JULIA
It’s Brenna who eventually persuades me to stay on at the farm. When she wants to, she can turn on the charm, and for a mixed-up teenager she doesn’t do a bad job.
‘Oh please, Mrs M. We like it here.’ Simple words strung around her imploring face and they get to me. Then she hoists a surprised Flora up on to her hip, although the weight of my daughter soon sends her sliding down Brenna’s side again. But the girls keep hold of each other and Flora is touched by the teen’s attention. It’s clear that my daughter craves something that I’ve not been providing.
Want to play with me? Flora signs, but Brenna just stares dumbly at her.
‘Wow,’ she says. ‘That’s amazing when you look at it.’ Brenna stoops down to Flora’s height and says, ‘It’s crazy cool! Teach me something, Flora.’ I translate what Brenna says and she stares intently at Flora’s hands as they shape words in reply.
‘She says she’d like you to play dolls with her. She wants you to help dress them. Now she’s asking if you like dolls.’
‘I
love
dolls,’ Brenna says overenthusiastically, clearly lying. This is an easy scam compared to the rest of her life; easy to worm her way into my heart via Flora. It doesn’t do for me to think about the abuse and suffering she’s put up with. That would make me treat her differently, and what Brenna needs now is to be dealt with like any normal teenager – praise, love, an occasional reprimand dished out fairly and consistently. Whatever her past holds, she’s doing a marvellous job of speaking with Flora without knowing a single word of sign language. Maybe I can encourage her to apply the same aptitude to her schoolwork.
Three times the head teacher has called because Brenna didn’t turn up at school. Each time I conjured a hurried excuse why Mum couldn’t get to the phone – busy with the goats; just popped out to fetch something for tea; in the bath. If the head suspected that Mum wasn’t home looking after the kids, she’d have to notify social services. Brenna and Gradin would be whipped away before I could put the phone down, and I’m not entirely sure that’s what I want.
Stupidly, as I watch Brenna mess about with Flora, making her giggle, I realise that I have grown fond of the pair. Against my better judgement, I decide not to turn them in. When I think of all Mum’s hard work and dedication, the years of love and effort that she has unconditionally donated to her foster kids, I can’t waste it all by giving up so easily.
I tip the last of the coal from the scuttle on to the range and sigh as I remember Mum doing this a thousand times a year throughout my childhood. I wonder where her devotion to me, the farm and her foster children, came from. It was a place inside her mind that she never allowed me to visit. Of course, she was always a loving mother to me. Strict at times, yes. Evasive and stubborn when I questioned her about my father, certainly. From an early age, I learnt that probing the subject raised a taut anger that no good little girl wanted to provoke. The result was a seamless erosion of any desire to delve into the past. ‘Never look back,’ was Mum’s motto.
‘OK, OK.You win,’ I say, even though I know it’s only a matter of time before we are found out. ‘But you’re going to have to pull your weight around here. Make it worth my while.’
‘Oh, we will, Mrs Marshall. We will.’ Brenna licks her finger and sticks it in the sugar bowl.
‘That means going to school and staying there,’ I add. ‘And don’t do that. It’s disgusting.’
She gives me a wry smile as she studies her frosted finger. ‘Come on, Flora. Let’s go and find those dolls.’ Amazingly, Flora seems to understand, and the two girls trot out of the kitchen. I hear their footsteps tread the creaky stairs and my heart dares to warm by a degree. For just a moment, I feel like my mother.
It’s only later that evening, as I am creeping around the house checking the doors and windows are secure before I go to bed, that I wish I had called social services after all.
The old oak floorboards give away my presence. The youngsters’ accommodation is above the hay barn but accessed through the farmhouse up its own winding staircase. The area is cross-hatched with beams and a mix of old painted furniture that I remember from my childhood. Just the smell and sight of it evokes dusty memories, of Murray, and of long, carefree days.
Mum has put feather-filled mattresses on the brass bed frames, and with the old sofa, several rugs, and posters on the whitewashed walls, it makes a comfortable teen retreat. There have never been any complaints. In fact, the kids love the independence that the loft provides.
The first thing I smell is the alcohol. The sweet vapours tingle my nose before I even reach the door at the top of the stairs. I’m calibrated to sniff out even the most secretive of drinkers. The loft-room door is open a few inches.
I stop suddenly, my heart an axe inside my chest.
