The Orchid Girls

by Lesley Sanderson

  ‘I’m not a child any more. And I can’t stop her coming here.’

  ‘Why couldn’t you stay away? I was trying to help you by sending you to France. She would never have found you there.’

  ‘Look, let’s forget she ever came here. Angela knows about her now, and she won’t let her in again.’

  ‘She tried to surprise me but I’m no fool. Everybody treats me as if I’m losing my faculties. But I remember everything that happened.’ He jabs at his head with a bent finger. ‘It’s all in here. You thought I didn’t see what was going on but I know exactly what you were up to.’

  I’m suddenly aware that Angela is at my side, holding out a glass of water, and I’m not sure how much she’s heard.

  ‘Are you alright, Michael?’

  He drinks some water, swallows hard, stabs at a photograph in the newspaper with his pencil. ‘And this is wrong,’ he says. ‘Charlotte’s school uniform was blue.’

  The cup I’m holding rattles in the saucer and I put it down on the table.

  Angela slides the newspaper away from him, sighing. ‘It’s Emily, Michael. This is what I meant, Grace. For some reason it’s upsetting him. You need to watch programmes that will cheer you up, not all this depressing news. Coronation Street is on later, Michael.’ Her voice is louder when she speaks to him.

  He picks at a piece of fraying wool on the sleeve of his blue cardigan.

  ‘I can’t watch that any more. No morals, men together as if it’s normal, the world isn’t like it used to be.’ Spittle flies out with the words.

  I take the newspaper from Michael’s lap and fold it, putting it out of his reach.

  ‘Angela’s right, Michael. What about watching an old film? You used to like those.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about what I used to like.’

  The look he gives me is so cold I can’t contain my anger any longer.

  ‘Only because you pushed me away. But you always had time for the church, didn’t you? “Such a good man”, they all used to say. Your reputation was all that interested you. Never mind the fact that you had a daughter who needed you. Do you know what it was like when Mum was sick after her treatment and you were always at work, helping other people? That’s why I couldn’t wait to go and stay with Aunty Caroline. She looked after me properly. It’s no wonder I was close to Molly – you pushed us together.’ I bite down on my lip. Angela looks astonished at my outburst. I hope she can’t see that my whole body is shaking.

  Angela recovers her composure and picks up Michael’s cup. ‘Drink your tea,’ she says and he grabs her wrist. Tea spills onto the table.

  ‘Where have you hidden those letters?’ Michael’s voice is a hiss and his fingers are white where they’re gripping Angela’s wrist.

  ‘Michael! Let her go. You’ve got to stop this. Angela isn’t hiding anything. You’re not making any sense.’

  But he is, and we both know it. He’s kept them. The letters. Fear stabs at me.

  ‘Richard doesn’t know, does he? But I know. She told me.’

  I count to five and take in a lungful of air. I’m not sure what he means.

  ‘Maybe he ought to see the doctor, have another memory test.’ I take Angela’s elbow, leading her out of the room. ‘And it might be best to keep him away from the news.’ I lower my voice so that he doesn’t hear. ‘He’s talking nonsense, you understand, so please try not to let him upset you. Something he’s seen on television will be preying on his mind.’

  Angela rubs at her wrist.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Her rosy cheeks have lost their usual glow.

  ‘Michael’s never been like that before. He’s always seemed so gentle until recently.’

  I see his arm raised in the air, his mouth twisted. Bile rises in my throat as I think how wrong she is. But it’s important that she’s happy. We can’t afford to lose her, not now when there’s so much pressure on.

  ‘Has he hurt you?’ My legs feel unsteady at the thought.

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ she says, but she can’t hide the concern in her eyes. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have let him get to me. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that, but he knows how to wind me up. Please don’t take any notice of what he’s saying. You do such a great job here. We honestly couldn’t manage without you. Work is stressful for us both at the moment. I don’t want to bother Richard with this if I can help it. He’s got enough to worry about. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I must go, we’re visiting his parents this afternoon. Thank you for looking after him, Angela, and call me any time you need anything.’

