by Freya North
‘No,’ said Oriana thoughtfully. ‘No, not that.’ It had been a small wedding in Hawaii, after all. ‘It’s more to do with the fact that she really wants to come here. That’s why I feel bad.’
She was sitting at Orlando’s old desk, ‘doing homework’ as she liked to say. Malachy walked over to her, glancing at the drawings of Windward that she’d left for him all that time ago. The closest thing to a love letter he’d ever had, now framed and on the wall just above where she currently sat.
Malachy pulled up a stool. ‘Why do you feel bad that she’s coming here?’ He looked around. ‘Don’t you love this place? Do you want to redecorate or something? Is it shabby? Is that it? It looks pretty spruce to me, now that we have Maggie cleaning once a week.’
Oriana smiled at him, touched his arm. ‘This place is perfect.’ Why was he wearing his patch inside today? Did he realize?
‘Well then, why are you being mad and looking all forlorn?’
‘I lied.’ She shrugged and she said it so conversationally that Malachy was at a loss how to respond. ‘I was evasive and careless with the truth.’ Oriana took her pencil and put it behind his ear, then brushed her legs as if smoothing away crumbs. ‘Remember when I first came back – how I made out that my life in the United States was amazing?’ She paused. ‘Well, when I was out there, I spun this huge psychedelic web of intrigue and fibs around Windward.’ She shook her head at herself. ‘I made out it was all Julie Christie and Keef and Rod and lark after lark after lark.’
Malachy thought about it. ‘It was Ronnie too,’ he said. ‘And you were very special to Rod.’
‘I know. I know all that.’ Her voice was a little choked.
Malachy thought, I can help her. It’s my duty to help her.
‘Oriana,’ he said, ‘you’re not likely to say to a bunch of new friends that your father has a personality disorder and your mother’s psychotic and that something God-awful happened when you were a teenager.’
‘For years, I kind of put my entire childhood into fancy dress,’ she said quietly. ‘I layered all sorts of embellishment and disguise over it.’ She sighed. ‘They all wanted tales of my liberated upbringing. All the far-out hippy-dippy freedom I had.’
He took the pencil from behind his ear and twiddled it fast between finger and thumb so that the faceted sides disappeared and it appeared perfectly cylindrical. Life with Oriana was about smoothing those sharp edges for her, one by one, slowly and surely.
‘It wasn’t freedom, Oriana,’ he said quietly. ‘You were pretty much forgotten and had to fend for yourself.’ He took her hand. ‘That’s not liberation – that’s practically neglect. And it’s OK not to tell people about that part – even people you love as much as you love Ashlyn.’
‘It’s a bit dishonest,’ Oriana said.
Malachy shook his head. ‘You know why it’s all right not to tell? Why it’s fine to dress it up a little differently, or put a rainbow cloak around it?’ She looked so ashamed and it hurt his heart. ‘It’s OK because they were never part of it,’ he said. ‘It’s OK because the people who were with you then are still with you now. Me. Jed. Cat – Django. Lilac. We hold your past in our hands and we know it’s as precious as porcelain.’
Oriana looked up at Malachy.
‘It’s true,’ he said and he tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘It’s true. There’s no deceit in not telling everyone everything that ever happened to you.’
Oriana stepped away from the table and into Malachy’s arms.
‘You’re so wise.’
‘That makes me sound old.’
‘Well, how do you think Lilac feels?’
‘She loved her birthday cake – and the sing-song.’
‘I can’t believe she’s leaving Windward,’ Oriana said.
‘Nor me. I just can’t see Lilac in an old people’s home,’ Malachy said. He’d worried about it greatly since she’d told him of her plans – or rather, Rafe’s plans for her.
‘But she’ll be nearer her family,’ Oriana said. ‘And not so far that we can’t visit.’
‘I know,’ said Malachy, but he didn’t seem sure.
‘She’ll take her headphones and her remaining trinkets,’ said Oriana, ‘and wherever she goes, she’ll take a little Windward glitter with her.’
Rachel never came to Windward, though Oriana took to driving to Hathersage every couple of months. Bernard liked to give her little car the once-over – check the oil, the tyre pressure, top up the screenwash, hang a smiley scented strawberry on the rear-view mirror, pop a packet of Werther’s Originals in the cup holder. And, really, that’s why Oriana liked to go. She’d stand on the pavement while Bernard tinkered and they’d chat. Sometimes, they strolled round the block and had a quick smoke. Not often.
Malachy didn’t always accompany Oriana to Hathersage. When he had first seen Rachel again, after almost twenty years, he’d had to quell an insane urge to blast her for all the torment she’d caused him, never mind Oriana. He wanted to say – do you have any idea what your behaviour did to a young boy? How often I was unable to sleep? How I’d go to my parents and beg them to lock your door to the Corridor because I was scared I’d wake and find you ranting in my bedroom? How I’d slip out of our apartment at ungodly hours and run along the Corridor to check that your door was in fact unlocked, just in case Oriana needed to escape to ours?
He wanted to say to her, have you any idea how much I hated you for disturbing – and I mean disturbing – my family on countless occasions with your conceited lunacy and self-obsessed drama? He wanted to ask her – why couldn’t Oriana have lived with you in Hathersage after all? What was that all about? She’s your daughter. You didn’t step in to stop her being sent away. You never thought about her, only yourself.
But Malachy found he liked Bernard. He did have vague memories of him from the past but the reality was fresher, brighter, not least because Bernard’s affection for Oriana was palpable. Malachy liked to listen to them both witter on; Bernard asking her so many questions about her job and trying hard to understand the answers which tumbled from her in an effervescent stream like a can of shaken soda.
