Emotional Geology

by Linda Gillard

  ‘No. It’s just different. Different medium, same message. More or less.’

  ‘What are you going to call it?’

  ‘Basalt 2, of course.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he says solemnly. ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘So you should be,’ Rose says briskly, suddenly embarrassed. ‘Imitation being the sincerest form of flattery. Let’s have some cake! Did you make some tea, Megan?’

  ‘Yes. Where do you want it?’

  ‘In the sitting room, please.’ Rose moves towards the door then looks back at Calum who seems reluctant to leave the hanging. She walks back and they stand side by side, surveying her work.

  ‘I’m so glad it speaks to you.’

  ‘Aye, it does. Volumes. It makes me feel - och, quite emotional. I feel like a proud new father!’ Rose laughs. ‘No, I do! That’s our wee bairn. I sowed the seed. And you’ve given birth.’ He shoots Rose a sidelong glance. ‘But I’ve thought of a better title.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Immaculate Conception.’

  ~

  Calum opens his birthday card (‘It looks like the Cuillin ridge. Was that intentional?’) and eats a second cup-cake. He declares turning forty has not been as traumatic as he feared.

  ‘Are you doing anything tonight to celebrate?’ Megan asks with an innocent smile. Rose glares at her in mute warning.

  ‘No, not particularly. My sister’s making pizza and we’re having a big family meal. It’s her birthday too next week.’

  ‘Is it indeed?’ Rose exclaims. ‘Well, she kept that quiet!’

  ‘Aye, that’s why I’ve told you. Shona doesn’t know yet, but I’m taking her and Donald out to dinner at The Dark Island Hotel on Friday - if I can get a sitter for the bairns, that is.’

  ‘I’ll do it. Why didn’t you ask me?’

  ‘I wasn’t hinting, Rose!’ He looks at her doubtfully. ‘They can be a bit of a handful, the four of them. Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all. I’d be delighted to do something for Shona. I’ll teach them to sew. Or they can play with my button box. Children always love that.’

  ‘That’d be grand. I’ll go ahead and book the table if you’re sure you’ll manage?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  Calum grins. ‘I can't wait to see Shona’s face. She’ll be so surprised.’ Rose and Megan smile and exchange glances of smug complicity.

  ~

  While Megan clears away the tea things Rose sees Calum to the door. She hands him her wrapped present. Calum looks surprised.

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Just a little something. I thought you might like to have it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Open it and see!’

  He tears away the tissue paper to reveal a roll of fabric, about the size of a tea towel. He unrolls the cloth and stares open-mouthed.

  ‘It’s the sample for Dunes, Luskentyre,’ Rose explains hurriedly. ‘The maquette I made before I tackled the real thing. I came across it in a box the other day and since I really have no use for it I thought you might like to have it.’ Calum is still silent, so Rose prattles on. ‘It’s not quite the same as the full-size one. I think I managed to improve on this a bit. The reclining figure is a bit too obvious in this version, don’t you think?’ She grinds to a halt.

  Calum looks up at last. ‘You’re giving me this?’

  ‘Yes. I’d like you to have it. I know you’ll appreciate it, even though it’s only a practice piece.’

  ‘It’s a bloody work of art, woman! Rose, I am more pleased than I can say. Thank you!’ He ducks his head and kisses her swiftly on the mouth.

  ‘Happy Birthday,’ she replies faintly.

  ~

  Later, while Megan occupies the bathroom for what seems like a very long time, Rose opens her wardrobe doors and rifles through the few clothes she now owns. These consist of a strange mix of the eminently practical and the wildly romantic. Thick woollen jumpers, jeans, tweed skirts and a black suit co-exist alongside ruffled gypsy blouses, tiered velvet skirts and dresses ranging from a beaded 1920s number to a 1960s Indian kaftan. Rose could bear to part with none of these, even though she knew she would almost certainly never have opportunities to wear them. She strokes the dresses on their hangers, then selects a calf-length black woollen skirt and a red chenille jumper and lays them on the bed.

  Megan appears at the bedroom door, pink and tousled, wrapped in a towel. ‘Bathroom’s free! Can I come and get dressed in here?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Come and see if you can find anything to wear.’

  ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘Oh, just a jumper and skirt.’ Rose indicates her outfit with a wave of her hand.

  Megan pulls a face. ‘Mum, it’s a party. Aren’t you going to dress up a bit?’

  ‘People don’t dress up very much here.’

  ‘I’m sure Shona will,’ Megan says, suppressing a shudder.

  ‘Anyway, it’s quite a nice jumper... And it’s red,’ Rose adds uncertainly.

  Megan ignores her and starts to rattle coat-hangers. ‘You’ve got so many lovely things! Why on earth don’t you wear them?’

  ‘I didn’t keep them to wear, I kept them because I couldn’t bear to part with them. I’ve kept them as textiles really.’

  Megan pulls a black and white polka-dot dress from the wardrobe. ‘Oh, I used to love this. Wear this!’

  ‘It’s a 1950s sun-dress, Megan.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s got the bolero jacket to match. You can wear that on top.’

  ‘It’s too low-cut.’

  ‘Rubbish. If you’ve got it, flaunt it. You look terrific in this. I remember.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes. You wore it on that holiday in Crete.’

  ‘And I haven’t worn it since. I don’t suppose it still fits me anyway.’

  ‘Try it on.’

  Rose looks longingly at the dress and then at her skirt and jumper lying on the bed. ‘I suppose I might be too hot in a jumper.’

  ‘Of course you will. There’ll be loads of people there so it’s bound to be warm.’

  ‘Well, I’ll try it on. But if I look ridiculous, you will say, won’t you? I’d hate to look like mutton dressed as lamb.’

  ‘No chance. But if you do, I’ll tell you.’

  ~

  An hour later the two women are dressed, be-jewelled and made-up. Megan has chosen a tie-dyed flame silk tunic to wear over her own black trousers, with a string of Rose’s jet beads. Rose has been prevailed upon to wear the ’50s dress and jacket. She regards her image in the mirror doubtfully. ‘I still think it’s too low-cut. For a woman of my age, I mean.’

  ‘It isn’t, Mum, it’s just that your boobs haven’t seen the light of day for years. Honestly, you look great! Gavin used to love you in that outfit.’ There is a tense silence that Megan rushes to fill. ‘Shall we have a drink before we go? There’s the remains of a bottle in the fridge.’

  Without waiting for an answer Megan heads for the kitchen. Rose fiddles with her hair, removes her earrings, then puts them back on again. She plucks at the bodice of the dress in an attempt to reveal less cleavage but gains only a millimetre or two of extra coverage. She makes a mental note not to lean forward in the course of the evening.

  Megan reappears with two glasses of wine. ‘Here’s to us! Aren’t we a gorgeous pair? The men of North Uist won’t know what’s hit them.’ Rose, unconvinced, smiles dutifully and raises the glass to her lips. Her expression changes suddenly and she lowers her glass. Megan frowns. ‘What’s the matter, Mum? Are you all right?’

  ‘It’s nothing. I just - I think I’ll just sit down for a bit.’

  ‘What is it? Are you ill?’

  ‘No, really, I’m all right, Megan. Sorry, I just suddenly had a horrible thought.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was just thinking about Calum and his climbing mates... Then I thought, wouldn't it be dreadful if Gavin turned up?’
<
br />   ‘Oh, Mum!’ Megan squeezes her mother’s hand. ‘He won’t be there.’ Her eyes flood. ‘You really mustn’t worry. I promise you, Gavin won’t be there... ’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  At a quarter to eight Shona is orchestrating the lighting of our candles. Light bulbs have been removed from the kitchen and sitting room so Calum cannot turn on lights when he arrives. There must be fifty people crowded into the torch-lit sitting room and hallway. Children and some of the women are sitting on laps; the bulkiest men have been banished to sit on the stairs and Shona’s brood have been herded together at the entrance to the room. Four-year-old Fergus is asleep in Donald’s arms, oblivious.

  Shona hands out white candles to most of the assembly. ‘Stand by with your lighters and matches everybody and light your candles as quick as you can when I start to sing. Murdo, have you got that bucket of water handy?’

