by C D Major
She is such a good mother, the doctor says. I am lucky to have her. Lucky to have someone dedicated to my care. I nod; I know I am. If Mother wasn’t here, there would be nobody and that thought opens up something so black inside me it takes my breath away.
I have days where I can’t get out of bed. I still wear the clothes I wore two summers ago. My hair is thinner now and Mother has made a cloth covering for me to wear. I think I need the chair. Sometimes, on days where I am not sick from my mouth and I feel strong, I walk up and down the room, kick my legs in circles on the bed. Once, Annie came to the door, drawn by the noise. ‘Is that you?’ Her voice was a whisper. I become a statue, waited until she moved away. Mother would be angry. My legs are weak and I mustn’t wear down the bones or I will never be able to stand let alone walk again.
Today is not one of those days. I have been bent over the porcelain chamber pot with the purple flowers painted on the rim as I am sick from my mouth. My breakfast reappears in burning chunks that make my mouth sour. I touch a tooth with my tongue and the pain makes me cry out. It hurt last week and I told Mother, opening my mouth so she could see. Peering down, she quickly stepped back, eyes wide, hand over her mouth, nose wrinkled by the stench of me. All the vomit is rotting my teeth, the doctor says. I have new adult teeth but I have already lost one in the side so my tongue can slide into the space and tickle my gum. The tooth that still hurts is near the back. I don’t want to lose that one too.
I hear Mother’s footsteps and use all my energy to sit back down in my chair and lift my book. She appears and I quickly turn the book the right way up, feeling dizzy with all the movement. I don’t say anything as she enters, hoping she doesn’t say anything about being so close to the window. She doesn’t like it. She once told me she might move me to the other side of the house and the thought of leaving my room made everything tilt. The stain in the shape of France, the way the room is always warm, the smell of porridge, the shelf of books, the swirls in the wood that look like eyes. And mostly not seeing the corner of the bridge, the trickle of walkers moving by, made me want to weep.
I look up from the book and see her mouth is pressed together.
‘Shall I comb your hair?’ she suggests and I agree, hoping she’ll stay a while.
The nodding makes my tooth hurt again and for a second the room spins. The picture of the mountain looks blurry and I feel my insides clench. There is nothing left and the feeling passes as she wheels me across to the small table in the corner.
I meet her eyes in the mirror and smile at her, the gap in my teeth obvious when I do. When she draws the comb through my hair, my scalp hurts but I just smile again, wanting her to talk, to keep touching me.
‘I think it will rain,’ she says, and I imagine the sparkles on the stone of the bridge, the way the raindrops make the gutter rattle against the wall. I can’t remember what rain feels like, water dropping onto my head. Would it hurt? I want to feel the rain, want to be outside, closer to the smells that seem to rise like steam when it does.
If I had a dog, I could walk it. If I had a dog, I could go outside.
I squeeze my mouth closed in case I ruin things by asking. I asked her last week, and the week before and the answer has always been the same. I have tried.
I wouldn’t have to leave my chair. I would teach the dog to walk next to it, to fetch sticks, to stay at my feet. A playmate. My whole body aches to feel its soft, furry body in my arms. I dream about this so much, I sometimes wake and imagine it is true.
I can’t help it. I ask again. ‘Please . . .’ I know what the answer will be before the words have left my mouth.
Her hand is frozen over me, the comb like a knife about to fall. Today feels different. There is the smallest pause before she bites her lip and says no.
‘I’ll be good. I’ll stay in my chair. I’ll wear the scarf so I don’t breathe in the bad germs.’
No again. I am too weak. A dog would exhaust me. I am not well. Not like other children. She has to do so much for me. The people in the town have sent her a basket of fruit, a card. She shows me the words inside.
For a wonderful mother. In our thoughts.
Chapter 24
AVA
She was late back to work from her lunch hour, flying into the newsroom, aware of Garry swivelling in her chair and Neil next to him fiddling with his bag strap.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry . . .’
