Redemption Road

by Lisa Ballantyne

  ‘I had a meeting.’

  ‘You always have a meeting.’

  Margaret put a hand over her face. The realisation was blinding, sudden.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his wild, scarred face lifting up from the pillow. ‘I was following you but I meant you no harm. I only wanted to be near you. It was all I ever wanted. I didn’t want to frighten you – but I knew if I had introduced myself you would have been… The sight of me – I terrify everyone. But then you were in danger and I had to protect you…’

  The curtains surrounding the adjacent bed sounded against the rail as the nurse dragged them open. The woman who had been vomiting was pale and impassive, raised up on three pillows. The nurse, a short woman with large hips and chest, pressed her lips together in apology as she carried two cardboard bowls of vomit out of the warm ward.

  ‘It’s really you?’ Margaret whispered.

  ‘Hold my hand.’

  She took his hand with her left, then with her right touched the skin of his chest, just above where his heart should be. ‘My name. It’s gone.’

  ‘Your name was gone and you were gone. It broke my heart. I let you down.’

  Margaret felt a fist of pain in her stomach. Tears blurred her eyesight. ‘You didn’t let me down.’

  ‘If you look closely,’ said Maxwell, wiping a hand over his scarred chest, ‘you can still see a bit of the red ink. You can see part of the letter M.’

  He struggled to raise his head off the pillow, his neck wrinkling as he looked down at his chest. She followed his gaze and sure enough there was a red line with a tail that had once been part of her name. She palmed a tear from her cheek.

  ‘Your eyes,’ he said, gazing at her. ‘They fixed your eyes. They’re beautiful, but they were always beautiful.’

  ‘And I remember you were so handsome.’

  His face stretched into a smile. ‘Aye, I was not bad at all.’

  ‘Why did you take me?’ said Margaret, leaning forward and swallowing as she waited on his reply. He looked away from her, at a point in the distance.

  ‘I’ve had a long, long time to think about what happened – nearly thirty years to wonder what on earth I thought I was doing. I’ve gone over it in my mind a million times.’ He turned to meet her eye. ‘What can I say? I was young and stupid. I only knew that I loved you from the first moment I saw you, and your mother… I loved her too, you know.’

  Margaret pressed her lips together as she listened, a pain in her throat.

  ‘I didn’t mean to take you. It all happened so fast. You were crying and I was trying to get out of town and then that was it; we were on our own, on the run together.’

  ‘But why come for me then? Why didn’t you want me when I was a baby?’

  ‘Want you? You were all I wanted, but your mother didn’t want me. I couldn’t blame her either and you had a good life. That old man she married, did he love you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Margaret whispered.

  ‘And who wouldn’t. It’s hard to say this, after all that happened – not just getting burned, but how lonely I’ve been these last years – but if I had to go back, I might do it all over again. It was the wrong thing to do, but even after all that happened, I might just do it all again… just for that time with you. That time with you… I have no regrets.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I just… I can’t…’

  She got up, leaving her coat and bag by Maxwell’s bedside, and ran out of the ward. She made it to the elevators before she had to throw up into a metal-lidded waste bin.

  When she finished, she wiped her mouth and eyes with the back of her hand, then walked down the rubber-floored hall. She took the stairs instead of the lift, walking as fast as she could, thinking only of the cool winter air that would absolve her.

  As she descended the stairs, her mind was a kaleidoscope of images, smells and sounds from her childhood. Her throat hurt and her legs felt weak, but with each step she took she remembered more.

  She remembered the warmth of her mother’s hand one morning, and the smell of her towelling dressing gown as she hugged her before she set off to school. She remembered her black patent shoes with the single buckle and the rattle of her pencils in her school satchel. She remembered the too-green grass of the park near their home. She remembered running so hard that it felt as if her lungs would burst, and hearing his weight thundering behind her, like a racehorse. She remembered skinned knees and classmates taunting her. She remembered returning home, thinner and taller than she had been when she left, and the strange way that her father embraced her, awkward and unloving, as if she had done something wrong. She remembered hospital curtain hooks sounding against the metal rail and having to spread her legs wide. She remembered her mother shaking her, as if to jolt the words from inside her, when the only words she now knew were fire, burning and death.

