There was a ring from the bookcase. She ran over and looked at the screen. Thinking of you. She didn’t recognise the number but it could only be Tom.
Her heart gave a leap. He’d contacted her. Thinking of you too. How are things? When are you coming back? Sarah x As she sent the message off she saw her hand was shaking. Tom had sent her a text; he was thinking of her. She held the phone close to her breast.
She jumped as she heard the key in the lock and Rory came in. ‘Come on, we’re going out. We’re filming HJ’s poetry evening at the Canongate Centre and he wants you to come too.’
Sarah started guiltily as if he could read the phone messages. ‘Now? I’m not dressed for going out.’
‘You look fine. Come on, we’ll be late.’ Sarah grabbed her coat and fluffed up her hair in front of the hall mirror, before obediently following Rory down the worn stone stairs.
The Canongate Centre was a decommissioned church which had been converted into an Arts Centre. The pews were removed, but otherwise little had changed from when it was in use. A small film crew was standing in a corner, adjusting the lamps. The beams of light emphasised the gothic curves and pillars and cast deep shadows over the drafty interior.
Where the altar had stood there was a raised podium and a gaunt figure with dreadlocks was reading from a crumpled paper. As he read in a staccato, breathless voice, Sarah could feel the anguish in the psychedelic whirr of words and images. The poet finished with a muted flourish and raised his eyes for the first time to the circle of watchers.
HJ Kidd was standing at the rear. ‘Danny, that’s brilliant. It lays bare your feelings and we share your pain.’ He paused and walked towards the bony frame of the poet, hunched over his paper, his dreadlocks falling over his face. ‘Look up, Danny. Your words have so much more impact when you raise your eyes and look into the faces of your listeners.’
Danny looked further down and muttered. ‘I want my words to speak for themselves. I write these words for me. I don’t care about the listener.’ He looked round at the cameraman and sound engineer. ‘And I can’t read with these wankers here. We’re not performing poodles. This isn’t what I came to the poetry group for.’
HJ moved towards him. ‘Your words are a wonderful gift. Share this with others. Other people can experience the release you felt when all your feelings were crystallised into words.’ HJ looked directly into the eyes of the tortured young man. ‘You have helped me. You inspired me to write again. What we have here is beautiful and we can share it with others through filming this programme.’
Danny shrugged his shoulders and went to join the small group sitting to the right of the podium. Rory leant over to Sarah. ‘We’ve got it all on camera. This is great television, showing what an inspiration HJ is.’
Sarah looked over at Danny’s hunched figure. Did Rory see everything in terms of great television?
After a moment’s pause, an overweight young man, with a round, childish face and a too-tight AC/DC T-shirt, walked in a determined way, head down, onto the podium. He clutched an exercise book tightly. Lifting his head he turned directly to the cameras. ‘Before I read my poem I want to say that it is HJ who’s given me the confidence to stand up and read my poetry. I was bullied at school, I had no friends, I stayed in my bedroom nearly all the time. Now I can write, I feel the tightness released from my chest. I can create something.’
Sarah looked at his eyes shining in the arch lights and glanced at Rory. Was this a set up? Rory was grinning and rubbing his hands together. ‘This is pure magic. I couldn’t have scripted it better myself.’
The poet began to read in a low, even voice. Sarah listened carefully. To her surprise it was a short, beautifully-crafted poem about autumn. In the hushed pause after he had finished, the image of melancholy, stark bare branches, and leaves crisping in the first frost on the black streaked pavement, stayed in her mind.
HJ appeared at Sarah’s side and put his arm round her shoulder. ‘Now you can see why this project is so important to me. Poetry has given young people like Neil a focus in life, has even saved lives in some instances.’
Sarah nodded and turned to face her old teacher. He was looking at her with concern in his deep blue eyes. ‘Sarah, I need your help. I agreed to this programme because of this project, because of the talent of these young people. I don’t want it to be about me. Or my family.’