The kiss – from a boy aged sixteen who wears teddy bear toggles on his coat – lands clumsily on Brenna’s mouth. I stumble from shock and the floorboards creak beneath me. Gradin slowly looks up, whereas Brenna is on her feet quick as a hunted doe.
I burst into their room. ‘No, no, you mustn’t kiss your sister like that, Gradin,’ I say as if I have caught him stealing biscuits. ‘It’s not what we do.’ My voice is shaking.
‘It’s OK, missus, because Brenna likes it. She says that makes it all right.’ Gradin is on his feet, stomping towards me, intimidating me. The boy is at least six feet tall. From the corner of my eye, I see Brenna shaking and bowing her head.
‘Brenna is your
sister
,’ I tell him. My eyes flick to her. She is shovelling her way through her school bag, searching for something. ‘And we don’t kiss our sisters or our brothers or mothers or fathers. Not like that, anyway. It’s nature.’ I’m flailing in the dark, not having a clue how to handle this. I can’t bear to think what would have happened if I’d not interrupted.
Gradin smiles. He believes he hasn’t done anything wrong. He takes my arms and grips them tightly, one in each hand. I don’t move. ‘It’s just a kiss,’ he tells me. ‘It’s nice.’ His eyes bulge, and it makes me wonder, frozen in his grip, what else he is capable of. I smile weakly, hoping it might make him let go.
I turn slowly, not wanting to startle him. Brenna has lit a cigarette. She is sitting cross-legged on a pile of cushions, squinting at me through black eyeliner and smoke, elbows propped on her knees. Quite different to the girl who enchanted Flora earlier, she doesn’t say a word.
‘No, no, it’s
not
nice, Gradin . . .’ His grip on me grows until I can feel the bruises pushed into my skin, until his eyes look fit to explode, until I stop talking, until he makes me promise that I never saw him.
If it wasn’t for Murray, who had been passing, seen lights on at the farm and come to investigate, I don’t know how far Gradin would have gone.
‘I think you’re blowing this out of proportion, Ju.’ Murray is incredulous. He hardly believes me.We are in the kitchen, hovering around the fireside chairs, no one daring to sit.
‘The boy was kissing his sister. His hands were about to grope her by the looks of it. He was
kissing
her, Murray. Full on the lips. More than just a “good night, sis” kind of kiss.’
‘What about Brenna? Did she protest?’
‘She didn’t look very happy about it. She was sullen and wouldn’t speak. And she was
smoking
up there.’
Murray laughs. ‘God, Julia. Don’t you remember what we were like?’ He paces away and then paces back.
‘What
you
were like,’ I add quickly. ‘You were the one who rebelled at every chance.’
Murray sighs and makes a decision. ‘In that case, if you really think it’s serious, I don’t want them in the same house as Alex and Flora. Gradin needs help, and you’re not qualified to give it.’ From his expression, I can tell that he’s not sure whether to go or stay.
‘Look, Julia, your mother’s in a psychiatric hospital. A girl you teach has been brutally attacked and the man you are clearly falling in love with has been charged with GBH. And that’s not to mention the mess that is us.’ He paces around some more to lend weight to the ‘us’ part. ‘Get rid of Brenna and Gradin, Julia. They’re bad blood. You don’t need them.’
‘Is it that obvious?’ I say quietly.
‘Is what obvious?’ Murray asks. He stomps to the back door.
‘That I’m falling in love with David,’ I whisper. And even though it makes things worse, even though I’m temporarily grounded with guilt from the expression of sudden and deep loss on Murray’s face, I clap my hand over my mouth. He looks as if he’s just found out about our divorce all over again. ‘However much of a mess we’re in, Murray, you’ll always be . . .’ I stop. I’m just making it worse. I didn’t mean to admit my feelings to myself, let alone Murray. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’
‘It’s OK,’ he says when it’s obviously not. ‘I’m glad you can still be honest with me.’ I swear there’s a tear beading in his left eye. ‘Do you remember when we were kids and we said that if we ever had a secret, it wouldn’t be a proper one until we shared it with each other?’
Of course I remember.
‘Well now I know, now you’ve told me how you feel, it’s an official secret,’ he says, smiling, crushing me with kindness. For a moment, I glimpse a Murray of the past; a Murray who always tried to make things OK, even if they weren’t; even if he didn’t succeed.
‘Do you want me to stay?’ he asks.
