Making Marion (28 page)

“Wait!” My throat felt as though I had swallowed a pincushion. I wanted to tell them not to go in, not to do it; that they didn't have to do this. It was hopeless, impossible. We would end up losing three lives, not one. There was no shame in not walking into a death trap to save a woman who was surely beyond saving.

Archie and Ginger turned toward me, their silhouettes tall and straight. I didn't have to see their faces to know they understood.

“Be careful.”

Whipping the blanket around them like a superhero's cape, they unlocked the door and flung it open. A torrent of scorching black smoke surged out, engulfing the blanket.

I crawled over to Valerie, my head spinning, and curled myself around her. The thought that Valerie would be here to see Archie and Ginger bring out her mother sat like a ball of lead in the pit of my stomach. The likelihood that she wouldn't get to see it, I couldn't bear to think about.

But Archie and Ginger didn't disappear into the cackling furnace. They stooped down, still huddled in the blanket, and began to half drag, half carry the figure of Amanda out onto the caravan veranda, before slowly lifting her down the steps and across the clearing. She must have fallen right beside the doorway.

Ginger and Archie lay her down on the grass, and wrapped her gently in the blanket. Ginger began to weep. She took off her jacket and folded it up, placing it underneath Amanda's head. An old woman, in the shadow of a raging inferno, scorched, shaking, wracked with sorrow.

“Oh!” she cried. “Oh! You poor, poor girl. What have you done? You poor, poor girl.”

She cradled the limp body of the woman who had killed her son and lied about it for thirty years. Stroked her hair, patted her hand. Wept.

Archie pulled the letter out of his pocket. Hauling himself to his feet, he limped across to the caravan, ripping the envelope into pieces as he did so. He tossed the fragments into the air, where they span and floated on the hot current before disappearing into the night.

I heard the voice of Lara.
Love wins.

The caravan still burned, rising flames dancing dangerously close to the trees. Despite my growing weakness and overwhelming nausea, the need to get help drove me to my knees and then my feet, and then somehow to take enough faltering, stumbling, steps through the forest to fall in a crumpled heap at Reuben's feet.

 

I woke up in hospital. A zillion tiny cuts covered my face and arms from the exploding window. One impressive, angry gash snaked down my chest, where a piece of glass had ripped it open as I yanked Valerie out. For three days I was pumped full of drugs, itched beyond normal levels of human endurance and was hugged, gently, by more friends than I knew I had. They filled me in on the rest of the story.

As soon as Valerie entered the caravan, the door had opened and Amanda walked in. Taking the key off her daughter, she locked the door before proceeding to cajole, demand and shake the whereabouts of the letter out of her. Together they turned every room upside down searching for it, Valerie terrified, her mother increasingly frenzied.

Finally accepting that Valerie knew nothing, half-crazed with the bitterness of vengeful wrath, Amanda decided to torch the van, and hopefully the letter with it. When Valerie came out of the bedroom and saw the fire starting, she tried to intervene. Amanda slipped as they wrestled, cracking her head on a metal doorstop and knocking herself out.

By this point, the curtains on the far side of the van had caught. Valerie dragged her mother to the front door, but it was locked and she couldn't find the key. As the fire grew in intensity, she could only think to build a barricade to shield Amanda from the flames, before being forced back into the bedroom. At that point, she heard me knocking on the window.

Amanda would spend a long time in hospital and rehabilitation. She pleaded guilty to breaking and entering, arson, and several smaller charges, sparing her daughter the trauma of testifying in court. Someone cleared out her house and took her things away. We didn't ask where.

