‘No chance, with you here to remind me,’ I mutter as I get into the van.
I drive away and Mitch blethers on and fucking on, until I can’t stand it anymore and pull over into a passing place. I get out of the van, vault over the stone dyke into a field and run, sprinting as fast as I can through the heavy soil. I stop at the far edge of the field and stand, gasping for breath. Some crows rise in a circle above me, cawing and rattling, and when my breathing has settled enough that I can hear anything else, I hear the wind whistling through the row of beeches at the edge of the field. Lonesome, Scottish sounds. But at least Mitch has shut his gob.
****
Harry is just locking up shop when I get back. He opens the door to let me in. ‘Thought you’d gone home. How’s your day been?’
‘Okay. Actually, I came back hoping to catch you. A woman came in this afternoon to ask if we’d do a full house clearance for her. Her old man’s place, Cauldhill Farm out by the Moorfoots. We ever do that kind of thing?’
‘We haven’t up to now.’ He rubs his beard and considers for a moment. ‘I don’t see any particular reason why not. She’s giving us . . . how much furniture?’
‘All of it, Harry, and there’s a lot of it. Massive house full. I’ve just been out to recce the place. Valuable stuff. Antiques, everything. The place is like a dumping ground; the old man obviously never threw anything away in his life. It’s not going to be done in a couple of hours.’
‘Right. I’ll tell you what. If you can shuffle deliveries about and make time, go ahead. God knows, we need the money. You’ll need Billy, I assume?’
‘Eventually, but not yet. We’ve got to unearth the furniture before we can shift it. What do I tell her about the price?’
‘I assume she’s able to pay a bit.’
‘Ehm . . . yeah. I don’t get the feeling it’s an issue.’
‘Charge her the usual rate for removals per van load, plus double your usual hourly rate for the packing up. Give her an estimate for the whole job, and if she wants to haggle, give a wee bit. Not too much.’
‘Right.’
‘Good lad. Listen, did Dawn give you a bit of agro today?’
‘Just a bit of banter. Why?’
‘Emma told me she made some inappropriate remarks.’
‘Like I say, it was just a bit of banter. What’s Emma doing telling tales, anyway? I thought they were mates.’
Harry sighs and buries his fingers in his beard again. ‘They are when it suits them. I’m sure you wouldn’t but . . . don’t encourage Dawn, okay? She can be . . .’ he pauses, purses his lips, ‘. . . temperamental might be the word.’
‘Right.’ I linger there, wondering if Emma also told him what I said to Dawn, and whether he’s telling me off in a veiled sort of way. I’m used to superiors who bellow in your face or tell you point blank how stupid you’ve been; subtlety is one of the first things they hammer out of you.
Harry pulls his keys out of his pocket and holds the door open for me. I step outside onto the street and he closes the door behind us, locks up and pulls down the shutter.
Then he turns to me. ‘You want a lift home?’
‘Nah, thanks. See you tomorrow.’
He looks incredibly weary all of a sudden, but nods. ‘Yep. See you tomorrow, Sean.’
IV
Three days later I’m back at Cauldhill Farm with the van and a load of packing boxes. Molly has agreed to meet me but her car isn’t here and she doesn’t come to the door. I check my watch and swallow a wave of irritation, then walk back down the front steps and wander toward one of the old stone byres. I swing the door open and step inside, pause on the threshold to take in smells of birds and damp stone, the rhythm of water droplets on the cobbles. The stone floor is wet and uneven, weeds growing up through cracks, thick in some places with feathers and bird droppings.
Light filters through holes in the ceiling in dusty rays. At one end of the barn I find a few fresh owl pellets, so I look up toward the roof beams above to find the pale form of a barn owl. Disturbed from its sleep, it ruffles its feathers and peers down at me, golden eyes deep in a heart-shaped face, but it doesn’t apparently find me enough of a threat to abandon its roost. The owl’s expression of stoic watchfulness is familiar, almost human. It assesses, waits, closes its eyes again, and I continue my exploration.
