Emotional Geology

by Linda Gillard

  ‘You’ll die of boredom.’

  ‘Two creative artists living and working together, arguing and having brilliant sex? How bad can that be? I think living with you will be all the excitement I can handle, Rose.’

  ‘There’d be no children.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t want them, never have. It drove a wedge between me and Alison and I still feel the same way. Children are my work, a huge part of my life, but I’d have nothing left to give my own. Being able to write is what matters to me most. That’s who I am. Bairns and poetry have never seemed compatible to me.’

  ‘I’ll drive you mad.’

  ‘We’ll see. If you can’t beat them, join them.’

  ‘Don’t joke about it, Calum. It wears people out! It wears them down. All my friends walked away.’

  ‘What wears folk out is the wanting, Rose - wanting things to be different. Better. I don’t want that. I don’t want to change you. I don’t want you ‘cured’. I love you the way you are. It won’t wear me out. I know there’s a price to be paid for what I want. Maybe it’s a high price, but I’m prepared to pay it. Seems like a bargain to me.’

  ‘I wanted to do it on my own. It seemed the only way. The safest way.’

  ‘Maybe you could go it alone, but it will be so much harder. And riskier. If I support you emotionally I know you’ll find things easier.’

  ‘And if you let me down it could kill me.’

  ‘Aye... which is why I never will you let you down. I’m not having any more folk dying on me.’ There is a long silence in which we both stand quite still and wait, conscious of the space between us, the gulf. Calum does not take his eyes from mine. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well... it’s the best offer I’ve had this year. Ever, in fact... So I feel inclined to accept. And it will make two men very happy.’

  ‘Who’s the other?’

  ‘My psychiatrist.’

  Calum lunges and pulls me into his arms. As we kiss we are laughing, crying, both unsteady on our feet. I take his face in my hands and spread my fingers over his parted lips to stem the flow of kisses.

  ‘Calum, will you take me home? And... will you please stay?’

  ‘I’m no’ wearing those fancy pyjamas again.’

  ‘You looked very nice in them.’

  ‘How would you know? You were out of your head.’

  ‘Anyway you need have no worries on that score. I shall require you to take off all your clothes this time. And mine.’

  He strokes my throat and moves his hand downwards inside my shirt, caressing my bare shoulder. His long fingers hover above my breasts as he rapidly undoes my shirt buttons. ‘Do we have to go to yours? I’m not sure I can walk in this state of excitement.’

  I grasp both his hands. ‘It’s bloody symbolic! I can’t actually carry you over the threshold, but I’m inviting you into my home. Into my bed. Into my life... God, I must be stark, staring mad.’

  ‘Probably. The funny thing is, I don’t actually mind if you are.’

  ~

  When we arrive at my house Calum steps in front of me and opens the front door. He reaches in and switches on the hall light, then turns back to me, lifts me as easily as if I were a rucksack and carries me over the threshold. He kicks the door shut behind him and begins to climb the stairs. I cling on round his neck, remembering the quantity of whisky he has drunk.

  ‘Be careful, Calum. Hadn’t you better put me down?’

  ‘No. Not till we get to the bedroom.’

  ‘It’s in a terrible mess... I haven’t tidied for a week. You’ll have to plough through heaps of my dirty underwear.’

  ‘Ploughing through your underwear was exactly what I had in mind...’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Grenitote, North Uist, Western Isles

  March 28th

  My dear Megan,

  Thanks for your postcard. I can’t tell you how pleased I am you’ve decided to go back to college. I’m sure you won’t regret it. Qualifications are bound to lead to more job opportunities for you.

  I have some news I think you might be pleased to hear. Calum has moved in with me and we’re very happy together. Most of his possessions are still in the caravan and that may be where they will stay for the moment as we’re now rather cramped in my little house. But he’s now based here with me and we hope this will be a permanent arrangement. With his job I have to keep fairly regular hours now, so we take it in turns to cook proper meals. All in all, I think Calum being around will be good for me. (For him too - he’s drinking a lot less.)

  Shona and Donald are both well and send their love. Last week poor Aly fell and broke his wrist playing football. He’s livid because it was his left wrist so he still has to do homework. In her quest for fitness Shona has abandoned ceilidh-robics and taken up line-dancing. She’s a sight to behold in her cowgirl outfit! As she herself would say, ‘A blind man would be glad to see it.’