I hesitate, part of me desperate to say yes, the rest of me already pushing him out of the door. ‘No. You go. I’ll be fine,’ I say, my voice still barely more than a whisper. ‘I’ll sleep on the camp bed in the kids’ room if you like so that I can make sure lovesick Gradin doesn’t come sleepwalking.’ I stare at Murray, holding the unexpected snapshot of the man I used to know, as carefully as I would hold a butterfly wing.
‘Perhaps I’ll hear more news in the morning about the appeal. If I do, you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Thank you, Murray.’ I plant a kiss on his cheek before he finally steps out into the night.
Ed isn’t being funny with me exactly, but he steps around me, doesn’t look at me directly.
‘I’m going back to work tomorrow,’ I tell Nadine, hardly believing it myself. Most things I plan these days don’t seem to happen.
‘How’s Mary doing?’ She slides a sandwich in front of me. ‘You’ve lost weight,’ she comments. ‘Hey, maybe I should get myself a bit more stress, and then perhaps . . .’ but she stops, realising how insensitive it would be to continue.
‘Help yourself to some of my stress, by all means.’ It’s the only retort I can think of. I’d hate it if we fell out too. ‘Thanks, this is good.’ I bite into the tuna sandwich and the sweetcorn pops between my teeth. ‘And before you say anything, I know I look a mess.’ I drag my fingers through my hair. ‘It’s a wonder David even looked twice . . .’
My turn to trail off as Ed raises his head at the mention of the man he has just put behind bars. He has a crust poking from his mouth and he’s glancing through the pages of a newspaper so fast he can’t possibly be reading anything. He’s working round the clock at the moment – because of the Covatta case, but perhaps also as a reaction to the news that he and Nadine can’t naturally conceive.
He’s about to say something, then thinks better of it. If I hadn’t known him for so long, I’d be intimidated by his rough veneer, the tough cop image he strives to maintain. But behind all that there’s a gentle, sensitive man.
‘Mum’s doing OK, the same really,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘But I’m worried about her treatment plan now that . . .’ Another glance at Ed tells me he is listening. ‘Anyway, I’m going in to visit her again later. I have to make sure that she’s getting all the tests she needs. I need to know who’s taken over her care.’
‘It’s a shame she wasn’t admitted to one of the wards at my hospital. I could kick ass.’ Nadine is dressed in her white tunic top and matching trousers. It’s a coping uniform; a getting-on-with-things outfit. ‘What’s the name of the place she’s at?’
‘The Lawns. It’s a private hospital and . . .’ My words dissolve again. I don’t want to tell them that David is taking care of the fees, although I feel the need to explain.
‘The Lawns?’ She whistles through her teeth. ‘It’s expensive. A friend of mine, Chrissie Weaver, works there.’ Nadine is thoughtful for a second. ‘Julia, The Lawns is a . . . Well, Chrissie is a psychologist.Your mother has been put into a psychiatric hospital.’
‘I know,’ I say in quick defence. Ed is still listening, more intently now. He scans the paper, one ear open. ‘Apparently the problem in Mum’s brain is giving her symptoms similar to dementia. She can get top-class psychiatric care at The Lawns as well as the medical treatment. David was liaising with her consultant over further tests at another hospital, but now . . . he can’t.’ I glare at Ed when he looks up. Whatever he thinks about David, his arrest has interfered with Mum’s treatment.
Ed’s had enough. He slams the paper on the table. ‘Julia, your mother’s doctor has been charged with a
very
serious offence. Your involvement with the man only complicates issues.’
I’m sure he wants to hug me as he’s done countless times in the past. As a compromise, he replaces the hug with softer words. ‘Look, you’re still my sister-in-law, just, and you know that I love you. But for your own good, you’re going to have to trust me on this one. Keep well clear of David Carlyle.’ Ed grabs his keys, stamps a kiss on Nadine’s head, and leaves the house.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say when I hear the front door close. I break down in tears. Then, between sobs, I say sorry a thousand times more and let my face drop on to Nadine’s shoulder, smearing a trail of mascara on her white uniform. I look up and apologise again, and we both laugh, me through bursts of snot and misery and her because she has the spark of an idea.
‘Look, Julia, I’ll call Chrissie later. I’ll get her to find out what’s going on with Mary. I’m really not sure it’s in her best interest to be treated at The Lawns. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can dig up.’