by Rebecca Bryn
‘Hence having to be on time, every Friday, and wearing a red dress or he gets upset?’
‘You wouldn’t believe how upset. There’s no reasoning with him. Makes everyone’s life hell, here, and Dad has to cope with him alone when he gets home. My last boyfriend couldn’t cope with him, either. Him leaving me didn’t help Christian’s condition. ’ She looked at him in surprise. ‘How…’
‘The foster-sister who dances like this?’ He raised his arms in a parody of Alana’s sculpture drawing. ‘She has cerebral palsy. My adopted brother, Kenny, has Downs’ syndrome. They both need routine in their lives.’
‘You understand.’ The relief in her voice was palpable.
‘Mum and her waif and strays. Most of her foster children over the years have been kids with disabilities. Respite care, mostly, but Kenny was abandoned. I learned not to judge them at an early age.’
‘It wasn’t so hard for Dad when I lived at home, but he insisted I moved out and had my own life. Christian is very demanding. So we got him into here two full days and two half-days. I visit home when I can but Fridays are sacrosanct. I check he’s settled and report back to Dad. He worries…’
‘I know what commitment it takes. My parents…’
‘There he is. Christian!’
A teenage boy sat strapped into a wheelchair. He waved oddly and his face lit with a smile.
Maddy hurried across the room and hugged him. ‘This is Greg.’
‘I’m Maddy’s friend. Can I sit here, Christian?’
‘Maddy sit here.’ Christian fingered Maddy’s dress but ignored him. ‘Red dress… birthday. I bought.’
‘You did. I like it very much. Christian, say hello to Greg.’
‘Don’t like Greg.’
‘He’s a friend.’
‘Don’t like Greg.’
‘I like, Greg, Christian. Greg’s a good guy.’
He remained standing. ‘I like Maddy’s red dress too. I like Maddy. I want to come and see you on Fridays, with Maddy. I can bring my guitar and sing to you, if you like.’
Christian smiled.
‘Can I sit there, Christian?’
‘You sing.’
‘Now?’
‘Sing Row the Boat.’
Maddy laughed. ‘You said you loved me, Greg.’
‘So I did. You’ll have to sing with me, Christian. Maddy, too. I might forget the words.’
Maddy kissed him full on the lips. ‘Thank you, Greg.’ She winked at Christian.
Christian grinned widely. ‘You’ll have babies, now. You’ll have to get married.’
‘If she’ll have me. Maddy?’
‘Of course I will, you idiot.’
***
Greg slid beneath the duvet and turned towards Maddy. They were both on a high: Friday Night Live had gone down a storm, and tonight Maddy would make his dreams come true. His hand caressed her shoulder: he kissed her neck, letting his lips wander, anxious not to rush her and spoil the moment. ‘You are sure you want this?’
‘I love you.’
His lips reached her shoulder and the tattoo he’d glimpsed before. ‘Is this a Viking longboat?’
She smiled, her blue eyes teasing. ‘Love me, Greg.’
The swell of her breast tempted. ‘I need to know if this William Eiriksson’s the sort of chap I need to ask permission of. I’m going to marry his daughter, after all. When do I get to meet him?’
She smothered his question with her lips. ‘Love me.’
His tongue found a nipple and Maddy moaned. He wanted her, but something niggled: Maddy was being evasive. ‘Why is he Eiriksson when you’re Wilder?’
‘For goodness sake, Greg. Do you need to vet my entire family before you make love to me?’
‘It’s just… You’ve never spoken about your background. You know all my darkest secrets… all about Nerys, and I know nothing about you. I fell in love with a girl with a Norwegian hat and blue eyes. I want to love the whole Maddy, warts and all.’
‘I don’t have warts.’
‘You have a tattoo of a Viking longboat.’
Maddy sighed. ‘My mother was Norwegian.’
‘And you father?’
‘Icelandic.’
‘So you’re Norselandic, or Icewegian.’
‘And you’re infuriating.’ She ran a finger down his chest. ‘Love me.’
‘So why aren’t you called Eiriksson?’
‘Drop it, Greg.’ Her tone was serious now.