  I enclose your invitation to the exhibition in Lochmaddy. It will be nice if you can come, but don’t worry if you can’t manage it. Someone from the local radio station is going to interview us (I hope not in Gaelic!) and Calum’s publisher is talking about bringing out a book of the new poems using one of my quilts on the cover, which is very exciting. A local photographer is taking photos of the quilts and I’m having some postcards made to sell at the exhibition.

  I’ve decided to make a sort of pilgrimage to Skye to pay my respects to Gavin. I want to stand at the foot of the Cuillins again and see where his ashes were scattered. Calum insists on coming with me. We’re going at the end of term and staying for a few days. Calum will introduce me to the rest of the team who brought Gavin down. I know this all sounds rather grim but after a lot of thought I decided it’s something I want to do - need to do - before getting on with the rest of my life.

  I hope to see you in June if you can make it. Take good care of yourself.

  Much love,

  Mum

  xxx

  PS Calum was pleased to hear you’re going back to college and sends his love.

  ~

  Calum and I set off for Skye on an April morning. He says he will drive as he knows the Skye roads better than me and his car is more comfortable than mine. What he really means is, I will have enough to think about when we get there. Yet another example of the invisible care to which I am gradually - and gratefully - becoming accustomed.

  The MV Hebrides leaves Lochmaddy bathed in sunshine and sails due east across the Little Minch for nearly two hours, towards Uig on the north-west coast of Skye. It is only when you leave the Western Isles and try to get somewhere else that you realise - in UK terms - you’re living at the edge of the world. Uig is still a good hour’s drive from mainland Scotland, now connected to the Isle of Skye by a controversial bridge. On the other side of the bridge we still have but a toehold on civilisation since it would take another two hours to drive to the nearest Marks & Spencer’s in Inverness, at a latitude north of Moscow.

  Nevertheless I prepare myself for the culture shock of Skye where, most noticeably, there will be traffic going in both directions - a novelty after our sedate single-track roads on Uist - and Calum will have to try to remember the procedure for overtaking. I’m looking forward to the luxury of a supermarket larger than a corner shop, a choice of cafés and - oh joy! - a bookshop.

  And of course the mountains... My feelings as the Hebrides sails into the gigantic amphitheatre of Uig Bay are mixed, but among them is a fizzing excitement at the thought of seeing the Cuillins at close quarters again.

  As the vessel approaches the village of Uig, the odd contours of Skye strike me once more: the strange angularity after the gentle slopes and curves of Uist. Once again the landscape seems to me somehow male: the sudden corners of escarpments, the steep drops of sea-cliffs, the projecting grassy knolls seem to me to suggest the limbs and joints of a giant recumbent body - shoulders, elbows, knees. These topographical features jar an eye accustomed to the graceful undulations of Uist,
but they are none the less beautiful and stirring for that.

  Rain falls on Uig and the pewter sea churns sickeningly as we disembark. On the steep green slopes white houses are scattered randomly, like sheep grazing on a hillside. They look tiny, clean and bright, a Toy Town village. As Calum’s car crawls out of the belly of the ship and we clank over the metal ramp onto the Isle of Skye, he asks, ‘Straight to Sligachan? Or a spot of retail therapy in Portree?’ That consideration again. He wants to give me time to prepare.

  ‘No... Straight to Sligachan, please. Let’s get it over with.’

  ~

  The road climbs up out of Uig and skirts the west coast of Skye’s Trotternish peninsula. Despite their height of three thousand feet, the Cuillins are not immediately visible, even when good weather conditions prevail. Soon, on our right, we can see Macleod’s Tables, twin hills, weirdly flat-topped, one larger than the other: Healabhal Mhor and Healabhal Bheag - Big and Little Healabhal in Gaelic.

  Calum turns to me. ‘You know the story? About Macleod’s Tables?’

  ‘Vaguely. Some nocturnal picnic wasn’t it?’

