Aye, she’d love that.
You wouldn’t.
Nae joke, Mitch.
Makes you think twice, doesn’t it? All women turn into their mothers, that’s their curse.
I stretch one leg back, then the other. Do they? There’s an unpleasant pull in the tendons at the back of my right knee and a persistent ache in my lower back. What about fatherless men, who do we turn into?
Janet is in the kitchen with the back door open and the radio on. She’s working on a glass of red and folding washing just gathered in from the line. She looks up at me as I come in, scanning me quietly for a moment to assess my mood.
‘Good day?’
‘Not too bad.’
She shakes out one of my tee shirts and folds it into a smooth square.
‘I can do my own washing.’
‘I know,’ she replies in a tone that might be kindness or might be martyrdom. She swings between them at will and I’ve never quite mastered telling one from the other until all hell breaks loose.
I sit down on the back step, the evening sun warm on my face, and unlace my trainers. I peel off my socks and spread my toes on the pavement. ‘There’s something I want to ask you.’
She lays a stack of folded clothes into the basket. ‘What?’
‘So . . . there’s this old shepherd who lives on the hill above Cauldhill Farm. Ex-squaddie, total jakey. Duncan, he’s called. Mean anything to you?’
‘Should it?’
I can almost hear the wheels of her mind grinding behind me. I stand up and turn to face her.
‘He knew Mum.’
‘A lot of jakeys knew Mum. Duncan who?’
‘Don’t know his second name, but he looks like me. Or maybe I should say look like him.’
Her eyebrows arch upwards and suspicion shades her face. ‘Sean, don’t leap to conclusions. Who is this guy?’
‘He worked for Molly’s old man. He sees himself as the self-appointed guardian of the place in Molly’s absence.’
‘So who mentioned Mum?’
‘He did. He knew her. He said he’d met me before. Tell me, Janet. You remember him.’
Janet puts down a pair of socks and picks up her glass. She sips slowly, then chews on her upper lip. ‘I don’t remember anything from back then.’
‘You were ten.’
‘I don’t remember, Sean. I don’t remember very much from my childhood at all.’ She closes her eyes, and tears form around her lashes. ‘I remember feeling tired and scared, all the time. That’s all. Your brain blocks things out for a reason. I don’t know why you’d want to go digging around in ancient history. What does it achieve?’
I get up, close the back door, then sit at the kitchen table and run my fingers through my hair. ‘I just want to know who I am.’
‘You know who you are.’ An obstructive statement of something neither of us believes. She knows it won’t turn me so she bolsters it with a further plea. ‘Why do you need to know more? Why can’t you just accept things as they are?’
‘Because this is my fucking life, not some top secret mission I’ve signed up to without knowing the facts.’
She aims a finger toward me. ‘I’ll tell you something about your father. He was an arsehole. And he’s either still an arsehole or he’s dead. One or the other, guaranteed. You’re better off leaving it.’
‘I’ll decide that.’ I sit back in my chair and watch her as she shakes out a pair of work trousers and folds them so they crease down the fronts of the legs. She tries to ignore me for a minute or two but her lips are pressed together so hard the blood has drained from them. When she finishes folding, she puts the laundry back into the basket in a neat stack and places it at the base of the stairs. Then she comes back to the kitchen, refills her glass and exhales wine fumes and annoyance.
‘What?’
I keep my eyes on her. ‘You drink too much.’
‘Oh, here we go again. Give me a small break, would you?’
‘You do.’
‘I’m not Mum.’
I can tell I’ve hit a sore one and I smile a little. ‘I didn’t say you were; I said you drink too much. You’re strung out and anxious all the time. You can’t relax until you’ve had at least half a bottle.’
‘Well fuck you very much, Mr Sobriety. Strung out and anxious . . . that’s good coming from you, isn’t it? You’re a fucking basket case.’
‘Is that an official diagnosis?’
Then she sinks into her glass, eyes turned away from me. It’s pretty obvious she regretted saying it the moment it was out of her mouth, but I’m not in a forgiving mood. I stand up, collect my trainers and socks and walk out of the kitchen.
