Tell Me No Secrets (19 page)

She looks at me and I see there are tears in her eyes. My own eyes automatically fill up in response. I have rarely seen Orla cry. She has never to my knowledge been even close to tears since she fell off the harbour wall when we were ten and broke her arm in two places. She is fierce and feisty and will take anyone on, suffer anything. It's part of the reason I like her.

She looks away, picks at the wallpaper and says quietly, ‘You don't know the half of it. My father is an arse for putting up with that bitch.'

I am reminded of Edinburgh, standing in Jenners department store and watching Orla's mum, her lipsticked smile, her body leaning into Monica's dad. ‘Orla, it's your birthday!' I reach forward and hug her. ‘Let's just forget all this and have a great time.'

‘Yeah, exactly.' She heaves in a shuddering sigh. ‘On my fucking birthday, as well.'

‘Let's make each other up.' I find some rouge, eye shadow and mascara. Orla leans forward and closes her eyes.

‘I can't wait to get out of this dump.'

I paint two shades of green over her lids and up as far as her eyebrows. ‘There are probably worse places.'

‘Like where?'

‘Close your eyes!'

‘There's a whole world out there,' she grumbles. ‘And we're living in a place the size of a postage stamp where everybody knows everybody else's business.'

‘Couldn't you go to your aunt's in France?' Orla's aunt is even more glamorous than her mother. She is a fashion buyer for Galeries Lafayette and whenever she comes to stay she oozes couture and elegance. ‘I'd love to live in Paris.'

‘It's not all it's cracked up to be,' Orla says, lifting the hand mirror to admire herself. ‘America would be better. Wide open space. Cowboys. Men with muscles bare-back riding.' She pouts at her reflection in the mirror. ‘Take me, I'm yours.'

By the time we get to the village hall she's back to her old self. The disco is set up and we spend the first ten minutes dancing then we stand back with some Irn-Bru to watch the others.

‘Shall we get some fresh air?' Orla says. ‘I've hidden some vodka under the second bush past the phone box.'

We go outside just as Monica comes around the corner. She is positively shimmering with animosity. She glows like the red forty-watt bulb in my bedside lamp and her chest is heaving like she's just run a mile. She stops in front of Orla. ‘I want to talk to you.'

‘Not
now
, Monica.' Orla gives a weighty sigh of boredom but I'm close enough to see that the pulse in her neck begins to beat faster. ‘Can't you see I'm busy? I have a birthday to celebrate.'

‘Your mother is a filthy French whore.'

‘Monica!' I move in front of Orla. ‘What the hell? Go away! You're not even invited!'

‘This is between me and Orla,' she shouts. Her eyes are wild and her hair is standing up on end like she is possessed.

‘Now move out of the way.'

I look back at Orla for an answer.

‘It's okay, Grace,' she says, shrugging, nonchalant. ‘We've already had a run-in about this. Looks like she's come back for some more punishment.'

‘Don't think you'll get away with this.' Monica points a shaky finger into Orla's cheek. ‘May you rot in hell, Orla Cartwright. May your whole family rot in hell! Every last one of you.' She throws the last words at Orla like a witch delivering a curse and I'm not surprised when she finishes it off by spitting on the ground at our feet.

As she turns away, Orla's hand moves out and grabs the back of Monica's blouse. It all happens quickly and I am slow to react. By the time I try to separate them Orla is sitting across Monica's back and is pulling her hair. The screaming and swearing is louder than my entreaties to stop and I can't match Orla for strength. I need Euan's help but he hasn't arrived yet. I know where he'll be – down at the harbour hanging about with Callum.

I run as fast as I can and hear them before I see them. They are sitting on one of the two picnic benches that are on the grassy area opposite the harbour wall. They have cans of lager next to them and are arm wrestling.

‘Come quickly!' I am puffed and I lean my hands on my knees. ‘Monica and Orla are fighting.'

They both jump up and we run back together to the village hall. Callum hauls Orla off and holds her back while Euan helps Monica to her feet. He tells her that she should see a doctor about her head. There's blood trickling down the side of her cheek on to the collar of her blouse. She touches it with her fingers. ‘I think it's just superficial,' she tells him. ‘I want to be a doctor, you know. I'm going to get out of this place.'