 

The Robin Hood Festival was held during the third week of August. A thick red circle on my calendar, it marked my deadline for launching the new campsite eatery. In the days leading up to it,
I spent all my time, energy and hope on getting the café kiosk fit to open. Valerie chose its name: “Scarlett's”. Cheesy, but I could hardly argue with her about it. We towed an empty static caravan up to the grassy area behind reception, hiring builders to gut the insides (apart from the bathroom) and replace the fittings with all the equipment needed to run a professional kitchen, including a first-class grill for Ma to flip breakfast pancakes on. Outside, Jake built an oven for potatoes and stone-baked pizza, and a barbeque to rival the one used on Fire Nights. I scoured the local car boot sales and discount shops for tables of varying sizes, some tall enough to sit round on chairs and eat a meal, others coffee-table height. I matched them with chairs and rattan sofas, and found an antique hat stand, the perfect place to hang blankets so customers could help themselves when the evenings grew chilly sitting out under the trees.

We opted for a fire pit and chimeneas instead of gas patio heaters, stringing fairy lights through the trees to complement the table lamps. The builders deftly assembled a wooden gazebo and additional decking, fixing shutters where I had removed the glass from the main window of the van to provide a serving hatch.

I planned a menu, with Vanessa's help. She also convinced me that building a climbing frame and a sandbox would be essential if we wanted to give parents the chance to relax over their drinks. I splashed out on a giant chess set and quoits. By the second week of August, all I had left to do was purchase the stock. That, and freak out. A lot.

Oh yes, and officially offer my mother a job.

This was not my idea, rather the terms under which Grace agreed to cash in the cheque from Big Johnny. And she insisted on using half the money to pay for Scarlett's. It was her business now, and her money. I could only graciously accept, and pray very, very hard that I didn't mess it up.

Ma said yes. I went back to my van and pictured the night of the fire. In the privacy of my caravan, I spoke out loud the now
partial truth that I forgave my mother for some, if not all, of the miscellaneous iniquities she had committed. Lara was right. I barely needed to grit my teeth now as I said it.

The week before the festival, I handed out flyers to our full complement of campers, advertising our opening night on the Friday evening. I stuck up a poster in Jo's café, and on the church noticeboard, and handed them out at the market. It took me one pre-launch haircut from Ada to realize I could have saved myself a lot of time and effort. Once I'd told her, pretty soon the whole forest would hear about the party.

Scarlett's opened at four o'clock. By four-thirty I had sold three ice-creams and a glass of homemade lemonade. By six o'clock the queue snaked halfway around the meadow. Jake couldn't flip his steaks fast enough, and Grace and Valerie ended up taking drinks and food straight to tables, to speed things up. A couple of hours later I left Ma to fend for herself in the kitchen and took over from Jake at the barbeque, allowing him to join his band. For a while I could do nothing but scoop spicy lamb burgers into ciabatta rolls, hand out fish kebabs and try to stop the chargrilled vegetables from becoming more charred than grilled. Then, as the sun began to sink beneath the trees, the line of customers temporarily all satisfied, I turned to observe the scene behind me.

A cluster of little children, three of them with bright red hair, scampered in the shadows at one end of the meadow. Older siblings languished against the bars of the climbing frame, dangling coke cans from their hands. In front of the band, a few couples were swaying, too engrossed in one another to notice the toddlers darting around their ankles.

We had filled every table, with more people standing. The fairy lights twinkled, the breeze carried the rich scent of good food, the sound of chatter and relaxed laughter blended with the easy rhythm of the music.

I'm not ashamed to admit I cried. We had made enough money in one evening to cover the whole month's rent.

Fortunately, Fisher had not been invited, so I didn't have to fight the temptation to laugh in his smug, toady face.

T
he final morning of the festival nearly got lost in the whirls of forest mist clinging around the tree trunks and coating every blade of grass in thick dew. I got up early, tugging a pair of jeans over my worn-out legs, wincing as the top button scraped my still tender scar.

Armed with trays of samples from Scarlett's, and a wodge of discount vouchers, I parked up at the festival site, this time using the workers' car park, and began unloading the trays into Grace and Valerie's waiting arms. It had been my decision to still have the annual employees' day out at the festival, closing the Peace and Pigs shop and kiosk for the day. The business books I had checked out at the library told me this was an idiotic decision, spelling certain doom for my new venture and branding me a total loser. I didn't care. I wanted to go to the festival. I left my mobile phone number taped to the door in case of emergency. The fact that I had no mobile phone reception in the heart of Sherwood Forest was beside the point.