  ‘Aye. Alasdair Crotach - that’s Aly the Hunchback to you - seventh Chief of the Clan MacLeod was entertained to dinner by some Edinburgh big shots. He’d scrubbed up well for a Teuchter and they were impressed by his fine manners, but they decided to give him a hard time anyway... They scoffed at his supposedly primitive living arrangements on Skye and boasted that nothing on Skye could compete with the civilised elegance of Edinburgh.’

  ‘A sentiment still echoed by many,’ I add, smiling, as Calum gets into his stride.

  ‘The clan chief replied that, on the contrary, on Skye he had a larger table, a more beautifully decorated ceiling and much more impressive lighting. He invited the sceptical Lowlanders to dine with him at his ancestral home. On the evening in question the fine gentlemen were escorted to the summit of Healabhal Mhor where, under a starry night sky, the hill’s flat top was laid with food and wine while Macleod retainers stood about with flaming torches to illuminate the scene. History does not relate, but I’ve no doubt the menu included humble pie.’

  The Cuillin ridge isn’t visible until we reach the Kingsburgh turn-off, then looking south, we see the entire jagged holly-leaf ridge, miraculously visible on this wet April day. (Unlucky tourists can spend a week on Skye and remain unaware that it possesses a world-class mountain range. Not for nothing is Skye known as Eilean a’ Cheo - The Misty Isle.)

  ‘There’s the ridge,’ Calum remarks.

  ‘Yes.’ My eyes fill and I look away. The first of the new lambs gambol ridiculously in the fields, undaunted by the rain. ‘Keep talking, Calum. Please. Anything. I don’t want to think.’

  With no hesitation - perhaps he has prepared a speech for just such an eventuality? - Calum launches into a lecture on the Cuillins, somehow avoiding any reference to mountaineering. The man is a wonder.

  ‘The name “Cuillin” is very interesting, etymologically speaking. The locals like to believe it derives from the Gaelic cuilionn meaning ‘holly’ but the name is more than likely derived from the Norse kjölen meaning “high mountain ridge”. It’s a freak landscape, there’s nothing else like it in Britain. It was formed when the Earth’s crust ruptured and billions of cubic feet of magma were spewed up from below. The magma formed a gigantic mountain massif several miles high. It’s hard to believe, but what we’re looking at now is just the remnants of a system of volcanoes, originally ten thousand feet high. Seven thousand feet have been eroded... Which just goes to show how bloody terrible the weather is on Skye.’

  ‘What’s it like Calum - being up there? Up on the ridge?’

  He pauses before answering. ‘In my impressionable youth I used to think it was better than sex.’ He shakes his head, then turns and grins at me. ‘Now I think I must have been sleeping with the wrong women.’

  ~

  At the Sligachan Inn we park in the shadow of the mountains. The tops are swathed in cloud now and as I get out of the car I look up to where I know Sgurr nan Gillean is hidden. As Calum takes our luggage out of the boot he looks at me. ‘You’re sure about this now?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. It’s not the mountains bothering me, actually. I didn’t think... The last time I stayed here I was with Gavin.’

  Calum says nothing but takes my hand and we present ourselves at Reception. A young girl leads us upstairs to our room. As she puts a key in the door, Calum turns to let me enter first. I hesitate, then cast my eyes down, at a loss.

  ‘Rose?’

  I look up at him in mute appeal. Calum meets my eyes and frowns. Then he turns back to the receptionist. ‘Do you have another room?’

  ‘Aye, but this one’s the best. You’ll have a grand view of the ridge.’

  ‘We’ll take another, please.’

  ‘No bother. If you’ll just wait here, I’ll get another key.’ She sets off down the stairs at a trot and I wait till she is out of earshot.

  ‘Thanks... Gavin and I—’

  ‘No need to explain. I’m not sharing any more beds with that guy.’

  ~

  Supper at the inn is a strangely sober affair. In the bar we are surrounded by hikers and climbers in various stages of hilarious inebriation, comparing notes on the day’s climbing and swapping travellers’ tales. Calum and I sit by the fire, mostly silent. I remember sitting next to him in front of Shona’s fire, having an altogether better time and I think how far we have come in just a couple of months. Calum doesn’t try to make conversation, for which I am grateful. Several men in the bar know him and he introduces me without explanation, which leads to a few speculative glances. He then skilfully fields most of the conversation so that I don’t have to explain why I am at Sligachan.