  ‘Aye-aye, Captain.’ A sharp salute from young Murdo McLean, our part-time policeman, teased unmercifully for his movie-star good looks and devotion to body-building. Megan has clocked him already.

  ‘I doubt we’ll be needing the water, Murdo, but just in case. Now, remember, nobody is to move while the candles are lit - and you’ll know right enough when to blow them out. Rob and Uilleam, will you have the light-bulbs at the ready?’ Rob MacDonald and Uilleam Campbell, the tallest of Calum’s old school friends, are positioned under lampshades. ‘Get those bulbs back in before the candles go out, boys... Aly, when the lights go on, that’s the signal for you and the weans to throw those streamers, okay? Try and throw them over Calum if you can.’ Shona pats her chest nervously, breathless with excitement and anticipation. ‘Now all we have to do is wait for himself.’

  ‘Supposing he’s late?’ Aly asks anxiously.

  Shona whoops with laughter and pats Aly’s head. ‘My wee brother has never been late for food in his life! Wheesht! I think I can hear him. Hush, everyone. Candles at the ready...’

  We hear the back door open. Calum calls out in Gaelic. Silence. There are several clicks as he tries the kitchen light switch. In the darkness I hear stifled giggles. Calum calls out again. Footsteps approach and the door handle rattles. I think the children are going to lose it, but they stand firm.

  ‘Shona?’ Calum’s voice in the darkness and the frantic flicking of a switch. A beautiful clear soprano voice starts to sing ‘Happy Birthday’. One by one forty candles light up till the room looks like a giant birthday cake. Calum emerges gradually from the darkness, his eyes wide, jaw dropped. As the last note sounds, the children shriek, ‘Make a wish! Make a wish!’

  Calum shuts his eyes, then, pantomime-style, blows towards the forty candles. We each blow out our candle, electric light returns and Aly yells ‘Now!’ The children pelt Calum with streamers as a contingent from the Skye Mountain Rescue Team launch into a rousing chorus of For he's a jolly good fellow, accompanied by Shona on kazoo.

  Calum is speechless.

  ~

  The Mountain Rescue Team present Calum with a magnum of champagne and an obscene greetings card, which he refuses to show to any female guest. In the kitchen there is much ribald laughter when Calum grasps the bottle and starts to open it. Shona, removing a tray of sausage rolls from the oven, says archly, ‘If you’re intending to do what they do at the end of the Grand Prix, Calum, I’ll thank you to take the bottle outside. I expected to have to wash the floor but I’ll no’ be washing the ceiling.’

  Calum’s handling of the bottle is a model of circumspection, but as the wine starts to erupt, a roar goes up from his audience. He lifts the giant bottle with both hands and drinks. Foam trickles out of the corners of his mouth, down over his chin and soaks the front of his jumper.

  Shona ‘tuts’ half-heartedly.

  ~

  The sitting-room is thick with cigarette smoke and the reek of beer and whisky, living - rather than healthy living - being the Hebrideans’ priority. Donald circulates with a bottle repeating like a mantra his personal philosophy: ‘It's no health if the glass is not emptied!’

  Shona, resplendent in a Caribbean cocktail of bright colours, surveys the scene with evident satisfaction until she spies some dirty plates on the laden table. She swoops down on them and retreats to the kitchen, shaking her head and announcing to nobody in particular, ‘Och, beauty won’t boil the pot...’

  ~

  Rose picks a streamer out of Calum’s hair.

  ‘I suppose you knew about all this, Rose?’

  ‘Of course. You’re eating my lasagne.’

  ‘You made this? It’s delicious.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  A slight, awkward pause filled by Abba’s Dancing Queen.

  ‘You look beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She looks down at her dress, smoothing it nervously over her thighs. ‘It was Megan’s choice actually.’

  Another awkward silence. Calum sets down his empty plate. ‘Do you want to know what I wished for, Rose?’

  ‘No, I don't think so. In any case, I think I can probably guess...’

  ~

  Little Kenny MacNeill saunters over to Rose, nursing a can of Coke.

  ‘Hello, Miss.’

  ‘Hello, Kenny! How nice to see you.’

  ‘Great party!’

  ‘Yes, it is. Are you enjoying yourself?’

  ‘Aye, Miss.’

