orla made up a bed in one of the castle’s many rooms. It was only a small one with simple white walls, a pretty rug thrown over the dark floorboards and a pair of curtains in a heavy navy and gold fabric. The bed at the centre was a fine piece at least two hundred years old, with an ornate headboard in dark oak which Orla had bought at an online auction. It was the only guest room she had in the place and was only ever used when her mother, Bernadette, visited.
As Orla quickly fitted clean sheets, she wondered if she should ring her mother now and tell her what was going on. From past experience, she knew that Bernadette would have something to say about things. However, the more she thought about it, the more she bucked against the idea of ringing her. She just couldn’t deal with the deluge of advice her mother would be sure to give on top of everything else that had happened that day. Anyway, she knew what Bernadette would say.
‘Get him out of there! What were you thinking, bringing him into your home?’
Yes, Orla thought, Bernadette was of the opinion that her daughter should have nothing to do with the outside world. She’d been only too pleased when Orla had bought the castle and locked herself away inside it.
‘It’s for the best,’ her mother had told her, and Orla had believed her.
Now, she drew the curtains and then returned to Luke, carefully leading him up the stairs, showing him where the bathroom was and leaving a glass of water by the bedside.
‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘No, thank you,’ he said, looking as if he was ready to collapse into a deep sleep at any second.
‘Did you want to see a doctor?’ she asked.
‘God, no!’
Orla was relieved. She felt she had to ask, but the last thing she wanted was another stranger in her home.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ Orla said, backing out of the room and closing the door.
‘Thank you,’ he called after her.
It was beyond strange, having somebody in the castle with her. Even stranger that the person was a man. That, she thought, was a first.
‘You do trust him, don’t you, One Ear?’ she asked the dog when she returned to the great hall. ‘And you will protect me from him if you change your mind?’ The big dog cocked his head to one side. ‘Well, you’d better.’
She still wasn’t sure it was wise having this man in her home. She’d spent the last few years hiding away, avoiding people, and then she opened her door to this stranger. Only he wasn’t a stranger, was he? He was Helen’s husband. That made it only slightly less strange. At least she’d stopped shaking now. That was an improvement. But she still had misgivings about the whole thing. Surely Bill could have arranged something else? He could have called for help by now and had Luke taken elsewhere. But would that have been the right thing to do? What would Helen have wanted her to do, she wondered?
Helen.
She’d only just learned the name of her friend. Her dead friend.
She walked across to the table where her phone was and logged on to Galleria. So, she’d been right to miss her friend’s posts, she thought, feeling guilty now for not having reached out more in the past. Now, she scrolled through the photos on her friend’s page, reading some of the captions again and feeling all the warmth and humour which had delighted her just as much as the day she’d first seen the photos and read the accompanying words.
As with Orla’s own posts, there weren’t any actual photos of Helen herself – at least not beyond a hand holding a bunch of flowers or a pair of shiny boots amongst autumn leaves. Orla hadn’t known her name nor what she’d looked like, but that hadn’t really mattered, had it? She had known that Helen was married, but not her husband’s name nor the exact place she’d lived. They hadn’t talked about such specific things. Their conversations had been more about thoughts and feelings, hopes and dreams, and a shared love of the beautiful things in the everyday: shadows playing across a lawn, the changing colours of the seasons, the moment when a flower opens or the patterns clouds made in the sky. They’d also spoken about Helen’s need for change and how unfulfilling she found her job, and Orla had encouraged her to pursue her passion.
And now she was gone.
Orla could feel a void opening up inside her at the loss of this person she’d never met. Was that crazy? Could you mourn for somebody you’d never met? Tears blurred her eyes and she let them fall as she put her phone down and walked to one of the windows. It was a cold, cruel world that had taken so bright a gem. She could only imagine how Luke was coping with it all. It couldn’t have been that long ago either, she realised, and yet one of the first things he’d thought to do was to tell her. And she’d behaved so very badly. She felt awful now. This poor man had driven across the country when he was still in mourning and she’d shut him out and then run away from him. Well, she’d have to do her best to make up for that now.
With that in mind, she headed to the kitchen. It was one of her favourite places in the castle – a large square room on the first floor with two huge windows looking out over the garden. There was a beautiful old butler sink and a massive range that she had been terrified of at first, but which she was now coming to love.