In between other jobs, and during lunch breaks, she had spent the last few weeks in the library, scouring old news reports for any mention of Overtoun Bridge, Lady West or a child and poring over anything on thin places. She dumped a pile of books on her desk, things she was planning to take a look at that night. Fraser was away, had rushed back to see his dad, who had burned himself cooking a shepherd’s pie a few days before. He hadn’t seen a doctor and his finger had got worse. He hadn’t told Fraser either but a local woman who’d been close to Fraser’s mum had phoned him.
‘I’ve tried to get the stubborn man to the hospital but there’s no telling him,’ she’d said.
Fraser had left that morning. ‘Not that you’ll notice,’ he’d said. He tried to keep his voice light but the hurt leaked through.
‘Ava!’ Garry grinned, reaching towards the notepad from her desk. ‘We were about to leave you a note . . .’
‘Garry, you know the piece that went out?’ Ava began. ‘On Overtoun?’ In the end she had only produced a short, generic piece to camera. ‘I think there’s more there, potential for a follow-up . . .’
‘Well . . .’ Garry stretched his arms behind his head. ‘Not today. That’s what we were about to tell you. We’re being sent to some haunted house in East Street – a poltergeist. We’ve become the resident ghost hunters.’
Neil stared at her as she removed her jacket. She looked down, realising that her bump was clearly on show in a top that had ridden up. He coughed and looked away when he noticed her panicked expression. She tugged her top down and the loose cotton covered her straining waistline. She wasn’t ready to share the news at work yet.
Crossing her arms, she hoped Garry hadn’t noticed.
‘Ava – what do you think? Up your street?’ Garry waited with an amused expression on his face.
‘Sorry, sorry, that’s good. Ghosts . . . Speaking of which, what do you think about Overtoun?’
Garry gave her a blank look.
‘The dog bridge I was just talking about?’
‘Ah.’ His expression was amused, his mouth twitching. ‘What about it?’
‘I want to get back up there. We put that small piece out but I think we should go back, dig deeper.’
Garry ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’m not sure, Ava. We haven’t really got time to keep chasing rumours . . .’
‘Honestly, Garry, you know I wouldn’t ask like this if I didn’t think there was something. And the manager’s nice – it would be no problem, I’m sure, to sniff about a bit more . . .’
‘Maybe. And if a dog jumps or something actually happens then fine. Today, though, let’s go to the actual job we’re meant to be doing, OK?’
‘OK.’ Ava remembered to smile. She would persuade him.
Garry moved away. ‘I’ll just get my bag.’
‘I’ll go back there,’ Neil whispered urgently. ‘I’ve got a drone.’ His face blushed crimson. ‘We could get some good aerial footage and you could do what you do best – talk to people.’
Ava looked up at him. ‘Really?’
His eyes slid from her face to the floor as he nodded.
‘That would be great,’ Ava whispered. ‘Thanks, Neil. I’ll message you a good time.’
‘Neil!’ Garry called from across the room. ‘Sign out the camera, OK?’
Neil mumbled something and then pushed away from the desk.
Ava opened her top drawer to look for the spare make-up she kept, wanting another pressed powder to take to the job. She was surprised to see an envelope addressed to her. She reached for it. She rarely g
ot post other than junk circulars or local newsletters. The odd letter appeared, mostly from discontented pensioners wanting to know why they paid their TV licence or eager to correct her pronunciation. This looked to fall into that bracket.
It was flouncier than most: a flourish on the right-hand leg of the large ‘A’, flicking up flamboyantly. Disconcertingly, the envelope had been hand delivered. She opened it up, eyes widening as she read the few words on the single sheet inside: You are being watched. She turned over the sheet . . . blank. She checked the envelope but nothing else was inside. When she looked up at last, the office seemed the same: the balcony held a steady stream of people; the monitors all showed the same show on their channel, the latest news headlines on a ticker tape below. She folded the note back inside, feeling an ominous lurch. Claudia sometimes mentioned the odd strange letter; once she’d been sent her face stuck on the photo of another woman’s naked body. There were some oddballs out there.
‘Ava!’
She started at her name. Garry stood waiting at the door, eyebrows raised. She stuffed the letter back in her top drawer. ‘Coming!’
