Tell Me No Secrets Read online

  CONTENTS

  Tell Me No Secrets

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  About the Author

  TELL ME NO SECRETS

  Julie Corbin

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  Copyright © Julie Corbin 2009

  The right of Julie Corbin to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Epub ISBN 978 1 84894 462 6

  Book ISBN 978 0 340 91988 0

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NWl 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For my parents, Cynthia and Ian Henderson, who always encouraged me to dream.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  It begins somewhere, and for me it was moving to Forest Row and meeting up with two great readers and fledgling writers, Helen and Yvonne – what fun we had!

  Heartfelt thanks to Andie Lewenstein and Catherine Smith – two excellent teachers, writers and remarkable women who encouraged me to dig deep, be brave and never give up.

  My writing friends for all their patient feedback and ongoing support – Mel Parks, Ellie Campbell-Barr, Liz Yonge and Jo Turner – I couldn’t have done it without you. x

  Sigi, Cristina, Jannine, Dorothy, Krys, Jane and Mike – how I miss those Tuesday mornings!

  Parents, children and friends, past and present, at Ashdown House School – thank you for your interest and enthusiasm – most notably Sarah and Rob, Glenys, wise and wonderful Sue, Neville, Regan, Paddy, James and Julie, Anderley, Charlie, George, Haydon, Mike, Ed, Eifion, Bella, Carol, Lucy, Michelle, Ruby, Fiona Squire for her spot-on advice, Penny, Rachael, Liz, Helen Hill, all the children in the 1s and 2s – and yes, you George Breare! (Glenys – you’re a star.)

  Sandy Telfer for his timely input, Dave Morgan for being the first man to read it(!) and Helen Lewis for being my best friend and sounding board.

  Jason Jarrett for his help setting up my website and for being the most interesting and entertaining apple mac expert ever!

  My agent Euan Thorneycroft who picked up a lesser book and skilfully prompted me to rewrites. His input was, and is, invaluable.

  My editor Sara Kinsella, Isobel Akenhead and Francine Toon – friendly, warm and generous – who knew publishing a book could be this much fun?

  Thank you to my brother John, his wife Mags, my sister Caroline and her partner Roland with whom I share so much.

  Last, but not least, for my husband Bruce and my three sons Mike, Sean and Matt – happy to live on tinned soup and sandwiches, with a wife and mother who mumbles or drifts off mid-sentence – who have cheered for me from start to finish without one single word of complaint. You are everything to me.

  Prologue

  They say that everybody has a secret. For some, it’s a stolen extramarital kiss on a balmy evening after two or three glasses of wine. For others it’s that girl, teased mercilessly about the shape of her nose or the whine in her voice until she has to move school.

  Some of us, though, keep secrets that make liars of our lives. Take me, for example. The skeleton I fear isn’t hiding in my closet. The one I fear lies underground. Her name was Rose and she was nine years old when she died.

  I’m not going to make excuses for what I did. I’m going to tell my story as it is and as it was.

  This isn’t the beginning but it’s a good place to start . . .

  1

  I live in Scotland, on the east coast a few miles beyond St Andrews. The east of Scotland is flatter than the west, the scenery less spectacular. We don’t have the craggy peaks or brooding glens dour with dead men’s stories. We have instead a gentle roll and sway of land and sea that lifts my spirits the way a mountain never can.

  And the weather isn’t great. After a couple of sunny days we’re punished with the haar that rolls in off the North Sea, thick and cold until you can’t see the hand in front of your face. But this evening it’s exactly as I like it and when I’ve finished preparing the evening meal, I stand at the sink rinsing the knives and the chopping board and watch a couple walking along the beach, their faces turned up to enjoy the last of the day’s sunshine.

  The phone rings. I dry my hands and lift the receiver. ‘Hello,’ I say.

  ‘Grace?’

  I don’t reply. I feel like I recognise the voice but at the same time, I don’t. There’s a tingling under my scalp and it spreads to my face. With my free hand I rub my cheeks.

  ‘Grace?’

  Still I don’t reply. This time because I know who it is.

  ‘It’s me. Orla,’ she says.

  I put down the phone, return to the sink and lift the knives, washing and drying each one slowly and meticulously before putting it back in the knife rack. I rinse the spaghetti, toss it in oil and cover it with a lid then bend down and open the oven door. The juice from the berries has bubbled up through the crumble, running scarlet rivers over the topping. I turn off the oven and walk to the downstairs bathroom. I lock the door behind me and vomit so violently and repeatedly that I taste blood on my tongue.

  The front door opens then slams shut. ‘Mum?’ I hear Daisy drop her school bag in the hallway and walk towards the kitchen. ‘Mum?’

  ‘I’m in here.’ My voice wavers and I clear my throat. ‘Give me a minute.’ I splash my face in the sink and look at myself in the mirror. My eyes stare back at me, my pupils huge and fixed. My face is colourless and there is a relentless drumming inside my skull. I swallow two Ibuprofen with a handful of water and count slowly, from one to ten, before I open the door. Daisy is sitting on the bottom stair with our dog Murphy’s head on her knee. She’s crooning to him and rubbing the backs of his ears. His breathing slows and he gives a low, contented growl.

