The Orchid Girls

by Lesley Sanderson

  Boxes are piled high on the windowsill and washing-up is stacked around the sink. I decide I’ll go out and get some cleaning stuff, start with the kitchen and walk down to the cottage later. As the clock counts out long seconds, I grab my jacket from the hook by the front door and set off in search of fresh air.

  Outside, the shock of the wind forces my mouth open into a surprise and salt tickles my lips. The taste takes me back years, trailing along behind Grace when she had a crush on Danny Jones. He was the one before Jason. I hated Danny, with his sticking-out ears and floppy hair that covered his eyes. Even now I feel the stab of jealousy, like no time has passed. The road winds down towards the seafront and there are more tiny shops than ever before, full of jewellery and knick-knacks for tourists, and clothes boutiques with prices in the windows that stop me from stepping inside. What do I need turquoise rings and seashells for? And I never did get the point of fossils. On a school trip to the fossil museum one time, Grace got us kicked out of the store for knocking over a display of books which landed on the teacher’s foot. We couldn’t stop laughing. Grace can’t have forgotten how we used to laugh together – a side-splitting, rolling-on-the-floor kind of laughter which made us fear we’d lose our breath. I haven’t laughed like that in years. And I can’t imagine the uptight Grace of today letting herself loose like that.

  When I walk around Lyme I keep my gaze low, pretending to be fascinated with the cobbled roads and the street kerbs. I’m convinced someone will recognise me, point a finger, set it all off again. I’m also trying my hardest not to look over towards the cliffs, which swell wildly above the sea. But it’s impossible, and when I turn into the main street and the full force of the cliff side slams into view, I stop short and someone collides into me. My hair bounces as I turn around and glare, as if the man with the sad comb-over who’s almost lost his balance is somehow to blame for the presence of the brooding cliff face, sheltering a beach with sharp rocks, treacherous dips and swirls. And blood.

  Once I’ve taken it in, filled my lungs with sea air and salt and stared hard at the crag which I can even pick out on picture postcards, I can’t tear my eyes away. My feet follow the familiar path they haven’t trodden in years. It doesn’t matter that the shops have changed, it’s as if nothing ever happened in Lyme Regis. There are cars honking and drivers cursing and a steady flow of pedestrians who lick at ice-cream cornets as they stroll along. Like nothing tragic happened here. The place of my nightmares.

  A vibration against my leg tells me I’ve had a text. Only a few weeks ago the only person it could have been was Jodie; today it’s more likely to be Ellis or even Grace. I want it to be Grace, but dread that it will be the journalist. Fear scratches my skin when I remember him turning up on my doorstep.

  It’s Ellis. She wants to know how I’m getting on. Seeing her name gives me a lift. I change direction and walk to the end of Broad Street, heading up the winding streets towards the grassy bank that looks out over the sea. Up here I’m at a safe distance from the water. Couples laze on the grass, half-naked in the sunshine despite the wind that blows across from the sea. An old man unfolds himself from a bench and leans on his stick, gaining his balance before taking a hesitant step on his way. I sit down with my feet up, light a cigarette and call Ellis.

  ‘I made it here.’

  ‘Good for you,’ she says, sounding genuinely happy for me. ‘How’s your mum?’

  I feel the familiar pricking of guilt again. ‘She’s… had a rough time. Lost her way since Dad died. She’s like a different person. She’s got so much stuff, Ellis. It’s all over the place. So bad you can’t get into the rooms without climbing over things. I’ve never seen anything like it. She’s not right. I should have been there for her. I can’t stay in the house the whole time because there’s so much crap, but we own a cottage nearby and I’m going to stay there.’

  ‘Oh Molly, I’m so sorry to hear that. I hope she’s OK. Will you be alright on your own?’

  ‘I’m used to it. The cottage belonged to my uncle, the photographer I told you about. I used to spend a lot of time there. He’s died, and I didn’t even know.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But don’t beat yourself up. You can help sort her house out. And each day that you don’t drink she’ll see what you’re like now. It’s good to have something to occupy yourself with. Have you heard from the journalist?’

