Mosaic

by Caro Ramsay

  This is the look I am after.

  I am looking at Estée Lauder and then at Chanel, where it costs more for a lipstick than my mum spends in Lidl for a week’s shopping. I see a lipstick called nude. What’s the point of that? But it’s very Melissa. I think it will do me fine so I lift up the tester and hold it against my lips, looking obviously at the mirror while looking like somebody that hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks. There’s a range of eye shadow called neutrals ‘to enhance your natural beauty’. The assistant’s watching me carefully and the big sign above my head that says ‘poor’.

  I make a play of looking at two eye shadow pallets, holding them against my skin. Then a couple of lipstick testers having picked up a third brand-new tube without being seen, I mess about putting one on the back of my hand and peering at it as I palm a mascara with the other. I put two back and pretend to flick through the selection of small palettes appearing to be looking for something that would be exactly what I wanted. When I look up the counter girl is right in front of me, staring at me, hands on hips. Her black-rimmed Cleopatra eyes drift over my shoulder, I don’t need to be told that the security guard is fast approaching. I don’t give a shit, I have my trainers on, I can out run that fat, old bastard any day of the week.

  ‘Young lady, you are in big trouble.’

  She has no idea of the truth that comes out her puckered mouth, bright red like it was inflamed. She looks like a diseased trout ready for a surgical procedure in her immaculate white uniform. While I am sure I can run, I can also hear the crack of a radio. So they would be gathering at the doors, which makes escape difficult. I’d make for the emergency exit. If caught, they’d prosecute and I could be detained in young offenders, actually detained and locked up. Again. Bloody social workers trying to find my mother, curfews and locked doors, secrets and being abused by those that were paid to look after me. I clench my fist, narrow my eyes, I’d take them both down if needed.

  The trout’s moving its big gob again. ‘Big, big trouble. If you’d just like to …’ The next words were bound to be ‘accompany this gentleman to the office’. I sense the security guard bristling behind me, some code that means we have caught a right little tyke this time so watch the exits. There’s a stalemate, they can’t really do anything as I have not attempted to leave the store with the booty in my pocket but I can’t exactly take it out and put it back while I am in this trout security guard sandwich.

  There’s a stand-off while I consider my lack of options.

  ‘Carla?’ It was a question, not a summons. I don’t recognize the voice but I do know the ease of confidence that glides up beside me. ‘Did you get it? Sorry I got held up, the doctor was running late.’ Then Megan Melvick only goes and picks up the eye shadow pallet I had been looking at. ‘Was this the one you thought was best?’ She holds it up and peers at it.

  That I can answer. ‘Yes, but it’s a fifty-fifty between that and that.’ My grubby little fingernail points at the first one sitting back in its shining black slot.

  Megan then points at the lipstick. She had been watching me. What a fucking double act we are.

  ‘That one is Nude but I didn’t know if that’s what you were after?’ I shrug. ‘Sometimes it’s more of a pink than a beige.’

  Megan, I notice, is totally ignoring both the assistant and the security guard who are silently wrong-footed by this turn of events. The appearance of somebody my age wearing cashmere and speaking posh is confusing them.

  ‘To be on the safe side, let’s take both.’ She selects the palette I had been looking at, and one that was slightly darker. ‘And yes to the Nude lipstick’ – she shows it to the assistant – ‘do you have this in the long lasting matt? The gloss finish always looks so cheap, don’t you think.’ Megan says this with a straight face as the diseased trout nods, blissfully unaware of the insult to her huge shiny scarlet gob.

  ‘Well, we have a shade very close.’

  ‘Pardon?’ says Megan, twisting her head towards the till.

  ‘She’s deaf, she has to lip-read,’ I say, having no idea if it was true but if it was, Megan isn’t going to hear anyway. I repeat what the diseased trout had said to Megan.

  ‘That’s would be great, thanks.’ Then Megan says with a straight face, ‘And a mascara, Carla, what do you think? It will be a long time before we are back on the mainland.’

  ‘What about this?’ I point at the gap in the display. I had already lifted it. They will know one is missing.