  ‘How was school?’ I ask.

  Daisy looks up at me. ‘You look hellish. Is it a migraine?’

  ‘Must be.’ I try to smile but my head hurts too much. ‘Where’s Ella?’

  ‘Walking back with Jamie.’ She rolls her eyes, stands up and kicks off her shoes. ‘I don’t know what she sees in him. What’s for tea?’

  ‘Spaghetti bolognese and fruit crumble.’ The thought of food makes me want to be sick again. I distract myself by bending down to put her shoes in the rack then think better of it when the drummer in my head plays a five-stroke roll against my temples. I lean into the wall and try to calm myself but when the drumming stops I hear her voice: It’s me. Orla.

  I follow Daisy in
to the kitchen where she’s taking a spoonful of sauce from the pot. ‘It’s good!’ She smiles at me, reaches forward and kisses my cheek then wraps her arms round my shoulders. She’s a couple of inches taller than me now and it makes me feel humbled, like somewhere along the way she became the adult and me the child. ‘Why don’t you have a lie down, Mum? Tea can wait.’

  ‘I think I’ll be okay. I’ve taken some painkillers. They should kick in soon.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’ She rubs my back. ‘I’ll go and change.’

  I tilt my head and give her what she calls my Oh-Daisy smile. Her shirt hangs out over her skirt, her tie is skew-whiff and her tights have a hole in them. The cuffs of her almost new sweater are already beginning to fray.

  ‘I don’t do uniforms,’ she tells me, her cheeks dimpling.

  I run my hand through her cropped hair and she leans against it for a moment before I gently push her away. ‘Go on then. Back into the combats.’

  She leaves the room, calling to Murphy who pads along beside her, his tail thumping the air. I sit on a chair and try to think of nothing and no one. All I’m aware of is my breathing and I hold my hand over my chest, counting each breath as it first fills and then empties my lungs.

  By the time Paul’s car tyres crunch over the gravel on the driveway, I feel almost calm again. His door clunks shut and I hear the muffled sound of his voice and then Ella’s in reply. When they come through the front door, Ella is half talking, half laughing. ‘I didn’t mean it like that, Dad!’ she says. ‘It’s a play on words like two martyrs soup, tomato soup.’

  Paul laughs. ‘Don’t tell me one of my daughters is developing a sense of irony. Whatever next!’

  They come into the room; Ella is hanging on his arm. Paul bends to kiss me. ‘Darling, are you okay?’ He runs a hand over my cheek.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I stand up and rest my head against his neck. Immediately, tears flood the back of my eyes and I pull away. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Usual procrastination at the departmental meeting but otherwise—’ He stops talking. He is watching me. I’m making tidy piles of the letters and bills that are on the sideboard. He pulls me back towards him. ‘Grace, you’re shaking. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Just a headache.’ I press my fingertips around my eyes so that he can’t see the expression in them. ‘It’ll pass.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. Really.’ I clear my throat. ‘Combination of tiredness and dehydration.’ I smile into the space between his body and the window. ‘You know me – I never drink enough water.’

  ‘Well, if I’ve told you once . . .’

  ‘. . . you’ve told me a hundred times.’ I manage to look into his eyes and see nothing but straightforward concern: no suspicion or irritation, just humour and a gentle kindness that comforts me. I risk leaning into his neck again. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For what?’

  I kiss below his ear and whisper, ‘For being you.’

  He squeezes me tight then releases me and looks around at the table and beyond that to where Ella is rummaging in the fridge. ‘Daisy home?’

  ‘She’s upstairs changing.’

  ‘How’s my dad been today?’

  ‘Fine. He went into St Andrews to the hardware store. Came back with a boot-load of supplies to repair the fence with.’

  ‘No forgetfulness?’ He tries not to look worried.

  ‘Not that he mentioned.’ I rub from his shoulder down to his hand then lace my fingers through his. ‘Let’s not cross bridges.’

  ‘I know.’ He gives me a tight smile. ‘It’s just that I hate to think about him getting lost and no one to help him. Anyway’ – he opens the patio doors – ‘I’ll call him through.’

  He goes outside to the small apartment that connects to our house and I mix some dressing for the salad.

  ‘Are you getting tea?’ Ella is eyeballing me over the glass she’s holding up to her lips, swigging back a huge mouthful of juice until her cheeks puff out.

  ‘Yes. And it’s ready so please don’t eat anything.’ I drizzle oil and lemon juice over the green salad. ‘Are you going to change?’

  She looks down at herself. She is wearing exactly the same uniform as Daisy but somehow on Ella it looks stylish. The navy skirt sits easily on her hips, the pleats swing as she walks then settle against the fronts and backs of her knees. She never has holes in her tights and her tie is always lying on centre. ‘I’m not changing. I’m fine as I am.’ She stuffs a piece of cold ham into her mouth, lifts the carton of juice, goes to pour it in the glass, changes her mind and holds it up to her mouth instead, slurping it back in exaggerated gulps.

