by Julie Corbin
‘Just go back to sleep,’ I tell her, settling her back at my side.
‘But what’s the spirit world and what did it say?’ she asks.
‘Nothing.’ I glare at Orla.
She glares back. ‘Spoilsport,’ she says.
2
Next day I stay in bed until almost seven, hugging into Paul’s back, lingering in the intimacy of the night before. After Orla’s call, I was watchful and anxious, but by the time I fell asleep, the phone call was pushed to the back of my mind. As soon as the game of Scrabble was over and Ed went through to organise himself for bed, I told Paul about finding out that Ella was on the pill. His reaction was, as I expected, more measured and less fearful than mine. He reminded me that she is, after all, being responsible and is days away from turning sixteen: not quite an adult but most definitely not a child. Nothing would be gained by taking a hard line but something could be gained by quietly chatting about how she is feeling and what her plans might be. We agreed that I would speak to her after school, including Daisy in the conversation so that Ella doesn’t feel like I’m picking on her.
Then the girls came home from their evenings out and we all retired to bed. Paul and I lay side by side talking about the possibility of a sabbatical in Australia. For the last fourteen years, Paul has been professor of marine biology at St Andrews University but he is due some research time and has applied for a position at the University of Melbourne. Fingers crossed he will be successful and in two months’ time we will up sticks and move to Victoria. Paul’s sister and family have lived there for over fifteen years and are looking forward to welcoming us all.
Paul and I spent time planning and imagining where we’ll live and how we’ll enjoy the holidays – scuba diving or horse riding? The Barrier Reef or the Blue Mountains? – and then, moments later, we were making love, the sort of married sex that takes ten minutes but leaves behind a residue of sweetness that endures for days.
Daisy is out of bed first and then I follow, prepare breakfast and see them all out of the door before I set off myself. I’m lucky. I can walk to work. I call on Murphy and walk to the end of our street and down to the waterfront. The harbour is empty this morning and the tide is going out. The fishing boats have already left for the deeper waters of the North Sea where they catch shellfish and crabs. The harbour wall stretches for over two hundred yards; its top is almost four feet thick and I walk along the inside edge of it, enjoying the strength of the wind that comes in off the sea and tries to blow me backward. Every so often Murphy finds a smell irresistible and stops for a longer sniff and I turn around to look back at our house. It’s painted a duck-egg blue and sits basking in the summer sunshine. The front garden could do with some tidying up and the gravel driveway spills on to the road but to me it looks perfect.
When the wall ends, I drop back down on to a single-track road with yellow gorse on one side and a sandy beach on the other. The sea is grey and heavy and it moves rhythmically beside me like a timeless, soothing companion. I breathe in a lungful of salty air then look up to the sky where clouds scud across the blue towards the far horizon.
I love the weather here. It isn’t a backdrop to what’s really happening, it’s the main event. Sometimes it runs through all four seasons in a day as if auditioning for a part in God’s play. Confused tourists climb in and then out of their macs, take sweaters off, remark at the heat from the sun, then twenty minutes later rummage in rucksacks to find layers to cover up their goose bumps.
The water never grows warm here. It just doesn’t. That makes wetsuits a great invention. We never had them when we were young and as children we would run into the sea, pull our arms into ourselves, shriek, dance in the waves, hopping from one frozen foot to the other. But what we always have is wind and already some windsurfers are about a hundred yards from the shore; their sails point upward, slashes of primary colours run across the white cloth like the brushstrokes on a child’s painting.
It’s an optimistic sky and I feel like an optimistic me. Thoughts chase around my head – Orla, Ella, Ed, a triumvirate of worries – but I don’t hang on to them. Instead I enjoy the walk, one foot in front of the other, Murphy at my heels and the sea breeze buffing my cheeks.
As I turn the last corner I see Monica placing her briefcase and jacket into the boot of her car. I slow my steps to a dawdle. It’s cowardly, I know, but I hope she might be in the driving seat and away before I am close enough for conversation.
