Emotional Geology

by Linda Gillard

  ‘Oh, I might be able to sort that.’ Rose detects a flicker of surprise, then keen interest on Shona’s part. With her head on one side and a look of mischievous amusement in her eyes, the resemblance between brother and sister is marked. Avoiding Shona’s gaze, Rose continues. ‘You know Calum and I are planning an exhibition?’

  Shona nods. ‘Aye, he was telling us about it the other night. He said it was one of your brainwaves.’

  ‘Well, that remains to be seen, but the thing is, I can easily ask him over for a meeting about it. There’s a lot we need to discuss and Saturday would be a good day to do it. If you send Donald for the stuff in the morning I’ll invite Calum over for tea and try and keep him there for a couple of hours. Does that sound okay?’

  ‘Rose, you’re a wonder! Are you used to all this cloak and dagger stuff then?’

  ‘I’m a double agent on the run from MI5, Shona. We call this deep cover.’

  Shona laughs uproariously at the modest witticism and claps a hand on Rose’s back. ‘D’you know what we say, Rose? “A man may do without a brother, but not without a neighbour”!’

  ~

  Rose staggers through the front door with her library books and shopping and announces, ‘Spaghetti bolognese tonight. Calum’s coming for supper.’

  Megan looks up from her magazine. ‘Yummy!’

  ‘Is that referring to Calum or my spag bol?’

  ‘Both, I suppose. You didn’t invite him round on my account, did you?’

  ‘No, of course not! But I think you’ll enjoy an evening of his company. You can talk to him about the outdoor centre on Raasay. He might have some contacts there. And I’m afraid I need to talk to him about the exhibition. You have my permission to doze off when we start talking poetry. Or better still, go and do the dishes.’

  ‘Is Calum bringing anyone?’

  ‘No. It’ll just be the three of us. Although I suppose I could give Angus the Post a ring. He’d no doubt appreciate a bit of home cooking.’

  ‘Angus the Post? Is he thick or something?’

  ‘No, that’s his job. He delivers the post in a little red van. Drives like a maniac.’

  ‘Is Angus another one of your handsome Hebrideans?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure his wife Effie thought so before she passed away.’

  ‘Mum, how old is Angus?’

  ‘Well, now,’ Rose says confidentially, ‘Nobody actually knows, but the general opinion is somewhere between sixty and death.’

  ~

  As they prepare for the evening, Rose and Megan are in high spirits. After a long bath Megan emerges, fragrant and flamboyant in tight-fitting black trousers and white shirt. She would look boyish were it not for her pendulous earrings and a quantity of eye make-up.

  ‘How do I look?’

  Rose looks up from her chopping board and is speechless for a moment. Megan wrinkles her nose. ‘Too dressy? I haven’t brought anything else apart from jeans and sweaters.’

  ‘No, you look... gorgeous. I was just... surprised. It’s silly, but I always forget how beautiful you are.’

  ‘Well, thanks, but everyone always said I take after you. Aren’t you dressing up?’

  Rose laughs self-consciously. ‘No, I’m not bothering. It’s only Calum. And I haven’t really got time now. He’ll be here soon.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Well, you could wash that lettuce - no, that’s a dirty job, you'll spoil your blouse. You could chop some tomatoes for the salad and maybe that green pepper. There’s a sharp knife by the chopping board.’

  Megan switches on the radio. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No, go ahead.’

  Rose does mind. She would have liked to talk, to be companionable over the food preparation, the pair of them, as it was once, before Gavin.

  ~

  Megan is rolling out pastry for jam tarts and singing.

  ‘The Queen of Hearts

  She made some tarts

  All on a summer’s day...’

  Rose leans across and sprinkles flour over the rolling pin. ‘Don’t press too hard, Megan. You need a light touch with pastry. We won’t be able to peel it off the worktop if you flatten it too much.’

  ‘I’m going to be a cook when I grow up.’

  ‘Oh, good. You can cook me lots of lovely dinners.’

  ‘And I’ll make you a cake every day.’

  ‘Ooh, delicious! I shall get very fat.’

  ‘Fiona Fraser’s mummy is very fat.’

