Valentina

by S. E. Lynes

  “Free childcare,” she replied then looked away as if her attention had been caught by something. “I’m kidding. I guess I wanted to check out the competition.”

  I offered her a lift home but she refused, said she would walk as she lived round the corner. I sensed she had grown cool with me. I’d been a stick in the mud about the speeding, I thought, she was bored with me already. But as we made to say our goodbyes, she seemed to change her mind.

  “Listen, why don’t we swap numbers? I teach on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays but I’m free the other days.” She inputted my number and sent me a text – no words, only a lobster emoticon with dancing eyes, a thumbs up and a glass of wine. “Maybe we can get together on Friday? Do you rollerblade?”

  “Rollerblade?”

  “Sure, you know, like skating? The promenade has heaps of space and the slopes are really fun.”

  There was no trace of teasing in her face and I didn’t want to be a drip for the second time.

  “I know what rollerblading is,” I said. “I haven’t done it for ages, that’s all. I’m not sure my rollerblades still fit or if I’ve even still got them. Do we push the pushchairs as we roll?”

  “Oh, I chuck Zac in the sling. I figure if I fall, I can always put my arms out. Protect his head.” She crossed her fingers and pulled a silly face. “Hopefully.”

  “Right.”

  Zac started to whine. Maybe he understood more than he was letting on.

  “Probably a bit crazy for you though, eh?” she said. “Mrs. Sensible.”

  I was right – she did think I was boring. “Are you being serious?”

  She held my gaze for another few seconds before leaning back, pointing at me and laughing. “Gotcha.”

  “Oh, very funny.” I laughed and shook my head. Couldn’t believe I’d fallen for it – and so easily.

  That night I couldn’t wait to talk to Mikey.

  “I’ve made a friend,” I told him before he’d had chance to speak.

  “That was quick.”

  “I know!” My God, I was full of it. “She’s really cool and fun and she’s funny, Mikey. She actually made me laugh. And I made her laugh too. She came to the cottage!”

  “That’s great. Good for you.”

  “She’s got a little boy the exact same age as Isla so they’ll be able to play together.”

  “What did you say her name was?”

  “Valentina. She’s Australian. She’s a bit of a hippy – long skirts, long hair and all that, you know? She said something about crystals at one point. I thought I was going to laugh but she’s nice with it. Husband works in a vintage record store and she’s a yoga teacher. I might do one of her classes.”

  “Sounds perfect,” he said. “Can’t wait to meet her.”

  My mobile buzzed. A text from Valentina. I smiled to myself. That morning I’d had no one. Now, I had my partner on the line and my friend sending me messages. Form a queue, people!

  Hi Shona. Great meeting you today.

  Will be in touch about Friday.

  Don’t forget your rollerblades! xxx

  “Shona?” said Mikey.

  “Oh sorry, babe. That was a text. From her. We’re getting together again on Friday.”

  “I knew you’d find your feet.” He sounded delighted for me and I felt a rush of love. That’s what love was – nothing fancy – just two people rooting like hell for one another. “You’re amazing. I was only saying to Bob, he’s the Texan guy ...”

  But I wasn’t really listening. I was too busy texting Valentina back:

  Great to meet you too.

  See you then. x

  I tried to keep it low key. Didn’t want to put a load of kisses or exclamation marks or she’d pick up how excited I was to make one friend. Then she’d think I didn’t have any. I wanted to tell her I had lots of pals, but that they were in Glasgow. I wanted to tell her I was a safe bet. But friendship is pretty much like dating at first: no matter how compatible you know you are – it’s a dance.

  SEVEN

  The next day, almost happy to be on my own, I made my way up to the beach for a stroll. With Isla snug in the sling, I crossed the car park and headed into the funfair complex. Through the leaden rollings of the bowling alley I wandered, through the thick smell of sweaty shoe leather, the bloops and bleeps of the amusement arcade, through sugary pockets of candyfloss air, outside to the seafront, the tang of chip vinegar, the chill salt breeze. The wind blew the hair from my face like freshness itself, a spring-clean for the soul.

