Making Marion

by Beth Moran

  I ran over Maid Marion.

  I was crawling along the road leading out of the car park, alongside a steady stream of visitors ambling in the opposite direction. The ridiculously tall, attractive woman bounced off my bumper and landed in the arms of the man who was behind her. One of quite a few men. The look on his face reminded me of when a ball flies into the crowd at a football match and someone catches it.

  I climbed out of the car. Not quite as quickly as I should have done but, to be fair, much faster than I wanted to. The woman’s hat had fallen off, revealing thick blonde hair.

  “I am so sorry. Are you okay? Shall I call an ambulance?”

  A small girl in an outlaw costume pointed her bow and arrow at me. “You ran over Maid Marion. Robin’s gonna get you for this.”

  The woman delicately prised herself out of the man’s arms. “No, I’m fine, honestly. I wasn’t looking where I was going. Really; all my fault. I should be the one apologizing. I only hope I didn’t dent your car.”

  We looked at the car. It was impossible to tell which of the dents, if any, had been caused by today’s accident.

  “I bet she’s working for the Sheriff. Traitor!” The same girl spoke again.

  I was beyond arguing. My victim had to step in to defend me.

  “No, no. It was an accident, I’m sure. Wasn’t it?”

  “She’s probably jealous. Look at her. She doesn’t even have a flower in her hair. And she’s fat.”

  How bad would it look if I just jumped into my car and drove away? I breathed for a moment.

  “Can I take you to a medic? Is there a first aid tent somewhere?”

  “I don’t think so!” the man who had caught her said. “We’ll take her. Make sure she gets there safely.”

  Marion’s groupies began shuffling away, forming a protective circle around her. She limped gracefully, if that was possible. Like a bruised flower or a butterfly with a damaged wing. Smiling the whole time.

  “Oh, thank you; you are so kind. No, I don’t need you to carry me. I’m sure I can manage. Really, it was only a scrape.”

  I hurried after them, handing the other, superior Marion a scrap of paper with my name and phone number on it. “Here, just in case you need to contact me. And I am really, really sorry.”

  She scanned the paper. “Oh. You’re Marion.”

  This caused a murmur about concussion, and delirium setting in. The groupies shrank the circle closer. Maid Marion bent close to me, still smiling, and whispered, “I’m Erica, Reuben’s girlfriend. He’s told me all about you.”

  I thought about Reuben stroking that perfect glossy hair while gazing into those perfect blue eyes on top of perfect long, skinny legs and telling her all about me, and broken bicycle brakes, and ninja chickens.

  I went home, and after eating an entire coconut cake climbed under my duvet, planning on staying there for a very long time.

  The day after the festival, a huge bunch of pink and white roses was delivered to my caravan door, with a note saying: “Sorry. I’m an idiot. Please forgive me. Jake.”

  I found him hammering nails into a fence supposed to prevent Little Johnny escaping: a token gesture for insurance purposes. In reality, Little Johnny did exactly as he pleased, wherever he felt like doing it. Jake banged at the nails with as much enthusiasm as he might use to build his own coffin. I tapped him on the shoulder, making him slip and hit himself with the hammer.

  “Sorry!”

  He jerked around, biting back his curse when he saw who it was.

  “Don’t be.” He held out the hammer. “Here – take a swing. I deserve it.”

  I ignored the gesture, instead waving my hand toward his face where three angry red lines scored down his cheek. “I think I did enough damage yesterday.”

  Jake grasped hold of my hand. “I am really, really sorry, Marion. I never meant to upset you.” He grimaced. “I was actually trying to impress you. But now you know the truth: I am a complete loser.”

  “Woah. Don’t start feeling sorry for yourself. That will get you nowhere.” I pulled my hand back and folded my arms. “Anyway. Thank you for the flowers. And I accept your apology. I have issues with ropes that you weren’t to know about. Let’s just forget it ever happened.”

  “Whatever you say.” Jake grinned at me, crinkling up his eyes. “And for the record, I’m going along with whatever you say from now on. You were fierce, Marion. You should be a cage fighter. Or one of those ultimate wrestlers. Remind me never to startle you in a dark alleyway.”