  ‘I think blue black rather than just black,’ Megan tells the assistant, forcing her to lean forward towards us and pick one up, the long scarlet talons scrubbling around as Megan opens her handbag, Burberry of course, opens a leather purse and pulls out three crisp twenties.

  ‘Yes, well you know her better than me,’ which is totally truthful as I have no idea what fictional person has employed us as their personal shoppers. The one I had nicked might have been green for all that I knew, I had just lifted the closest one.

  The assistant makes a nice little bundle of our purchases, firing her scanner over the barcodes, smiling. The tables have turned. It’s all about the nonchalance as Megan hands over the cash without looking at the assistant; the red-mouthed trout is an irrelevance now. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I lost track of time,’ I say, playing along. ‘I went for a coffee in Starbucks.’

  ‘Sorry, you must have been bored.’ She turns as the assistant hands her the change. ‘That’s lovely.’ A smile and a nod, a hand takes the small paper bag that’s almost handed over but then retracted.

  My heart misses a beat, shit. Shit shit shit shit.

  ‘Would you like a few samples?’ Trout opens the bag again, looking right at Megan.

  ‘No, thank you,’ says Megan, reaching for the bag and my arm. ‘We need to go upstairs and collect Mummy at Jaeger.’ She says thanks, goodbye then marches me round the shop to find the central stairs.

  Then she whispers in my ear. ‘That mascara in your pocket? Dump it before we leave the store, will you?’

  Like I said, what a fucking double act we were.

  Megan

  There was an idyllic perfection about the Benbrae, so at odds with the traumatic memories, which made it seem like paradise had been defiled. I knew I should have been trying to confront these memories, I had been running for too long. I was being a coward. Carla was so much braver than me, the heart of a lion. And the teeth of a tenacious ferret.

  I wished Mum was here. Dad was in his study making phone calls. Just putting the news about Melissa out on the grapevine so that Mum might pick it up. Somebody had to know where she was.

  Molly bounded behind me, Anastasia trotting along, keeping up as we set off to the Benbrae, knowing that more memories needed to be dealt with and this seemed as good a time as any. The sun was splitting the sky, the heavens above a cornflower blue. I wanted to say hello to the few remaining ponies we had left.

  I sought out the dogs, the birds, the ponies and the colours of the summer flowers to calm my soul.

  Melissa had gone. It kept hitting me in the stomach. As much as it was difficult for me, I’m glad that I came back to say goodbye. We’d never had much in common to talk about, but she knew I was there at the end.

  Sorry.

  I stood at the fence, watching the ponies. Lorimer, the stallion lifted his head and strolled over to me, immediately, ears pricked, slowly lifting hoof after hoof. He was an old boy now. He nuzzled my hand, I pulled some grass for him and stroked his grey hairy face. Dad had texted me when Lorimer nearly died the year before, I think it was an attempt to get me to come home. The pony had taken ill during the winter, some nasty infection in his lungs, the vet had gone far and beyond to save him. He was cream coloured, like all the Benbrae ponies. He was my favourite type of Highland pony, a light brown dorsal line along his cappuccino back. Apart from his arthritic walk and a slight roll in his hip, there was little evidence of his age. He knew me and seemed glad to see me. I was always the
one to give him sugar lumps and gingernuts. Mum and Melissa were too strict. The two mares were out on the far field, both of them up at the fence, ears up, rubbing their necks on the upper strand of wire, wondering when I was going to go over and see them. Marple and Tuppence. We started with Poirot, of course, the first champion colt that mum bred, and he put her on the map as a breeder of some expertise. Then we had Queste and Pascoe. Pascoe grew too tall and became a pet for Melissa at her pony club events; I inherited him when Melissa gave up ponies for boys. But Poirot’s good blood, fine looks and friendly nature were all carried down the Benbrae bloodline and Queste was sold as a breeding stallion for a small fortune. I never viewed them as good or bad ponies, they were just the ponies. It broke my heart when one was sold because they were too tall or too small, their back was too curved or their coat was not the desirable shade of cream.

