The Curious Heart of Ailsa Rae

by Stephanie Butland

  ‘Have you tried?’

  ‘No.’ He had come to collect his suitcase while she was out at work, the day after the story broke, and in the busyness of the show, there’s never a moment to say what she needs to say. But she doesn’t know what that should be, could be. How do people ever sort things out?

  ‘Living is hard,’ she says. It sounds pathetic but she doesn’t care.

  Hayley laughs. ‘Death’s worse, hen.’

  ‘I know.’ But does it always have to be this – you must always be grateful, because you’re not dead? Maybe it is that simple. They sit, quietly, in something that is starting to be companionship again. They’ve talked about David once or twice, but there doesn’t seem to be much more to say.

  ‘How are you and Auntie T getting on?’

  Hayley gets up goes to the window; she perches on the sill, lights a cigarette and laughs. ‘Well, the novelty isnae wearing off yet. We sit up half the night talking about nothing, half the time.’

  ‘Do you like it?’ Ailsa keeps wanting to ask this, but she’s scared. Scared that the answer will be no. Or yes. Or that Hayley will ask the question back.

  Her mother gives her a long look. ‘I think I do. How do you like your independence?’

  She smiles. ‘Too early to say. I miss you. But I think I like it.’

  Hayley nods. ‘That’s as it should be. I’m starting tae think I’ll maybe find a permanent job in Glasgow. I’ve done twenty-five years of locum work. Tamsin says that’s long enough tae be a temp. And I could do with some paid holidays.’

  ‘That sounds good,’ Ailsa says, and it does. And different; another soft shift in her landscape. But, Apple chips in, if you get to do what you like, then your mother does too.

  Hayley leans out of the window to stub out her cigarette, and Ailsa sees her body stiffen. ‘Visitor for you, I think.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who do you think?’ Hayley comes towards her, and the smell of cigarette smoke and soap is something that even Apple understands now is one of the best smells that there is. ‘Come on. He’s come to talk to you.’

  So she goes to the window. He is standing on the pavement two storeys below her, looking up.

  ‘I got the calendar,’ he calls. ‘Wilkie sent it on.’

  Ailsa pauses, absorbing the sound of his voice, reaching up to her. Then: ‘What do you think of it?’

  ‘I’ve emailed Libby and told her I’ll do anything she needs to promote it.’ He’s pale, tired-looking: his face is as white as the inside of her wrist. He rubs his hands across his forehead. She leans forward, craning out of the window to see him better. He takes a step forward. It would be so easy to ask him to come up. And, at the same time, impossible.

  ‘That’s good of you,’ she says, and means it.

  He nods. ‘Your photo. You look perfect,’ he calls up. ‘Like – like yourself.’

  She thinks of all the things she could say; for all she hasn’t been talking to Seb in real life, she’s had plenty to say to him as she’s walked to work and back, watched him on the stage, thought about him as she’s lain awake, high/tired after dancing. But she doesn’t. Because it comes to her – or Apple, maybe – in a flash, that he doesn’t have to be doing this – this ordinary, difficult thing of trying to put things right. He could be laughing with Meredith, flirting with – God, with anybody, he just needs to throw a stick and whoever it hits will probably be up for it. But he’s here, standing on the pavement, looking up at her, hope and sadness on his face. If there was a tree, she thinks, he’d climb it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. She hopes he knows she means it. She’s leaning further forward, because the one thing she does know is that she wants there to be less space, less air, between them. She opens her mouth to speak, to invite him in, but then there’s a smell, sudden and strong. Driftwood: beach and sky, love and sorrow. And it might be permission or it might be a warning, but it’s enough to stay her tongue.

  He spreads his hands. ‘I don’t know what to say. If I could change it, I would. I know I’m not Lennox, and I wouldn’t try to be. But I’m trying to be a better me.’

  Is her head nodding? She can’t tell. ‘Me too,’ she gets out, even though her mouth is as dry as the bark of an apple tree.

  ‘Don’t let this be it,’ he says, ‘please. We’re just getting started.’

