David came peaceably enough and in the car, he was contrite. ‘Sorry, sorry. Guy insisted on buying me a pint. What could I do?’ He ruffled her hair. ‘You’re not mad at me, are you?’
‘Don’t do that.’
‘You are mad. Sorry.’ He slumped in the seat, and gazed out of the window at darkness, like a scolded child. She smoothed her hair with one hand, relenting.
‘I just don’t like being late for Claire.’
‘Of course not. You’re quite right. I’m a bastard.’
Eleanor laughed. ‘No, you’re not. You’re just too fond of bars. And drinking.’
‘My hobby,’ he admitted, cheering up.
At home he carried the shopping in. Claire was in her room, and had not lit the fire. The cottage was cold and dark. Eleanor ran upstairs to see Claire, and when she came back down, David had unpacked. But since he seemed, even after several weeks, not to know where anything was stored, this was not much help. He leaned against the Rayburn, watching Eleanor put things in cupboards, and eating the heel of a new loaf.
‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘of going down to Pitcairn on Friday. I could start sorting things out for Christmas.’
‘You could clean the bathrooms,’ Eleanor suggested. ‘Marion’s always saying how awful they are since Mum died. And light a fire in the dining room for a while every day. That would help.’
‘I was thinking about getting a tree – a really massive one, like when we were kids. And that box of decorations – is it still in the loft?’
‘Goodness, they’ll all be dusty, and probably broken.’
‘I’ll get new ones.’
‘I thought—’
‘Make the house really festive.’ He caught Eleanor’s eye. ‘I’ll light fires, promise.’
‘Well, I’ll come down the day before Christmas Eve,’ Eleanor offered.
‘You can do the bathrooms then.’
Eleanor swiped at him with a tea towel. ‘Ha! Just wait – I’ll make you work, when I get there. Seriously, David, we must make sure everything’s warm and comfortable for Marion.’
‘Yeah, sure. I know.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘Right. What’s for tea?’
‘Oh … chicken pieces.’
‘Let me at them. Stir fry? You got a red pepper, onions?’
Eleanor left him to it, and went to light her own fire. Soon she could smell frying, and a hot spicy smell floated out of the kitchen.
‘What’s David cooking?’ Claire came into the living room, where Eleanor had discovered three empty beer cans behind the sofa, and a full ash tray.
‘God, I hate him smoking in here – he knows that. I knew I could smell it.’ She looked round. ‘He’s being creative with chicken and red peppers, I think.’
Claire watched her mother tip the ash tray into the fire. ‘He doesn’t smoke in here, really, Mum. He just brings the ash tray in after he’s been smoking at the front door. I told him he shouldn’t drop fag ends in the garden.’
‘Did you? Good for you.’
‘How long’s he staying?’
‘He’s going down to Pitcairn on Friday to help Grandpa. We were thinking – it depends how Auntie Marion is – but we were thinking of going to Pitcairn for Christmas.’
‘I don’t want to. I want to go to Eilidh’s, like we did last year.’
‘No, I mean – we’ll all go. Whole family.’
‘Will Auntie Marion be out of hospital?’
‘Oh yes, in a day or two. So we could go down a bit earlier, just you and me. Make sure the house is warm and everything. So Marion is comfortable.’
‘Yeah. If you like. I can’t miss the school social, though.’
‘No, no. You won’t miss anything.’
‘Mum?’
‘What?’
‘There’s something weird going on at the end house.’
‘How do you mean, weird?’
‘Well, you know Edie says there’s shouting and that?’
‘Oh, Edie exaggerates. She’s nervous, and she hasn’t much else to take up her attention.’
‘Yeah, but she’s right. There’s a mad guy lives there. Well, I think he looks mad. He’s got red curly hair, ginger. I could never fancy somebody with ginger hair, could you?’
‘What? I don’t know.’
‘You couldn’t!’
‘All right, I couldn’t.’
‘Anyway, he comes rushing out today—’
‘What? When?’