  ‘She’s not fat, darling, she’s pregnant. That means she’s going to have a baby. Fiona will soon have a baby brother or sister.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘I don’t know. No one will know till the baby’s born.’

  ‘I’d like to have a baby brother.’

  Rose says nothing.

  ‘Can I, mummy?’

  ‘What, darling?’

  ‘Can I have a baby brother?’

  ‘No, Megan.’

  ‘A sister?’

  ‘No, darling, I’m not going to have any more children.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because... I don't have a daddy for them. You need a daddy to make babies.’

  ‘Can’t you get one?’

  ‘I don’t want one! And I don’t want any more babies. I’ve got you and you’ve got me and that suits me just fine.’ Rose puts her arm round her daughter and kisses the top of her head.

  Megan rolls out her pastry, thinner and thinner, until it creeps off the end of the worktop and hangs, suspended in the air.

  ‘But I’d like a baby brother... Or a daddy... Daddies throw you up in the air and catch you!’

  ~

  Megan re-tunes the radio until she finds some pop music then turns up the volume. She sings and moves her body in time to the music. As she stirs the meat sauce Rose watches her daughter and smiles. ‘Shall we have a drink?’

  ‘Yeah, great.’

  Megan resumes her singing and begins to gesticulate with the knife to the beat of the music. Rose pours two large glasses of red wine and raises one to Megan. ‘Slàinte!’

  ‘Cheers!’ Megan grins at her over the rim of her glass and drinks deeply.

  An old Supremes number starts up and Rose closes her eyes. ‘Ah, now this is what I call rock music! They don’t make them like this any more!’ Rose starts to sing ‘Stop in the name of love’ and Megan joins in, dancing round the kitchen, glass in one hand, knife in the other, holding it like a microphone. Rose starts to giggle.

  Afterwards, Rose realises that she heard the knock, heard a voice call out, so she wasn’t as startled as Megan when Calum suddenly pushed open the kitchen door.

  As Megan spins round, startled, the contents of her glass fly though the air and splash onto her shirt. Her hand, holding the knife, swings round towards Calum, inches from his chest. Before Rose can even register what is happening, Calum has grabbed Megan’s wrist and yanked her arm up in the air. With his other hand he has pushed her against the wall and holds her there, pinioned with his forearm across her chest. The knife clatters to the floor. Megan is screaming. Rose has to shout to make herself heard.

  ‘Calum, let her go! Calum! Look at me!’

  He swivels his head round, still holding Megan pinned to the wall. He looks frightened and confused. Suddenly his body sags and he releases Megan who runs from the kitchen, sobbing. Grey-faced, Calum stares at the knife on the floor. ‘Jesus Christ almighty... ’ Rose stoops to pick it up, then drops it quickly into the sink. Calum is still staring at the floor. ‘Did I hurt her?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. You just scared her half to death.’

  His voice is barely a whisper. ‘I just saw the knife... coming towards me. She looked like Davy from behind. The short hair... and the knife... Jesus, I’m sorry, Rose! You must think I’m a bloody maniac! Are you sure I didn’t hurt her?’

  ‘I’ll go and check in a moment but I don’t think so. You pinned her up against the wall with your body weight. You didn’t gra
b her throat or anything.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that.’ There is an awkward silence, then Calum starts to speak rapidly. ‘They taught us self-defence at school. In Glasgow, I mean... How to protect ourselves without damaging the kids. There are ways. “Reasonable restraint” they call it. Anything more than that and you can be done for assault.’ Rose lays a hand on his arm and he stops talking. ‘Oh, Christ, Rose - should I go and apologise, or should I just leave?’

  ‘You’re going nowhere. You’re going to sit down and have a drink while I go and explain to Megan. Do you mind if I tell her - about your being attacked?’

  ‘No, not if you think it will help.’

  ‘Did you bring a bottle of whisky?’

  ‘Aye.’ He produces a half bottle from inside his jacket. Rose takes three glasses out of the cupboard and pours a generous measure into each. She hands one to Calum.

  ‘Start drinking.’ She picks up the other two glasses. ‘I’ll be back in a little while. Don't you dare go away. And if you could manage to stir the contents of that saucepan now and again I think there’s a good chance we might salvage the evening.’