  “Come on, Isla” I said, all gung-ho, putting on an Ozzie twang. “Let’s seize this day by the bollocks.”

  Who wanted to be friends with those women at the swimming baths anyway? I thought. See her in the park? Her loss. I’d found a friend now. I’d found Valentina. The cold wind ran like liquid down the back of my collar, the sky was still the palest grey. The North Sea pushed itself into smoked, glassy peaks, smashed them against the shore. Out, past the violent waves and the flat ocean beyond, I fancied I saw the outline of an oil platform, the silk ribbon of a gas flame rippling in the sullen sky.

  “Shout hello to Daddy,” I said, pushing my finger into the soft claw of Isla’s tiny hand. “Shout ‘haste ye back.’”

  She said nothing. Babies are lovely, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes, when you could do with a bit of audience participation, they’re a load of rubbish.

  I walked along the beach, clambered over the groynes. It felt good to climb up and over the ravaged barriers, to feel the pull of hamstring and tendon, the spread of my ribcage, the stretch of my arms.

  Isla slept, rocked to a peace she had not known at night for months by the warmth of my changed mother’s breasts. I wondered if my body would recover, if the track marks on my belly would ever fade. I wondered, once I’d finished, what wreckage would be left of me. In bed, Mikey told me I was as gorgeous as ever, kissed all that damage with an unhesitating mouth. I wondered if he was lying.

  At the end of the beach I climbed up the last set of stone steps and found myself at a collection of tiny houses. There was an official looking sign so I went over to investigate. Footdee, the place was called, also known as Fittie. Almost on the beach itself, the settlement’s only defence was a simple harbour wall. I remembered this place from a news story – it had been covered in foam from the sea a few summers back. The spume had settled on and amongst the houses like a thick, dirty snowdrift – comical as too much washing powder in a cartoon, freakish as a plague.

  I skimmed the history on the sign: the houses dated back to the fourteenth century, built originally for the fishing community. The humblest of dwellings but, as with many humble things, time had ennobled them. In 1968, the whole place had been declared an Area for Conservation, thank you very much.

  I stepped through an archway to walk along the path that linked all the houses together. In their shelter, I realised how strong the wind had been, how much I’d had to battle against it. The houses were narrow, some lower even than our own cottage. The pathway ran around the square and cut diagonals through the centre. In a few of the gardens, junk sculptures struck poses and little gingham curtains hung in some of the windows. A curious community, permanent and makeshift all at once and unlike any I’d seen before.

  “Come on then, little one, time to go.” I held on once again to Isla’s wee gloved hand. As I turned to go back, I noticed an old woman sitting on one of the benches. A silk scarf was tied around her head, knotted under the chin in the old-fashioned way. Her red anorak was zipped up to her neck and her glasses were tinted. I suspected the lenses were the kind that darkened in the sun.

  “Bonnie loon you have there,” she said as I drew near, barely opening her mouth for the words to come out. Even I, a Scot, had a job to understand her. Bonnie loon, I translated for myself: nice-looking boy. She nodded, once, at Isla, who was wrapped up such that only her eyes glinted out like wet stones.

  “She’s a girl, actually.” I sat down at the far e
nd of the bench. “Her name’s Isla.”

  “Isla.” She gave that singular nod again, her lips pursed with what looked like disapproval. “You settlin’?” she asked, after a moment.

  Settling. She was asking had I come here to live.

  I told her I’d come for a walk, that I wasn’t living or planning to live in Fittie. “I have just moved up here though,” I said. “From Glasgow. We’re away towards Banchory.”

  “Affa pretty out that way, is it?” She turned her body a fraction towards me and I understood that she hadn’t finished with me yet. I didn’t mind. I was glad of someone to talk to.

  “I was having a stroll about,” I offered. “Bit of an explore, like. Get to know the area.”