  Being rejected for an imperfection was a bit of a sore point with me.

  And I liked animals, especially dogs and horses with their pointy ears that perked, then swivelled like a satellite dish. Animal’s ears can act as an early-warning system for the deaf, their hearing was my hearing. I do believe in my heart that the family dogs of my childhood, especially Oodie, knew that I couldn’t hear as well as they did. They’d stare at me until I looked at them, then they’d turn away, ears pricked in the direction that they wanted me to look in. In a world where sound could be uncertain, they were my other sense.

  Molly and I, then Anastasia, set off towards our boating pond, the Benbrae. The boathouse has been rebuilt, now only for boats. Tom McEwan’s – Carla’s dad – old shed and the adjoining hut where he kept all his gardening stuff including the picnic trolley and the ride-on lawnmower, had been blown to bits. The Curlew 2 was out on the water, tied up onto the pontoon, but on a loose rope. The charred remains of the Curlew lie at the bottom of the pond, in a leafy dark grave. There was no wind or movement on the water. I stood for a minute looking across the surface which is the colour of polished almonds, kaleidoscoping in the bright sunshine. It had lost depth. No surprise, there had been solid sunshine for the last six weeks, the water table was dropping. We were lucky to be so close to the top of the sea loch, and the rain belt of the west coast.

  Past the boathouse, past the pontoon and the Curlew 2 sat the mosaic.

  Carla’s mosaic.

  It featured a sunflower, sunflowers, I corrected myself. Tiny fragments of coloured tiles fixed to a thick webbing. As individuals, they meant nothing, just fragments of tile and porcelain, a square of one colour here, a triangle of another there. But put it all together and it becomes a field of sunflowers against an azure sky. Had some debate about it at the time. Which way round it should go on the ground, facing the house or facing the water? The sort of thing that people argue about to avoid the bigger issue. In the end, I suggested that it should be circular and that the sunflowers should spread out from the middle.

  Everything else may be hidden and covert, but the mosaic was a constant and painful reminder of all that had gone bad for us. It’s difficult to recall exactly when that was. The wedding? The day we built the mosaic? The day Mum left? Now Melissa had died. Not bad for one little life.

  Molly trotted over the top of the mosaic, busy investigating the scent of something small and furry that had run over the tiles during the dark hours. The colours, the beautiful bright colours that remained so vivid despite the passing years. Carla should have got that chance. That hurt me more than the passing of Melissa. My sister drifted into her illness, by her own warped sense of self-worth.

  But Carla?

  There are times I think the suspicion runs deep and is eating away at each and every one of us like metastases.

  Molly turned and looked up the Long Drive, tail wagging, ears pricked, tongue out and looking keenly. Then I caught the scent of a Penhaligon’s aftershave, carried by a breeze I hadn’t even realized was there.

  I turned to wave to my father.

  ‘Are you OK, Megan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are you doing down here?’

  ‘Getting some fresh air.’ I tried not to snap back.

  ‘I’ve been in touch with Jago and the family. He’s driving up straight away. I said they could stay at the house. Are you OK with that?’

  Sometimes I wondered if he knew. ‘Of course, you have to do what you need to do. He’s still Melissa’s husband.’

  ‘It’s all just a bit difficult, with the way things were between them at the end.’

  ‘That was only because she was ill and not herself, Dad, if she had been OK they would still be together. I’m sure they loved each other really.’ My dad liked to use phrases such as love; love, commitment and duty. ‘How was Jago? With you, I mean?’

  Dad shrugged, we began to stroll along the bank, the dogs scampering around our feet. ‘He was upset, of course. But he had been expecting it. I’ve asked Deborah to get the rooms prepared.’

  ‘It might help us all, having a house full. I think it’s what Melissa would want, her friends and family all together.’ It was the very last thing that I wanted. Did Dad have any sense that Jago and I had history? If he thought Melissa’s death would smooth that over, he was very wrong. ‘Did he say what his plans are?’ I asked lightly.

  ‘He’ll be here for the funeral. It’s looking like Friday. He was saying that all the old gang will want to come. So he’s phoning round them.’

