Making Marion (19 page)

I snipped the ends off the rest of the flowers – at a forty-five degree angle as Valerie had instructed. I wondered who Wrong Man was. Maybe her father. Or Grace's.

She asked me, “Have you?”

“What?”

“Met Wrong Man?”

I thought about that. “I met Right Then But Wrong Now Man. It took me years to realize that I was better off with No Man. You're way smarter than me, Valerie.”

Valerie nodded. “Don't worry about it. You're a fast learner. You'll catch up.”

Scarlett stepped through the front door, kicking the snow off her shoes. She wore only a thin, lightweight cardigan over her red dress. Her skin was blue.

“Oooeee. They don't make winters like this back home. I got caught out a little there.”

Valerie looked down. She concentrated hard on her roses.

“How are you girls gettin' on? This all looks beautiful. Valerie, if I could afford it I'd give you a raise. For now, I'll have to settle with a hug.”

She sat down next to her foster daughter and wrapped her arms around her. Valerie smothered a yelp as melting snow dripped off Scarlett, forming wet patches on her clothes and hair. But instead of pulling away, she pulled Scarlett toward her, fiercely holding on until Scarlett gasped out that she needed to breathe.

“I do love you, sweetheart. But I came to fetch my purse. I must get to the shops before it snows again.”

I handed Scarlett her bag from the worktop next to me. She put it down on the counter and took out a packet of paracetamol, popping two out and swallowing them dry.

“Are you sure it's safe to drive?”

“The roads past the village are gritted, and Samuel's giving me a ride in his truck. It's all kitted out for ice, snow, tornadoes and quite possibly the end of the world, so we'll be fine.” She pulled the door open again, letting a blast of icy wind whip inside the van. “See you girls, then. Don't forget the ribbons are in the carrier bag in the bottom cupboard.”

“Scarlett!” I called after her as she began to let the door slam behind her.

She pushed it open again. “What, Marion? It's cold out here and Samuel's waiting.”

I handed her the bag. “Aren't you going to wear a coat?”

“Oh.” She looked down distractedly at her shivering body and seemed to notice for the first time that she was wearing a summer outfit. Frowning, she looked about for a few minutes before spotting her coat and gloves draped over a kitchen chair. As she left the second time, I realized how disorganized the caravan looked in comparison to its usual peaceful and homely order. I hadn't noticed before. I'd been thinking about the flowers.

“Is Scarlett coping all right?”

Valerie shrugged disconsolately, her face miserable. She hadn't said one word while Scarlett was present, which answered my question.

“Is she still not sleeping?”

Valerie blew her nose. “She has these headaches all the time. Because of the stress. She's so busy working that she forgets to cook, or shop, or talk to us. Yesterday she didn't get up until after I'd left for college.”

“Does she often get like this?”

Valerie shook her head, bursting into tears. “What if we lose the campsite, Marion? What will they do then? I'll have to go back and live with Mum, but what about Scarlett, and Grace, and you and Jake? And Little Johnny and Madame Plopsicle?”

I handed her another tissue. “It won't come to that. You're smart, remember? Think about how well Christmas went, and now you've had this fab idea. The campsite will probably end up doing better than ever. And if the worst does happen, then you can all move in with Samuel and take the animals with you.”

Valerie sniffed. “He's her Mr Right.”

“I know.”

“We'll leave Denver here, I think. And his ladies.”

“Are you sure that's safe? Have you read
Animal Farm
?” I finished the last vase, and began sweeping the rubbish into a bin bag. “Don't worry about Scarlett. Once we start making a bit more profit she'll be all right.”

But Scarlett was not all right. An evil, mutant tentacle had begun digging its way into her brain. Soon the tentacle would spawn more, equally evil, mutant baby tentacles, and in the days to come her brain would be taken over by a malignant spreading mass that did not care about campsites, or profit, or daughters who needed their mother. No respecter of persons, undeterred by a kind heart, or a selfless soul, or a life unfinished. Scarlett had been invaded, betrayed by her own brain cells. She would not be all right.

