by Jane Renshaw
But whenever there was something on the News about a young boy or girl dying, she’d tried to pay attention and find out what had happened. Usually, though, Mum or Dad switched the TV to a different channel before she could hear. Once in the shoppie Mrs Smart had been talking to Mum about a little girl in Aberdeen who’d drowned in a pond, and how sad it was, and the poor parents, although they had only themselves to blame really. But that little girl had been only five and couldn’t swim. Robin was a good swimmer because the river was right by his house.
In the end she’d just asked God each night: Please kill Robin Beattie.
But he hadn’t.
And Rob must know what she’d done.
‘Helen?’
‘Sorry. Um...’ She smiled at him desperately. ‘Some sort of drug?’
He stepped past her, continuing on down the path.
She made her legs move. She made herself follow him.
‘This is Mrs Robertson we’re talking about. In her world, heroin is the nice young lady in a Mills and Boon.’ He grinned back at her.
‘Sugar?’
‘Hmm. How is sugar a “dagger in the night”?’
‘Maybe someone on a sugar rush...’
He chuckled. ‘The well-known donut defence. Right enough, there have been times I’d have killed for one.’
He didn’t know. He couldn’t. If he’d known, he’d have found a way to punish her all those years ago, no matter what Hector had threatened.
‘So what’s the answer?’ she said.
‘I don’t know and it’s driving me nuts.’
‘I’ll have a think.’
He stopped again. ‘Sorry Helen, where are my manners, eh? After you.’
So she had to go ahead of him. She lengthened her stride as the path dipped into the plantation, the ranks of closely packed Sitkas cutting out the light.
‘Reckon Hector will show up for the christening?’ His voice came from right behind her.
‘Isn’t he here already?’
‘No idea.’
‘But haven’t you just been at the House?’ How else would he have got the hairgrips from Suzanne?
‘Yes, but remember, Helen – I’m confined to below-stairs. No “hobnobbing with the gentry” for yours truly.’
‘But you’d have heard if Hector had arrived, wouldn’t you?’ She turned to look at him.
He shrugged. ‘The hypothetical Hector.’
So maybe that hadn’t been Hector at all, the figure at the window? But surely it had been? Rob was looking at her with an odd expression. Sometimes she thought Suzanne must have told him about her and Hector, even though she swore she hadn’t.
‘It’s your mum I feel bad for.’
‘Eh?’
‘Bit of a slap in the face, isn’t it, you and Suzanne and Jim and Ina all being invited, but not her? I always feel it must be hard – I mean, I know she always jokes about not being “accepted into the tribe”, but it can’t be much fun, being treated like she’s some kind of alien just because she’s from Edinburgh.’
‘The Laird probably hasn’t asked her because he knows she doesn’t like going to things without Dad. And he can’t invite everyone. There wouldn’t be room in the kirk.’
‘Not once he’s asked all his nob friends, no. But being passed over for her daughter? That’s got to hurt.’
It was the talk of the parish: who had and had not been invited to the christening. Rumours, and rumours about rumours, chasing from door to door. Margaret Begg had told crabby old Willie Simpson that she’d heard he’d been asked but wasn’t well enough to go; this had stirred Willie into a fury, because he hadn’t been invited at all – who’d told Margaret that he had been? Jennifer Gordon. Willie had then gone whinging to Annie Gordon, who’d told Jennifer’s mother Cathy, who’d marched straight round to Willie’s to announce that Margaret Begg was blethering – Jennifer hadn’t told her any such thing – how could she, when she hadn’t even seen Margaret to speak to for a fortnight?
It made you want to scream.
‘I’m only invited because I’m there a lot, helping Suzanne with Stinker.’
And because Hector had pointed that fact out to the Laird. She hadn’t merited a proper written invite like Jim and Ina’s. Hers had come, two weeks late, through her cousin.
Suzanne hadn’t been exactly subtle about it.
She’d come breezing into the kitchen and pinched a chip off Helen’s plate, and plomped herself down on the chair opposite, legs tucked under her. ‘You can come to Stinker’s christening, can’t you? Irina really wants you there.’