He cleared his throat. ‘We’re estranged and it would only cause hurt if old wounds were reopened. I’ve asked Rory to stop asking about my family, but he’s a journalist; I’m not sure that he will do what I’ve asked.’
He paused again. ‘You have more influence with him than I, and I’m pleading with you to persuade him to back off. You’ve heard the talent of these young people and you can see how important this project is. I want Rory to go ahead with the programme, but my family has never understood me and I’m afraid that his digging up the past could stir up some things that should better remain forgotten.’
He pulled Sarah nearer towards him and and moved his face very close to hers. ‘Please, Sarah, do this for me.’
Sarah tried to move away. He was too close; she felt uncomfortable, but she nodded agreement and his mood immediately lightened.
‘And now watch this. Lara is going to be the star of the show.’
Sarah looked back at the stage and saw a beautiful girl in a long Indian cotton dress sitting on the edge of the stage. She looked about fourteen, but Sarah guessed that she was probably quite a bit older. Her long blonde hair swung over her face as she bent over her guitar and strummed a few chords.
In a surprisingly low voice she started to speak. She didn’t play as she recited a poignant story of love and rejection, and then finished with another haunting snatch of melody. The effect was electrifying. The girl looked up; there were tears glistening on her cheeks.
HJ moved over to her and embraced her, stroking her hair. ‘Lara, that was amazing.’ He held her at arm’s length and turned to the audience. ‘The power of words, ladies and gentlemen. You canna beat it!’ As he lapsed into the local vernacular the group of listeners laughed, and the tension of the moment was broken.
Rory was literally rubbing his hands together with glee. ‘Thank you all. This will make wonderful television.’ There was a ripple of applause and the camera crew began to dismantle their equipment. Sarah glanced at Rory, who was talking to HJ, and wondered if he would be prepared just to concentrate on the poetry and give up on the family angle.
As HJ and Rory stood together, Danny, the poet with dreadlocks, came towards them. He held out his hand to HJ and Sarah heard him muttering what sounded like an apology. As she moved closer she heard him more clearly. ‘Shouldn’t have burst out like that. You’re the greatest, HJ.’
Rory snapped his fingers towards the cameraman. ‘We have to get that on film. Danny can you say that again for us?’
Danny turned towards Rory and muttered vehemently. All Sarah could catch was ‘…you wanker.’
*
In Stornoway, Tom sat in a bar near the docks. After the bonfire he’d driven straight to the port, wanting to get off the island as quickly as possible. The next ferry was at six o’clock in the morning, so it was not worth paying for a hotel room. He parked in the queuing area behind a couple of vans and a German minibus and decided to sleep in the hire car. It was fortunate that the ferry operators had won the battle with the Kirk to be allowed to sail on the Sabbath, or he’d have been stuck on the island until Monday.
He walked towards the nearest bright light and found groups of fishermen and harbour workers sitting at formica tables in a plastic and laminate bar area. A huge television dominated one wall and a red-faced barman stood behind the long bar, gazing at the weather forecast. Tom ordered a beer and a whisky chaser and sat at a free table. The television and the voices of the other drinkers bounced round the spartan room, the strip lights on the ceiling accentuating the utilitarian atmosphere.
Tom drank quickly and ordered an
other round. The shadow of the half-formed suspicions about his father clouded his mood, but he pushed them to the back of his mind and thought of Sarah. She’d sent a message and tomorrow he’d be back in Edinburgh. He smiled at the thought. As the alcohol took effect, he ordered another whisky and concentrated on the memory of her kiss and the shape of her breasts under the soft woollen sweater.
Part 6
‘Be sure your sins will find you out.’ My father’s voice echoes through the gloom of the Free Presbyterian Church. I shiver uncomfortably on the hard wooden pew. His broad shoulders and huge leonine head loom over me from the pulpit, the outline made darker and more threatening by the light cast by the unstained window behind him. His eyes fix on me, his features distorted by rage.