‘Sean . . .’ she calls as I’m halfway up the stairs. ‘Come down. I’m sorry.’
‘I cannae hear you, Janet,’ I shout back. As I say, sometimes being half deaf has its advantages.
I shower, then sit on my bed for a while, contemplating my next move. I need talk to Duncan, to somehow tease some sense out of his pickled brain. But I’m apprehensive. There’s an edge to the man that makes me think he’s capable of violence, and in his state he might not be able to restrain it. Worse than that, I have to admit, Janet might be right. I might find out more than I want to know.
I need to know a bit more about him before I confront him. Before I lose my nerve, I grab my phone and scroll down for Molly’s number.
It rings five times before she answers and the connection isn’t great. There’s a lot of background noise.
‘Molly, it’s Sean.’
‘Oh. Is everything okay?’
‘Ehm . . . yeah, the house is fine. Molly, I wanted to speak to you about something, is this a good time?’
‘Not really, I’m . . .’ she replies, and a wave of static interrupts her voice, ‘. . . tomorrow.’
‘Sorry, you cut out there.’
‘I said I’m on my way up there. You can come see me tomorrow night if you want.’ She sounds annoyed.
‘You’re coming back?’
‘Yes. I’m driving now, I can’t stay on. What did you want to talk about, anyway?’
‘Ehm . . . why don’t we leave it until you get here, eh? I’m going to the gym after work, so it’ll be after eight. Is that too late?’
‘No, it’s fine, Sean.’ I hear her sigh and the rush of what sounds like motorway traffic. ‘See you then, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Bye then.’
‘Bye.’
XIX
I wait on the doorstep for Molly, hair still wet from my post-training shower and a symphony of aches in the lower back and legs. From somewhere behind me, the screech of a barn owl, followed by a reply from somewhere in the distance. I turn, scan the sloping barn roof and the silhouettes of the trees behind it. A silent, pale figure glides from the gable peak, catching the moonlight before disappearing into the trees. The wind breathes in the grass.
The door creaks open and Molly stands there in her own baggy tracksuit bottoms, Ugg boots and a thick fleece. Her face is pale and her eyes slightly puffy, but she smiles and seems genuinely glad to see me.
‘Come in. How are you?’
‘Fine, thanks.’ I step onto the tiled lobby floor and she backs against the wall to let me past, face turned away from mine, embarrassed. ‘How are you, Molly?’
She pushes the door closed gently and locks it. ‘I don’t know how I am. Sean. Come through. It’s just as well you never got round to moving the rest of the furniture out.’
I follow her to the kitchen and stand in front of the range in the vain hope that the heat will ease the tightness in my muscles. She turns her back on me to fill the kettle, then says something over the stream of water.
‘Pardon?’
She turns toward me again, a look of apology on her face. ‘Sorry. I just said thanks for looking after the place.’
‘It’s fine. So . . . I take it you’ve decided what you’re going to do with it?’
Her lips press together for a mom
ent. ‘Not really. I’ve . . . ehm . . .’ A small pause, as though she’s not entirely sure she wants to tell me. ‘I’ve left Peter.’
‘Oh.’
She must hear panic in my voice because she smiles. ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing to do with you. But I can’t stay with him anymore, he’s . . .’ Her voice trails off into nothing and she changes the subject. ‘D’you want coffee or tea?’
‘Tea,’ I say meekly. ‘What happened?’
‘He’s been seeing someone.’ She shrugs. ‘Apparently it’s been going on for quite a while.’
Quick judgement call, but I reckon it’s probably best not to say anything about double standards.
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Me too, believe it or not. It’s funny. I didn’t think I would be. I’ve been indifferent to him for so long, I think I must have driven him to it. Anyway . . .’ She stretches her mouth into a stiff smile, ‘keep calm and carry on, as they say. At least I had somewhere to run to.’
