‘You go to church?’ He seemed to come to himself again, and looked up at her, surprised.
‘Sometimes. Now and again, I think maybe, there’s some way of being … forgiven. You know?’
He looked away and kicked at a log on the edge of the grate. It collapsed into the red glow at the heart of the fire, and sparks flew up. ‘Not for me,’ he said. ‘Not for me.’
‘Come on Davy.’ She reached out a hand to pull him to his feet. ‘Time for bed.’
In the morning, it would be Christmas again. All the Christmases of her childhood crowded in on Eleanor, as she stood by her bedroom window, looking out into the garden. The sky had cleared and moonlight moved shadows across the grass and through the trees. For a few seconds, she fancied she saw the tinker woman, come to tell their fortunes. As if we’d want to know now, she thought, and drew the curtains across.
11
‘It worked out fine,’ Marion admitted to Eleanor on the way home. Claire and Eilidh, friends again, sat on the back seat, fallen silent as the journey went on, dozing by the time they passed through Keith. Fergus was ahead, with Ross and Kirsty.
‘It did, didn’t it?’ Eleanor agreed. ‘I think everyone enjoyed it.’
We’ve escaped, Marion thought, nothing happened. ‘It was long enough, though,’ she said aloud. ‘I’m glad to be going home.’
‘I hope Dad’s OK. David’s promised to take him for an X-ray before he leaves for Edinburgh.’
‘Well, he says he’s going to Edinburgh. No sign of packing or anything, was there?’
‘He’ll be waiting till we’ve all gone.’
‘I’m relieved, you know,’ Marion went on, ‘we’re not bringing our children up in such a lonely place. You’re in the country, right enough, but it’s only ten minutes from Dingwall, and we all dot about in cars these days.’
Eleanor stopped on the narrow village street behind a parked car, to let a lorry manoeuvre past going the other way. Marion glanced behind her at the sleeping girls, leaning sideways, soft mouths just open, Claire’s head on Eilidh’s lap.
‘You see,’ she went on, ‘I feel really strongly about the kind of childhood we give our family. I’ve never said this before, but I suppose I can now, you won’t mind.’ She glanced at Eleanor, who was still concentrating on traffic. ‘When Ian died, it made everything so precarious. I thought, what on earth would I do? I couldn’t imagine – I shut my eyes to it, persuaded myself one tragedy in a family was surely all, and I nagged and nagged Fergus for our house. We were in the bungalow out at Muir of Ord then, remember? It was too small anyway, especially once Kirsty came along, so I was right, we did need a bigger house. But it was more than that. I wanted a house, oh not like Pitcairn, you couldn’t have that now, it would be ridiculous.’
‘But Dunvegan is a big house, Marion,’ Eleanor broke in.
‘It’s a family house,’ Marion said, ‘and that’s what I longed for. I wanted my children to have this wonderful safe childhood, space and freedom, but more people than we had. Company. We were very isolated at Pitcairn.’
I’m isolated now, Eleanor wanted to say, but held her peace. She knew Marion was afraid that the family structure she had built so firmly was at risk. An earthquake shook the house: none of them was safe, after all.
‘Are we going to stop?’ she asked.
‘Let’s not bother, if the girls are sleeping. Unless you want a break from driving.’
‘No, I just want to get home now. I thought you might like to.’
How careful they were of each other, finding themselves alone and quiet after the crowded Christmas. But they had all enjoyed it, Eleanor thought, even though Marion had done far too much. Presently, she said. ‘Did you think Alice was a bit odd, yesterday?’
‘Odd – how?’
‘I think she’s getting … narrow. I flinched every time Claire opened her mouth. Alice can be so disapproving.’
‘I didn’t notice. It’s Mamie who seems to get exaggerated with age. She eats too much, complains of indigestion, thinks the Queen’s speech is actually worth listening to, then falls asleep in front of it.’
Eleanor laughed. ‘Oh dear, I know. But she’s kind, and she thinks all the children are wonderful. Alice is different – she always was. When we were little, do you remember those weird stories? I used to have bad dreams afterwards.’
