Tell Me No Secrets (6 page)

On the way back to my car, I pause in front of Euan's mother's gravestone.

Maureen Elizabeth Macintosh

1927–1999

beloved wife, mother and friend

It strikes me, as it always does, that the dash in between both dates says nothing about the life that was led. Mo was the original earth mother, universally loved and as much involved in my upbringing as my own parents were.

She gave birth to six children of her own: four boys and two girls. My own parents, on the other hand, tried for a baby for almost twenty years and when their marriage approached the end of its second decade with still no sign of the longed-for baby, they quietly gave up. Each month had become a time of mourning, a curse, and they couldn't live that way, my mother said, so they let go of their dreams and immersed themselves in work – my mother in the university library, my father as a carpenter with the local firm of builders.

Mo and her husband Angus lived next door and their children, a healthy, happy brood, spilled over the fence and into my parents' lives. A balm of sorts, perhaps. My mother would bake cakes with the girls while my father taught the boys how to work with wood, how to measure and use the electric saw, how to join and sand, how to make bird boxes, wooden spoons, letter racks and shelves.

So it was in the giving up that somehow I came into being and I was born on my parents' twenty-first wedding anniversary. But what with all the waiting and the hoping and the praying and then the letting go, my mother found that the reality of a child was often more than she could take. So when I refused my dinner again or ran away from the potty only to wet myself, Mo scooped me up and took me next door where I was absorbed into the crowd. I was propped up in the pram alongside Euan, her youngest and just three months older than me, or in the playpen in the kitchen where she talked to us while she chopped vegetables or prepared a chicken.

When I started nursery school my mother went back to work. Every day I escaped the intensity of parental interest that shadows the only child and walked home with Mo and Euan to spend the afternoon with them and any other stragglers who needed a place to go. Often I stayed for tea, Euan and I bolstered with cushions until we were tall enough to hold our chins above the level of the table.

I wish I'd brought two sets of flowers: one for Mo's grave too. Instead, I have to be happy with brushing spots of earth and stray leaves off the stone. She's been dead almost nine years but I can still remember her voice.
Some things we're not meant to know, Grace. Some things we're meant just to accept
.

I wonder at the things I accepted and the things that I didn't and I hope that wherever she is, she understands the choices I made.

I'm two minutes from my parents' house and I drop in on them on my way back from the church. My dad is up a ladder. He's closer to ninety than eighty but he won't slow down:
I'll be in my box soon enough and up till then I'll carry on as normal
.

I keep the ladder steady and shout up to him. ‘Hello, up there!'

He looks down between the rungs. ‘Oh, it's you, hen. Shouldn't you be working?'

‘I've been out taking photographs.'

‘Nice work if you can get it. What brings you here then?' He climbs down, putting one careful foot after the other. ‘Of course, it's the birthday cakes. For the party.' He cuddles me tight. ‘Your mother has been fretting over the icing for days. Should she make it pink for Daisy and Ella or just for Ella?'

‘Ella.'

‘That's what I said.'

I follow him over to the bench where he throws himself down, landing heavily on his backside, his feet flying up in the air.

‘Look at that view.' His breathing is hoarse and he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and coughs into it. ‘No amount of money can buy a view like that.'

My dad has the bench positioned on the crest of the hill with an uninterrupted view of the sloping land and the water beyond it. The air is crisp and clear and, out at sea, an oil tanker tips over the horizon. The wind whips the waves into frothy white peaks that wash the rocky shoreline clean while up above gulls caw, flock and hover on the wind then dive into the water for fish.

I breathe in deeply and smile. ‘I love it here,' I say, then notice that a small red stain is spreading across his handkerchief. ‘Is there blood on that hankie, Dad?'

‘What's that?' He pushes the evidence deep into his trouser pocket. ‘You're as bad as your mother. Looking for problems where there aren't any.'

‘Dad?'

‘What?' His face contrives innocence but behind it his eyes flicker with anxiety.

