by Jenny Colgan
Then the defence lawyer would ask her a few questions, but honestly, said Roisin, you’re a noble, trustworthy health-care worker who happened to be walking past and did their absolute best to save the life of a child. They’d have a devil of a job making you look bad in front of a jury and I would be very, very surprised if they bothered to try. They’ll probably get you off the stand as soon as possible. All you’re doing is confirming the line-up, people you’ve already picked out.
‘What if I can’t remember their faces?’
‘I’ll ask you if you recognise the person driving the car. If you do, say yes.’
‘But what if I don’t . . .?’
‘Alyssa,’ said Roisin. ‘Don’t panic. It’s okay to be nervous. He’ll be in a suit, but it’s the same person. The police had to pull him out of his car, remember? When it was surrounded by the lads from the estate?’
‘. . .okay,’ said Lissa, swallowing hard.
‘Who are also on the CCTV that is going to be played to the jury.’
‘Can I watch that?’
‘Nope. I’m just saying. Don’t worry about it.’
Lissa sighed.
‘It’s all right,’ said the lawyer. ‘You’re going to be fine. Honest. And you’ll be back in London. Enjoy that, surely!’
Lissa bit her lip. She couldn’t help it but she did have a tiny thing to look forward to. A tiny green shoot. She’d teased Cormac: he’d suggested going to Borough Market, which made him such a Londoner, she’d said. It was an incredibly expensive, very chichi food market just on the south bank by London Bridge station, which sold all manner of exotic and organic foods at incredible prices.
But it was still a lovely place to roam around, smelling the cheeses and the coffee beans, the beautiful cakes that were practically works of art and the unidentifiable (certainly to Cormac) spiky fruits. It was an oasis of beauty in the big granite city and Cormac had liked it straightaway; it was so different to the very solid, decent farmers market in Kirrinfief where you could buy the freshest local brown hens’ eggs with great big melting yolks, half a dozen for a pound. Here you could buy a single ostrich egg for seven pounds. At the Kirrinfief farmers’ market, you could buy punnet after punnet of fresh strawberries, huge, some a little battered, from the fields all around them for miles and miles. Here you could buy six perfect strawberries curated in an artisanal punnet and they would cost almost a pound each.
But Cormac still liked it. It reminded him a little of home and he respected people who took their food seriously, even if he had been slightly taken aback when asked to pay eight pounds for a toasted cheese sandwich.
And it was a five-minute walk away from the court. Her stomach fizzed.
Lissa had told herself not to get carried away, not to build it up too much. She had failed miserably.
‘You look very distracted,’ said old Joe Cahill the previous Thursday. Seeing as she was checking his foot operation postwound care, and seeing as, distractingly, he had a set of the most gnarled and twisted hobbit feet toenails she’d ever seen, it wasn’t, Lissa thought, coming back to herself, the worst place to lose her concentration.
She straightened up.
‘Your wound is fine, Mr Cahill,’ she said. ‘But did they not tell you to cut those nails?’
‘Aye, they did, aye,’ he said mournfully. Then he looked down at his expansive stomach.
‘Och, it’s no’ that easy, no,’ he said with a sigh.
‘Did they not get someone to do it there?’
‘Aye, they tried but they couldnae work it with the scissors, eh.’
It was true: they looked like sheep’s horns.
‘Let me have a shot,’ said Lissa. ‘You’ll never get walking with those on.’
But Joe had been quite right; there was absolutely no shifting them. Outside, a brief shower had made everything sparkle and bounce in the light. She could see the sheep nudging their way around the luminous green field. Suddenly she had an idea.
‘I’m just going to see if Joan’s about,’ she said.
Joan did in fact happen to be in the general area (which she gauged as being within fifteen miles) and came over immediately, happy at the suggestion.
‘I wondered,’ said Lissa, ‘if you knew if there was a technique that they used on, like, boy sheep and stuff.’
‘Boy sheep?’ said Joan, her lip curling.
‘Um, yes,’ said Lissa.