  Outside, the winter air was a relief. She unbuttoned her shirt and put a hand to her throat, feeling it wet with sweat. There were smokers at the hospital entrance and she moved away from them. Her eyes hurt and she saw white spots. She put her hands on her knees and bent over, thinking she might faint, taking deep breaths, as if recovering from a run. After a few seconds she felt better.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder and a pair of battered, red All Star baseball boots appeared next to her feet.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  It was Ben, and the sight of him was blissful, a relief hard as the sea. She folded into him, pressing herself against him and reaching up his back for his shoulder blades. She cried silently, and he squeezed her tight, as if he had forgiven her.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Ben, taking her by the shoulders and holding her far enough away from him so that he could look into her face. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I…’

  ‘You’re here to see this burned guy who helped you?’

  She nodded, catching her breath.

  ‘I wish you hadn’t run out like that. Anything could’ve happened. I was worried sick.’

  ‘I’m sorry…’ The tears in her throat made it hard for her to speak.

  ‘What happened? Did he… die?’

  ‘I thought he had,’ said Margaret, her teeth suddenly chattering. ‘But he’d been moved. He’s awake and… you remember the number in his wallet? He’s been… following me and I know him and —’

  ‘Slow down,’ said Ben, taking off his jacket and putting it over her shoulders. ‘What do you mean, he’s been following you?’

  There was a fine silt of rain in the air and Margaret felt it dampening her hair.

  ‘Where are the children?’ she asked.

  ‘Your dad’s watching them. I knew you’d come here. I got a taxi. I was worried you’d crash again.’

  Margaret smiled as tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, looking at the night and the drizzling rain and the far-off oily streetlamps. She took his hand and squeezed it as she sat down on a bollard next to one of the disabled parking spaces. ‘You’ll get a medal for this last month. Husband of the Year badge or something…’ She tried to smile.

  Ben crouched down beside her and took her hands into his. His face was full of concern. ‘Your dad and I had a chat… Over dinner, I had no idea what that was all about, and he told me some things. Not the whole story of course. When you’re ready…’

  She nodded and got to her feet. The rain was becoming heavier. Their hands hung at their sides, fingers interlaced, foreheads touching.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered again, into his neck.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ Ben said, running two hands down her arms.

  ‘Not yet,’ Margaret said, straightening, wiping her face with her palms and smoothing her hair, tucking it behind her ears. ‘Do something for me. I want you to meet him.’

  He frowned, hunched, looking down at her. ‘Mags…’

  ‘I need you to meet him,’ she said, washing two hands over her face. ‘Please.’


  ‘Sweetheart, we shouldn’t leave your dad with the kids…’

  ‘I know, but I need you to meet this man.’ She folded her arms, nodding. She was still trying not to cry and despite Ben’s jacket she was still shivering. The shoulders of Ben’s shirt were wet with rain. A raindrop flashed from the hair that hung over his forehead.

  Ben took a deep breath and looked away, as if preparing to disagree with her. She reached out and took his hand. ‘If you want to know what happened back then, then you have to come and meet this man.’

  Ben turned to her. ‘What’s he got to do with that?’

  Margaret took a deep breath and looked up at her husband.

  ‘He’s my father.’

  32

  Big George

  Thursday 10 October, 1985

  The exhaust of the old camper van was roaring by the time they drove into Penzance and George knew that he would soon have to patch the hole. He lay on the ground and shimmied underneath to inspect it. The hole was the size of a halfpenny piece.

  The engine was overheating. The temperature gauge on the dashboard had been almost into the red and he had opened up the back of the van to look at it. He had waited for the engine to cool, but still singed the knuckle of his forefinger brushing against it when he added water. He inspected again a loose wire that he had found when they were in Stoke. He wondered what Tam would have made of it.

  The old van had slowed them down, but arrival had filled George with elation and he decided to drive on while he could. There would be time to look at the engine when they found the cottage. It was a fine October day. The sky was blue and blown with thin clouds. The wind was up, and it buffeted the sides of the van as they pulled into town. Everything was so much more beautiful than George had imagined it. After Glasgow, the buildings seemed tiny and clean. He rolled down the window and took a deep breath.

  ‘Do you smell that, Moll, can you taste it?’

  Moll shook her head, taking deep breaths with her mouth open.

  ‘It’s the smell of the sea. Isn’t that grand?’

  Moll rolled her window down and knelt with her head outside, and her tongue sticking out as they drove slowly along Alverton Road.

  ‘What are you doing, ya daftie?’

  ‘Trying to taste it.’

  George found a parking space and told her to wait in the van. He bought her an ice cream with raspberry sauce and a Flake and a packet of cigarettes for himself.