  She wants to say something, about how she knows she has to trust her heart but that feels too complicated, about how, maybe, however much he didn’t mean it, there was the smallest glance of truth in what he said. But nothing will come.

  She nods. Apple aches as only a healthy heart can. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she says.

  He nods, looks down, then up again, and takes off his sunglasses. She knows how it must hurt, this bright afternoon. And then he turns and walks away.

  *

  Hayley suggests that she take a rest before they leave for the show, and though Ailsa doesn’t think she’ll sleep, she actually falls into something like unconsciousness, and when her mother wakes her, for just a second or two she’s lost in time, and it’s as though she has her old heart back in her body, feeble and afraid as it was this time last year, and she’s frightened and panicky, and wraps her hands tight around her mother’s forearms and sits up with a lurch.

  ‘Easy,’ Hayley says, and Ailsa nods, swallows, and feels Apple’s steady beat. And knows what she has to do.

  *

  When she slips behind the green-room curtain before the show begins, a clutch of the actors is there, but there’s no sign of Seb. They look around, nod, and go back to their conversation. Seb’s jacket is on one of the pegs along the wall, along with his sash and the mask he’ll wear during the party scene. She takes the unicorn headband from her bag and hangs it over the mask, so he can’t miss it, and hopes he understands what she’s trying to say: I know, now, that what we do is not always what we are.

  *

  Emily and Hayley are sitting with Ailsa, so it’s hard to concentrate in the same way during the play; Ailsa wants to look at them, read their faces, whisper secrets. But she doesn’t. She bellows and howls in the fight scene, the way she always does, and then she feels every one of Romeo’s lines, in the filaments beneath her skin, in the second before he says them.

  Soon they are at her favourite scene, the pre-party huddle of Romeo, Benvolio and Mercutio, and she is lulled along in the familiar rise-and-fall of it, the dynamic of the three actors, when something changes. Seb, instead of responding to Mercutio’s teasing with a poke in the chest, gets up and turns away. Mercutio, after a heartbeat, turns too. Seb turns his back on his fellows and, looking at Ailsa – and only at her, she can see it, and so, it seems, can others, as they follow Seb’s eyeline – says, ‘Is love a tender thing? It is too rough / Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.’

  Mercutio gets to his feet and cuffs Romeo around the head – it looks as though it’s more than acting – pulling him back to the central huddle as he says his next line.

  And then it’s back to business as usual, Romeo lovelorn, Seb word-perfect and focussed on his fellows as he has been in every other performance. Until, as they stand and move, he mispronounces a line: ‘Fearfully begins my bitter fate,’ he says, and if the others notice, they don’t flicker.

  Ailsa notices.

  Of all the lines in the play, he would never, ever get this one wrong.

  Ailsa inhales, feels the perfect four-four beat of this gifted heart. She has made mistakes. She has hurt people she loves. She can walk away, or she can be brave.

  Benvolio calls for the drum, the rest of the actors come from behind the archway, masks already covering their eyes, and Mercutio, Benvolio and Romeo disguise themselves too.

  It’s time.

  Ailsa puts her own mask on. Guy is on his feet, opposite, stepping towards the stage, taking a delighted Nurse in his arms; behind her, Ailsa hears Venetia’s chair scrape as she stands, and to her right, Eliza snakes her way towards Tybalt’s beckoning.
Ailsa stands, takes a breath, steps forward, remembering to smile, raise her chin (‘You’ll only look ridiculous,’ Roz says, ‘if you go half-cocked at it.’).

  And Seb is there: a bow, a smile, a question in his almost-perfect eyes and his arms ready for her. She puts her hand on his shoulder and feels where her thumb fits into his collarbone, the way his fingers spread across her back, strong and true. His other hand laces hers, and he pulls her closer. She waits for the nervousness but it isn’t there. Not this time. Because all she needs to do is keep her heart opposite his heart.

  www.myblueblueheart.blogspot.co.uk

  10 October, 2018

  Happy Anniversary

  This time last year, my mother and I were looking at each other and at the transplant coordinator, trying to work out if we’d just heard what we thought we’d heard.