Mum had looked round from the sink. ‘Well it’s –’
‘Oops!’ Suzanne had made a face, blowing on the chip. ‘Sorry Auntie Viv, I just meant Helen. The adohhhrable cousin.’ She waved the chip about in an Irina-ish way. ‘I’ve already said “Yes” for you. You can come, can’t you?’ She opened her mouth and flipped the whole chip inside.
Helen nodded.
And then she heard ‘Cough-cough cough,’ and saw that Rob had come in at the door, and was smiling at her. ‘Thank goodness for that,’ he said. ‘At least that means there’ll be someone there I can talk to.’
‘Ahem?’ said Suzanne.
‘You’ll be busy with Stinker. I had visions of having to make polite conversation with the furniture. And I’m not even sure how well that would go. The table in the hall looks like it could be very “sneistie”.’ He always said Scots words – and the phrases he picked up from the people in the old folks’ home – like they had inverted commas round them.
He went and got a dish towel from the rail at the front of the Aga, and a wet plate from the draining board.
Mum smiled. ‘Now Rob, you don’t need to do that.’
‘And you, Mrs C, don’t need to let me eat you out of house and home whenever I’m here, but somehow it always seems to happen. Least I can do is earn my keep.’
Suzanne started on a long story about how Rob hadn’t been invited, ‘Until I told Irina, “If Rob’s not coming, neither am I.” It’s my day off and she can’t make me. I’m only doing it as a favour, that’s what I said, and Irina knows fine that Mrs MacIver will be too busy with the food to see to Stinker, so if I wasn’t there she’d have to change him and everything herself, so she’s all, “Oh Suzanne, well of course, if it means that much to you...”.’
‘Charming,’ said Mum.
‘I don’t imagine the Laird’s too happy about having to let me loose amongst the valuables,’ said Rob. ‘But if it’s a choice between that and having to actually look after their own kid for a few hours...’
‘It’s ridiculous that you should be confined to the servants’ quarters in the first place.’
‘There’s no such thing as servants any more, Mrs C.’ Rob opened a cupboard. ‘It’s staff. If I remember correctly, his exact words were that I was to confine myself to “downstairs” when I came to see Suzanne.’
‘Pffh!’
‘To be fair, I was half way up the library steps at the time, grubby little paw reaching for the first edition Dickens. I suppose you can see it from his point of view. Hector’s probably told him all sorts of stories about my exploits at school – and let’s face it, I was a right little monster.’ He glanced at Helen. ‘Just the kind of kid you’d expect to grow up to have criminal tendencies.’
‘All little boys are monsters,’ said Mum. ‘Hector Forbes was hardly an angel himself. Is hardly an angel, if half of what we hear is true.’
‘Hector’s –’ Helen blurted, and stopped.
‘Hector’s a good guy,’ Rob nodded. ‘A good guy who probably still hates my guts, but a good guy nonetheless.’ He took another plate from the draining board. ‘I used to think he was some sort of cross between James Bond and Superman. I’d have given anything to be his friend. But I was just Zombie. Why should he bother with me, other than to give me a good battering when he’d nothing better to do?’ Cough-cough cough. ‘Not that I didn’t deserve it.’
‘No one deserves to be hurt,’ said Mum.
‘He was only keeping me in line. And deep down I think I knew that.’
Suzanne snorted. ‘Keeping you in line? Beating the crap out of you; calling you “Zombie”?’
‘But at that time I hadn’t been diagnosed. Even the teachers just thought I was stupid. I thought I was stupid. Why shouldn’t Hector?’
Mum shook her head. ‘All the more reason for him not to be so cruel.’
‘Kids – they don’t think, do they? About the effect they might be having on someone?’ He was wiping the plate round and round. ‘We see it all the time with the younger ones in the Youth Fellowship. They can’t seem to see beyond the so-called joke to the misery of the person on the receiving end. They have to have it pointed out to them – and no one did that for Hector.’ A rueful smile. ‘But every cloud has a silver lining. After I was diagnosed, I was determined to prove to everyone that I wasn’t a zombie. If I get the Higher grades I need, maybe I should send Hector a “Thank You” card.’