T
he following day, after placing ten boxes of Sunny's homemade hazelnut chocolates in our fully booked caravans, leaving mini-hampers on each table containing, among other things, expensive coffee, luxury biscuits and locally produced cheeses, and arranging baskets of organic toiletries in each bathroom, I took Pettigrew to Hatherstone.

The trees along the path to the village had formed an arching canopy bending forward, heavy with snow, to welcome me. Cycling into the tunnel of frozen branches felt like entering fairyland, an enchanted world of silver and white. The path had been gritted, but in the deep drifts either side of me I caught glimpses of footprints, tiny three-pronged bird prints and larger paw marks where dogs had chased the snow-flurries. The dark grey clouds had given way to watery sunshine, half-heartedly dissolving the snow in odd patches here and there but mostly leaving its magic to transform the forest for one more day.

I left the trees and made my way down the high street, weaving to avoid a cluster of snow people complete with not just the traditional hats and scarves, but sunglasses, bikini tops and in the case of one muscle-bound snowman, a leopard-print thong worked in between his trunky legs. Red-cheeked children, making the most of cancelled school, pulled sledges down the centre of the deserted road toward the hill behind the chapel, while their older brothers and sisters lobbed snowballs at parked cars, each other and unsuspecting cyclists.

I pulled up at Ada and May's picture-perfect cottage, stamping snow off my Sherwood Forest boots while I rapped the brass knocker against their yellow wooden door.

Ada called for me to come in, and I stepped inside the winter quarters of the beauty parlour set up in Ada's living room. I had an appointment. I was having a cut and blow dry and my nails painted. Tomorrow would be Valentine's Day, which obviously I didn't care about, being footloose and fancy free for the first time in eight years; but hey, if I coincidentally felt like taking some time out to look good, that was no big deal.

I flipped through a magazine about adventure holidays in the world's most dangerous corners (which made me think about Harriet) until it was my turn in the chair.

We covered the standard chat: small talk, but a big deal for an ex-mute. I congratulated myself on not only being at a beauty parlour, which is way worse than a hairdresser's, but behaving like a normal person too. Then, as Ada stuck her face so close to mine that I could map the mini-rivers of veins across her skin while she snipped my fringe, we progressed to the conversational main course. “What have you found out about your dad?”

“I've stumbled across something, but it could hurt some people if I dig it up again. I'm trying to keep it quiet.”

“Now, girl. Didn't I tell you I've signed the official secrets act? If I was ever tempted to spill even a fraction of the secrets that are up here – ” she tapped her head with the scissors – “it would leave my clients with more than just a new cut. Hairs. Would. Curl.”

Greedy for new leads, I told her about the newspaper report, and how two teenagers had witnessed Henry's accident, one of them being my father.

“So you want to find the young lady.”

“Yes. But I don't know where to start. I know she'll be around fifty-one and was probably friends with Henry Hatherstone. She may well have done what Da did, and moved away after what happened. She could be anywhere.”

“And you can't ask Ginger or Archie? If you explained I'm sure they'd understand.”

“I promised Reuben. I don't even feel I can ask around the village about Henry, in case it gets back to them.”

Ada wanted to try Morris again, but I couldn't stomach it. The whole subject now seemed too sensitive, and I guessed Morris Middleton didn't do sensitive very well. We settled for Ada promising to keep her eyes and ears open, and I moved across to May's station for my manicure. As always, May kept her mouth closed, her lips tightly pursed. Probably to prevent any acid from dripping off her tongue and dissolving the nail polish.

Ada had another client, Amanda of the boob tubes and bitchy remarks. I hoped the magic scissors would slip. Then told myself off for stooping to her level.

“So, Amanda.” Ada hacked off a chunk of grown-out pink, leaving a three-inch grey root behind. She tossed me a wink. Oh dear. “How long have you lived around here?”

