‘Yes.’
‘...is a response to Calum’s poem called Basalt and you’re going to exhibit them together, as a sort of pair.’
‘Yes. But we’re not going to explain either of them. The Encumbrance of Words, remember?’
Megan looks for a few moments at the forbidding black piece on the wall. ‘It’s quite disturbing.’
‘You should read the poem!’
‘Sinister almost.’
‘Oh, good! I must have got something right.’
Megan approaches and examines the piece more closely. ‘What’s the shiny black stuff that you’ve pleated?’
‘A bin liner.’
‘Really? You’d never know! And the torn gauzy bits?’
‘Old black tights.’
‘These knotted cords look like bootlaces.’
‘They are. And I made the distorted grid effect by stretching a pair of fishnets. It’s all very female and domestic.’
‘And you won’t tell me what it’s meant to be about?’
‘Calum’s poem,’ Rose says simply.
‘And what do you think Calum’s poem is about?’
‘Well, I can only say what it’s about for me.’
‘Which is?’
‘Suicidal despair.’
‘Oh. Do I get to meet this guy? He sounds a bundle of laughs.’
‘Actually, in a rather dour, Highland way, he is.’
~
Megan pours red wine while Rose serves two bowls of French onion soup.
‘My favourite! You remembered!’
‘Of course! Not homemade, I’m afraid, but it came out of a classy tin.’ Rose raises her glass. ‘Cheers! Or slàinte, as we say round here. Welcome to North Uist, Megan.’
‘Thanks. Cheers!’
They eat and the ensuing silence is slightly too long for either woman to feel comfortable.
‘Why did you choose this place?’ Megan asks abruptly.
‘This house? It was cheap, simple, near the sea—’
‘No, I meant this island. Did you really need to come this far... to get away?’
‘Yes, I think so. I wanted absolute peace and quiet - no traffic, no double-glazing salesmen, no lawnmowers! I decided that if I was going to try to manage my condition without being drugged insensible, then I needed to give myself the best possible environment, which for me meant a very controlled environment. Controlled by me.’
‘So you could avoid triggering mood swings?’
‘That’s right. I can keep my life very simple here. Predictable. You’d call it boring. I can withdraw or get involved as much as I want to and people don’t mind. They think I’m odd, I’m sure, but I probably don’t seem that odd because they accept that you’d have to be a bit crazy to choose to come and live here in the first place.’
‘So they see you as an English eccentric?’
‘Very probably. But that seems a small price to pay for what I get in return. More soup?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘You really don’t need to worry about me, you know. People respect each other’s privacy, but if you’re in trouble - like when I had ’flu recently - neighbours turn up with food parcels and offers of help. And it’s not like they’re doing you a big favour, Good Samaritan style, it just comes naturally to them. Calum calls it “indiscriminate generosity”. Caring for others, keeping an eye open for people, is bred in the bone here.’
‘Something to do with the isolation, I suppose.’
‘Plus the island character. People have a different set of values here. Life isn’t about getting and spending, because nobody gets much and there’s nowhere to spend it anyway. It’s a hard life in many ways, but people don’t lock their doors - they feel safe. Do you know, there’s no crime to speak of - just a bit of drunk driving and the odd brawl after one too many drams. So you see, it’s possible for me to live alone here and yet feel perfectly safe.’
‘I think I understand. But it still sounds terribly lonely to me.’
Rose shrugs her shoulders. ‘Well, it’s all relative, isn’t it? Lonely to me was living in Fort William on my own... Afterwards.’
Megan is silent.
Rose stands and gathers up the soup bowls. ‘Shall we have some coffee?’
~
My coffee is cold. On the next table a child excavates the sugar bowl; another blows bubbles into her lemonade. Their mother sits eyeing the rain anxiously, eking out her cup of coffee, postponing the gathering up of her bags and brood.
I remember another café. Gavin sitting opposite, tea unattended, laughter about nothing, nothing at all. I remember how I threw back my head and he touched my long hair, marvelling.
