“Born and raised in the ‘Deen,” she says. “Moved about a bit, but always within spitting distance of the city. I’m in Ferryhill now, near the park. Where’s your home turf?”
“Would ye believe Dyce?”
She gasps. “You mean…Dyce Dyce, where the airport is?”
“Aye.”
“Can’t be.”
“Unless ye ken another Dyce.”
“So where is this hospital you are in? Is it too much to hope that’s local too, that they brought you home?”
“Aye, kind of.” He screws up his eyes, taps his fingers against his forehead as if trying to remember. “It’s something Chase, a new place out by Kemnay way. Duke of Rothesay opened it a couple of years ago.”
“Kemnay? Near Inverurie?” she says. “Do you mean Pelham Chase?”
Colin snaps his fingers. “Aye, that’s the one.”
Grace’s hands fly to her cheeks. “I can’t believe it. That’s just over an hour away by bus.”
“Aye, well then,” Colin says, grinning. “Ye’ve got no excuse. When are ye comin’ ta visit?”
Chapter 17
“I had a thought,” says Grace.
Colin does not look up from agitating the soil with the hoe, tormenting the weeds. “I thought I could smell burning dust.”
“Not just now, you divot,” she says. “Last night when I was lying in my bath. Do you want to hear about it?”
“Does it involve nudity and bubbles?”
“Is your mind always in the gutter?”
“Pretty much.” He chuckles quietly to himself. “Go oan then, tell me about it. I can see yer pure busting to.”
Grace pushes herself away from the stone cross she has been leaning against and clears her throat. “Will you leave off that for a minute?”
He stops prodding at the soil and stands up straight, arches his back, stretching it, and then leans on his hoe, attentive at last.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m seein ye wearing yer serious face. Fit’s oan yer mind?”
She puts her hands together, index fingers pressed against her lips. “Has it ever occurred to you that it’s always me who comes here to see you and never the other way round?” she says.
A shrug. “Fit ‘boot it?”
“Why can’t we make it a two way street? If I can come here to you, you should be able to come to me.”
He stares at her for a moment, and then resumes jabbing at the soil. “No.”
“It can’t hurt to give it a go, if only for curiosity’s sake.”
“I said no.”
“How about Wednesday? I have a day full of things I have to do. Come and wish me luck with them before I go.”
“Are ye deaf, woman? I said NO! I’ve telt ye afair, I’m no gain through the gate.”
“You might not have to. It seems to me that the more I come here, the easier it gets. I haven’t tried it yet, but I’m pretty certain that if I try hard enough, fully concentrate, I could bypass the gate altogether and just put myself anywhere I wanted to be; to the fountain, or by the stream, or straight into your hut and give you a scare for a change … providing you haven’t got the scythe in your hands of course.”
Colin bends to tug out a persistent dandelion, swears at the weed and tugs at it until it comes free.
“That was an accident. I telt ye, I never meant–”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry. That was a very bad example. I would never put you … us … through that again.”
She hunkers down beside him, her hand on his arm. “There’s no need to be frightened Colin, you’ll be perfectly safe in my flat. I promise. It’ll be just you and me and Mr Pickles.”
Colin twitches and shrugs. “And what if I canna get back? What if I’m stuck in your flat forever? What then?”
“That’s not going to happen. I’m pretty sure that with a little focused willpower, if we really want to, if we have a little faith in ourselves and each other, we can put ourselves wherever the other is, and then return to our own place afterwards.”
“Pretty sure?”
“Nothing is guaranteed, but if it doesn’t work, we’ll know and we can dismiss it knowing that we at least tried and we haven’t lost anything. It’s still three days off, so there’s plenty of time to think about it. Will you at least do that?”
There is silence in the cemetery apart from the gentle tap tap of metal hoe on soft earth.
Colin sucks his cheeks hollow. “Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll think about it, but I’m nae making any promises.”
