Tell Me No Secrets (18 page)

‘If possible.'

‘And yet you have a talent for concealment, do you not?'

I don't answer straight away. I wonder how much she knows, Angeline with her searching eyes and quick wits, her own margins wide enough to include blatant affairs and self-serving lies. Would Orla, all those years ago, have told her about Rose? Unanswered letters, a new school, a dearth of friends, would she have been pushed to confide in her mother? I doubt it. And likewise I'm not about to be pressured into saying something I'll regret.

On the tray there is a silver bowl heaped with misshapen brown sugar lumps. I use the tiny tongs to grab a lump and drop it into my coffee. Bubbles escape to the surface and I stir it slowly then take a sip. All the time Angeline watches me. She's waiting for a sign of weakness. I'm not about to buckle. ‘So when you left Scotland, Orla was unhappy?'

‘She had a breakdown. She made a foolish mistake, had to have an abortion and as if that wasn't bad enough' – she forces a sigh – ‘when she was admitted to hospital, she threw herself from a window, ended up with concussion and a fractured femur but still very much alive.'

She looks across at me, primed for my reaction. I wonder why she's telling me this – and with quite such frankness. I feel a rush of questions –
Abortion? Suicide attempt? Why? What happened?
– but I keep my face impassive. I feel sick for Orla the teenager and for the woman she's become but I have a feeling that if I push too hard for answers, Angeline will clam up and I will be dismissed. ‘That must have been a worrying time for you.'

‘It was a dramatic stunt, nothing more.' She dismisses it with a flick of her wrist. ‘Shortbread?'

‘Yes, thank you.' I take a bite. It might as well be sawdust. ‘What happened to Roger?'

Her eyes dart to mine.

‘Orla told me he died.'

‘Roger isn't dead!' She is bristling now. ‘I divorced him ten years ago.'

‘Orla lied?' I say at once, not quite believing it. Why would she do that? I can almost hear Euan's voice giving me the answer:
She wanted you to meet her and she was prepared to lie to get you there.

‘Perhaps she lied, perhaps you misheard her.' Angeline is unconcerned. ‘It's of no importance. What
is
important is that my daughter was forty this year and what does she have to show for it? No husband, no children, no property, just debts and addiction and . . .'

She stops talking and re-straightens her back, then moves her head around on her shoulders, eyes shut, chin dipped. It strikes me that each one of her movements is studied, meaningful. All for my benefit?

‘Addiction?' I say, quietly.

‘Yes, Grace. My daughter is a drug addict . . . was a drug addict,' she corrects herself. ‘But then we only have her word for that. What does it matter what happened years ago? Bad things happen. It's how we deal with them that counts.'

That resonates with me. Rose died twenty-four years ago and how have I dealt with it? By hiding it. I have tried to make good with Paul, I have tried to be a good wife and mother but mostly I've coped by keeping it covered up.

‘How are you anyway?' She treats me to an open smile. ‘Tell me about your husband and children.'

Her mood has shifted again but I can't match it. I am not about to be drawn into chitchat. ‘My family are well and happy. I'm here to ensure it stays that way.'

‘Your tone is harsh.' She pauses, lets the air freeze. ‘Must I remind you that you have come to see me? That this is my home?'

Her expression seethes with hostility and I feel uneasy, afraid even. I have a horrible feeling that she can read me, just as Orla can. I'm out of my depth and the child in me wants to dissemble then retreat. But the adult is determined to leave this house with as much information about Orla as possible. ‘You're playing with me, Angeline. I don't appreciate it.'

She laughs at this. It's deep and throaty and involves her tossing her head back with a younger woman's abandon. ‘Grace!
Tu es si grave
!' She stretches across to touch my knee but I move to one side.

‘This
is
serious.'

Her eyes heat up. ‘Very well.' She settles her mouth back to neutral. ‘Perhaps the truth will enable you to help both my daughter and yourself. She liked you once – very much – perhaps you can like each other again.'

I doubt that but I say nothing.

