Something Good

by Fiona Gibson

  “What really gets me,” Veronica muttered, “is this has never happened with cycling. All the time you spend training and racing and there’s never been a single injury.”

  Max frowned at her. Of course he’d had his share of tumbles and collisions. He’d skinned arms and thighs, had to pick gravel out of his knees. Perhaps that didn’t count as serious enough. If he’d broken a leg or dislocated a shoulder, would that have made her happier? Maybe he should arrange it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped.

  “I mean,” she said, “that you made it plain from the start that you didn’t want to come. That you were humoring me.” Her voice wobbled.

  “Of course I—” He stopped short. She was right; he’d only agreed due to his overwhelming lust for the most gorgeous body he’d ever laid eyes on. What a shallow specimen he was.

  “I thought it was going to be really special,” she continued. “Our first holiday together. And you, being so fit and active, I thought you’d love—” She clamped her mouth shut.

  “Veronica, please. Let’s forget it.” He patted her knee, a gesture that felt inadequate and vaguely patronizing.

  She waggled the knee, shaking him off. “What do you think of me Max, really?” Her eyes were fixed on him. The cab driver was humming along to a song on the radio. Max blinked at the curly graying hairs that sprouted from the back of his pink neck.

  “I—I think—”

  “D’you think I’m stupid? That I don’t have direction?”

  “Of course not!” Max spluttered. “Look at your business, what you’ve managed to do all by yourself. You’ve got your investor, you’re full of ideas, you’re nearly ready to go into production….”

  “You wouldn’t invest,” she muttered.

  “How could I? I don’t have that kind of money flying about. And there’s the shop…”

  “Oh, yes,” she said witheringly, “the shop.”

  Max glared at her. Was she implying he was a workaholic, or what? Just taken a whole week off, hadn’t he? “Which number, mate?” the driver called back.

  “Sixty-seven,” Veronica said curtly.

  Not her house, but his. Max studied her face. “Are you coming in?” he asked hesitantly.

  She blinked at him. “I’ll help you in with your stuff. I’m not that selfish, Max.”

  Max hadn’t lived in his house for long enough to experience the faintest smidge of pleasure in returning. In fact, as he stepped into the narrow hall, he had an unsettling notion that he was trespassing.

  A scattering of letters and leaf lets—mostly junk mail and brown envelopes—lay on the floor. Max kicked them aside with his good foot. Veronica groaned behind him as she carried in his bag, even though it contained little more than a few clothes—no base layers, no salopettes, no buff. She dumped it on to the floor without comment.

  Max ambled into the living room to check his answering machine messages—more to distance himself from Veronica’s hostility than any thought that someone interesting might have called. He pressed the button. “Max? It’s me. Listen, there’s nothing to worry about. Everything’s fine now. Hannah had a bit of an asthma attack but the doctor came and put her on a nebulizer and steroids and she’s fine. We’re having to stay on the island an extra day, just to make sure she’s okay to travel, but we’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow as long as the ferry’s running. Weather’s been pretty awful. Anyway, love, please don’t worry about Han, she’s fine—everyone’s fine. It’s been…good here. Hope you had a great holiday. See you soon.”

  Her voice: so familiar yet faraway sounding, even though she was only in Scotland. It could have been another continent. Max was gripped by an urge to replay the message, to reassure himself that everything really was okay, but was aware of Veronica observing him from the doorway. He turned and gave her a weak smile. “Han had an asthma attack,” he murmured.

  “Yes, I heard. I expect you’ll be glad to have her back home.”

  He nodded, feeling awkward in this house that still felt unfamiliar and not quite his. Despite the skiing tan that stopped at the neck, Veronica looked drawn and tired. Her left eye had acquired some kind of tic during the cab ride. He was overcome by a sudden desire to put his arms around her, to comfort her, to say sorry—although he wasn’t sure what for.

  The tic had become more pronounced. She brought her hands to her face, sweeping them over her eyes and cheeks. To his horror, tears began to spill and form wiggly lines down her cheeks. She made no attempt to bat them away. “Veronica, what—” Max began. He wanted to hold her but she’d shrunk back, away from him.