‘Well,’ Mum had said. ‘If there’s any justice you’ll get straight As. You’ve worked so hard.’
He’d been getting extra tuition at home, and now he had a conditional offer to study for a Bachelor of Divinity at Aberdeen Uni. Mum said he was going to make a super minister – after his struggles with dyslexia, he’d be all the more sensitive to his parishioners’ problems.
Oh yes, very sensitive.
Touching Helen’s arm at Dad’s funeral; smiling with anxious sympathy, like he’d been practising in a mirror; leaning in to whisper: ‘He’s gone to a better place. I’m sure he has. I know he didn’t go to church regularly. I know he was – well...’ Pausing; frowning; smiling brightly. ‘But he was a very good man in other ways, wasn’t he.’ Widening his smile; squeezing her arm.
They were out of the plantation at last. They could either carry on down the drove road and go the long way round, or take the short cut through the field. But Rob wasn’t good with beasts.
As they passed the pet cemetery he stopped to look down at the wooden crosses. ‘Aw. Your “catties”.’
She didn’t say anything. When she was nine, she’d been convinced that he’d asked God to kill them: Baudrins and Susie and Fergus.
‘It was weird, wasn’t it? I mean, some mad tractor driver, going round squishing cats’ heads? Or maybe it was just the tractor... like Christine. You know, the Stephen King film Christine?’
She’d noticed this same phenomenon with very religious people before. It was as if animals didn’t matter because they didn’t have souls.
‘I think it was a book before it was a film.’ Cheap shot. ‘You don’t mind going through the field?’
Most of the stirks were strung out in a loose group between them and the lower gate. As Helen ran towards them some of them began to shift and one did a little jump back.
‘Yaaa!’ she shouted.
But the stirks just trotted out of their way, and then turned to stare as they climbed the bottom gate.
6
Mum wiped her floury hands on a cloth. ‘Oh, don’t you look gorgeous? But unless that bag’s a tardis, you might want to think again about what you need to take. Have you got a nightie?’
Helen moved into the morning light shafting in through the end window and put the bag down on the kitchen table. It was the one she’d bought in the Dorothy Perkins sale last year, a cherry-red rectangle of flimsy plastic with a zip along the top and two straps to go over your shoulder. She’d stuffed a pair of jeans and a jumper and trainers into it.
‘If I’ve forgotten anything, I can always borrow from Suzanne.’
‘A nightie of Suzanne’s would barely cover your modesty.’
‘Mum.’
‘She’s a lot smaller than you are.’
‘Suzanne’s nighties have adapted to conditions at the House. Ankle-length winceyette.’
‘Surely not at this time of year.’
‘I’ve got a nightie, anyway.’
‘Well why didn’t you just say?’
Helen sighed.
‘Are you taking your camera?’
‘No.’
‘It’d be nice to send some photos to Sheila, wouldn’t it?’
‘Lots of people will have cameras. I can get prints to send her.’
And it was mad, but into Helen’s head popped an image of Sheila, slumped in her wheelchair, lopsided mouth twisted in a smile as she contemplated a photo of Helen and Hector together at the christening.
At first Sheila had just been a girl Helen had met years ago at guide camp who’d suddenly started up a correspondence. Then Mum had said Helen could phone Sheila any time she wanted – money wasn’t so tight that Helen couldn’t do that. So Helen had had to make Sheila deaf. Then Mum had seen the Aberdeen postmark on one of the letters – for security reasons, everyone in the regiment had their letters home parcelled up and sent to headquarters in Aberdeen, from where they were then posted out, so that the postmarks wouldn’t give away where they were deployed. Mum had said she thought Sheila lived in Oban... Yes, she used to, but now she lived in Aberdeen. Oh – well, Helen must ask her out to the Parks. So Sheila had acquired cerebral palsy, a wheelchair and overprotective parents.
