The Sweetest Poison

by Jane Renshaw

  ‘Stop it!’ said Fiona.

  ‘Well I’m sorry, but standing around in a suit listening to a load of Hoorays gooing and gahing over another inbred offspring isn’t my idea of a fun day out.’

  Helen stopped herself from snapping that there were plenty of people who’d have liked fine to be going but hadn’t been asked. No point. Steve didn’t even drink Coke because it was ‘culturally imperialist’.

  ‘So why are you going?’

  ‘Mine not to reason why –’

  Fiona snorted a laugh. Typical Fiona though, dragging her new boyfriend to the christening of her ex-boyfriend’s little brother, just so she could swan around being the girl everyone fancied.

  Helen unzipped her bag to check she’d got the card and present. There was the envelope, and – yes, there was the present, wrapped in shiny blue paper with silver stars on it. She pulled it out.

  She’d wanted to get him something good. Just about everything in the House was antique, and even in the nursery all the toys were wooden. Irina wouldn’t have anything plastic near Stinker because she’d read something about babies that chewed plastic getting harmful chemicals off it. But almost all the money Helen made at her holiday job in the office at Davidson AgriTech went to help pay the bills and the overdraft. In the end she’d just gone for a soft animal. Stinker’s favourite thing was a soft elephant, so Helen had bought a little rhino – sort of like an elephant, but different.

  She hoped he’d like it. When she’d told Suzanne what she’d gone for, Suzanne had said, ‘He only likes the elephant because he can chew its ears.’ The rhino’s ears were tiny. Probably not chewable.

  They’d come to the track end. As Steve eased onto the public road, Fiona twisted round in her seat. ‘Oh God, is that what I think it is?’

  ‘It’s a present. For –’ She caught herself in time. ‘Damian.’

  Fiona clutched at Steve’s arm. ‘A present! We should have brought a present! We’re not normal! We’re not fit to be let loose on patients!’ Fiona always managed to work into the conversation something about her being a medical student. Just in case anyone had forgotten. ‘I’m sure that’s your fault. Somehow.’

  ‘Well of course it is. Somehow.’

  ‘And can’t this jalopy go at more than ten miles an hour? We’re late already.’

  Steve was edging the car round the narrow bend at the foot of Worm Hill. ‘When you’ve passed your test, maybe I’ll start listening to your advice on negotiating blind corners on single-track roads.’

  ‘Hector used to do this thing, where he wasn’t allowed to use the brakes on the way down, and he’d see what speed he could get up to. I used to scream my head off. Mental.’

  ‘Playing Russian roulette with your girlfriend’s life, and the life of anyone in a vehicle coming the other way. Yep, “mental” is the word. Inbreeding depression in action.’

  Helen breathed. ‘Hector’s a good driver. He passed that advanced test thing –’

  ‘Institute of Advanced Motorists,’ said Fiona. ‘Although I don’t imagine he was pulling stunts like that at the time. Talking of which...’ She twisted round in her seat again. ‘I mean, presumably Hector’s actually turned up this time?’

  ‘I think so.’

  And then they were at the junction with the road through Kirkton, and in two more minutes they were turning in at the gates of the House of Pitfourie, into the cool green tunnel of trees. The car surfed the potholes outside the East Lodge and Helen’s bottom bounced onto the hard bit in the seat.

  There was another car in front of them: a sleek Jaguar.

  On the left side of the drive a big mossy bank rose up, and on the right, through Helen’s window, there was a drop down to the Glass. She couldn’t see the river from here but when she wound her window down a bit she could hear it hissing and smell its peatiness. She wound the window right down and stuck out her head and looked up; up and up into the leafy branches of the big sycamore where the remains of The Swinger hung – a grey, rotten old bit of rope.

  And she was ten years old again, muddy-kneed and fed up, kicking at the shallow hole she and Norrie and his brothers had dug in a hummock in a field, spades discarded on the grass. Looking for buried treasure hadn’t turned out to be much fun after all.

