The sound of the organ has already begun to ring out from inside the hall. It plays louder as Malik pushes on the door, holds it open for me. Thankfully, Boo does not wake. I slip through the doorway and into a pew at the back of the small church, watch Malik as he closes the door quietly, and I glow with warmth as he offers me another wordless smile before sitting down beside me. I slide the coat from my shoulders, brush the windswept hair from my eyes.
Most of the pews are filled with people, old and young; I can see the back of Neil’s head, beside Alastair’s, a few rows in front. Only Malik and I have taken a seat on the bench at the back. Alone together, so it seems. I revel in the heat of him beside me, so welcome after the wind’s cold breath. He has pulled off his jumper, rolled up his shirt sleeves. He slides his hands inquisitively over the leather cover of the hymnbook that he has picked up from the pew, and I imagine tracing my fingers along the black lines inked into his forearms, following their pattern over his dark skin. The heat of the full room rushes to my head.
Inappropriate thoughts, and in a church of all places; inappropriate thoughts in which I long to lose myself, in these glorious moments while my daughter sleeps and I remember that I am so much more than just a mother. My own mother would talk of sin if she were here now, placed between me and this man whom I hardly know.
Try as I might to alter the course of my thoughts, I am acutely aware of his still, calm presence throughout the service. After the final hymn and prayer – during which Malik remains silent and I, consumed by sinful thoughts, only mouth the words with little thought – a tea trolley is wheeled up the aisle. Feet move, clothes rustle, and conversations begin. I look up as Neil appears beside the pew. He blows out an exaggerated sigh from between his lips, slumping his shoulders forwards, though I can tell from the glint behind his glasses that this is largely for show.
‘Might as well stay for a cuppa,’ he says, ‘since we’re here.’
Alastair strolls up behind him, and with a slight incline of his grey-bearded head, motions for Malik to accompany him. I rise to my feet along with Malik, and watch them slip away into the gathering. Both few of words, I think – they seem to get along so well.
Boo is still sleeping soundly in the pram: I inch open the door, as quietly as I can, to check. The coldness of maternal guilt spreads through my warmed body as I realise that I had not given one thought to my daughter during the service, as I sat beside Malik. The pram could have blown away and I would not have known. I cannot be anything more than a mother – just a mother. My heart sinks with the knowledge that Malik, too, must see me in this way. He is fond of Boo – that I can see – and I am simply the one who loves and cares for her.
My feet drag a little as I walk back inside the church hall. Neil pours us both some tea as I return, snatches a handful of chocolate biscuits.
‘So I’ll tell people she’s my daughter, shall I?’ he says casually, his mouth full of crumbs. ‘And you’re my fiancée, only we can’t afford to get married just yet. And we’re going to have two children – a boy next, of course. And we attend church every single Sunday without fail, always have done. Perhaps if we tell them that, they’ll overlook the sex-outside-of-marriage thing.’
I try not to smile. ‘I think we’ll tie ourselves in knots with all that pretence.’
Neil shrugs. ‘Or perhaps you could say that your “fiancé” is in the army, currently deployed somewhere in Russia. Missing in action, even. Or a prisoner of war.’
I accept as he offers me another biscuit.
‘And you?’
He thinks for a moment, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
‘I could be your half-brother, a worn-down banker from the city looking for a more fulfilling way of life up in the Wild North.’
‘You’ll be needing a haircut for that to stand,’ I say, brushing a lock of hair from his shoulder.
He grins. ‘But what about Malik?’ he furrows his brows, as though this story of pretence is a particularly difficult one to conjure.
I run my eyes over the room’s occupants. It is not difficult to spot Malik: black hair quite unlike anyone else’s, skin so many shades darker. He appears to be in conversation with a middle-aged, smartly dressed man, oblivious to the many curious glances that are thrown in his direction. Alastair stands by, nursing a cup of tea, following the discussion with his kind, dark eyes. Occasionally he exchanges a few words with the man, nodding his head, looking to Malik. I get the impression that the other man is acting as an interpreter.
