Making Marion (6 page)

I
woke in the pitch black. Jolted out of deep sleep by a noise. A crash. My blood hammered so loudly in my ears that I had to strain to hear if the noise, whatever it was, sounded again. I lay in bed, every muscle rigid. Waiting.

My eyes fixed on the shadow of the doorknob as the shapes of furniture and belongings emerged from the darkness. I tried to keep my breathing slow and even, ready to feign sleep if the door began to open.

Silence. Stillness. The initial panic gradually subsided and I inched up the bed, rustle by rustle, until I was in a sitting position. I carefully leaned over to peep through the chink at the edge of the curtain. A pale face loomed at me from the glass, sending me careening out of the bed into the tiny space by the door. I realized, too late, that the face was my own reflection. Furiously swiping at the tears on my cheeks, I scanned the darkness for a possible weapon.

Two fifty-three. Ten minutes crept by on the digital alarm clock. For most of those I stood, braced against the door, Supervalu hairdryer in hand, wondering if I should stay there until the sun rose. But it is incredible how quickly fear can turn into boredom.

Propelled by an urgent need to empty my bladder, and pretending what had woken me must have been a bird on the roof, I whipped open the bedroom door. I charged into the kitchenette, hollering like Grace O'Malley, the Pirate Queen of Ireland. Bouncing off the sink I stumbled forwards into the living area. Here I crouched,
jerking the hairdryer from side to side in front of me as if I was going to blow-dry the intruder back to where they had come from.

There was nobody there. I collapsed onto the brown sofa, my legs shaking so hard they tap-danced the rhythm of my panicked heart on the lino. Placing my hands flat either side of me, I concentrated on sucking air back into my lungs. Only as my body stopped trembling did I notice the tiny stones under my palms. Not stones. Chips of glass.

Jumping up, I half fell over to the light switch. Squinting in the glare, I found what had caused the crashing noise. Somebody had thrown a rock the size of a tennis ball through my window. It had bounced off the sofa and landed underneath the table. Wrapped around the rock and held on with elastic bands was a piece of A4 paper. On the paper was written, in harsh capitals, the words “BACK OFF”.

After the hastiest possible visit to the bathroom, I swept up the glass, wrapped the rock and the note in a carrier bag found in the bottom of my wardrobe and went to bed, where I stared at the ceiling until morning.

At six-thirty I dragged myself into the shower, managing to swallow down half a cup of black coffee before leaving the van. I stuffed every precious possession into my bag as a precaution against further intrusion, but had no real plan. I just needed to get away from the ugly, jagged scar in my window; somewhere I could quieten the angry swarm of bees that had built their nest in my skull during the night.

I hurried up the path to reception, nodding hello at the occasional camper making an early morning trip to the wash block. A baby cried in one of the tents, and the scent of frying bacon wafted through the trees. Business as usual at the Peace and Pigs. Chickens scratched, pigs oinked and birds tugged at worms in the dewy earth. The air was mercifully fresh and light, in stark comparison to the dread dragging at my shoulders and squatting in my stomach, as cumbersome as the bulging bag slung across my back.

I planned on waiting at the bench until Scarlett showed up, but as I rounded the top of the slope to the main block, I saw a police car parked on the gravel. Confused, wondering how word could have reached the authorities so soon even in this close-knit community, I went straight into reception.

I found Scarlett inside, pacing up and down in the small space. She had scooped her hair into a rough ponytail. I hadn't seen her without make-up before. Her eyes, heavy with purple shadows, stood out in her pale, drawn face. A policewoman sat at the counter, nursing a mug of steaming tea.

I stopped in the doorway. Scarlett sighed, closing her eyes briefly.

“Hi. Brenda, this is Marion, who stepped in for Jenna Moffitt. Can I fill her in?”

Brenda stood up and placed one hand on Scarlett's arm. “I'll explain. You go and check on Valerie, and phone that list.”

Scarlett hesitated, but Brenda ushered her past me out of the door. Returning to her seat, she gestured for me to sit at the stool behind the counter before picking up her mug again.

