Making Marion (23 page)

That evening, dressed in the closest thing I had to a suit (a pair of straight-legged navy trousers and my grey cardigan), hair pulled into a tight, professional bun, a slash of plum I-mean-business lipstick, I picked up Jake and drove to Fisher's house. We sat in the car for a few moments, eyeing up the enemy's lair from the far side of heavy iron security gates. Situated on one of the tributaries that led off Hatherstone high street, the red-brick house rose in a three-storey main building with a separate garage. Only a couple of years old, it sported four sets of white pillars and a circular pond with a cluster of stone fish in the centre spurting water from each of their mouths. Several stone lions had been dispersed around the edge of the gravel drive.

Jake wound down his window and pressed the intercom. After an initial crackle, someone asked who we were.

Jake leaned back in his seat, gesturing me toward the intercom with his head.

“Hello. It's Marion Miller from the Peace and Pigs Holiday Park. I wanted to talk to Fisher about the business.”

“Now?”

“Yes, please.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“Not really.”

“Wait one moment.”

We waited in the car as one moment dragged by, followed by a lot more moments. Jake kept reminding me to keep cool, present the information, and if that didn't work, to bat my eyelashes and stick my boobs out. Final resort: cry like a baby.

I breathed out, dropped my shoulders, breathed in, paused, imagined saying “Good evening, Mr Fisher”. Did it again. And again. Flipped through the papers I had brought. Checked my lipstick. Breathed out.

The gates eventually swung open, and we were let in through the front door by Fisher's wife, Olivia. I was expecting a butler. She led us along plush, cream carpets, past cream doors finished off with gold trim and under a chandelier far too wide and low for the corridor, before showing us into a study.

Fisher sat behind a vast desk, in front of a wall lined with sets of thick, old-fashioned books. The type an interior decorator buys in, never expecting them to be actually opened and read. I felt angrier already. What a waste of books. He was on the phone, and carried on barking about the close of play and striking while the iron was hot, meanwhile indicating with a wave that we should sit down. A cheap trick designed to intimidate us, and make us feel the weaker party in the room. I was glad. It gave me a chance to run through my mute busters again, and straighten my spine as I reminded myself that Fisher was a pompous idiot and a bully. By the time he came off the phone, I felt ready to rumble.

“So then, Marion, is it?” He ignored Jake. “I can spare you five.” He flicked his hand at me. “Go. What have you got?”

“Good evening, Mr Fisher. I'm here to talk to you about the holiday park.”

“What? I can't hear you. Speak up. I don't have time to listen to everything twice.”

I couldn't even hear myself.
Come on, Marion.
Jake squeezed my elbow. I coughed, and breathed.

“I'm here to talk to you about the holiday park.”

“Well yes, I had gathered that. Has she finally seen sense and agreed to sell?”

“No. Ms Obermann is not planning on selling the business. She wishes to pass on the running of the campsite to me, as she's not well enough.”

Fisher smiled. I now knew what a slug would look like if it had teeth.

“Really? And do you have any business experience? Relevant qualifications? I thought not. Shall we get real for a moment, dear? It is time to let go and move on. Scarlett had a nice little business going there for a while, but the number one rule in this game is knowing when to admit defeat. It's time for her to admit defeat.”

“That isn't your decision.” I blinked to clear the hot anger building behind my eyes. “It isn't just a business. The Peace and Pigs is a home. What about Valerie and Grace? They already have to face losing their mother. Are you going to force them out as well?”

Fisher began reading a sheet of paper in front of him. “I'm sorry – why are you here?”

“I want you to revoke the rent rise. Not altogether – ” My words speeded up, I sounded garbled and frantic, but I could sense Fisher had already left the meeting. “But, see, if you look on the spreadsheet, if we lower it by fifty per cent now, then bring in the rest of the increase gradually, over the next three years, giving us time to put up prices and find other ways to make the savings, then – ”

He didn't take his eyes off the paper in front of him. “Well yes, that is all well and good. Just one point. You see, I neither want nor expect the Peace and Pigs – ” he spat out the name “– to still be here in three, two or even one year's time. You'll see yourselves out?”

