Making Marion (21 page)

Ginger and Archie were eagerly leaning forwards across the table, salmon forgotten.

“Well, tell us what you know. Who is it? And why do you think we would know the chap?”

I looked at Reuben. He cleared his throat. “Because he was friends with Henry.”

The atmosphere dropped like a stone plummeting into a ravine. They sat back, Archie absent-mindedly picking up his knife and fork. Ginger closed her eyes, took a deep breath and dabbed at her lip with a napkin.

“Daniel.” Her voice was quiet but clear. The consummate lady.

“Yes.” I took the picture from my bag and offered it to her across the table. Archie was the first one to cry.

I pushed my chair back. “I'll make some coffee.”

“No.” Reuben stood up. “I'll do it.”

I ate some food, although every mouthful was dry and tasteless and stuck halfway down my oesophagus. Ginger stirred a heaped spoonful of sugar into her coffee, downed it in one, and seemed ready to talk.

“You're Daniel's girl. I should have seen it. You look just like him.”

I'd misread her; she wasn't ready. It took a good while longer and three of Archie's monogrammed handkerchiefs before we could resume the conversation, now sitting in the drawing room.

“I'm sorry.” Ginger wiped her nose. “Daniel wasn't just Henry's friend. He was a son to us. His parents were our housekeeper and groundsman. They lived in the gatekeeper's cottage. Henry and Daniel grew up inseparable. When Henry had a hard time settling in at school, and then we had the robbery, we thought that could be the answer – send Daniel to school with him. We thought it would help.”

“I'm sorry. What robbery?”

“The one where… surely Daniel told you? We were away, in Switzerland. Somebody broke in and Daniel's parents interrupted them.”

“What happened?” My mind felt numb, everything seemed to be in slow motion.

“They were shot.”

How could the loss of something you never had hurt so much? I didn't want to hear any more.

“The boys found them. They were fourteen. We decided it would be best for Henry to go back to school, to get away, have some normality; but that would leave Daniel here alone. So Daniel went with him.”

No wonder he never talked about his past.

“So you paid for him to go to boarding school with Henry? And he stayed here in the holidays?”

“He was going to be a lawyer.” The tears were streaming again. Archie said nothing, his body hunched over as if he could feel the shot that had killed my grandparents.

“Daniel?”

Ginger nodded. “They both had a place at Oxford, starting that September. We were so proud. Our boys.”

The Christmas tree flashed into my mind.
Our boys did these.

“And then Daniel was with Henry, at the accident?” I felt bile hit the back of my throat.

Ginger nodded. “It has taken many, many years for us to be able to forgive ourselves for what happened. Archie told you what it did to him. That we hadn't seen it coming, read the signs. That after everything we didn't know our son at all.” She pressed one hand against her heart, as if that could prevent it from splintering apart again. “And that, after everything, Daniel had to see it. We thought he was all right. Henry. That he had left it in the past.”

“I don't understand. What do you mean? How could it have been your fault?”

Archie lifted his head. He looked like an old, old man.

“Henry committed suicide, Marion. Your father tried to stop him. And when Daniel failed, he couldn't bear it. So we lost not one son, but two.”

 

Throughout the Easter weekend, the Peace and Pigs was filled to capacity. Samuel took Scarlett away from the chaos to spend her hotel spa voucher. She had become visibly weaker, especially on her left side, and her short-term memory grew increasingly worse. The day or the time, what she had planned that day or what medication she had to take – all such data were chewed up by the brain monster as quickly as she took them in. Grace, increasingly frustrated and upset by her mother's constant interruptions to ask what was going on, filled the blue van with sticky notes on every surface:
Today is Thursday. Take four blue pills with your breakfast. The district nurse is coming today. Valerie is at college. Tell Grace if you want to go out.

The only way that Valerie and Grace could cope was to carry on as normally as they could, as best they could. They had days when they cried, screamed and threw plates, and others when they laughed, did each other's hair and talked about boys. We worked hard to ensure they could still go out, get their work done and do all the other stuff teenage girls do, but Scarlett was dying before
their eyes and neither of them had another parent prepared to take on the job of fierce, selfless, unconditional loving that Scarlett had done so well.

Scarlett's brother, Dr Drew, flew over for a few days after she came back from her break. He wanted Grace to live with him in the States after Scarlett had died. Grace considered it, but didn't want to leave Valerie. Dr Drew said that Valerie could come too, they had room. Grace still dithered, uncertain. I knew something was up, so I lured her over with the promise of coffee cake.

