The Beauty of Broken Things

by Victoria Connelly

  ‘That’s it. Nice and slowly. We’re going to get you back to bed,’ she told him as she guided him out of the room. One Ear walked behind them, taking this new phenomenon in his stride as Orla became anxious that Luke might actually wake up, and then what would she do? Would he be angry or upset or just embarrassed at being caught in his T-shirt and boxer shorts? But she needn’t have worried because they made it back to the bedroom. Indeed, Luke seemed to know where he was going now and got himself into bed.

  Orla watched him for a few minutes, making sure he was going to stay in the safety of his bed before leaving the room. She was wide awake now and so, after making a cup of tea, she took the opportunity to look up sleepwalking online. The most likely cause for Luke, she believed, was sleep deprivation. She had the feeling he hadn’t been sleeping properly for some time now. What a pair they were, she thought – him sleepwalking and her with her nightmares.

  The minutes ticked by as Orla began researching bereavement on the internet. She soon realised that there was a lot of confusing information. Some sites said that there were five stages of grief, but there was another that stated there were seven. Another article she found agreed that there were five: denial, anger, depression, bargaining and acceptance, but that they weren’t always neat and consecutive, but muddled and messy. But did anyone really know for sure? And did a grieving person know that there were all these neat stages to get through? Did they feel them instinctively? Orla somehow thought not and soon came to the conclusion that, because each person was different, it stood to reason that they would work through grief differently and that there was no one-size-fits-all pattern or solution. Some people might eat their way through their grief whilst others would starve themselves. Some people found talking to others about their grief helpful whilst others shunned company and grieved alone. There was no right or wrong way.

  She yawned, her eyes sore from looking at the bright laptop screen in the middle of the night. Sleep, perhaps, was beckoning her at last and she switched the computer off. One Ear, who’d been snoring in his basket, raised his one ear and opened an eye as she got up to leave the room.

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she told him, switching off the light and making her way to her bedroom, pausing briefly outside Luke’s room. Was he still asleep, she wondered? And were his dreams as troubled as her own? She made her way to her bedroom, crawling under the duvet and switching the light out. The first rays of morning light were creeping under the curtain and Orla welcomed it. The night had been long enough and, although she felt she could sleep for at least a couple of hours, she would be glad when the time came to get up and greet the day properly.

  Sure enough, Orla managed to sleep and, when she awoke, she whistled for One Ear and they left the castle together. A walk on the beach always restored her spirits after a rough night. There was something deeply comforting about the sea and, for some time, her world would be focused on the waves, the sand and the stones. Nothing else existed.

  Every so often, Orla would bend to pick up a particular stone that had been waiting, hundreds of thousands of years, just for her to find it. Maybe its perfectly round shape appealed to her eye or its elongated body fit snugly in the palm of her hand, or perhaps the flat surface was fingertip friendly and perfect for skimming. Her favourite stones were the ones that simply felt right. She thought of them as good holding stones – companions for her seaside walk. She’d pick them up and dance her fingers around them while she was walking or quickly drop them in favour of another, prettier, stone, her affinity to the previous one quickly forgotten. Nature’s gift was a pocket full of pebbles.

  One Ear wasn’t interested in stones. He preferred a bit of driftwood to carry or half a crab’s shell to crunch into splinters, or simply to chase the seagulls, scattering them seawards to a chorus of delighted barks.

  Orla took it all in – walking, breathing and emptying her head of the assaults of her nightmare. The salty sea breeze was a great balm to a troubled mind and she refused to let the fears of the night carry over into the day. But there was another darkness filling her mind that morning – the loss of Helen. She was still in shock at having been told that her friend had been killed, and she could only imagine what Luke must be going through. Orla only wished now that she’d got to know Helen better. They’d exchanged many messages, but they’d always been so guarded. Or at least Orla’s had been. That had been deliberate on her part. It was a miracle at all that she’d connected with Helen in the way she had. She hadn’t talked to anybody else on Galleria in the same way, and yet there’d always been that part of her that hadn’t revealed itself. She kind of regretted that now because the opportunity to really get to know her friend had been taken away from her.

  She looked out at the sea again, knowing that regrets were useless and that the past could never be changed, but how she wished she could go back and reach out just that little bit more. Luke had told her how much her words of encouragement had meant to Helen and the sweet gift that Helen had chosen for her meant the world to her, but she couldn’t help feeling that there was more she could have done and more that she could have shared.

  Luke was up when she got back to the castle.

  ‘How are you?’ Orla asked.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I slept well.’

  Orla took this in, wondering if sleepwalkers ever knew they had been sleepwalking. She thought it better that she didn’t mention it. He certainly looked okay.

  ‘Been to the beach?’ he asked her.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought I’d pop out later. Get to know the village a bit.’

  Orla nodded. That was, after all, normal behaviour, wasn’t it?

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Nothing from the local shop?’ he asked, and she shook her head. ‘You want to come with me?’

  ‘No.’ Her answer was blunt, but she needed him to know that there was no compromise to be made here. She’d already asked him, politely, not to question the way she chose to live.