“How well do you know Grace?”

“Grace? Not very. I've only been here since Saturday.”

“But you have spoken to her?”

“Nothing much beyond work stuff. I might have asked her where something was kept a couple of times, or to pass on a message. That's it.”

“Did you ever see her with anyone else?”

“Only the other workers here. Jake or Valerie. Why, what's happened? Is Grace okay?”

“That's what we are trying to determine.”

Brenda refused to tell me any more, but her eyes sharpened when I described what had happened to me the previous night. She asked if I knew any reason why Grace might send me that message. I thought of the way she had lingered in Jake's shadow, remembering just how all-consuming teenage crushes can become. I didn't want to believe that Grace would have thrown a rock through my window.
But the truth is, I couldn't believe that anyone else would have done it either. I told the policewoman about Jake, rambling on about how there was nothing going on between us, until she snapped shut her book and stood up.

“Let's take a look.”

By the time Brenda had finished examining the window, and the note, Scarlett had found us. Brenda left and I made us both another coffee. Scarlett told me Grace had taken a rucksack and vanished. Her bed hadn't been slept in and there was food and money missing. Scarlett had phoned Grace's two friends, only to discover Grace had barely seen them all summer. Brenda would follow up at the nearest train and bus station, out of kindness to Scarlett, but could offer little hope of police intervention for a seventeen-year-old leaving of her own accord.

I showed Scarlett my broken window, and the note. The creases deepened on her forehead. She shook her head. “What is going on in your head, my sweet child? What are you thinkin'?”

“Could she have left because she did this, and felt bad?”

“I don't know.” Her voice, soft and gentle, cracked with pain. “I just don't know any more.”

I reached out and took Scarlett's hand. She gripped on, tight. The coffee went cold.

 

It was Valerie who noticed Pettigrew was missing. My heart stopped when I realized Grace had taken a bike with broken brakes, but two hours later Brenda found it at Mansfield Station. Maybe Grace had cycled the eight miles to the station without stopping or slowing down. Scarlett crumpled at the thought of Grace reaching Mansfield safely, only to leave for some other city, knowing first-hand the kind of men who wait for lonely, vulnerable girls to ensnare in their evil webs.

Katarina, who had been an obelisk of strength throughout the day, banged one thick fist on Scarlett's table-top.

“Underneath all those studs and streaks she is a sensible girl, Scarlett. She is angry but not weak. She will know what it is that
she is doing.” She bent down and put her arms around Scarlett's shoulders. “She is not running from a wicked father. She is not you. She knows she has a good mother who loves her here. If she is in any danger she will call.”

Saturday… Sunday… Monday… she didn't call.

Scarlett tucked her hurt behind a mask of glossy lipstick and large sunglasses, and got on with running her campsite. She knew very few people in the UK a train journey away, only one or two regular holiday visitors, and it took no time at all to make sure Grace wasn't with them. She had taken her phone and her laptop with her but, thankfully, not her passport.

Jake, grim faced, replaced my window. He offered to sleep on my sofa, but as everyone assumed that Grace had thrown the stone he let it go when I declined, sloping back, embarrassed, to his flat in the village. Samuel came by each evening and sat with Scarlett and Valerie. He brought them soup and simmering casseroles, tenderly coaxing Scarlett to finish at least a few spoonfuls before the sun set and he returned home.

For the holidaymakers, unaware of the drama, the campsite remained a place of laughter and sunshine.

As for me? Well, I heeded the note. I worked as hard as I could, head down, mouth closed. I filled up my car and restocked my fridge. I spent the evenings with my windows shut and door locked. I tried to sleep, wondering what on earth I was doing there and if it could really be coincidence that less than a week after my arrival, the “Peace and Pigs” campsite, once so aptly named, had become a lie.

