Tell Me No Secrets (15 page)

‘You
saw
them?' A shudder passes through her. ‘Where? When? Why didn't you tell me?'

‘I was fourteen. I know that for sure because my gran took me to Jenners for afternoon tea. And as for telling you?' I shake my head. ‘I was a bitch at times. I hold my hands up to that. But I wasn't
that
bad.'

‘It had been going on for about a year before I found out then.' She sits back in her seat and looks at the ceiling. Her cheeks are streaked with tears and she takes a piece of kitchen roll and blows her nose then goes to the sink and splashes her face with cold water. ‘You'll understand now why I hate her so much.'

‘But that wasn't Orla. That was her mother.'

‘She's tarred with the same brush.'

‘Monica, you're a doctor. That's hardly scientific!' I have to shout after her because she's left the room and is climbing the stairs. I stand by the back door and look down the garden. I can't see the cabin from here but I know it's there and it attracts me like iron filings to a magnet. I want to kick off my shoes and run down the path, lock myself inside and never come out.

‘This is the three of us.' Monica is back and she is holding out a photograph.

I take it from her. It's black and white and is in a polished, silver frame.

‘I keep it beside my bed.'

She is sitting on her father's shoulders, her hands resting on his head. His right hand is holding her feet and his left arm is around her mother's waist. Monica is laughing. They are all laughing. ‘You look happy,' I say, passing it back to her.

‘I was seven. We were in North Berwick on holiday.' She stares at the photo and her eyes fix as she drifts into a memory. ‘Angeline took that away from me.'

‘It doesn't do any good to dwell on the past,' I say, knowing full well that the past never really lets you go. ‘You were a child. You couldn't have changed anything.'

‘History has a habit of repeating itself.'

‘Your parents are both dead, Monica.' I shake her gently. ‘And Angeline lives in Edinburgh now. She can't hurt you any more.'

‘Secrets are destructive, Grace. You know?'

I feel prickles of discomfort hurtle down my spine. I, of all people, understand the eroding nature of secrets; the slow drip of guilt and remorse that leaves a sticky residue over everything you do or feel.

I wave my thumb in the direction of the front of the house. ‘I need to get back.'

‘Sure.' She follows me along the corridor. There is a chart beside the coat rack with the children's timetables on it, their music lessons, sports practice and coursework deadlines. I stop to admire it.

‘We could do with one of those,' I say.

‘It keeps us right.' She's rubbing her hands together. She's nervous suddenly. It's coming off her like radiation. ‘Grace?'

‘Mmm?'

‘I'd rather you didn't mention this to Euan. Any of it.'

It's on the tip of my tongue to say I thought you were tired of secrets but I don't because I am seeing parallels between her and me. I don't want to but I am. ‘I won't tell him,' I say.

When I climb back into the car, I don't drive off straight away. I sit with my head back against the rest and my eyes closed. For the first time in years, I've seen a side of Monica that makes me remember she's human: flesh and blood, like me. We're not natural friends; we never have been. As children we rubbed each other up the wrong way and that has lasted into adulthood. But adultery respects no one, and when Euan and I were having the affair, I went out of my way to avoid her. It was easier to do that than acknowledge how hurt she would be if she found out. And Paul. What is the matter with me? I have been the worst sort of wife. I have deceived him and I have cheated on him and I have the feeling it will get worse before it gets better.

There's a knock at the window and I look up, startled. It's Euan. He climbs in the passenger side and I automatically draw my body closer to the door. ‘What brings you here?' he says.

‘I took some food trays back to Monica.' I give him a half-smile. ‘Thank you for yesterday. I appreciate your help. I do.'

‘Pity about the argy-bargy at the end though.' He raises his eyebrows. ‘I thought we agreed you wouldn't bait her.'

‘I know.' I bang my hand on the dashboard. ‘I'm sorry. I am. But she really winds me up. She's so up herself. Do you think she really intends to be a nun?'

‘Not for one moment. She's not doing this for the sake of her conscience; she's doing it to make trouble.' He is looking thoughtful, sad even. ‘She's out for blood.'