I want to hug him to me but I don't. I am on the edge of my own tears, ready to blurt out my own problems. ‘Shall I get us a cup of tea?' I say.

‘She won't want you interrupting her.' He gives a derisory hiccup. ‘I tried to steal myself a cup a minute ago but was given short shrift.'

I lay a hand on his shoulder then go into the house. My folks have dozens of photos in the hallway: Euan and I sit end to end in a Silver Cross pram dribbling ice cream on ourselves; me and my dad holding up a shelf I'd just made; my parents' wedding photo, an impossibly young couple standing in front of the church, shyly holding hands.

And at the end of the row there's a photo of Orla and me. We are just thirteen and are standing together in front of a high wooden fence. Our inside arms are wrapped around each other's back, our riding boots and jodhpurs splashed with mud. We are grinning like mad. I remember the day well. We were both competing in the village pony trials and managed to come home with four rosettes and two cups between us.

I bend down and scrutinise the photo. There is no mistaking that we are the best of friends, tired legs and arms are slumped against each other and my forehead is resting on her shoulder. I caught up later on, but at that point she was almost six inches taller than me. And looking at her face, the black curly hair, dark eyes and open smile, I feel something unexpected. I feel happy. Tomorrow, for the first time in twenty-four years, we will lay eyes on each other. With a few chosen remarks to the right people she could blow my world apart and yet there is a small corner of me that is looking forward to meeting her.

I stand up and lean against the wall, shocked, and remind myself that there is no room for sentiment. I have to keep my wits about me and deflect Orla away from me before she pushes her way back into my life. I can't afford to make a mistake with this.

I take the photograph off the wall and go into the kitchen where my mother is spreading pink icing over the surface of a twelve-inch cake. As I open the door, she looks up, startled. Her face is flushed a raspberry hue and she's breathing hard as if she's just been running.

‘Oh, it's you, Grace,' she says, moving around the table to greet me. ‘What on earth are you doing here?' She gives me a perfunctory hug then steps back and looks at me, exasperated. ‘If you've come for the cakes then I haven't finished them yet.'

‘I know they won't be ready until Saturday.' I kiss her warm cheek. ‘I'm not here to rush you.' I show her the photo. ‘Do you mind if I borrow this?'

‘Of course not.' She waves the palette knife. ‘Keep it.'

‘Thank you.' I slip it into my handbag, not really sure why I want it.

‘Wonder how Orla's doing now,' she says casually.

I shrug. ‘No idea. She just upped and disappeared.'

‘She did write to you, Grace.' She gives me a sharp look. ‘You were the one who let it slide.'

There's no arguing with that. I lift a couple of mugs off the hooks. ‘I've just been chatting to Dad. I came in to get us a cup of tea. Why don't you stop for a minute and join us?'

‘No, no, no! I'm busy with the finishing touches.' She examines the smoothness of the icing from several angles. ‘You go and talk to him. He has some ridiculous notion about painting the house. I have the cakes to do and lunch will be ready soon. You're staying, I take it?'

I hesitate. ‘Only if it's convenient.'

She frowns at me. ‘Since when have I given my own daughter the impression that her visits are inconvenient?'

‘I didn't mean it like that, Mum.' I put teabags in the mugs. ‘Of course, I'd love to stay for lunch. I know it's a lot with the cakes, that's all.'

‘I've been making the girls' cakes since they had their first birthday.' She reaches over and takes the teabag out of my father's mug. ‘Not
those
teabags, Grace! Give him some peppermint. He's been having trouble with his stomach.'

‘What sort of trouble?' I try to sound casual, add the boiling water to the mugs and look her full in the face. ‘Mum, is Dad not well?'

‘Oh, you know your father.' She breezes past me and takes another knife from the drawer. ‘Always in denial.'

I wonder whether to mention the blood on the hankie but she's left the kitchen and is inside the pantry, humming purposefully. I take the tea outside and sit down on the bench beside my dad. ‘I hear your stomach's giving you gyp?'