The afternoon dragged on. Ava thought of the books she itched to get back to, a night ahead where she could fully immerse herself in the story that dominated every waking thought. She wanted this assignment finished quickly. There was no poltergeist – no story really, just a man in a string vest with a very cluttered living room. The filming made for slow going as Neil played around with different shots of the house and then their interviewee kept leaping up when he said he saw something move and Ava had to constantly stop-start. Even Garry, who was rarely impatient, grew more tight-lipped each time he had to tell Neil to start filming again.
‘Come on . . .’ Ava muttered to herself.
They broke for a bit to set up another shot. Neil brought her a coffee. ‘It’s decaffeinated,’ he said, making Garry look up and frown.
Flustered, Ava thanked him.
‘So do you want to be around while we get some spooky-sounding noises, Ava?’ Garry said. ‘Footsteps . . . moaning – that kind of thing?’ He waggled his eyebrows comically.
‘Actually – if it’s alright – I was hoping to get home early,’ she said quickly. ‘I can edit it later if you send me the footage?’
Garry gave her a lingering look. ‘Alright,’ he said eventually.
‘Thanks.’ Ava scooped up her things.
‘See you soon, Ava.’ Neil kept his voice low as she passed him. ‘Garry? If it’s alright, I’ve got another job to get to . . .’
She turned back around and both men were watching her leave.
Her car was stuffy from the hot weather. Sliding the window down, she rested her head back on the seat, aware of the bag with the books piled inside. As she wound her way around the streets of Glasgow, she passed smiling, summer-infused people: a group of teenagers dancing, a boy at the centre with his arms in the air, head tilted to the sky; a mother cooing into a pram; a man with a child on his shoulders; two older ladies sitting on a low wall eating ice cream. She felt twitchy and apart from them. She turned up the radio and tried to summon the same relaxed energy.
As she stepped out of her car in her street, she felt an unmistakeable presence nearby. She turned around, sensing movement. The street was empty, and yet the hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention. She’d had the distinct feeling that eyes were on her again. But there were no twitching curtains, no faces at the windows. But she had heard footsteps; she was sure of it. She thought then of the letter in her top drawer at work. Maybe it was making her jumpy? There was a click, like the sound of a camera. Swallowing, she reached into her car to pull out her bag and headed for her flat. As she opened the door, there was the sound of another closing somewhere behind her.
She almost tripped over the brown leather bag.
‘You’re back!’ she said, drawing up short.
‘I’m here!’ Fraser called from the direction of their bedroom. He stood in the entrance to the office, hands on his hips, before turning towards her. He looked like he’d been running: cheeks flushed, hair askew, breathing heavier than normal. ‘Finished work already?’ His eyebrows lifted.
‘Garry’s sending me the piece to edit from here.’
‘Ah,’ Fraser said. He took her bag from her, as he so often did. ‘Woah, this is heavy.’
‘It’s books.’
He glanced at the top one – she was sure that a muscle fluttered in his cheek. ‘Scotland’s Most Haunted Places. More about that house?’
Ava mumbled a reply.
‘I only just got in. My dad’s alright. Penny came over. I think she’s got a soft spot for him. She sent me packing. Dad was pleased, felt like I was making a fuss over a finger.’
‘That’s good – about Penny, I mean.’ She seemed to be always putting her foot in it with Fraser lately.
‘Do you want a takeaway tonight?’
‘Sure.’
Fraser moved back down the corridor. ‘What do you think about yellow?’
Ava pulled the books one by one from the bag. She wouldn’t get much time this evening. ‘Hmm?’
‘Yellow. For the walls. I picked up some samples so we could test a few and see what we liked?’ He waited a few seconds as if for her to catch up. ‘Then, if it’s a boy or a girl it doesn’t matter.’ He must have taken her continued silence as something else. ‘Not that a boy couldn’t have pink walls, but . . . you know what I mean.’
‘Right. Yes. Yellow. That could work.’
It was the wrong thing to say; Fraser pressed his lips together, his hands falling to his sides.
‘Or pink, blue . . . sorry. What do you think? It doesn’t matter, does it? It’s still really early.’