He picked up his phone and dialled as he spoke, swivelling his chair around to begin his conversation before I could process what he had said.

I spoke only once in the car on the way home, which was one more time than Jake.

“I'm going to find a way to meet the rent rise.”

Jake glanced at me. The determination in my voice had his attention.

“We're going to make this business so darn profitable that we can buy the land for ourselves.”

Yes, Marion, of course you are. Why don't you put a bid in for Buckingham Palace while you're at it?

I
n the make-believe world of Hollywood fantasy, once a beautiful, strong, kind woman has been given a few months to live, she writes herself a bucket list and spends those precious last days creating breathtaking memories, sharing wonderful, heart-wrenching moments and seeing her dreams come true. She lives a lifetime of experiences in a matter of weeks, assisted by the touching and achingly thoughtful gestures of her nearest and dearest.

When Scarlett was initially diagnosed, her bucket-list suggestions included a trip to Paris, skydiving (as long as she was strapped to a hunky instructor), swimming with sharks, staying in an ice-hotel to see the Northern Lights and spending the night with Clint Eastwood under the Major Oak.

As her illness took hold, the list of her hopes and dreams changed: to get up and dress herself each morning, to have a croissant for breakfast with black cherry jam, to laugh several times a day, to tell her family she loved them, to not pee on the bathroom floor, to be strong enough to walk beneath the trees again, to spend the night with Samuel T. Waters under the Major Oak.

Scarlett was retreating. It got harder and harder for her to fight past the tumours in her head and reach us. What could we do for her before it was too late? We had a surprise picnic. I spent three days in Sunny's kitchen preparing cakes and finger foods, enjoying the added bonus of avoiding my mother, who as yet showed no signs of leaving. We put a sign up in reception, and visited the midweek
guests to ensure they knew there would be no staff on duty for the afternoon, leaving my mobile phone number in case of emergency. Thirty people had been invited – enough for a party but not so many as to overwhelm Scarlett or make her frailty embarrassing to her. We took blankets, picnic chairs, hampers and ball games to the clearing around the Major Oak, in the heart of the Sherwood Forest country park. On my last trip out here I had punched Jake and run off into the woods to have a panic attack. A lifetime ago.

The forest was reasonably empty, so we felt no guilt in sprawling out across the grass as we waited for Samuel to bring the guest of honour. We waited a long time, nervously watching the white clouds drifting back and forth across the sun, alternately plunging the clearing into shadow and lifting it with vibrant sunlight. Eventually Katarina, fussing over spoiled food, began opening hampers and laying out plates. Grace untangled herself from Josh and came to stand next to me, leaning on the fence that kept tourists at a safe distance from the ancient tree.

“She's an hour late.”

“I know. She's probably been sleeping. Or changing her mind about what to wear. You know she can't tell the time any more.”

“Samuel can. Mum thinks being late is self-important, a way of letting someone know you consider yourself of greater worth than them; that their time, and therefore their life, is less valuable than yours.”

“Maybe she decided that today she is the most important person. Perhaps she insisted on walking from the car park. You know she thinks she can do more than she actually can. She's okay, Grace. If something had happened Samuel would have phoned.”

Grace shook her head. “Except that you need a satellite phone to get a reception here.”

“Don't worry. Go and see if Josh wants a satay chicken stick. They are delicious, if I do say so myself.”

Two hours late, Samuel drove Archie's wagon into the forest, Scarlett waving from the seat beside him in a black and white shift
dress that I hadn't seen before. He climbed down and lifted her to the ground. We all clapped and shouted “Surprise!”

Samuel called for everyone's attention. We quieted down, and he clasped his strong, walnut arm around Scarlett.

“Actually,” she drawled, only a hint of unsteadiness in her voice, “the surprise is on you.”

Samuel beamed, his teeth gleaming through his beard as the sun emerged from behind a cloud again.

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends and honoured guests. It is my absolute pleasure, my inexpressible delight, to present my wife: Scarlett Obermann-Waters.”

The rest of his speech was drowned out as the friends and honoured guests went wild. My eyes quickly sought out Grace and Valerie across the clearing, anxious to see how they had responded to the news of missing the wedding. With shock and relief, it appeared. They both muscled through the cluster of congratulations to embrace the newly-weds, hanging on long after others had started to hand round plastic glasses of sparkling wine.