Monica is one of those women who illuminates my own inadequacies. She is a successful and popular GP. She dresses beautifully: silk blouses and well-tailored suits. She does Pilates, she runs marathons, she plays tennis and golf. She is clear, crystal clear, about what she has and what she wants. She is organised. Her children never forget their lunch boxes or PE kit and homework is always completed on time. And she isn’t confused about how to bring them up. She knows exactly what they need: love, guidance and opportunities. She doesn’t drink more than one glass of wine in an evening, she limits coffee to two cups a day and she always chooses the low-fat muffin.
We have a long history together, beginning in primary school when I stood, brand new and alone, in my new red pinafore, pulling at the white, starched collar around my neck. It was noisy. Boys jostled and pushed into the queue. My tummy hurt and I didn’t like the look of the school dinners – lumpy mashed potatoes, cabbage that made me shiver inside my skin and an enormous metal container of oily sardines.
I wanted to cry. Monica made room beside her on the bench. She patted the space and gestured for me to sit next to her. I felt gratitude swell up through my chest and empty on to my face in a grateful smile. Then she told me that my shoes needed cleaning and I should make sure I did it that evening. Perhaps I even needed new ones?
That’s Monica. What she gives with one hand she takes away with the other.
I see that she isn’t in any hurry this morning. In fact she’s waiting for me. As I draw close she turns to me, smiling into the sun. ‘Hi, Grace. Congratulations are in order, I hear.’
I shake my head. ‘How come?’
‘Euan tells me you have another commission?’
‘Oh, that.’ I nod like I’m just remembering. ‘Margie Campbell.’
‘Yes, Margie.’ She runs a hand over the lavender hedge. Murphy thinks she’s about to pat him and moves in, his tail wagging. She pushes him aside and dead-heads the lavender with quick, deft strokes. ‘She’s a great one, Margie. Has a real sense of community. She likes to support local artists.’ She looks up at me. ‘For better or worse.’
‘Mmm. She does.’ I smile straight back at her.
‘Tom’s off school today. He was sick last night so he’s upstairs in bed.’ She opens her car door. ‘Don’t let Euan forget about him.’
‘I won’t.’
‘And if he perks up have Euan remind him that he hasn’t done his piano practice.’
‘Okay.’ I open the gate and walk through it.
‘And the window cleaner will be here around eleven. His money is on the kitchen counter.’
I wave back over my shoulder and walk around the side of their house. It’s built of huge, solid bricks of grey granite that have silver- and gold-coloured seams running through. It’s the type of stone that weathers well and the climbing roses complete the picture of an ideal country house.
I follow the winding path of stepping-stones to the bottom of the garden. Euan is an architect and he and I share a workspace. He designed it himself, soon after they moved back from London. The cabin is modern, built from Scandinavian pine, and is all soft angles. The roof is made from layers of cedar shingles that blend in with the surrounding trees and it’s pitched at an angle allowing five huge Velux windows to draw light from the sky into the rooms. There are two rooms: one we work in and the other is a guest bedroom with double bed and en suite bathroom.
I can see Euan through the side window as I walk towards the door. He is working on a barn conversion for one of the local solicit
ors and is standing in front of his drawing board. He’s wearing a T-shirt with Not now I’m busy written across the front of it, jeans and a pair of trainers.
I push open the door. Murphy barks and runs over to Euan, launching himself up on to his chest. Euan wrestles him back to the ground, rubbing his ears from side to side until Murphy barks again. Meanwhile Euan’s dog Muffin has come over to me. She is also a Labrador, a gentler, calmer version of Murphy and she pushes a ragged slipper into my hand. I take it from her and throw it across the room. She runs for it and Murphy joins her, then they settle down into their dog bed in the corner, resting their heads on each other’s back.
Euan is swinging his arms in circles like an athlete warming up. ‘Good walk over?’
I nod. ‘It’s the best sort of day out there. So Tom’s not well?’ I take off my jacket.
‘Temperature, headache, up all night vomiting. What can I say?’ He rubs both hands over his face. ‘He’s thirteen. I thought we were past all that.’
‘What time did you start work?’ I ask him.
‘About six.’ He sits down. ‘Any more calls from Orla?’
