Making Marion (12 page)

“Let's get out of here, girl! Mission accomplished!” Ada waved the booklet in the torchlight, triumphantly.

I stole a glance up the stairs. “He said we aren't allowed to take anything.”

“Hah! Poppycock! He knows there's no chance of that.” She crammed the sheets down the back of her pedal pushers and kicked the box back toward the wall with her silver stiletto.

Stumbling back out into the hallway, we found Morris Middleton waiting at the front door, gripping the collar of a huge wolf-dog-thing in each hand.

“Found summat?”

“Yes, thank you, Morris. We found exactly what we were looking for, a very good stroke of luck.”

“Didn't decide to take owt?”

“Of course not. Now, if you will excuse us, we wouldn't dream of taking up any more of your time.”

Morris narrowed his eyes. He eased his grip on the animals, so they strained forwards eagerly, huge globs of saliva dripping onto the floor.

“Won't mind lettin' the girls check you over then.”

Ada rolled her eyes. I held my breath as the huge, soggy nose of the wolf-dog-thing probed about my person, leaving a trail of dog-meat-scented slime. I couldn't see what was going on with Ada through my scrunched-up eyelids, but she somehow passed inspection and we hastily made our exit.

We drove in silence, without stopping, until I pulled up outside Ada's cottage. She lifted up her backside and retrieved the stolen papers from her trousers. She then wriggled about for another minute, before removing a handful of garlic cloves. Where on earth had she hidden those?

Ada grinned, neatly placing the garlic inside a plastic sandwich bag.

“Never ignore the possibility of sniffer dogs, girl. I found that out smuggling illegal Bibles into China. That's a mistake you don't make twice!” She opened my car door and clambered out. “See you Friday then. That barnet won't know what's hit it!”

I set off in the direction of the Peace and Pigs, creeped out, covered in canine slobber, the clinging stench of Morris Middleton's rancid house still pungent in my nostrils. But I felt my spirit flutter a good six inches off the floor – not quite soaring but a pretty good start, all things considered. I had been in one of Ada's scary, strange stories. I felt a teensy bit proud of myself. Turning off the main road into the campsite, it hit me: for the first time in my life I no longer wanted to tell other people's stories. I wanted to live my own. I thought about my old boss Harriet, living every day to the sound of her own tune, and spent the rest of the day humming “Who Let the Dogs Out?”

After Mrs Brown's job offer, I went to visit Father Francis. We settled in our usual chairs, mugs of tea in hand.

“It's been a while, Marion. Have you been doing all right, now?”

This would be the point in the conversation where I would nod, or shake my head, or more often shrug my shoulders. I took a deep breath.

“Aye.” A tiny, breathy whisper. Father Francis pretended not to notice, but a light glowed behind his eyes.

“That's grand. Your mother has been out of the hospital for what, three weeks now?”

I nodded. He waited, hopefully. I sucked in another breath and fought past the screaming, angry, frightened girl squeezing the life out of my throat.

“Four.”

“Is she still looking after you? Are your aunties visiting often?”

I shrugged. Father Francis waited. I stared at the floor. I was done.

“I heard Colleen Brown offered you a job. Sounds like a grand idea to me. Will you take it?”

I looked up to meet his eyes, my own now brimming with tears. A moment of understanding passed between us. He knew how much I needed that job. For the rest of our visit, Father Francis chatted about the town, who was getting married, which babies had been born. Never gossip, only good news. We sat in silence for a while, and I ate enough cake to make up for having no supper to eat back home.

He let me out at six, when Mrs Dunn served his supper every night on the dot. “Can you come back again tomorrow, Marion? After school? I have something to show you.”

I nodded my head, trying to hide my frustration and disappointment. Two words. Two more than last time. About two thousand fewer than I needed to manage if I was going to get that job and take my first step out of there.

I wandered round to the priest's house after school the following day. Part of me wondered if Father Francis had something to show me to do with my da. Mostly I was too depressed to care.

The something turned out to be a someone: a boy, maybe two or three years old, dressed in faded clothes far too big for him, with a pale, scabby complexion I recognized as due to poverty and neglect. He could have been my brother.

“This is Stephen. He's had a hard time of it lately, and really
needs a friend. Someone who will understand how he's feeling. Not ask too much of him. What do you think?”

I looked at the priest. Seriously, what did he expect me to do? Pass on some tips about how to be a freak? Demonstrate how not to pick yourself back up when life knocks you down?

“Grand. I've just got one or two phone calls to make. I'll be back in a wee while.”

