by Julie Corbin
‘Reparation . . .’ She thinks for a bit. ‘Redemption.’
‘Can redemption be healing when others are hurt by it?’
She leaves his question to hang in the air until it grows heavy around our heads. Seconds tick by and I find it increasingly difficult to breathe in.
‘Am I missing something here?’ Callum smiles uncertainly at them but isn’t able to catch their eyes. They are staring at one another as if to look away will mean defeat. ‘When did it start to get serious?’
‘Callum, I think the DJ needs a strong arm to help him with some boxes,’ I say, finding my voice at last.
‘That’ll be me then.’ He stuffs his mouth with crisps and heads for the door. ‘Back in a mo.’
‘Twenty-four years have gone by, Orla. We’re not the people we were. If you carry out your threat you’ll not only ruin Grace’s life but you’ll take her family down too. Can you live with that on your conscience?’
The only sound in the room is the fan in the corner of the kitchen. Wind is blowing in from the outside and the blades are flapping backward and forward. Finally, her eyes tilt and meet mine. ‘Still your knight in shining armour?’
I don’t answer.
Her mouth twitches and she bites her lip, looks at her feet, points one foot, then the other and starts to revolve her right ankle as if warming up for exercise. Then she meets his eyes again. It’s a look that says, do you really want to take me on? Euan doesn’t falter. He stares right back at her and I love him for it.
‘So what’s to be done, Euan? What’s to be done?’
I jump in: ‘You leave. You walk through that door and never come back.’
‘But I’ve only just got here.’
‘This is my daughters’ party that you’re gatecrashing.’
‘Daisy said there isn’t a problem with me being here.’
‘She is polite.’ I say the words slowly and deliberately and Euan’s eyes flash a warning. ‘She’s hardly going to tell you to bugger off.’
‘Steady on, Grace!’ Callum is back. He gives a forced laugh. ‘DJ sorted. Why don’t we all retire to the pub?’ He looks at his watch. ‘There’s happy hour down at the Anchor until ten.’
‘I’m taking back Paul’s invitation to Sunday lunch,’ I continue. ‘You’re not welcome in my house.’
‘Is it yours to take back?’ She lifts her handbag off the floor. ‘This is not going to go away, Grace.’
She leaves the kitchen and I follow her, watch as she walks straight on to the dance floor towards Paul and the girls. They all look pleased to see her. Daisy grabs her hand and Ella even throws her arms around her. Within seconds she is moving in time with the three of them and they are all laughing together as if they’ve known each other for years. Then, arms in the air, she shimmies in front of Paul, blatantly provocative.
‘A lap-dancing nun,’ Euan says in my ear. ‘I’ve seen it all now.’
Anger cranks up the heat in my stomach and I move forward.
‘Don’t.’ He holds my wrist. ‘She wants you to make a scene. Don’t give her the satisfaction.’
I grit my teeth and wait for the music to finish. When it does, she kisses them all on both cheeks, saving Paul for last, both her hands resting on his upper arms and then she rubs down to his forearms and clasps his hands, cleverly letting go just before he begins to look uncomfortable. She heads for the door and I follow her out and down the steps to her car.
‘This is not going to go away.’ She throws the words over her shoulder. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
‘What happened that night will stay between the two of us,’ I say. ‘End of story.’
‘Or would that be the three of us?’ She looks back to where Euan is standing in the shadows. ‘You told him, didn’t you?’
I don’t reply.
‘Euan knows you did it. Am I right? And he’s still fighting your corner. Or is it more than that?’ Her voice lowers. ‘He gave you a look just now. What kind of a look was it?’ She turns her head skywards, muses for a bit, snaps her fingers. ‘I know! Hungry. That’s what it was. It was hungry.’
‘You should set off.’ My teeth are clenched tight. ‘Even at this time you can meet traffic on the bridge.’
‘Honesty really is the best policy.’ She tries her best to look regretful. ‘Set down your burden.’
‘Oh please!’ I’m fast approaching breaking point. ‘Cut the sanctimonious crap! What are you suggesting? A cosy Sunday lunch where we all sit around the table and share our secrets? And when you make your confession to Paul, what exactly do you think is going to become of my marriage?’