‘We shouldn’t have secrets. Of course, Nordic surnames work differently. You should be Williamson… no, Williamsdotter, or something.’
Maddy turned away from him. ‘Why can’t you just accept me for who I am?’
‘But I don’t know who you are, do I? Wilder… Williamson. Not that William is an Icelandic name… It should be Wilhelm or Vill. Vilhelm…’
‘Greg, please… I wanted to tell you.’
‘Tell me what? You should be Maddy Vilhelmsdotter?’
She turned to face him, her blue eyes bright with tears. ‘You said it yourself. What a mouthful.’
‘Hilda… how could I be so thick? You’re Mundhildur Vilhelmsdóttir. You wrote that article about satanic rituals… and you swore you hadn’t. You lied to me, Maddy.’
‘I’m sorry, Greg.’
‘Sorry?’ He leapt out of bed and grabbed his clothes. ‘All this… digging into my family history when you knew I didn’t want you to, getting close, making me love you… all this while, just to get your fucking scoop.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Alana paced across the room, Tony’s words had made her feel no better: seeing Elin’s coffin lowered into the ground had made her feel worse. She knew who was responsible for Elin’s suicide, whatever he’d said. Her coming into the village, their argument, had been both the catalyst and the cause.
She stared at an unfinished painting, unable to see how to develop it. The sculptures completed, a huge vacuum had been left in her daily activities. Without a valid excuse not to, and her inspiration for painting failing, the slate floor had been washed and oiled until it shone. She’d dusted every surface and tidied every corner.
Tony had taken the last of the rubble to the local tip for her, before he’d headed home, and the cleaning since had helped occupy her mind while she’d waited for the results of Elin’s inquest and the funeral.
She’d e-mailed photographs of two of the sculptures to Maddy, a taster for the article she’d promised, but hadn’t heard back from her. She’d kept her hands busy, but her mind had been over and over everything that had happened in the last few months.
She paused to stare across the green. The village was deserted now that Easter was over and seemed as if it were waiting, hands over ears, for the next blow to strike. She paced the room again, anxious for something, anything, to happen. She punched in Maddy’s number. ‘Hi, Maddy. Alana.’
‘Is Greg with you?’
‘No. Why?’
‘We had a row. He’s not answering his phone.’
‘Why would he come here?’
‘Because… Alana, I’ve done something really stupid.’
‘Tell.’
‘I trusted Greg. He promised.’ Maddy’s voice choked.
‘Maddy, what’s wrong? What’s he done?’
‘I really love him, Alana, and I’ve ruined everything. I published an article. It made the front page. He thinks I used him… to get a story.’
‘This story… what was it about?’
‘The story about satanic rituals… did you see it?’
‘Yes, I did. That was you?’
‘Yes. I’m so sorry.’
‘Maddy… that was insensitive at best. How did you think it would make us feel? That was Greg’s sister. And Cadi. You think we want to think about that sort of thing. You think things aren’t bad enough losing them?’
‘I said I was sorry.’ Maddy’s voice was small, tearful. ‘I told him sometimes reporters have to use sensationalism to get reader
s interested. I wanted to get the truth across, as far as I know it. An inside story, a new angle. I didn’t think…’
She sighed. ‘He’ll get over it, Maddy. It’s already yesterday’s news. I know he loves you, too.’
‘You think so?’
It had seemed the right thing to say. She changed the subject. ‘Did you get my e-mail?’
‘Yes, I’ve written a piece for the Sunday arts pages. All I need is a date and place.’
‘Did you include Harry John? He’s been very supportive, sponsoring me.’
‘Harry John. I’ve give him a mention. Alana, if Greg shows up…’
‘I’ll tell him you’re sorry. Don’t worry. He won’t stay mad with you for long. I’ll text you that date, soonest.’
She ended the call and rang the local clerk to the council. Permission had been granted. Now, at last, she could place the mock-up on the green. She rang the Arts Council and Harry John, and arranged for an unveiling on Monday afternoon, and then texted Maddy with the date and time.