Scarlett was ushered to a two-seater camping chair, where she curled up beside her patient husband, a soft throw around her knees, and after toasting and being toasted, she fell asleep.

Erica arrived even later than Scarlett, causing Grace to mouth “self-important” at me with a knowing smirk. I turned away to hide my smile. Someone else didn't think Erica was perfect. That made two of us out of seven billion. She was slightly flushed, in a wholesome, outdoorsy way, but her eyes jerked about betraying that there was more to it than that.

I have no excuse, beyond sheer nosiness, but when she swished down beside Reuben on a blanket, I wandered close enough to listen under the pretence of helping myself to another smoked salmon blini. They kissed briefly.

“I thought you had to work. Doesn't the Prebble deal need signing off today?”

Erica wriggled with suppressed excitement. “I walked out.”

“You mean you resigned?”

“Ssshhh! Keep your voice down. I don't want my news to detract from Scarlett and Samuel's day.”

I didn't think Erica had to worry too much about that, and from the look on Reuben's face, neither did he.

“So, what are you going to do? If you resigned, you won't be entitled to a pay-out. Have you really thought this through?”

Erica leaned closer to him. “I have another offer. It means slightly less money, and I'll have to let the flat go, so I can manage and keep the car.”

Reuben waited for her to explain. I nibbled on my third blini, willing her to hurry up before my stomach reached capacity.

“Daddy wants me to manage his new venture. It's an amazing opportunity, with tons of scope for potential. And – ” she trailed one finger slowly down Reuben's bare arm, “it means I get to work close to you. Much, much closer. Close enough to live at the Hall.”

Reuben didn't move. He took a long minute to reply. “You can't stand the countryside. Isn't that the whole reason why for two years we've been at stalemate? Now you're inviting yourself to move in?”

Erica sat back. “I don't have to move in if you don't want me to. I know about your old-fashioned notions of propriety. But aren't you pleased that we will actually get to see each other more than once a fortnight? We can have a proper relationship again.”

“Don't take a job simply to be near me. Your career matters too much to you, and you know it.”

“I told you, it's a great opportunity. A new challenge.”

“Round here?”

Erica looked down at her feet, demurely curled under her skirt. “Daddy wants me to run the campsite. He's drawn up some amazing plans for expansion, to turn it from a failing, tatty trailer park into a luxury holiday village. The kind of place where people like us would want to spend our money: contemporary, hip, low-carbon-footprint, but with all the latest equipment. Secluded cabins with private hot-tubs, wood-burning stoves and a personal chef to
prepare meals made with ingredients from Sherwood Organics. Like a top-class hotel but in the forest.”

I could hear the frown in Reuben's voice. “I thought Scarlett wasn't selling.”

“Well no, not
yet.
But in a few months.”

“Ownership of the business is passing to Samuel and Grace. Marion's going to run it. I hear she's going to look after Valerie.”

“Yes, but with the new rent increase they can't afford to keep going as they are. Do you really think Marion can run a business, take it forward, make it into something that can grow and last? She can't even make a bowl of pasta! Oh, don't worry, I'll find something for them all to do. We'll still need cleaners and groundsmen.”

“Marion has been working at the campsite nine months longer than you. You have no idea what experience she has. Part of running a successful business is getting along with your employees. You can't just force your way in and expect it to work.”

Erica's cheeks flushed deep pink. She no longer bothered to keep her voice down. “You don't think I can do it?”

“I don't think you
should
do it.”

“I'm doing this for us, Reuben, so that we can actually spend some time together! So I don't feel as if you have a whole separate life where you end up with other women in your kitchen half naked. You spend enough of your time hanging around that scabby park. This way, you get to do it with me. And when you finally become Lord Hatherstone, we can use some of the wasted land on the estate to grow the business even more. Make a whole forest resort, with shops and restaurants and sports facilities. Can't you see I'm doing this for us – for our future?”

