Tell Me No Secrets by Julie Corbin Page B

Somehow I’m being allowed to stroke her hair. ‘So will you come and visit me in prison?’
    â€˜Oh, Mum, stop it!’ She pushes me away. ‘Like you ever did anything wrong!’
    15 June 1984
    Lightning wakes up the sky and I count the seconds – one . . . two . . . three . . . four – until thunder cracks across the tents. It’s raining so hard that the water stings my cheeks. I pick my way over exposed roots and fallen branches keeping my torch pointed down, just ahead of my feet, shining a path. It takes me only a couple of minutes but by the time I reach Orla my hair is plastered to my head and my boots are sopping wet. She is waiting for me close to the pond. The pond is out of bounds because it’s less than a hundred yards from where the boys from the youth club are camping. Somewhere, just beyond the trees, Euan, Callum and several other boys from our year are in their tents, most likely getting drunk.
    Orla is throwing stones into the water. I watch one skim along the surface half a dozen times before it sinks. ‘This better be good,’ I shout to her as I draw within earshot. ‘Parky will have our guts for garters if she catches us out here at this time of night.’
    â€˜Live dangerously, Grace, why don’t you?’ she shouts back, lobbing another stone. ‘What’s the worst she can do? Throw us out of the Guides?’ She turns and looks at me. ‘Would either of us care?’
    â€˜I don’t suppose so,’ I admit.
    Orla often accuses me of playing it safe; that, and caring about what other people think. I don’t share her ‘fuck-em’ approach. I wish I did but I am burdened by expectations. I am the longed-for child, the apple of my parents’ eye. I am Grace. I am polite. I am kind and considerate. I never make trouble at school. My grades are good. I always do the right thing.
    It’s close to midnight and as the clouds blow across the sky, the moon is revealed, full and bright as a silver coin. But still the rain pours down, filling the forest with watery sounds: dripping, gurgling, bubbling, swirling, hammering on the leaves until they bend with the weight and shed their load in a puddle on the ground. Water slides off my hair on to my cheeks and down on to my lips. It tastes cold and fresh. I tip my head back and drink it in, ignoring the wet that misses my mouth and runs down my neck inside my clothes. Soon I’ll be freezing.
    â€˜So what, Orla? What?’ I shout to her. ‘What did you want to tell me?’
    She comes right up beside me and whispers loudly into my ear. ‘It’s about Euan.’
    â€˜What about Euan?’
    â€˜I tried him out for you.’
    I frown, confused. ‘What do you mean?’
    â€˜I tried him out for you. He could be a better kisser but otherwise . . .’ She stops talking, looks upward as if contemplating the universe and all its secrets then glances back at me and shouts, ‘Otherwise he was a pretty good shag.’
    I stare at her, my stomach hollow as if scooped out with surgeon’s metal. I am wet through to my skin and yet still a fire sparks up in my throat.
    â€˜What’s with the face?’ She laughs. Water drips off the end of her eyelashes, nose, hair and off the end of her smile which is both knowing and sly. Sleekit, my father would say. ‘You look like your dog’s just died.’ She pushes me on the shoulder and my feet slip on the muddy bank. I fall down on to my knees and catch myself just before my face hits the ground. The wet earth smells bitter and I cough into my hand then stand upright again, plant my feet firmly between a rock and a clump of heather and push my hair out of the way behind my ears. Orla is skimming stones again. Not a care in the world. I shout across the space between us.
    â€˜You had sex with Euan?’
    â€˜What?’ She holds up her hand to her