And then, almost as if Laura wants to keep talking or she’s tired of the questions that will inevitably come, she continues.
‘Gaga’s health suffered after Mum died. She didn’t want me to be left alone. She wanted me in a safe place, that’s what she kept saying. Sometimes she woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me and I knew she couldn’t get it out of her head.’ She pauses for a moment. ‘I read once that nest-building is driven by a biological urge in pregnant animals to protect their offspring, or themselves, from danger. Nests are designed to hide eggs from predators, to shield them. I believe that’s what Gaga and my mum did. The cottage she brought me to was her bird’s nest. Away from danger, and next to my dad. She did the best she could.’
Silence.
‘Why did you stay at the cottage? You’re twenty-six years old now, Laura, you could have left a long time ago. At this adult age you wouldn’t have had to worry about being taken away.’
Laura looks at Solomon. Bo registers this. Solomon’s eyes don’t leave Laura. He doesn’t care, to break her gaze would be rude, after they’ve listened to her story. Besides, his pull to her is magnetic, not normal.
‘I stayed there for the same reasons as my mum and Gaga did what they did. Because I was happy to stay. Because I was afraid to leave.’
‘You’re not afraid to leave now. Is it because Tom died? Is it because you’re ready for change?’ she asks question after question to help her along.
‘Change happens all the time, even on the mountain. You have to change with change,’ she says, her voice going deeper again, as she mimics Gaga. It’s the first time Bo and Rachel have heard it and their eyes widen as it seems another person takes over her body. ‘I was looking for what Gaga and Mum had with each other. Tom had it with Joe. You just need one person to trust.’
She raises her eyes to Solomon, whose heart is pounding so hard he’s afraid his boom mic will pick it up.
11
On Saturday morning, the four sit together in the hotel restaurant for breakfast. Laura looks around, not exactly as a Martian would, but with the eyes of someone who hasn’t been around this kind of social situation before, if ever.
‘Good morning, are you ready to order breakfast?’ a waitress asks.
She can’t pronounce her R’s, pronouncing them as a W sound instead.
Laura studies her, fascinated, her lips moving to make a W sound.
Solomon watches, hoping she won’t make the sound aloud.
‘Yes,’ Rachel says loudly, ready to eat the leg of the table. She fires off her order first.
‘So let me just read that back: two sausages, two eggs, two tomato, mushrooms, two rashers … the rashers are from Rafferty’s, local farmer. They’re excellent. Award-winning.’
‘Washers,’ Laura says suddenly, mimicking the waitress perfectly. She’s not even looking at her, she’s buttering her toast and speaking as though she doesn’t notice the words are coming from her mouth. ‘Weady … bweakfast.’
The waitress pauses her order-taking and stares at Laura.
Bo feels no sensitivity towards the waitress who thinks she’s being mocked, just watches, amused and intrigued, as hungry for this scene as Rachel is for her double Irish breakfast. Solomon of course feels the sweat trickle down his back from the discomfort of the situation.
‘Wafferty,’ Laura says.
‘She’s not teasing you,’ Solomon says awkwardly, and he can tell the others are surprised he’s even addressed it.
The anger that flashed in the waitress’s eyes calms as she looks at Laura differently. Then Solomon realises that she thinks something else of Laura, that there’s something wrong with her.
‘No, she’s not … you know … She’s learning. It’s a new sound to her. She …’ he looks at Laura to explain her further, and she’s looking at him, amused. As if the joke’s on him.
‘Okay, folks, if there’s anything else you need, let me know. I’ll get this to the kitchen really fast.’ The waitress grins at Rachel.
Laura can’t help herself, she mimics ‘really’ as ‘weally’, an exact copy of the waitress’s voice, and Rachel looks to be in serious pain trying to keep her nervous laughter in.
‘Stop,’ Bo says quietly.
‘I know, I can’t, I’m sorry,’ Rachel says seriously and then starts again, doing a Jekyll and Hyde as she goes from serious to laughter in an instant.
The waitress leaves the table, uncertain as to whether Laura is simple, or if she’s being mocked.
‘She’s going to spit in your cappuccino,’ Solomon says, buttering his toast.
‘Why were you laughing?’ Laura asks Rachel.
‘I can’t help it.’ She wipes the sweat from her brow with a napkin. ‘I do it at awkward moments. Have done since I was a kid. Funerals are the worst.’
Laura smiles. ‘You laugh at funerals?’
‘All the time.’
‘Even at Tom’s?’
Rachel looks at her sombrely. ‘Yes.’