  She kisses him on the cheek and leaves him standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at his glass.

  ~

  When, some time later, the two women emerge from Rose's bedroom, Megan has changed her wine-soaked shirt and re-touched her eye make-up. As they walk into the sitting room Calum gets up quickly from the sofa.

  ‘Megan, I’m so sorry. I offered to leave but Rose said I’d to stay and in any case, I wanted to apologise. Did I hurt you?’

  ‘No, you didn’t actually. I was screaming blue murder because you frightened me, that’s all. I didn’t even hear you come into the kitchen. The first thing I knew, I was up against the wall. I didn’t even realise it was you. I thought it was some mad axe-man.’

  ‘Aye, well, you would... I'm really sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay, Mum’s explained. About what happened to you. It must have been awful.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose it was. It didn’t feel like it at the time.’ He shrugs. ‘You cope. You even laugh about it afterwards. Life goes on. But it seems these things don't go away.’ He shakes his head, as if in disbelief. ‘It happened five years ago! But when I walked into the kitchen and saw that knife coming at me, honest to God, I was there... You were Davy! All I could think was, I had to get the knife off you before someone got hurt. I'm so sorry, Megan.’

  ‘Stop apologising. I'm fine. It’s my own stupid fault anyway for dancing round the kitchen wielding a knife!’ Megan is horrified to see that Calum’s eyes are wet and vacant and that he has started to shake. ‘Mum - get him another whisky.’

  Rose goes to retrieve the whisky bottle from the kitchen. When she returns Megan has an arm round Calum and is repeating softly, ‘It’s okay... really... It's okay!’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Supper is painful. Calum drinks steadily, first whisky, then wine. There is brittle laughter, the tinkle of our bright, tight female voices, too high-pitched, undercut by Calum’s dry, deadpan one-liners.

  But Megan is captivated. And captivating.

  Drunk, unreasonable, I hate her, hate myself and pour us all another drink.

  ~

  Megan announces that she will wash up. Calum offers to help, not quite making it out of his armchair. I rouse myself and insist he remain seated. Megan doesn’t actually scowl at me but I’m sure she wants to. Hearing her hum and clatter in the kitchen I fear for the china.

  Calum is silent. Sprawled and sunk into his chair, his long legs extended across the hearth rug towards the wood-burner, he appears to doze, then murmurs, ‘I’m neither as drunk nor as merry as I’m pretending to be, Rose.’

  ‘No. I know.’

  The stove hisses and splutters. Calum sighs.

  ‘I ought to go. But I don't want to.’

  ‘So stay.’

  ‘It’s very pleasant sitting here... Peaceful. Domestic.’ He swivels his head, looks at me and smiles. ‘You should be sewing.’

  ‘I can if you like - I hate sitting with my hands idle.’

  ‘Go on, fetch your sewing, woman. Pander to my dark fantasies.’

  ‘It will have to be some hand-quilting. I draw the line at darning socks.’

  ~

  As I stitch I remember...

  The door ajar. Distant blue hills and the white sparkle of a cottage clinging to the curve of the road. Megan’s daisies in a jug by the window, stark simplicity, white against the deep dark of the loch. The wind-blown sky changing constantly, like the sea. The first raindrops begin to fall on hills now purple. Wind whips washing on a line.

  Joy.

  Joy.

  My chair creaks. You stir. I look up from my sewing and gaze at your dozing profile, your beauty still a visceral blow.

  I shake my head in habitual disbelief, that you should be here, with me, that you should be you.

  What is it that moves me so? Your eyes are closed, your body clothed, your hands, frosted with golden hairs, lie limp, sculpted in your lap, but my breath comes unevenly. I think it impossible to withstand the assault, if it comes, of your open eyes. I will not be able to contain the intensity, the immensity of what I feel for you. Not simple love, nor simpler lust, but an overwhelming need for you that I fear will annihilate me, or at least unfit me for my normal existence of making tea, cooking supper, feeding cats.

