Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
‘Something to wear to a Halloween party?’ Orla smiled delightedly. ‘Sure we can find something for you. What were you thinking? Are we talking sexy witch here or giant pumpkin?’
‘Well, it’s a month away so I’ve got lots of time to decide. But I’m definitely not leaning towards giant pumpkin – Luke’s ex is going to be there,’ I told her.
‘Oh, she is? Well, in that case we’re definitely on the sexy side of witchy, aren’t we? Not too sexy, mind.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m guessing these are Luke’s friends you’ll be meeting? And you don’t know them.’
‘Well, no, I don’t. But…’ I was surprised. I wouldn’t have expected Orla to suggest I tone down my sexiness level – which would have reduced it to practically negative figures – just because I was going to be meeting Luke’s friends.
‘Remember Bridget Jones in the movie?’ Orla folded her arms. ‘When she turns up at the tarts and vicars party only no one else is a tart or a vicar? You don’t know them, so you don’t know how seriously they’ll be taking this Halloween lark.’
‘Oh. Yes, I see what you mean.’
‘And if you’re all got up as a sexy spider and they’re in jeans, you’d feel just a bit foolish.’
‘God – I’d be mortified.’
‘You would. So you want to aim for something that could be a Halloween costume but could also be your normal clothes.’
‘But how are they to know I don’t go to work every day dressed as a sexy spider?’
Orla laughed and I saw a glimpse of what she must have been like when she was younger – a beautiful girl, full of silliness and fun. ‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘You have. And I think you’re right. I could just wear a black dress and do some zombie make-up or something.’
‘A black dress?’ She looked at me, her head on one side. ‘You know, I think I might have just the thing for you.’
She glanced over her shoulder, silent for a moment as if she was listening. But she must have known – as I knew – that she and I were the only ones in the house. It was a Friday evening; Beatrice wouldn’t be back from work for at least another half hour, and Luke had gone to see his mother in Leicester for the weekend.
‘Hold on while I get my keys,’ she said.
I watched her hurry out of the kitchen and run lightly up the stairs. I heard her tap across the landing, then resume climbing up to the second floor. There was silence for a few minutes before she returned, a bunch of keys jingling in her hand.
But they weren’t the only keys she had. On a slim gold chain around her neck, I could see another, smaller key – one that must have been hidden by the neckline of her top until she’d taken it out, used it and forgotten in her haste to conceal it again.
The suitcase , I thought. The suitcase I saw Beatrice going through – she’s bought a lock for it, and she keeps her keys in there.
So Orla was aware of what Beatrice had been doing – and yet Beatrice was still there, living in the house. She hadn’t been asked to leave or even, as far as I knew, reprimanded for snooping through Orla’s things.
Why not? What Beatrice had done was outrageous. Clearly Orla cared enough about her privacy to put stuff under lock and key – but not enough to say anything to the person responsible.
But before I could make sense of the questions racing through my mind, Orla led me towards the door beneath the stairs that I presumed led to the cellar, although I’d never had any reason to open it. She slipped a key into the padlock that held closed a hasp on the door – bright, new brass; surely that hadn’t been there last time I looked? – and opened it.
‘Come on down,’ she said. ‘Mind the stairs – they’re steep and a bit slippery.’
Gingerly, I picked my way down the narrow flight of wooden stairs. The cellar was cavernous, stretching away beneath the whole of the ground floor. The grey flagstones on the floor were worn smooth with age, and the only light was what trickled in from a grating outside.
‘It’s kind of creepy down here,’ Orla apologised. ‘One of the first things I got Luke to do was clear out all the junk, because I was worried about rats. I’m mildly phobic of them. That’s one of the reasons I was so happy when Maud decided to move in.’
I shivered; the air down here was noticeably cooler than the rest of the house.
‘I can imagine,’ I said. ‘It’s definitely spooky. Still – we were talking about Halloween, right?’
‘We certainly were. Now, I’ve a whole load of old stuff down here. I never thought I’d accumulate possessions, but you do, don’t you? They get so they have a kind of power over you.’
She led me over to a stack of storage boxes arranged along one of the walls – sturdy, plastic tea crates, their sides rough- textured black, their lids bright yellow. I could see sticky labels on their sides, the edges curling slightly in the damp air, each bearing Orla’s neat cursive handwriting.
Art materials. Winter clothes. Party clothes. Portraits. Notebooks. Photographs.
It takes a special kind of pack rat , I thought, to lug a crate full of notebooks around the world with them. I remembered Orla’s bedroom, almost minimalist in its tidiness. How strange that she should keep one part of her house like that, and yet have all these accumulated possessions down here.
The topmost crate was the one labelled ‘Portraits’. Orla lifted it down easily – clearly whatever pictures it contained, there weren’t very many of them. Then she reached for the one labelled ‘Party clothes’ and heaved it to the floor with more effort.
She levered open the interlocking halves of the plastic lid. The air filled with the smell of cedar and perfume, and she crouched down again, lifting off a layer of tissue paper.
‘I haven’t looked through these old things in ages,’ she said. ‘When I was packing up to come here, I just shoved everything in.’
Slowly, feeling like I was intruding on something private, I approached and squatted down next to her.
She lifted out a royal blue satin dress, a large, crumpled bow on its shoulder.
‘Look at this horror. I wore it to a ball when I was eighteen. The 1980s had a lot to answer for.’