  After dinner, Calum asks if I feel like a walk. I have sensed the physical tension in him all evening. He has been drinking beer when I know he needed whisky. His edginess is palpable and understandable. Mountains hold as many memories for him as they do for me. He stands now with his shoulders hunched, his shaggy head slightly bowed, in that way he has of looking like a coiled spring, as if he is braced, preparing to do something difficult on a rock face. It suddenly occurs to me that I have never watched Calum climb. I wonder if I ever will. If I ever could.

  ‘Yes, let’s walk. I could do with some fresh air. It might help me sleep.’

  We wrap up, step outside the inn and walk over to the old disused bridge, the one that appears on the postcards and countless tourists’ photographs, encircled as it is by one of the most scenic and dramatic views in the world. The night is clear and cold and the navy sky is prodigal with stars. The mountains are still snow-capped and a nail-paring of moon picks out their ghostly, glittering peaks. The river Sligachan splashes and gurgles soothingly over smooth stones and I feel some of my tension begin to seep away. I place my hands on the rough, lichened stones of the bridge, try to draw strength from their antiquity.

  Calum stands behind me and encloses me in his arms. I lean back and rest my head on his chest, looking up towards Sgurr nan Gillean, the Peak of the Young Men, where Simon and Andy scattered Gavin’s ashes.

  Calum knows where I am looking. ‘Rose, if you’re wanting me to take you up there, I can’t do it. Not after Chris. You’re too precious to me.’

  ‘No, I don’t want to go, Calum. I’m sure I’m not nearly fit enough anyway. No, it’s bad enough down here on the ground, thinking about Gavin being up there. I just wanted to see... see where his ashes were scattered. I wanted to see his final resting place. Hard to imagine Gavin at rest... I’m not sure I ever witnessed that particular phenomenon.’

  Shouts and coarse laughter shatter the peace as men leave the bar arguing and weave their unsteady way over to the campsite. As Dave and Gavin must have done last summer.

  I talk to forestall tears. ‘I’m glad they cremated him. I mean, I’m sorry that there isn’t a grave, somewhere I could go, but I couldn’t have borne the thought of his body decaying. That is
so horrible - and so not Gavin! He was always fit and healthy. He never even got colds... Sorry Calum, this isn’t really fair on you.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ He buries his face in my hair and mumbles, ‘I’m alive. I can afford to be magnanimous.’ He tightens his arms around me. ‘This is a good place to end up, Rose. The best. It’s what I’d have wanted if I’d died on the hill. Or in a car accident, or of old age, for that matter. I’d want to be here. To have my bones mixed in with these stones. I envy the bastard in a way. He’s part of it now.’ After a moment’s silence Calum begins to recite softly in Gaelic.

  ‘Thar truaighe, eu-dòchas, gamhlas, cuilbheart,

  thar ciont is truaillidheachd, gu furachair,

  gu treunmhor chithear an Cuilithionn

  ’s e’g éirigh air taobh eile duilghe.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘It’s from a poem by Sorley Maclean.’

  ‘The Cuillin?’

  ‘Aye.’

  I turn in his arms to face him. ‘Would you translate for me?’

  ‘Beyond misery, despair, hatred, treachery,

  beyond guilt and defilement; watchful,

  heroic, the Cuillin is seen

  rising on the other side of sorrow.’

  I swallow hard and try to smile. ‘Gavin’s on the other side of sorrow now.’

  Calum nods, his face pale, uncertain in the moonlight. ‘Aye... So are we.’

  EPILOGUE

  I feel I belong now. A trite phrase, but how else can you describe the sense of being not an observer, but a component part of your surroundings? I do not feel separate from the land, from the sea, I feel a part of it all - albeit a tiny part. When I see a spectacular sunset here now, I feel no need to record the event with sketchbook or camera because I know I will see another and then another. Put like that, it sounds as if I take the beauty of my surroundings for granted. I don’t, but it has become an everyday miracle, like Calum’s love, like life itself. Each day when I wake up I am faintly surprised to find that I am still alive and not alone, to find that the sun has risen, the tide has come in and gone out again. And then I feel the connection once more, a visceral tug, a sense of belonging to the earth, being a part of its rhythms and power.