  Then: ‘That’s not a burial cairn,’ Hector had said, appearing out of nowhere. ‘It’s just a heap of stuff from the house that used to be here.’ He’d been at the talk in the church hall too; a talk by a local historian about Pictish hoards and kings and Bronze Age burial customs. ‘I’ve fixed The Swinger,’ he’d told Norrie, and the four boys had gone running off across the field and along the road and down the drive to the House of Pitfourie.

  Helen had run after them.

  One end of The Swinger had a big knot to sit on, and the other end was tied to a high branch that only Hector was brave enough to climb up to, so if the rope started to work loose, or you were worried it was fraying, you had to throw the knot up into the branches so people couldn’t get on it, and ask Hector to fix it.

  When she got to the tree they were all up on the wide, low branch that was the jumping-off place, smooth and slippy from years of feet and bums.

  ‘You can go first, Helen,’ Norrie offered, holding out The Swinger.

  Helen climbed up onto the branch. She had to, or Hector would think she was scared. But then Hector took the rope from Norrie and said, ‘Hasn’t been test driven yet,’ and jumped off the branch, swinging out across the water and right up into the treetops on the other side, and then back again, laughing and shouting, ‘Someone else jump on’ as he swooped up to the branch, and before she had time to change her mind Helen had leapt into thin air, and Hector had caught her, and she was sitting on top of his legs, her chest pressed against his shirt, his arm holding her safe, her stomach somewhere miles below and the rest of her swooping across the weedy-smelling river with Hector and up and up, across the hard ground on the other side – too far below – and then slower and slower until they were suspended amongst the branches, not going up and not going down, like two birds that had landed there.

  Hector had reached out and grabbed one of the leaves, and Helen had too, before they’d started to plunge back down. Hector had thrown his leaf onto the water but she’d pushed hers into the pocket of her shorts.

  She still had the brittle crumbs of it in an envelope in her chest of drawers.

  I’m never going to be this happy again, she’d thought as she’d grabbed that leaf.

  They were out in the sun again, in fields dotted with big trees. Oaks, and chestnuts. Horses twitching their tails and lifting their heads to watch the cars.

  Helen put her tongue round her gums and sucked out some spit from her cheeks. Her heart was bumping.

  Now they could see the House. A long plain slab with odd gothic bits at the far end.

  ‘It’s a bloody castle,’ said Steve. ‘Turrets and all.’

  ‘That bit’s Victorian.’ Fiona’s tone was patient, like a teacher’s. ‘Scottish baronial. The original part’s the bit in the middle – but the Georgian frontage hides it.’

  Before Suzanne had started working at the House, Helen had only been inside three times. Once had been when they’d done a school project on it. The Laird had let the whole class come and look round, and he’d told them about its history, and there’d been juice and Jaffa cakes. She’d been all excited because she’d thought maybe she’d see Hector, but of course he’d been away at his boarding school. But she’d been able to see where he ate his tea and where he must walk down the stairs and things like that. She’d been able to touch door knobs he must touch all the time.

  And she’d listened hard to everything the Laird said, even the horrible bits about the feuds between the Forbeses and the Gordons, and the Jacobite rebellion, and people getting their heads cut off and stuck up on spikes. In the library the Laird had shown them a little dark painting of a man, just the top half of him. He was wearing a funny high collar of white lace, a
nd his arms were in black sleeves that disappeared into the background. But on his body he had smooth shiny armour, and you could just see the top of his sword in one of his hands. He looked out at you with evil eyes. The Laird said no one knew for certain who he was, but he was maybe Black John Forbes, who’d lived at the House in the 16th Century.

  ‘He’s a bit scary,’ Norrie had said.

  The Laird had agreed, and said that Black John hadn’t been a very nice person. He’d burnt down a castle at Ballochtowie with everyone inside, even little children. And he’d been one of the worst for chopping people’s heads off and putting them on spikes.

  Suzanne had said, ‘Were some of the heads still alive when they got put on the spikes?’ and everyone had gone, ‘Euuugh Suzanne,’ and Robin had put his hands round her neck and she’d made her eyes cross.

  ‘Robin and Suzanne,’ Mrs Mackay had said. ‘Don’t be so silly. Robin, stop that now. Has anyone got a sensible question?’

