Making Marion (20 page)

“No.” She shook her head, but it was sluggish and lopsided.

I leaned forward to see if I could detect alcohol on her breath. It smelled sour, and her teeth were dark yellow. I knew she wasn't drunk.

“I need to sort out this mess. I'm tired. Please let me work.”

I put my hand on top of hers. “You need to see a doctor.”

In the end it wasn't hard to bundle her out of the office and into my car. She shuffled her left foot along the ground as I led her like a little girl. Or a frail old woman. Or a person who was hopelessly, desperately ill.

I called Valerie, asking her to cover for us. She would phone Samuel or the Hatherstones if anything came up. Stomach in my mouth, heart breaking, I drove Scarlett to the doctor's surgery. From there we went to the outpatients unit at Queens Medical Centre in Nottingham. From there it was the acute admissions ward, where we heard the news that would tear the hearts of the Peace and Pigs into tiny shreds.

T
wo days later, a grave-faced, smooth-skinned doctor with a gentle Scottish burr confirmed Scarlett's diagnosis. He spoke with us for over an hour, but only the words that mattered stuck. Inoperable. Incurable. Unstoppable. Invincible. Terminal. It would be possible to try a course of radiotherapy or chemotherapy, but this would only delay the spread of the tumour for a short time, and when it returned it would be swift. We were talking months, not years. Probably weeks, not months.

I left Grace alone by Scarlett's bedside while Valerie and I went to the top floor of the hospital to find the restaurant. We were not the only customers with trembling hands and tear-streaked faces, Valerie's the colour of the raw dough I had kneaded that morning into bread rolls, punching and rolling my emotions into food. Valerie's eyes were still wide with shock, bloodshot and bleary. I wanted to wrap her up in a blanket and rock her. To tell her it would be all right; that I would take care of her, of them; that we would look after each other. But I knew before then would come pain and death smells, exhaustion and fear and the physical ache in your chest that hurts so much you want to prise out your heart with a spoon rather than bear the reality of what is happening. And this would be only the beginning of a long, jagged, desert road.

So I told her what I knew to be true. “I will be here. I won't leave you. And we will do our very best for Scarlett. We will love her with all the love she gave us.”

 

My mother told me many times that I had inherited my selective strop-ism, as she labelled my crippling psychological disorder, from my English genes. O'Gradys learned how to talk when they were babies, and kept going until their last breath. Never, she informed me with a caustic glare, had they dallied with the silent treatment. This was true; in a family that size it would have been pointless. Nobody would even have noticed.

Instead, my Irish relatives chose continual conversation in the form of bickering, griping, yelling, bullying and sniping. They also threw in some storytelling, joke-telling, memory reliving and banter. But they sorely lacked any form of meaningful communication whatsoever. The most I heard said about Declan's murder was: “It's a terrible thing, so it is. Our poor, wee Paula. And she mustn't be blamed. That one was born queer.”

True to form, no one discussed my father's illness with me, or that he was dying of some type of cancer, and that my behaviour could have no influence on that for good or bad. They told me, a seven-year-old girl, that my father was not well, and when he died I should be happy for him because he would go to be with Jesus and not suffer any more. Nobody told me how it felt to have a chunk of your heart die with him, or how grief could cause a widow on the edge of sanity to tip right over. That and a million other things I learned the hard way, through years of reading books in the corner of the library, and hoarding titbits from the few health professionals my mother allowed near me. I grew adept at filtering the cruel taunts from my cousins and schoolmates into their three categories: truth, nasty twists on the truth, and totally made-up stuff kids will spread around to produce a reaction (like the rumour that my da was an alien who had laid a mini-alien in my mother's head, so she had to have her mind probed by Martian experts from NASA).

So now, I asked the doctors to tell us everything. I read the leaflets from the cancer charities describing what could happen to the mind and body of someone with a brain tumour. I asked
what “some personality changes” might mean, and almost wished I hadn't. I went back to the library and didn't care that I sobbed as I read the blogs and questions and brain tumour websites. I would not face this blind, or with my head in the sand, or in denial. I would stir up hope, cultivate optimism and summon positivity. But this time we would not fight an unknown enemy. Grace and Valerie asked me questions, and I did not lie or fudge my answers to them. So much remained impossible to predict, all could be softened to some extent with kindness, but I did not lie.