There is a rotting wooden trunk against one wall. I squat beside it and carefully lift the lid to avoid a creak, and from inside come the smells of rust and alcohol and old, damp leather. Inside are medical instruments and glass vials, with dried up crusty contents, labelled with Latin names.
Next to these is a smaller, padlocked wooden box, which I lift out and shake gently. Something makes a papery shuffle inside. A moment’s rummaging in the trunk yields a long hypodermic needle, which slides neatly into the lock mechanism, and I’ve got it open within a few seconds. The lid creaks and reveals a small bundle wrapped in old yellow kitchen roll, which I unfold carefully to find two photographs.
The first, black and white and very fragile, is of the crew of an RAF Lancaster bomber. Six men with elbows on each other’s shoulders and the seventh turning away, climbing a ladder to enter the plane. It is obviously an original, slightly frayed around the edges, and I hold it gently on my fingertips for a minute before wrapping it up again.
The second photo is in colour and more recent, but still faded with age. It is of a young soldier in dress uniform: tartan trews, Glengarry, the badge of the Royal Scots. He’s leaning against the wall on the north side of the Edinburgh Castle esplanade, arms crossed, eyes looking out over the rooftops of the city toward something outside the frame of the photo. Flashes of familiarity in his face fade when I look closely and his features lose their uniqueness; all soldiers look the same at the end of the day. They look like what they are: androids hardwired to send and receive bullets. Handsome young faces like masks, serving only to tug on civilian heartstrings.
I lock the photos back into their box, then sit back on my heels and wonder why they would be hidden in a trunk in the barn. A strange feeling comes over me, an impression of a family boxing up its past and throwing it away.
Over the wind a more substantial sound materialises into tyres on gravel. I stand up and brush off my knees, wander outside and watch the silver Volvo sweep into the drive. Molly parks next to the van and climbs out. Before she sees me, she stoops to examine herself in the wing mirror and rubs fiercely at her lower eyelids.
I approach casually, pretending not to notice the smudged mascara. It’s obvious she’s been crying. ‘Alright?’
‘Yep. Fine.’
‘Did you know you have a barn owl?’
She turns sharply. ‘What? Sorry, no, I . . . where?’
I point my thumb over my shoulder toward the byre.
‘I haven’t been in there in years. I’m sorry I’m late. Someone phoned and I . . . got delayed.’
‘No problem. You want to see it? The owl, I mean.’
She looks past me, her mouth half open, and after a moment shakes her head. ‘No, it’s alright. We better make a start, I’m sure you don’t have all day.’
‘I do.’
‘Okay . . . fine.’ The tone of her voice has cooled from the other day, and I wonder if she’s had second thoughts about this whole arrangement. She turns away and marches purposefully toward the front door. ‘I’ve made a start upstairs already. There were some things that were mine.’
‘I’ll just get some boxes.’ I jog to the van and pull out a stack of flattened boxes, then follow her into the house. ‘So . . . where do you . . .’
‘I don’t know. I don’t care to be quite honest. It all has to go, Sean, so just pick a room and start packing.’
Her abrupt, frustrated tone is very intimate. She might be issuing orders to a departing husband. A nervous laugh bubbles up into my throat and I bite my lip.
Molly sees me. ‘Something funny?’
‘Not really.’ I about face and take my boxes al
ong to the library. I figure I’ll save the bedrooms for when we feel a bit more at ease with each other. Mitch whispers something about my unfailing strategic genius. Shut it, I think, and turn my attention to the business of unfolding the boxes and locking their various flaps into position.
It would be easy to waste time perusing the books, but I force myself to stack them into the boxes without examining the titles. Little puffs of dust billow into the air each time I remove a handful from the shelf, and after a while my nose is tingling and my throat feels dry. I fill a couple of cartons and label them Cauldhill Farm: books, then straighten up and feel a sneeze building. It comes, followed quickly by three more. When they subside, I pause, survey my progress and wonder where Molly has gone. I think I hear can hear her voice raised in anger from somewhere in the house, but there’s no point trying to tune into the words. There is a short exclamation, and then silence. I return to my packing but a moment later there are footsteps behind me.