‘Paul is a reasonable man. I think you underestimate him.’
‘And I think you should stop messing with my life!’ I am shouting now. I can’t help myself. The cautionary voice inside me reminds me that others might hear what I’m saying but I’m too angry to care. I want to force her into her car and watch her drive far, far away.
‘What makes you think you can stop me?’ She unlocks the door. ‘My reasons are for the best, Grace. While yours? Can you say the same?’
‘Yes, I can. This is about my family.’ I look away, distracted for a moment by Monica. She’s watching us from the other side of the road, her arms folded tightly across her chest.
‘Sooner or later children have to learn that their parents are fallible.’
‘Oh really?’ My eyes are back with Orla. I’m nodding. ‘Is that what this is about? Fallible parents? Your mother? Is that it, Orla? Is it my fault your mother slept around? Is it my fault you went into competition with her? Just exactly how many boys did you shag in fourth year?’
She flinches.
I don’t stop. ‘There was Dave Meikle, Angus Webb, Alastair Murdoch.’ I count them off on my fingers. ‘Oh, and then of course there was Euan, wasn’t there? That one was just for me.’ We are right in each other’s face, close enough to fight for the same molecules of air. ‘If you want to take the blame for Rose’s death, you go right ahead but you are not dragging me into it.’
‘I don’t have to drag you into it. You’re already in it and I’m going to tell the truth whether you like it or not.’
She opens the door with a flourish and climbs into her car. I want to kick the tyre but I don’t. I deliberately take a step backward. I need her to leave. Right now. Retaliation is not an option. The engine starts up and she drives off.
‘What is she doing here?’ Monica has crossed the road and is standing beside me. She is pale, her eyes wide open and anxious. ‘What did she want? Why are you mad with her?’
I want to say, What’s it to you, Monica? What’s it to you? But I take a deep breath and say breezily, ‘You know Orla. Always likes to wind everyone up.’
‘Me for sure,’ Monica says. She is visibly trembling, her jaw judders and she tenses it still. ‘We hated each other’s guts. But you were her friend.’
‘Well, not any more.’ I walk away. ‘You coming inside?’
16 June 1984
Miss Parkin is sitting on a wooden bench. ‘She must have got up during the night to go to the toilet.’ She shakes her head and more tears run down on to the collar of her blouse. ‘I thought we were far enough away from the pond. I thought we were.’ She keeps repeating this over and over. ‘I thought we were. I thought we were far enough away. I knew she couldn’t swim but I thought we were far enough away. A hundred yards or more; that’s far enough, isn’t it?’
Sergeant Bingham is a big man with hands twice the size of my dad’s. He rests one on her shoulder. ‘I’m sure you did your best, Miss Parkin. Accidents will always happen. Tragic, for sure. Absolutely tragic.’
‘Grace?’ She looks over at me, pleading. ‘Why would she leave the tent? You didn’t hear her, did you?’
I try to speak, to say something comforting, but I can’t. We’re in the police station. Orla is on the bench opposite me, Miss Parkin is to the right. They’ve wrapped us in blankets. Orla has shrugged hers off but mine is still t
ight around me because I can’t stop shivering. Rose is dead. Sweet little Rose who wouldn’t harm a fly. And I’ve killed her. I feel like my skull is cracking and will soon splinter into a million tiny pieces that will never find their way back together again. I’m holding my jaw tight, jamming my teeth together but it doesn’t stop them from chattering. The policewoman tries to make me drink some sweet tea but I bring it straight back up again.
Orla looks perfectly composed. I want to collapse and let the words pour out, just tell the truth and take my punishment but Orla holds me with her eyes. Her will is like iron. Every time I feel myself falter, she draws my gaze back to her and encloses us both in her determination.
My parents arrive and my dad gathers me up in his arms. I shut my eyes tight and press my face into his tweed jacket. He smells familiar and strong, like he always does, of wood shavings and coffee and I start to cry again. He hugs me tighter, rocking me backward and forward.