In a mirror opposite I search for the face Gavin saw but I see only pale, sagging flesh, eyes puffy with unshed tears, lips pressed tight together.
He’d said I was beautiful. With him I was. I had seen it for myself, looking over his shoulder in the bathroom mirror, eyes alight, hair tousled from bed, skin glowing.
The lemonade is finished and the children begin to fight over the sugar bowl. Their mother remonstrates half-heartedly, then smiles at me. She can tell I, too, am a mother. I smile briefly, bow my head. I study my newspaper, unseeing.
~
Megan is nursing a cup of coffee by the wood-burning stove when there is a tap at the front door. Before she has got to her feet Calum appears at the sitting-room door.
‘Oh, hello... I was looking for Rose.’
‘She’s just popped out to the Co-op. She forgot to buy milk. She’ll be back soon.’
‘You must be Megan.’
‘Yes.’
He steps forward and shakes her hand firmly. ‘I’m Calum Morrison, one of Rose’s neighbours.’
‘Oh. Yes, she’s mentioned you in her letters.’
‘Has she?’ Calum looks surprised. ‘Did she tell you about her school visit?’
‘Yes, she said you’d invited her to show her work. Did it go all right? Mum doesn’t usually cope very well with crowds of people. I was surprised when she said she’d agreed to do it.’
‘Aye, she coped brilliantly! She was a big hit with the kids. That’s why I'm here really.’ He holds out a sheaf of papers. ‘Can I leave these for her? They’re poems my pupils wrote inspired by her visit. I think she might be interested to read them.’
‘I’ll tell her when she gets in. Or would you like to wait and tell her yourself? I’ve just made a pot of coffee. Oh - there's no milk though, not till she gets back.’
‘Thanks, you’re very kind, but I’ve got a stack of marking a mile high. I’ll be getting back. Tell Rose those are photocopies. She can keep them.’
‘Right.’
‘I’ll no doubt be seeing you again.’ Calum heads towards the door, then turns. ‘I hope you enjoy your stay on Uist. Ceud Mìle Faìlte.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The traditional Gaelic greeting. It means “a hundred thousand welcomes”. We don’t believe in doing things by halves.’
Megan smiles and follows him to the door. As she opens it and looks outside she narrows her eyes against the dazzle of pale sunlight and the vast expanse of steely sea. She laughs, shaking her head. ‘I just can’t get over that view! The Atlantic just outside your front door! I grew up with a view of Ben Nevis from my bedroom window, but I think this beats even that.’
‘Aye, and it’s only January. You should come back in May or June. There aren’t words to describe it.’
‘But I thought you were a poet?’
‘Aye, but not a good one. Are you staying long?’
‘A week or so maybe. I’m not sure. It depends how long Mum and I can stand each other’s company!’
‘Do you no’ get on?’
‘I suppose we get on as well as can be expected. Mother and daughter relationships can be fraught, can’t they? I think Mum and I have driven each other to Hell and back several times.’
‘It can’t have been easy growing up with your Mum’s illness... and no da
d.’
Megan looks at him uneasily. ‘She’s told you the family history, then?’
‘No, not much. Just why she’s here. On her own.’
‘She hates talking about the past. We never, ever discuss it. You must be good at getting people to open up.’
‘Aye, well, if you're no’ used to it, half a bottle of whisky can break the habits of a lifetime.’
Megan laughs. ‘She never drinks either!’
‘Aye, I know. We’ve had a terrible corrupting influence on her. Watch out if you’re here for more than a few days - it’s good clean air, but it’s no’ exactly good clean living.’
‘It will do her good!’
‘The air or the corruption? Och, I’m blethering. I’d best be going.’
‘Calum... Did she tell you about Gavin?’
He hesitates. ‘Aye, she did. That was a bad business.’
‘What did she tell you?’
‘Not much. Just that he went off with another woman and then she cracked up.’
‘She’s still not over it. Over him.’
‘I know. But I think she may be making some progress.’