Stephen and I sat facing each other on our respective flowery armchairs. After a long stretch of nothing I offered him a piece of flapjack from Mrs Dunn's tea tray. He ignored me, so I ate it myself. As the mahogany clock on the mantelpiece ticked round fifteen minutes, Stephen never moved or made a sound. My heart cracked – what was left of it. Two-year-old boys should be wriggling, giggling, racing, hollering, mini-elephant-warrior bouncy balls. What had happened to create this husky shell of a boy?

I moved over to Stephen's chair and put my hand on his arm. He tensed, but remained completely still. I saw a carrier bag tucked behind him. Gently pulling it out, I looked inside and discovered a grubby stuffed penguin, a dummy, a tiny racing car and a book,
Pumpernickel Party
, about a baby penguin's birthday party. As I opened the book, Stephen's eyes swivelled around to land on the first page. I carefully took one finger and turned the page. His tiny hand shot out and flipped it back. Stephen briefly flicked his eyes over to my shoulder and down again, his hand still resting on the first page of the book.

He wanted me to read the story. This poor, wee, wretched boy wanted me to read the book. Aloud. A gathering rush of heat pressed at the back of my eyes. I forced my arms hard against my thighs to try to stop the tremor that jigged them up and down. Kept glancing back at the door. Where was Father Francis?

Stephen kept his hand on the book, his gaze downcast. One eye of the baby penguin peeked out from between his fingers. He suddenly sucked in a hiss of air and I realized he had been holding his breath.

Okay, that's it. I don't care any more. Forget my mother. I'm not listening to the girl inside me who thinks my words are verbal venom. I am going to read this book.

“It was a very…” I stopped. Cleared my throat. Swallowed back the roaring rush of panic. Stephen flicked his eyes across in my direction again. His fingers trembled on the page.

“It was a very special day. For… for Pumpernickel Penguin…”

Page by page, one creaky, wheezy, halting croak at a time, I read the book. All six pages of it. Forty-six words. By the time I had finished, sweat dripped down my forehead and the blood pounded in my ears. Stephen turned the book back to the first page and patted it. I guess he didn't notice I was about to have a heart attack. By some strange coincidence, right then Father Francis stepped back into the room. He grinned at me: a wide, open, honest beam of happiness. I ducked my head and nearly knocked him flying as I hurtled out of the door.

Late that night, hiding under my blankets, by the light of my daddy's electric torch, I opened up the spine-shattered
Selective Mutism
and started to read. I was still reading at seven o'clock that morning when my alarm clock went off.

I didn't speak again that week. I was spent, empty, exhausted. But after school the following Tuesday I found Stephen sitting in the flowery armchair, clutching his carrier bag on his knees. My journey out of the maze had begun.

A
utumn exploded in the forest. Every tree – every leaf – reflected a different hue as it span and crackled in the October winds. Rich clarets danced with copper and bronze, purples so intense they were nearly black, rose, gold and every shade of brown from soft fawn all the way to burned coffee. Squirrels skittered through the heaps of crispy vegetation, obsessively gathering the never-ending carpet of nuts. I had upped my regular walks through the woods to a jog, crunching past holly bushes sprinkled with crimson berries, entangling myself in vast networks of silken spider webs, sucking in the earthy, smoky, glorious scent of decaying nature with heaving lungs. I was in paradise, pounding longer and longer routes as I learned the secret footpaths of the forest, the tiny trails rabbits and badgers used. There were no other sounds but the scuff of my trainers through fallen leaves and the rasping of my breath, puffing out clouds of steam in the sharp morning air.

Early one Saturday, as I leaned on the trunk of an ancient oak tree stretching my calf muscles, I discovered Grace's secret. Never in a million years would I have guessed what she was up to as I watched her flit through the shadows. I followed behind her as far back as I dared, until I saw her disappear into a huge sprawl of rhododendron bushes. Creeping through the narrow spaces between the twisted limbs of the plants, I came right up against the tiny shed before I saw it. The door was closed. Moving around to the side of the rickety building, scraping my arm on a rough branch as I squeezed
past, I found a window. I used the sleeve of my sweatshirt to scrape away the worst of the dust and the webs. Then I slowly moved my head across to peer inside.

A light came on. It reflected off the glass, casting the interior of the hut into distorted shadow. I could see Grace moving around. Was there anyone else there? Was this where she met her boyfriend? Or her drug dealer? I crouched back down underneath the window. What should I do? Pretend I hadn't seen anything? Go and fetch Scarlett? Wait until Grace came out again, then look inside?

I waited a few minutes, listening for the sound of voices, but heard nothing over the thump of my heart clanging in my ears. I began to make my way carefully back around to the tunnel through the bushes. This was not my business. Grace was not my friend. She clearly had issues, and I didn't want to become one of them (or more than I was already). If I discovered something awful in that shed, then I would have to decide whether or not to tell Scarlett. Right now, my best plan was to get away and then decide what to do next.