“Forever,” Amanda sneered. “Never guessed I'd end up spending my life in this dump. That's what landing yerself with a baby'll do. No man wants to be saddled with a woman who's got a kid like that. What if the next one turns out just as bad?”

Ada smiled sweetly. She sneakily brushed the protective gown to one side and snipped a long thin chunk out of Amanda's fake leather waistcoat. “So that must be, what, how long now? Nearly sixty years?”

Amanda pulled down her drawn-on eyebrows so they were now at least halfway down her forehead. “Mind yerself! I'm only thirty-nine. Looking good for it too. You old women get so far past it, you can't remember what normal people look like.”

Ada accidentally nicked Amanda's ear, causing a ruby droplet of blood to well up on the rim of her lobe. “Oh, my dear! I am so sorry. My doddery old hands aren't what they used to be. Here, fetch Amanda a glass of whisky, would you, May, to ward off any shock?”

Amanda calmed down once she had swigged back her second tumbler of whisky. Ada, very carefully holding her curling iron away from her client's skin, resumed the covert interrogation. “And was the village very different when you were young?”

“No. It was just as dead.”

“And what did you get up to, you and your friends? You must have found some way of amusing yourselves. Did you have many pals? Any of them still living here?”

Amanda froze. Her eyes swivelled across the room toward me. When she spoke it sounded as if her jaw was wired together. “And why would you give a flying fig about that?”

I focused very hard on choosing what colour nail polish I wanted.

Ada whipped off the gown with a flourish. “There we go; all done. That'll be ten pounds. There's a mirror in the hall. You can see yourself out? Lovely. Do come again, won't you, and we'll sort out all that grey. Goodbye.” She hustled Amanda out of the chair and through the door, simultaneously taking her money and handing back her jacket in one graceful sweep.

“Well, that was interesting! Hmm. Was she simply behaving in her usual disagreeable fashion, or is she on to us?”

May's lips twitched. “You've just poked a rattlesnake. Let's see who gets bitten.”

 

Three days later, after an exhausting weekend pandering to the needs of some very frisky lovers (No, we don't stock those particular items in the campsite shop; no, we aren't going to trek through the snow at ten o'clock in the evening to find the type of sleazy shop that might sell them, and no, we definitely don't have any of our own that you can borrow), the rattlesnake bit.

I woke up to find another message, this time spray painted across the outside of my home. It said “Shut up fat bitch”. Original. I didn't want to call Brenda. I knew who had done it. We'd got Amanda angry and scared. She knew something.

Reuben came over to my caravan the following week. He brought a wooden box with him, about the same dimensions as a shoebox. Opening it up, he lifted out the papers on top and unfolded them.

“There's a lot here that isn't relevant: school certificates, Mother's Day cards and stuff like that. But I found these.”

He handed me an envelope containing a thin wad of faded photographs taken at a child's birthday party – Henry's. His cake had been made in the shape of a thirteen. The group of kids lounged along a riverbank, the boys bare-chested and wearing those tiny shorts fashionable in the mid-seventies, the girls in brightly coloured summer dresses.

“Do you see him?”

I did. In four of the photographs my dad was there, grinning beside his best friend Henry. I drank him up until Reuben handed me one of the other pictures.

“What about here? Recognize anyone?”

I could see Ginger, her hair as vibrant as her name, curling over her shoulders in long tumbling waves. She had her head back, laughing, and I wondered if she ever laughed that freely again after Henry died.

“Look closer.”

I found her – even then wearing a skirt several inches shorter than everybody else's, her T-shirt straining against the curve of her developing body. She gazed at the camera, eyebrows arched questioningly, one side of her mouth curled up. Not beautiful, or pretty, but a girl who knew how to hook a boy's attention.

We worked backwards with the dates.

“These must have been taken in 1976.”

I shook my head. “How does that fit? If this is Amanda, she's thirty-nine now. She would have been three in '76. It can't be her. Does she have an older sister?”

Reuben looked at me, waiting for me to work it out for myself.