I’m coming up the lane, right, and it’s not totally dark, but it’s kind of nearly, you know, so I can see it’s him, and he’s yelling at somebody. Looking back at the house and yelling – at his wife, right, but I never saw her. Then he sees me coming up the lane and he stops, and you’d think he’d be embarrassed, wouldn’t you, but he just says, “Hi, how ya doing?” and—’
‘So did you speak to him?’
‘Well, I just go “fine” or something. That’s all, I never stopped. Then this woman comes out behind him – she’s mad as well, I think. She’s got her coat on, a long black coat and a hat, so I can’t see her face, right, and it’s nearly dark like I said. So she yells at him, and—’
Eleanor shook her head, smiling. ‘They sound a dramatic pair. What were they yelling about?’
‘Oh I don’t know – you wouldn’t, and Oh yes, I would, and stuff like that.’
‘Some couples do fight a lot, it doesn’t mean much.’
Claire shrugged this off. ‘You and Dad didn’t. Eilidh’s mum and dad don’t.’
‘No, but—’
‘Anyway, she never saw me, I don’t think. I’m going past Jim and Edie’s by this time, I mean, I wasn’t going to stop, was I? And suddenly she goes “By the time you get back, I’ll have gone, cleared out”.’
‘Goodness, is there a car there now? I didn’t notice.’
‘No, that’s what I was doing upstairs. Well, for a while. Then I did my biology homework.’
‘What – you were watching them?’
‘There wasn’t really anything to see after that. And it was dark. He drove away, he never even had a jacket on. Then she comes out right after, and she puts a lot of suitcases and stuff in the other car, the red one.’
Eleanor went to the front door and looked along the lane. The only light came from Jim and Edie’s living room window. Then Edie must have drawn the curtains, for that went dim.
‘No cars,’ Eleanor said, stepping backwards onto Claire, who had followed her.
‘See? She’s left him. Exciting, eh?’
‘Well.’
‘I wonder if she’ll come back?’
‘Oh probably. Just a quarrel.’
‘Did you quarrel with Dad? Not like that, did you, I don’t remember that. Shouting and stuff.’
‘No. We argued of course. Everyone does.’
Eleanor went back to stoke up the fire, now it had caught. Claire followed, as if wanting to go on talking, but instead she pulled her magazine from between the sofa cushions and took it upstairs to read. Eleanor sat down. She was remembering Ian’s cold silence, her own frustrated sobs. No quarrelling, though. You couldn’t quarrel with someone who remained silent and disapproving, who made it clear you were wrong and he was right.
‘Well, he was,’ she said aloud. He was always right. Stop it, she told herself. Stop thinking about it. It would be Hogmanay soon, and she always thought about it at this time of year. What was the sense in brooding about it now. There were more important things to think about – Marion, and what David was going to do, and Pitcairn. And Christmas.
From the kitchen, David called: ‘Grub’s up!’ So she rose and went to call Claire.
9
‘At Pitcairn,’ Marion said, ‘if we were ill, we had a fire lit in our room. It was so cosy, watching the embers at night.’
‘Sorry,’ Fergus said, ‘you’ll have to make do with gas central heating in this house.’ Marion watched him attempt to hang up her skirt. Twice it slipped off, and he swore under his breath.
‘I wish you’d just let me get up,’ she said. Fergus shoved the hanger deep into the wardrobe, in the hope that he’d got it right this time. Then he turned to Marion where she lay propped up in bed.
‘People always underestimate how tired they’ll be, coming home from hospital. You can get up tomorrow.’
‘What a bully,’ Marion grumbled, but leaned back on the pillows with a sigh of relief. ‘It’s wonderful to be home.’
‘Good.’ He bent and kissed her, and she caught his arm.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Good heavens, what for?’
‘Coming to see me every day, keeping the house in order, doing everything.’
‘Eleanor was here a lot, and Eilidh’s been a grand help.’
‘I know.’
‘Now then. Will I send Eilidh up with a cup of tea?’
‘In a wee while. Stay a minute, Fergie.’
He sat on the edge of the bed, and took her hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’
‘You’ve not got the same wife back. I’m different now.’