That gave her the weekend to erect the stones. She wrenched open the shed door. Handles of what might prove to be a wheelbarrow stuck out of a stack of seed boxes and flower pots. She stacked the pots and boxes neatly by the shed wall, and turned back for more. A huge hairy spider fled across her hands. She shook it away with a shudder. Mice, she could handle, snakes, rats even, but spiders gave her the creeps.
She backed out of the shed grasping the handles of what had once been a quality wheelbarrow. She assessed its strength. The frame wasn’t too bad, if it had a bit of air in the tyre. She discarded the barrow reluctantly: she’d never lift the sculptures into it. She needed something flat to roll them on to. Her ancestors had moved the huge bluestones hundreds of miles to Stonehenge for its capstones. Surely she could manage a few miserable lumps of rock twenty yards.
She rummaged around the back of the shed and found an oblong of thick plywood. ‘The Haggard Studio Gallery. Siân had a gallery here, once?’ The sign had holes in it at one edge where it had been bolted to a post. ‘Rope. We need rope. Nylon rope, thin but strong.’
A short piece, frayed at the ends, hung on a nail. She fashioned a rough sled, wrapped the first sculpture in several layers of bubble-wrap and rolled it carefully onto the board.
She straightened. ‘Spade.’
‘What for?’
She jumped at the voice. She hadn’t heard footsteps. ‘Greg?’
He looked bemused. ‘Do you always talk to yourself?’
‘Quite a lot. It comes of living alone.’
‘So, why the spade? Can I help?’
‘The sculptures need setting into the green, like standing stones.’
‘You want me to dig holes?’
‘You offered to help.’ She found Siân’s garden spade, and hefted a small pick. ‘In case the green is as stony as the garden.’
She took the tools and opened the garden gate. Together they hauled the first stone onto the green. She marked out a circle, using string and a peg, and placed rocks from her hedge-bank where she wanted the sculptures to stand, pacing out the distances between them, and grouping the four that spelt Cadi, her real name, closer together. She pushed away a pang of guilt at what she knew, what she should have told Greg, but the ancients would have been proud of her, even if her stone circle would be a pale shadow of Stonehenge or Cerrig o’ Tyr.
***
Evening saw half the sculptures in place, and a neat pile of soil and turf by her garden wall. Exhausted, she picked up the spade and headed for the cottage, Greg following behind with the pick and sled.
She defrosted two meals-for-one. She couldn’t avoid the question any longer. ‘So, what happened with you and Maddy? Why are you here and not sorting it with her?’
‘You’ve spoken to her?’
‘I phoned her about the photos I sent. She said you’d had a row. Something about an article.’ She waited for Greg to give his side of the story.
‘She used me, Alana.’ His voice wobbled. ‘I opened my heart to her, let her expose my past… Nerys, everything. I trusted her.’
‘That’s what she said about you. She’d trusted you. Why did she say that?’
‘Who knows why Maddy says anything? The girl’s… infuriating. She lied to me about writing that article. Did she tell you that?’
‘Not that she’d lied.’
‘She kept digging even when I told her I didn’t want to know… all for a story.’
‘There are worse things in life than unwelcome media interest.’ Her tone was less than sympathetic. ‘You have no idea…’
The hurt in his eyes turned to concern. ‘What’s happened? Alana?’
She couldn’t explain Elin without telling him who she really was. Elin, Mum, Tony, Mike: it had all gone wrong. Brown eyes held hers. Greg thumbed a stray tear from her beneath her eye. His lips were soft, his cheek rough with stubble. Her heart thudded in her chest. He released her at last.
‘Maddy…’
‘I don’t want to talk about Maddy. We’re over.’
She pulled away. ‘I…’
‘You and me… we have a connection, don’t we?’
She couldn’t deny it, but lies and murder weren’t a basis for love, and Greg was hurting. ‘I feel it too. Greg, I like you. I really like you, but I can’t have a relationship, not with you. You and Maddy have a connection, too. Don’t let one ill-considered article ruin it. Your music…’
‘Music isn’t everything.’
‘Greg. I can’t give you what you want, not now, maybe not ever. Don’t lose Maddy for someone you can’t have.’
There was confusion in those brown eyes, like the confusion she’d seen in Tony’s. ‘I know you feel something for me.’
