by Helen Grant
Then I looked up again and saw that Stephen was going to cry. I could see it in his face. He started to say, “I’m sorry,” and he choked on the words.
It was a long time since I had seen my brother cry. I cried often, partly because it usually defused whatever trouble I was in, but I had not seen Stephen cry since before he turned fifteen the previous year. I was horrified, and that made me reckless.
“He’s said sorry,” I burst out. It came out more loudly than I expected. My father stopped speaking. Everyone looked at me.
“Be quiet, Fenella,” said my mother.
I looked at her and then at my father. “No. He’s said sorry. Stop telling him off.”
“Silence.” My mother was turning pink in the face.
“No.”
“What?” said my father incredulously.
“No.” I was hot with terror at my own boldness, but I was committed now. “You’re being mean.”
“Fenella–” began my mother, but there was no stopping me.
“He said he was sorry, so you should leave him alone. Stop telling him off.” I was breathing very quickly now and I was near to tears myself. “And let him have his dinner. It’s cruel to starve somebody.”
“It’s alright, Fen,” said Stephen quickly. “I’m okay.”
“It’s not alright,” I insisted.
“How dare you?” said my mother.
“You’re not being fair,” I said. Now I really was crying. “If you want him to pass his exams he has to do his homework, and how can he do it if he hasn’t had any dinner?”
“Very well.” There was a scraping sound as my mother pushed back her chair and stood up. When she leaned over me, I flinched back, but she didn’t lay a hand on me. She picked up my dinner plate with both hands, and then she walked right around the table to where my brother sat, picked up his knife and scraped the whole lot onto his plate. “There.” She came back round to my side, and slid the empty plate in front of me. Then she went back to her own place and sat down.
For a moment there was silence except for my own muffled sobs. Then my mother picked up her cutlery and began to cut up one of her own slices of lamb with quick, abrupt movements, as though it were a live thing she was trying to finish off. She glanced at Stephen. “Eat.”
Stephen looked down at the tumbled mess of food on his plate. A globule of gravy was suspended on the rim of it; as I watched, it oozed languorously onto the table top.
“You heard your mother,” said my father. “Eat.”
“But...” Stephen began, but his voice trailed off. We looked at each other, and I could see the indecision in his eyes. I think neither of us could imagine what would happen if he refused to eat. Would my mother get up again and scrape the food back onto my plate? I could not face such a terrifying farce. Hungry though I was, I didn’t think I could eat that scrambled pile of food any more.
Inevitably, Stephen caved in. “I’m sorry, Fen,” he said in a low voice as he picked up his fork.
My father’s fist came down on the table top with a thump that made the cutlery jump on the polished surface. He didn’t need to say anything. He simply glared until Stephen put the first forkful into his mouth.
I heard the muffled choking sounds my brother was making and knew that he was crying. My fifteen-year-old brother, three years older than me, was crying. I curled my own hands into tight fists under the table. I didn’t look at Stephen. Instead I looked at my plate. It was empty except for a few unappetising streaks of gravy where the food had slid off it.
I made up my mind there and then that I wouldn’t sit there until the coffee had been drunk at the end of the meal. I was in trouble already, right up to my neck, and now I became actually reckless.
My mother saw what I was about. “Sit down, Fenella,” she snapped, before I was even properly out of my chair.
I didn’t obey. The legs of the chair screamed on the floorboards as I pushed it back. “I’m going to my room,” I said.
“Sit down.”
“No,” I said. “I’ve got nothing to eat now anyway.” I snatched up the plate to show her. It was slick with gravy; some of it had somehow got underneath the plate too. It slipped from my fingers, dropped to the floor and broke into three large pieces.
For several moments I simply stared at the fragments. I was afraid of what I had done. I knew it was no use saying I hadn’t meant to do it; I had done it, and it would be taken as deliberate misbehaviour. It passed through my head that I could bolt for the door and run upstairs to my room before anyone could stop me, but it was already too late. My mother was on her feet again. She grasped me by the upper arm, her fingers digging into the flesh. Then she dragged me to the door. Her strength seemed superhuman; there was no fighting against it. When we got to the doorway she hurled me out of the room with such force that I fell against the wall on the opposite side of the hallway. My head came into contact with the oak console table that stood there, and for several seconds I was dizzy with pain. Then I heard the dining room door slam shut, and the sound of my mother’s footsteps on the boards on the other side as she stalked back to her seat.
My head ringing, I did not trust myself to stand up immediately. Instead I crawled as slowly and quietly as I could to the dining room door and pressed my ear to the panel. What was happening to Stephen?
I could not hear a sound from him. I supposed he was forcing down the slices of lamb and the mushed-up remains of the potatoes and vegetables. I heard a brief exchange between my parents; the actual words were muted by the door but the terseness smacked of self-righteousness. Justice had been served, at least for the time being, but I was sure there would be more of it later.