‘You’re the same to me,’ he said, and got up, squeezing her hand before he let go.
‘Fergie—’
‘No, you have a rest. Plenty of time to talk.’
He did not want to talk. She knew that. She let him go this time, and waited for Eilidh.
‘Does it feel funny?’ Eilidh asked. Released from hospital visiting, she seemed able to ask questions. In the ward she and Ross had sat immobile, uncomfortable, then found something to squabble about, so that Fergus had to check them, and they fell silent and sullen. Kirsty climbed on the bed, and read all the get-well cards. Soon, Fergus had sent the children away, giving them money to spend in the cafe by the hospital entrance. Then he had sat with Marion on his own, talking of work, going over the local news, complaining about David.
‘Does what feel funny?’ Marion asked, sipping her tea.
‘Having only one – you know.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘It doesn’t show,’ Eilidh reassured.
‘I’ll get better bras later. This is just a temporary one.’
‘Is it sore?’
‘A bit. The scar’s tightening as the flesh heals underneath. That’s all.’
‘Oh.’
Marion hesitated. ‘Do you want to see it?’
Eilidh drew back. ‘No, it’s all right.’
‘It’s not horrible to look at – a bit red and sore yet. Don’t worry. I’ll show you when it’s healed up, and there’s just a neat white scar.’
‘Yeah … if you want.’
Marion set down her tea. ‘They’ve been very careful, very thoughtful. It doesn’t look nearly as bad as … well.’
‘That’s good.’ But Eilidh was standing by the end of the bed now, looking nervous. ‘Mum?’
‘What?’
‘Have you got to go back to hospital?’
‘Yes, you know that.’
‘But they’ve got rid of all the cancer, haven’t they?’
‘I hope so. But I’ll only be there for a few hours at a time. Maybe overnight.’
‘So, is there more cancer?’
‘Well, a little. They just want to be sure it’s all treated.’
‘Oh.’
Marion reached out a hand. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. I’m going to be fine.’
After her Highland dancing lesson, Kirsty came in and curled up at the bottom of her mother’s bed.
‘You could have one of the cats, since you’re ill.’
‘Oh, that’s the rule, is it?’
‘Well, Snooker was allowed on my bed when I had chicken pox.’
‘I’m not ill. I’ll be up tomorrow. It was just a wee operation.’
Ross appeared in the doorway, but Kirsty, not seeing him, exclaimed, ‘Oh, I know. Dad told us about it – he said one of your boobs went sort of bad and they had to cut it off.’
‘He never said that, you total moron!’ Ross flushed dark red. ‘You OK, Mum?’
I’m fine. This is your Dad’s idea, me being in bed. I’ll be up and about tomorrow.’
‘Good.’ He went out again.
‘He’s embarrassed,’ Eilidh said. She was sitting at her mother’s dressing table taking the lids off jars, poking her little finger in cream, spraying tiny spurts of perfume on her wrists and neck. This was forbidden usually, but in the scale of things, Marion felt, hardly worth bothering about now.
Kirsty moved up the bed towards her mother. ‘Mummy,’ she said, ‘will it grow back?’
Beneath the water the fishes nibble and nibble, and the princess begins to be eaten away. Marion closed her eyes, counted one, two, three, then opened them again and smoothed the child’s hair away from her face.
‘No, of course not, Kirsty,’ she said. Kirsty’s eyes opened wide with horror.
‘Here,’ said Eilidh, ‘you can have a wee bit of perfume as well.’
Willing to be distracted, Kirsty got off the bed and went to see what Eilidh was doing. Marion lay back, exhausted.
Next morning, when Eleanor came round, Marion was writing Christmas cards at the kitchen table.
‘Put the kettle on,’ she said. ‘I could do with a coffee.’
‘I’m sure it wouldn’t matter if you didn’t send any cards this year.’
‘No, probably not, but next year I might feel even less like doing it. You never know. And you can’t leave it two years.’
‘I did.’
‘That was different.’ She got to her feet, the cards left in three neat piles at the end of the table, the unused ones back in the box.
