Star Gazing

by Linda Gillard

  * * * * *

  ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve – just turning up on my doorstep! Why didn’t you ring?’

  ‘I didn’t have your number.’

  ‘Rubbish! I heard you put it on your mobile.’

  ‘My phone got smashed. So did I.’

  ‘You were drunk?’

  ‘No. There was an accident. On the rig. I fell.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  He lifts her hand and carries it to his forehead where she feels scabbed flesh quilted with stitches. She recoils.

  ‘Good grief! I’m sorry. Are you all right?’

  ‘I am now. I was concussed, otherwise you’d have had flowers and a grovelling apology.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. As long as you’re all right.’

  ‘Oh, aye. Limping a bit. One of the other guys is not so good though.’

  ‘Do you want to come in?’

  ‘You were on your way out.’

  ‘Only for a walk. What were you doing lurking on my doorstep? Were you about to ring my bell?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t been walking up and down singing, “On the street where you live”, if that’s what you mean. Sorry I alarmed you. When I heard the door opening I stepped back, but not far enough.’

  ‘Come upstairs and I’ll make us some coffee. You can tell me about the accident.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell. Accidents happen all the time, especially on rigs. I’ll live.’

  ‘I sincerely hope so,’ Marianne replies as she closes the door behind him.

  She calms herself with the ritual of making coffee, at ease in the familiar surroundings of her own kitchen. Carrying a loaded tray into the sitting room, she asks, ‘Where are you sitting?’

  ‘I’m not. I’m standing, so you don’t trip over my big feet. Here, let me take the tray.’

  She sits in an armchair opposite the sofa and hears the asthmatic wheeze of cushions as he sits down facing her. Reaching for a mug of coffee, she says, ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Why didn’t they send you home?’

  ‘They wanted to keep me in. For observation.’

  ‘No, I mean when you were discharged, why didn’t you go home? I presume you do have one?’

  ‘I owed you an apology. I don’t make a habit of standing women up. Especially not blind ones.’

  ‘You mean you came back to Edinburgh just to say sorry?’

  ‘I couldn’t get hold of your number—’

  ‘We’re ex-directory. You could have sent a card.’

  ‘Aye, but you couldn’t have read it, so I thought I’d better come in person to explain. Besides, I wanted to see you again.’

  ‘Why?’

  She hears him sigh. ‘You don’t make things easy, do you? Look, I know I’m supposed to suggest we have dinner, then go through the waiting-for-phone-calls routine, meet the family and pets—’

  ‘Did I ever tell you about Garth?’

  ‘Who’s Garth?’

  ‘My sister’s pet Goth.’

  ‘Is that a breed of dog?’

  ‘Never mind. You were saying?’

  ‘I was saying, I wondered if we could just cut all the crap and skip to the part where you say “No”.’

  ‘Keir, what on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘I’ve got leave. Sick leave as a result of the accident. So I’m going home for a wee while.’

  ‘And where exactly is home?’

  ‘Skye.’

  ‘That’s a long way from here.’

  ‘Aye. So I was wondering… Would you’d like to come?’

  ‘To Skye? You mean come and stay with you?’

  ‘Aye.’ She makes no reply and he continues, ‘There’d be separate sleeping accommodation – you need have no worries on that score. I’m not importing you for lewd purposes.’

  ‘Well, you needn’t say it as if that was the last thing on your mind. You make me feel like the antidote to desire.’

  He sighs again. ‘I’m sorry, that did sound pretty crass, didn’t it? I thought you might be… concerned.’

  ‘For my virtue, you mean? What use is virtue to me? Anyway, I’m a widow, if you remember. Not somebody’s maiden aunt.’

  ‘Now who’s talking about herself as if she’s the antidote to desire?’

  ‘Oh, I’m scarcely a woman in the eyes of the world. I don’t see, so I don’t shop. I don’t have children. I don’t even have a man. In the eyes of the world, I’m just blind.’

  ‘In the eyes of the world, maybe. Not mine.’

  She hears him swallow coffee, then place his mug on the table.

  ‘So, you’re inviting me for a sort of holiday?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I’m not much of a one for scenery.’

  ‘I realise that.’

  ‘And I get awfully crabby when I’m off my home turf.’

  ‘You can be pretty crabby on it.’

  ‘So why are you asking me?’

  ‘I want to show you Skye. And I use the word advisedly.’

  ‘I get the guest room?’

  ‘No, you get my bed. There’s only two rooms.’

  ‘But you’re optional?’

  ‘Entirely. As is the full Scottish breakfast. There’s no electricity but the house is warm and dry. Cosy. From an aesthetic point of view, it’s a bit primitive, but you’ll not be into interior design in a big way, I should imagine.’

  ‘And this is your home?’

  ‘Aye.’

  She is silent, her head bowed, apparently deep in thought.

  He clears his throat and says wearily, ‘This is the point where you say, “No, I couldn’t possibly.”’

  She lifts her head. ‘Why would I say that?’

  ‘I don’t know. You can’t get leave from work, maybe?’

  ‘But I can.’

  ‘You don’t like to leave your sister on her own?’

  ‘At the moment I’d like nothing better.’

  ‘You don’t actually know me?’