My head ached. I knew I should get up and hide myself upstairs before the meal was over. If I got up now, I would have time to go into the kitchen and take some biscuits or a slice of bread up with me to stave off the hunger pangs. Still I huddled there against the door a little longer, and soon I heard my father begin to speak again. His voice rose and fell with studied skill. I knew that he was pointing out my brother’s deficiencies to him in exquisite and pitiless detail. It went on and on, until I crept away to my room.
I was angry with my parents, but I was indignant with Stephen then too. Why didn’t he stick up for himself – or for me? It was no use saying Sorry, Fen. I didn’t see then how crushed he was. I didn’t know that some things, once broken, can never be mended.
Chapter Fourteen
It is evening, and we are walking up through the town towards a pub that promises traditional live music; that’s something else we have to organise for the wedding, so I suppose it counts as research. It has finally stopped raining after a downpour that lasted two days and we are both grateful for a reason to go out. Even in the town, things have a wet, bedraggled look: water runs down the gutters and into the drains with a gentle gurgling sound, carrying leaves and litter with it, and the streetlights are reflected in the glossy wet pavements. I glance back, and beyond the limits of the town I see the dark bulk of the hills, a few lights faintly visible on their lower slopes.
The pub door is closed, keeping the heat in, but as soon as we push it open we can hear the buzz of voices. It’s warm and well lit and already I can feel my spirits rise. I look up at James and smile.
He smiles back, pleased to see my low mood evaporating. “Let’s get a taxi back,” he says. “Then we can both have something.”
“I don’t think there are any taxis,” I say. I haven’t seen a taxi rank anywhere in the darkened town.
“So let’s walk.”
“It’s miles, James!”
“Good thing you’ve got boots on, then. What are you having?”
I give up. “Gin. We’ll probably regret this.”
“Probably,” he agrees, cheerfully.
The bar is crowded and as we edge our way sideways through the packe
d bodies I cannot see anywhere to sit. James squeezes in between two other people to order the drinks while I wait, surrounded by strangers engrossed in their own conversations. I’ve barely spoken to anyone in the town before, so I’m taken by surprise when my own name rises above the hubbub. I turn, and there is Seonaid McBryde, vivid in jeans and an emerald green top that sets off her mass of auburn hair.
“It is you,” she says. Then she looks past me and says, “And is that–?”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s James.”
“Oh my God!” she says, all agog. “You have to introduce us! I mean, as long as you weren’t planning on a quiet evening together or anything.”
“In here?” I say, raising my eyebrows.
She laughs. “I suppose not. But honestly, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
I’d have to be quite hard-hearted not to, considering the star-struck expression on her face. So when James pushes his way back through the press of people with a gin for me and a whisky for himself, I say, “James, this is Seonaid McBryde. She runs the wedding shop in the town.”
“Can I just say...” begins Seonaid.
...how much I loved The Unrepentant Dead, I think, amused.
“...how much I loved The Unrepentant Dead,” says Seonaid, who has gone a little pink in the face. “It’s one of my favourite books.” She has actually clasped her hands together, like a Victorian lady about to swoon.
“There are so many things I want to ask you about it. Please, please come and sit with us.”
This is an offer we can’t refuse, mainly because there won’t be anywhere to sit unless someone makes space for us. So we follow Seonaid to the far corner of the room, where an improbably large number of people are crowded round a single table covered in glasses. Two stools materialise as if by magic.
“This is James Sinclair,” Seonaid announces. “He’s a famous author.” Then she remembers me. “And this is Fen. She’s going to marry him.”
This piece of news provokes a small and slightly inebriated cheer. We sit, and I smile into my gin while James good-naturedly fends off all the usual questions, both the regular ones – where do you get your ideas? how long does it take you to write a book? – and the completely unanswerable ones like: have I heard of you? and, would I like your work? Someone goes up to the bar for more drinks – I get another gin, without asking – and after what seems like a very short time, someone else goes for another round. It is very warm in here and already James is in his shirt-sleeves. I am nursing my coat on my lap because if I put it down anywhere I can’t imagine ever being able to find it again. The gin is burning a warm trail down my throat.
There’s not much chance of my talking to James because he has been appropriated by half a dozen other people. But there’s a friend of Seonaid’s – Holly – who’s dying to ask me about the wedding.
“Where are you having it?” she says, and I have to admit that we haven’t decided – either where we’ll have the ceremony, or the reception venue. I can almost see her and Seonaid rolling up their sleeves.
They have an argument about the big Victorian hotel in the town – Holly says it’s the best place for a reception if you’re inviting loads of people; Seonaid says it’s “too obvious”.
“Fen’s looking for something a bit different,” she announces, and I wonder if she’s going to bring up the subject of the lavender dress, but she doesn’t. Instead, the pair of them start brainstorming the most unusual places they can think of for a wedding ceremony: a ruined castle, or a handfasting by a Pictish stone. When Holly suggests a boat in the middle of the river Tay, I feel I have to cut in.
“I was thinking of something more traditional than that.”
Their faces fall, but then Holly says, “I know exactly the place.” She tells me about a mediaeval chapel out in the middle of the countryside, with views of the distant mountains. It does sound interesting, so I get her to give me directions, wondering whether I will remember them in the morning after all this gin.