I shake my head. ‘I’ve been thinking on the walk over here. What’s the worry?’ I hang my jacket on the stand and look to him for confirmation. His face is noncommittal. ‘Why would she want to rock any boats? What could she possibly have to gain?’ I check the water level in the kettle then press the switch to on. ‘What motive could she have for digging up the past? I mean really?’ I let out a breath. ‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’
‘I don’t think she’ll ring again.’ I look at him and he raises his eyebrows, waits. ‘But if she does, I’m going to make it clear that I don’t want to hear from her. We’re grown-up women for God’s sake. What’s she going to do? Harass me? Stalk me? Shout our secret from the rooftops?’ I stop ranting, sit down and look straight ahead. ‘You know what? I think I overreacted.’
‘Well . . .’ Euan looks doubtful.
‘No, really, I do. She’s probably embarrassed by the whole thing and—’
He cuts in. ‘She was never that easily embarrassed.’
‘She might have changed.’
‘Have you? Have I?’
‘Changed?’ I think about it. ‘Yes . . . and no.’
‘Don’t be fooled by her. You know what she’s capable of.’
I think back to some of the lies she told and the people she hurt and I give an involuntary shiver. ‘Do you think she’s intending to come back to the village?’ I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘Do you think she’s going to say something about Rose?’
‘I don’t know.’ His face is concerned. ‘But unless she’s had a personality transplant, I think that anything is possible.’
It’s not what I want to hear and I slump back in my seat. ‘So what should I do?’
‘Act friendly. Find out what she wants.’
‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?’
‘Exactly.’
‘You really think she might be my enemy?’
‘Think about it. Think about how she used to behave.’
I think about it. ‘She wasn’t all bad.’
‘She had you dancing to her tune.’
‘Not always,’ I say slowly. ‘Sometimes it felt like a tug of war between the two of—’
The boards in the hall creak and we both look towards them. Somehow Tom has managed to come down the garden and through the door without either of us noticing. His feet are bare and he’s scratching his crotch.
‘Grace, I’m not well.’
‘Poor you.’ I give him a sympathetic look. ‘Feeling rotten still?’
‘I’m a bit better.’ He squints at me. ‘It’s too sunny outside.’
‘Spoken like a true Scotsman! Do you want to sleep down here?’
‘Is that okay, Dad? It’s lonely in the house.’
‘Sure.’ Euan claps him on the back and I walk him through to the bedroom. The bed is already made up and I pull back the covers.
‘Climb in, laddie,’ I say, adopting a nurse’s jollity. ‘Sleep is the best medicine.’
‘It’s a shame this bed never gets used.’ He throws himself on to it, grabs a pillow to hug. ‘Whenever we have guests they always sleep up at the house. I’m hoping Dad’s going to let me have the cabin as a bachelor pad when I’m eighteen. There’s enough light for him to work in the two rooms at the top of the house.’ He opens one eye. ‘And you too, Grace. You see, I’ll be needing my own space by then because I’ll be coming in late and stuff like that.’
‘You might find Sarah trying to beat you to it, Tom. She has two years on you.’
‘She’s not going to hang around at home. She’ll be straight off to uni.’ He gives a yawn. ‘Mum gets on her nerves.’
‘Well, being a mother isn’t easy,’ I say, tucking the covers around him. I think of Ella and an extra weight is added to my chest as I breathe in. ‘Sometimes you can’t do right for doing wrong.’
‘I feel really hungry.’
‘It’s a bit soon for food. I’ll make you some lunch when you wake, I promise.’
‘Thanks, Grace. You’re wicked.’
I stroke the top of his hair flat. His lashes are long and rest on the crest of his cheeks, freckles scatter across his nose and his mouth is wide and tilts upward in a permanent smile. He looks so much like Euan did at thirteen that it makes my heart ache.
I arrive home after the girls. They are in the living room. Ella is lying on her front on the sofa, her eyes closed, her face resting sideways on a textbook. One hand hangs down near the floor and reaches for Murphy as he pushes into the room ahead of me; the other is twisting her hair around her index finger. Daisy sits sideways in one of the easy chairs, her legs dangling over the end of the armrest, a science book on her lap, and when I come into the room she looks up at me.
