‘Would you think it absolutely appalling if I asked you to sleep with me... but not make love?’
‘No. I wouldn’t.’
‘I mean, I don’t even want to try. I just want to... sleep with you. Wake up and not be alone.’
‘Aye... That would be nice.’ He releases her and stares into her eyes. ‘You’re sure now?’ She nods. He stands awkwardly at the side of the bed. ‘I expect you’d prefer me to keep my clothes on?’
‘Well, not all of them. Hang on a minute.’ Rose leans over to the far side of the bed and pulls open a drawer. ‘There are some men’s pyjamas in here somewhere.’ She looks up at him quickly. ‘Oh, they’re not Gavin’s! I bought them for the fabric - 1930s silk - but really they’re too good to cut up and they’re much too big for me to wear. They’ll probably fit you. Here, try them on.’ Calum takes the bundle of paisley silk. ‘There’s some spare toothbrushes in the bathroom cabinet.’
‘Thanks.’
After a few minutes he returns from the bathroom clad in pyjamas, his clothes folded neatly in a pile. Rose smiles at him. ‘You look nervous.’
‘I am.’
‘Don’t be. I know what I’m asking is bloody impossible.’
‘Not impossible - but hard.’ He smiles. ‘Och, maybe difficult’s a better word under the circumstances.’
She pulls back the bedclothes. ‘Shut up and get into bed.’
They lie on their sides, facing each other, not touching.
Calum speaks first. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Better... Safe. Yes, I think what I feel is safe... Would you turn out the light?’
As he turns over she slips an arm around his waist and presses herself against his back, her face nestling between his shoulder blades. He freezes.
‘Rose?’
‘Mmm?’
‘I promise I won’t try anything in the night, but... I can’t promise I won’t get an erection.’
‘That’s okay - I’ll take it as a compliment.’
They listen to each other's breathing for several moments, not daring to move.
‘Rose?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Will you still respect me in the morning?’
~
Sleeping with the sea
on the sea
rising and falling with the waves
I’m carried far out into the darkness
sheltered in the broad hollow of his back.
.
I am wrecked
ship-wrecked, shattered
clinging, battered
to a spar
floating, drifting
clasping the hull of his ribs as they rise and fall
with the surge of the sea
the swell of his breath.
.
The sea snarls hungry at my door.
Beyond the slap and spatter of wind-flung spray
a gale groans at my window
.
The sea rolls him over, belly-up
an arm flails
heavy, like a piece of timber
pinning me against the mattress.
I surface
take his bony hand
dead-weight heavy
touch rough fingertips scoured by mountainsides
pillow my aching head on the indolent, undulating muscle of his arm.
Silk slides and rasps against my cheek.
.
A sigh
a susurration of seething foam as the waves retreat.
A muffled, rhythmic thud
My blood?
His heart?
Both perhaps, in unison.
.
I am safe.
For one night at least.
Safe, moored to this man.
~
When Rose wakes she finds Calum sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed, looking down at her.
‘Good morning,’ he says softly. ‘I’ve got to go, I’m afraid. I’ve brought you some tea. It’s by your tablets. And there’s a letter for you. It came yesterday but I forgot to give it to you.’
‘Thanks. Did you sleep all right?’
‘Aye.’ He grins. ‘Eventually. And you?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Any nightmares?’
‘No. I slept really well.’
‘Obviously we should do this more often!’
Rose picks up the envelope and examines the handwriting. Her breath catches. ‘It’s from Megan.’
‘I’ll leave you in peace to read it, then. I’ll maybe drop by later... Rose?’
‘What? Oh, yes - sorry, Calum. I was thinking. About Megan.’
‘It’s not likely to be bad news, is it? Do you want me to stay while you read it?’
‘No, I’ll be fine. You mustn’t be late for work.’
He bends and kisses her cheek. ‘Take it easy, now.’