  I don’t bother saying goodbye to my father.

  Richard picks me up from home and we drive over to Ash Fenton. He’s listening to the radio and I’m grateful for the time to think. Current events are obviously confusing Michael, but there’s still a lot he remembers. His comment about the letters is bothering me. Has he kept hold of them? I need to find out what was in them. And what he said about Charlotte. My thoughts spin round, making my head pound.

  When we arrive Jean and Des are out in the front garden. Across the street TV crews and journalists amass in front of a policeman. He addresses the group, moving them back, a roll of tape in his hand. One of the group breaks away, talks urgently into his phone; others shake their heads, exchange words, scribbling frantic notes.

  ‘I’ll see what’s going on,’ Richard says. He crosses the road and speaks to the policeman, and everything is captured on camera. His face is set when he comes back, taking my hand in his.

  ‘They’ve found Emily’s jacket,’ he says, and his words carry over to Jean, who gasps and claps her hand over her mouth.

  My muscles stiffen and I drop Richard’s hand, not wanting him to notice the effect this has on me. Seeing Jean’s reaction makes my throat contract. Charlotte’s denim jacket flashes into my mind. It was finding the jacket that did for Aunty Caroline. She’d been so positive up until then, jollying everyone along, her hope contagious. But when she took the phone call about the jacket she dropped down onto the hall chair as if her legs had given way, her fingers white against the green telephone cord. I knew it was only a matter of time before worse news came.

  The mood is sombre and a presenter broadcasts the news. People stop talking, the journalists are moved further back and quiet descends, save for the sound of a dog whining, as if in sympathy for Emily. But the presenter reminds us that it doesn’t necessarily mean she won’t be found alive, and offers a message of hope to the family and the nation, who wait with baited breath. This is one of those cases that captures the public imagination – a newsworthy white, pretty, middle-class girl from the countryside, not a washed-up refugee trying to enter the country in the back of a van. Charlotte was one of those pretty girls, too. One of those missing girls who grab the nation’s attention. I gag, turning it into a cough, and Jean leads me inside for a glass of water. As we’re going in, a reporter breaks away from the crowd and approaches Richard. He nods and follows the journalist.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘Finding her jacket doesn’t mean she’s not alive,’ Jean tells me as she leads me inside, her arm around my shoulder. Although we all know that it is likely Emily’s broken body will be the next thing to be discovered. The thought makes me want to throw up.

  ‘I wish Richard didn’t have to get involved.’

  ‘It’s understandable, though. He knows her, after all.’

  I sip at a glass of water and will my heart to stop thudding. Through the window I watch the journalists move across the common, microphones and cameras poised to capture any detail that comes their way. Richard comes in and puts his arm around my shoulders.

  ‘Horrible, isn’t it?’

  ‘What did they want?’

  ‘A quote from me. And once the journalist knew I’d met her he had lots of questions.’

  My mood sinks even lower, imagining us bein
g dragged into the story.

  Richard’s phone beeps and he moves away to take the call.

  ‘I’ve got to go into work,’ he says. ‘I’ll drop you home first.’

  ‘Now? You promised you weren’t going to work today.’

  I push the irritation down inside me. I don’t want to be left alone in the flat again. Left to think about Molly. It feels important for Richard and I to be together, but I don’t want him to see me as needy.

  ‘You could do some work, too. I noticed you didn’t post anything yesterday.’

  ‘Are you checking up on me?’

  ‘I look forward to your daily posts. I missed it yesterday, that’s all. You don’t want to miss days, Grace. You need to keep on top of your brand. If I’ve noticed others will too.’

  ‘I know. Don’t worry, I’m on it.’ I keep my hands hidden so that he doesn’t see them shaking.