‘Mum, did you know that a chemist called Antoine Lavoisier was guillotined during the French revolution and he told friends that he would keep blinking for as long as possible after being killed?’ She looks back at the book. ‘His last blink was fifteen seconds after decapitation.’
‘Astonishing!’ I smile. ‘Painful too, I should imagine.’ I rub my hands together. ‘Changing the subject, girls! I thought this might be a good time for the three of us to have a chat.’
‘Sure.’ Daisy closes her book.
‘Ella, can we have a chat?’
She lifts herself up on to one elbow and frowns up at me. ‘I’m doing some revision.’
‘I see that.’ I nod encouragement. ‘But perhaps you could just leave it for five minutes or so. Could you?’
She gives a laboured sigh and hauls herself up into a sitting position. ‘If this is about the state of my room then I’ll tidy it up at the weekend. I don’t need a whole lecture about it.’
‘No, it wasn’t about that,’ I say, sitting on the arm of the chair. ‘It was more about boyfriends. You know, like you and Jamie and what your intentions might be.’
‘Oh, Jesus! You have to be kidding.’ She stands up and folds her arms across her chest. She is wearing jeans that are frayed around her feet. Murphy puts out a paw to try to catch the threads dragging on the floor. ‘I’m not about to listen to you giving me advice on boys.’
‘Please, Ella.’ I hold out my hands, palms upward. ‘Please just hear me out.’
She laughs. It’s a derisory snigger that sets my teeth on edge. ‘I bet you were a sweet little virgin until you were eighteen. What could you possibly have to tell us about boys?’
‘I may have been a little backward at coming forward where boys were concerned but I’ll have you—’ I bite my tongue and take a breath, remind myself that this isn’t about me and I need to get past Ella’s antipathy and reason with her. ‘The point is, Ella, that you’re growing up fast and . . .’ I pause, try to find the right words.
‘And?’
‘And it isn’t always a good idea to rush the process,’ I say. ‘Sometimes we
want to be grown up before our time and that’s when we might get into trouble.’
‘We? Who’s we?’ she snaps back.
‘You, Ella. You.’ I stand up alongside her. It doesn’t particularly help – she is after all taller than me – but it gives me the opportunity to pace. ‘I know that you don’t want to be spoken to like this but the fact is that you are only fifteen.’
‘Sixteen on Saturday,’ she points out. ‘We’re having a party, remember?’
‘The fact is,’ I continue, my voice sharpening, ‘you are my daughter living in my house and I would like you to behave like any decent girl should.’
Daisy shifts on her seat and starts to click her tongue on the roof of her mouth.
It distracts Ella, but only for a second and when she looks back at me it’s with a brittle stare that leaves me in no doubt that I am standing on ground that is tilting and at any moment I’m about to slide. ‘You’ve been snooping in my room.’
‘I have been in your room but I don’t believe I was snooping.’ I watch her face move from incredulous through hurt and then anger. ‘You’re my daughter and I love you. All I want is what’s best for you.’
She’s still glaring at me when the phone rings and Daisy jumps up to answer it.
‘Time out, you two,’ Daisy says, holding the phone out to me. ‘Mum, it’s for you.’
I whisper, ‘Who is it?’
She shrugs and I look back at Ella. ‘We’ll talk more later?’
She doesn’t answer. She throws me one last filthy look and then I watch her retreating back and hear her feet hammering on the stairs as she goes up to her room.
I take the phone from Daisy’s outstretched hand. ‘Hello?’ I say.
‘Your daughter sounds nice.’
Hearing Orla’s voice again makes my stomach tighten and all my earlier resolve evaporates quicker than drops of water on a hot griddle.
‘Grace?’
I hang up and, taking the phone with me, walk through the kitchen and down the three steps into the utility room. Within seconds it’s ringing again. I don’t answer. I turn the ringer off and watch the display flash like a beating pulse and then stop. I stand with my arms folded and wait. Within seconds the display is flashing again until the call times out. The cycle is repeated several times and it becomes obvious that she isn’t going to stop. When the pulse starts up for the tenth time I answer it.