  ‘Not since I arrived.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  I don’t mean for her to hear my loud sigh, but the guilt of drinking again sits like a weight on my chest, suffocating me.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Mum is hard work, that’s all. The hoarding is bad.’ A little boy pats at a sandcastle he’s made down on the beach. He looks so innocent. So different to the scenes playing out in my head. ‘But it’s so calm here. London is too hectic.’

  ‘Would you like to live there again?’

  I look across to the right, the cliff above the beach drawing my gaze to it. I throw my cigarette butt down, stamp it out as I stand up.

  ‘No way. Too many memories.’

  On the way home I stop at the small supermarket for some cleaning stuff, then at the bakery where the smell of bread makes me feel faint with hunger. I pull my cap down over my eyes, imagining pointing fingers everywhere I go. I pick out two Cornish pasties for lunch. I wish I could afford a cake as well, but I’ve got to make my money last – I can’t bear to ask Mum for handouts. Back home I’m making tea for us when I hear her key in the door. I stand out in the hallway, happy to see her, which surprises me.

  ‘I’ve got us some lunch, Mum.’

  She smiles for the first time and I see a glimpse of the old Mum, the boss of the family. For a second I think she’ll give me a hug, but she pats my arm as she passes, going into the kitchen before stopping dead.

  ‘What have you done?’ She looks horrified. ‘Where’s my stuff that was on the windowsill?’

  ‘I wanted to help.’

  ‘You should have asked. Nobody is allowed to touch my things.’ She narrows her eyes and looks around. ‘It’s a mess, but that’s up to me. It’s not easy for me…’ To my alarm, a tear squeezes out from her eye.

  ‘Don’t, Mum. You can’t live like this. Let me help you. We can take it slowly, bit by bit. You can choose what you want to keep. That way you won’t get upset. I’ve got time, it’s the least I can do. I want to help.’

  She touches my arm. ‘That means a lot, Molly.’

  I clear a space on the sofa and she switches the TV on while we eat our pasties. After she makes tea, she stirs her three spoonfuls of sugar round and round.

  ‘How involved with her are you?’

  ‘Grace?’

  The spoon clatters against the mug.

  ‘Of course, Grace. I know about you carrying on with her.’

  My face burns red. I always thought we’d got away with it. I shouldn’t have underestimated her.

  ‘Deborah told me. She read your letters, made sure Michael didn’t know what was in them. She was frightened of what he might do. He was talking about sending Grace away.’

  ‘He did, though, Mum. You know I went to see him the other day.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To ask him about the letters. Whether it was true he’d stopped Grace from seeing them. All that time, I thought she’d forgotten me. I thought she was ignoring me. I had to know.’

  ‘Michael was angry, Molly, you have to understand that. He was out that afternoon and had no alibi for his whereabouts. It incensed him that anyone would question his word. He took it out on Grace, came down very hard on her, sending her away like that. But in hindsight it was a good thing, giving her a fresh start. I hated the way everyone inferred you girls were guilty.’

  If only you knew. My insides lurch.

  ‘My gut said you weren’t. They had no evidence. I believed in you, Molly, but I knew you were hiding something. I wish you’d tell me what happened. You were both keeping secrets, I could tell. Sneakin
g around, acting suspicious. Was it just about the two of you?’

  ‘Do we have to go over this again?’ I wish I could talk to her, put it right. But I can’t do that, I’ve promised Grace.

  ‘I still think you’re keeping something from me. You never told me exactly what went on. And you always confided in me, until she came along and got a hold on you. I never trusted her.’

  ‘We were best friends.’

  Mum swills her coffee around, staring into the cup.

  ‘Come on, Molly. It’s not the fact that you had a relationship with a woman that bothers me, but the way she influenced you.’

  If my face was red before, it’s on fire now. I don’t know where to look.

  ‘You were children, don’t forget. I was worried about you, I could see something was weighing you down.’