“Have you thought any more about going to stay with Drew?”

“Yes, I've thought about it.” She picked her hair. Bored teenager preparing to be nagged.

“I thought you loved it there. Wouldn't it be a great experience, spending some time in America?”

“What, just hopping on a plane and starting a new life as if Mum had never existed?”

“No. Taking time out to heal and grieve with people who loved her too. And when you're ready, getting on with your life. You know your mum would be furious to think you were using her as an excuse to miss out on a great opportunity.”

Grace squinted at me through her black fringe. “What if I have a great opportunity here?”

“At the Peace and Pigs? I thought you couldn't wait to get away from this dump.”

“Not
here.
In the UK.”

I could hear something in her voice. A tiny tremble.

“And? What kind of opportunity?”

A tiny smile.

“Grace!” I thwacked her over the head with a cushion, knocking her hair out of her fingers.

It all came out in one breath. “The London College of Fashion has offered me a place on their course in footwear design. It's a proper degree course. The London College of Fashion! People come from all over the world to train there. It's really hard to get in.”

Grace looked at me. Underneath and in between and alongside the shiny hoops and black make-up I could see hope and fear and excitement and anguish. An eighteen-year-old girl living her worst nightmare and her wildest dream.

“Get your shoes.”

We packed Grace's favourite four pairs into boxes and carried them across to the blue caravan. It was early evening, and we found Scarlett asleep on the sofa, curled up under a patchwork throw. I touched her shoulder and she opened her eyes.

“Hey, Scarlett.”

She needed help to sit up, and I fetched her a cup of tea to give her time to straighten her hair and reorientate herself.

“Here you go, Scarlett. Grace has something to show you.”

“What? Did you get a tattoo? Please let it be tasteful and timeless, not trashy.”

“No, she didn't get a tattoo!”

Grace ducked her head and blushed, one hand automatically gripping a spot on her shoulder.

“Well. Anyway. That's not what I was talking about. Grace, show your mum.”

Grace, tight with nerves, fumbled to open the first box. She took out a pair of delicate, dusky pink sandals, with six-inch heels so slender that Scarlett would have been the only woman I knew able to walk in them. Along every silky strap she had added tiny silver-grey roses, each one only half a centimetre in diameter, and placed a crystal bead in the centre of each flower. At the tip of the strap nearest to the end, where the little toe would sit, a hummingbird perched, crafted from the same fabric as the roses. Simple, elegant, feminine, they looked a million dollars.

“Oh, Grace, honey!” Scarlett picked one up and examined it. “These are so
beautiful
. But they must have cost a small fortune. Tell me you didn't pay for these!”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Well now, you didn't steal them, did ya? Somebody
gave
you
shoes like this? If it was Josh then he's an even better catch than I thought.”

Grace couldn't answer.

“She made them.”

Scarlett looked at me, her mind unable to keep up. “What?”

“From a cheap pair of plain sandals. She unpicked the straps and resewed them in a different position, then covered them in the pink fabric and made the roses. And the bird, see, at the front.”

Scarlett leaned over to Grace, reaching out to tuck her fringe behind her ear, a gesture that would normally have Grace jerk her head away in impatience. This evening she simply lifted her hand and pressed her mother's fingers tightly to the side of her head, holding them there.

I took the lids off the other boxes, tidied away the empty cups and left. When I glanced back from the end of the path, I could still see the outline of Scarlett's arm, reaching out across the expanse of teenage independence, stroking her daughter's hair.

 

Drew's flight left for the States the following day. He held on to his big sister for a long time as Samuel loaded his luggage into the truck.

“I wish I could stay.”

Scarlett shook her head, gently wiping his eyes with her thumbs. “I bet you do. No wife wantin' the lawn mowed, the dishes done and her feet rubbed while you listen to her tell you about her day. No kids wakin' you up at the crack of dawn and hollerin' and fightin' and makin' your head spin until the sun goes down. No hormonal women needin' examinin', or seventy-two-hour labours to wade through. Of course you wish you could stay.” She smiled. “But your family needs you, honey. Life goes on. This time together was precious, and I'll think on it often, as will you. I am so grateful to have had you. My brother. And that you were willin' to offer your home to Grace, and to Valerie too? Well. Even though they won't be needin' it just now, it gives my soul peace. You couldn't have given me anythin' more.”

