Page 54 of All Our Missing Pieces

What were you doing? I demanded. Last night, down in the cellar?

Guilt flashed over her face. I could see her mind working as she tried to come up with an excuse – a lie.

I thought I heard someone down there. I woke up, I went to look. But I couldn’t see anything. It must have been the cat.

Cats can’t unlatch doors, Beatrice.

It was open. Someone must have left it open. Luke or Livvie.

And the box with my paintings in? I suppose that was open too?

I… Her eyes were wide and frightened. I hated her being afraid of me. I’m sorry, Orla. I could smell paint. I was curious and I opened the box.

I looked at her, saying nothing.

They’re beautiful, Orla. You’re an amazing artist. I paint a bit myself, but nothing like – nothing as good as that.

I see, I thought. Lies first, then apologies, now flattery.

I said, Beatrice, and then I stopped. There was no point launching into a lecture about respecting others’ privacy. She knew all that – she knew she’d done wrong but she had chosen to do it anyway.

Please don’t do that again. Please don’t go down there and go through my things.

I’m sorry, Orla, she said again. Then, emboldened, realising I wasn’t going to tell her to pack her bags and leave, she said, The painting on the landing. Is that yours, too?

I nodded.

I thought so. It’s wonderful. Where is it? The scene, I mean?

A place in Ireland called Clonmara. You wouldn’t know it.

She looked as if she might be about to ask me something else, but I was in no mood to answer her questions. I turned and left.

I shall have to get a lock for that door.

I wonder what her next question would have been, and whether she will ever find the courage to ask it.

THIRTY-FIVE

Beatrice waited and waited for Orla to say something more about her snooping in the cellar. On the first morning, after Orla had come into her room to speak to her about it, she came downstairs to find Orla sitting at the kitchen table, a few sheets of paper filled with dense, spidery handwriting in front of her and Maud the cat perched contentedly on her lap, and Beatrice’s stomach lurched so violently with fear she thought she might be sick.

Now that Orla had had time to think about what Beatrice had done, she’d ask her to leave for sure.

‘Good morning,’ she managed, her mouth dry and her hands clasped behind her back.

Orla looked up at her serenely. ‘Good morning. Cup of tea?’

‘I’m okay, thanks.’ Confusion and relief washed over Beatrice in equal measures. ‘I have to go to work. I had the afternoon off yesterday, but I’m back in today.’

‘Were you ill? I noticed you were in your room all evening.’

Beatrice shook her head, feeling a treacherous blush creep up her neck and over her face. ‘I’m fine. It was – Parker, the little girl, had to be taken to hospital.’

She found herself spilling out the whole story. Orla listened in silence, her head on one side, rolling her pen from side to side over the pages she’d been writing on. Beatrice tried not to look too closely at them.

‘That must have given you quite a scare,’ she said, when Beatrice had finished. ‘Is the child all right now?’

‘She’s fine.’