‘We are all sinners. God wrote the Bible to warn of the consequences of sin, and to bid you flee from the wrath to come. The only salvation from sin comes by grace through faith in Jesus Christ.’ His voice rises for the final thundering verse. ‘For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who by their unrighteousness suppress the truth.’
*
Sarah got up from bed and took her dressing gown from the back of the door, not wanting to disturb Rory. After getting home from the Canongate, Sarah had told Rory what HJ had said about not wanting his family involved in the programme. Rory had laughed and tousled her hair, telling her to leave the television to him and he wouldn’t interfere with her housework.
Sarah knew it was no good arguing; she’d never been able to change his mind about anything. They’d gone to bed and Rory had turned to her. ‘You know, you should come to the filming again. It was good having you there.’ Sarah felt stupidly pleased by these few kind words and when she felt his hand moving to her breast their bodies moved together in the comforting rhythm perfected by their years together. But afterwards, she felt her father’s eyes glaring down at her in disgust.
Chapter 11
Sarah sat in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, as the grey morning light began to shine through the shutters. She felt so confused; she should be happy, she had an attractive husband, a lovely family, a beautiful home… but she couldn’t stop thinking about Tom.
Seeing him again made her remember how she’d fancied him when she was young. She’d been too shy to even admit the attraction to herself at the time and her parents had made it clear that anything to do with sex was dirty and unmentionable. But she had liked her best friend’s older brother. Perhaps if things had been different they would have gone out together, maybe even have married.
She shook herself. She must pull herself together; she was acting like a teenager. These thoughts were pointless. She was married, had responsibilities and it was Sunday again, which meant lunch. She stood up and mechanically started to gather together the ingredients. Rory was still asleep. She hoped he’d stay for lunch; it always made the atmosphere easier because her mother hung on his every word.
The phone rang, interrupting her thoughts. It was Lottie. ‘Mum, I just wanted to let you know that Liam and I aren’t coming to lunch today.’
Sarah gripped the receiver more tightly. ‘Oh, Lottie. You must.’
Lottie’s voice was firm. ‘No, we’re not coming. Liam doesn’t feel comfortable or welcome and I can understand why. We’re going to do something different today, something for us.’
‘Please come.’ Sarah could hear the desperation in her own voice. ‘Your dad’ll be here. Don’t pay too much attention to what Granny says. She doesn’t mean anything. She just opens her mouth without thinking.’
‘No, I don’t want to be part of this charade any more. And don’t worry. You’ll have your beloved Nick there so everything’ll be all right.’
Sarah gasped. Where had this come from? ‘What do you mean? I want you both here, and I want Liam to come too. This is the day for the family, the only time we all spend together.’
‘Playing happy families? Well, we’re not and there’s no use pretending we are every week.’
Sarah felt aghast. She’d always assumed that Sunday was a family tradition that everyone loved. All right, Rory often wasn’t there and her mother was difficult, but she and the children…
Lottie took advantage of the pause to press her theme. ‘And you’ve always favoured Nick, anyway.’
‘Lottie, you know that isn’t true. You two are the most important things in my life and I love you both equally. Please, please come. You can’t phone up and throw this at me.’ She gulped, holding back the sob that was threatening to break through. ‘Look we’ll go out together next week and you can talk about this, but please come today.’ She felt her voice crack. ‘It’s so important to me.’
There was a pause. Lottie must have sensed how close she was to the edge and spoke in a softer tone. ‘OK Mum, we will come. But I’m warning you if Granny makes any of her remarks we’re going. I’m not prepared to put myself and Liam through this ordeal every week.’
An ordeal? How could Lottie see the family lunch so differently from her? Sarah struggled to keep her voice calm. ‘Thank you, Lottie. Thank you so much. I’m looking forward to seeing you both later.’
‘See you later, Mum.’
The phone clicked down at the other end, but Sarah continued to clutch the handset. Lottie’s words echoed through her mind. Was it true that she favoured Nick? He was more open, more affectionate, had always talked to her more. Lottie was composed, self-sufficient, liked to sit alone in her room. Sarah had always thought it was what she wanted. She realised she was shaking in her thin housecoat; the perfect world she’d tried so hard to keep intact seemed to be falling apart.