  I say nothing. My head still hurts, my nerves are strung tight – It’s me. Orla – and, anyway, I pick my battles carefully with Ella. I edge past her and take the warm plates from the oven.

  ‘. . . and that’s when I said, “Don’t bother, young man, I’ll buy the brown one.”’ Ed comes into the house with Paul. ‘What’s for tea tonight then, Grace?’ he shouts, rubbing his hands together. ‘Best part of the day, this is.’

  I smile at him. I love my father-in-law. He’s one of life’s gentlemen.

  ‘You’re looking a little tired around the eyes, my love.’ He clasps my hands. ‘What can I do to help?’

  ‘You could toss the salad for me,’ I tell him, hugging his wiry frame. ‘I can manage the rest.’

  We all sit down to eat. Paul and Ed are at either end of the table and the girls are opposite me. My stomach contracts at the sight of the food and I clench my jaw muscles hard until the wave of nausea recedes. I dish up, giving myself a small portion and hand the plates around. Everyone thanks me except Ella. She’s busy under the table arranging Murphy’s head on her feet. Paul looks down at the dog and orders him to his bed. Murphy ignores him.

  ‘He’s not bothering me, Dad,’ Ella tells him. ‘He’s keeping my feet warm.’

  Paul smiles. ‘Just like Bessie, Dad, eh?’

  ‘Now there was a dog and a half,’ Ed says.

  I spoon some spaghetti into my mouth and eat automatically, preoccupied with what’s going on inside my head. Memories hatch like chicks in an incubator: Orla does handstands in the sun, her hair brushing over my bare feet as I catch her legs; arms around each other’s back, running the three-legged race, giggling and jostling each other until we fall panting to the ground; summer afternoons, rolling up and over the dunes until our noses and ears are itchy and blocked with sand; cookery classes, flour on her cheeks, the rolling pin a weapon in her hand; trying on shoes, tops, trousers, skirts before finally parting with our pocket money. And then the last time we were alone together. The hard slap of her hand on my cheek.

  ‘Is there any more, Mum?’ Daisy is holding her plate towards me.

  ‘Sure.’ I load some on to her plate and pass it back to her. ‘Anyone else?’

  Ed reaches over and pats my hand. ‘Delicious as ever, Grace. But I’ll save some room for my pudding, if I may.’

  I give Paul an extra spoonful and look at Ella. She seems to have more on her plate now than she did when she started. She is moving the food around, arranging like with like, separating out the tomatoes from the olives and the mozzarella from the basil. When she starts to pick the red pepper out of the bolognese sauce, I look away.

  ‘Wait till you girls leave home,’ Ed is saying. ‘You’ll appreciate your mum’s cooking then. Won’t you just.’

  ‘I already do,’ Daisy says, looking sideways at her sister.

  Ella seems not to have heard and, pushing her plate away, looks around the table at us all. ‘So guess who got the lead in the play?’ she says.

  ‘Now what play would that be?’

  ‘Romeo and Juliet, Grandad.’

  ‘Ah!’ Suddenly, like a cloud drifting over the sun, Ed’s eyes glaze over. He stares down at his fork, examines it from every angle and then puts it neatly beside his plate. ‘I’m not sure what that’s for,’ he announces. Then, looking around him, says,
‘Where’s Eileen?’

  ‘Eileen’s not here right now, Grandad, and we’re all having tea,’ Daisy says.

  ‘Of course we are. We’re all having tea.’

  He looks worried and I sense his rising panic. I rest my hand on his.

  ‘But where is Eileen?’ he says.

  How to tell him that his wife has been dead these last five years? In the beginning we tried to orientate him to the present but all it did was make him relive his grief, acutely as a knife through flesh.

  ‘Mum’s busy right now, Dad,’ Paul tells him. ‘You’re eating with us this evening.’

  ‘Yes, right.’ He nods to himself, trying to make sense of it, hanging on to the words. He looks at me. ‘Is there pudding, Alison?’

  ‘Coming right up,’ I tell him. In these moments he often mistakes me for his daughter and I don’t correct him.

  ‘Anyway,’ Ella says, turning to her father. ‘I got the part.’ She gives a broad, excited smile that lights up the whole table.

  ‘Congratulations!’ Paul and I say, both at the same time.

  ‘That’s fantastic! And who’s playing Romeo?’ I ask.

  ‘Rob.’ She shrugs. ‘He wouldn’t be my choice but Mr Simmonds seems to think he’s the best.’

  ‘And how many girls auditioned for Juliet?’

  ‘About twenty.’

  ‘And you were the best. Well done.’ Paul reaches over and claps a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘It’s because she’s good at flirting,’ Daisy comments under her breath.

  ‘I heard that,’ Ella says.

  ‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘For your information there’s more to acting than meets the eye and at least I have boyfriends. Maybe if you didn’t dress like a dyke—’

  ‘Maybe if you weren’t such a fashion victim, you wouldn’t always be borrowing money from me.’

  ‘Well, maybe if you were a better sister you’d be pleased for me,’ she bites back. Her eyes well up with angry tears and she pushes back her chair and flounces from the room, banging the door behind her.