‘Right.' Euan takes a few steps backward to stand level with me.

Monica's face twists. She looks a complete sight. I wonder how she's going to explain this at home.

‘I'll walk you home,' Callum volunteers.

Monica looks him up and down. ‘Don't bother,' she says. ‘Enjoy your party.' Her eyes fill up. ‘Don't let me stop you.' She turns and lurches off.

I watch her retreating back and I shiver.

‘Show over.' Euan takes my elbow. ‘Fancy a dance?'

We all go back into the hall. Orla wipes the back of her hand over her bloodied lip but otherwise she seems to be none the worse for her fight. She starts slow dancing with a boy from fifth year. His hands slide down across her bum and pull her closer. Euan takes my hand and leads me on to the floor. He puts his arms around me.

‘I don't want to stay,' I tell him. I pull away. ‘I think I'll just go home.'

‘I'll walk with you,' he says. He looks around. ‘Nothing much happening here anyway.'

I put my arm through his and we go down on to the beach so that we can walk home along the shore. We both have torches in our pockets and we shine them ahead of us.

‘What was the fight about?'

‘Orla's mother and Monica's father are having an affair.'

‘Shit.'

‘I know. Monica's never been my friend but I feel sorry for her.' I lean my head against his shoulder. ‘I wonder how she's going to be able to show her face at school on Monday.'

‘Wasn't a good idea to start a fight, though. Especially with Orla. Monica was bound to come off worse.' We're close to the water's edge where waves stalk us, stretch out and cover our shoes. Icy water splashes my ankles.

‘It's freezing!' I shriek and pull him towards the sand dunes.

His arms circle my waist and he kisses me gently on the lips.

‘What was that for?'

‘Because you're the prettiest girl I know.'

‘Simply irresistible.' I blow him a kiss and start to mime a model's catwalk. He's shining the torch at me and light reflects back up on to his face. I expect him to be smiling but he's not. His expression is serious as if he's working through a maths problem.

‘Do you want to go out some time?' His voice is low. ‘Grace?'

‘We're always together.'

‘I mean out. Out together.' He scrapes his right shoe in an arc across the sand. ‘Properly.'

I frown. ‘Like a date you mean?'

‘Yeah.' He waits.

I think about it. Euan and me. Me and Euan. A couple. ‘Okay then.'

‘Okay then?'

‘Okay then.' I start giggling and then I push him. He pushes me back and I topple, give a scream.

‘Grace, is that you?' It's my dad's voice.

Euan pulls me up straight.

‘What's going on down here?' My dad appears over the sandbank, shines his torch right at the two of us. ‘Oh, it's you, Euan. I'm just on my way down to the social club for a game of snooker. Better head on home, the pair of you. It's too cold to be out gallivanting.'

9

When Paul leaves for work and the girls for school, I take Murphy for a quick run on the beach and then drive to work. Euan is already there. ‘Was there anything on the web about Orla?' I say as I come in the door.

‘Nothing. Whatever she was in prison for, it couldn't have received much press coverage.'

‘Shit.' I start unbuttoning my coat. ‘I was hoping we'd find out what she'd done.' I think back to Angeline's words. ‘I thought she said her married name was Fournier but maybe I heard her wrong.'

‘I'll try other spellings later but, in the meantime, I've been ringing round and I've found the convent she's staying in,' he says. ‘St Augustine's. It's close to Hawick.' He logs off his computer and stands up next to me. ‘Shall we go?'

‘To the convent?' I stare at him. ‘Now?'

‘Why not? Like you said – we can't just sit around and let her make all the moves.'

‘Are you sure?' I didn't expect this. ‘It's a long drive. We'll be gone the whole day.'

‘I wasn't planning on doing much work this week anyway.' He's already putting on his jacket. ‘I won't say much. I promise.' He takes hold of my elbow. ‘But I'll be there if you need me.'

‘Do you think we should let someone know we're coming?'