Pulling a pan down from a rack, she started gathering ingredients. Bill had left her some fresh spinach and a spring cauliflower pulled from the garden and she’d got some potatoes left over from her shopping delivery. What was more hearty or heartening
than a soup made from all that was good in the season?
Orla had been surprised at how much she enjoyed cooking for herself. In her previous life, cooking just hadn’t been feasible with her busy timetable and a hot meal at home had meant buttered toast but, since her move to Lorford, she found that she enjoyed browsing through cookbooks and assembling different ingredients. She’d even bought herself a spice rack, and she always delighted in plucking the little glass jars from it.
Getting to work now, she washed and chopped, inhaling the earthy goodness of her garden ingredients and hoping it would do Luke some good once he was ready to eat. Once the pan was on the range, Orla walked back through to the great hall. The light was just right now, lancing through one of her favourite windows onto a little oak table. It had a wonderfully mellow patina, with chestnut highlights, and was silky smooth to the touch. It made the perfect backdrop to so many of her still lifes and she was going to use it now for this morning’s Galleria post.
The day before, a new box had arrived full of china purchased from an online auction. It had been a job lot and some of the pieces were commonplace, but there were a couple of really beautiful Royal Albert cups and saucers that she knew she had to have for her collection. They looked exquisite when she placed them on the table in the sunlight, as she’d known they would when she’d seen them advertised.
Orla had to admit that she’d become rather addicted to online auctions. First, there was the thrill of the chase – of hunting those beautiful items down. Then there was that delicious moment when they arrived at the castle – the weight of the box, the heaps of bubble wrap and tissue paper which made it feel like a little Christmas on a perfectly ordinary day. Then there was the joy of seeing and handling the pieces for the first time, examining the shapes, colours and all the little imperfections that made each piece unique and beloved. Orla never tired of it.
Now, as she chose and positioned one of the Royal Albert teacups and saucers, she congratulated herself on her special find, marvelling at the way the light hit the gold rim of the cup and how gloriously rich the burgundy, pink and yellow roses looked against the dark oak of the table. She remembered reading the description at the online auction and how they had listed all the little chips and hairline cracks, probably believing that these would put people off. Of course, this was the very thing Orla looked for and she gazed at the little chip on the elegant curl of the cup handle. She touched it with a finger, feeling its roughness where it should have been smooth.
Like my own skin, she thought to herself, not for the first time. Briefly, her fingers touched her left cheek, feeling the coarseness of it. It still made her wince, even though it had happened four years ago. But the horror of it would never leave her. Her face – the one her parents had given her – had gone for ever. In its place was an angry-looking, lumpy, bumpy mess. The right-hand side, the side that hadn’t been affected, had also lost its beauty, but to fear at the world around her.
Orla closed her eyes and tried to banish all thoughts of herself. She was learning to do that well these days. She was just beginning to control the fear and she was proud of the new life she had made for herself with her photography and her love of rescuing broken things. With that in mind, she picked up her camera and started photographing the teacup. When she’d first started this venture, it had been purely self-indulgent. She could see the beauty in broken things, but would anybody else care? Would she be making a fool of herself by putting her pictures online? That was one of the reasons, although not the main one, for her coming up with the identity Beautifully Broken.
At first, things had been slow. She’d gained a few followers, found a few accounts to follow herself, took more photographs and began interacting. It was the beginning of an incredible journey. For somebody who had turned away from the world, she had still managed to find a way back into it, albeit without physical interaction. But that was part of the attraction for her. She didn’t need to actually talk to people or be in the same room with them, because she’d really rather not be. But there was a part of her that still craved contact, that sharing of ideas, the exchanging of thoughts.
And how her number of followers had grown. Orla was amazed by it all and, increasingly, felt under pressure to deliver. She found that, if she didn’t post daily, messages would pop up asking her when her next post would be. It fascinated her that people were taking notice and were anxious for more of what she had to give them.
Putting her camera down, she took a few more photographs with her phone. She would then compare them and see which looked best and which she would choose to post. Hours could be lost in this simple task, but she was wholly absorbed and never begrudged a second. It had taken the place of the job she no longer did. This was her new work, although it didn’t earn her a penny. She’d been approached by several companies, offering her money for product placement because of the number of followers she now had on Galleria, but she had turned them down. She didn’t do this because she wanted to make any money from it, and doing so would complicate things. If she worked with people, they would have to know her real name, they would most likely want her address or her telephone number. They might even want to talk to her face to face. No, her art was her own private thing. She might share it with the world, but she was never going to share herself with the world ever again.