‘We could say Malik is a foreign dignitary on a cultural exchange visit to Shetland?’ I suggest.
Neil snorts. ‘Dressed like that?’ He watches the animated conversation for a moment longer. ‘What do you think they could be talking about?’
My curiosity is awakened, but I do not get the chance to voice my wandering thoughts for Jeanie appears by my side, takes my arm, and leads me to awkward greetings with friendly-looking neighbours.
◆◆◆
Malik says nothing about his conversation with the man in the church. Yet I can see that he is not deliberately secretive, only quiet as usual; hesitant, perhaps, with his use of English.
We sit around the fire as the sky drips with darkness, stomachs full from Sunday dinner; on this a day of rest. Coffee brews in the pot. Alastair disappears from the room and returns with a bottle of Scottish whisky and a jumble of crystal glasses. He pours a measure for himself and one for Neil, then holds up the bottle, offering it around the room. Jeanie and I decline – I have never liked whisky; besides, Boo is feeding intently at my breast.
‘Whisky, Malik?’ Alistair asks in his broad Shetland lilt. Malik shakes his head. ‘Just a wee dram?’
Malik shifts his knees in apparent discomfort at Alastair’s questioning, averts his eyes towards the fire beside which he is sitting, cross-legged on the rug before the hearth.
‘My mother drank, a lot,’ he says apologetically. ‘It killed her. Her brother, too.’
For a moment, no one speaks. Alastair nods in understanding, a gesture which Malik, returning him a meek smile, seems to appreciate.
Neil raises his glass, his cheeks pink and his eyes shining from below his mop of hair.
‘This is good stuff, Malik – medicinal. It will cure you rather than kill you.’
I glance over at Malik, fearing Neil may have caused offence. Untactful jokes are his speciality, after all. But Malik only smiles again, his shoulders relaxed once more and the warmth of the glowing fire illuminated in his eyes.
‘And it will help the baby sleep,’ Neil adds, sending a wink in my direction. I look down at Boo. Her eyelids are beginning to flutter with slumber.
I carry her carefully up to the bedroom and lay beside her on the bed. A quiet place: I hope that she will fall asleep for the night and I might return to the warmth of the fireside and the nervous comfort that I feel in Malik’s presence. Boo has just closed her eyes and slipped off the breast when I hear the click of the bathroom door, and moments later Neil’s head peers into the bedroom.
‘She asleep?’ he whispers. The dim light of the lamp reflects in his glasses, obscuring his eyes and making the sight of his disembodied head all the stranger.
I nod. I shift away from Boo, slide my feet off the bed and onto the floor, and begin to button up my blouse.
‘Something on your mind?’ He would have returned downstairs otherwise, waited for me there.
He slips into the room, twisting his fingers together in thought.
‘I want to help him, Martha,’ he says, his voice hushed as though he does not want those downstairs to hear what he has to say. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking about why I’m here, what my purpose is here. And I think that’s it: I am meant to help him, then everything else will become clear.’
I do not want to question his reasoning, bizarre as it seems to be; there is only one thing that is foremost in my mind.
‘What do you mean, help him?’ My heart begins to sink heavily as it occurs t
o me that I already know the answer to this question.
‘Help him to get to where he needs to go. You know –,’ He points a finger towards the ceiling. ‘– North. Like he said. I’m sure that’s what he must have been talking to that man about, in the church.’
My stomach twists with sudden nausea.
‘You want him to leave?’
Neil moves closer to me around the foot of the bed. ‘I don’t want to get rid of him, Martha, it’s just –.’
‘Then why do you have to interfere, Neil?’ I interject.
Neil stops in his tracks, looks at me through the interplay of light on the lenses of his spectacles.
‘You know he can’t stay here, Martha.’
‘Jeanie says he can stay as long as he wants,’ I contend. There is a shrillness to my half-whispered words that I do not like.
Neil shakes his head.
‘He has his own life. You know that. Maybe even his own family, I don’t know. But he is looking for something – somewhere. And we should help him.’