  ‘I’ll get a bit of work done first and then take a breather later. Let me know if you change your mind.’

  ‘I won’t. Change my mind, I mean,’ she said, feeling flustered.

  ‘Okay.’ Luke nodded, smiled and then left the room, and Orla immediately felt guilty for sounding so rude. But better to be rude than unsafe, she told herself.

  Luke walked down the little hill towards the market square he’d driven into when he’d first arrived in Lorford. It was a beautiful June morning, with a clear blue sky, and the swifts were at play, screeching high above the rooftops. Luke took some good, deep breaths of summer air. It felt good to be out of the castle. He hadn’t been completely honest with Orla; he’d felt a little rough that morning, as if he hadn’t slept well, and yet he had no recollection of having woken in the night. He just felt unrested somehow. It wasn’t an uncommon feeling. Ever since the night of the train crash, Luke had found his relationship with sleep had become patchy at best. Sometimes, he was able to lose himself in a heavy and deep sleep, only to wake up feeling even more exhausted than before, and other nights he’d be restless, getting up every hour or so and then waking red-eyed and thick-headed in the morning. Maybe more walking would go some way to helping him sleep better, he thought. He was certainly in the right place, with the beach and the footpaths he’d spotted which led out across the fields and reed beds. Although a little voice told him that you couldn’t outwalk your grief.

  He paused for a moment, glancing back at the castle. He’d been hoping that Orla would feel some sort of obligation towards her guest and come with him to show him around Lorford, but he was beginning to realise that it was more likely to be the other way around because she obviously didn’t venture into the village. She only ever seemed to go to the beach, although she did occasionally photograph the church. But that was set back from the village and he could see how she could walk there easily without too many people seeing her.
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  It seemed such a shame that Orla had decided to live in a place like Lorford and not choose to be a part of things. As Luke walked through the village that morning, he could see that it was the sort of place one should move to if one wanted to be a part of things. There was such a feeling of community, with the little shops, the sweet rows of cottages and the people out walking their dogs. There were a few tourists down by the quay. The café was open and there were people lining up for one of the boat trips along the river, and what a perfect day it was for that too, with the sun sparkling on the water. It might not be as bustling as Aldeburgh or Southwold further up the coast, but Lorford had many charms and Luke felt sad that Orla shut herself away from them all. What was it she was so afraid of? He instinctively felt that these people would be nothing but kind and welcoming to Orla, but she had to meet them halfway. He wanted to find out what it was that kept her hidden away from the world, and he knew that Helen had been intrigued too. She had wanted to reach out to Orla, but raising the subject would be tricky. After all, it was a miracle that he was staying there at all. He couldn’t expect her just to open up to him after knowing him for so little time.

  He wondered what Helen would make of it all – of him coming to Lorford and finding Orla and staying at the castle with her. He guessed Helen hadn’t known about the castle and he couldn’t help imagining her response at finding out about it and seeing it for the first time. She’d have loved it; he knew that much. She had a special appreciation for England’s ancient buildings and Luke so desperately wanted to share it all with her.

  But you wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t died.

  He sighed, knowing it was true, but not wanting to hear that horrible little voice telling him.

  He looked down at his hands. He didn’t wear a wedding ring. Helen hadn’t put any pressure on him to do so. It was dangerous in his line of work, she realised that, but she did often tease him about that just being an excuse. Now, he wished he had that link to her. He wouldn’t care if it put him at risk. At least he’d have that connection.

  His memory rolled back to the moment when he’d slid that slim band of gold onto Helen’s finger. Theirs had been a simple wedding. They hadn’t had much money for anything fancy. The local registry office had been good enough for them, with a reception at Helen’s parents’ house afterwards. Helen’s mother had gone all out with the flowers. Luke still remembered Helen’s face when she’d seen them all: great towers of flowers, completely disguising the modest semi-detached. It had been so beautiful. And Helen. She had taken his breath away with her hair swept up and her long lacy dress in the softest of creams. When he’d placed the ring on her finger, she’d whispered to him that she’d never take it off, and she never had.

  She was still wearing it now, he thought, in that other dimension, wherever she was. She had taken it with her. Helen’s mother had asked him if he wouldn’t rather have it as a keepsake, but it hadn’t been his to take. It was Helen’s ring and he had respected her wishes to wear it always.

  Closing his eyes for a moment to regain his composure, he got up from the bench before leaving the quay at a fast pace. Walking helped to calm him down. That steady, simple rhythm of putting one foot in front of the other really helped to ease the grip of grief, he found. The only trouble with Lorford was that it was so small, and he soon found himself back in the market square. He paused, looking around as if reminding himself of where he was, and then he saw the small village store and walked towards it, picking up a basket and filling it with groceries. It was one of those mindless, everyday tasks that was proving to be a little lifesaver in its own way.

  ‘You on holiday?’ the lady behind the counter asked him as she took his money a few minutes later.

  Luke was surprised by her question. ‘Kind of, I guess.’

  ‘Staying locally?’

  ‘In the castle.’