The next few minutes were spent looking at the photos she had taken, deleting the less than perfect ones and then comparing the few that she liked the most, making her selection and then uploading it to Galleria. Sometimes, she would take a series of photos in one session, formatting them and saving them in a file for use at a later date. Rainy-day photos, she called them, using them when perhaps inspiration was lacking. Of course, these photos weren’t seasonal ones. It would be very poor to use an out-of-season image – for example, one would never post a photograph of a bluebell wood once the bluebells were over. Users on Galleria were very strict when it came to such things. Seasonality was king. But a photograph of a teacup was seasonless and so many of Orla’s subjects could be used all year round.
Orla selected a few simple words to accompany her chosen photo. She didn’t use the most poetic of language as some Galleria users did, nor did she quote from literary tomes like others. Her words were simple, conveying her appreciation for her subject.
Mellow light and Royal Albert. A winning combination.
That was enough, she thought.
Hitting the upload button, Orla scrolled through the day’s offerings, smiling at her little window on the world, admiring the flowers in people’s gardens, the views from their windows and the scenes from the places they lived. Orla sometimes wondered if she could ever summon the courage to take part in normal life again. Could she ever open that great castle door with the intention of stepping out into the world? Could she ever venture further than the beach and go up to strangers again and trust them not to hurt her? Her mouth went dry just thinking about it, and so she tended not to. Galleria would be as close as she got to forging relationships. Even some of those hadn’t always felt safe and she’d found herself blocking some of the users who asked her too many questions.
What’s your real name?
Where do you live?
Can I visit?
Why did people always try to get close? Orla supposed it was a kind of compliment – that the image she projected was a friendly one. And how miraculous was that? Despite everything she’d been through, there was still a part of her that wanted to reach others, even if that was from the relative safety of a social media site.
Of course, she’d made friends with Helen that way too. If Orla hadn’t taken a chance and put herself onto the platform, she would never have had the joy of knowing Helen and that was worth so much to her.
She spent a little more time looking at some of her favourite accounts, then took one more look at Trees and Dreams, smiling sadly at the last image of Helen’s beloved oak tree, her fingertips hovering over the picture before switching her phone
off and sitting in sad silence for a moment, unable to believe that her friend was truly gone, her eyes misting with tears once more.
And that her friend’s husband was in her home.
She got up and returned to the kitchen to check the soup, lifting the lid of the pan and sniffing appreciatively. It was just about ready, but she was anxious not to disturb Luke before he was ready to get up naturally. So she took the pan off the heat and returned to the great hall, picking up a book to read.
As with cooking, reading was something which Orla really hadn’t had time for in her previous life, and she regretted all the wasted years that she hadn’t spent with her nose in a book. It had been her mother, Bernadette, who’d encouraged her to read, during all those long, painful months spent in hospital. At first, Bernadette had read to her because Orla’s vision had been compromised. Bernadette had then bought her a Kindle and had loaded it with audio books. It had been the most thoughtful of gifts and had got Orla through some pretty dark days. Those books – those wonderful books – had been a sort of portal out of the pain.
Now, she found that good old-fashioned paperbacks were her favourite way to read and she had stacks of them around the castle. She’d bought three beautiful antique bookcases and was enjoying the process of filling them with novels, autobiographies, natural history and gardening books. As with all her other purchases, Orla sourced them online and had them delivered to the castle. She couldn’t help regretting that a little bit, because she instinctively felt that she would find browsing in a bookshop a wonderful experience. But the virtual shelves had to do for her.
Opening the paperback now, she tried to lose herself in the fictional world while painfully aware of the stranger sleeping in her spare room.
Chapter 6
Bill Wilson was still a little shaken up about the incident on the beach. Picking up his daily newspaper from the village store and making his way back to Oyster Cottage with his Jack Russell, Bosun, he wondered if he should have insisted on staying at the castle. He didn’t like the idea of leaving Miss Kendrick alone with a fainting stranger. Perhaps he should call the police or a doctor. But she hadn’t wanted that, had she? Well, she was a grown woman. She knew her own mind but, all the same, he was glad he’d given her his number.
The Beauty of Broken Things Page 6