  “Do you have a computer?”

  “What?” He frowned at my interruption.

  “I need to use a computer, with internet access. Can I borrow yours?”

  “Yeah, sure. Anytime. No problem.”

  “Thanks. Are you off this Thursday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay if I come over around two?”

  Jake thought for a moment. “No. I’m busy then. It will have to be later. Come at six, and stay for dinner.”

  I took a deep breath. “Jake, I need to borrow a computer, from a friend. I don’t want a date.”

  He stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and rocked back on his heels a couple of times. “I know; whatever you say, remember. You’re the boss.” His mouth was a straight line but his eyes still crinkled. Hmmm. I needed to use a computer. I would just have to run the gauntlet of Jake’s intentions to do it.

  On Thursday, just after six, I propped Pettigrew, brakes fully repaired thanks to Reuben, against the wall outside Jake’s flat before buzzing the intercom. Taking the bike had been a calculated decision. It would be dark by nine o’clock, which gave me a good excuse to leave before then if I wanted to take the shorter route along the forest footpath. I cycled a lot these days. It was cheaper and more pleasant than using my car, and muscle definition was beginning to show along my thighs and upper arms for the first time. It felt amazing being able to ride further and faster as the days went by, without getting out of breath. As a child I had careened between being a grey-skinned bag of bones and an overinflated punching bag, depending upon whether I had been living with my mother’s neglect or Auntie Paula’s fish suppers. But I had always been fat, or skinny, or somewhere on my way to one of those. Not strong. And never healthy.

  I hitched up my trousers. If I carried on losing weight I would have to do something about the state of my wardrobe. The deliberate layer of protective bagginess was progressing toward bag lady chic. And while I didn’t want Jake to open the door, take one look at my outfit and start cooking up plans to wriggle me out of it, I had sprouted a tiny seedling of pride in my appearance. I didn’t loathe the idea of somebody else noticing the muscles emerging from under my flab.

  Jake buzzed me in, meeting me at the top of the steps leading up to his flat. It was pretty much as I had expected: a living area leading to a small, functional kitchen with a two-man table in one corner and a giant-sized television looming over the rest of the room. The decor was straight-down-the-line IKEA. He had no photos, nothing more revealing than a copy of FHM and his guitar propped up against the sofa.

  “I like your herbs.” A tray containing five plants filled the kitchen windowsill.

  Jake smiled. “Come and look at these then.”

  He pointed outside another window, to a flat roof. On here he had at least a dozen large pots containing plants of varying sizes. Some had fruit to identify them: tomatoes and peppers, and what might have been cucumbers or baby courgettes.

  “Oh! I love them! I didn’t know you could grow all this without a garden.”

  Jake pushed up the sash window and I leaned out, inhaling the Mediterranean smell.

  “Here.” He leaned past, squeezing me into the corner of the frame, and plucked a cherry tomato from the nearest bush. “Try it.”

  “It’s nothing like a normal tomato!” It wasn’t. It was tomato to the power of ten.

  “Wrong.” Jake grinned, pulling the window shut as we moved away. “That’s what a normal tomato
tastes like. It’s those plasticized, chemicalized supermarket freaks that aren’t normal.”

  “Point taken.”

  We made a bit more small talk, then Jake opened up his laptop on the sofa, and clicked onto a search engine. He passed the computer over to me, where I balanced it on my knees. I would have suggested using the table in the kitchen area, but had to keep pretending I hadn’t noticed the two large candles and vase of flowers on it.

  He excused himself to go and sort out dinner. Heart, stomach and kidneys in my mouth, I began my search.