“Okay. So the chances of her telling the truth about her age are
about as likely as this girl being three.” And if she was going to lie, knocking ten years off to squeeze herself into a previous decade seemed about right. “Do you recognize anybody else?”

“No. Henry went to boarding school; most of these kids have that look about them. See how Amanda is always a little bit apart?”

There was nothing else of any use in the box. The keepsakes ended with a champagne cork, the date “15.4.81” written along the side, above the words “Henry's eighteenth”.

I told Reuben what I had learned about the witnesses from the newspaper, and the repercussions from the conversation at Ada's cottage.

His face turned to granite. “Marion! How many of these messages have you had?”

I showed him the first note, the second one from the festival and told him about the tyres.

“Please tell me the police have seen all these!”

“The first one came the day Grace took off, wrapped around a brick through my window. Brenda assumed it was her.”

“Why would Grace chuck a brick through your window?”

I shrugged, embarrassed. “She was going through a weird time back then. Scarlett thought she might be taking drugs.”

“And the link to you is?”

“Jake.”

“Right. That would fit. So did Grace get the blame for the rest of them?”

“I only reported the tyres. The second note was nothing, just left in my purse. And when the spray paint was done, I had already figured it was Amanda.”

“You're sure it isn't Grace?”

“We've been friends for ages now. She has a boyfriend. And she's hardly still jealous about me and Jake.” I heard my voice rising as I tried to push the image of Jake out of my head. “And it fits. The first note came the day after I had my bag stolen at the village. Amanda was the one who picked up my photo and gave it back to
me. I passed it round the traders at the festival. She doesn't want me asking about my dad. She didn't want Ada asking about her past and her friends, because they're linked. She was the other witness at Henry's accident. What is she trying to hide?”

Reuben packed away the photographs. “We need to speak to her.” He grimaced. “
I
need to speak to her.”

“You know she'll only lie. What then?”

“I think it might be time to tell my parents.”

 

Three days later, on the last day of February, I came back from a run to find Grace sitting on my caravan steps, huddled against the early morning chill in an army green parka.

“Haven't you got an exam today?” I walked past her and unlocked the door. We went in and sat down.

Grace hunkered further into her coat. “Mum left the van wearing odd shoes this morning. She woke me up at quarter-past five with a cup of tea.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. When I yelled at her she totally lost it. She chucked the mug in the sink so hard it smashed, and then left.”

“In odd shoes?”

Grace nodded. She bit hard on her bottom lip.

“Grace, I'm not sure this is just stress.” If a giant asteroid was hurtling toward the Peace and Pigs with only milliseconds to spare, Scarlett would still find a matching pair of heels. “Go and get ready for school. I'll get changed and then we'll find her.”

I jumped in the shower, then threw on a pair of jeans and a jumper. Stuffing my wet hair under a woollen hat, I hurried over to find Grace pacing up and down outside her caravan.

“She's not inside?”

Grace shook her head.

“Where's Valerie? Did she see your mum this morning?”

“She's sorting out the pigs.”

“Come on, then.”

We found Scarlett in the office, staring at the same piles of paper that had sat there for weeks now. She was a wreck.

I gently turned Grace away. “You need to go and take your art exam. Try to put this out of your head and we'll deal with it together when you get back.”

She stayed in the doorway. Her eyes, brimming with anguish, never left her mother.

“There's nothing you can do here that I can't do without you. You need to sit this exam, Grace.”

It took a while, but eventually I persuaded her to leave. Scarlett had been watching us, moving her head from side to side like a small child trying to follow a conversation full of words too difficult to understand.

“Hi, Scarlett.”

“Hi.”

“How are you feeling?”

She stared at me, a pen dangling from her fingers.

“Scarlett? Are you okay? Grace is worried about you.”

“What? I'm fine.” She spoke slowly, her words slurred. One side of her face looked wrong.

I sat down in a chair opposite her. “You have odd shoes on, Scarlett.”

“What?” She looked down at her shoes, frowning, confused. “How did that happen?”

“I think you need to see a doctor.”