If he knew the truth, he’d hate her. ‘I have my freedom, freedom to paint and sculpt, and live how and where I choose. How many people can say that? I may not be free to live this way much longer. I have to make the most of the time I have.’ Why did he have to look at her with puppy-dog eyes? ‘You don’t know me, Greg. I’m not the person you think I am.’
‘I want to know you, if you’ll let me.’
Maddy faded from her mind. Tony would never make love to her again without seeing her with Mike: she could sacrifice her future agonising over what would never be. Mum, Dad and Saffy were tomorrow’s problem, and Nerys might be as dead as Elin for all they knew. The words Greg and psychopath didn’t belong in the same sentence. ‘I want to know you, too.’
***
Alana’s body pressed close to Greg’s, his muscles tense against her. Her lips brushed his ear as he unzipped his fly. It had been so long, she ached for love. ‘We shouldn’t be doing this.’ She unclasped her bra and let it slip to the bedroom floor.
I know.’ His hand cupped her breast. ‘You’re so beautiful.’
‘Maddy loves you.’
‘You talk too much.’ His mouth smothered her retort.
Muscles spasmed. This wasn’t Mike. She fought down panic: forced her muscles to relax. This was her body, freely given: comfort given and received. ‘You and me… no strings, right? I don’t love you. This is just a one-nighter.’ She wasn’t the person Tony thought she was, either.
‘Right… I don’t love you, either.’ His lips found a nipple. ‘Just sex. Wonderful, glorious sex.’
‘Maddy need never know.’
Lips brushed her stomach and travelled downwards making her tingle with longing. ‘Who’s Maddy?’
He covered her with his body, his erection hard against her thigh. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. ‘The girl you love?’
Greg sighed, a deep shuddering sigh. ‘This is a terrible mistake, isn’t it? You’re right. I do still love her.’ He sat up, his erection softening. ‘But how can I ever trust her again?’
She covered herself with the duvet and rested her head on Greg’s shoulder. ‘Did I tell you about Tony?’
‘No.’
‘We were going to be married. His brother raped
me at our engagement party. I had his child, Saffy. She lives with my mother.’
‘I had no idea. And Tony?’
‘He’s finding it hard to accept.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Greg, I lost the man I love and it hurts. Every day, it hurts. Don’t lose Maddy.’
‘I’ll talk to her. Maybe we can work something out. Maybe she can explain what she did.’
She threw on her dressing gown. ‘I’ve something to show you.’ He followed her down the stairs and she pulled out the painting Mike had inspired. ‘See this?’
‘It’s… not sure what the word is, apocalyptic?’
‘It’s how I felt. The black is hatred, the white loneliness, blue is pain, red is Mike’s blood. Mike is Tony’s brother... The scratches I did with my fingernails.’
‘And the yellow?’
‘That small nugget of hope I hold close to my heart. The thing that keeps me going. I was letting out stuff that had been locked away for a couple of years. It’s passion, Greg. That’s what Maddy has. She’s passionate about journalism, about the truth. She’s also impetuous. She has to write it down and put it out there. She can’t keep it in, any more than I can help expressing my feelings in my paintings.’
‘I think I know what you mean. Maddy lost her mum. It means a lot to her that I find mine. That’s why she pushed me. I wrote a song for her. I haven’t played it to her yet. I’ve been trying to get it right.’ He touched a hand to his heart. ‘Let out what’s in here.’
‘We can only be the people we are. We have to be true to ourselves. If you love Maddy, then you have to love her for who she is.’
‘Warts and all?’
‘Yep.’
‘I let her down, didn’t I? I promised I’d always love her, no matter what.’
‘Then go home and forgive her.’
‘Do you think she’ll forgive me?’
‘I know she will.’ She kissed Greg’s cheek. ‘You can be such an idiot, sometimes.’
He laughed. ‘That’s what Maddy said.’ He took hold of her hands and stroked the backs of them gently with his thumbs. ‘Tony was be a fool to let you go.’
‘I didn’t give him much choice. When I found I was pregnant, I left him. I couldn’t tell him the truth, not then. It was complicated. He only found out, recently.’