Just the once, early on, Malachy was able to orchestrate time alone with Rachel. He insisted on clearing the table, insisted Bernard and Oriana went through to the lounge to relax. Rachel was expecting Bernard to bring the dishes into the kitchen.
‘You’re not thinking of coming to Windward any time soon, are you.’ There was emphatically no question mark at the end of Malachy’s sentence and his voice was low and steady. He could sense her rising indignance. There was a wildness in her eyes and the colour rose from her neck but drained from her face in the way that he remembered only too vividly. But it didn’t upset him today. Today, he was the grown-up and he had control.
‘You’re not coming back to Windward at all,’ he said.
She looked affronted, victimized.
‘Give over, Rachel,’ Malachy had said, seeing right through her. ‘Windward is Oriana’s home. This is her dance.’
Ashlyn and Eric spent a glorious week of their honeymoon at Windward. Ashlyn seemed to know the place as soon as she arrived. Robin was on spectacular form swearing at canvases and telling his daughter he wasn’t an exhibit for bloody Yanks to gawp at – much to Ashlyn’s delight. There were the traditional local well-dressings to see and Chatsworth to visit – which required much persuasion that no, Ashlyn, this wasn’t built for a movie. They all came to meet the honeymooners: Jed, Cat, Ben, even Django resplendent in something smock-like from Guatemala. The ballroom. The balcony. The art inside and out. The cedar tree and the cellar and the long, legendary Corridor. When Ashlyn and Eric returned to the United States, they took with them tales and details that corroborated all of Oriana’s stories about Windward.
‘Thanks for being such a great host,’ Oriana said to Malachy.
‘It was a pleasure,’ he said. ‘Anyway, we’ll honeymoon in the States and get our own back.’
Oriana smi
led to herself. It wasn’t the first time he’d alluded to such things but she’d bide her time and wait for him to find the right moment. He flopped down onto the sofa and she cosied up next to him. He ran strands of her hair through his fingers, thinking.
‘I love our life,’ he said.
‘I do too,’ she replied.
That night, for the first time since he couldn’t remember when, Malachy had the dream again. In the woods, with Jed – as they are now but in their teenage bodies. It’s dusk. Here’s the rabbit. He’s running off, the bugger. Stopping now, turning and facing Malachy. Delicate eyes and soft silver pelt. His lope-long ears rigid and erect as though he’s flicking Malachy the ‘V’.
Where’s the gun? Quick! Look at the little sod, he’s stock-still. The perfect target.
Where’s the gun?
And where’s Jed?
Jed’s not there.
‘Malachy?’
But Oriana is.
She’s lying in the grass next to him, arm against arm, sun on their backs, blades of grass tickling their legs.
‘Bless him!’ Oriana whispers to Malachy as they look at the rabbit and the rabbit looks at them. Looks at them for a long time before skittering off and away.
There is no gun.
There is only Oriana.
‘Malachy,’ she is saying. ‘Malachy.’
He woke.
Oriana was stroking his face, saying his name. ‘You were dreaming,’ she said. ‘You OK?’
Disorientated, Malachy sat up. ‘I’m fine.’
He put the light on and smiled at her. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. He laughed a little. He leant over and kissed her.
‘Go back to sleep,’ he said. And he left the bed, pulling on clothes in a hurry.
‘Where are you going?’ Oriana asked. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’
‘I’m going to finish my novel,’ said Malachy. ‘The ending’s just come to me.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Sincerest thanks to Team North – especially my wonderful agent Jonathan Lloyd and my talented editor Lynne Drew. Grateful thanks to the supporting crews at Curtis Brown Ltd (especially Lucia Rae) and HarperCollins. Mary Chamberlain and your fine-tooth comb – thank you.
In terms of research for this novel, my gratitude goes to Professor Anthony Bron, Piers Hernu, Immy de Cordova, also the Pursers and Mark Daniels at Marden Hill.
I’m so grateful to my lovely readers for the banter on Twitter and Facebook. You’re such a loyal and warm bunch – the extended family of my characters. Your support is extremely precious to me – thank you all.
On the home front, the book just wouldn’t have been finished were it not for my friends and family. The Pegg People, the Pottery Ladies, The Cucumber Girls, J6 Mums – you’re very dear to me, thank you. Ma and Pa – as ever, heartfelt thanks.
My much cherished coven: Jo Smith, Maureen Pegg, Amanda Abbington, Mel Bartram, Jane Sutcliffe, Leslie Dunn, Sarah Henderson, Kirsty Jones, Clare Griffin and Lucy Smouha – I just really, really love you.
Most of all though, for their patience, computer skills, coffee-making and bath-running abilities, noise, energy, bonkers sense of humour, general craziness and bottomless pit of affection – my deepest gratitude goes to my beautiful children Felix and Georgia.
In memory of Liz Berney 1968 – 2005
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BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Sally
Chloë
Polly
Cat
Fen
Pip
Love Rules
Home Truths
Pillow Talk
Secrets
Chances
Rumours
COPYRIGHT
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014
Copyright © Freya North 2014
‘The Waste Land’ © Estate of T.S. Eliot printed with permission of Faber & Faber Ltd.
Don’t You Cry
Words & Music by Richard Hawley
© Copyright 2009 Universal Music Publishing MGB Limited
Universal Music Publishing MGB Limited
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Used by permission of Music Sales Limited.
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Cover photograph © Craig Fordham
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A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © May/June 2014 ISBN: 9780007507696
Version: 2014-06-12
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