‘I’m not sure we’re going to make a country girl out of you. But your thinking isn’t bad. Joe!’
‘Whit?’
‘Stop eating pies; this is ridiculous.’
She prodded at his round stomach.
‘Actually, I was taught not to fat-shame patients,’ said Lissa quietly, feeling Joan had been unkind.
‘More’s the pity!’ boomed Joan. ‘Come on, Joe.’
‘I do like a pie,’ said Joe.
‘You can have a pie! Just don’t have all the pies!’
‘Um,’ said Lissa.
‘Okay,’ said Joan. ‘Where’s your hacksaw?’
‘His what?’
‘It’s a small saw people use for cutting things,’ said Joan.
‘No, I thought you would have some animal thing . . . some technique they use on animal’s horns.’
‘I do! It’s called a hacksaw.’
‘There’s one through in the lean-to,’ said Joe.
The lean-to was a ramshackle space utterly filled with junk and tomato plants.
‘If he can get around, he can tidy up,’ muttered Joan. ‘You did the right thing to call me in.’
She peered at Lissa over her spectacles.
‘Just as you’re getting the hang of it, you’ll be heading back, eh?’
Lissa shrugged.
‘The court case is soon.’
‘Yes, I saw on the roster.’
There was a pause as they rummaged through a large pile of seed catalogues, a lot of ancient copies of Farmers Weekly and a mediumsized stuffed owl.
‘I never thought you’d manage up here,’ said Joan finally. ‘With your London ways. But I think you’ve done rather well. I think people are finally taking to you.’
Lissa blinked. ‘Except Ginty.’
‘Yes, except Ginty. She hates you. I heard all about it last time I was in.’
‘Oh good.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it. Everyone feels sorry for whoever is in Ginty’s firing line. That poor Jake . . . Aha!’
Triumphantly, she pulled a small hacksaw from the bottom of a teetering mass of unpleasant soil samples.
Lissa followed her back into the bedroom.
‘I feel like I’m taking off someone’s fingers for frost-bite! Again!’
Lissa checked to see if she was kidding, but she didn’t appear to be.
‘Right, Joe, feet up. Lissa, you hold him.’
Lissa took one ankle at a time. It was a ridiculous business, but Joan worked quickly and carefully, sawing through the vast twirly nails, then Lissa neatly clipped what was left over and swept them up with a brush and pan.
Joe couldn’t stop staring at his toes.
‘Well,’ he said. Then he walked a few paces, and then a few more.
‘Well,’ he said again, scratching his head as if he couldn’t quite believe it. ‘That is quite something. That is really quite something.’ His eyes lit up. ‘I feel like I could—’
‘Do not dance,’ said Joan quickly. ‘You still have a foot injury.’
‘Och, just a jig . . .’
‘No dancing. For a week. Then, dance a lot. It’ll help. And no more pies!’
‘Aye,’ said Joe. ‘But noo I can dance, I dinnae need pies.’
He did an experimental twiddle.
‘I am warning you!’ said Joan. ‘No dancing. Some mild tidying up I would absolutely suggest to you.’
‘I need to find my dancing shoes,’ agreed Joe.
‘Fine.’
‘Thanks, lass,’ he said, looking at Lissa. ‘This was your id
ea. You know, for a Sassenach, you’re no’ that bad.’
The sun was still high in the sky as they left, and the sheep pootled around, completely disinterested in them as they headed towards their respective cars. It was a glorious evening though; the breeze ruffled Lissa’s hair. Joan marched straight to her car, the dogs as usual going bananas in the back.
‘Um,’ said Lissa just as she was about to get in. ‘Just . . . just . . . when Cormac comes back . . . just . . . do you think . . .? Do you think there might be another opening here? For another person? I mean, I’m qualified for community nursing too.’
Joan frowned. ‘Oh, I don’t think so, dear. We’re a shrinking region; there just aren’t enough people here to support two NPLs. But there’s loads of places in the Highlands that would snap you up . . . and I’d write you a good reference.’
‘Okay. Right. Thanks,’ said Lissa. But she didn’t want anywhere in the Highlands. She wanted here.