  ‘Here,’ he said, climbing into the van and handing it to her, licking the ice cream that had melted down his wrist while he waited on his change. ‘This is our celebration. We made it. One end of the country to the other. The longest adventure ever.’

  Moll sat concentrating on the ice cream as he drove, yet he noticed that every time he went over a bump in the road or turned a corner she got ice cream on her nose or her cheek. He smiled and sat back in his seat, lit a cigarette, wondering if now he would be able to be happy.

  She turned to him, her face a palette of white ice cream and pink sauce. ‘Now that our adventure’s over, will I go home?’

  He ran a hand through his hair, keeping his eyes on the road. ‘Well, I didn’t say the adventure was over. We need to find our dream home first. We need our perfect cottage. I bet once I find it…’

  ‘But can I call my mummy at least?’

  ‘I’ll let you do whatever you want, button, but we need to get set up first, remember? We need to get sorted. We’ve only just got here. Once we’re sorted, if you still want to leave me, I can let you go.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave you,’ she said, crunching the wafer of her ice cream, ‘but I want to see my mum too. I could see you sometimes and my mum and dad the rest.’

  George winced at the sunshine that split through the windscreen. He bit his thumbnail, and then put a cigarette between his lips. ‘Not sure how that would work, button,’ he said, biting on the cigarette to light it and exhaling through his open window. ‘I think it’s going to have to be one thing or the other. Like a lot of things in life – you have to choose.’

  He glanced at her, and she was looking at him, wide-eyed, her face covered in ice cream. He pulled over. He didn’t have a tissue so instead used the inside of his T-shirt to wipe her face and hands.

  ‘You have a hairy belly,’ she said.

  He laughed down his nose at her, but he was cleaving inside, wondering what he would do if she refused to stay with him. He remembered the scratch of the tattoo needle over his heart and the warmth of his own blood that had flowed down to his nipple.

  It was too soon, but he knew that he would have to let her go, if that was what she wanted.

  ‘I choose you for now,’ she said, licking her lips, as if she could tell what he was thinking.

  ‘That’s good enough for me.’

  They left town and headed along the coast, where fields were expansive and green with patches of burned heather near the cliffs. The sea was wild and the cliff edge rose higher as they drove along the road towards Land’s End. George drove through a village called Mousehole and parked for a while near the circular harbour, so that they could look at the floating, moored fishing boats and yachts and see the waves crash against the breakwaters.

  He took out his map and tried to work out where his mother’s cottage was.

  He indulged himself as he drove, dreaming about what it would look like, and how they would live there. He would find her a school and would collect her each day. And they would be happy.

  They drove on, with the windows down and the volume turned up on the stereo, looking out at the wild navy-blue sea. Brotherhood of Man came on the radio, and she knew it well, and together they sang ‘Save Your Kisses for Me’ at the top of their voices, ‘kisses for me, save all your kisses for me’ – George banging on the steering wheel and Moll kneeling on the seat slapping her small palms on the dashboard.

  They sang so loud and so hard that George’s throat hurt when they finished. They had been following the coastal road, driving slowly at forty miles an hour, farmers ploughing fields on one side and the deafening crash of waves on the other. Despite the speed they were travelling, the van was still buffeted on its left side and George felt the gale’s power in the steering wheel.

  The wind was blowing in from the sea, so there was no danger, although the cliff side was becoming perilously high. The tide was in and Moll sat with her nose pressed to the side window, looking down at the ocean as it swirled, gutting the cliff sides with spectacular sprays of surf.

  There were few cars on the road, but when the wind altered George’s steering again, he glanced in the mirror and noticed that an old brown Ford had been behind them for a while, despite their ice-cream stops and other wanderings.

  The road curved up ahead and there was a passing space by the cliff edge. George indicated and pulled over, then sat, hands on the wheel, watching as the Ford slowed down, then accelerated to pass. George peered out of his window as the car went by, wanting a look at the driver’s face, but the driver was holding a map by the side of his face.

  George got out of the car and slid another cigarette from the pack. He cupped his hand against the wind and lit up, watching as the Ford slowed but then drove around the corner and disappeared behind the field ahead. Moll tried to get out of the door but he raised his hand to stop her.

  ‘Wait a moment, poppet.’

  When the brown Ford was out of sight, George opened the door for her. They stood near the edge together, hand in hand, watching the waves break far out at sea and then lap and crash against the shingle below: breaking on overhanging rock, then silently absolving the sheltered bays.