‘How can you be so sure?'

‘What priest would advise someone to behave like this? She didn't even push Rose. It's none of her business what happened that night. This is one hundred per cent Orla's idea.'

‘I suppose.' I take a big breath. ‘I've been thinking. I can't just sit here and wait for her to turn up again. I'm going to go to Edinburgh this afternoon and see whether I can have a chat with her mother.'

‘How will that help?'

‘Angeline always liked me. She might be willing to fight my corner and change Orla's mind. They often battled over Orla's behaviour, but in the end Orla always did what her mother wanted.'

‘Do you have her address?'

‘Not exactly but I know she's married to a man called Murray Cooper and that they live in Merchiston. Can't be that hard to find them.'

‘It's worth a try. But what if Orla's there?'

‘She's supposed to be at the convent but if she is there then . . .' I shrug. ‘I'll talk to her, not lose my temper this time, see if I can find out why. Why come back now?'

He sighs. ‘Raking over old ground will mean everyone has to relive the whole thing. That won't be good for any of us.'

I shiver. ‘It's Paul's reaction I'm worried about.'

Thinking about Paul is difficult. I am so afraid that he will end up hurt by this, hurt so deeply that he will question everything – our love, our marriage, our memories – and he will look ahead and see an impossible future. Despite my secrets, I believe that we have a strong and loving partnership. Could I stand up in court and convince a jury of my peers? Could I take the jury on a journey that would make them understand my actions and so forgive my mistakes?

I think I could.

It's over two months since Rose died and I'm back at school, going through the motions. I quickly realise that I have to pretend to be over it otherwise people watch me and whisper about me and I get no peace. So I do. I do pretend. I pretend to everyone around me but not to myself. Me, myself, I remember everything: her bloated face, waxy skin and staring eyes. And I remember the reality of her father's grief; gutted. Quite literally. As if someone had emptied him out.

At the start of the new term, Orla doesn't turn up for school and I find out that she has left the village. Her father has moved to the London branch of the company and they will now be living in Surrey. I didn't see her or speak to her but I overheard my mother and Mo talking about how Orla didn't want to go and locked herself inside the house. The police had to be called to break down the door and gossip has it that she was dragged, kicking and screaming, into her father's car.

I'm glad that she's gone. I'm glad I'll never have to see her face again. She sent me a letter with her new address on the back of the envelope. I tore up the letter without reading it. Five more have arrived. I tore them up too.

Euan is fed up with me. He thinks it's time to move on from ‘all this mithering on about Rose'. I understand why he feels that but I can't move on until it's sorted, because if I do, the dreams will never stop. And when I wake she'll be there, watching me.

I have been reading about ghosts and how they can be laid to rest. A ghost will stick around and haunt the living until satisfied that justice is done and that their loved ones will be fine without them. Rose won't leave me alone until I make amends. I'm sure of it. As sure as I am of my own breath and my own guilt.

So what to do? I can't bring her back and I can't go to the police.

My plan is to find someone special for Mr Adams. In less than a year, he has lost the two people who mean more to him than anyone else in the world: Rose and, before that, his wife Marcia. Marcia died of cancer; the fast-growing sort that mushrooms out of nothing and extinguishes a life in less time than it takes for one season to change into the next. Euan found this out for me. Two evenings a week he washes dishes in Donnie's Bites, the restaurant opposite the university. Mr Adams and Rose were regulars there and at the time of the tragedy that's all people talked about. How hard it was for Mr Adams. Double tragedy: first his wife and then his daughter.

‘I'm not doing any more spying,' Euan says.

‘I'm not asking you to spy. Not exactly.'

We're sitting on the bed in my room. David Bowie is on the record player in the background. I prefer Elton John but I've put Bowie on for Euan. My mum and dad think he's helping me with my biology Higher. The autumn term has barely started but already I'm falling behind with schoolwork. I've had to make decisions about what I want to do when I leave school and I said nursing and the careers officer was pleased. She wrote that down and told me what subjects I needed and where I should be applying to.