Grace grins. “You don’t have to. I warn you now though, don’t you dare focus yourself into my bathroom, because if I’m naked in there, or on the loo, I’ll have no choice but to poke your eyes out with a pencil.”
He barks out a laugh and screws up one side of his face and one eye. It makes him look like he’s auditioning for Long John Silver. “Maybe I’ll just risk the one eye,” he says, sending her into gales of girlish giggles.
The laughter fades and Grace glances at her wristwatch. “Good grief, look at the time. I’ve got an appointment this afternoon.”
“With your therapist?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess. Will you be talking about me?”
“You might crop up in conversation. If you feel your ears burning, you’ll know. Got to go.” She leans into him and pecks a light kiss to his cheek. “Take care. See you soon.”
She dashes off, and his hand rises to touch his cheek at the site of the unexpected gesture of affection.
“Aye. Cheerio.”
Grace’s visit with Malcolm Pettit goes well.
She tells him about how happy she feels living on her own at last, about her plans for the future, including her upcoming job interview and driving lesson. She does not, however, tell him about Colin’s projected vision of Hell, or about his screaming fit in the dirt, or where his physical body is. In fact she avoids mentioning Colin altogether except to reinforce Mal’s belief in him as a positive force for good.
Towards the end of their session, when Mal asks her if there is anything else she wants to talk about before their time is up, she uses the opportunity to trawl a little deeper for information on Colin’s condition, even if it does involve her bending the truth a little.
“This has nothing to do with my therapy per se,” she says, “so I don’t even know if I’m allowed to ask about it.”
“Depends on what it is.”
“I want to know how to talk to someone who has post traumatic stress disorder. I want to know what to say without coming across all … patronising or offensive. I know someone who’s been through a hard time and might have it, and I want to know what to do or say for the best.”
“I see.”
“I don’t want to go into details. I’m just fishing for information and as I thought it might be one of the conditions you treat, you’d be able to tell me something.”
“Right.”
He’s measuring her up, she can tell, watching her body language, watching for lies and deception. She makes sure there are none on show.
Malcolm gets up, goes to his book case, slides his finger along the book spines until he reaches the one he wants, pulls it out and flicks through the pages before handing it to Grace.
“This should help,” he says. “It’s written from a sufferer’s point of view.” He passes her another. “And this one. It’s a bit more involved, but it shouldn’t go too far over your head.”
She reads through the blurb on the back. “These are brilliant. Thank you.”
“The three things you need to remember most of all with PTSD are; not to be scared of the condition, not to cast any blame or be reproachful, and not to be negative,” he says. “A little positivity goes a long way. Remember too that people with PTSD may act differently, strangely sometimes, get angry more easily. They can’t help it. They may also change the subject halfway through a conversation for no good reason, may say hurtful things to distract you
from a subject they don’t want to talk about, or stop talking altogether and withdraw into themselves. Quite often they simply don’t want to engage or take part in any activities or be around other people, preferring isolation. All of these signs are fairly typical. Have you noticed any of them applying to your…friend?”
She nods. Colin has already demonstrated each and every one of them in spades. “Yes.”
“Does he or she get violent? Have temper tantrums?”
He has an axe and a scythe and a lit fuse about an inch long.
“Kind of,” she says. “Although it’s more like harsh words at twenty paces. Defensive cruelness. Saying nasty things to deflect or detract. Turning on a sixpence by taking a totally innocent remark and blowing it all out of proportion; making it into a personal attack when it isn’t. Things like that.”
“I see. So nothing physical?”
“No.”
“Do you know if they take drugs? Drink to excess? Deliberately do reckless things?”
“No.”
“How about family? Do they have a close circle of friends or some other kind of support network?”
“I-I don’t know. No.”
“Have they approached any organisations that can give specialist help?”
“I don’t think so. No.”
Too many questions. You’re losing control. He’s going to find out. Take the book and go!
A glance at the clock. Four o’clock. Time’s up.