Drew openly wept now. “You know I meant it, Scarlett. We would love to have them. And the offer stays open. I'll come over whenever I can, and they can visit me. I'll always be there for them, Scarlett. Anything they need.” He turned to Grace, already sitting in the back seat of Samuel's truck, ready to accompany her uncle to the airport. “Anything, Grace. Just call. Or skype. And not just when you need something, either. Call me anyway. And email. Facebook. Whatever it is you kids do these days.”

Scarlett took his hand and walked him the short distance to the truck. “I love you, Drew. You take care now. Give my love to your beautiful family.”

“I love you, sis. God bless you. I'll call you when I'm home.”

Drew climbed in and shut the door. Samuel started the engine, and they slowly pulled away, Drew waving out of the window. “You look after yourself now. See you soon!”

“See you soon.”

I walked Scarlett back to the blue van, her steps shaky, her sobs wrenching at my heart. Scarlett was weak and often confused, and time had lost all meaning, but this she did know: she would not be seeing her brother soon.

How do you say goodbye when you know it is for the last time?

S
pring and all its hope came to the forest while we weren't looking. The air smelled of sunshine, and the breeze, warmer each day, brought hints of long, lazy days and mild, mellow evenings.

My morning run took me through carpets of tiny flowers now. I tried to dodge trampling on them, at the same time ducking to avoid the boughs of trees, growing longer and greener every time I passed by. Everywhere the air hummed with clusters of insects: midges and butterflies and fat, furry bees. In the vegetable patch beside my caravan, I discovered feathery carrot tops and tomato shoots where I had planted seeds hardly any time ago. Onion and garlic stalks pushed straight up toward the strengthening sun, and the creeping beanstalks sent out curling, brightly verdant shoots to wrap round the canes I had pushed into the bare soil.

Enchanted by the miracle of life blooming in front of me, I wiped down my picnic chairs and table, dragging them around to the other side of the mobile home, facing the vegetables. Enraptured by the forest behind me, I moved one chair back, so when evening came I could watch the woods. Life. Irrepressible, unconcerned with the comedy and tragedy of the humanity existing alongside it. I fell in love with it all over again.

We had decided to hold our first Fire Night of the year on the Sunday of the May Day public holiday weekend. Although the campsite was jam-packed with guests, all the preparations were running smoothly and so far there had been no hitches or last-
minute disasters, so I took the morning off and cycled to church. I had been back a few times since Christmas Eve, though I wasn't entirely sure why. Initially I hoped to find peace there, a chance to reflect and soak up some quiet; but I discovered that was not likely to happen at Hatherstone Church. The Christmas Eve service had been a one-off, by no means an accurate reflection of what usually went on inside the chapel walls on a Sunday morning.

The pointy-booted minister (whom people called Lara, with no dignifying title) seemed to believe church should resemble a large family gathering rather than a religious occasion. Everybody mucked in, whether it was serving coffee, calling out some crazy, joyous prayer of thanks, or grabbing the microphone and telling us all how God had stepped in and performed an administrative miracle at the Post Office that week. The sermons were often more like wedding speeches – energetic, conversational, passionate, frequently funny, always moving. People actually heckled whoever was preaching each week – calling out jokes, or a question, or whooping. (Whooping! I think Father Francis might have appreciated a whoop.) The songs were in the style of amateur pub-band, accompanied by a gaggle of small children banging percussion instruments and dancing up and down the centre aisle.

In Ballydown, I'd grown up with the commonly held belief that Protestants were stuck-up, dry and brittle like dead leaves, with tightly clenched bottoms. The only clenching done in this chapel was to prevent laughter-induced incontinence. Somehow, this congregation had swapped ritual and religion for what smelled suspiciously like freedom. Everybody left their masks of politeness, social expectation and superficiality at the door. Unless – maybe – they never wore such masks; had held a big ceremony where they burned them all, deciding they weren't going to just pretend to be themselves but actually do it. I saw a man cry as he shared his pride and joy when his daughter graduated as a teacher after conquering her cocaine addiction, thanks to the love and support of the church. A wizened old lady twisted creaking hips to the rhythm of a slightly
out-of-tune bass guitar. A teenage girl announced she had dumped her controlling boyfriend after hearing a sermon about how every person is valuable and precious to God.