  Forty minutes later, and I was still searching. I had found out some information about this year’s Robin Hood Festival, and the previous couple of years, but here the path came to a dead end. Combining the name “Daniel” with words like “Robin Hood” or “Hatherstone” or “Sherwood” proved equally unsuccessful. There were way too many Daniel and Henry Millers online to search through them all, but none were local, and all of them seemed to be still alive. Then, just as Jake announced that the meal was ready, I found a tiny online article from a local newspaper talking about the history of the local Robin Hood enthusiasts’ club. It mentioned a man, Morris Middleton, who had been the club secretary since 1972. How many M. Middletons could there be living in the area? The answer, according to Jake’s phone book, was nine.

  I copied out the numbers, scribbling as fast as possible, and joined Jake at the table. We helped ourselves to pasta and salad. The salad was incredible. I allowed Jake to pour me a small glass of wine.

  “Did you find what you needed?”

  “Maybe.”

  Jake waited. He put down his fork. I squirmed on my IKEA chair. He had let me borrow his computer, even if there had been an ulterior motive. I had to give him something.

  “I’m looking for information about my dad. He died when I was seven and I don’t know much about his past. I think he came from round here.”

  “You must have searched the internet back home? Or don’t they have modern technology in the Irish backcountry?”

  I laughed. “They do in the library where I work. But… I don’t know; I wasn’t ready before. And then I had some holiday come up, so I thought why not come and see for myself? Then I would be here to follow up any clues I found online.”

  “So you think there might be a mystery to investigate?”

  “Aren’t all families a mystery?”

  Jake looked down. He took a large gulp of wine, muttering under his breath, “No mystery required to be a total disaster.”

  I changed the subject.

  Dinner was nice, and I could chat easily enough to Jake as long as I didn’t meet his eye and could busy myself with eating. But once the meal was finished, awkwardness crept back along with the dusk. I declined a coffee, and got up to leave.

  “Thanks so much for letting me use your laptop. And for dinner. You’re a really good cook.” I picked up my bag. “Well; work tomorrow. And I’ve got to bike back. I’d better go.”

  Jake stood up. He moved out from around the table so there was nothing between us.

  “If you want I could drop you home. I can bring the bike back tomorrow. Then you don’t have to rush.”

  I glanced across at the empty bottle of wine on the table. Jake had drunk all of it except for one small glass.

  “No. Thank you. I’ve got to go.”

  He lifted one hand and gently brushed it against my arm, lowering his voice to almost a whisper. “Stay for a bit.”

  I stared at the floor. My face must have been redder than his oh-so-juicy-and-delicious tomato collection.

  “Jake…”

  “What? We’re having a good time, that’s all. It’s not a date. I’m behaving myself. Honestly, Marion, I just love being with you. The fact that you are totally gorgeous has nothing to do with it.” He smiled and held his hands up, innocent.

  The problem with living for eight years with a boyfriend who treats you like a pigeon he rescued from the side of the road, who never makes you feel special, or beautiful, or interesting, is that you are prone to fall for the first man who comes along and tells you something different. Jake was an expert flatterer. I felt terrified and bamboozled and most definitely flattered. So I did what I do when I don’t know what to do. I ran away.

  I was fifteen when I took my first steps along the painful, jagged, potholed path out of mutism. Declan lay in a hospital bed with, among other things, a smashed-up face and three broken ribs. Neither I, nor my rescuer, had said anything to anybody. I later heard that Declan had claimed a gang of men from some terrorist organization tried to recruit him, and when he refused they made him pay. Everybody saw through this hilarious hogwash. The local police officers, having had the displeasure of dealing with Declan on numerous occasions in the past, would rather have bought a pint for whoever beat him up than arrest them. Many stones were left unturned during the investigation.

  But somebody now knew what had been happening to me. And he wasn’t prepared to ignore the fact that my silence protected an evil, perverted sicko.

  It was easy to find out where I lived.

  “Marion!” my mother screeched up the stairs. I came down to find him at the front door. Eamonn Brown. He was a year above me at school. One of the popular kids, son of the local doctor who sent my mother to hospital on several occasions. He had, of course, never spoken to me before.

  “Hi.”

  I froze. What was he doing here?

  “Would you come for a walk?”

  My mother smirked as she hovered in the doorway. “Good luck with that.” She curled her lip. “And with her.”