‘Why are there three separate lots?’
Marion started making coffee. ‘Waiting for letters or parcels,’ she said, ‘local ones, and ready for the post.’
‘You’re so organised.’
‘I don’t feel it, this year.’
‘Never mind, you won’t have to do anything else.’
‘Won’t I?’
They sat down together with mugs of coffee.
‘Fergus thinks it’s a good idea,’ Eleanor said. ‘We wouldn’t have gone ahead if he wasn’t keen.’
I want to stay at home, Marion thought. Every Christmas that David had to do with ended in disaster. Something bad happened. Right now, Marion could not face anything greater than the anxiety she already carried, like a load that gets heavier the further you go. She could not say so; Eleanor was full of her plans.
‘The house will be really warm – don’t worry about that. I promised Fergus. David and I are going to make sure—’
‘Yes, I know.’
Eleanor put her mug down. ‘You do want to come to Pitcairn, don’t you? I thought it would be like when we were children. The kids will love it, and I really mean it about doing all the cooking and everything.’
‘I believe you.’
‘Dad’s ordered a turkey – free-range, from the organic farm that bought the land that used to belong to the Mains.’
‘Good.’ No going back, then. Maybe she would be fine by then, maybe she would feel different.
‘You look tired,’ Eleanor said. ‘Can I do something – hang washing out, Hoover, whatever?’
‘No, no, it’s all done.’
‘Oh, Marion.’
‘Fergus’s mother beat you to it. Nan was in at nine this morning.’
‘Is she still here?’
‘No, off to her coffee morning at the church.’
‘Maybe we should ask her to come to Pitcaim too?’
Marion laughed. ‘No, that would be overdoing it. She’s going to Dundee, to Stuart and Cathy’s.’
‘Oh. Right.’
Marion got up. ‘You want some more coffee? We’ll take it through – Nan lit the fire this morning for me, so if it hasn’t gone out, we’ll be nice and cosy.’
It felt strange to Marion, sitting around drinking coffee on a weekday morning.
‘Everyone’s been
very kind,’ she said. ‘There’s really nothing for me to do.’ Would it go on like this, she wondered, all through the chemotherapy treatment? The thought of the treatment terrified her, but she did not say so to Eleanor, who was telling her some story about the man in the next cottage, apparently abandoned by his wife.
‘Watch yourself, then. They’re the most dangerous kind,’ she warned, smiling, thinking it was time Eleanor found a man. Not a married one, no one complicated. It was a pity nothing seemed to be coming of the date with Andrew, who was nice, and unattached.
‘Oh you needn’t worry,’ Eleanor said. ‘He’s skinny with bright red curly hair, and Clare tells me it’s impossible to fancy anybody with ginger hair.’
They passed an hour together, and planned the Christmas dinner. Later, when Eleanor had gone, Marion meant to get up and make soup, but she dozed off in her chair and was wakened by Eilidh coming in from school at one o’clock. Kirsty had lunch at the primary, as it was too far for her to walk. Ross was already in the kitchen, making himself a pile of sandwiches.
‘Oh dear, what on earth’s the time?’
‘It’s OK, Mum. We can manage.’
They could. She watched them, trying not to mind the crumbs on the floor, the sink full of dishes, the spilt orange squash.
‘Do you want a sandwich, Mum?’
‘No, Eilidh, no I’m fine. I dozed off, I’m not hungry yet.’
It was Fergus’s day for the Strath, where he took a surgery in the village once a week, so he would not be back until late in the afternoon. Marion sat at the table and listened to her children argue mildly with each other, and eat.
‘See you, Mum.’
They were off, the door banging, bags shouldered, talking as they went down the drive together. Marion went through to the living-room window and watched them go. At the gate, two girls from a house nearby waited for Eilidh, and a boy from Ross’s year joined him as they headed up the road. As long as she got better, Marion told herself, this would not harm them, it would not even affect them much. She smoothed a hand over the place where her breast had been, touching the odd flatness of the padding material, that had no give in it and yet no resistance, as living flesh has. Pull yourself together, woman.
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