It had become my glass of cool water in the scorching desert of cancer, sinking campsites, and dune after dune of unresolved issues. I was welcomed but not pressured; accepted yet still challenged; loved and prayed for, and always sent home with meals for Scarlett, invitations to visit various homes, and a growing conviction I might like to be a part of it.

All this, yes; but I had a nagging, growing, squirming, guilty feeling there was another reason I got up early on a Sunday, styled my hair and dressed up in my growing new wardrobe (growing in the number of items, still shrinking in the size of said items) to go to church. That reason usually sat two rows in front of me. He wasn't a whooper and didn't shout out prayers, but one week Reuben had stood at the front to remind the men to let him know if they were coming to the Hatherstone bloke's survival weekend on the Yorkshire moors. He had caught my eye across the rows of people and winked. A warm glow spread up from somewhere in the pit of my stomach that I suspected had nothing to do with the Holy Spirit or the May sunshine beaming through the stained-glass windows.

This Sunday I hadn't hung around after the end of the service but hurried back to relieve Jake and Valerie, who had been working since eight. I found them both in reception, breaking into a carton of ice-creams.

“Hi, Marion. Ice-cream was invented around 200
BC
by the Chinese.”

“I hope those aren't from the original batch. How's it going?”

“Fine. Everything's done. We sold a lot of firelighters, so I added it to the stock list.”

“Great. Do you want to go for your lunch?”

Valerie nodded, too busy licking her cone to reply. She left me with Jake.

“What time are you due to finish?”

He shrugged. “I'm down until six, but I can stay longer if anything comes up. I was going to do some clearing up around the site, and I'll do the toilet block in a bit if you want to stay on reception.”

“I'll just grab something to eat first, if you don't mind waiting half an hour.”

“Of course. Don't rush.” Jake threw his wrapper in the bin and unfolded a newspaper.

Mr and Mrs Polite, carefully dancing around each other, trying not to step on any toes. Because I had taken on sorting out a lot of the business of the campsite while Jake still worked for Samuel, I had somehow morphed into an interim manager, and theoretically Jake's boss. Of course, Jake had worked at the Peace and Pigs three years longer than me, and while I had more administrative experience, Jake knew how to handle anything that happened beyond the office walls with his hands tied behind his back.

I hesitated at the door. “Is this working?”

“I fixed the door last week.”

“No. Us. The campsite. Without anyone in charge.”

He grinned. “I thought you were in charge.”

“I don't know. Scarlett hasn't said anything. I've just done the rotas and tried to get on with it. Do you think we should talk to her? What if something big goes wrong? Or something small. If
anything
goes wrong, I won't know how to deal with it. I can't tell people what to do, or make decisions. And the rent: how are we covering that?”

“You'll be fine. It's working. We're a team.”

I wished I had Jake's confidence. I wasn't authorized, qualified or capable of running a business. I still wasn't convinced I could manage my own life. I went to see the real owner of the Peace and Pigs.

“Hi, Scarlett.” I had learned, early on, that one of the worst questions a visitor can ask a terminally ill person is “How are you?” They are dying – that is how they are. There is not much you can say about dying that will start a friendly visit off well. Even if the well-meaning visitor is not shocked, or saddened, or silenced to hear the
honest answer, it usually does the ill person no favours to have to spell it out. And the alternative is to start things off with a dishonest reply, however polite. If they want to talk about it, they will, but I have learned not to ask. A grey complexion, trembling hands and a soup-stained blouse told me how Scarlett was that Sunday. Valerie and Grace went to their rooms to give us space.

“Can we talk about the campsite? Do you feel up to it?”

A delay of several seconds followed as the words sneaked their way through Scarlett's brain tentacles to her processing neurons, then fought their way out. “Yes. What's the problem?”

“I need to know who you want to run things while you aren't feeling up to it. What if we need to hire somebody new, or a visitor makes a complaint and asks to see the manager? Or one of us needs a telling-off? At the moment, things are fine and we're working really well together, but you ought to decide who's in charge before anything happens that causes an issue.”

Or, I didn't add, before she was too ill and confused to be able to.

Scarlett sat back and closed her eyes. She had lost weight; her cheekbones stood out sharp underneath her skin. I waited while she considered.