  The heart was a match. We needed to get my fading blue carcass down to theatre as quickly as we could, and prise my ribcage open, and wait for the swap. Fingers crossed, I would wake up with a chance of seeing 2017 out. Fingers crossed, I would wake up.

  There wasn’t really time to be scared, or to think beyond the next eight hours. And anyway, that would have been a waste of thinking, because I had no idea of what it would be like, to be Ailsa instead of BlueHeart. To be normal.

  In a way it will never be over. I’ll never stop taking the tablets. I’ll never be unscarred. That time I lost to hospital-waiting, hospital-hoping, it’s all gone. I won’t get it back.

  But, here I am. I can dance, after a fashion. I’ve a job. I’ve a career plan. I’ve joined a hill-walking group (over and above the fact that anyone who lives in Edinburgh is, by definition, a member of a hill-walking group) because I will climb a mountain one day. My friend Jacob is getting married next year, which means I need a passport to get to the wedding in France.

  Here’s something I realised, this summer. Being ill for so long, waiting for a heart for so long, made me a permanent child. Today – a year on from transplant day – I’m going to admit it: I’m an adult.

  And I’m going to be honest: I don’t like it as much as I thought I would. It’s not as thrilling as I’d hoped. In particular, this ordinariness business can be quite – ordinary. You might say dull. And the biggest bit of growing up I’ve had to do is admitting that there are times when I quite miss being blue. Not all of it. But the way it made me special.

  I’ve forgotten, sometimes, that I was special like Juliet was special. She had death hanging over her from the start. That’s no way to live. Everything tastes of ashes.

  Here’s what I’ve been mulling over, since the Festival left town and I sat down in my flat and did some serious planning. There’s no such thing as ordinary, just like there’s not really a normal. And there’s no such thing as special, either. Or rather, we bring our own special. We make it. We make it when we dare and we make it when we ask for help. We make our lives special when we choose to forgive and move on, and not to make ourselves the centre of everything. We make specialness by trusting to the music and the dance.

  I know blogging’s been sparse these last few weeks. Life’s been full on and I’ve needed a bit of time, so I’ve taken it.

  I’ve been thinking.

  I’m working more hours.

  My hospital checks are going down to fortnightly.

  I’m going to be working with the Lennox Life Trust (have you got your calendar yet? Click here) to set up a support and mentoring scheme for post-transplant patients.

  I’ve applied for a passport.

  I’ve asked my mother to come away on holiday with me for a week in January. We’re going to go and get warm somewhere. I’m going to lie on a beach in a bikini and the world can look at my scar and the wobbly bit of tummy that’s determined to stay, and it can judge if it wants to. What the world thinks of me is irrelevant.

  I’ve decided I want to do a Scottish law conversion and I’m applying for that. I know you said OU, but I think working in Scottish law will suit me better. I’m grateful for your thoughts – but I trust Apple and I trust my gut, so I’m going with them.

  I’m looking for some voluntary work to help me get a bit of legal understanding.

  I’m getting on with my life. I have good days and bad ones. There are people that I miss and times when I think I didn’t deserve this Apple of mine. Which is probably normal. Which makes me glad.

  There are going to be some changes on the blog, too. I’m probably going to move it to a new site with a new name, and I’m going to move the focus away from me and towards the broader health and transplant world. (And I’m going to make that more exciting than that sounds.) The way I’ve done things has outlived its usefulness. It hurt people who were close to me for the sake of the ones who are far away. That’s no way to live.

  For now, I’m signing off until 2019.

  Just one poll before I go. I’m going to leave it here for as long as I feel like it. You’ll see why.

  Is it time to stop using the blog polls to make decisions that I need to take responsibility for myself?

  YES, BlueHeart. It was fun while it lasted and it made your point, but things move on.

  YES, Ailsa. Listen to the people who love you, but take control. Have confidence.

  That’s all for now, folks. Dance on.