  “I’m the last of the McClouds, ken?” she replied, as if that were the logical thing to say next. “My grandfather had number seven but I stay in number three. My daughter’s moved into the town now. English couple bought hers.” Her lips clamped again, as if she were suddenly embittered by this Sassenach invasion, before she went on. “She has a baby, like. Dinna know fit he does.”

  … Don’t know what he does, I translated. It was my turn to nod – gravely. The thought flashed through my mind that I should call on her, this new mother who like me was not from around here. I could introduce myself. And maybe I would have, if I hadn’t met Valentina.

  “A lot of incomers here now,” said the lady. “Oil people, like, ken?” She spat the last word as if it offended her, though I knew by now it was simply her way of speaking. “Used to hang the fish out the front. Now they hang out their washing, even on Sundays.”

  “Right,” I said, humouring her.

  “And tourists,” she said. “Come in like Peeping Toms. Japanese, Chinese, Americans.” She laughed. “Aye. They were here the other day. We should charge them to look in. A pound a peep.” She gave a brief laugh and stood up. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

  I smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

  And away she went, her feet planting themselves heavily and far apart, like a man’s. She disappeared into one of the low, narrow cottages I assumed was number three.

  I sat for a moment before getting up and making my way back towards the top end of the beach. I tried not to look into the windows but it was difficult because the path ran so close. I saw a man in his kitchen, chopping a cucumber on a white board, images of what looked like a soap opera on someone’s television, a particularly lovely taupe-coloured throw over a sofa. But as I made to look closer at the beautiful fabric, a figure passed in shadow at the far end of the room. I backed away, ashamed. What the hell was I doing? I was like the old lady had said: a Peeping Tom. Staring in at someone else’s life.

  Mikey called in the evening.

  “You always sound so clear on these lines,” I said, trying to somehow speak through a smile. “Still can’t believe I can’t hear the sea.”

  He laughed. “We don’t stand on the deck for two weeks growing beards you know. We do have such a thing as an office.”

  “Any funnies?”

  “Trying to think. There’s an American here that’s good value. Texan guy. Tells the most sexist jokes I’ve ever heard.”

  “Oh yeah? Can’t wait to hear those.” I prayed he couldn’t hear the strain in my voice.

  “So,” he said. “What’ve you been up to?”

  “I went for a walk. Along the beach. Found a really cute place called Footdee. Sorry, Fittie. Actually I’m not sure which is right. Anyway, it was a cute wee place.” I waited for a moment but he didn’t reply. “Hello?”

  “Yeah, hi, sorry, somebody came in there. Do you mean the place at the beach?”

  “That’s what I said. It’s amazing. Dinky. Kind of boho, you know? We should go when you get back.”

  “Actually, I know that place. I mean, I’ve heard of it. They were talking about it the other day at work. They don’t like people going there. Apparently everyone goes round looking in their windows.”

  “I suppose so.” I remembered the figure darting out of sight, the old lady and her talk of Peeping Toms. “Maybe not then.”

  He didn’t say anything in reply so I carried on chatting about nothing, trying to shake off what I can only describe as mild devastation, if that makes sense. I’d so wanted to tell him about that place, about my discovery of it. I’d wanted him to know I’d been out and about, not stuck at home with my chin on the floor. I’d wanted him to be proud of me for these small things. Would it always be like this when he was offshore? Would we no longer fit? This not fitting had something to do with only having one sense to work with, I thought. I wanted all five senses, all the time. Two weeks in four, we would have to manage with one sense alone. Two weeks in four, that was half the time. Half our lives.

  That night, I’d got Isla to bed, I’d walked along the landing and switched on the bathroom light when, with a popping sound, the power failed. The cottage went black. I had never known darkness like it. No streetlights shone in through the windows; the orange halo that glowed over the city was miles away. In the country, the darkness is solid. It is tangible. But I stayed calm – maybe because actual catastrophe is better than the dread of the unnamed threat. I had made sure to find the fuse box before Mikey went away – it was under the stairs – I had to get to it without hurting myself. Easier said than done when you can’t see the hand in front of your face.