  Back home, my intention to edit my last write-up evaporates as soon as I log online. First I go to the news channel, watch the clip from this morning, and once again wish Richard wasn’t involved with this story. We don’t need this kind of attention. After that I’m compelled to read a résumé of the case when I see a link to ‘new developments’. I read how Emily Shaw was last seen by the village green in Ash Fenton when she left her two friends. The friends were seen arguing and a physical altercation was caught on CCTV, which the girls lied about to the police. A sick feeling rises to my throat. A memory ambushes me: the three of us in the town park, Molly kicking her legs on a swing, me and Charlotte in the shelter. Charlotte smoking a cigarette, smoothing her hair, telling me how Jason said it was weird that I was always with Molly. She wanted him for herself, that’s why. When I told Molly, the wind blew our laughter up into the sky as we pushed our swings as high as they would go. Charlotte watched us, lips pinched, grinding her heel hard into her cigarette butt. I should have realised then she was on to us.

  Next I go straight to Alex Foster’s blog. He’s starting his series of crime stories on Monday and I click on the link to check the cases he’s covering, hoping I misread it last time. He’s written a paragraph about each one that will feature. My palms sweat as I scroll through, praying that it won’t be there, even though I know I’m kidding myself. And sure enough, there it is: The Orchid Girls.

  He doesn’t say when he’s going to write about it. But the link he’s making as to what these cases have in common is that the culprit was never found.

  The aftermath of the trial is a blur to me, as I was whisked away to France where I was determined to forget the whole thing, almost convincing myself it never happened. But Molly wasn’t so easy to forget. I prowl around the flat for a while, trying to persuade myself that there is no reason to connect me with this in any way. But one factor stops me believing this: Molly.

  A text on my phone makes me jump. Is it her? My heart races.

  It’s Richard.

  Don’t forget to post today.

  I throw the phone back down on the sofa. I hate it when he checks up on me – I don’t interfere with his work. But the memory of the burnt meal and how irritated I was is stuck in my head. I rarely make mistakes like that, and I hate it when we’re not getting on, when I’m not perfect. He’s right. It’s easiest if I get on with the post. He wants what’s best for me, that’s all. Missing one day won’t hurt if I get straight back on it.

  But there’s no way I can concentrate until I’ve made a plan about Molly. How can I make her see sense? I’ll have to meet her again. To boost my morale, I log on to Instagram and check on my feedback. My jacket has attracted attention today, noticed by the designer. Richard will like that. My mood lifts. After that it takes no time at all to edit the article I’ve written and post it online. This is the Grace I’m meant to be; the perfect version who gets everything right. But the threat of Molly looms in the background, a dark shadow eclipsing the sun. And there’s nothing I can do to stop her.

  Grace’s Diary

  Thursday 4th March 2004

  Back to my diary. It’s so much better to write things down, I find, rather than talk to people. People can’t be trusted. Everybody tells lies to me, even her. So much for staying in touch.

  Molly’s phone number doesn’t work any more, either. She must have moved or changed her number because of all those calls we were getting. Irritating little men from the newspapers crowding at the end of our front garden and yelling questions. So uncouth. The last straw was when Mum tried to go to the bakery for some pastries and she couldn’t get out of the drive because of all the men with cameras following her. She broke down and cried and I hate them. She hasn’t really stopped since. Charlotte’s family moved to Scotland, and the local paper did a big story on her before they went, talking about setting up a charity to remember her. The girl in the story was unrecognisable. So what if she could do the splits and win gold medals, was Gymnast of the bloody Year. They forget to mention how she bullied people and said nasty things. They don’t know what she was capable of. Newspapers tell lies, I know that now.

  I’ve stopped wondering when it will all be over. When I look at Mum I know the answer is never. She doesn’t have Molly’s mum Caroline to talk to any more, and it’s all my fault. Caroline was her rock. She was like a mum to me too when Mum had cancer, but nobody thinks about that.