  “You might as well say it,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “That you don’t love me. It’s Jane, Max. You still love Jane.” She was crying properly now: not silent tears but the great, gulping sobs of a hurt little girl.

  Max opened his mouth to protest, but words failed him.

  38

  “Aren’t you getting ready, Mum?” Jane asked.

  “Things aren’t quite as simple as that,” Nancy said. She was scrubbing her walking boots with a wire brush, sending out a shower of mud particles.

  “What do you mean? The doctor says Hannah’s fine to travel. It looks like the eleven o’clock ferry’s running on time. We should get something to eat before—”

  “Jane, I’m not coming. I’m staying here.” Nancy looked up from the boots.

  A shudder ran through Jane’s body. I hope you will consider my proposal, Archie had written. “Mum,” she said faintly, “what’s going on?”

  “I have the wall to finish. Brian needs help to prepare for the next course, there’s a lot of repair work to be done on the estate after the storm, and Archie—”

  “Is something going on with you and him?” Her voice wavered.

  Nancy jutted out her chin. “The man’s a shambles, Jane, but thankfully he’s seen sense. I’ll be taking over the organizational side of his business.”

  “You’ll be working here?”

  Nancy frowned. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “There’s…there’s your house, your life, your library, all your stuff….”

  “They’re only things, Jane.” Her expression softened. “People move, don’t they? They take stock of their lives and move on. They’re not frightened to make changes.”

  Jane’s head flooded with an image of Nancy’s home: dark, grimy corners, the cooker with its temperature markings worn off. A house that had withered without anyone noticing. No wonder she didn’t want to go home. “You can visit me,” she added. “You and Hannah—you can come anytime. It’s not that far. It’s not—”

  “I know, Mum. It’s not Madagascar. So, this was Archie’s idea, was it?”

  “Initially, yes. First sensible thing he’s come out with all week.” She cleared her throat. “Conor’s been looking for you, by the way. I told him you’d been keeping an eye on Hannah. Didn’t think you’d want to be disturbed.”

  Jane nodded. Mrs. McFarlane, too, had told her that Conor had dropped by. She hadn’t been able to face him. What had seemed wonderfully reckless now felt foolish, something she planned to erase from her mind. Hannah was communicating in cool, curt sentences, and who could blame her when her own mother had disappeared for an entire night? A fine example she’d set her. “Mum,” Jane said, touching Nancy’s arm, “are you absolutely sure about this?”

  Nancy nodded firmly. “It’s obvious that I’m needed here.”

  “What about your house?” Jane asked. We need you, too.

  “Could you keep an eye on it, if it’s not too much trouble? Drop by every so often? I might sell it or rent it out. Maybe you and Hannah could live there….”

  It would make sense, Jane thought. No more rent and double the space. She tried to imagine returning to the house in which she’d lived as a child. “Thanks,” she said, “but I’d like to stay where we are. It’s close to school and work….”

  “Well, it’s yours if you want it.
”

  Jane glanced at her watch. She should make sure the girls were ready to leave, check that Zoë’s ceramic irons were cool enough to be packed. “Mum,” she added, “it is just a business thing, isn’t it—you and Archie?”

  Nancy laughed raucously. “Of course it is. Gosh, what were you thinking? Filthy old sod had other ideas of course, but I’ve laid down strict rules, just like you do with a small child. I’ll be having none of his nonsense. He’s promised to give up drinking—at least, drinking before seven o’clock. If we’re going to develop a proper program of events, he’ll have to sort himself out.”

  “And where are you going to live?” Jane asked, awash with relief.

  “Right here, of course.”

  Jane looked out at the hills that swooped down to the bay. The sun had come out, giving everything a feeling of newness. She thought of Conor, and how she’d barely left her room in case she should run in to him or Lewis. It would be a relief to get back to London and be normal again. “So,” Nancy said, cutting into her thoughts, “aren’t you going to say goodbye to Conor?” Her eyes flashed mischievously.

  “There’s no time,” she replied.