I laughed. ‘It’ll probably come back though, and be worth loads.’
‘It certainly cost enough at the time.’ She pushed back her hair. ‘And this monstrosity was a bridesmaid’s dress – at least I can’t take the blame for choosing it.’
She laid a peach-coloured floral frock over my lap. I could hear the rustling of tulle beneath the stiff skirt.
‘I should take the whole lot down to the market.’ She sighed. ‘I might get a few quid for them. Ah – this is what I was looking for.’
She stood up, a beaded black garment hanging from her arm. Even my inexpert eyes could see that it was in a different league from the other dresses, timeless and beautiful.
‘Schiaparelli,’ Orla said. ‘It was my grandmother’s. I think it would fit you.’
I stood too, placing the other dresses back in the chest, and Orla handed me the black one. I could feel the weight of it and see countless jet beads glinting in the dim light.
‘Orla,’ I said, ‘I can’t possibly wear this. Not to some random Halloween party. It’s too precious – it must be worth a fortune.’
She tilted her head. ‘It’s only gathering dust down here, Livvie. Well, it would be if it weren’t hidden away in a box. Clothes are meant to be worn.’
Before I could protest again, she reached out, placing a hand on each of my shoulders, her eyes fixed on my face. ‘Please? Just try it?’
There was no way I could decline – even if I’d wanted to. And, looking at the dress, I realised that I didn’t – not really. Seeing it had awoken something in me – a kind of covetousness that was almost lust. The Vivienne Westwood dress Orla had found for me in the market had made me feel the same, in a smaller way. It had, I realised, been a precursor to this, a gateway that had made me realise beautiful things – and even beauty itself – were not just for other people.
‘I’d love to,’ I said.
I was quite used to trying on clothes in front of Orla by now. Unselfconsciously, I kicked off my shoes and stepped out of my jeans, pulling off my T-shirt.
‘Let me help you.’ She located the few tiny buttons on the back of the dress, unfastened them and eased it over my head, guiding my hands into the armholes.
Immediately, I could feel the weight of the embellishments, their surfaces scratching the skin inside my arms. From shoulders to hips, the dress was heavy, almost rigid – below that, the skirt felt weightless against my bare legs.
‘It’s above the knee on you,’ Orla said, ‘shorter than it was designed to be, but that doesn’t matter. My grandmother was five foot five – she was considered a tall woman then. Turn round and let me button you up.’
I obeyed, feeling Orla’s dexterous fingers skilfully fitting the tiny buttons into their places.
‘I’ll need someone to help me get into it,’ I said nervously. ‘I don’t want to damage it.’
‘You won’t. It was made to last. But you’re right – my grandmother still had a maid to help her dress, even then.’
I couldn’t see Orla’s face, but the tone of her voice had changed, from excitement to wistfulness.
‘You must miss her,’ I said tentatively. ‘Your grandmother, I mean. She must have really loved you, to have wanted you to have the house.’
Orla moved in front of me, adjusting the straps of the dress over my shoulders.
‘Your bra strap shows at the back,’ she said, ‘but you don’t need to wear one.’
For a second I felt rebuffed, but then she went on, ‘She did love me. And I loved her. She was like a mother to me. She never had a daughter, you see. Just one son – my father.’
She raised her eyes from the dress to my face, unsmiling. I didn’t know what the right thing was to say – whether to ask her more, wait for her to volunteer, or move the conversation back to the safe territory of fashion.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said softly. ‘Sorry for your loss.’
Orla sighed. ‘I’d already lost her, in a sense. When I moved away. I left because I thought I didn’t want to see her again and by the time I did, it was too late.’
Questions whirled through my mind. Why had Orla moved away? Where was her own mother in all this? What had happened to change things so drastically between her and the grandmother she’d clearly been so close to?
‘I hated her at first,’ Orla went on, almost as if I wasn’t there. ‘It’s a strange thing, how love can turn into hatred. But it didn’t take me long to realise that it was myself I hated, far more than her – myself and what I’d done. That was the thing. I didn’t think she’d ever forgive me, and until she had I couldn’t forgive myself.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered again, wishing I could find more, better words to say.
Orla sighed. ‘She thought she was doing the right thing for me. And she was, really – at least, as far as there was any right thing, after what I’d done. She was a remarkable woman. A strong woman.’
‘So are you,’ I said. ‘You’re amazing. I don’t know what she was like, but I can imagine her being just like you. I bet she’d be really proud if she could see you now.’
Orla smiled. ‘Thank you, Livvie. You’re a sweet girl. She’d have loved to see you in that dress, I know that. Now come on – let’s get you dressed again and go upstairs. It’s too full of damp and memories down here.’
So we went up. I hung the dress away in my wardrobe and helped Orla make ratatouille for dinner. Orla didn’t mention her grandmother again that night. But I couldn’t help dwelling on what she’d told me, and wondering what could have happened to destroy their relationship. Whatever it was, Orla carried the legacy of it with her like a weight.
What kind of event could have torn a family apart like that? I could think of only one thing that could have led to such a rift, such shame and regret, such a need for secrecy and silence.
I believed I knew what it was. And, remembering Beatrice’s spying through Orla’s possessions, I became certain that she knew, too.
I just couldn’t figure out how Beatrice might have guessed, nor why she seemed so desperate to find out the truth.