  I knew everything would change once the trial finished. I can’t stand it here, but I don’t want to leave. There are too many memories. Not until I’ve spoken to her again. I don’t understand why she hasn’t been in touch. Could it be because of Jason? I never meant for her to know I slept with him, she wasn’t meant to find out. I only did it to make Charlotte jealous – I might have known she couldn’t keep her bloody mouth shut. The last thing I wanted was for Molly to get hurt. We made a promise, and I have to know she’s keeping it. It’s easy for me to keep it because there’s no one to tell. I won’t even write it down.

  Once upon a time I could talk to Mum, but she isn’t well now. Dad says everything I’ve put her through hasn’t helped. He’s got worse lately, preaching all the time. Going on at me. He says if I had faith then I’d understand why I need to repent. But I haven’t done anything wrong. He doesn’t know about Molly. He can’t. It’s impossible.

  Last time I saw Molly she tried to tell me something about Dad. She was frightened of him, more frightened than usual, and she said it was to do with Charlotte. I worry he must know something because he watches me with his cold eyes and nods to himself. I hate him.

  At dinner he takes so long to say grace the food gets cold. Then he gets mad because I’m not eating, says I’m ungrateful and goes on about starving children in countries I don’t care about. Mum never did eat much, and I’m getting the same way now. My throat has closed up and I can’t swallow. It makes him even angrier. He doesn’t realise I can’t eat because I can’t stop thinking about her and what we did. I’d give anything to be with her now. Sometimes I think I’ve imagined those special times we had. We loved each other. Because that’s what it was, love, I don’t care what anyone else says. Lying together in sin, that’s what he would call it. The thought of him knowing terrifies me. He’s kinder to her but he calls me wicked, a wicked, ungrateful brat. How can my own dad call me that? That’s when I started calling him Michael.

  Last night I overheard them talking. Sleeping’s another thing I can’t do. Usually I lie awake, tossing and turning, thinking about her and going over the lines of her face so that I don’t forget her. I couldn’t bear to forget, but if she’s forgotten me… His voice was a deep rumble through the thin wall and when it went quiet I knew she must be talking. She doesn’t get a chance to say much, but I like to think she’s sticking up for me. He raised his voice and I swear he only did it so I would hear. When the words went from muffled jumbles to making sense I sat up and cold sweat stuck to my back. He wants to send me away, somewhere far, where I'm no longer a blot on his reputation. He didn’t say that last bit, those are my words. But it’s what he means. I know it. He
’s made me feel it often enough.

  He didn’t say anything the next day, waited until the weekend when he’s not got a service until late morning. He sat opposite me while I tried to eat my Weetabix, which stuck like straw in my throat. He chose that moment to tell me he’s sending me away, says too many people around here know about ‘that business’. He always calls it ‘that business’. What on earth does that mean? Sometimes he looks at me with such disgust it’s as if he knows about us, but I can’t bear that to be true. It’s meant to be our secret, no one else’s. So I play along, talk about the obvious.

  He’s got it all arranged. Mum’s sister Jenny lives in Paris and he wants me to go and live with her. Go to a foreign school, change my name and everything. Learn to speak French, he says children learn quickly. But I’m not a bloody child. He goes mad when I say that. Never mind that him and Mum don’t speak French, he couldn’t have made it clearer that he wants to get rid of me forever and never to come back.

  I met Aunt Jenny once. She looks like Mum but a shinier version. She wears designer clothes and writes for French Vogue magazine. She was a model once. Best thing is, she thinks religion is nonsense. A free spirit, she calls herself. Maybe living with her won’t be so bad. Even so, I can’t tell her about being in love with another girl. I can’t tell her the truth.

  If he does send me away and I lose Molly because of it, I’ll make him pay. I’ll send him off to his precious God but it won’t be heaven he goes to. Not that I believe in all that shit.

  Sixteen

  MOLLY

  Ellis asks me to phone her every day. She’s doing it so that she can check up on me, make sure I’m not drinking. It seemed like a stupid idea at first, not something I want to bother with, but today when I get up and don’t know how my day is going to pan out, I begin it by calling her. And it feels good. It’s been so long since I made a friend.