Well, it was worth asking. Maybe getting back to London would make her feel more homesick; she’d always assumed that she would be. Once she saw all her friends and got back into her commute and with her life there . . . Feeling lonely among crowds; making herself busy because somehow not being busy was associated with failure; cramming her calendar full of events she didn’t really want to do, because she lived in London and how else was she supposed to manage?
No more wandering down into the village on a morning where you could see the changes from the day before; the new colours and flowers pouring out of the sides of the roads; the trees getting thicker every day; the loch mist burning off before she’d had her second cup of coffee.
And the noisy quiet of the countryside – the birds and the occasional growl in the forests; the sound of the wind in the fireplace and the sweet smell of burning whisky wood – couldn’t really compare to pigeons eating old McDonald’s leftovers; they didn’t have quite the appeal of the herons that took off from the very tip of the loch like ballerinas.
Well. There was a lot happening. A lot coming up. She should just get through it a bit at a time.
Chapter Twenty
Lissa looked around the little cottage. It was as if, she realised, she’d never lived there at all now that she’d neatly packed her black carry-on case and emptied out the jam-jars full of wilting wildflowers.
Why, she found herself wondering, had she not put up a picture? Set the books up on shelves rather than scattering them underneath her bed? The cottage was beautiful, and she could have made it even lovelier. She must have been in such a bad state when she arrived.
Especially now that she knew that Cormac wouldn’t mind. She thought about him briefly, imagined him walking in – in her head, he was alternately very tall and very short and stocky; sometimes he had a beard and then he really didn’t. Nurses never had beards anyway in case they had to do mouth to mouth. Also, if he’d been in the Army . . .
But she did— This was ridiculous of course. He hadn’t mentioned Yazzie again; he might even be still seeing her anyway. And she hoped he hadn’t discussed her with Jake. They wouldn’t, surely? They were Highlands blokes – surely they’d just be discussing who’d won at the shinty.
She realised she’d actually had the conscious thought ‘who won at the shinty’. God, she had changed.
When she got back from London, she vowed, she would make it beautiful for the time she had left in the Scottish summer, when it never got dark and the air softened. She was so looking forward to it, although she reminded herself to bring a super-strength midge spray back with her. They must sell something in London for people going en route to the tropics. Something must kill those pesky mites.
She couldn’t help it though. Imagining. What it would be like if he walked through the door and grabbed her and . . .?
She was being ridiculous, she realised. But also, it was good; good that she was thinking about a chap again. It had been so very long. Since her mind hadn’t felt closed, confused and frightened all the time. Even her ability to daydream, to fantasise, seemed to have been turned off by the anxiety; the luxury of even believing in a brighter future for herself. That had been lost; now it seemed to have been found. Even if, of course, it was nonsense.
Still. They were meeting. After the trial. Better than that: he had promised to take her out to lunch. She hadn’t (and she felt guilty about it) even told her mum or Kim-Ange about it, even though she knew they were both longing to see her. This was bad but it was going to be such an awful day, and only the thought of Cormac was keeping her hanging on.
Her Skype bonged, and she groaned.
Anita was fully dressed and had two suitcases by the side of her kitchen table.
‘Is this a bad time?’ said Lissa, not wanting to point out that Anita had called her.
‘Hff,’ said Anita, glancing nervously at a pile of paperwork on the kitchen table. ‘Apparently I’m passport monitor and it’s making me very nervous.’
‘Perhaps try some deep breathing exercises,’ said Lissa, then immediately felt bad. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry.’
But Anita was looking around anxiously.
‘Where is that sodding cat?’ she was saying to herself. Just at that exact moment, a cat shot past the screen so fast it was just a blur, pursued by two rampaging children.
‘Not on the road! Not on the road!’
Lissa found herself thinking about Zoe and Nina: baby John pottering about the farmyard with his dad; Zoe’s little tribe cavorting about the fields. Anita obviously lived in a nice terrace house in South London; it was probably worth more than the entire village up here. But as the children pelted around the expensive kitchen, it couldn’t help crossing Lissa’s mind to wonder if it was worth it. How much it must cost to pay the mortgage; how hard it must be to raise children you couldn’t let out on their own.