I do not know what to say. My throat appears to be closing up, choking me. I do not want him to leave. My feelings must be obvious, for Neil sighs, drops his shoulders.
‘Oh, Martha, you didn’t really think he would stay, did you – for you? The tall, dark stranger. Well, not tall, but…’
‘Don’t patronise me, Neil.’ I keep my voice steady this time, study the floorboards. Neil chews at his lower lip and for a moment or two neither of us speaks. Then he sighs again, heavily, pushing at the bridge of his glasses with one finger.
‘We should do what we can.’
I nod silently. I know that he is right.
7
The man from the church greets us warmly as he ushers us into his home, out of the wildness of the weather. He shakes Neil’s hand, then mine.
‘Jasper,’ he says. He ruffles Boo’s fine hair affectionately as she pulls off her damp woollen hat and throws it onto the floor. He welcomes Malik as he would an old friend, and at once they are talking together unintelligibly before Alastair is even through the door. Their conversation sounds different to Malik’s distinctive native tongue which I have heard him speak to Boo. Jasper notices me and Neil watching awkwardly, listening without understanding, unsure what to do or where to go in the narrowness of the hallway.
‘Your friend speaks very good Danish,’ he beams, his accent thick and slurred. ‘Come in, Alastair, my friend!’
We hop out of wet shoes, shuffle along the wall; through a doorway into the kitchen. Jasper’s wife receives me with a kiss on the cheek, makes a fuss over Boo, delivers something sweet into her little, fat hands and puts the kettle on the stove. We sit together, alone, at the kitchen table. She plies me with homemade scones and we talk together about our children – what else when we do not know each other?
It is warm and comfortable in her company and beside the heat of the stove, yet my body aches with an irritable restlessness. The others have vanished into Jasper’s study: the men discussing important worldly matters while the women make their tea, bounce the babies on their knees and keep their noses out of everything. That is the way I was brought up, after all, I think resentfully. I try my best to swallow my negative thoughts; try not to think about the inevitable fact that soon he will leave… Malik. The cake sticks in my throat.
I have just finished my tea when Neil pokes his head around the kitchen door. ‘Come and see, Martha.’
I leave Boo with Jasper’s wife, my daughter contentedly sucking on buttery scones, and follow Neil. The walls of Jasper’s study are lined with bookcases, each one packed with books; from battered leather-bound volumes to small, crisp paperbacks. There are maps tacked up onto the single bare wall, some annotated, some evidently mediaeval, showing a strange, illustrated view of the world and its continents. A historian, Jasper’s wife had told me of her husband. Semi-retired now.
The historian himself is intently scanning one of the bookcases as I enter, and does not look around. Neil ushers me over to an old wooden desk. I nearly trip over the typewriter and pile of books that have presumably been temporarily moved onto the carpet to make room for the large map that is spread across the surface and spills over the edges of the desk. Its two top corners are anchored to the desk by glass paperweights. Malik pours over it, moving his hands over the oceans and islands: Great Britain, Shetland, Iceland… He places his finger down, looks at me with bright eyes.
‘This is where I come from.’
I lean across the desk on my elbows, to see where his finger lies.
‘Who’d have thought it, eh?’ Neil pipes up from the other side of the desk: ‘Greenland! Didn’t think anyone lived there. I thought it was just ice.’
I glance up at him through the locks of my hair that have fallen out of place, sweeping the North Sea, but as usual it is difficult to discern whether he is being facetious.
‘North,’ I say quietly, turning my head to Malik. He is level with me, fingers still resting on the crass representation of his homeland. His eyes meet mine, so close that it feels as though we are sharing something secretive, and my stomach lurches. He is from a different world, a different time: there are so many questions that I long to ask him and yet I cannot find my tongue.
I am torn back to the here and now by Jasper’s sudden exclamation of triumph. Malik and I straighten up as he deposits an open book onto the desk and taps his finger against a printed monochrome photograph.
‘There he is.’