When he has gone Rose stares at the envelope again, trying to dismiss a sense of foreboding. She tears it open.
.
22nd Jan
Dear Mum,
Thanks for your recent letter. It was good to hear you’re settling down and making some new friends.
I have a favour to ask and no, it’s not money! I’ve chucked my job here and I’ve decided to take a bit of a break. Working at the travel agent’s didn't really work out - I was just sitting on my arse all day behind a VDU and the money wasn’t that good. But don’t panic - I’ve got the promise of a summer job at an outdoor centre in Snowdonia. There’s also the possibility of a similar job on Raasay, that little island off Skye.
So I’m trying to make up my mind what to do next. If it’s all right with you I’d like to come and stay for a week or two. I know January is hardly the best time of year to come but as I’m between jobs I thought I might as well. I need to do a bit of thinking and there are just too many distractions here in Carlisle. I thought I could maybe check out the place on Raasay on the way home.
I decided to write rather than phone so as not to spring things on you. I remember how the phone used to make you jump and I know you might not want me around, complicating your new life, so do say if it’s not convenient. If you don’t have a spare bed I’m happy with the sofa. I can bring my sleeping bag. I’ll cook while you work!
It seems ages since I saw you and I’m looking forward to catching up. You sound fine in your letters but I wonder if you’re actually giving me the whole story? Please look after yourself.
Love,
Megan
.
When she has finished reading, Rose folds the letter carefully and replaces it in the envelope. As she reaches across the bed for her tea she notices the dent in the pillow where Calum’s head lay. She smoothes the sheet on his side of the bed, hoping to feel some residual warmth from his body, but it is cold. So is the tea.
Rose tosses the letter on to the floor and addresses the ceiling. ‘Bloody hell, Megan! Your timing could have been better!’
CHAPTER SIX
A blinding, bright January morning. A sign that winter, if not over, at least no longer holds us fast. The wind has dropped to a stiff, very chilly breeze. If you were mad enough to visit the Hebrides in winter, today would be a good day to do it.
My daughter is mad enough.
I have tidied the house and cleaned the bathroom and kitchen. I have made up a camp-bed in the work room and donated my electric blanket to the worthy cause of keeping Megan warm. I have bought red and white wine, fruit juice and a half bottle of whisky. The fridge is stocked with patés and cheese, a wooden bowl overflows with fruit and there are tinned soups in the larder.
There were no fatted calves to be had at the Co-op.
~
I am ready too early. Even if I get stuck behind a flock of sheep it will not take me an hour to get to the airport. I refuse to be early. I will not stand and wait, not any more. I would rather be late.
I have done too much waiting in airports.
~
We are the camp followe
rs. A motley crowd of women and children waiting for our men folk to return from battle, bloody but, we hope, unbowed.
Maggie is waiting for Dave.
Birgit is waiting for Simon.
Jude is waiting for Andy.
And I am waiting, with Megan, for Gavin.
The flight from Nepal has been delayed five hours and conversation dried up some time ago. Our silence is punctuated by cups of coffee and Maggie’s frequent visits to the loo. No one complains. Our men are all alive. All of them. They’ve suffered nothing worse than weight-loss and frostbite. How could we - dare we - complain?
Maggie is pregnant. When Dave left they didn’t know. Now she shows. She’s been sick for weeks and nobody knows if it’s the pregnancy or the fact that her doctor husband is climbing Mt. Everest. Maggie hopes that the baby will stop Dave climbing. We know it won’t. So does Maggie, in all probability.
Birgit tried to persuade the men that she was fit enough to go, that she was good enough, but failed to penetrate their boys’ club outing mentality. I suspect they didn’t want a woman to see them fail. Well, not a woman climber, certainly not a German woman climber. The final decision was Dave’s and he told Maggie (who told Jude when she thought I was out of earshot) that they all thought Gavin might be distracted by having a woman on the expedition.