  She felt her mother peering at her as if trying to focus on something behind her eyes, something unreachable. “Okay,” Nancy said, “but before you go, I’ve got something to show you. I hope you have time for that.”

  It was a ramshackle sculpture: stones of every color from darkest gunmetal through rust and yellowy golds. Spaces between the larger stones had been filled with delicate slivers of rock. “You made this?” Jane asked, astounded.

  Nancy nodded, her eyes gleaming as if to say, of course, what kind of townie idiot do you take me for?

  “Where did they come from?” Jane asked, touching a rust-colored stone that matched the dilapidated church.

  “It’s a quirk of the area,” Nancy explained. “There are far too many types to be indigenous. Brian thinks that some of them might have been the ballast of ships that were wrecked and washed up on the beach.”

  Jane ran a hand along a top stone’s rough edge, deciding that she wouldn’t ask about her feelings toward Brian. “Well,” she said, “it looks like it belongs here.”

  When she turned back to her mother she saw that her eyes were gleaming. “Like me,” was all Nancy said.

  They left in the bright morning sunshine. A cling-film-wrapped packet of sandwiches, which Nancy had insisted they take, sat on the passenger seat. Jane glanced into the rearview mirror and gave her mother a final wave.

  Hannah and Zoë were curled up sleepily in the back of the car. “Feeling okay, Han?” Jane asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What d’you think about Gran?”

  A pause, then Hannah said, “Good for her. Not like she has anything to stay in London for.”

  At least she’s speaking to me, Jane thought. That’s a start. “What if I’d done that?” she asked.

  “Done what?”

  “Decided to stay. To start a new life and all that.” Jane laughed to convey the ridiculousness of the idea.

  “That’d be different,” Hannah said.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause you’ve got your job and me. You’ve got responsibilities.” There was a bitter tinge to her voice.

  “I know,” Jane said briskly, “but say I didn’t, and you didn’t have school…. Anyway, there’s a school on the island, and we could live—” She cut herself short. She had reached the end of the driveway. Instead of taking the right-hand turn, which would lead to the pier, she stopped the car and turned off the engine.

  “What are you doing?” Zoë asked.

  Jane scrabbled for an acceptable answer. She was gripped by envy, not because she wanted to be her mother, and definitely not be Archie’s whatever-it-was, but because she knew she would never be half as courageous. Nancy’s spirit was nothing to do with having no responsibilities. “Have we broken down?” Hannah demanded.

  “No, love.” Jane started up the car, turning left instead of right.

  “Aren’t you going the wrong—”

  “It’s okay, Han. We won’t be a minute.”

  “We’ll miss the ferry!” Zoë protested.

  “We might,” Jane said airily.

  “But Mum—”

  “I told you, there’s plenty of time.”

  “It leaves in twenty minutes,” Zoë muttered. “Mum’ll go mental if I’m not back tomorrow. I can’t believe this.” She raked her hair distractedly.

  Jane smiled to herself. She had pulled up a short distance from Conor’s house. It didn’t look as if anyone was home; no smoke drifted from the chimney, and Conor’s car wasn’t in sight. “Won’t be a minute,” she said, stepping out of the car and shutting the driver’s door as quietly as she could. Sidestepping puddles, she opened the trunk and lifted out her stained glass panel. Even through layers of bubble-wrap and cardboard, she could see its swirling blues and greens: the colors of temperamental seas and skies. It was as if the shapes and shades had imprinted themselves on her brain.

  Jane carried the panel to the side of Conor’s cottage where there was no window, and therefore no chance of being seen. She propped it against the whitewashed wall, hurried back to the car and started the engine. “What was that?” Hannah asked.

  “Just…something I had to drop off,” Jane replied.

  “But what—” she protested.

  “Just something that belongs here, that’s all.” Jane started the engine, turned the car on the graveled area and headed back toward the main road.

  “Was that your panel?” Hannah asked quietly.

  “Yes, it was.”

  “I thought it was meant to be for Dad?”

  Jane felt light—so light that she rose above the gusts of disapproval that were filling the car. “It wasn’t right,” she said. “Not the colors he’d chosen for that back room. I’ll make him something else.”