He draws back to allow Malik to see. I notice that there are creases at the corners of Malik’s eyes, the brightness vanished, a heavy thoughtfulness as he views the picture: three men standing side by side on an apparent sea of ice, dressed in bulky fur parkas, their feet and shins tied into large skin boots.
‘There who is?’ asks Neil, moving around the desk and craning his neck to see the point of interest, evidently not noticing Malik’s sudden detachment.
‘My father,’ Malik says flatly, his voice only just audible. He does not look up from the photograph.
Neil leans in closer and pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose so that he can better read the text that is written beneath: “Polar explorer, Charles Rasmus Stewart and companions Snorri Eggertsson and Robert ‘Birdie’ Smith, 1948.”
He snorts, mutters, ‘I see why they called him Birdie, that one. Well, well,’ he adds, straightening his back, ‘Our mysterious stranger has an origin.’
Malik does not smile, nor respond in any way – has eyes only for the photograph; I wonder if he has heard Neil’s meaningless remarks. I dare not ask if I can take a closer look, not just now.
‘Is that who you’re looking for, Malik?’ Neil continues: ‘Your father?’
Malik shakes his head.
‘He’s dead.’
‘Oh.’ Neil’s cheeks colour slightly in embarrassment. ‘Sorry, man. Sorry to hear that.’
‘I read it in the paper,’ Jasper offers by way of condolence. ‘A heart attack, was it? – very sudden, they said.’
‘He killed himself.’ Malik says it matter-of-factly, without looking up. An awkward silence descends in the room and reigns for some moments.
‘Who is this, Jasper?’ Malik points to one of the other monochrome men, further ignoring the topic that has just been uncomfortably broached.
Jasper moves in to take Neil’s place.
‘Snorri something. Let’s see, what was he called… yes, Snorri Eggertsson. An Icelander.’ He straightens up, rubs the backs of his hands, one after the other. ‘I think I might be able to get hold of his address, if that would help you? I have contacts at the Polar Research Institute in Cambridge.’
Malik looks up at him with an intensity that unsettles me. There is a singlemindedness to his gaze, an indication that he has already forgotten everything around him. He answers Jasper in Danish.
I do not feel right being in this room; it is not my place. My throat is tight, the bookcases are imposing, closing over my head. I am dizzy fr
om an unexplained heat. I slip out into the hallway, through the front door and gently close it behind me. I stand on the doorstep, spattered by drizzle, rushed at by the wind. Gradually, the heaviness lifts from my chest.
The bay is spread out below me under low cloud, drenched in water – the sea smudged by the wind into indistinct, murky colours. It could be one of Malik’s watercolours, I think to myself.
My chest hurts.
I start as I hear the sound of footsteps at my back. Malik slips through the half-open door, apparently not wanting to let rain into the house, and gently pulls it to behind him.
‘Are you all right, Martha?’
I nod wordlessly. The loose hair around my face blows across my eyes in damp streams. I tuck the flyaway locks behind my ear. I will not, cannot bring my eyes to meet his: I fear I may say something, do something that might give away my feelings.
‘I’d better go see to the baby,’ I mutter, and step towards the door, my movements awkward and self-conscious. My arm brushes against Malik’s as I pass, and he lays his hand against the sleeve of my jumper – the wool decorated with droplets of rain – as if to stop me. My gaze slides up to his, momentarily.
‘She’s all right, Martha.’
But I cannot stay out here, with him. I wrench open the door with shaking hands, swallowing unshed tears, and return to my daughter.
◆◆◆
I hear Neil’s words on repeat inside my head, a looped tape that I cannot switch off: we should do what we can to help him.
One morning, the following week, I bundle Boo into the over-large pram, swathed in all her blankets and woollen layers – as is now customary for her mid-morning nap – and set off with a pounding heart down the lane. I catch sight of the distant figures of Alastair and Malik in one of the sheep fields, and involuntarily I glance down at the basket beneath the pram to make sure that the envelope containing Malik’s paintings is still there. My breath catches in my throat. I will make sure to replace them before he returns from the fields, before he notices that they are missing.
The Seagulls Laughter Page 19