Tell Me No Secrets by Julie Corbin Read Free Book Online Page B

she is, she understands the choices I made.
    I’m two minutes from my parents’ house and I drop in on them on my way back from the church. My dad is up a ladder. He’s closer to ninety than eighty but he won’t slow down: I’ll be in my box soon enough and up till then I’ll carry on as normal .
    I keep the ladder steady and shout up to him. ‘Hello, up there!’
    He looks down between the rungs. ‘Oh, it’s you, hen. Shouldn’t you be working?’
    â€˜I’ve been out taking photographs.’
    â€˜Nice work if you can get it. What brings you here then?’ He climbs down, putting one careful foot after the other. ‘Of course, it’s the birthday cakes. For the party.’ He cuddles me tight. ‘Your mother has been fretting over the icing for days. Should she make it pink for Daisy and Ella or just for Ella?’
    â€˜Ella.’
    â€˜That’s what I said.’
    I follow him over to the bench where he throws himself down, landing heavily on his backside, his feet flying up in the air.
    â€˜Look at that view.’ His breathing is hoarse and he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and coughs into it. ‘No amount of money can buy a view like that.’
    My dad has the bench positioned on the crest of the hill with an uninterrupted view of the sloping land and the water beyond it. The air is crisp and clear and, out at sea, an oil tanker tips over the horizon. The wind whips the waves into frothy white peaks that wash the rocky shoreline clean while up above gulls caw, flock and hover on the wind then dive into the water for fish.
    I breathe in deeply and smile. ‘I love it here,’ I say, then notice that a small red stain is spreading across his handkerchief. ‘Is there blood on that hankie, Dad?’
    â€˜What’s that?’ He pushes the evidence deep into his trouser pocket. ‘You’re as bad as your mother. Looking for problems where there aren’t any.’
    â€˜Dad?’
    â€˜What?’ His face contrives innocence but behind it his eyes flicker with anxiety.
    I want to hug him to me but I don’t. I am on the edge of my own tears, ready to blurt out my own problems. ‘Shall I get us a cup of tea?’ I say.
    â€˜She won’t want you interrupting her.’ He gives a derisory hiccup. ‘I tried to steal myself a cup a minute ago but was given short shrift.’
    I lay a hand on his shoulder then go into the house. My folks have dozens of photos in the hallway: Euan and I sit end to end in a Silver Cross pram dribbling ice cream on ourselves; me and my dad holding up a shelf I’d just made; my parents’ wedding photo, an impossibly young couple standing in front of the church, shyly holding hands.
    And at the end of the row there’s a photo of Orla and me. We are just thirteen and are standing together in front of a high wooden fence. Our inside arms are wrapped around each other’s back, our riding boots and jodhpurs splashed with mud. We are grinning like mad. I remember the day well. We were both competing in the village pony trials and managed to come home with four rosettes and two cups between us.
    I bend down and scrutinise the photo. There is no mistaking that we are the best of friends, tired legs and arms are slumped against each other and my forehead is resting on her shoulder. I caught up later on, but at that point she was almost six inches taller than me. And looking at her face, the black curly hair, dark eyes and open smile, I feel something unexpected. I feel happy. Tomorrow, for the first time in twenty-four years, we will lay eyes on each other. With a few chosen remarks to the right people she could blow my world apart and yet there is a small corner of me that is looking forward to meeting her.
    I stand up and lean against the wall, shocked, and remind myself that there is no room for sentiment. I have to keep my wits about me and deflect Orla away