Truth is I have no idea about what I will do when I grow up. I can't think beyond this problem. I can't think beyond the shadow of Rose at the bottom of my bed and how best to please her so that she will leave me in peace.

‘He looks fine. He's back at work now.' Euan is toying with the LP cover, flipping it around between both hands. ‘He came into the restaurant last night to have something to eat.'

‘On his own?'

‘Lots of people eat on their own and anyway' – he kisses me just below my ear – ‘I'm giving up that job. There's one going on reception in the community centre. Better perks. I'll get to use the gym for free.'

‘Have they replaced you yet?'

‘No and no.' He shakes his head. ‘I know what you're going to say and I won't put you forward for the job. You don't need a job. You get more than enough pocket money as it is.'

‘Yes, but—'

His mouth stops mine. I let him kiss me for a few seconds and then I pull away.

‘I won't ask you for anything else, ever again. I promise.'

‘For fuck's sake!' He stands up. ‘How long is this going to go on?'

‘What?'

‘Your one-track mind.'

‘I'm not—' I stop and try to think of the best way to explain it but his jaw is set and I know that look. ‘I just want to make it right.'

He sighs and stares at his feet. ‘Mr Adams will be fine. He's a good bloke. He won't have any trouble finding another wife and having more children. All in good time. You can't replace one person with another just like that.' He snaps his fingers. ‘You have to let this go.'

I don't answer. I am locked into it. Euan can walk away. I can't.

‘Fine then. I give up.' Resigned, he turns the door handle and looks back at me. ‘See you around.'

I jump up from the bed. ‘Are you chucking me?'

His face is set hard. ‘There's no talking to you any more.' He closes the door behind him. I hear him say goodnight to my parents and then he's gone.

Over the next few days I persuade myself that Euan and I are just on hold and I persuade my parents to allow me to apply for the job. It takes some doing. I promise to work harder at school, to finish my meals and to spend less time alone in my room. Then they say yes.

The dishwashing job is gone, Donnie tells me, but he can go one better. I can be a waitress. The hourly pay is lower but I'll get tips. ‘Especially if you smile like you are now. Pretty girl like you.'

The first time I serve Mr Adams he looks at me twice and says, ‘Grace. Grace Hamilton?' He stands up and shakes my hand. ‘How are you?'

‘I'm fine.' I feel embarrassed and ashamed. ‘I'm sorry. I never properly said . . . I'm so sorry.' My face flushes and my lips begin to tremble. ‘I know you came to see my parents and . . . I'm so sorry.'

There is a sadness in his eyes that makes my throat catch. ‘Rose was delighted to be in your patrol. She looked up to you.' He sits down again and pulls in his chair. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for.' He points to the blackboard on the wall. ‘So what would you recommend from Donnie's specials this evening?'

‘The mussels are popular,' I tell him. ‘And treacle tart for pudding?'

I find myself watching him from the shadow of the corridor that leads to the kitchen. He is even more handsome than I remember. He has high cheekbones and soft grey eyes and when his mouth smiles, they smile too. He plays squash and often arrives with a hearty appetite, his hair still damp from the shower, combed back from his forehead in straight lines.

I also remember that Orla wasn't the only girl in the Guides who had a crush on him. Much younger than all the other dads, he affected us all, to varying degrees. He was always friendly, without being overly so, and had the ability to tune in and listen to us in a way that most adults didn't, and that made me feel both shy and eager to talk to him.

Days become weeks and I begin to call him Paul. Sometimes he eats with colleagues, mostly other men, but occasionally a woman called Sandra joins him and sits up close, barely eating her own food as she seems to hang on his every word. If he is alone and business is slow, I sit down beside him and we chat about school and his work at university, bus timetables and the weather. I keep my eye out for women to introduce him to, teachers at school who're single, and other customers in the restaurant but no one seems special enough and, truthfully, the few times he is joined by Sandra I feel jealous and find every reason not to like her.