  Your eyes open slowly, reluctantly and you breathe deeply. Your chest rises and falls and I note, with tender irrelevance, a loose button suspended on a wisp of thread.

  If you do not touch me, hold me now, Gavin, I shall surely die...

  I remember the banality of love.

  ~

  Calum shifts in his chair. ‘You're thinking of Gavin.’

  Rose looks up from her sewing, startled. ‘Yes, I was. How did you know?’

  ‘A look in your eye. And your breathing changed. I’m getting to know the signs.’

  ‘I was thinking of Gavin, yes,’ Rose examines her stitching closely. ‘But I wasn’t wanting him.’ She looks up, into Calum’s eyes, a darker, brighter blue than Gavin’s. ‘I was remembering... Remembering a time when I did want him. Very badly.’

  ‘And what put that in your head?’

  Rose arches her brows. ‘I can’t imagine,’ she says primly, but the corners of her mouth are twitching. Calum sinks down into his armchair, smiling. She gives him a beady look. ‘I suppose you’re going to sit there now looking insufferably smug.’

  He laughs and shakes his head. ‘Never underestimate the size of the Highlander’s inferiority complex. No, I was just thinking of the old hippy excuse for sexual promiscuity.’

  Rose frowns. ‘Remind this old hippy.’

  ‘If you can’t be with the one you love, then love the one you’re with.’

  Megan puts her head round the door and calls, ‘Who’s for coffee?’

  ~

  Calum has gone. The two women sit either side of his empty chair. Megan yawns.

  ‘Tired?’

  ‘Mmm... It’s very late.’

  ‘Yes. I tend to be a bit of a night owl. You don't need to keep me company, you know.’

  ‘I don’t think I can be bothered to move... You know, I’ve been trying to figure out what it is that’s odd about this house.’

  ‘Odd? In what way?’

  ‘Well, there’s something I can’t quite put my finger on. It's full of all the old familiar things - the kitchen table, this armchair, the quilts...’

  ‘There are lots of new things too. Well, new to you. They’re actually second-hand.’

  ‘Yes, but they’re your style. They go with all the old stuff. Our old stuff. They blend in, so everything seems very familiar.’

  ‘So what’s odd? Have you worked it out yet?’

  Megan looks around the room, puzzled. Rose remembers games of I-spy and a cross little face. She realises then what Megan means about the room, knows what she is about to say, but it is too la
te to change the subject.

  ‘There are no photographs!’ Megan says triumphantly.

  ‘No. There aren’t.’

  ‘There isn’t a single one anywhere! Our house used to be full of photos, do you remember? My baby photos and school photos - I hated them but you always bought them. And there were holiday photos with Penny and John at Whitby... and we had photos of you winning prizes and cups for your quilts. You used to hide them behind the letter-rack on the mantelpiece. And there were loads of photos of Gavin on his expedit—’

  The words die on Megan’s lips and she puts her hand over her mouth. Neither woman speaks for several moments.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum... Oh, God, how could I be so stupid!’

  ‘It’s okay, Megan. I could see where this conversation was going to end up, I just couldn’t divert it in time.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking! I was just making conversation, remembering how things used to be, before...’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Rose puts her sewing down and takes a deep breath. ‘There are no photos. I destroyed every photo of Gavin I could lay my hands on, even the expedition team shots. All those hopeful, shining faces, smiling for posterity. Some of them were my friends and some of them never returned.’ Her voice catches. ‘I can’t believe I did that. I must have been mad. But then, as I recall, I was.’

  ‘Mum—’

  Rose ignores her. ‘I destroyed all the holiday photos I took of you and Gavin. Afterwards I realised I hadn’t actually had many photos that didn’t include Gavin.’ She smiles. ‘Do you remember how he’d always hog the camera? He was so bloody photogenic - and didn’t he know it! After I’d destroyed all the evidence, all I could see was gaps, blank spaces where my life had been. So I took down all the rest of the photos, the ones that weren’t of Gavin - there weren’t that many - and put them away in a box. They’re in my bedroom somewhere. It was a great relief really, not to have my past staring back at me, not ever having to look at the great gaping hole where Gavin had been.’ She pauses. ‘I suppose you still have some photos of him?’