‘Sorry about the shouting.’
I sit back on my heels and dust my hands on my jeans. ‘What shouting?’
She thumps a roll of black bin bags onto the coffee table and gives me that sharp laugh again. ‘Don’t kid on you didn’t hear that just now.’
I smile at her, and give her what I hope is an innocent shrug. ‘I’m a bit deaf, so shout all you like.’
She tilts her head in scepticism. ‘Is that true?’
‘Uh huh. My left ear’s totally buggered.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Blast damage to my inner ear. My exit ticket from the Marines, courtesy of the kind young gentlemen of the Taliban.’
‘Oh God, Sean, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. It can’t be fixed?’
‘They tried. At least it’s only the one, eh?’
She takes a deep breath and then squats beside me, peers into the box of books. ‘I suppose it could have been worse.’
I glance at her. ‘You think?’
‘What do you mean?’
My throat constricts suddenly and I shake my head, mouth half open. This happens a lot: the irrational squall of anger at a person for being ignorant of something they would have no way of knowing.
‘Nothing. Forget it.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You keep saying that. What are you sorry for?’
I know it’s an impossible question for her to answer, and part of me enjoys watching her flounder. Sorry for bringing it up, most likely. Civvies always assume I don’t want to talk about it. Or maybe, they’re afraid that I will talk about it. Afraid of what I have to tell them. Of what happens in the places their government sends us while they’re sat at home watching third-rate celebrities eat worms on camera for money.
She doesn’t find an answer so I shrug to let her off the hook. ‘Don’t feel sorry for me, I volunteered for it. I knew what I was doing.’
‘I guess you did. Why?’
I laugh. ‘It seemed a better option than staying here.’
‘That’s hard to believe.’
‘Not really.’ I place a stack of books into the box. ‘Who were you shouting at, anyway?’
‘Peter. My husband.’ She makes little inverted commas in the air with her fingers, describing marital failure in a single gesture.
‘Oh.’
‘He’s just . . . frustrated that I’m still here. It’s not important.’
‘He misses you.’
‘He misses my cooking and cleaning and running around after Joshua, but he doesn’t miss me.’
‘Is Joshua your son?’
A curt shake of the head. ‘Joshua is his son from his first marriage. He’s fifteen, he hardly needs running after anyway.’
‘No kids of your own?’
‘No.’ A flat, punctuated syllable, which seems like all I’m going to get. Then she elaborates. ‘Anorexia fucked up my ovaries, so it seems I’ll never have children.’
Too much fucking information for the removals guy.
‘That’s too bad.’ A lame offering but the best I can manage. I look up at the high, damp-stained ceiling for a moment, then reach for another armload of books.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to have a look at these before I take them away?’
‘Positive. I’ll get some of this rubbish out of your way.’
We both retreat from our exposed positions and work without speaking for a while. The hands of the clock on the far wall stopped at twenty past seven one day long past, and I mark time by the changing light. It fades from yellow to silver to watery white as the sun moves into the west. Molly crumples years of old newspapers and shoves them unceremoniously into bin bags, compacting them in with her foot to create tight bales. Gradually the space opens up around us, revealing a fine but filthy Persian rug, solid oak bookcases, a grand, tiled fireplace. She keeps her back to me most of the time, and sometimes I think she’s having a quiet cry to herself. I pretend not to notice.
By the time the sun is settling behind the hills, we have emptied the room of everything apart from the heavy furniture. I have loaded more than two-dozen cartons into the van and am standing on the step, pressing my fingers into the grumbling muscles of my lower back and filling my lungs with fresh, cold air. It smells of coal smoke and wet grass and of winter not quite ready to give up its grip.
A stooped figure is walking along the road with a skinny black and white collie on a piece of rope. An old man in a shabby oilskin coat and boots, with thin grey hair and an uneven gait. He pauses at the bottom of the drive and stares at me. I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before, but then pretty much every scuzzy little bar in the county is propped up by half a dozen old pissheads who look just like him.