‘And yet she’s not the sort of person you’d think would like fantasy,’ Marion wondered. ‘As you say, she seems narrow sometimes, but very practical, and independent. She’s always had to be – she earned her own living for years.’
‘What did she do – some sort of office job?’
‘She was a legal secretary, you must know that. Dad always said she should have been a lawyer, she had that sort of brain, but girls didn’t have careers then. He was the one who got qualifications.’
‘Girls were supposed to get married. I wonder why she never did. She was nice-looking when she was young. A bit severe, maybe, but handsome. Not that black and white snaps tell you much.’
‘Well, Mamie turning up and moving in couldn’t have helped her chances.’
‘Oh, she was getting on for forty then,’ Eleanor said. ‘She’s what, seven, eight years older than Dad?’
‘And Mamie’s about the same.’
‘Except she seems perpetually youthful. In a way,’ Eleanor added.
‘You mean childish,’ Marion said, but smiled.
‘I’m not like that, am I?’ Eleanor exclaimed. ‘Turning up to live with you because I can’t manage on my own?’
‘Don’t be daft. You live in your own place, completely independent, and you have Claire. I think having children matures you, it can’t help but do that. Mamie never had children. She doesn’t seem able to do a thing without Alice, does she?’
Alice had shaken Mamie off after Christmas dinner, Eleanor noticed. Mamie was in front of the television, Kirsty cuddled up beside her. Alice was still in the kitchen, which had been cleared, the dishes put away. On the table, the turkey carcass, the remains of Christmas pudding, the toys from the crackers. Mamie had taken the chocolates to the living room where the children were, John was dozing in his chair, and Marion had been made to sit by the fire. Only David and Eleanor remained in the kitchen with Alice. David was pouring himself a whisky.
‘Anybody else?’ He held up the bottle.
‘Oh no.’ Alice shuddered. ‘Dear goodness, I couldn’t touch a drop. I can’t take whisky anyway, it’s like medicine.’
‘Exactly,’ David said with a grin.
Eleanor shook her head. ‘No thanks.’
Alice took off her apron and hung it on the back of the pantry door. ‘Now then, who’s for a spot of fresh air?’ She looked at David as he raised his glass.
‘Nasty stuff,’ he said, ‘fresh air. No, think I’ll fall asleep in front of some terrible TV programme. That’s what you’re supposed to do on Christmas Day.’
Eleanor thought Alice was disappointed. In the bright kitchen light she looked older, her skin whitened, her hair almost completely grey now. For years (and when did it go?) there had still been dark brown streaks in it.
‘I’ll come, if you like,’ she offered.
Alice’s grey eyes rested on Eleanor, but did not seem to see her. ‘If you like, dear,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to take you away from the television if …’
‘No, it’s all right. I wouldn’t mind some fresh air myself.’
As she and Alice left for their walk, David was pouring himself another drink.
‘He drinks too much,’ she said to Alice, as they set off down the drive. ‘It’s time he had a job.’
‘He tells me he’s got one now,’ Alice sounded satisfied with this. ‘Off to Edinburgh soon – and a flat all lined up, it seems.’
‘What sort of job?’ Eleanor did not believe it. He had said nothing to Marion or her.
‘Insurance.’ David had told his aunts this because it sounded safe and respectable. There was no guarantee it
was anything near the truth.
‘He’s like himself again,’ Alice went on, ‘now he’s taken off that terrible beard.’
‘Well, he looks younger,’ Eleanor conceded.
The light was fading already as they reached the gates and turned into the lane.
‘Which way will we go?’ Eleanor asked, seeing that Alice hesitated. ‘I suppose we could take the road to the Mains, and come round the back way to the Post Office. But I don’t think there’s time for all that. It’ll be dark soon.’
Alice wanted only to walk along the lane a little way, and back again. She seemed suddenly tired, and her pace, which had been brisk, slowed. At the bend in the lane, where it branched off up to the Mains, she paused and put her hand on a fence post.
‘Are you all right, Aunt Alice?’
For a moment Alice did not answer. She caught her breath in a gasp. Alarmed, Eleanor reached out to steady her, taking her arm.