  I knew there was a light on my phone. Where had I left it? Mikey had told me always to bring it with me, in case of emergencies, and so it would still be in my bag because I hadn’t taken it out since my trip to Fittie. My bag would be on one of the hooks by the door or over the end of the bannister. I figured the safest way to the top of the stairs, if I was going to avoid falling down them, was on my hands and knees.

  I crawled, feeling for and finding the edge of the stairwell. I shifted myself onto my bottom and shuffled down the stairs one at a time. It was overly cautious, I know, especially for someone like me. I’d been a real handful in my youth. I lose count of the times I’ve woken up with no idea how I’d got home, all the dangerous situations I put myself in growing up – playing on railway tracks, hiding in the sidings eating Matchmakers we’d stolen from the corner shop, out in feral packs in the evenings with boys who sprayed their names on the precinct walls, who threw eggs at buses, bricks at street lamps. I had thrilled at the sound of breaking glass as much as the next teenager. But here was another thing that parenthood had changed in me. My own memories, which had once made me laugh, now made my blood run cold. I blanched at the thought of Isla doing what I had done. And if I looked after myself now, if I worked hard to make a home, shuffled at a snail’s pace down these stairs, it was because she needed me to do those things, to be this person, to stay safe.

  I found my bag on the bannister and used the phone to find the fuse box. Sure enough, one of the fuses had tripped. One quick flick and the hum of electricity returned, the lamp in the living room lit up. The digital clock on the hallway window ledge flashed zeros. I would be better-prepared next time, I thought. I needed to think about what I’d do if the problem was not one I alone could fix – if the boiler packed up for example. I would buy more candles, I decided, and make oil lamps. Belt and braces.

  On the Wednesday or Thursday, I think it was, my mum and dad came up for the day. They couldn’t believe the place.

  “Oh, Shona,” my mum kept saying. “I can’t believe it. It’s like something off the television.”

  Dad helped fix the back door where it was sticking; Mum helped me unpack the rest of the upstairs. I wanted everything to be sorted for Mikey getting back on the Saturday. I wanted it all to be perfect.

  On Friday, Valentina and I took the babies to the swimming baths. She was slimmer than me and I found myself carrying Isla strategically in front of my belly. In the water, we whirled our babies around while they gurned at the splashes in dopey delight.

  I didn’t look at the other mothers that day. I didn’t notice them.

  As we
changed, Valentina called over the cubicle wall. “Hey, Shona. Wanna grab some lunch and take it back to your place?”

  She loved that cottage, couldn’t get enough of it. She’d even driven out to pick me up in her old red Toyota, so while she hovered outside the store, I ran in to buy the smoked salmon and bagels she insisted on having. When I came back I could see she looked peeved.

  “Bloody policeman tried to give me a ticket for being on the double yellows,” she said as soon as I got in. “Bloody cheek.”

  “You should have moved on,” I said. “You could have texted, I’d have come and found you.”

  “Don’t worry, I sweet-talked him. He was putty in my hands.”

  “What? He let you off?”

  “I might have flirted a little. I might have said I’d meet him for a drink.” She started the engine. “I even took his number – check that for commitment, babe. You can have it if you want.”

  “Of course you did,” I said archly, not believing a word of it.

  Only, when I got out of the car, a torn piece of white card floated into the footwell. I picked it up. John Duggan, with a mobile phone number below. I threw it down, pretended I hadn’t seen.

  EIGHT

  Back at the cottage, Valentina opened the fridge and pulled out the bottle of Sancerre I’d bought for Mikey’s homecoming.

  “This OK to drink?” she asked. But she was already screwing off the cap. And she had already taken off her coat and draped her raspberry-coloured scarf over the back of the chair as she had the first time. That was her: at home, right from the start.

  “Sure,” I said, not wishing to appear mean.

  I dragged the travel cot from the stable and we set the babies up in there with some toys. She poured two large glasses, as if it were no more than plonk, and handed me one.

  “I could get used to this,” she said. “Up yours, sister.”