Except this plan didn't include me tripping on a tree root, crashing into the wall of the shed and punching a hole in a rotten panel with my fist. Grace screamed. I screamed louder. Half the birds in the forest whooshed up into the watery blue sky above us. I instinctively yanked my arm back, bringing a dozen jagged splinters with it in exchange for half the skin off the back of my hand. Grace flung open the hut door and stood there, staring at me, her tongue stud glinting in her open mouth. She recovered first.

“You followed me!”

I cradled my hand in the other arm and bit the side of my mouth to stop myself wailing as the damaged nerves sent shock waves up my arm.

“What. Are. You. Doing?” Grace was yelling now. Her face was a bitter white, a high spot of colour on each cheekbone. “You're spying on me, aren't you? Did my mum send you? She did, didn't she? And you couldn't wait to follow orders, could you – for the
perfect, fabulous
Scarlett?
Yes, Scarlett; no, Scarlett; oh please teach
me your lessons on exactly how to think, Scarlett.
” She smashed her own fist against the wooden wall, and let out a stream of curses. “I should have guessed! This was the one thing I had for myself. I spend my life living in that blue shoebox with my mother and her latest reject.
Why won't she trust me?
” Grace's face scrunched up. She leaned her body forwards, hacking up sobs from somewhere deep in her guts. Her voice was like a piece of cloth being ripped in two. “Why can't she trust me?”

I sat on the dry earth at the side of the shed and took a moment to pull off my sweatshirt and wrap it around my bleeding hand, wiping the dirt and sweat from my face with a dangling sleeve.

“Nobody sent me, Grace. I was out running when I saw you and was curious. Not curious. I was snooping and I'm sorry. But I was leaving when I fell.”

“So you wouldn't have gone running straight to Mum to tell her what you'd found?”

“I don't know. I would have thought about it first. Maybe asked you what you were using the shed for.”

Grace tossed her head. She knew I wouldn't have asked her about it. I adjusted my position on the dirt.

“So what now? Are you going to show me what's inside? I can't walk away and pretend I haven't been here.”

She slammed the door of the shed behind her. “I'll have to move anyway, now you've broken the wall.” She scowled. “I'll show you if you promise not to tell. Anyone. Not Valerie, or Jake.”

“I promise. As long as it's legal.”

She held out one hand to pull me up, then hesitantly began pushing the door open, before quickly turning back to face me. “And you can't laugh.”

I smiled. “You're not making an internet movie, are you?”

Grace didn't bother answering. She propped open the shed door with one boot, and reached over to turn the camping light the right way up. I stood at the doorway, speechless for a moment, before moving inside the room to take a closer look.

“Grace! These are
beautiful
.”

They were.

Shoes. Eight pairs of stunning, elegant, simply beautiful shoes.

They were stacked up along a short bench. Next to this stood an ancient deckchair, and a cardboard box containing plain, ordinary, pre-customized footwear. There was a large toolbox filled not with tools, but all the decorations and accessories for the shoes. Miniature silk flowers, hundreds of different coloured buttons, little paint pots, embroidery threads neatly arranged by shade. There were ribbons, squares of lace, butterflies, pieces of coloured glass in different shapes, beads, ruffles and even feathers. On an upturned bucket sat a glue gun and an old ice-cream box full of sewing equipment and cobbler's implements. In one corner sat a carrier bag with a multipack of crisps poking out of the top, and a pile of coke cans. Every available inch of wall was covered in A4 pieces of paper filled with shoe designs. Some pretty, some spectacular, they ranged from flip-flops and sandals through to trainers and wellington boots. I was absolutely astounded.

“Grace, this is amazing!”

Grace ducked her head. A hint of a smile creased the edges of her mouth.

“Can I touch them?”

She nodded. I squatted down in front of the bench. The first six pairs were simple ballet pump styles, all white or cream. Grace had decorated the first pair with thin dark green ribbon in a twisty vine design, then added burgundy metal beads, to create miniature bunches of grapes. She had continued the ribbon to make ankle straps, with more bunches of grapes dangling off these.

Another pair was entirely covered in brightly coloured birds, the embroidery threads intertwining with one another. She had given them shiny crystals for eyes, and added the smallest feathers, only a centimetre long, to every bird's tail, and around the edge of the shoe. A third pair was smaller, child size, and Grace had stuck on buttons in the shape of different sweets – jelly babies, dolly mixtures, mint humbugs and liquorice allsorts.

“Can I…?”

“What size are you?” Grace squinted at my feet. “Here, try these.” She handed me a pair of six-inch stilettos in navy blue satin. Tiny silver stars decorated the surface, including the heel, and the buckle was a crescent moon. I slipped them on, and we laughed at how ridiculous they looked with my jogging bottoms.