Meanwhile, James is just in the middle of explaining that he got the idea for The Unrepentant Dead from a conversation in a bar some distance north of here when a long wavering note, the sound of a violin being tuned up, drowns conversation out. The musicians have arrived, though I can’t think where the bar staff have put them. The next moment they launch into what sounds like a very energetic reel, though there isn’t anywhere to dance. After that there’s no point in trying to say anything, not even honestly, I really can’t when yet another drink appears in front of me. Seonaid digs me in the ribs and I look at her – we laugh at each other and I pick the glass up, knowing this is going to mean a headache for sure in the morning but not really minding.
After the reel we have a couple of modern folk songs I don’t recognise, and then Loch Lomond followed by The Skye Boat Song. By this time, we are all in a pleasant haze of warmth and bonhomie. People are clapping and singing along, James included. So it’s a surprise when the next song strikes up and there’s a noticeable drop in the sound levels. At first I think they’re all just trying to listen, because this one is a ballad – it’s slower and softer, almost melancholy. I pick out fragments of the words: dark, dark the night... she will come back to you...and something that sounds like she’ll put ye on like a suit of clothes, though perhaps I have misheard that because it doesn’t make any sense. I look from face to face and see that the grins have been wiped right off them. Some look neutral, some downright stony. Nobody likes this song, for some reason. A few heads shake. And Seonaid gives me a sidelong glance.
It’s a wary glance, the sort of glance you give someone if you know someone else has said something potentially offensive in front of them. In spite of all the empty glasses crowded onto the table top, she’s not so drunk that she doesn’t notice me react. She looks down, quickly, and then away.
At that moment, the band launch into the chorus and I know why.
Lavender lady, lavender lady...
There’s a buzz of conversation and the rest of the words are drowned out. It feels as though people are purposely talking over the song.
I guess the musicians have got the message, too: they hurry through the rest of the chorus and then stop abruptly. There is very little applause this time. It’s a relief when they launch into a raucous-sounding reel. After that, we get A Red, Red Rose. By the time they have started on a cover of Caledonia, any awkwardness has been forgotten – well, everyone else seems to have forgotten it, anyway.
I shoot a look at James. He isn’t looking my way. He’s doing his best to listen to the band while the man on the other side of him explains something at great and rather drunken length. I turn to Seonaid.
“Seonaid, that song–”
“What song?” she says, but I can see from her expression that she knows exactly which one I mean.
“The lavender lady song. Is that why lavender is unlucky?”
“I suppose,” she says reluctantly.
“What does it mean, she’ll put ye on like a suit of clothes?”
She shrugs uneasily. “I don’t know.” Her pale skin is flushed. We’ve all had far too much to drink and I don’t think she’s capable of lying about anything.
“But the song is about a lady who dresses in lavender?”
She nods. “The song is from here,” she says. “The band aren’t, though. That’s why they didn’t know not to play it.”
“But why don’t people like it?”
“They just don’t. It’s bad luck. I guess...”
“Yes?” I say, expectantly.
“It’s old. Stuff that happened a long time ago. People have forgotten.”
And that’s all I can get out of her. I try asking Holly, but she knows even less than Seonaid does. The band are finishing their last song. Shortly after that, Seonaid is on her feet, shrugging on her jacket, and people are looking for their c
oats and bags, and a few minutes later we are out on the street.
I was right about the taxis; there aren’t any. I have a ridesharing app on my phone and that says the nearest one is Edinburgh.
“Looks like a walk,” says James, peering over my shoulder. “It’s only three miles.”
“Three and a half,” I say, faintly.
“At least it’s not raining any more.”
That’s true, but there’s still a damp chill in the air. It’s remarkable how quickly everyone has dispersed, now that the pub is closed. As we walk down the hill, I see someone far ahead, turning off into another street, but otherwise the place has rapidly become deserted. There is no-one to cadge a lift from. The pavements are still shiny but without the sound of falling rain we can hear our footsteps echoing. We stop at the car so that James can get the torch out of the glove box, and when he shuts the door the sound is incredibly loud in the silence.
“This is nice,” I say, shivering.
James laughs briefly, but the cold night air and the quiet have a dampening effect, even on his good humour. He takes my hand, and we set off. The dark shops and cafes are soon left behind. We pass houses, most dark, a few with lights on, and then the park. The gates are closed. Beyond the railings I can dimly make out trees and bushes and the faint metallic gleam of the children’s play apparatus. The road snakes on. This feels a lot further than I thought. We come to the smaller gate that marks the other end of the park, and here the street lamps run out. For a moment we pause there, under the last light, and contemplate the blackness ahead.
James takes the torch out of his pocket and switches it on. The effect is not what we would have hoped. Shone directly on the ground, it would help you to avoid stepping on anything, but that’s about it. If you direct it ahead, the beam dissolves into the impenetrable dark. I wonder whether it is actually possible to walk several miles in this without falling into a ditch or something. The warm haze of gin has evaporated completely. I hold onto James’s arm.