So Birgit, eaten up with anxiety and jealousy in equal measure, has become thin. As Maggie waxed, so Birgit waned. Always svelte and sexy despite her muscle, Birgit has become skeletal. I note with furtive satisfaction that it doesn’t suit her.
Jude is asleep. She knows Andy is alive, or at least he was when he boarded the plane and so she sleeps, dreaming no doubt of the expedition’s Hard Man, the glum, Aberdonian ex-alcoholic who has neatly replaced one expensive and dangerous addiction with another. Jude actually preferred him alcoholic because, she said, it was cheaper and his life expectancy was slightly longer.
Birgit is shaking Jude. The plane has landed. They are in England. At Gatwick. Alive. Maggie has started to cry already - hormones or relief, it’s hard to say. I squeeze Megan’s hand and we set off for Arrivals.
~
When Gavin eventually appears he is smaller than I remember him. Shorter. Thinner. Older. Can anyone change so much in four months? He is walking with a stick, bowed under a rucksack that seems almost as big as him.
When he sees us the smile is the same. He lifts a hand in salute. The conquering hero. Two bandaged fingertips, but - I count quickly, fearfully, like a newly delivered mother presented with her newborn - he still has the full complement of fingers and thumb.
Gavin limps over to us and Megan charges, flings her arms round his waist, buries her head in his chest. She catches him off-balance and he nearly falls. I wonder just how weak he is. He puts an arm round her and they walk towards me, both grinning.
Tears of relief, of joy, tears of fierce anger that he has put me through this torture, will do so again and I will let him. I wanted to be composed, serene, not let him see the agony of waiting that I have endured, the bitter resentment I feel, but the hot tears flow and I bow my head unable to look at him any more.
He folds me in his arms. I cannot hold his body because of the rucksack. I press myself against him, reassuring myself that he is real, he is whole. I hold his face in my hands and kiss his peeling mouth, laughing, crying. His head feels smaller, bonier, just a skull; his nose is skinned and scabbed, his eyes bloodshot. He is beautiful.
Megan is tugging at my arm. ‘Gavin says he’s brought me a present from Everest!’
‘Wow! You lucky, lucky girl!’
Gavin is reaching into a side pocket of his rucksack. Megan holds her breath. I am expecting some Nepalese beads, a prayer flag maybe, or a tiny Buddha. He produces a piece of undistinguished rock, about the size of Megan's fist. It looks like limestone. For a moment she doesn’t understand. She thinks it is one of Gavin’s practical jokes and her lip begins to wobble. The bastard savours the moment.
‘Gavin - tell her!’
‘This, Megan, is a piece of rock from Everest Base Camp.’
She squeals, snatches the rock and kisses Gavin. I don’t recall her ever kissing him before, not once in the two years he has lived with us. I am absurdly pleased.
‘And what, Mr. Mountaineering Hero, did you bring for me?’
He smiles and says simply, ‘Me.’
~
I don’t spot Megan immediately because she is taller than I remember her. Megan stopped growing five years ago - when she fitted neatly under Gavin's chin - but she is always taller than I remember her. Not tall, just taller than the girl I remember.
I am easy to spot amongst the small group of locals meeting the Glasgow flight, a parakeet among the crows. Megan waves, heaves a rucksack up onto her shoulder and strides towards me. I wave back and feel foolish, tearful. It must be six months since I last saw her. She has cut her lovely long hair. It's now short and spiky. She is wearing ethnic dangly earrings that draw attention to her pretty ears and neck. I decide the new hairstyle suits her. It is uncompromising, almost brutal, yet still alluringly feminine, a combination characteristic of my dear daughter.
She stands before me, hesitant, smiling so hard I know she must be close to tears. My eyes prick too. I put my arms round her and squeeze.
‘Hello, darling!’
‘Hello, Mum.’
‘Oh, let me look at you! You look so different! I hardly recognised you. You've lost weight.’