‘Really? I hope you’re right. I suppose the fact that she’s talking about it has to be a good sign.’
‘Maybe so.’ Calum is silent for a while. Eventually curiosity overrides his better judgement. ‘What was he like, this Gavin?’
‘Hard to describe really.’ Megan shivers in the doorway and folds her arms across her chest. ‘Glamorous in a scruffy, disreputable sort of way. A magnet for women.’
‘Aye, I gathered that much.’
‘I can’t really say how Gavin seemed to outsiders - I grew up with him. I resented him to begin with, gave him a really hard time. But in the end I could see why Mum loved him the way she did. And he was brilliant when she was ill... Gavin was a total hero to me. A kind of father-figure, but more of a friend than a father. He could be a complete pain in the arse of course, but then so could I. Mum used to accuse us of ganging up on her.’ She smiles. ‘I suppose we did sometimes...’
~
‘Please can I go with him?’
‘No, it’s far too dangerous.’
‘Not really, Rose. She’d be safe as houses on grit-stone. With me, anyway.’
Rose snaps at him. ‘Gavin, please don’t encourage her.’ She turns back to her daughter. ‘You’re far too young to go climbing, Megan. Maybe next year.’
‘Gavin started when he was twelve!’
Rose sighs. ‘Yes, well, Gavin’s parents must have been out of their mind.’
‘They didn’t know, actually.’
‘Gavin!’
‘Sorry!’
‘Mum, I’m nearly fifteen, I’m not a little kid! I’m more likely to be killed crossing the road than climbing in the Peak District in the middle of summer.’
‘It’s true, Rose.’
‘Shut up, Gavin! She’s not your daughter!’
‘As you never cease to remind me.’
‘It’s bad enough having to worry about you coming home on crutches without having to worry about what might happen to her.’
‘I just think it’s a shame. For Megan... and for me. I would really like to teach her. But if you don't trust me enough—’
‘Of course I trust you, but she’s my only child, she’s only fourteen and climbing is a very dangerous sport.’
‘Now that’s where you’re wrong! It’s perceived to be dangerous because deaths and injuries and dramatic rescues make the headlines, but when you consider the number of people who climb, the number of accidents is minute! And there’s always a reason for those accidents - crap equipment, poor judgement, inexperience, freak weather conditions. None of that would apply if I take Megan to the Peaks and teach her how to climb. She’ll be a lot safer with me than if she goes to some tin-pot outdoor centre with the school and gets sent up the Ben in a blizzard with some inexperienced PE graduate who can’t use a compass.’
‘He’s right, Mum.’ Megan is clearly impressed with Gavin’s arguments. Rose is not.
‘No, Gavin.’
‘Mum!’
‘I’m sorry, Megan. I just can’t bear the thought. It's bad enough worrying about Gavin. Please - let’s drop it.’
Megan turns to Gavin, mute appeal in her brimming eyes. He puts an arm round her shoulders. ‘Maybe another time, eh, Meg? There’ll be other opportunities, I promise.’
‘Will there? Not all the time she’s running my life.’
‘Megan, that’s not fair! I just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all.’
‘You just don’t want me to have fun! You don’t want me to grow up! You want me to be your little girl, staying at home, looking after you!’
‘That’s nonsense!’
‘Then let me go with Gavin!’
‘No, and that’s the end of the discussion. I don’t want to hear another word about it. Gavin had no business discussing this with you without clearing it with me first.’
‘I didn’t think you would object.’
‘You don’t think - that’s your trouble.’
‘And you think far too bloody much, that’s yours! For God’s sake, Rose - girls of Megan’s age are out there drinking, doing drugs—’
‘Having sex!’ Megan says, with relish. A pained look from Gavin indicates that she may have overstepped the mark.
‘Yes. Having sex. All of it illegal and all of it far more dangerous than climbing.’
‘Maybe so - but I can’t stop her drinking or having sex if that’s what she chooses to do. I can stop her climbing.’