Scarlett only spoke to me once about her prognosis. Steroids had cleared her mind and eased her headaches, and the bewilderment had temporarily departed.

“I have a tumour. There ain't nothin' you, me or that Scottish hunk of a doctor can do about that. I could spend however long I got left worryin' about it, dwellin' on the monster chompin' its way through my brain, feelin' miserable and countin' down the days, but I don't see how that is gonna help anyone. I am goin' to die. That is old news. The only difference is that now I know how it's probably gonna happen. I choose to accept that as a gift, a chance to tidy things up and tuck in some corners. I am not goin' to spend the rest of my time here dyin'. I will, by the grace of God, grab hold of every second I got left and live it.” Her voice wavered. I reached over and took her hand. “Although I could do with a little help.”

Yes. Despite medication, weakness, nausea and brain monsters, Scarlett would surely live until she died.

For Grace and Valerie's sake, Scarlett didn't keep the news a secret. From that moment on they never had to cook a meal. I borrowed a freezer and set it up in the spare employee's caravan to store all the pasta and pies and other meals deposited at reception by sympathetic Hatherstone residents. Valerie strung a hundred cards up along the edge of every wall in the blue van, and someone gave Scarlett a gift token to a spa hotel in the Peak District. The accompanying card wasn't signed, but the handwriting was almost certainly May's.

Erica brought round a card from her parents. We had been limiting visitors, as Scarlett was tired and still sometimes confused, and there are those people you want to give your time to when you don't have much left, and those it is enough to know are thinking about you. It was a good thing Erica didn't stay to see the card opened.

Inside, Fisher had written something about being sorry to hear Scarlett had received unfortunate news, and he hoped she was bearing up. He added a line expressing his concern that, for Scarlett's peace of mind, she should sew up all business regarding the campsite sooner rather than later. He had very thoughtfully offered to pay a visit to pick up all the paperwork and put it in order on her behalf. In an extraordinary step of kindness toward a terminally ill tenant, he informed her he had a suitable replacement waiting as soon as she felt ready to say goodbye to the Peace and Pigs. As if all this generosity wasn't enough, he offered to put in a good word for her with a local removals firm where he had an account.

Scarlett laughed so hard she was sick.

Her lawyer, a black-belt nutcracker who took no prisoners, spent three consecutive afternoons with Scarlett ensuring everything was exactly as she wanted it, and would remain that way. Scarlett refused to discuss those arrangements, but it was a pretty safe bet we would not be calling Fisher's recommended removal firm any time soon.

March flew by, taken up with untangling the myriad complications that inevitably accompany serious illness. The low season was over. The Peace and Pigs had pitches booked, caravans filled, and the workload began to creep up. Grace concentrated on her last couple of months at school. Valerie needed time to be with Scarlett. Even though Samuel had taken over the livestock, we still needed help. I invited Jake back. That was not a fun phone call. For the first time in weeks I had to work hard at my mute busters. I really, really wanted to spend the spring and summer avoiding him again, ducking behind tents and dodging round trees.

Instead, I breathed out, dropped my shoulders, breathed in, opened my mouth and said, “Hi.”

He said hello back, and that was that. Sober, still in counselling, knocked for six by Scarlett's diagnosis, he wasted no time crawling on bended knees, and I felt grateful for that. I had no emotional energy spare to deal with trying to assuage his guilt. We were professional, with occasional forays into friendliness, and I was overwhelmed with relief that I could finally manage my own life as well as a brilliant and beautiful holiday park.

 

The 22nd March was the Sunday before the Easter bank holiday weekend. Scarlett insisted Valerie spend the day with her mum, knowing it would be the first time since she had been in hospital. When Amanda drove Valerie home that evening, Reuben was waiting. He strode over toward the car before Valerie even had a chance to get out, and held the passenger door open, preventing the car from driving off again.

“Amanda.”

“What are you doing? Let go of my car. I've got places to be.”

“We're going to have a chat first. Come and sit down.”

Her face pinched, Amanda switched off the engine and got out. She locked the car and came to stand by the wrought-iron table and chairs outside Valerie's van.

“What?”

“Not here. Scarlett's sleeping.” Reuben led her to a picnic bench twenty or so metres away. I followed him, with Amanda huffing along behind.