A man with a clipboard showed us where to find our rented stall, right at the heart of the action near the Major Oak. Valerie bobbed up and down with pent-up excitement, nearly tipping her mini-muffins onto the ground.

“Do you think we'll see Robin Hood? Do you? Will the Sheriff be there? Maybe they'll have a massive fight, with real swords, and Robin will get his sword and stab the Sheriff like this, right in
his guts, and all the intestines will slither out like a giant slippery sausage, and he'll die and Robin will have won once and for all!”

Grace balanced her tray onto one arm, grabbing Valerie's to stop the contents from sliding off the edge. “You do remember that it isn't the actual Robin Hood, Val?”

Valerie ignored her.

“And that the Sheriff whose guts you want to see all over the forest is really Jake wearing a costume?”

Valerie tossed over a withering look. “I feel sorry for you, Grace. Living in your land of no imagination must be so utterly boring.”

She leaned around Grace so that she could see me, struggling with three trays balanced on top of each other, and a carrier bag dangling from each arm producing thick red welts on my wrists. “You're looking forward to seeing him, aren't you, Marion? I bet Robin Hood will come and stop by the stall and say, ‘Ooh, Lady Marion, what splendid carroty cakes I see before me. Surely they are the finest in the land!' And you'll say, ‘Well, I thank thee, O Prince of the Forest. You must be in sore need of a quick-release carbohydrate snack to strengthen your manly muscles for the fight that is certain to lie before you this day. Pray, do take and eat one of my humble cakes, or even two.'

“And Robin will eat one – but only one because he doesn't want to be greedy – and he'll say, ‘Can it be true? These delightful morsels taste even more delicious than they dost appear. Dost it be magic? Or perhaps the hand of a truly skilled and able maiden? She would surely make a fine wife! No man would want for more! Tell me, good lady, where did you find such fantastical victuals?' And you will say, ‘Sir! You do speak too kind. It was surely me that did arise this very dawn to make these cakes.' And Robin will sweep you off your feet into a great big snog and everybody'll cheer, and he'll win the fight and then come back and ask you to marry him.”

Grace shook her head. “Even in the world of Valerie, Robin Hood has to end up with Maid Marion, not
our
Marion.”

Valerie just smiled.

I thought about how the actors pretending to be Robin Hood and Maid Marion had ended up together in real life, adjusting the trays pressed against my chest to squash the sudden ache back inside the secret depths of my heart where it belonged.

Our
Marion. I was theirs now. I thought about that instead. For at least ten seconds.

We set up the stall in good time, and Grace and Valerie left for a quick wander about before the visitors began to arrive.

Another man with a clipboard rushed across.

“Marion?”

“Yes.”

“Can I give you this?” He held up a long dark red dress. Medieval style. “Looks like it should fit. You'll need someone to fasten the stays. Do you want to use the staff cabin to change in?”

“I'm sorry. I'm not the
Maid
Marion. Marion is just my actual name. I'm here to run a stall. Don't you need Erica?”

He pulled a face. “Erica quit. Didn't someone talk to you about this? A blonde girl told me you'd agreed to stand in.”

“A blonde girl who was bouncing on an invisible pogo stick?”

He nodded. “That's her. So, will you do it?”

I flashed back to last year. Crowds of people. Ropes. Running. A full-blown panic attack.

“Oh, come on, duck. You'd be perfect!”

“What do I have to do?”

“Nothing really, it's a cinch. Walk about a bit, maybe have your photo taken, chat to the visitors. Stand at the edge of the field while the battle goes on, and cheer for the right side.”

Chat to the visitors? That is everything, not nothing.

“Go on, love, please. I'm desperate here. It's only one day.”