  In the oldest bit of the house, Mrs Mackay had got them to find out how thick the walls were by measuring at the windows. At the little window in the scullery they were nearly four feet thick. Up on the back stairs there were some really narrow windows that had been arrow-slits, and the boys had pretended to be Black John, shooting out arrows.

  All of that had been pretty much what she’d expected. But what she hadn’t expected was that a lot of things were scruffy. There were chairs that had holes in them and stuffing poking out, and curtains that were all faded and ripped, and the kitchen and scullery and pantry and game larder were cold and dingy and smelt fooshty. When the Laird was talking to some of the others, Norrie had whispered to her to look up at the walls, and she’d seen there were disgusting mushroom things up near the ceiling.

  And the gardens had been all overgrown.

  They still were. Worse now, even.

  Suzanne said there just wasn’t the money.

  The ‘formal’ gardens in front of the house consisted of straggly lines of yew hedges and lichen-covered bits of stone and urns, and a little rose garden and some flowerbeds, all with weeds growing up higher than the flowers. At the far end of the house was a terrace and then a big lawn, and behind that a tennis court which was all slimy and mossy. Irina was too embarrassed to ask anyone to come and play there. Past the tennis court was a walled garden with old rotten fruit trees and more weeds, and greenhouses with broken panes.

  Irina’s family were very rich, but Suzanne said the Laird wouldn’t let her ask them for money. They argued about it all the time, and Irina sulked about the place and told Suzanne she was thinking of going into a decline, like Victorian ladies used to. And then he’d be sorry.

  Gravel popped under the tyres, and Steve nudged the car into a space between the Jaguar and a Range Rover.

  7

  The big double doors were standing open, and so was the vestibule door with its etched glass panels, and there were a whole load of people in the hall, talking and laughing. Steve put a hand on Fiona’s back and a hand on Helen’s, and they stepped across the black and white tiles in the chilly little vestibule and through into the hall.

  And then Fiona was telling Irina that Fish was sorry he couldn’t make it for the christening, or for lunch, but he was hoping to roll up at some point in the afternoon. And now Irina was grabbing Helen.

  ‘Thank goodness you’re here. You’re our saviour.’

  She was what?

  Irina had been a model when she was Helen’s age – at the same time as she was doing Classics at the Sorbonne. She was blonde and leggy and beautiful and brilliant, but Helen couldn’t hate her because she was like this, grabbing you and telling you she’d been just waiting for you to arrive; oh, but a present? Oh no, that was so kind of Helen. And then she was taking the present and squeezing it and opening her lovely blue eyes wide.

  ‘It’s just a soft animal.’

  ‘Oh but he loves soft animals more than anything. You are a darling.’ And Irina’s thin arm was round her, pulling her through the people standing around in the hall – Helen looking left and right, but no Hector – and then down the back stairs to the kitchen.

  He wasn’t here either. Just Mrs MacIver and Lorna and Suzanne. And Stinker. Red-faced and wailing in his big fancy push-chair.

  Irina said over the noise: ‘He’s being a little bastard as usual.’

  Suzanne was standing shoving the push-chair back and forwards across the flagstones. ‘Had me up all night.’

  Mrs MacIver pursed her lips. She was over at the worktop, shovelling something brown into vol au vent cases. Lorna was slicing carrots by the sinks. She was wearing a black dress that was too big at the shoulders and hitched up at the waist. With her neat bob, she looked like a little girl playing at being a grown-up.

  She looked round at Helen, eyes cool as they swept her from head to toe and back. Then she smiled. ‘Your hair’s nice like that.’

  Helen realised she’d been holding her breath. Lorna might be different from Rob in every other way, but one thing she had in common with her brother – she noticed everything. And if she’d found something to criticise, she wouldn’t have held back.

  Irina swooped on the push-chair. ‘The one day of the year when it would be good if he could behave himself for a few hours... but no, not going to cooperate, are you, my little stinky one?’ She lifted Stinker out and held him against her, jiggling him gently. ‘Oh, oh, oh, why the big drama? Lorna, could you show Helen where to go?’

  Stinker’s noise had stopped. He was staring at Irina, one little hand in her hair. They had the exact same colour of hair, although Irina had a lot more of it.

  Lorna wiped her hands on a towel. ‘Come on then.’