“Thanks for the books,” she says, dropping them into her bag and gathering up her coat. “I’ll give them a thorough read and bring them back next time.”
“Keep them as long as you need them. I have others. I hope they help.”
“I’m sure they will. I’ve got to go. Bus to catch. See you next week!”
And with the slamming of the door, she is gone.
Chapter 18
“I hope ye’ve go’ a brolly? It’s raining cats and dogs oot theer.”
Grace, concentrating hard on applying her mascara, screeches, starts and jolts a jagged black line into her eyebrow.
“Buggering hell!” She wheels round to see Colin leaning on the window sill, forehead pressed to the rain lashed pane. “Look what you made me do! Nearly gave me a bloody heart attack.” She snatches a tissue from the box and wipes the black streak away. “Give me some warning next time will you?”
A frown creases Colin’s brow. “And how do ye suggest I do that? Carrier pigeon, or ring a bell and shout ‘unclean’?”
Grace opens her mouth, snaps it shut again. “Twit. I don’t know. You’re a man. You’ll think of something. You got a phone?”
“No. They give ye brain cancer. Anyway, I canna see what took you so much by surprise. I thought you were expecting me.”
“I was, sort of … actually, no I wasn’t. I’d already decided you wouldn’t come.”
“Nearly didn’t.”
She returns to her mascara application. “So how was it? Was it like I said? A little focused concentration?”
“No quite. There were a few false starts and a lot of frustration. I put it down ta lack of faith…no in you, in masel’. So I gave masel’ a good stern talking to and convinced masel’ ye never would have suggested it if ye thought something bad would happen to me, and I took the bull by the horns and–”
“Here you are.”
“Aye.”
“And now you’re here, you can make yourself useful.”
Makeup done, she rotates herself in front of her full length mirror to view the backside of her smart tweed trousers.
“How do these look?” she says. “Not too tight around my arse are they? I don’t want to be showing a VPL.”
“They look fine.”
“How do you know, you’re not even looking.”
Colin drags his eyes from the carpet and onto her bum. “They look fine. And what’s a VPL when it’s at home in its granny’s kitchen?”
“Visible panty line. It is very bad form to have the outline of your knickers showing through the fabric of your clothing.”
“Well then, ye’re okay on that score. I canna tell ye’re even wearing any–”
Redness flushes his cheeks and he makes an issue of looking anywhere but the region of her underwear. “So why are ye all dressed up like a dog’s dinner anyway?” he says.
“Because I have a job interview this morning, and erm …” Grace leans close to the mirror and teases her hair with her fingers, muttering at the reflection. “God, my roots need doing. Should get a cut too.”
Colin clears his throat.
“Oh, right, dog’s dinner. I–” She glances out of the window. “Urgh. I hope that rain fines up before this afternoon.”
“Why? Fit happens then?”
“Driving lesson.”
Colin’s eyebrows shoot up. “You … are learning to drive?” he says, as if it’s the most shocking thing he’s heard all year.
“No need to sound so surprised.”
“Ye sure ye should, being … as ye are.”
“And how would that be, exactly?”
“Of a, lets say, nervous disposition?”
“Very diplomatically put. I will admit to being in a delicate state of balance. My heart is already going like the clappers.” She flutters her fingers against her chest.
Colin puts steadying hands to her shoulders. “Then I’m gain ta have everything crossed fer all the guid luck in the world–”
“Aw, thank you–”
“–fer yer instructor, he’s gain ta be needing it, taking his life in his hands wi you behind the wheel.”
She slaps him on the arm. “Cheeky sod!”
Colin laughs. “Guid luck on the job interview as well, and that’s all fer yous.”
“Thanks.” She glances at the bedside clock. “Now you can stay or you can go, I don’t mind which, but my appointment is in just over an hour and it takes two buses to get there.”
“Then I’ll get back ta ma greenhouse and let you get oan wi it.”