‘Orla has spent several years in prison. She has been free for four months now.'

Everything inside me stops. The room itself seems to wait, hold its breath along with me. ‘Prison?'

‘She has yet to find her bearings. All this business with the nunnery. Nonsense.' She brushes the palms of her hands together. ‘She could do with a friend, someone to help ease her back into society. Scotland has a special place in her heart.' She holds a finger out towards me then puts it against her lips. ‘But I hope I can trust you to be discreet. I have protected Murray from the nuisance of it all.'

‘
Nuisance?
Surely a prison sentence is more than just a nuisance?'

‘Is that the wrong word?' She tries to communicate surprise but her eyebrows can't dent her unlined forehead. Her command of English is near perfect. I know that and so does she.

‘What was she in for?' I blurt out. ‘Was it serious?'

‘Yes. Well . . .' She stands up. ‘Orla was always attracted to the meanest sort of men . . . The details? I will leave her to tell you herself. But really, Grace! I think we've spent enough time catching up, don't you?' Arctic smile. She starts a brisk walk to the front door and I follow her. ‘It's for the best that you don't come here again. I've moved on with my life. Perhaps you need to too. A new chapter. Delving back into the past is never a good idea.'

‘But we're all a product of our pasts, are we not?' My legs are shaking as I go down the front steps.

She chooses to ignore this. ‘Orla's married name was Fournier. Quite a scandal.' She half closes the door. ‘And Grace?'

‘Yes?'

‘All this nonsense about the convent? I'm sure that were they aware of her past, she would be shown the door.' Her eyes are blank. ‘So now you have what you came for?'

I turn away before she does – a small victory – and just about manage to resist the urge to run down the driveway. I drop my keys on the ground, pick them up again, unlock the car door and look back at the house. Bloated clouds are suspended over the roof, low and heavy, ready to tip and smother it. Angeline is standing at the window. She is too far away for me to see her expression but still it unsettles me and my skin crawls. I climb into the car, start the engine, drive about two hundred yards then pull into a parking space and just sit there, thinking, trying to make sense of everything that was said.

It's as if she's given me the colours – abortion, suicide attempt, addiction and prison sentence – dark colours with which to paint a picture of Orla's life. I don't know what to make of it. It's all much more dramatic than I expected. I wonder how much Angeline is twisting the truth, making brutal statements about Orla while leaving out any details that might help me make sense of her.

It strikes me that even Orla's memory isn't loved; no photos on the piano, no tender words or empathy. Angeline's fine speech about a mother doing anything for her children? I don't believe it. Not this mother.

I ring Euan. ‘Can you talk?'

‘Give me a sec.'

I hear him close the door behind him and walk outside.

‘How was it?'

‘Worrying. If Angeline's to be believed, Orla sounds like a loose cannon. But then Angeline is no doting mother. If I had to sum her up in one word it would be utterly ruthless.'

‘That's two words.'

‘I almost feel sorry for Orla,' I say quickly.

‘Why? She's out to ruin you. Don't get sidetracked, Grace.'

‘I know. I know. But listen, if I ever complain about my mother again just remind me of Angeline.'

‘That bad, huh? But did you find out anything useful? Anything that might persuade her to back off?'

‘Maybe. Are you near a computer?'

‘I can go down to the cabin. Why?'

‘Wait for it.' I take a deep breath, not prepared to believe what I'm about to say. ‘According to Angeline, Orla had an abortion then tried to kill herself, was a drug addict and was in prison.'

‘Shit. What the hell for?'

‘I don't know. Angeline wouldn't say. She made a point of pretending to be open but then pulled back on the details. I wouldn't be surprised if she was exaggerating. Downright lying, even. Are you there yet?'

‘I'm just switching it on.'

‘And talking of lies, Orla told me that her father was dead and he isn't. How weird is that?'

‘Sounds like a woman who'll use anything to get what she wants,' he says drily.

‘Can you Google her? Her married name was Fournier.'