‘So are you going to stay here?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I’ll be alright for a while. And I’ve had an idea, but . . .’ She pauses to make the tea, her lips pursed as she fills the teapot. ‘It’s probably mad.’
‘What is it?’
‘I told you I used to work as a fundraiser for charities. A couple of years ago, I did some work for a social enterprise farm down in Devon. They grew organic vegetables and raised chickens and ducks and things. They brought groups of young people out from the poor estates and taught them skills, set them challenges, helped them build their confidence. It was a beautiful, inspiring place.’
‘They weren’t naked, were they?’
‘Pardon?’ she giggles.
‘Nothing. Just . . . forget it. Sorry.’
‘Okay . . . I was driving up here yesterday and it just came into my head. I couldn’t sleep last night, so I spent about four hours writing a business plan.’
She brings two mugs to the table and sits down, motions for me to sit down opposite her. ‘A bit daft, I suppose.’
‘Maybe not. I work for a social enterprise. That must have been somebody’s mad idea once. You could turn the barn into a bunkhouse. Get the wee tearaways out here for weeks at a time, teach them outdoor skills, take them yomping up the hills, get their hands dirty.’ I pull out a chair and sit. ‘Aye, why not?’
Molly’s jaded expression becomes a little more enthusiastic. ‘You’d help me, wouldn’t you?’
‘Me? I don’t know the first thing about farming. Or kids, for that matter.’
She leans forward and her face becomes more animated than I’ve ever seen it. ‘You’ve got the outdoor skills, though, you’d be perfect. I could see you barking orders at the surly little Broomhouse chavs. You’d have them all up the hill in the winter, living in snow caves, hunting rabbits and stoats. That’s your kind of thing, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’
This confuses her. ‘Of course it is. Bloody Mountain Leader, you, not just your average bootneck.’
‘I never told you that.’
She winces. ‘I Googled you.’
‘Ah.’ Heat moves up from my neck to my cheeks. ‘Why?’
‘Curious, I suppose. There’s quite a lot about you guys and your exploits. Haven’t you ever Googled yourself?’
‘No.’
‘I thought it was something everyone did.’
‘I have no idea what other people do.’
She studies me. ‘There was an impressive obituary of your friend Mitch. That was quite a thing he did.’
‘Yeah. Quite a thing.’ A mouthful of tea, swished slowly between my cheeks, swallowed carefully. The feeling of being distilled by this single event, as though I might never again be more than the salvageable remnants of that one explosion. If I spend the rest of my life running, I’ll never escape the blast radius of this one.
‘Not something I want to talk about tonight, if you don’t mind.’
‘That’s okay. I’m sorry.’
I shrug. She says this, but she will look at me differently now, and forever. Everyone who knows the story will see me through the filter of this knowledge: I am alive because Mitch is dead, and he is dead because of me.
‘What did you want to speak to me about, anyway, Sean?’
‘Oh . . . ehm . . .’ I swallow heavily. ‘I wanted to ask you about Duncan.’
‘Duncan?’ A shadow crosses her face. ‘Duncan up the road? What about him?’
‘Where did he come from? Who is he? What’s his connection with the farm?’
‘Why do you ask?’
I stare into my tea, not sure what to say. ‘He . . . spoke to me one day when I came up here and it appears he used to know my mother. Years ago. I just . . . wanted to know a bit more about him.’
Molly’s eyes widen with surprise. She sips her tea and puts down the mug. ‘Well . . . I don’t know that much about him. He’s lived in that wee house most of my life. He was in the army before that.’
I nod. ‘The Royal Scots.’
‘How’d you know that?’
‘I found a photo of him while I was packing up. I mentioned it to you, remember? You were pretty vague. Purposely so, I think.’
‘Oh.’ Soft, careful voice. Then she sighs. ‘There’s a bit of history and I didn’t want to have to go into it. He’s . . . always had a drink problem. He got into trouble in the army for assaulting another soldier. Spent some time in Colchester for it.’
‘Charming character. So how did he end up here?’