 

Tuesday it rained. The campsite resembled a ghost town. Tents zipped up, families either huddled inside or went out to the cinema, shops or museum. The downpour turned the whole world grey. We scurried from one shelter to the next, accompanied by the unrelenting staccato of warm, fat drops drumming tirelessly upon the roofs of the caravans and beating time on the oak leaves. Water
streamed off the ends of our noses and became one with the rivers running along the campsite paths.

The rain was familiar to me, yet different. Rain is rain, and we get all types in Ballydown, but I was unused to the mud coating my boots – and therefore any floor I stepped on – with dark, gritty sludge. The air reeked of it: a rich combination of sodden sky and earth. The forest seemed wild and harsh without the warmth of sunlight to lift it. When Grace stepped out from between the trees, it was as if she had summoned the wind and water to herald her return. A perfect manifestation of the storm that lived within her soul.

She disappeared inside her mobile home with Scarlett, emerging hours later to feed the pigs as if she had never been away. Her face was set in an expressionless mask, but the black streaks of make-up on her cheeks betrayed something of what had gone on behind the blue door.

Valerie found me scrubbing a caravan vacated that morning. Thankful for an excuse to put down the muddy cloth, I helped myself to the teabags left behind in one of the cupboards and put the kettle on.

“Grace is back, Marion. I can't believe it!”

“I know. Scarlett must be so relieved.”

“Relieved? She's hopping mad. Instead of shouting, she's whispering in this calm, creepy voice like a crazy bad guy. Grace is pretending not to be scared, but she is totally freaked out. She expected to be grounded or something, but this is way worse. She won't crack though. Won't say where she's been, or why she went. Or who she was with, or anything. Just sits there. Scarlett tried being nice and Grace still won't say. Then she cried, and Grace got angry and screamed that she was sorry but if people just told her the truth she wouldn't have to go looking for it. Scarlett went dead white then. I thought she was going to faint, but she asked me to give them some time, so I came to find you.

“What does Grace mean, about having to look for the truth? Scarlett doesn't lie, not ever. It's one of her lessons. When Grace
lied about meeting Gregory Fisher in the woods, Scarlett taught her that lesson. And when the exchange student lied about the money in the till, Scarlett said he had to go back to France.” Valerie shook her head, cradling her tea in both hands. “I don't understand why anyone would want to leave the Peace and Pigs. That's why all those visitors keep coming back every year, because it's so good here. They pay money to come and stay, and can only come for maybe a week, or two weeks. Grace gets to live here for free, all the time. Why would she want to run away?”

“I don't know, Valerie. I think, maybe, when people expect you to stay somewhere – especially if it's the place you've always been – it can make you want to run away. Even just to see what somewhere else is like.”

“Did you do that? Did you run away?”

“I didn't run away, because I told my ma I was going. And I'm a lot older than Grace, so nobody will worry about me.”

“Will you go back, then? Back to Ireland?” Valerie looked at me, eyebrows lowered. Daring me to say yes.

“I don't know. But if I do, it won't be for a while yet.” I handed her a pair of rubber gloves. “Come on. While you're keeping out of the way, you can give me a hand.”

It had been two days since the party. I had dragged that diamond ring about as if it weighed a thousand carats. My new fiancé had been in Belfast, packing up his student life and preparing to move back to Ballydown. Here he would lodge with his parents to save money, commuting to his new position at the local community hospital. He had texted me twice. The first text said: “CAN U RING HOTEL AND SEE IF THEY FOUND MY JACKET.”

The second text was even more romantic than the first: “MA SAID COME 4 TEA ON SAT. DID YOU GET JACKET?”

I rang the hotel and used up my lunch break retrieving the coat.
I took a good long look at my new sparkly, shiny, caraty ring and decided to skip tea that Saturday. In fact, I decided to skip not just my future mother-in-law's house, but the whole of Ballydown. I packed a bag on Friday morning before I could change my mind, and phoned the library manager, Harriet. Despite being my boss, Harriet was also my best friend. I even loved her enough to put up with her humming. All day, from the moment she opened the doors until she locked up in the evening, Harriet produced a continual tuneless drone without even realizing it.