  Her mouth dropped open at this declaration. ‘Lorford Castle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re a friend of . . .’ her voice petered out.

  ‘Miss Kendrick, yes,’ he said.

  ‘Well, that’s . . . very nice.’

  Luke nodded, not knowing whether to add anything. After all, Orla didn’t have anything to do with the village.

  ‘I’ll see you soon,’ he said as he left the shop, thinking that word of his arrival would soon get around the village.

  Crossing the square, he took a quick look at the menu outside the pub, and then he saw it. The noticeboard. Set on the wall by the bus stop, it was full of the usual village stuff: when the next council meeting was to be held, what Lorford was doing to become more green and – Luke blinked – a horticultural group. New members welcome. The people of Lorford, Luke had noticed, loved their gardens, so it was no surprise to him that there was a horticultural society being advertised. The next talk was that very week and was entitled ‘Herbs: why you should grow them and how you can use them’.

  Luke read the poster again, taking it all in, and something in it linked with the voice he heard in his head, Helen’s voice, and the words she’d written in her journal. He recalled them now.

  BB has been so kind helping me to discover what it is I really want. I wish there was something I could do to help her. She sounds so isolated. So alone. And scared too, although she won’t tell me why. That’s no way to live, is it?

  Luke agreed. That was no way to live.

  He looked at the poster again. His knowledge of herbs was limited to the sort in a bottle on his spice rack. Other than mint, rosemary and basil, he wasn’t even sure if he’d met any real-life herbs. But that didn’t really matter because he wasn’t going there for the talk about plants. Luke had a plan, and he was going to need to get the locals on board with it in order to help him.

  When Luke arrived back at the castle, he noticed a small van had pulled up in the driveway and he watched as a man got out, opened the van door and retrieved a large box. He nodded to Luke as he saw him.

  ‘Delivery for Miss Kendrick.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ Luke told him, putting his shopping bag down. ‘Does it need a signature?’

  ‘No. She never signs for anything. Instructions are to leave it by the back door.’

  ‘I’ll take it in.’

  The man scratched his head. ‘You a friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  Luke was a little reluctant to answer as he knew Orla valued her privacy.

  ‘She’s nice,’ he said, and the delivery man nodded.

  ‘I’ve been delivering these boxes for two years now and never seen her.’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  The man shrugged. ‘I guess not. Odd, though, ain’t it?’

  Luke watched as he got back into his van and drove away, and Luke acknowledged once again that, although Orla might not want anything to do with the outside world, the outside world certainly knew of her presence and felt its absence.

  Doing his best to carry both the box and his bag of groceries, Luke negotiated the castle steps and rang the doorbell. As usual, One Ear sounded his arrival and, a moment later, Orla opened the door to him.

  ‘You have a delivery,’ he told her unnecessarily. ‘Where do you want it?’

  ‘Follow me,’ she said, taking his bag from him.

  Luke followed Orla into a part of the castle he hadn’t seen before. She opened a door and led him into a light and airy room that was full of tables on which sat row upon row of crockery. He’d never seen so many plates, cups, saucers, bowls and jugs in one room before. It was crammed full. There were at least twelve tables in there, of varying heights, and each was smothered in pieces, as were the deep windowsills and a shelving unit against the far wall.

  Luke stood in wonder, taking it all in. There was the Victorian jug he recognised from Orla’s Galleria avatar and there was the pretty dish covered in golden pheasants which Helen had recently admired. He dared to reach out and touch it, as if his closeness to a thin
g Helen had loved would bring him a little closer to her.

  ‘You have very good taste,’ Orla said, noting his interest.

  ‘Helen’ – he paused – ‘she liked this piece when you posted a photo.’

  ‘Yes, she did, didn’t she? I remember we talked about it.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Oh, the usual – where had I found it. And that’s the tricky thing with vintage pieces – it would be hard, if not impossible, for anybody else to find them.’

  ‘I remember Helen saying something about that,’ Luke told Orla. ‘How that made the pieces all the more special.’

  Orla smiled. There was something in that smile and in sharing their memories of Helen in this way that made him feel both happy and sad at the same time.

  ‘Helen was right,’ Orla went on. ‘That’s why I buy boxes like this.’

  Luke watched as she opened the box he’d carried in for her, a huge smile spreading across her face. He’d never seen her smile quite like that before and it charmed him.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘Why don’t you take a look?’

  He stepped forward and peered into the depths of the box. ‘More china?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But you have so much already.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re always looking for that extra-special piece.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll ever find it?’

  ‘I hope not, because I wouldn’t like to think the search was over. That’s part of the fun, you see. The search. Of course, when you buy online, you often have to wade through a lot of tat. This was a job lot, you see, and I only wanted a couple of pieces so I’m now stuck with this nineteen-eighties rabbit ornament.’ She pulled the heavy lump of rabbit out of the box and grimaced, then reached back in to retrieve a very average-looking teapot.

  ‘So what was it that was special in this lot?’

  Orla’s hands dived back into the box and she pulled out a round object smothered in bubble wrap.