“You're right. I thought after the summer Grace might do it, but she'll be in London. I don't think Jake can just now; he ain't strong enough.” She turned her head in my direction, eyes still closed. “I don't wanna put pressure on you to stay, Marion. Maybe the best thing is to let Fisher have his land back, and Valerie and I'll move in with Samuel. He still seems to want me now I'm sick.”

“Samuel loves you. Next time he asks you to marry him, you should say yes.”

“Now why would I do that? I'm in no mood for sex and I can't be bothered to change my name. With this skin tone I'd look like I was already dead if I put on a white dress. The photos would be shockin'. And what're we gonna vow? In sickness and in sickness?”

“You'd do it because it would make Samuel happy. And give Grace somewhere to call home and someone she can go to
unconditionally. And we could have a party. Stop you whining about how your boobs look like deflated balloons.”

Scarlett smiled.

I said, “I'm staying. As long as the campsite is here, I'll do my best. I'll take care of Valerie, keep an eye on Grace and I'll figure out a way to cover the rent rise. As long as I don't have to go near the chickens.”

“You can slaughter them and eat Southern fried chicken at my funeral.”

“How about at your wedding?”

“How about at
your
wedding?” Scarlett patted my hand, slowly. “Come back tomorrow and I'll give you your first lesson in runnin' things.”

Before I even reached the caravan door she had fallen asleep. I descended the steps, my bones clacking together with fear. Run the campsite? Take care of Valerie? Cover the rent rise? What on earth was I thinking?

I could hear my mother's voice, braying about my incompetence as a human being, my ability to reach whole new levels of uselessness. I was a failure, a laughing stock, an embarrassment. Walking back to the reception after grabbing a sandwich I tried to shut out the memory of her taunts, replaying the endless loop of my childhood.
Pathetic. Freak. Spineless.

Then I stopped just behind the trees lining the rim of the car park, the sandwich in my hand forgotten. This wasn't a hideous flashback.

I could hear my mother's voice.

Either I had finally snapped from the stress, or my mother was actually present here, at the Peace and Pigs. In my campsite.

I would have turned and run, but that would have been akin to leaving an escaped crocodile loose in my home. Craning my neck, I peered through a gap in the branches. Could there have been anything worse than the sight of my mother, wearing her best brown coat, standing in the Peace and Pigs car park?

How about watching her shuffle back to allow a burly taxi driver to haul not one, but two giant suitcases out of the boot of his car? Help.

My spine dissolved. I felt as though I had been karate-kicked in my solar plexus. Jake stepped out of the reception to offer some assistance. This propelled me around the treeline. I felt urgently that my mother must not meet Jake. If I could get her to leave without speaking to anyone, meeting anyone, maybe it wouldn't really have happened. She wouldn't have actually been here.

I stopped, panting, a few feet away. Jake was holding out one hand to introduce himself, no doubt explaining that we were fully booked for the bank holiday. I saw her glance across, and then look away again before she realized it was me, and turn back. I tried to lift my chin, fighting the urge to take a submissive stance, grateful I had worn my good clothes while at the same time vividly aware that I had a spot on the side of my nose.

The cogs whirred in Jake's head as we stood there, nobody making the first move.

“Do you two know each other? Shall I leave you to it?” He reversed back into the reception.

Silence like an ocean of treacle lapped between us. I heard the chaffinches calling in the woods to the right of me and the faint cry of Sunny and Katarina's children building a dam in the stream running across the bottom field. At the edges of my visual field I saw the movement of green shadows as the wind rippled through the branches of the oak trees, and the flash of orange and blue where the first row of tents were pitched. Anger uncurled in my chest like an electric eel. This was my home, my haven. I knew if I had opened my mouth then, I would have let out a scream, a howl of protest. My security had been breached, my sanctuary violated.

My mother spoke. “Hello, Marion. It's good to see you.”

Is it? Last time we talked you were not happy with me.

“What are you doing here?” I grew even more enraged at the way my voice trembled.

She rolled her shoulders, giving the impression that her coat was too tight. “I came to see how you were getting on.”

“I sent a card.”

“I wanted to see you, Marion. Is that so hard to believe? That a mother would want to see her daughter after nine months?”

I said nothing. Ma walked around her suitcase, carefully, and took four precise steps toward me, until we were eye to eye. She waited for a long time. She looked different, and wanted me to see it.

“What's going on, Ma? What are you doing here?”

She kept looking at me. This was a message. She had never looked at me.