‘It's warming up.'

I think about connections, threads that link one event with another. When did it start to go wrong for Orla? With Rose? Or was it before that? ‘Have you found anything?'

I hear him typing. ‘Nothing coming up so far.'

‘It can't have been anything major then, can it?'

‘Who knows. I'll keep trying. You coming into work tomorrow?'

‘Yeah.'

‘See you then. And Grace?'

‘Yeah?'

‘Don't worry. We'll fix it.'

‘You will be coming to Guide camp, won't you, Grace?' Miss Parkin says.

‘Well, I was hoping . . .'

My mother gives me a look.

‘When is it again?' I say.

‘Six weeks' time. And with Rose recently joining your patrol, it will be such a boon to have you there. I know she's very young but she really is a sweet child and her father is a wonderful man. Very handsome too.' She looks wistful. ‘He won't stay a widower for long.'

Miss Parkin is around at our house because my dad is making her a rocking chair. It's bad timing for me because I had hoped to avoid the Guide camp in June, but now, with my mother breathing down my neck, it's impossible to say no.

‘Grace will be happy to come along, won't you, Grace?'

I nod and then try to smile. ‘I'm off to Orla's. I'll be home around eleven.'

‘No later!' my mum shouts and I resist the urge to bang the door on my way out.

It's a ten-minute walk to Orla's house which is pretty in a fairytale kind of a way and sits back from the road in a natural hollow as if sprouting from the rock behind it. It's early evening and I've come around to hers so that we can get ready for her sixteenth birthday party. This last couple of days she's been moody or distant and I'm hoping that she'll be back to her old self and that we can have a good time tonight.

When I knock on the door I hear Orla and her mother arguing. That's not unusual. They often go at it hammer and tongs, until one or other gives up. But this time it sounds particularly fierce. I ring the bell and seconds later Orla throws the door wide, doesn't acknowledge me but turns back to her mother and continues her rant.

The French is so rapid I can barely make out what they're saying. I catch phrases like ‘none of your business', ‘how dare you!' and ‘your father is a gentleman' from Angeline while Orla hurls insults:
Salope! Garce! Putain!

I don't stop in the hallway. I know there's no point in getting between them. I tried that before and ended up catching the tail end of a punch. Instead I climb upstairs to Orla's room, sit on her bed and read an old copy of
Jackie
magazine. We're really too old for it now but one or other of us still buys it for the Readers' True Experiences. I start to read ‘I Knew He Was Married But I Didn't Care' and am halfway through when Orla comes crashing into the bedroom, banging the door so violently that a shelf of books tilts to one side and drops on to the bed beside me. The right side of her face is red where her mother has slapped her.

‘Jesus, Orla!' I put
Jackie
aside and start to gather the books into a tidy pile. ‘What on earth were you fighting about this time?'

‘You couldn't follow it?' She pushes me aside, scoops at the books with her arm and tips them all on to the floor where they land in a heap of twisted spines and crushed pages.

‘I don't think those were the sort of French words Madame Girard would normally teach us,' I tell her, trying to straighten the shelf back on the wall.

‘Will you leave that!' She grabs the corner of the wood and hurls it across the room. It hits the edge of the windowpane and cracks the glass. Several jagged lines fan out from the crack. One stretches halfway across the window.

‘Fuck's sake, Orla!' I hold on to her shoulders and shake her. ‘Calm down! You'll end up not being allowed to go out. You can't miss your own party.'

She pulls away from me and rummages in the cabinet beside her bed. Behind the hair ties, make-up and loose change she has hidden a packet of cigarettes. She throws herself down on the bed and crosses her legs. The bed shakes as she uncrosses them, bangs her fist on the wall, re-crosses her legs, then agitates her left foot backwards and forwards. ‘My mother is a bitch, a
putain
, a whore.'

‘Look, everybody hates their mother sometimes.' I hold on to her wayward foot. ‘It's only natural. God, sometimes I want my mother to
die
she's so bloody annoying but it blows over.'