‘Your daughter and her friend Orla found the younger girl’s body,’ Sergeant Bingham tells them.
My mother gasps. ‘In the name of God!’ she says. ‘How could such a thing happen?’
‘It seems to have been a tragic accident,’ the policeman tells her. ‘Your daughter did a sterling job of trying to resuscitate Rose but it was to no avail. Most likely she had been in the water all night.’
My mother gasps again and clutches her hand to her mouth.
‘I’m afraid Grace is in shock and will need some time to come to terms with it.’
‘Sarge?’ The policewoman sidles up to him. ‘Rose’s father is here.’
I don’t want to look. I don’t want to see his face but something makes me open my eyes. My right eye is pressed into my father’s coat but my left sees him. He is standing with his hands in his pockets. He is completely still. I watch as Sergeant Bingham breaks the news and as long as I live I will never forget what happens next. Mr Adams drops to his knees and when Sergeant Bingham tries to lift him to his feet again he resists and starts to bang his head on the floor. The sound is loud and hollow like the crack of an air rifle.
‘Mr Adams. Please. Let’s help you up, sir.’
Rose’s dad is beyond hearing him. He has started to cry; gut-wrenching sobs that find an echo in my own chest.
I am allowed to go home. I climb into the back of the car and Sergeant Bingham has a final word with my dad.
‘We may need to talk to your daughter again,’ he tells him. ‘It will be for the procurator fiscal to decide, of course, but it seems to be a straightforward case of death by misadventure.’
The story is covered in the local paper.
‘GIRL DROWNS ON GUIDE CAMP’, the headline screams, in inch-high bold print. And underneath:
Nine-year-old Rose Adams, only child of Paul Adams, drowned in a deep pond last night in a picturesque woodland close to St Andrews. The site is a favourite for Guides and youth club camping trips. Rose, a member of the Guides for less than two months, was out of her tent in the middle of the night. It’s thought that, upset by the thunderstorm, she must have stumbled into the pond some time after midnight. Rose’s body was discovered early this morning by Grace Hamilton, 15, and Orla Cartwright, 16. The girls made a valiant attempt to resuscitate Rose but were unsuccessful.
Miss Parkin, who leads the unit said, ‘I knew that Rose was a non-swimmer but I felt we had taken the necessary precautions. I am deeply upset by this tragedy and my sympathy is with Mr Adams. Rose was a wonderful little girl, vibrant and helpful. She would have made an excellent Guide.’
This is a double tragedy for Mr Adams, a newly appointed lecturer in marine biology at St Andrews University, whose wife died last year.
To the left of the text, there is a small black and white photograph of Rose’s father. He has a look on his face – both wild and blank. He is what my mum describes as distraught. To the right is a huge colour photograph of Rose. She is wearing a white blouse with a sweetheart neckline and a red cardigan. She doesn’t have all of her front teeth and her gappy smile is wide and uncomplicated. She looks very much alive and the memory of how she was when I last saw her makes my heart shrivel.
I lie in bed. I can’t get up. I try but I feel dizzy. This goes on for over a week. My mum tries her best to stay patient with me but by the end of the third day I see that all she wants is for everything to be back to normal. She tries to persuade me to make an effort, have a bath, come downstairs for tea – but I can’t.
On the eighth day, Mo comes to my room. She cradles me in her arms and I cry on to her pinny. ‘What happened was terrible, Grace. Terrible. But what’s all this about you not getting up?’
‘I can’t, Mo. When I walk I fall over.’
‘That’s because you’ve hardly been eating anything.’ She reaches down into her shopping bag. ‘I made you some cheese and onion scones and some melting moments.’ She holds out the goodies towards me. ‘Smell that and tell me you’re not hungry?’
She’s right. Hunger shouts in my belly and knocks my reluctance sideways.
My mum appears at the door with a tray of tea. ‘Any luck?’
‘She’s just tucking in now, Lillian,’ Mo says, squeezing my hand.
If my mum is insulted that my appetite has been rekindled by Mo’s food rather than her own, then she hides it well. ‘Good! When you’re finished eating I’ll run you a hot bath. I can change your sheets while you’re busy in the bathroom.’