  ‘Call me Rose, Kenny.’

  ‘Thanks, Miss. Sorry - Rose.’

  ‘I enjoyed your poem, Kenny. Mr. Morrison let me have a copy. Did he tell you we’d like to feature it in the exhibition?’

  Kenny looks puzzled and faintly suspicious. ‘Why, Miss?’

  ‘Because we like it! And we like it because it’s good! It’s an excellent poem, Kenny.’

  ‘Thanks, Miss.’ Kenny is silent as he tries to assimilate this new and astonishing piece of information.

  ‘Miss?’

  ‘Rose.’

  ‘Rose - do you know of any footballers that write poetry?’

  Rose treads carefully. ‘No, Ken, I don’t believe I do. But lots of poets play football. Mr Morrison for one.’

  ‘But he’s crap, Miss.’

  ‘As a poet or a footballer?’

  ‘Footballer, Miss.’ Kenny drains his can with a flourish and says ‘His poetry’s no’ so bad...’

  ~

  ‘I’ve been having a discussion with one of your critics.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Kenny.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He says you’re a crap footballer.’

  ‘Aye, true enough.’

  ‘But you’ll be pleased to hear he thinks your poetry is “no’ so bad”.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Kenny MacNeill said that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Calum beams. ‘I’ve arrived!’

  ~

  Abba have given way to Gloria Gaynor who is assuring us fortissimo that she will survive. I speculate as to whose record collection we are listening to and decide it must be Shona's.

  Dr. Kerr is drinking lemonade alongside Angus the Post, who looks as if he’d prefer to be drinking in more congenial company. As I pass, they both nod and, switching to English, enquire after my health. Hot Chocolate launch into You Sexy Thing and I suspect the Mountain Rescue team of importing seditious CDs. Angus taps his foot discreetly.

  Dr. Kerr inclines his tall, unbending frame towards me. ‘I was just remarking to Angus, Rose, on the detrimental effects of the causeways that now link the Uists.’

  ‘Oh? I thought everyone was pleased you no longer had to wade across at low tide. That used to be pretty dangerous didn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed, but now there are dangers of a different kind.’

  ‘The traffic you mean?’

  ‘I was referring to dangers of a less temporal nature, Rose,’ Dr. Kerr says loftily.

  Angus catches my eye. His are twinkling. ‘Dr. Kerr was alluding, Rose, to the peril of spiritual decline.’

>   ‘Eternal damnation, Angus - no less!’

  ‘I’m sorry? I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘From North Uist, Rose, it is now but a short step to Benbecula,’ Dr. Kerr explains, referring to the neighbouring island, ‘and from Benbecula another short step to the Catholic shores of South Uist, where one may shop on the Sabbath.’ Dr. Kerr pauses to allow the full horror to sink in. He continues. ‘One may - so I am told - even rent videotapes on the Sabbath, so it goes without saying that there will be washing hung out to dry, crofts being worked, business transactions and the like, all taking place on the Lord’s Day. We always knew such things went on,’ says Dr. Kerr in a tone that hints at institutionalised Devil worship, ‘but now with the causeways, it is all too easy for the rot to spread, for folk to travel and observe the free and easy ways of the south. It can only weaken the moral fibre of the islands. Is that not so, Angus?’

  ‘Aye, these are terrible godless times we live in.’ Angus rubs his nose in a vain attempt to disguise a smile. ‘So you be careful now, Rose, when you go gadding about in your automobile, lest you be drawn into sin by the fleshpots of South Uist.’

  ‘Oh, I will, Angus, I'll definitely bear that in mind. Would you two gentlemen excuse me? I think Shona needs some help in the kitchen...’

  ~

  Calum is deep in Gaelic conversation with Murdo McLean. Megan is eyeing them both from across the room whilst jiving with Eilidh. Murdo gesticulates with his whisky glass; Calum nods, says something barely audible out of the corner of his mouth. Murdo laughs uproariously and punches Calum on the upper arm. He staggers slightly, nods again, unsmiling, then empties his glass.

  The more Calum drinks, the more judicially sober he appears.

  ~

  I have tucked myself away in a dark corner. The room has begun to spin and I close my eyes.