‘Aye, lass.’ She patted Eleanor’s hand, and took a step or two. ‘We’d maybe best turn now, eh?’
‘Are you sure you’re all right to walk?’ What if she’s not, Eleanor thought in fright. What will I do?
Alice was walking steadily, though, and her breathing had quietened again. ‘I’m fine, dinna you fret. I have a wee turn now and again.’ She looked sharply at Eleanor. ‘I don’t want a word to Mamie, mind. She’s an awful worrier, I’d never hear the end of it.’
‘Maybe you should see the doctor?’
‘I have.’
‘Oh.’
‘Nothing to worry about.’ Alice was dismissive. After a moment, she said, ‘What about Ruby – have you seen her?’
‘Yesterday. I was going to ask her to come for her dinner, but she was invited to the people who have the Post Office now. She seems very friendly with them.’
‘Oh Ruby wouldn’t expect her Christmas dinner,’ Alice said. ‘Time she retired a’ thegither.’
They had reached the gates and were going slowly up the drive again. In the dusk, Pitcairn glowed from within: every window seemed to be lit. That’s how it should be, Eleanor thought, full of people, full of life.
‘What’n a lights are on – young folk never think of electricity bills.’ Alice shook her head. ‘Mind, your father should gie this place up. He should have done it when your mother went. Plenty of room with Mamie and me – not that I’m suggesting that. But he could get a nice wee flat in the town, near at hand so we could keep an eye.’
‘Oh, Alice!’ Eleanor could not help herself. ‘You know fine he’d hate it – he loves this place.’ Anyway, she thought, who was to keep an eye on whom?
‘Ach well.’ Alice stopped, and they both gazed at the house. ‘It was a fine retreat, for the pair of them.’ There was something in her voice that might have been anger. Eleanor waited, wondering. Then Alice went on into the house, so she followed.
On the journey home, Eleanor wanted to tell Marion about this, but by the time she had gone over it in her mind, Marion too was dozing. So she turned her thoughts to home, and Hogmanay. ‘What are you going to do?’ she had asked David.
‘Go to a party,’ he said. ‘Phil and his partner are having a bash in Perth. Then I’ll go on down to Edinburgh.’
‘I thought you were going to be Phil’s partner?’
‘His girlfriend, bidey-in, whatever.’
‘Oh, that sort of partner.’
‘What about you – going to Marion’s? Out with a fellow?’
‘Stop fishing. There is no fellow.’
‘What about this Andrew?’
‘He’s OK, but I keep thinking, why is he a bachelor in his late thirties?’
‘Mysterious, that.’
Eleanor shook her head. ‘Ach, I wonder about you as well. But you’ve … well, you seem to have lived with women at least. Not that you ever admit to it. Andrew’s different. He’s sort of solid and dependable. Husband material.’
‘Perfect.’
‘You’re being sarcastic.’
‘Well, I can just see you – doing the same thing all over again.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’
‘What?’
‘Leave it – sorry. And sorry for asking about Hogmanay. I know you hate it.’
‘Well, I do, David. And you also know why.’
‘Yes, but maybe you should be like me – pack it away. Move on.’
Of course, this was exactly what he did. Move on. David did not carry the past with him, as she did. He shrugged it off. Things hadn’t worked out; someone had let him down; the bank wouldn’t put up the cash; he was ahead of his time, no one was ready for what he had to offer. Nothing was ever his fault: no blame, no shred of responsibility ever clung to David. Even with Ian’s death, Eleanor had not thought to blame David, her own sense of guilt so overwhelming it left no room for other ideas. It was Marion who said, ‘He brings disaster with him, haven’t you noticed?’
Now, when Marion yawned, stretched, began talking again, she said, as if she had overheard Eleanor’s thoughts, ‘I’m glad David’s going away for Hogmanay. Let him take his bad luck somewhere else. Not infect our New Year.’
‘Marion!’
‘Sorry. I was dozing. I had a sort of dream about the year Timmy died.’ In the back of the car, the girls also stirred and woke. Marion leaned towards Eleanor and said in a low voice, ‘Sorry. I’m getting nervous about the hospital next week. Making me grumpy.’