‘Who, me?' He looks behind him as if there might be someone else around. ‘Fighting fit and raring to go, I am. It's just an excuse for your mother to get me started on a health kick.' He takes a sip of the tea and screws up his face. ‘So how are my granddaughters?'

‘Why not have the doctor check you over, Dad? One of those well man clinics, you know?'

‘I know I'm getting old, toots. That much I know. No point in digging around. It'll only stir it all up. Look at Angus. Never a day's worry until the hospital got their hands on him. And Mo.' He gives a weary shake of his head. ‘She was the same.'

‘Please?' I take hold of his hand and bring it on to my lap. ‘Please, Dad. For me.'

‘Well . . . I don't know, lass.' His face moves through reluctance and irritation, eyebrows meeting in a frown and then rising again as he settles on maybe. ‘You were always one for getting your own way.'

‘I'll take that as a yes, then,' I tell him, smiling.

‘So how are the girls? Keeping you busy?'

‘The girls are great.' I nod, remembering that since I confronted her yesterday, Ella is acting like I don't exist. I have yet to resume the conversation about ‘boys' and I know that when I do it will be an uphill struggle. ‘Ella has the lead part in
Romeo and Juliet
so that will be one for your diary.'

‘I'll look forward to that.'

A car draws up next door and a young couple climbs out. We all wave. They walk up the path and my dad pulls his chest up and sighs. ‘It's never been the same since Mo and Angus passed on. Spring comes around again and the house changes hands.'

‘I'll never get used to it either, Dad.' I rest my head on his shoulder and we watch the sea grab at the shore, then retreat and gather strength to try again. ‘Time and tide wait for no man, huh?'

‘Aye, it's a bugger.'

‘I'm going to Edinburgh tomorrow. Is there anything you want while I'm there?'

‘What would you want to be going all the way to Edinburgh for?' My father is deeply suspicious of all journeys. He can't imagine why anyone would need to travel beyond a ten-mile radius of St Andrews. ‘Anyway, I thought you could get everything delivered over the Internet these days?'

‘I like to browse the art shops and galleries. Gives me ideas.' I pause. In my head I say the words:
Remember Orla, Dad? She called me twice. She wants to meet me. I don't know why, but I do know that I'm scared. How much do you love me, Dad? How much?
I want to blurt it out and I almost do but just then my mum sets a tray down in front of us.

‘Don't stand on ceremony, you two. Tuck in.'

My mother knows how to make a good sandwich, and when it's time for me to go, my stomach is full. As I drive off, I watch them in the rear-view mirror, their inside arms around each other, their free hands holding on to the gate.

It's already two o'clock by the time I round the path to work.

Euan is on the phone and watches me as I come in. ‘Sure. No bother. We'll catch up next week.' He puts the phone back on to the cradle. ‘Morning off?'

‘I was taking photos. Then the churchyard. Had lunch with my mum and dad.' I drop my bag down on the floor. ‘Is Tom well?'

‘Yeah. He's fine now.' He pushes his chair away from his desk and the wheels spin on the hardwood floor. ‘Back at school.'

I walk over and sit on the edge of his desk. ‘She called again.'

His eyes widen and then focus on mine. ‘Did you ask her what she wants?'

‘She wouldn't say.' I sweep some crumbs off his desk and into the bin. ‘She said she has to tell me face to face.'

‘So how did you leave it?'

‘I'm meeting her in Edinburgh tomorrow.'

He looks down at the floor, thinking.

‘She also said it wasn't what I thought.'

He looks back at me. ‘She'd say that to get you to go.'

That thought has been at the back of my mind all morning and my heart sinks to hear Euan say it out loud. ‘But there's really nothing else I can do, is there? I have to go. And when she finds out who I married . . .' I try to laugh. ‘She wouldn't say anything then, would she?'

He stands up in front of me, hands in pockets and moves his shoulders forward and then back again. ‘I wouldn't put it past her.'

His chest is level with my eyes and I resist the impulse to rest my head against it and cry with fear and frustration. ‘You really don't have much of an opinion of her, do you?'