Monday, 29^th of July, 1981

 Dear Marianne,

This morning, about halfway through our first “cultural appreciation” of the day, Elodie was called out of the room by an assistant who said there was a telephone call for her.  To be perfectly honest, I was relieved to see her go- I had a bad stomach ache this morning, and I appreciated the chance to rest for a moment instead of going over scripts and trying to think of new ways to flatter my teacher.

Well, “a moment” turned into nearly an hour.  I’m a little embarrassed to admit it, but I’d fallen asleep in my chair as the other girls talked.  One of them had to shake me awake and tell me that Elodie had summoned us all to the ballroom. 

The ballroom is the most beautiful place in the whole house, all decked out in royal purple and gold, with a ceiling that takes up a whole extra storey by itself.  It made the perfect setting for Elodie to scream herself hoarse.  It seems her “detractors” are causing problems again, and she has decided that it’s all our fault. 

Spoiled, she called us.  Ungrateful.  Not willing to work for the things she generously gives us.  “Do any of you have it in you to defend me to my detractors? No!  You hide behind an excuse of shyness, but really, you’re all cowards!” 

Maybe we are cowards, Marianne, because not one of us had the nerve to point out that we have no idea who her detractors are, let alone how we might defend her from them. 

She continued.  “You sit here without a care in the world, and outside of these walls, the whole world is falling apart!  Nuclear weapons! Racism!  Twelve-year-old girls losing their virginity to their brothers! If you’re happy with the way the world is, then fine!  Stay silent!  But if not, GET INTO THE HABIT OF DEFENDING ME!”  And with that, she stormed out of the room.  We didn’t see her again for the rest of the day. 

Nobody knows for sure who that telephone call was from.  “Her lawyer,” said one girl; “her accountant” said another.  I would be interested to know, but, in my heart, I know that it probably doesn’t matter.  To Elodie, it all comes to the same thing- her detractors, her detractors, her detractors. 

Yours,Coralie

 *

Tuesday, 30^th of July, 1981

Dear Coralie, 

You need to buy a train ticket and come back now.  Elodie Healy is completely nuts, and whatever you find out from her, it’s not worth it.  (If what you find out is even true, because, again, ELODIE IS NUTS.) 

In fact, do you know what?  I’m taking back my promise from last week.  If you’re not back by Friday, I’m telling Mum everything, and I don’t even care if I get into trouble as well. 

Don’t think for a minute that I’m bluffing.  COME HOME. 

Yours,

Marianne

 

*

Thursday, 1^st of August, 1981

Dear Marianne,  

I had hoped that the stomach ache would go away after a little rest, but if anything, it’s worse now.  I feel as if I might throw up at any second.  Not only that, but it only seems to take the slightest activity to make me completely out of breath.  I feel like one of those fragile, fainting Gothic heroines we always read about- I’m certainly in the right place for it. 

Elodie is still angry.  No matter what we say to her, it’s never good enough.  Yesterday, she had a long, poisonous lecture in stock for me specifically, when I had no comment to give on a particular line in the day’s text.  “In a whole week of giving my best to you,” she told me, “I have seen no results.  Come on- think for a change!  Respond for a change!”  (She slapped the table with her hand as she spoke.)  “I can’t do it for you!” 

I tried to reply- I tried to say anything– but the room began to swim before my eyes, and I had to concentrate on getting my breath back.  When I could finally focus, I saw that Elodie was giving me a look of the purest disgust.  You would have thought that I had spat in her face. 

“There really isn’t a whole lot I can do for you at this point,” she told me, and then she went on to the next student. 

Yours,

Coralie

(To Be Concluded)

Monday 22^nd of July, 1981

Dear Marianne,

It’s a strange, strange school that I’ve ended up in.  I look back at all the times I complained about Mr Sparrow’s boring Maths lessons, and I can hardly believe how lucky I was.  Next to Elodie Healy, Mr Sparrow is Socrates in the Parthenon.

The start of every day is the same.  Elodie hands around copies of a script, and asks us to read a particular scene and share our “deeper thoughts” on the author’s intent.  Shall I share some of the titles of these plays?  The Shadows of the Morning, by Elodie Healy.  One Thousand Tears, by Elodie Healy.  Heart’s True Treasure, by Elodie Healy.  Laughing at Midnight, by Leonard Healy (edited by his wife, Elodie).