Eleanor put out a hand and touched Marion’s knee. ‘I know. It’s OK.’
‘Where are we?’ Claire’s sleepy voice rose plaintively. ‘I hope we’re nearly there.’
‘Yes,’ Marion told her, reassuring. ‘Nearly home.’
12
Claire was no sooner home than she wanted to go off out again, this time to Sarah’s house.
‘I’ll just ring her, Mum. I said I’d ring as soon as I got back.’
Eleanor was standing in the narrow hallway of the cottage, opening the Christmas Eve post, before she got down to the dreary business of unpacking. ‘All right,’ she said, not listening. There was a card from a former neighbour in Heatherlea, the only friend who still kept in touch, with a note inside about her children, her job, a holiday in Cornwall. It was a typed note; everyone had been sent the same message. But at the bottom, scrawled in pen: Joe and I split up in the Spring. It’s been a hard year, but I’ve managed to keep the house, because I was promoted in October. Hope all’s well with you. Barbara.
Behind the words, between the lines, Eleanor knew, heart sinking, there were shouts and long silences, quarrels and bitterness, a story she had not been told. Joe and Barbara. After all this time, she was hardly able to picture them, though they had been close for all of the first years of Claire’s and Hannah’s lives. She had always thought Barbara stronger and more capable than Joe, but they had seemed secure together and happy. Other people’s marriages, she thought, so many secrets. She put down the letters, not having the heart to open the rest.
She would not tell Claire, there was no need. And yet, she longed to do that. In what she now thought of as their old life, Claire had been inseparable from Hannah, had played with her every day after school, gone to ballet lessons on Saturdays, swimming on Thursday nights. There was only Claire she could talk this over with, but Claire was deep in conversation, huddled over the telephone in Eleanor’s bedroom. Irritated by the turned back, Claire’s complete absorption, Eleanor left her case on the floor and went downstairs to turn up the Rayburn and light the living room fire.
‘We should have had our own tree,’ Claire said, coming down at last as Eleanor struggled with a smoking chimney. ‘The house looks really bare. Why’s there an awful smell of soot in here?’
‘Oh shut up, Claire, and get me that newspaper – quick. God, I hope there’s nothing stuck in the chimney. Why is it doing this?’ She held up a sheet of newspaper in front of the grate, choking in smoke, angry and defeated.
‘Mum, can I …’ Claire hesitated, realising t
his was not the right moment. ‘I’ll go and unpack, shall I?’
‘Yes, yes, go on.’ The fire was drawing at last. Eleanor took the sheet of newspaper away, crumpled it up and stuffed it into the fire, where it blazed up. Then she went upstairs to empty her own case.
By evening she was as restless as Claire, and agreed to drive her to Sarah’s house. Invited in for coffee, she was glad to accept. Claire and Sarah disappeared to Sarah’s room, and she sat in the comfortable living room with Andrea. Two Golden Labradors lay steaming by the fire, giving off the stink of dog drying after a walk. There was a Christmas tree in the bay window, boxes of chocolates lay on the coffee table, and nearby she could hear the sounds (shouts and beeps), of two younger children playing a computer game.
Andrea talked about Christmas, elderly relatives, what to do with all the food. Eleanor had coffee and two pieces of cake. Andrea had reminded her in the past of Barbara: good taste, enough money, and all the bits and pieces on the window sills carefully chosen, unusual. Andrea’s husband was doing something in the garage, working with Sarah’s older brother. Now and again he came in, asked a question, and went out again. There was throughout the house, reflected in Andrea’s calm, plaintive voice, a sense of everything being all right, unchangeable.
Eleanor was seized with a longing to go home, to be back in the cottage (where the fire had probably gone out) and on her own with Claire. Claire sulked when she was called, not wanting to leave.
‘We’re having a party at Hogmanay,’ Andrea said, as they put on their jackets at the front door. ‘You’re both very welcome to come – Sarah has a few girls staying over.’
‘Oh please, Mum. Sarah wants me to – I can, can’t I?’
‘We’ll see. Oh, probably.’
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