‘No. I don't want her spinning us a line about no visitors,' he says. ‘Better just to turn up. That way she can't fob us off.'

He locks the cabin behind him and we start off up the path and past the house. Visiting Orla when she least expects it seems like a good idea and I'm glad that Euan is prepared to come with me. The clock is ticking, the seconds, minutes and hours bearing down on me. It's less than a week until Sunday lunch when Orla plans to – what? Make an announcement as we eat?
Oh, by the way, everyone! Has Grace mentioned that she killed Rose? Yes, really! She pushed her into the water. Left her there to drown.
Or is she intending to take Paul aside, into his study perhaps, where his research papers and textbooks are piled high on the desk and photos of the girls smile down from the walls; Ella, Daisy and Rose witnessing Paul's distress as he hears about the sorry fate of his first daughter. Will she even hold Rose's photograph as she tells him?

I won't let it happen. Sure, she's tougher and more streetwise than me and, like her mother, her margins are wide but this is my family I'm fighting for. There's nothing more important to me than that.

We travel in Euan's car and while we drive I tell him about Angeline. ‘She behaves with complete authority. Like she's some sort of monarch. And she has no sympathy for Orla.'

‘Well, neither have we.'

‘Yes, but she's her mother! You'd think she'd at least express some love or understanding. Take the abortion for example. She described the pregnancy as a foolish mistake and Orla's suicide attempt as a dramatic stunt.'

‘Lots of women have abortions. They don't throw themselves out of windows afterwards.'

‘Yes, but it was obviously traumatic for her! And what about the man? I bet he didn't suffer.'

‘Grace, you have to stop with the excuses!' He slows the car down and turns to stare at me. ‘Orla is trouble. She'll tell Paul about Rose's death and life as you know it will be over. Don't go down the road of trying to understand her.' His tone is harsh. ‘She's as manipulative as her mother. She's a conniving bitch. You know that.'

‘I know. I know.' I'm surprised by his vehemence and I put my hand on his knee. ‘It's just that if her mother had been—' I stop and think about my own girls, how I would move heaven and earth to protect them. Orla is a very real threat to their happiness. There's no room for weakness on my part. ‘You're right. No sympathy. None.'

The convent grounds are close to the English border, off a long, straight road with rolling hills and sporadic clumps of conifers either side. When we see the sign, St Augustine's Roman Catholic Convent, we leave the main road and drive down a narrow single track, bumpy with dips and potholes, until we come to the front of a red-brick wall. The wall is upwards of thirty feet high and has a huge wooden door, shaped like the jawbone of a whale, positioned halfway along it. A smaller, person-sized door is cut into the bigger one. We use the iron knocker three times then stand back to wait.

Less than a minute later, there is the distinctive sound of someone dragging back the bolts. Then the door swings open, wide enough for us to see a smiling nun. She's short, five feet at the most, and her frame is as delicate as a child's. I imagine that even a moderate wind would fill her black skirts and lift her heavenwards.

‘I'm sorry to bother you. My name is Grace and this is Euan. We need to speak to Orla Fournier. Urgently,' I add.

‘Fournier?' she repeats, pursing her lips.

‘Cartwright,' Euan says and looks at me. ‘She's using her maiden name.'

The nun nods. ‘Are you friends, my dear?'

‘Not exactly but it's important that we speak to her.'

‘Well now, Orla is here on a retreat and in those circumstances we—'

‘It's an emergency. Family business,' Euan says, moving forward so that the toe of his shoe is just inside the doorway. ‘We can't leave without speaking to her.'

Her smile doesn't waver. ‘You're the young man I spoke to on the phone?'

‘That's right,' Euan says. ‘We're sorry to come without an appointment but there wasn't time to make one.'

‘Orla will be leaving us on Friday. Could your business wait until then?'

‘I'm afraid not,' Euan says. ‘Time is of the essence.'

‘In that case you must come inside.' She pulls the wooden door open wider. It creaks on its hinges before coming to rest against the back of the bigger one. ‘I'm Sister Bernadette.' Her handshake is firm. ‘Welcome to our convent.'