  ‘It’s not surprising, is it? Charlotte died.’

  ‘It was more than that. I know my own daughter. You didn’t like Charlotte, I knew that. She was spoilt, all that attention from her gymnastics, her mum pushing her into the limelight. But kill her? There was something you weren’t telling me, something you were afraid to tell me.’

  ‘You can think what you like but you’re wrong.’

  She means well but I can’t tell her. I can’t tell anybody. I’ll never be able to.

  ‘Is there anyone special in your life now?’ I’m relieved that she’s changing the subject. Ellis flashes into my head – it’s her I’ll be telling about this conversation, not Grace. But she’s just a friend. Nothing more. It’s Grace who I want more with.

  ‘No.’ I can’t bring myself to say any more.

  As we talk it gets darker outside, the black sky pressing down on the house like Mum’s words press down on me. She switches the lamp on and it shines on a pile of carrier bags, full of plastic bottles for recycling.

  ‘I’m tired, Mum, think I’ll get off to bed.’

  Mum shrugs and stuffs a chocolate in her mouth.

  I send Grace a text telling her I’m doing what she wants with the photograph, but by the time I go to bed she still hasn’t been in touch and I can’t relax. Before I go to sleep I try her number. The phone rings for so long I don’t think she is going to answer. When she does I can tell by her voice that she’s been asleep.

  ‘What do you want?’

  She’s whispering, and there’s a dig in my heart at the way she doesn’t sound pleased to hear from me. I picture her face the other night, tender in the dim light of her living room.

  Her voice is so low I strain to hear, picking up a muffled sound in the background.

  I’m not imagining the husband’s voice. It hurts me that she’s with him. That I’m not there instead. I remember how she pushed me away the other night, left me wondering, wanting more. I think about how I’m still unable to confide in Mum. How I’m willing to come down here, after years of staying away, and check for photographs. All for her.

  I hang up.

  Twenty-Eight

  GRACE

  The Evening Standard has a recap of the Emily case. Before I read it I make myself a camomile tea, in the hope that it will calm my nerves. Clutching my cold hands around the hot mug, I read through the article. When I turn a page and see Richard’s photo staring at me, I grip the mug so hard I burn my fingertips, but I don’t care; it stops the pain that doubting him causes me. He’s climbing down steps outside a police station, flanked by two of his staff. He’s not wearing his tie and his hair is sticking up, his face grim. He’ll hate this picture. There’s a short piece written underneath.

  Richard Sutherland, MP for Fenton North, was seen leaving Camden police station earlier this week. A spokesman for the mayoral candidate said that he had been ‘helping police with their enquiries’. Emily, thirteen, who had been missing since last week, was known to Sutherland as she had interviewed him for work experience, and he allegedly gave her a lift in his car which he failed to reveal to police. Emily was no longer working for Mr Sutherland when she accepted a lift in his car.

  The buzzer sounds three times and I jump. It’s Richard, and I close the newspaper, composing myself. He mustn’t know I’m going to Dorset. He won’t like it, not one bit. Not with his campaign kicking off and my slip-ups recently. But he’s being cagey about the police questioning him; I’m sure he’s been keeping stuff from me too. I busy myself with the dishwasher, taking everything out and putting the glistening crockery and shiny cutlery away to restore order to the kitchen. As I work my way through methodically, I plan to confront him as soon as he comes in. Richard bursts into the room, throwing his briefcase onto the sofa.

  ‘Fuck!’

  He takes his jacket off and pulls at his tie, breathing deeply. I tell myself to stay calm, keep my breathing steady, not to mind that he doesn’t even say hello.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  He opens the cupboard and takes out a bottle of whisky, pouring himself a glass.

  ‘Richard. Isn’t it a bit early?’

  ‘Have you seen the news?’

  ‘Yes. I had to read online that you gave Emily a lift. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Don’t. I’ve just spent all morning being questioned by the police. Again. Complete waste of time.’