“I can't be tied up.”
What am I saying? Am I going to do this? Shut up, Marion! Don't be bullied into letting him ruin the festival – for you, and all those little girls who want to meet a smiley, nice, beautiful Maid Marion. Not to mention their dads.

“No, none of that. There was an incident last year.”

I took the dress. “I'm not doing it if this doesn't fit.”

He grinned. “Thanks, duck, you're a life-saver.”

Maybe not that, but I am a woman whose stupid crush makes her do stupid things just to spend a bit of time indulging a stupid fantasy with a man who is in love with someone else.

I quickly changed in the temporary cabin set aside for festival staff. An older woman, dressed in what looked like a discarded flour sack, helped me with my outfit and pinned a flower garland into my hair. Images of riding off into the sunset, my arms wrapped around Reuben, kept dancing about in my brain. Thoughts like this had popped up more than I would care to admit during the weeks since our was-it-or-wasn't-it? date.

I slunk out of the cabin into the shadow of the trees. A group of lads dressed as medieval soldiers strolled past. One of them whistled at me, and another bowed with a flourish as his comrades cheered. I fought the urge to run straight back into the cabin, instead offering them a self-conscious wave. I felt like a shoddy, last-minute stand-in for the gorgeous grace of Erica. A cheap imitation and in every way a second-rate replacement.
Help.

Sidling behind a large tree trunk, I beat myself around the head a few times for getting myself into this situation, before spending a while on my mute busters. As I slowed my breathing down, I remembered the trembly lost girl who had tiptoed around the festival the previous year; and I felt stronger. I leaned back against the rough bark imagining my da, thirty years before, standing in the exact same place. What would he think if he could see me here now?

I could do this. I knew as much about the legend of Robin Hood and Maid Marion as anyone. This wasn't a mistake.

It was going to be brilliant.

Grace and Valerie clapped and cheered as I followed the first of the visitors back to the main clearing. As soon as they caught sight of me people began pointing their phones at me, snapping what felt like hundreds of pictures.

I leaned across our stall and stuck my face as close to Valerie's as I could manage without squishing the goods.

“You did this!”

She giggled.

“If anything embarrassing, awkward or unpleasant happens, I'm putting you on toilet duty for the rest of the season.”

“You look beautiful, Marion. Reuben will be dazzled. Everything will turn out excellently.”

I grimaced. “Reuben will pretend to be dazzled. He has to. I'm quite sure he would find it much easier if it was his girlfriend wearing the ridiculous dress.”

Valerie looked confused. “He doesn't have a girlfriend. Him and Erica broke up ages ago.”

“Yes, but they got back together. Didn't they?”

“No! Why would they do that if Reuben likes you?”

“I saw them, at the funeral.”

Before Valerie could reply, clipboard man tapped me on the shoulder.

“If you could please start making your way back down the path toward the main entrance? You can hang about there for half an hour or so, then take the longer route back here for the battle. And remember – you must stay in character at all times! For the purposes of today, you are Maid Marion!”

So, Marion's lesson on how to spend the day pretending to be your ancient namesake. One: keep smiling. And waving. Even when little boys decide it would be fun to throw mud-encrusted pine cones at you. Two: duck. Those pine cones hurt. Three: bite the bullet, do your mute busters and stop to talk to all kids staring as you walk past. Most of them will tell you how pretty you look. They don't know you feel a complete idiot. When you see a girl in a wheelchair, so tiny she looks as if the wind could blow her away, tell her she is beautiful, and that you love her flower garland. Her incredible smile will make every second spent in an itchy, cumbersome dress, smelling of someone else's sweat, worth it.