‘Honestly I can . . .’
‘No, you have these sessions paid for and I need to complete them before you go.’ She looked crestfallen. ‘Sorry they’ve been a little rushed . . .’
‘It doesn’t look easy, your job,’ said Lissa mildly.
‘I know,’ said Anita, as heavy little shoes pattered overhead. ‘I’m sorry . . .’
Lissa shook her head.
‘Actually,’ she said. ‘Turning off my social media . . . it really helped.’
‘Did it?’ Anita brightened.
‘Yup. And so did you telling me to go over it in my head.’
‘Did you?’
‘No, but I thought the idea was solid. So . . .’
Outside Anita’s door, a taxi honked its horn and her face fell.
‘Tell me quickly,’ said Lissa.
‘It’s quite strong,’ said Anita.
‘I don’t care. Call it efficient and I’ll give you a good feedback form.’
‘That would be good,’ said Anita, looking stressed.
There was a pause.
‘Okay,’ she said, then took a deep breath. ‘If you don’t go over this, right now, out loud, whether to me or somebody else, this is your last chance. Tomorrow you’ll be in the witness box. And the perpetrator is going to be staring straight at you. Possibly his mates will be there. Staring at you. Threatening you. I’m not trying to scare you, Lissa. But what if you freeze? Clam up?’
‘Oh, actually this is quite harsh,’ said Lissa. The honking grew louder. Anita paused.
‘I won’t freeze,’ said Lissa suddenly.
‘You might.’
Lissa blinked back tears. Suddenly the day outside the window didn’t look soft and welcoming: it looked ominous and oppressive.
‘And I have to warn you: you could cause a mistrial. Or let the offender go free. If you can’t explain clearly what you saw.’
Lissa could barely speak; the lump in her throat was huge.
Upstairs, Anita’s children were yelling their heads off. Anita leaned forward.
‘Lissa. I have black sons. One day you might too. The streets of the city have to be safe for them. You know that. You kno
w that, right?’
And her voice was intense and serious and not at all distracted. All Lissa could do was back away from her gaze, nodding slowly. The taxi honked for the last time and Anita straightened up.
‘And now I have to go,’ she said, and Lissa simply nodded.
There was another honking sound, and Lissa belatedly realised it was her own cab. Her heart was racing. She knew Anita was right. She knew. But suddenly it seemed harder than ever.
Chapter Twenty-one
I won’t know what you look like.
Lissa was messaging Cormac in her anxiety. They hadn’t been communicating beyond the professional in the last week, mostly because both of them, without mentioning it, were extremely nervous. Lissa nearly wrote ‘It’s a blind date’ but managed to delete it just in time because it wasn’t a date – it was a meeting with someone she had been doing a job-swap with – and was professional if anything. Even though they had already discussed dates they’d had with other people. So. The fact that she hadn’t mentioned it to Kim-Ange had . . . nothing to do with anything.
Cormac also hadn’t mentioned their meeting to Kim-Ange. She would just make a big deal out of it. She and Piotr were madly in love and snogging up a storm at breakfast time every day and frankly making everyone a tiny bit sick, and nothing would make her happier to think of the two of them . . . going for lunch, no more no less, he told himself, nonetheless ironing his best shirt, a yellow check.
He glanced at her message, and sent:
I’ll recognise you. You’ll be the one loudly complaining about diabetic prescribing.
It just makes everything else more difficult.
And Cormac smiled at the bugbear that always amused him.
Roisin had told Lissa to look sensible in court, so she pulled her hair back into a tight bun that made her look more professional than the curls everywhere did, and put on a sleek houndstooth check skirt suit which she never really got a chance to wear. Paired with a blouse and some smart earrings her mother had sent her (as well as the suit), she looked surprisingly professional, particularly after having spent the last two months either in uniform or wrapped up in woolly jumpers and thick tights, even through the Highlands spring.