‘That’s ma hoose,’ he shouts, slurring and spitting. His arm comes up and he waves a knobbled finger in the air. ‘That’s ma hoose. Ah’m gonnae get that hoose. It’s mines.’
‘Aye, okay, mate,’ I call back, and turn away from him.
Molly is making tea inside. Her face is streaked with dust and there are cobwebs caught in her hair. Before I can stop myself, I raise my hand to brush them away. Her thick hair slides between my fingers, releasing a lavender smell. She freezes, the spoon quivering in her hand.
‘Cobwebs,’ I say, wiping the sticky silk onto my jeans. ‘Sorry.’
‘Oh.’ A smile flickers on her lips, then fades. She pushes a mug toward me.
‘Ta.’
She sits down at the table. ‘You can sit, if you like.’
I drop onto a chair across from her. ‘So there was this old boy passing just now, said this was his house.’
‘Drunk?’
‘Steaming.’
A nod. ‘Duncan. He’s a shepherd. Lives up on the hill with the sheep. Complete alcoholic. He’s been there as long as I can remember. God knows how he manages.’
‘Why does he think this is his house?’
‘Whisky dreams, I suppose.’
‘Did he work for your old man?’
‘In a manner of speaking. He did odd jobs and helped Dad out with bits and pieces. The sheep belong to the neighbouring farm, but it’s still Dad’s land. Was, I mean. Dad never worked the farm; he was a veterinarian.’
‘That explains the medical equipment in the barn. Old medicine vials and that.’
‘You were snooping.’ She cups her hands around her mug and regards me through a veil of steam, more curious than angry.
‘Just a bit of a recce. I found some photos. Maybe you want to have a look before I get rid of them.’
‘Photos? Of who?’
I laugh. ‘How would I know? The crew of a Lancaster bomber from the war. Then another one of a soldier in dress uniform, at Edinburgh Castle.’
Molly blinks. ‘The first would be Dad and his mates. They flattened cities. The second . . . I have no idea.’
‘Your dad?’
‘Yeah. I told you he was much older than my mum. He was over sixty when I was born. Ninety-five when he died.’
‘Wow. Okay .
. .’
She sighs. ‘Mmm. Well.’
‘You want me to bring the pictures in?’
‘No,’ she says, too quickly. ‘Dump them. Dad kept too much shit.’
I feel my eyebrows lift. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. If you want to know the truth, Sean, I’m glad he’s gone, and not just for his sake. That sounds wrong, I’m sure, but . . .’ she trails off into nothing.
Five years ago I walked away from Mum’s funeral light as a man newly liberated from jail, and I still can’t bring myself to miss her. ‘No. I know what you mean.’
Molly acknowledges this with a bob of the head. ‘Dad was a surly old bastard who liked animals more than people. At the end there when he was really ill, he asked the doctors to finish him off. He said if he was a horse, nobody would think twice about having him shot. Then he asked me to do it. Can you imagine that? Asking your own daughter to kill you? When I said no, he called me a soft bitch. His final opinion of me: a soft bitch.’
‘Charming.’
‘Could you have done it? Put an old man in pain out of his misery?’
‘I doubt it.’
I can tell by the way her eyes narrow that she doesn’t believe me. ‘Do you ever get over it?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Killing someone? You have, I assume. Killed someone. More than one.’
I laugh stupidly. ‘Nobody related to me, as far as I’m aware.’
She tilts her head a little to one side. ‘Does it bother you?’
‘It was my job.’
‘Are you okay with that?’
‘It doesn’t make any fucking difference whether I’m okay with it or not. Why would you think that’s your business?’
She presses her lips together and looks out the window. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked, it was rude of me.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Not rude, just . . . a wee bit personal at this stage in our relationship. I’m sorry I swore.’
Then she puts her mug down and reaches across the table, clasps my hands and pulls them toward her. ‘Let me make it up to you?’
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