When she sat down, Reuben leaned on the table and bent his head close to hers. “What are you playing at, Amanda?”

She glanced quickly at me before narrowing her eyes straight at Reuben. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“We can do this now, or with the police.”

She laughed. “Ooh! Listen to him, playing the big man! I told you: I don't know what you're on about.”

Reuben took out one of the notes from his jacket pocket and held it up. Amanda still smiled, but her snake eyes glittered green like toxic slime.

“Did you really think you could do all this and no one would see you? Not even once?”

The smile disappeared. “What do you want?”

“I want to know what you're hiding. Why don't you want Marion asking questions about Daniel Miller?”

Amanda stood up to go. As she stepped away from the bench, Reuben blocked her.

“What do you know about my brother's death? You were there that night. What happened, Amanda, that you want so desperately to keep hidden?”

Something in her snapped at the mention of Henry. Clenching her fists, Amanda thrust her face in Reuben's. She bared her teeth, and when she spoke her voice was a snarl.

“Your brother died. That's what happened. We were eighteen years old and I saw my best friend smash to pieces. His body twisted and broken on the ground. Maybe – ” she jabbed her finger at me – “I don't want her bringing that up again just to satisfy her curiosity. Maybe she would be better off going back home instead of finding out just what her dad was doing on top of that roof that meant he had to scarper and never come back.”

She turned to look at me. Saliva frothed in the corners of her mouth and her skin was mottled purple. “Some secrets are better left that way. Some secrets you would sleep easier not knowing. The truth ain't pretty here, love. You keep your nice happy memories of your precious daddy. Do us all a favour and go home.”

She pushed past Reuben and stumbled back to her car. I lowered myself carefully onto the bench. The world seemed to be shifting under my feet and I needed to grip the table to keep upright. Reuben pushed my head down between my knees until the clanging noise had stopped.

“She meant that Da had something to do with it – with the accident.”

“She's a lying cow who'll say anything to get what she wants. Come for dinner tomorrow night. Let's see what Mum and Dad have to say.”

 

“Well, this is nice.” Ginger sounded as if she wasn't quite sure. She slid in beside Archie at the kitchen table while Reuben lifted a baked salmon out of the oven and placed it next to a tray of roasted vegetables. “Where's Sunny?” She glanced anxiously at the kitchen door. “Won't he and Katarina be joining us?”

“They're putting the kids to bed.” Reuben began dishing up the fish.

“So what's all this about, then?” Archie furrowed his brow. “My girl, Reuben hasn't got you pregnant, has he?”

I dropped my knife on the floor, which gave me a precious few seconds to hide under the table scrabbling about for it. Lucy chuffed at me from her spot in front of the stove. I shook my head, warning her not to give me away.

“Not that we would mind, of course,” Ginger interrupted. “It's just that things might be a bit awkward with Fisher and Olivia if you haven't ended things properly with Erica first. They are expecting Erica to be the next Lady Hatherstone. It all makes such good sense, with them owning the land next door. I think Fisher had some sort of grand plan for expanding the holiday park. He'll be terribly disappointed.”

“What?” Even from underneath the table I could hear Reuben's gritted teeth. How long could I stay there before it started to look weird? “What grand plan? Anyway, Marion is not pregnant. Or if she is, it's nothing to do with me.”

“Oh. Well, make sure you break things off gently with Erica anyway. I know you've had your ups and downs lately but she is a lovely girl, Reuben. We brought you up better than to mess women about.”

Lucy's tongue was hanging out. She was laughing at me.

“There is nothing going on between me and Marion. That's not why I invited her here.”

“Really? Nothing going on?” I could hear the incredulity in Archie's voice, picture him grinning. “I know that look and it always means trouble.”

I sidled back onto my chair. Reuben handed his father a plate. “Can we eat first?”

Archie shook his head. “What? Make awkward small talk while we shovel down our salmon as fast as possible to get to the good bit? No. You talk, we'll eat. Then you can eat while we digest both news and dinner.”

I told Archie and Ginger how my father had died leaving a mystery regarding his English past and his family, and that a photo had led me to Sherwood Forest.

“I've been asking around, but so far I've only hit dead ends. I still don't know where Da lived, who his parents were or why he left. But Reuben thought you might be able to help me. We think you probably knew him.”