‘I believe he used to hang about with some woman from Eskbridge when he came out of the army. I don’t know where he came from before that . . . he didn’t seem to have any other family anywhere. Dad met him in town, took a bit of a liking to him and offered him work and a place to live. He looked after the sheep and did odd jobs around the place, and my dad looked after him. Made sure he was okay, and gave him lifts places and things like that. Had to bail him out of jail once or twice for stupid stuff. Drunk driving, fighting, that kind of thing.’
‘Why does he think this house should be his?’
‘Dad must have said things to him . . . I don’t know. I was actually surprised to find that the will doesn’t mention Duncan at all.’
‘So, if you sold up, he’d be forced out.’
‘Technically, I guess so. That’s another problem for me, isn’t it. I don’t have any desire to turn the man out. He’s not doing anyone any harm up there, except to himself.’ She stares at her nails and continues softly. ‘Dad was . . . strange. I think Mum was right about the war . . . he was distant and angry. And he hated women.’
‘He slept with enough of them.’
‘Oh yeah, but as far as he was concerned that was all women were good for. He was like fucking Henry VIII or something . . . he just kept going through wives in hopes of getting a son, and he never got one. So Duncan became the son he never had. Mum hated Duncan.’
‘Why?’
‘She thought he was dangerous. There was rumour he’d had a kid that he wouldn’t acknowledge, and she couldn’t forgive him for that. He was good looking then, believe it or not, fit. We all fancied him.’
‘Honestly?’
‘You wouldn’t think it now, would you?’
‘When you say we . . . who do you mean?’
‘My friends and me. Stupid pre-teen girls. We went giggling around after him all the time. Obviously he was far too old to really be interested in us, but it didn’t stop us trying.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Oh . . . I guess he’d be late fifties now. Maybe sixty. I’m not sure, exactly. Younger than he looks. Why do you want to know all this?’
‘Like I say, he knew my mum,’ I reply vaguely, trying to process all of this without giving away too much.
She chews on her lip for a moment, then stands up and rinses her cup under the tap, staring at the ghost reflected in the window. ‘He’s alone up there.
If he died in that cottage, nobody would notice.’
‘Would you not look in on him from time to time?’
She turns around again. ‘No. I don’t like to have anything to do with him.’
‘Why not?’
Molly closes her eyes and the colour rises in her cheeks. ‘Just something that happened years ago.’
‘What was it?’
‘It’s private, alright? I don’t want to tell you.’
‘So it’s alright for you to play snoop, but not me?’
‘I’m sorry, Sean, some things are . . . painful. My life here was horrid, to be honest. Very lonely.’ She sits back down on the chair and lifts her eyes to mine. ‘When you say Duncan knew your mum, what do you mean?’
I focus on a patch of damp on the ceiling and wonder if there is a slow leak in the pipes above. ‘I’m sure you remember what people at school used to say about my mum.’
‘I . . . no.’
‘You do, Molly. They used to say she was a drunk and a whore. She’s been dead for years and they still say it.’
A reluctant nod. ‘I suppose I do. I’m sure it wasn’t true.’
‘It was, for the most part. She was a drunk and she slept with a lot of men. To my knowledge, she never took money, but quite honestly I wouldn’t rule it out. She always told me she didn’t know who my father was, and I never believed her. My sister knows more than she’s telling me, and I’m pretty fucking tired of being lied to. Duncan knows.’
‘Why would you think that?’
I chew my lip and consider keeping my cards close, but only for a moment. ‘You know that rumour about the kid Duncan wouldn’t acknowledge . . .’
She leans back in her chair with a jerk of something like fright, then forces out a high-pitched giggle. ‘No way, Sean, that’s just . . . stupid. It’s ridiculous.’
‘Take a close look at him.’
‘You’re nothing like him.’
‘I am.’
‘I don’t see it. That’s just . . .’ She pushes back from table and stares out the window into the dark, eyes wide, blinking from time to time. Muffled, half-muttered words.
‘Pardon?’
Her breasts inflate, then lower slowly. ‘Nothing. Never mind. What are you going to do?’
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