“These are so wonderful, Grace. How did you ever learn how to do this? Why did you start? Why are you keeping it a secret? Why do you always wear those boots when you have shoes like these?”

Grace lingered by the door while I laced my trainers back up. “I don't want Mum making a fuss.”

“Where did you get all the tools and stuff from?”

She shrugged.

“Okay. But you can't keep working in here through the winter, even if we can patch up that hole. You'll go blind trying to sew with only a camping light.” I looked at her nervously picking at her nails, and realized what a gift she had entrusted me with, letting me in here. I took a deep breath.

“I've got loads of space in my van. Most of the living room cupboards are empty. Why don't you move all your stuff in and work there? We can hide everything away, and your mum will be really pleased that you're spending time in my caravan instead of roaming the woods with dangerous drug-dealers old enough to be your father.”

“I don't care what Mum thinks.”

“Don't tell her then.”

She narrowed her eyes at me, but I could see her wavering. “So… what's in it for you?”

“A kick-ass pair of shoes.”

 

We waited until Sunday afternoon, when Scarlett and Valerie went out shopping and Jake was busy sorting out wood for the evening's Fire Night, then transported Grace's workshop to my caravan. We had to carry everything through the shrubbery by hand, before balancing as much as we could in a wheelbarrow lined with bin
bags to haul back through the woods. We left behind the chair and the bench, returning the lamp to the shop in reception from where Grace had stolen it.

Once everything was safely stowed away, Grace's drawings neatly filed in plastic sleeves in a folder, I put the kettle on.

“Can you stay for a drink, or will Scarlett want you to help get ready for tonight?”

“If I turn up on time she'll only get suspicious.”

I made us both tea, and we sat on opposite sides of the living area.

“It wasn't me.”

“What?” I steadied myself, but not before I had spilled hot tea onto my lap. Grace found a dishcloth and threw it over at me.

“I didn't break your window.”

“Oh. No… I didn't think…”

“Yes you did. You'd be stupid not to. But it wasn't me. My leaving had nothing to do with you.”

“Right. Well, thanks for letting me know. I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“Well, if it wasn't you, who was it? And what the heck did that note mean?”

“I dunno. No offence, but you don't seem interesting enough to make that many enemies.”

I thought about it. “May seems to think I'm pretty hideous. She told me I should be sacked because of my offensively ill-fitting bra.”

Grace laughed, splurting out some of her drink. I passed her the dishcloth.

“May hates everyone.”

“I got another note.”

“What? When?”

I told Grace about the festival, by which time she reckoned she had left it late enough to suitably annoy Scarlett. I gave her my spare key, a voice at the back of my head hollering, “What are you doing?” and went to shower off the bits of rhododendron bush caught in my hair.

 

Scarlett was not impressed with the frozen cheesecake I had brought along as my contribution to Fire Night.

“What is this?” She inspected the plate at arm's length, as if it was rancid. “Honey, it's nearly a month since your cookin' lessons started. I was hopin' to sample some of what ya learned back there.”

I took the cheesecake off her and slid it to the back of the food table. “Erica's been really busy with a problem at work, so I haven't seen her since the first lesson.”

Reuben leaned past with a tray of kebabs, grinning. “And believe me, Scarlett, you would not have wanted to try anything from that first attempt.”

“Reuben!” Scarlett smacked him on the arm. “Keep your negative nose out of it. How would you know anyway?”

“No. He's right. And Erica's work thing kicked off in the middle of cooking, so actually Reuben took over as my instructor. I think it's fair to say his input was largely responsible for the failure of the lesson.”

Reuben winced in mock offence. “Without my input you'd have burned down the kitchen.” He opened his mouth to go on, but glancing at Scarlett thought better of it.

“Reuben, darlin'. No one is expectin' Marion to be able to cook. That is the whole point of the lessons. Sounds like you need to practise teachin' as much as she needs to learn. I think you just volunteered yourself to continue the course. Next Fire Night is Bonfire Night, last one of the season. I expect you two to come up with somethin' finger-lickin' fabulous. And you know who I'll be blamin' if it isn't.” She began to glide away, then thinking of something else she called back over her shoulder: “Oh! If you teach her well, you can get Marion to cook you a wonderful dinner as a thank you!”

Reuben raised his eyebrow at me. “A wonderful dinner?”

I shrugged. “Dinner, maybe. Wonderful sounds a bit ambitious.”

“I'm not going to do this if you've been bullied into it. As painful as it is to me, some people are content to spend their lives living on tinned carrots and frozen roast potatoes.”

I remembered Jake's salad pots. “No. I want to. If you don't mind? It might be a lot of work.”

“As long as you don't hassle me about listening to the scores, or about my dog.”

I shook my head.

“Fine. I'll teach you how to cook.”