Hector thought it was all a great joke. He’d started making the writing on the envelopes a bit wonky. But Helen had, ridiculously, begun to feel bad for Sheila – that it was wrong of Hector to laugh at her. It’s your fault she’s in a wheelchair, she’d felt like scribbling back.
But it wasn’t Hector’s fault she had to lie to Mum. If it was only up to Hector, he’d be telling everyone they were ‘involved’. That was the word he’d used: involved. Like their lives were tangled up together.
An engine rumbled outside, getting closer.
‘You’ve got the present, and the card?’
She nodded.
‘You really look lovely, Helen.’
‘Thanks.’
Did she look okay? The cream dress was only polyester, but it had a very cinched-in waist which made it look like she at least went out a bit at the breasts and hips. And she was wearing a padded bra to help things along.
Her skin was about ten times better than it had been last time Hector had seen her, although there was a spot starting on her chin. Typical. She’d covered it with concealer, and put foundation and powder all over her face. And some lipstick, and eye liner and mascara and eye shadow. And the tortoiseshell-effect hair slides were perfect. They held her mop of hair off her face, but not in a severe way like a ponytail. She didn’t have the bone structure for severe.
Well, so what? Hector already knew she wasn’t exactly Cindy Crawford.
Mum had the back door open and Helen could see past her to the car that had stopped in the yard, and Fiona Kerr’s long shiny hair caught by the breeze as she ducked her head to get out from the passenger side.
She’d asked Fiona if she could have a lift, because Uncle Jim and Auntie Ina had offered to take the Smarts so there was no room in their car.
And now Fiona was at the door, saying she was sorry they were late, it was Steve’s fault, he hadn’t thought to check whether his suit needed ironed until about five minutes ago. She was wearing a long flowery skirt and strappy top and Jesus sandals.
Helen grabbed her bag up off the table and nodded and smiled as Mum said, ‘Have a great time.’
The cobbled bit of the yard was difficult to walk on in her new shoes. She kept wobbling about. The spurgies up on the gutter of the steading were going cheek-a-cheek-a-cheek.
‘Love the dress,’ said Fiona. ‘It really suits you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘As you can see, I’ve made a big effort as usual.’ She swished her hippie skirt. ‘Got this at the Scout jumble sale.’
‘You look lovely.’
And she did, and she knew it, with her perfect skin and hair and cheekbones, and her big round breasts pushing out against the cotton top. It was obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra. Oh l
ook at me, I’m a refugee from the seventies, I wear stuff from jumble sales because I’m so radical but I still look great.
‘I’m hoping people will just think I’ve gone for the natural look.’ She wasn’t wearing any make-up either. Apart from something transparent and shiny on her lips. Probably just lip balm. Oh look at me, I don’t wear make-up because I’m so beautiful I don’t need to.
Well, if she didn’t, that wasn’t her fault, was it? Any more than it was her fault that Hector had once kissed those shiny lips, and put his hand –
She concentrated on Steve, sitting in the driver’s seat watching them crossing the yard. He gave her a hello lift of his eyebrows.
Fiona, bouncing along in her Jesus sandals, was singing under her breath. She interrupted herself to say, ‘Is Norrie going to be there?’
‘I think so.’
‘This’ll be his chance to make a move.’
Helen pursed her lips to stop the huge grin that wanted to split her face. ‘It’s not like that.’
‘You’re just friends?’
What was everyone going to say, when they knew she was Hector’s girlfriend? How great would it be, to go into the shoppie holding Hector’s hand, and maybe Jennifer and Shona would be there –
‘You’ve got to tug at that door.’ Fiona reached past Helen to pull the rear door open, then bounced round to the passenger side.
Helen got into the car. The seat sagged under her bum and she could feel something hard pressing up against her right thigh. There was a funny fooshty smell. But it wasn’t dirty inside, and there were no wrappers or crisp bags or anything on the floor like in Rob’s car.
As they started slowly down the track, Fiona said: ‘He’d like to be more than friends, wouldn’t he?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Steve flicked Helen a smile in the mirror. ‘Who’s for skiving off down the pub?’