  “Can’t believe you just gave it away,” Hannah muttered. “What will he do with it?”

  “Just drop it, Hannah,” Jane said.

  The island seemed so still as the road snaked upward toward the Fang. The sky was a watered-down blue now, smudged with chimney smoke and pale, wispy clouds. Jane could see the ferry approaching, cutting through a cobalt sea, as the road dipped down toward it. A small collection of cars were already lined up and waiting to board.

  A streak of smoke drifted from the ferry’s funnel. It seemed to approach so fast, like a child’s remote-controlled toy. Jane glanced back at the Fang’s ragged outline and the silver-white crescent of the bay. She saw a rabbit, or maybe a hare, dive for cover into an overgrown edge. She thought of Sally and how she’d try to photograph it, but of course it was too fast, just a blur of gray.

  She glimpsed a faint orangey spot on the hill. The church, with those windows crying out for repair. And she thought of a man and a boy finding the parcel propped against their house and carefully unwrapping it. Dad, Dad, what’s this? They would open it together, and Conor would say, It’s a gift.

  Jane swallowed hard as she indicated right, and turned down the single-track road that led to the pier.

  39

  Ollie’s block looked even sadder than Hannah had remembered. Since coming home, she’d been sharply conscious of the city-ness of everything: her vast, faceless school with its gloomy gray corridors, bordered on all sides by uneven concrete—yet more gray—and teachers who, for the most part, nearly looked as desperate as she for the bell to ring.

  A group of boys were booting a football against the wall of the flats. An elderly woman—Hannah could make out a small, angry face and puff of white hair at a window—rapped on the glass. The boys laughed and carried on kicking. No one had behaved like that on the island. In the village she’d seen clusters of teenagers hanging out by a drinking fountain. They’d been smoking and stuff, but it hadn’t been like this—aggressive. The woman shouted something, but her words were swallowed by the boy’s jeers. “Want a photo?”
one of them yelled.

  Hannah snapped back to the present and realized the boy was addressing her. She pulled herself tall and, fixing her gaze on the entrance to the flats, marched toward it. “Live here, do you?” the boy called.

  She turned to look at him. He had pasty skin and closely cropped straw-colored hair. The other two boys were sniggering.

  “No,” Hannah said as she reached the block’s entrance, “I don’t.”

  “Visiting someone?”

  “Yes.” The straw-haired boy had rested one foot on the ball. Despite his jeering eyes, he no longer looked remotely threatening. Balancing a foot on the ball was making his entire leg wobble. Hannah felt a smirk coming but trapped it.

  “Who?” he asked, seeming genuinely interested now.

  “You won’t know him.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  She sighed, realizing that she’d allowed herself to be drawn into conversation. “Ollie,” she said. “Ollie Tibbs.”

  A cackling laugh rattled out of him. She stared at his yellowy teeth. “’Course I know him. Everyone does.” The other boys were acknowledging the fact that everyone knew Ollie. Hannah felt her cheeks burning. It was if there was some huge joke going on, and everyone knew the punchline except her. “Our friend Ollie,” the boy added. “Don’t tell me you’re his girlfriend, pretty thing like you.”

  Hannah shook her head firmly. God knows what she was to him. In the four days since she’d been back, she’d heard not a peep from him. Now she was sick of waiting; it was all she ever seemed to do. “Nice girl like you,” the boy added, “shouldn’t be hanging around with the likes of him.” He kicked the ball across the yard.

  Hannah shrank back into the doorway. The likes of him: it was something Granny Nancy would say. She felt the coldness of the glass through her blazer and shirt. The boy was coming too close; she could smell cheap, chemical aftershave. She glanced down at her school uniform: white shirt, blue-and-gray diagonally striped tie, black skirt and blazer. She hadn’t bothered changing, because she’d come to tell him that it—whatever “it” was—was over. She just wanted to see him one last time, be mature about it, as they’d still run into each other at theater workshop and she didn’t want any awkwardness. She’d felt pleasingly grown-up as she’d formulated her plan.