  He’s breathing deeply and I wish he’d sit down. One mention of the police and I’m back in that sickly green room with the flickering light, sat in front of two police officers, refusing to answer questions, Dad curling and uncurling his fingers at my side.

  ‘I can’t believe they’re making such a fuss.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Shortly after Emily interviewed me I saw her walking home from school and I stopped to offer her a lift. No big deal. I didn’t think it was important, otherwise I would have said something. But this is exactly what I wanted to avoid. I haven’t got time for all this questioning.’ He looks furious. His cheeks are red, his breathing is laboured.

  ‘How did they find out?’

  ‘One of her friends saw her getting into my car. They’ve assured me they’re just doing their job, but it’s hard not to worry.’

  He knocks back the rest of the whisky and pours himself another.

  ‘I wish you’d told me, Richard. I hated having to learn about it from the news. We’re husband and wife. We’re meant to be able to tell each other everything.’ As I finish my sentence I realise what a hypocrite I am.

  ‘Stop interfering, Grace. You’ve got enough to worry about. The internet is full of all that smoking nonsense. I still can’t believe you’d be so stupid. You need to do something big to counteract this.’

  ‘I know. I'm planning to, but it will have to wait a few days.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m taking a week off work.’ I grip the back of the chair, determined to stick to my decision.

  ‘Really? Are you sure you can afford to?’

  ‘Richard, my father has just died, have some compassion.’

  ‘But you hated each other. I’m surprised you’re that bothered. I’ve never known you to take time off before.’

  He’s right. ‘Maybe that’s why I need a break now, what with all the fuss in the press and everything. Julia thinks it’s a good idea. I’ll come back stronger, fighting.’ I only need a couple of days to sort things out, get back to normal.

  Should I tell him about the journalist? I can’t decide. Richard scrutinises everything I do; it’s only a matter of time before he makes the connection. But no, he’d only worry more.

  ‘I need to finish sorting through Michael’s things. I’m going over there again tomorrow.’

  Richard looks concerned.

  ‘It won’t take long, I promise. I’m excited about my new range – the sooner I get this sorted, the sooner I can get back to what’s important. Like you and me.’ I pull him in for a lingering kiss.

  When Richard goes to shower, I step onto the balcony and call Molly. She doesn’t pick up, so I leave her a message, whispering.

  ‘Molly, it’s Grace. Look, I
’m sorry I lost it with you. The same journalist has been in touch with me and I’m terrified. We need to work out how to deal with this.’

  Sometime during the night Richard shakes me awake.

  ‘Your phone,’ he says, his voice thick with sleep. ‘Make it stop. That’s the third time it’s rung.’

  ‘Hello?’ I pull myself up onto my elbow, facing away from Richard. A long silence is followed by Molly’s voice.

  ‘It’s me. I got your message.’

  I hunch over my phone. ‘I’m convinced it’s only a matter of time before they track us down,’ I say, my voice laced with fear.

  ‘I’m not making it easy for him, I’m in Dorset. I’m shit-scared someone local’s going to recognise me, never mind him.’

  Molly’s words transport me back to the beach, a late-night barbecue, Charlotte’s eyes glittering with envy when Jason put his arm around me, Molly kicking sand into the air.

  ‘If Alex Foster finds out you’re in Dorset, he’s bound to suss you out.’

  ‘He won’t find out. Nobody else knows where I am. I read about Michael. Bit sudden, wasn’t it? You OK?’

  ‘It was a shock, but you know how I felt about him.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m sorry. You’ve got bigger things to worry about anyway.’

  Something about her tone gets to me.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been reading about your husband and that Emily girl. Sounds like he’s in trouble.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. You don’t believe everything you read, you must know that. But I could do without it. What’s it like being back there?’ I can’t believe she has the guts to go back, if I’m honest.

  ‘Weird. I’m going to be staying at Uncle Bill’s old cottage, remember it?’

  Memories that I’ve tried for so long to suppress surface. Molly developing photos in that darkroom, me guarding the door in case her uncle came back. Which reminds me. ‘Have you got rid of those photos?’