Four: don't try to do the accent. You can't keep it up. Small talk is enough of a challenge for now. Five: when a greasy-skinned man wearing a stained stringy vest designed for a considerably smaller man gropes your backside, feel free to ask him, in a loud clear voice that shakes the birds from the trees, why he grabbed your bottom. Keep asking until he slinks away. Six: clap, cheer and forget you are meant to be a dignified noblewoman when watching a twilight-in-the-forest-eyed Robin Hood battle the super-fit blond-haired Sheriff. Enjoy having two men fight over you for the first time ever, but not too much. Remember that when Robin Hood takes your hand, kisses it and fixes those dark, dark eyes on you as he swears to protect you, he is only acting. Slam the lid down quick on the box of yummy, treacly feelings that spread from your stomach all the way to the ends of your hair.

Seven: take a moment to stop and marvel at the fact that you did it. You shed your weak, watery, worry-worn skin and actually did it.

My toes were curling with exhaustion in their silken slippers by the close of the day. I had posed for approximately seven hundred thousand photographs, most of which would be slapped all over Facebook by the evening. I had spoken to more people in one day than all the rest of my life put together, with only a handful of weird or inappropriate things popping out of my mouth. A falcon had eaten a chunk of meat from my gloved hand. I had been serenaded by a jester, and to top it off, I had set fire to Morris Middleton's armpit hair as part of the Minstrel's Grand Finale.

After a packed afternoon we had a two-hour gap until the evening banquet. Enough time to nip home, shower and change, drop off the empty trays and find out why Ma had never turned up.

She was in reception. I automatically bristled at the implied criticism of my decision to give everyone the day off.

“Why didn't you come to the festival?”

“I didn't want to go. I'm not interested in that sort of thing.” She started rummaging under the counter at nothing, her back to me.

“You could have helped us at the stall.”

“You didn't need me. I'd have been in the way.”

“You could have just come and enjoyed a walk, had some lunch. You didn't have to stay long.”

“I told you; I didn't want to go.”

“For goodness' sake, Ma! For the first time in my life I invited you to spend the day with me – a chance to prove that, contrary to your actions of the past twenty-five years, you don't actually hate me; that you really are better.” I stopped. The hideous thought had struck me like a cobra. “Are you feeling ill?”

Ma tensed like a wire brush. She straightened up, lips pursed, and looked at me for a long moment.

“I met your da at the festival. I was fourteen, on a trip with the church group. I loved him the first second I saw him. That trash had already got her claws in deep. But he promised to write to me.”

I had never known this. Of course. “That's why he came to Ballydown.”

She nodded. “Yes. I knew he would see she was rotten in the end.” Ma lifted her cardigan from the back of her chair, and shrugged it on. “I'll be getting on. Grace'll be wanting her tea.”

“Thank you. For telling me this.”

“Yes, well. Maybe I'll come with you next year.”

 

Valerie managed to stand still long enough to lace me into my evening gown. From a short distance away, it looked lovely: rich blue velvet with pale silver ribbons and a full skirt. Wearing it, I could feel the cheap fabric and see the coarse stitching, but I felt happy enough that it not only fit me, but actually suited me quite well too.

“You look like a princess.” Valerie fiddled with my hair, pinned up with two dozen tiny blue flower clips.

“Thanks. You look gorgeous too.” Valerie wore a long, slinky pink dress. It was the first time I had seen her looking her age. With her thick hair curled around her shoulders, and her glowing skin, she looked a little too good. I felt glad she had Jake as her date.
He would guard her with the overbearing zeal of a protective big brother. She would be safe from any string-vested bottom-fondlers.

Grace handed me my bag. She was opting to spend the evening alone in the blue caravan with Josh while Ma babysat for Sunny and Katarina. “Robin won't be able to resist you. I'm almost sorry to miss it.”

“Did you say Robin – or Reuben?” Valerie spluttered through a fit of giggles.

“Will you shut up about me and Reuben? It's never going to happen. It embarrasses me and it makes you look childish.”

“It
is
going to happen. He couldn't stop staring at you today, like you were a massive ice-cream with chocolate sprinkles and caramel sauce – like this, Marion!” She widened her eyes and let her mouth hang open.