Reuben stood up. “Of course. You can't cope without shops and restaurants on your doorstep, can you? You've got it all figured out, you and Daddy – what you're going to do with my land, my family's home, to make your fortune. Perhaps we should turn the Hall into a luxury low-carbon-footprint hotel while we're at it? Don't worry about my parents. They can clean bathrooms and make beds as well as anyone.”

Erica, chastened, scrambled to her feet and followed him as he began to walk away. “Okay, I'm sorry. The estate land was going a bit too far. But the rest – it's going to happen anyway. At least with me in charge we can show some sympathy to the park's history.”

Reuben stopped. He removed Erica from his arm. Most of the guests were now watching from their deckchairs and blankets. “Please can we talk about this another time?”

“All right. But where are you going?”

“Lucy needs a walk. Why don't you offer your congratulations to the happy couple before they find out you're planning on destroying their home and their business?”

 

I stayed awake most of that night, my head churning with figures and data and profit margins. Erica was right, of course. I had no idea how to turn a failing business around. The conclusion I reached in the end went like this: the Peace and Pigs Holiday Park was a thriving business, run well. I had checked out other rates in the area and even our previous rent had been high. Fisher trying to run us out was the only reason things had become unworkable. Still, he owned the land and had the right to fix his rent, however unfair the increase might be. And I couldn't see any way of making more money out of the business as it stood; there were no more corners to be cut. We needed some way of generating extra income. Something akin to the Christmas grotto, but lasting all year round. I kept thinking, and by morning a tiny, green shoot of an idea had begun to sprout.

I decided to go into the village to speak with Jo, my friend at the café. We had chatted a few times at church now, and got on pretty well. We both enjoyed reading, and Jo had invited me along to join her book group. I had been disappointed to have to turn down my first ever potential girls' night out, but things were too hectic at the site.

I was taking my car to the village, as the bike had a puncture. As I unlocked it, my mother appeared.

“Good morning, Marion. Are you well this day?”

Good morning. I was still on red alert, always watching for signs that my real mother was going to rear her vicious head.

“I'm fine. How are you?”

“Grand, thank you. Are you heading to the village?”

“Yes.”

“Would you give me a lift? I hear there's a good clothes stall at the market today, and if I don't find myself something cooler to wear I'm never going to make it through the summer.”

This felt like a bullet barrelling through my stomach and embedding itself in my guts. Still, I was unable to ask her what she meant.
Through the summer?
As in the whole season? Right the way out the other side? Wasn't that what “through” meant? Was she planning on never going home?

“So? Will you give me a lift?”

“Get in.”

We drove in silence. Ma knew I was more than a little wary of her attempts at restoration. The truth was, I still felt angry and hurt, and annoyed that her presence reminded me constantly of my past; of who I had been, and why. I wanted nothing more than for her to leave. I mused as I sped down the country lanes that perhaps if I pretended all was forgiven and we were okay now, she might consider her mission accomplished and go. Something to think on.

I parked close to the market. It was a measure of my bitterness that I didn't want her to see where I was going. Not because it was a secret. I simply didn't want her in my life or my business, or knowing anything about me. We arranged to meet back at the car in half an hour and I slipped across to the café.

Inside felt pleasantly cool. An elderly couple sat at one table sharing a pot of tea, and four local labourers occupied another, polishing off the café's famous Outlaw's Breakfast. Jo stood behind the counter by the till, flicking through a copy of the paper.

“Hi, Marion. What can I get you?”

“Tea, please. And a piece of carrot cake.”

She deftly filled a mug and slipped a piece of cake from inside the display case onto a plain white plate, then offered me milk from a metal jug, and a sachet of sugar. I declined both.

“Do you have a few minutes to chat?”

She checked the clock. Ten-thirty, still a long while to go before the lunchtime rush.

“Sure.”

Sitting at a corner table, I described to Jo my idea of creating somewhere to eat at the campsite. Not quite a café or a restaurant, but a place that would attract visitors to stop in for food or a drink throughout the day, and provide a place for families to hang out in the evenings. I was imagining live music, a well-stocked bookcase, maybe a crate of Lego. Nothing loud or tacky, but a homely environment and high quality food – a venue able to draw in not only campsite visitors, but local people and tourists as well.