  Ailsa x

  From: Seb

  Sent: 11 October, 2018

  To: Ailsa

  Subject: Goodbye Blue Heart

  Hey, BlueHeart,

  I’m a bit sad that I’m never going to call you that again, but it seems like it’s time to let it go. You’ll be Ailsa from now on. Or CaveDancer. You choose.

  I know we said we’d only talk once a week (I love the talking) and not overdo emails but that YES/YES should be marked. I hope Apple likes the flowers. They’re definitely not for you.

  I am completely bloody knackered. Saskia is relentless. She’s the dance partner equivalent of Roz. She says we can’t rest on our laurels, just because we got through on Saturday, and she’s written the ‘hands like hams’ comment that one of the judges made on the rehearsal-room mirror in lipstick. We’re doing Viennese Waltz and it’s horrible – it makes you dizzy and yesterday I threw up. Today she brought in a bucket so if I was sick again I wouldn’t waste time running to the bathroom. I’m only 85% sure it was a joke.

  No sickness today but we did have a costume fitting so that gave me a break. I’ve got a coat with tails and it’s powder-blue with silver lapels. I’m sending you a photo. My sister says I look like Ken (as in Barbie). I told Saskia. She says she wishes I could dance that well. That was definitely a joke. Her sister’s on dialysis, and has been for three years. I think you’d like her (Saskia, I haven’t met her sister).

  Next week is tango week. If I get through you HAVE to come. Please? I want you to see Saskia laughing at me (she’s much worse when the cameras are off). Tango is her thing so it’s going to be carnage in rehearsal. Even if you could only come for the recording (I know you’re busy) I’d love to see you, and for you to meet everyone. I wouldn’t expect you to stay with me. Though of course you’d be welcome. Little Seb would love to spend some time with you. He says to tell you, in case you’re wondering, that he’s not seeing anyone else.

  I saw Roz (briefly) yesterday. She says hi. She’s meeting people about Love’s Labour’s Lost. Meredith’s got a couple of film offers for next year. I don’t know whether Roz was looking at her for LLL or not. She was bloody amazing in the show but I’m not sure that makes up for rehearsals. I’ve told Roz I think we should have open auditions. She said, Oh, yes, we could make a documentary about it. There’s no escaping TV.

  How’s it going?

  Am I allowed to say I miss you?

  Seb x

  From: Ailsa

  To: Seb

  Hello you,

  I miss you. Especially when emails like that make me laugh. Saskia sounds like my mother. (My mother’s here for a couple of days. She says hello.) A few of us from work are gett
ing together to watch the show on Saturday night. Please send gossip. It’s my currency.

  Is your eye OK? Is it weird knowing that the last of the stitches are gone? I thought of you.

  Thanks for being nice about the blog. I’ve been writing that post for three weeks. I still don’t think it says everything, but it’s as close as I could get. And the flowers are gorgeous.

  It’s going OK, I think. Mum has got a job in a place just outside Glasgow. She’s taking over from a pharmacist who’s retiring. She’s got a three-month contract but if it goes well she can make it permanent. She says she likes that she’s getting to know people. And that she doesn’t work Sundays. She might have said something about going speed dating with Tamsin but I’m in denial about that. I’ve told her that if she does want to come back to live here, I’ll move out. (I said it in a nice way, because I meant it in a nice way. It’s getting easier, for sure.) But she and Tamsin seem to be having a ball. So I had Christa and her partner Kate over yesterday, to talk about them moving in when their lease is up (February). They’re starting a business and they need to save money. I need to have some more income. Job done. Plus, they can cook.

  I had an email from my biological father saying he’d like to have another go at getting to know me, and maybe I’d like to come to Guildford and meet everyone. I’ve said I’d need to bring my mother. That should put a stop to it.

  This week I’ve mainly been trying to find some work experience in a law firm for next year. I thought offering to work for free would be enough to get me something easily but no, there are a thousand thousand other legal-profession hopefuls in the queue ahead of me. There’s a woman who comes into the shop for her coffee (Ethiopian double espresso, pecan Danish, if we have any) and she’s a barrister. I’m going to pluck up my courage and ask for advice.