  She followed Lorna along the passage. There was a fresh clump of mushrooms above the door to the pantry: smooth, wet-looking grey hummocks. Every so often the Laird got up on a stepladder and cut them away and fichered about with some chemical stuff you painted on. But they always came back again.

  Lorna opened the door into Mrs McIver’s sitting room. The damp was kept at bay here by the fire, which Mrs McIver always had blazing away in the evenings. She had a TV and some comfy chairs, and lots of pictures of cottages and fat children. Helen had been expecting to see piles of coats and bags and things, but there was just one dress laid out on the back of a chair. A black dress like Lorna was wearing.

  ‘It probably won’t fit you either.’

  Helen could feel her face turning bright red.

  ‘Haven’t you got some flatties? Those’ll be a killer, up and down the stairs about two thousand times.’

  She looked down at her new shoes. ‘I’ve got trainers. They’re a bit grotty though.’

  ‘You think they care how we look?’ Lorna tugged at the material bagging round her waist. ‘And we’re only getting twenty pounds each for the whole day. Not exactly break-an-ankle-on-the-stairs money, is it?’

  The door opened and Suzanne said, ‘Mrs MacIver’s binding on about the carrots. She says you’ve to do twice as many again.’

  When Lorna had gone, Helen could ask at last: ‘Is he here?’

  ‘Didn’t you see the fatted calf out the back? He got here yesterday.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Suzanne shrugged. She was looking at the black dress lying over the chair.

  Helen chucked down her bag and snatched up the dress, hysteria rising. ‘I’m really going to knock his socks off in this, aren’t I? What exactly did Irina say to you, about me coming today?’

  ‘She said – I was to ask if you could be here – oh.’

  ‘Yes, oh.’

  ‘Oh God. She meant – as a skivvy?’ Suzanne was trying not to grin. ‘But I thought Hector had got them to invite you?’

  ‘They must have misunderstood. Looks like everyone’s had their wires crossed, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Oh God. It’s like Cinderella in reverse!’

  ‘Yes, it’s hilarious.’ Helen held the black dress against herself. And then they were both
giggling manically, and Helen was twirling, posing – kicking off her shoes and rummaging in her bag for the grotty trainers, slipping them on to complete the ensemble, making a daft Cinderella face.

  ‘Belle of the ball,’ snorted Suzanne. ‘Stand still and I’ll undo you.’

  The cream dress slipped down her hips and puddled on the carpet at her feet.

  ‘How long is he staying for? Do you know?’

  ‘Straight off again tomorrow. He –’ Suzanne broke off as a voice called:

  ‘Suzanne!’ Irina.

  Suzanne shouted back: ‘Coming!’ But at the door she stopped, her pixie face suddenly serious. ‘You’re not Cinderella, and he definitely isn’t Prince Charming.’

  ‘Right. Thanks for that insight.’ And as Suzanne turned to go: ‘He doesn’t want his family knowing about us yet. So don’t say anything to Irina or anyone.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘He’s going to tell them. After we’ve had a chance to talk. He’s organised a party for afterwards, up on the Knock, and we’re going to talk properly then.’

  ‘You’re going to talk.’

  ‘Why do you always have to think the worst of him?’

  Suzanne opened her mouth to speak; shut it again; absently turned the silver ring on her finger, a hideous thing in the shape of a snake eating its own tail. In the end, she said only: ‘Just be careful.’

  When she’d gone, Helen bunched the black dress up in her hands and lifted it over her head. Burrowing with her arms, for a moment she was trapped in its stiff folds, rough against her skin, in the choking claustrophobia of old wardrobes and forty years of other girls, other farmers’ daughters with arms and hands made for swinging a pail over a trough, not tilting a bottle of champagne. Or whatever she was supposed to be doing.

  Then her head was out again, and she was smiling.

  Just be careful.

  The new sensible Suzanne.

  No more Suzanne Clack the bizzum, the limmer, the girl people shook their heads over and joked about being another of Rob Beattie’s good causes. Who’d been thrown out of the Youth Fellowship for slapping Katie Walker’s fat face. Suspended from school God knew how many times. Caught nicking Wagon Wheels from the shoppie.