  I stepped out of the door, slamming it shut behind me, marching off down the path and down the road until I knew my mother couldn’t see me from where she would be peering through a slit in the net curtains.

  Eamonn caught up, matching me stride for stride on the outside of the pavement, as nice boys did.

  “You have to tell someone.”

  I shook my head, quickly. Tell someone what? That my cousin had pinned me down and shoved dirt inside me?

  “I don’t care if he says it was me that hurt him. He deserved it, and any jury would agree.”

  Maybe so. But a trial for GBH would surely put a dampener on Eamonn Brown’s plans to follow his father into medicine. I kept walking.

  “Okay. Forget that for now. I came to tell you Ma has a job for you.”

  What? I turned to look at him for the first time.

  “She works at the library.”

  I knew she worked at the library. I spent more time in the library than I did at my own house. With the exception of Father Francis’s office, it was the only place I felt any peace.

  “She says you can start whenever you like, but you’ll need to be able to talk to the visitors. She can keep the job open until school breaks up, but then she’ll have to offer it elsewhere.”

  We walked a little further. Eamonn talked about his school work and his plans to go to Belfast University. He told me where he was going on holiday and that his dad had got him some hours as a porter to earn enough money to buy a computer. How his football team had reached the cup finals. I barely listened. I was thinking and thinking about that job. About enough money to stop being hungry all the time. About somewhere to go that might become a stepping stone out of here. About Mrs Brown’s warm smile and how she always smelled of biscuits. I had seven weeks until the end of school. Seven weeks to heal the girl hiding in my throat.

  We circled back and reached my front gate. Eamonn smiled, and nodded goodbye. “See you around then, Marion? I’ll tell Ma you’ll let her know about the job. Bye.”

  I stood and watched him saunter off toward the centre of town. The first boy who had called for me. The first anyone who had called for me. My mouth opened and closed again, blowing out a tiny, whispery husk of air. “Bye.”

  The following week, at exactly the same time, he called again. I was out of the door before he could hear my mother cackling about how he was a sucker for punishment,
and we automatically turned to walk the same way, toward the river.

  “I brought you something.” Eamonn held out a carrier bag. “Don’t look at it now. It’s from Da’s office, so I’ll need it back. Thought it might help you with the job.”

  I took hold of the bag, feeling the weight of the book inside it. Could it undo the curse my mother had flung at me? Bring my daddy back? Release the suffocating grip of memories that clamped on to my vocal cords? Unless it was a spell-casting, time-travelling, magic book I doubted it.

  Selective Mutism. The book lay on my bed. Why did I mind so much? Bitter bubbles of anger and humiliation fizzed through my veins, frothing up into my brain. It was one thing to suffer from a condition making you a weird misfit, outcast, with no friends and no life. It was another thing to have somebody name it. To see it in black and white. A tiny part of me knew Eamonn meant to be kind. The rest thought I was a fool. That he was laughing at me along with everybody else. If he felt anything at all for me it was pity. I threw the book against my bedroom wall and the spine broke. I managed one word that day. It wasn’t a nice one.

  I like text messaging. And using email. However, the ability to communicate so quickly and easily without using my voice is one I try not to rely on too frequently. In my efforts to stay functional, and grow in confidence and courage, I occasionally bully myself into using the phone, or speaking to someone in person, even when a text message would do. In the past, when my throat has been tighter than usual for a few days, perhaps following a conversation with my mother when she has been particularly energetic in her insults, I have banned myself from using non-verbal communication. The threat of slipping back into my maze of silence still hovers in the deeper crannies of my brain, so I hack back the hedges with self-discipline and torture.

  I promised myself I would phone one M. Middleton on the list each day, using the cheap pay-as-you-go I bought the week before. But I couldn’t do it after a Friday spent on reception dealing with customers. Or Saturday, exhausted after making conversation with Valerie for the four hours it took us to clean the caravans. Sunday was Fire Night, and who wants to be interrupted by a strange person phoning you up with a load of questions on a Sunday evening anyway?