I’m afraid that when I questioned this today, Elodie flew into a rage.  I thought the light fixtures would explode with the strength of it!  “I’m sharing scripts with you that have never been seen by anyone before,” she told me through gritted teeth, “You should be thankful.  I have always done my best to show gratitude when I’m given a gift.”

Like a fool, I persisted.  “But we’re paying to be taught by you.  If you pay for something, then it isn’t a gift.”

This time I was surprised that the whole room didn’t burst into flames.  For half an hour, Elodie listed my faults with increasing speed, while the other students hid behind their scripts.  I don’t appreciate what is given to me.  I watch too much television, and it has made me too apathetic to respond to art.  I don’t treat Elodie like a human being.  I don’t act like a human being.  I am wasting air just breathing in her classroom.

I was confined to my bedroom for the remainder of the day.  Should I have stayed quiet?  Should I have flattered her like she seemed to want?  Maybe I should have.  I don’t stand much chance of finding out who my father is if Elodie won’t even talk to me.

I will write again tomorrow.  Hopefully I’ll be back in Elodie’s good books by then.

Yours,

Coralie

*

Tuesday 23^rd of July, 1981

Dear Marianne,

This morning, I was summoned to Elodie’s office to apologise.  Her office looks less like a place of business and more like a glamorous drawing-room, full of full-length mirrors, velvet sofas and shelves of expensive ornaments.  I gave her my apology gladly, of course- I still don’t see anything wrong with what I said yesterday, but there is a great deal I want to know about our mother’s past, and Elodie is the only one who can tell me.

“I’m prepared to forgive you this time,” she told me, “But let last night be a warning.  I need an engaged group of students at this school, Nora, not people who disrupt the discussion with their own cynicism.”

I wasn’t sure that what I had shown was cynicism, but I nodded and agreed.

A sad look came into her eyes.  It was as if she was looking at memories instead of what was in front of her.  “I want to tell you a story,” she said, “It’s about my daughter, Alicia.”

“I didn’t know you had a daughter,” I said.

She smiled sadly.  “You look just like her.”

Elodie told me that Alicia was beautiful, talented and clever, and that she and her husband had doted on her from the day she was born.  “She had long blonde hair just like yours, and when the sun shone on it, it looked as though she had a halo,” said Elodie.

I was all prepared for her to tell me that Alicia had died, but no.  According to Elodie, she and her husband spent every penny they had to end her to an expensive music school in Switzerland, and that was where she fell into the hands of “our detractors.”  Elodie didn’t go into detail about who, exactly these detractors were, but she did say that they poisoned Alicia’s mind against her parents, and she hasn’t heard from her since.  It was so strange to see such a rich, beautiful woman practically crumble to nothing with grief.

The upshot seems to be that I’m forgiven, but this whole incident just raises more and more questions.  If I look like Elodie’s daughter, then did our mother look like her as well?  Did the two of them meet at any point?  Could our mother even have been one of those terrible “detractors” who turned her daughter against her?  Could that be why she always dropped such terrible hints about her in her letters to us?

It’s getting dark outside.  This school seems like a darker place by the day

Yours,

Coralie

*

Thursday 25^th of July, 1981

Dear Coralie,

Guess what?  I’ve seen a photo of Elodie Healy’s daughter.  I was pretty sure I remembered one of Mum’s old theatre programmes having a picture of the entire Healy family (next to a note about how they’d built the whole company up with their own fair hands).  So I spent yesterday afternoon looking through the attic, and, hey presto, there it was.

Guess what else?  Alicia Healy looks nothing like you.  For one thing, her hair’s brown.  She’s little and chubby and covered in freckles.  Also, the photo’s from 1963, and she looks about eight.  Mum would have been eighteen by then, so I doubt they had many heart-to-heart talks.

I don’t know why Elodie made up a story about her daughter being blonde and having a halo.  I also don’t know why she forgot she had a son as well.  (His name’s Sebastian.  Also not blond.)

The school feels like a darker place every day, you say?  Then do the smart thing and come home.

Yours,

Marianne

 

(To Be Continued)

Being the second of three planned stories designed to finally finish off “The Lazenby Family Papers.”  The rest of this story is text-based, but I threw in a few scans to start off with, for old times’ sake.

(To Be Continued)