Rory came through to the kitchen, pulling his silk paisley dressing gown round him. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’ Sarah nodded and ground the beans, filling the kitchen with the tangy aroma. As she prepared the cafetière, Rory sat at the scrubbed wooden table and waited for his coffee.
‘I’ve been thinking. That junkie guy was right. We don’t need the big production team for this programme. What we need is intimate, investigative fly-on-the-wall television, and I’m going to do it. I’m going to ditch the crew and film it myself from now on.’
Sarah brought over his coffee. ‘A more pared-down approach might suit HJ better too, concentrating on the poetry rather than the family.’
‘Ah, I’m certainly not going to neglect the family angle. That’s what gives the programme its USP. I know there’s a mystery there and I’m going to find out what happened. This programme’s going to be a cracker.’
‘But HJ asked you to lay off the family aspect. And his sister didn’t seem that keen,’ Sarah started tentatively.
‘Lay off the juiciest aspect of the story? No way, José. Rory Dunbar’s Special Report is going to change the direction of Scottish Broadcasting.’
‘But…’ Sarah started and then decided to change tack. ‘You will be here for lunch, won’t you?’
‘I’ve got so much to do with this programme. I need to be able to give them something concrete soon. Sorry, I just don’t have the time.’
Sarah felt tears welling up behind her eyes. ‘Please, Rory. I need you here today.’ She told him about Lottie’s phone call, her voice shaking.
‘So mean old Granny was nasty to little milk-sop Liam?’ he mocked. ‘What a wimp.’ Sarah felt her face crumple and suddenly Rory flashed his TV smile.
‘Tell you what, I’ll stay, but I want you to do something for me as well. Help me with the Kidd programme. He seems to like you. I mean he especially asked you to come last night, so perhaps you can find out something about the family secret.’
Sarah felt herself torn. Had she really sunk so low that she would join in with Rory’s shabby journalistic tricks? Was it so important to have Rory there? She felt ashamed of herself as she realised the answer was yes, it was.
‘OK, I’ll give you all the help I can.’ It was only after she’d spoken that she realised how ridiculous the situation was: having to plead and barga
in with her husband to stay to Sunday lunch with his own family.
Rory drained his coffee cup and stood up yawning. ‘OK, if I’m staying I think I’ll just go back to bed. You’ll have a lot to do with the preparations for lunch.’
*
After the early crossing, Tom docked at Ullapool and drove quickly through the mist-strewn Highlands, his mind racing. The images of his father’s pictures appeared before his eyes; he also remembered the violence and heavy drinking of the last days of his life. Could he have done something to Shona? Tom tried everything in his power to blank these thoughts from his mind, but they kept bubbling back into his consciousness.
As he approached the Forth Road Bridge he felt a pulse of excitement. Beyond the silvery waters, the skyline of Edinburgh floated into view through the mists. Although he’d been in South Africa for so many years, it still felt as if he was coming home, and he was getting closer to Sarah. He so wanted to see her.
As he crept back into the Regent Guest House, hoping to avoid Mrs Ritchie and her requests for Rory’s autograph, he felt a wave of sadness. Sarah would be serving Sunday lunch at Great King Street now. How he wished he could be there.
*
Rory opened the door to his mother-in-law and Nick. ‘Flora,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it. ‘How lovely to see you. And looking more beautiful than ever.’ Flora simpered and allowed him to take her coat.
‘Hi Dad,’ Nick followed his grandmother through the door.
‘Great to see you, son. Looking good.’ Rory ran his eye over the pale blue cashmere pullover looped over his son’s polo-shirt. ‘Going to play golf?’
Sarah gave Rory a warning glance but Nick just grinned. ‘If you want to be at the cutting edge of contemporary journalism, you’ll need to keep your finger on the pulse of modern fashion.’
Sewing the Shadows Together Page 9