  ‘Of course. Any word from Mum?’

  ‘No. Not, yet.’ He rubbed his hands together, his tic of discomfort.

  I know I looked down at the mosaic at that point, I’m sure Dad’s eyes followed, both of us thinking exactly the same thing. Five years on and everybody will be here again, just as they were at Melissa’s wedding. Mum must come back. Those memories are painful, and I backhanded a tear from my cheek.

  Dad had walked up behind me, his hand rested on my upper back, in silent support.

  I was still looking at the sunflowers as I talked, my eyes following the stalks at the centre out to the bright yellow petals against the blue sky on the outside. ‘Dad, all this is about Melissa and Jago, and what you two want to do for her. I imagine a lot of her friends will want to stay here. Like the old days.’

  ‘Hardly.’ His voice was heavy with grief, that intense grief when it could have all been so different, there was nothing inevitable about all this.

  ‘Don’t you worry about the guests, Deborah and I will see to them.’

  Dad laughed a little, surprised at himself. ‘She is so good at that kind of thing, surprisingly.’

  ‘She does makes me smile, she reminds me of Carla so much. She sees no point in calling it a spade when it’s a fucking shovel, quote unquote.’

  ‘Megan!’ he remonstrated, a broad smile on his face.

  We both stood and looked over the quiet, silken water, the water boatmen, billowing clouds of early midges. Leave it until twilight falls and then the bats would come out for their midge buffet. Curlew 2 was starting to bob a little, the breeze disturbing the water. Overhead the rooks started to gather in the trees, noisy and unforgiving. They freaked me out.

  Dad looked up. ‘We will have to do something about them. I have no idea what gets into them when they start attacking the house. We’ll organize some shooting. We need to protect the eagles on the hill.’ For a moment, he was caught in profile, in shadow against the sky. A handsome man. He watched the rooks spinning in the sky, heading towards the house and then my eyes dropped to the Tentor Wood, thick and dark, no light penetrated there. The air immediately chilled.

  ‘You’re getting cold, Megan. Go back to the house, put a jumper on.’

  He talked to me like I was twelve and couldn’t think for myself. He put his arm round my shoulder. ‘I swear the Long Drive is getting longer,’ he said as we walked off the grass onto the gravel of the drive, ‘or maybe it’s just me getting older.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’

  Carla

  So here’s Megan, aged twenty,
with her father’s arms around her as they walk back from the Benbrae. I think a lot about the way they interact, the way his arm floats round her shoulder. At first, I found it really odd the way he touched her, like she was a girlfriend, or a possession.

  And there was Megan smothered by her family, to the extent she needed to get away from them but instead they left her one by one.

  Her dad, Ivan, was eminently shaggable, even though he was a bit of a coffin dodger. A handsome man with a handsome wallet, but he was rather formal, distant even if he was in the same room. Or close enough to look him in the eye. I wonder if he ever noticed that his wife was gone, or did the hired help tell him.

  That was three years ago. The wedding was two years before that, the engagement the year before. The village went into quiet hysteria when that was announced, and that the wedding was at Kilaird Kirk. And that the locals were invited.

  The wedding itself was piss funny. In the small, packed church, it was tense, silent except for the low droning voice of the minister. The sun had been baking the church all day, the service being in the late afternoon so the congregation was hot and uncomfortable in new shoes, borrowed kilts, hired suits and hats bought from charity shops. The tension knotted tighter as the hymns went on, then the ceremony started and everybody in the church had a quiet giggle as the minister read out Jago’s full name. It sounded like the football commentator reciting the entire line up. Plus subs.

  His first name was actually William, as in Bill or Willie. Megan and I were standing a little behind the couple, dressed in our bridesmaid gowns in a colour that had some high falutin name but meant light green. We had the same ring of garden flowers in our hair, the style being adjusted after we had mutinied by haircut. Megan spent most of the ceremony looking straight ahead so she wouldn’t laugh. But when the minister read out the name Montague, we happened to catch each other’s eye and I had to bite my lip so that I didn’t laugh out loud and add to the general snorting from the congregation.