‘No, not much. It's the hair.’ She pulls at tufts self-consciously. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it's wonderful! Your ears will freeze off here but, don't worry, I've got plenty of hats.’
‘Oh, Mum...’ The tears gather on her long, dark lashes. Megan never needed mascara.
‘Darling, what is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ She laughs and rubs her eyes. ‘I’m just so pleased to see you! And you look... so happy!’
‘I am, Megan, I truly am! You know that saying, 'I died and went to Heaven'? Well, I did and this is it. Welcome to Heaven!’
~
In the absence of flowers Rose has arranged a collection of shells and pebbles in a dish on Megan’s bedside table - an up-ended plastic toy-box disguised with an Indian scarf. There is a small pile of books about the Hebrides and an OS map, ‘in case you fancy going off exploring on your own. There’s a bird book too and a pair of binoculars. I remember how you used to like watching birds. And there’re some trashy novels. Not mine - Shona lent them to me. They look gruesome.’
Megan laughs. ‘You’ve thought of everything, Mum.’
‘Don’t suppose so for one minute... Look, this is the control for the electric blanket... and here are some coat-hangers.’ Rose looks around the workroom and sighs. She is beginning to feel tired and edgy. ‘I’m sorry you're so cramped in here, but it’s no use sleeping in the sitting room - people tend to walk right in.’
‘Without knocking?’
‘Oh no, they knock or call out, then walk right in. At least you’ll have a bit of privacy in here. I’m afraid there’s no proper curtain. I didn’t need a curtain for a workroom and I wasn’t really expecting any guests until the summer... I’ve tacked up that sari - you can just tie it to one side when you want more light. Oh - I know what I've forgotten.’
Rose disappears. Megan hears footsteps going up and then down the stairs. Rose re-appears with a carved wooden mirror. ‘This is the only mirror I possess. I'll use the bathroom cabinet. There! I think that is everything!’
‘Thanks, Mum. I really didn’t want you to go to all this trouble. I’m sorry, I didn't really think—’
‘Don’t be silly! The only ‘trouble’ was having to tidy up the workroom, but that was long overdue, so your visit gave me a good excuse.’
‘Have you done much work since you’ve been here?’
‘Quite a bit. I’ve finished a private commission and I’ve started on some pieces which I shall probably exhibit in the summer.’
>
‘You’re planning an exhibition already?’
‘Well, yes. Not on my own.’
‘Who with?’
‘A neighbour. Calum Morrison.’
‘I thought you said he was a poet?’
‘He is. We’re planning an exhibition of words and textiles - textiles inspired by poems, poems inspired by textiles. We’re going to display work by local schoolchildren too. We think it might appeal to the tourists in the summer.’
‘Sounds great. Where will you hold it?’
‘At the Arts Centre in Lochmaddy. It’s not a very big space - we'll easily fill it.’
‘Is there a theme?’
‘Our working title is The Encumbrance of Words. It was something Calum said when we were talking about the differences between visual and verbal art. I was trying to explain what one of my textiles meant.’
‘Have you got anything to show me yet?’
‘Well, nothing that’s finished. I’m still playing around.’
‘Is the black piece on the wall for the exhibition?’ Megan points to an irregular-shaped patchwork of many different black fabrics embroidered and embellished with black silks and beads.
‘Well, yes, if I ever get to the stage that I’m happy with it. It's called Basalt 2. It's a response - a reply in a way - to a poem of Calum's called Basalt.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘Calum’s poem? I wouldn’t dream of asking. He'd never tell you anyway. He says, “I just write the stuff”.’
‘Isn’t basalt a rock you find on Skye?’
‘Yes, it’s a black volcanic rock formed from cooled lava. The Cuillins are what’s left of huge volcanoes. I’ve put a book about geology on your bedside table if you're interested. It’s fascinating! I’m really getting into it.’
‘So, let me get this straight... Your piece - called Basalt 2?’
Emotional Geology Page 10