She pecks a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you for coming. It means a lot to have your support … and your trust.”
“Ach, pish.”
“I mean it, Colin. I know how hard doing this must have been for you.”
“You’ll knock ‘em deid wi’oot ma help,” he says. “Dinna fergit, yer bright, intelligent, talented, and if they dinna tak ye oan straightway, it’s their loss and they’ll regret it. Now close yer eyes and repeat what I jest said.”
“I would, if I knew what it was.” She squares her shoulders and closes her eyes. “I am bright, intelligent and talented and I will knock them dead, and if they don’t take me on straight away, they’ll regret it alright … I’ll put their sodding windows through. How was that?”
Silence.
He has already gone and she is once more alone in the flat.
First impressions are formed within the first thirty seconds don’t they say? For Grace, it takes less than ten, starting the second she steps from the street and into the reception foyer of Latimer Associates, Interior Designers of Distinction.
Everything is black and white and angular, the only splash of colour being a single uranium orange gerbera in a glass vase.
At the desk she is welcomed by a middle aged woman wearing a twin set, pearls, and glasses with wings, like Edna Everage’s younger sister, and is invited to take a seat.
When asked if she would like a cup of coffee, Grace says that would be very nice, thank you, and while the woman totters off to make it, Grace is up and away, her nosey nature having got the better of her, and she takes it upon herself to wander through to a brightly lit space where a small group of people are busy.
One woman has a selection of shade cards spread out on a table top and is marking up a printed floor plan of a new office block where she thinks each colour of paint should go. Another is working her way through swatches of brightly coloured fabrics, feeling the nap, then holding the cloth up to the light, checking for flaws.
In a corner, a young man stares at his computer screen, face rigid, expressionless, only his right hand moving as he shifts and clicks the mouse.
They work in silence. There is no radio, no music, no chatter, no motivation whatsoever, and not one of them looks up from their work to acknowledge her presence.
Grace is not impressed and is ready to leave before her interview even takes place, and would have if the woman with the glasses hadn’t been blocking the exit.
“There you are!” She looks Grace up and down, eyes lingering disapprovingly on her shoes, plain Mary Janes for both comfort and driving, and sniffs. “Ms Latimer will see you now.”
Ms Kaye Latimer, co-owner and proprietor of the establishment, is a haughty woman of roughly Grace’s own age, in a stiff pencil skirt, high heeled strappy sandals, and sporting a typical Torry facelift, her jet black hair scraped back in a tight bun on the back of her head, ironing out the tiniest of wrinkles and leaving her face with a rigid plastic smoothness beyond the best efforts of any botox.
Her carefully plucked eyebrows are heaved so far up her forehead that her face carries an expression of perpetual surprise. The cheeks of her pale, overly made-up face strain to their angular limit above the high neck of a starched white blouse, and with her wide red letterbox of a mouth stretched into a tight smile, she has the look of a painted clown straight from the circus.
She offers Grace a scrawny bird-like hand replete with jewelled rings and scarlet talons too long for practicality, and when they shake in introduction, a heavy gold charm bracelet at her wrist clanks like an anchor chain. She then uses the claw to motion for Grace to take a seat in a nearby bucket chair.
The seat of supplicants and applicants.
Ms Latimer lowers herself into the high backed leather chair behind her über-modern, purely functional black wood and chrome desk.
There then follows the preliminaries of introduction, after which Ms Latimer, begins to talk. Oh how she can talk, obviously in love with the sound of her own voice.
Before long Grace tunes out Ms Latimer’s droning on about how wonderful and successful the company is, how they have bucked the recession while others have folded, and how they are on the up and up in the cut-throat world of interior design, and lets her eyes wander from the yammering clown-like visage to the artificial flower pinned in Ms Latimer’s lapel, and can’t help but think – I wonder if it squirts water, followed by, I bet the wheels fall off her car every time she sounds the horn.
In The Garden Of Stones Page 11