Mo stands up. ‘Shall I send Euan through later to cheer you up?’
‘What an excellent idea!’ my mother says, all bright and breezy. ‘I expect you’ve missed out on some school work that he can help you with.’
‘Yes,’ I say to Mo. I dip a melting moment into my tea and catch the softened piece in my mouth before it falls. ‘Please ask him to come through.’
Euan and I started going out on the night of Orla’s party back in May. And the evening before Guide camp, I lay awake with the sensation of his kisses in my mouth and his hands on my hair and back. He’s knocked on the door every day since the tragedy but my mother has told him I’m asleep. I’m not but it’s easier to pretend. I am afraid to sleep because every time I do, the nightmare starts; every night the same one, the same outcome.
I know that I can’t lie in bed for the rest of my life but neither can I go back to my old life and act as if nothing has happened. I know that when I explain what I need to do, Euan is the one person who will be on my side.
‘And Orla called in several times this week,’ my mum is telling Mo. ‘Grace was sound asleep but we chatted for a bit. She’s being sensible about it.’ My mother glances over at me. ‘She’s putting it behind her and getting on with her life. She left you another letter, Grace. Have you read it yet?’
I don’t answer. It’s the fifth letter she’s written to me. I’ve ignored all of them – I’m not even reading them now – but she still hasn’t got the message. I don’t want anything to do with her. The thought of seeing her again is abhorrent to me. It’s not that I blame her. I don’t. I blame myself. But Orla is a reminder of the worst person I can be.
I finish eating, have a bath and wait for Euan. As soon as I see him, my heart fills. I jump out of bed and throw myself against his chest, put my mouth into his neck and breathe deeply. ‘I’ve missed you.’
He hugs me to him. I’m wearing a cotton nightie, not very thick. I am suddenly shy, knowing that he can feel every part of my body through it. I slide under the covers again, pull them up to my chin.
‘I brought you some sandwiches.’ He sits down on the bed and passes me one, egg mayonnaise and pickle, and bites into the other himself. We eat in silence for a few minutes.
When we’re finished he leans over to kiss me. I hold his shoulders.
‘I did it.’ I say it quickly before I lose my courage.
‘Did what?’
‘I killed her.’
He frowns at me. ‘Who?’
‘Rose.’ I remember that there has been no suggestion that Rose
’s death was anything other than accidental. ‘It was my fault.’
‘Just because you were her patrol leader it doesn’t make it your fault.’
‘No. I did it. I actually did it. It was a mistake.’
‘You did what? What was a mistake?’ He’s shaking his head at me. ‘How?’
‘I pushed her, Euan. I pushed her hard and it was raining and she was tiny.’
He backs away.
‘The ground was slippery and the pond was deep and she couldn’t swim.’
He’s staring at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
‘I didn’t know she’d fallen into the water. It was dark and Orla and I were arguing and—’ I stop, remember what we were arguing about – Euan. But later, she told me that she was lying. ‘The thing is . . .’ I hold my hands out.
He’s staring at me, waiting for the rest.
‘I need to make it better.’
‘Make what better? You didn’t kill her!’
I climb out from under the covers, kneel on the bed and start from the beginning. I give him all the details: the depth of the pond, her hand on my jacket, me turning around, unable to make out what she’s saying, bawling into her face, then pushing her hard, down the bank, going back to my tent, not checking that she was there. I tell him everything except what Orla and I were arguing about.
When I’m finished he says nothing for a few seconds and then, ‘That doesn’t prove you did it.’ He is tense, his lips tremble as he speaks. ‘It doesn’t, Grace. You’re making it sound logical but there are other scenarios that are just as logical.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you pushed her away and she went back to the tent. Then later on, when you were asleep, she got up and went out again.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘Because she wanted to talk to one of the other girls, because she was looking for something, because she was sleepwalking!’ he says triumphantly. ‘I watched a programme about it. Loads of people sleepwalk.’
I want to believe him but I can’t. I know what I did and I know what I have to do now.