‘But . . .’ Fraser gritted his teeth. ‘Tomorrow is results day, which means I’m going to be tied up with kids wanting feedback . . . clearing . . . angry parents – the works.’
‘Sorry. Of course. I forgot.’
He muttered something she couldn’t pick up. ‘Look, summer is almost over for me, Ava, I’ve got this new role and I’m going to be up to my eyes. It would be nice if you could show some interest.’
‘I am showing interest. Yellow is great. I agreed. It’s a good idea.’
‘Fine. I’ll do it in yellow.’
‘Thanks.’ She scooted past him.
Her mobile rang and she answered. It was Garry telling her he’d emailed the piece and wanted it edited for tonight’s programme.
When she hung up on Garry, she said, ‘Um . . . I’ve got to work.’
Fraser just nodded wearily.
‘Let’s talk more later. Alright?’
He had gone into the office and didn’t reply.
Chapter 25
MARION
I am pregnant.
Hamish is delighted, summoning the doctor, a tiny man almost bent double and with a pointed white beard, who examined me in my bedroom and confirmed that I am with child. It is the most wonderful blessing, and I find myself breaking into laughter at the strangest times, poking my tongue out at the big brown bear as I pass. Hamish has spent more time at home, removing the dust sheet from the desk his father had worked from, installing a telephone in the house, which makes a shrill ring when London are in touch. Sometimes I hear him laughing with somebody. I believe his colleagues must be close friends.
He dines with me and asks after my health, ensures Miss Kae produces food that will help the baby and talks earnestly of the excitement and relief that he has an heir for the estate. At night he is gentle, his touch lingers, his palms splayed on my stomach that has changed shape, a rounded belly where before there was flatness. I feel a warmth emanate from it, through my whole body, to my very fingertips. Hamish tells me I am beautiful.
I picture a rosy-cheeked infant with wide eyes and Hamish’s curly brown hair. Someone to hold close and sing lullabies to. A child to keep me company in this great house, a little boy who will grow up to make his father proud.
The whiske
ry doctor has advised no energetic walking or riding of animals. How I wish someone could tell me more. I have written to Mother but we never speak of intimate things and Susan has less knowledge than I. Hamish tells me to stay within the walled garden and I do. I walk backwards and forwards, the sound of the river that runs alongside it accompanying every step. Afterwards, I wonder whether even this was wrong, whether I should have stayed in bed, completely still. Whether that day I left the walled garden, bored and unthinking, into the paths of the estate, sheltering underneath the archway of the stone bridge as rain fell, was what prompted it.
Hamish and the doctor are not there when it happens. He is not meant to come this early. I am woken by a crippling pain that slices me in half. Clutching myself, I feel a terrible damp, a shocking sight on the ceramic tiles of the bathroom floor, blood streaking the basin of the toilet, an impossible amount. I am surely dying. I cannot breathe. I stagger and slip in it, my nightdress coated, my hands, a scarlet swipe on my cheek that makes me recoil when I catch myself in the mirror. Panicking as I feel him leaving my body, I sink to the floor, stay there, cradling my grey son in my hands, oversized head and too-small limbs, the feeling of the thin cord between my legs as we wait in a red puddle, back to the door, whole body trembling. Hamish is away and it seems like hours alone with him in the bathroom before I hear my name, a knock, a cry, as Miss Kae finds us. She gets me to my bed, her voice shaking, her gaze not able to rest on him. She leaves to summon the doctor on the telephone. Later she cleans the bathroom, the bedding, the floor. I listen to her from another bedroom with dark blue walls and the smell of mould and when I return to my bedroom two days later there is nothing different, and yet every time I open the bathroom door all I see is red.
I never ask her what the doctor did with him. I want to. I open my mouth but the question dies on my lips. No birth certificate, and yet he had been a baby boy. I had seen him, held him. He was my son. Even when I shut my eyes, I see the inside of that bathroom. I can’t sleep. The days and nights merge. Red-rimmed eyes stare back unseeing in my mirror, my hair lank, my sagging stomach empty.