Another pained look from Gavin indicates that Rose has now overstepped the mark. Megan walks up to her mother and shouts in her face, ‘I hate you!’ She rushes from the room and stumbles up the stairs. The muffled sound of crying can be heard coming from the room above.
‘Shit.’ Gavin says with emphasis. ‘I think you just made a big mistake there, Rose.’
‘Don’t you start. This is all your fault!’
‘Yeah, I know. Sorry.’
~
‘I’m back.’ Rose appears at the door with a bag of groceries. ‘Sorry I was gone so long. I bumped into several people I knew and you have to stop and chat.’
‘That’s okay. I had a visitor. Calum Morrison called while you were out.’
Rose arranges her face to suggest no more than polite interest. ‘Oh? What did he want?’
‘He left you some poems written by his pupils. He said you could keep them.’
Rose falls on the sheets of paper, leafing through them. ‘Oh, how wonderful! Look, there’s loads of them... Oh, little Kenny’s written a poem! Calum said I could keep these?’
‘Yes, he said they were photocopies.’
‘Oh, bless him.’ She looks up from the poems to see Megan gazing at her. Rose endeavours to sound matter-of-fact. ‘You see what I mean? People are so thoughtful round here. Always doing each other favours.’
Rose retreats to the kitchen and starts to unpack groceries. After a few moments she calls out to Megan. ‘So - you had a bit of a chat, did you? With Calum?’
‘Yes, he stayed for a few minutes. I love the accent.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Your visit to the school... the poems... How you’ve taken up drinking whisky.’
Rose appears in the doorway looking aghast. ‘It was just the once - and I was only drinking to be polite! It’s considered very rude here to refuse people’s hospitality. Did he say anything else about me?’
Megan laughs. ‘What is this - the Spanish Inquisition? He was only here for a few minutes. Unfortunately.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, he’s a bit of a hunk, isn’t he? You made him sound a dry old stick in your letter - teaching English and Gaelic. I thought he must be at least fifty.’
‘No, he’s thirty-nine. His sister told me,’ Rose adds hurriedly.
‘He looks younger than that.’
�
�Yes, I suppose he does.’
‘Is he married?’
‘Divorced.’
‘Girl friend?’
Rose hesitates. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, how would I know? It’s not the sort of thing that would crop up in conversation. I think maybe there is someone,’ Rose says, avoiding Megan's eyes.
‘Can you think of an excuse to invite him round?’
‘Oh, Megan, don't be daft! You’re only here for a couple of weeks!’
‘I know! All the more reason I should be given opportunities to absorb local colour and meet the natives - especially the six-foot, blue-eyed variety. Is he interested in anything other than Gaelic and poetry?’
‘He climbs,’ Rose replies gloomily.
‘Oh, Jesus...’
~
I’m sitting at the foot of the climbing wall in Fort William watching climbers: Gavin, Dave, Andy, Simon and Birgit. Actually I’m really only watching Gavin who in sport climbing now outclasses even Dave, something of a local legend, but now past his best. He doesn’t have Gavin’s panache, his flexibility,
Birgit does however and her legs are as long as Gavin’s. The pair of them are showing off to each other while Simon and Andy discuss a bouldering problem. Simon is belaying Birgit rather absent-mindedly. Dave, tall and solid as an obelisk of rock, belays Gavin, for all the world as if he is fly-fishing: calm, contemplative, as if belaying weren’t the most boring sport activity in the world, which it is.
Dave isn’t bored, but God knows I am. Bored and tired of listening to Gavin show off. As a result of an international climbing career, Gavin can swear, fuck and order a pint in most European languages, including Glaswegian. He is now talking to Birgit in German, quite unnecessarily since her English, though pedestrian, is excellent.
Birgit’s throaty laugh and my worm’s-eye view of her neat little arse are really beginning to piss me off. This wall is boring, my coffee is boring, climbers are boring, especially when they are climbing. The only thing more boring than a bunch of climbers climbing is a bunch of climbers talking about climbing.
Emotional Geology Page 11