  ‘That’s very true. There have been times when I’ve even doubted your existence.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. God has the same problem.’

  ‘And works in equally mysterious ways, his wonders to perform.’

  ‘I’m not promising wonders. The weather will be terrible. You’ll be holed up, listening to the wind and rain. But if it ever stops you’ll be climbing hills and watching stars.’

  ‘I can’t watch stars.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I can tell you about them.’

  ‘You’re going to teach me about the stars?’

  ‘Aye.’

  She puts her coffee mug down and her voice falters. ‘How… how did you know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That I’ve always wanted to know – since I was a tiny child – what twinkling looks like? I mean, what twinkling is like.’

  Keir thinks for a moment, then says, ‘It’s a kind of pulse. A gentle throbbing of light. Not like a headache. A beautiful, magical throbbing… I had a girlfriend once who tried to explain the mysteries of female sexual arousal to me and she said, “You know he’s the one for you if the sight of him makes your genitals twinkle.”’

  Marianne is silent, then asks, ‘Were you the one for her?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘But she wasn’t the one for you.’

  ‘Afraid not, for all she was a poet.’

  The sound of distant traffic has altered. Marianne can tell from the swish of wheels that it’s started to rain. ‘I should have gone for my walk. I like walking in the rain.’

  ‘Will you come with me, Marianne?’

  ‘To listen to the stars?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Try stopping me.’

  * * * * *

  Louisa

  Well, he wasn’t what I expected. But then I’d been expecting nothing, so anything at all would have been a pleasant surprise. And what I got was a very pleasant surprise.
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br />   He came to the flat to collect Marianne and her luggage before they set off for Skye. He was tall, well over six feet. I had to crane my neck to look up at him, which I always think is a rather pleasing sensation when you’re with a man. He looked younger than Marianne. I don’t know why I’d thought he’d be older, or indeed any age at all since I’d assumed he didn’t exist. I suppose I’d thought Marianne would have fantasised about somebody older than herself, if you see what I mean.

  He was dark, with short brown hair, a bit reddish. Conker brown. Shiny like a conker too. His hair was cropped close to the head giving him something of an ascetic look, like a monk, but his eyes were lively and humorous. Crinkly. Otherwise his face was unlined, but I’d have guessed his age as early forties, no more. There was something disquieting about those eyes. I got the impression they didn’t miss much.

  He had stitches in his forehead and some technicolour bruising on his face, making him look a bit like Frankenstein’s monster, but it was nevertheless a handsome face with a straight nose and a generous, slightly crooked mouth, which seemed to go with his ironic turns of phrase.

  He was broad in the shoulder and very tall. Oh, I think I already said that, didn’t I? It’s just that it really struck you, the size of him, as he stood there looking so solid and masculine in our fussy sitting room. He looked quite out of place in his walking boots, jeans and fleece jacket, like a lumberjack at a vicarage tea party. But there could be no doubt about the corporeal existence of Mr Harvey as he stood on our hearthrug, larger than life. My little sister had done well for herself.

  It crossed my mind – with a pang of disappointment – that he might be gay. Marianne has always had an affinity with gay men. She likes their bitchy humour and the fact that there’s no sexual game-playing. She’s always said gays make better and more loyal friends than women. So I did wonder.

  But he didn’t look gay. I know you can’t tell, but I thought the way he looked at Marianne, watched her when she spoke, the way he helped her on with her coat, all suggested he was thoroughly heterosexual, so much so that I caught myself thinking, ‘Gosh, I hope Marianne doesn’t fall in a big way and get hurt.’ Then he did something – something quite small – which made me think again.

  Marianne was buttoning up her coat, talking to me, getting ready to leave. She had her back turned towards Keir. Over her shoulder I saw him look at her, then hesitate. He lifted his great big hands and – so gently, as if he was handling something precious or fragile – he slipped his fingers under her long, loose hair where it was caught inside her coat collar. He gently pulled it free, gathering it up in his hands, then he let go, watching it cascade over her shoulders and, as he did so, he smiled. Not at me, nor at Marianne. He just smiled.

  That was when I had second thoughts. Marianne didn’t turn towards him, she just tossed her head and shook out her hair. I looked at the pair of them and thought, ‘Oh, Lord – I hope he doesn’t fall in a big way and get hurt.’

  I kissed Marianne goodbye. I was a bit tearful, I don’t know why. She was only going away for a week. Keir handed me a small carrier bag and grinned, saying it was a gift for me. I looked inside and there were two gift-wrapped boxes. Probably chocolates, I thought. He enveloped my hand in one of his and said he would take very good care of Marianne. I didn’t doubt that for one moment.

  After they’d gone I felt quite flat. I couldn’t settle to work. I tried to console myself with the thought that poor Marianne was about to spend a week on Skye feeling cold and damp, perhaps struggling with the indignities of a chemical toilet. Rather her than me! (Although perhaps the nights wouldn’t be so very cold and damp.) Far from feeling apprehensive about her eccentric holiday, with her even more eccentric companion, what I actually felt was jealous.

  That realisation made me feel even more disgruntled, so at lunchtime I switched off the PC, poured myself a large G&T and settled down to watch guilt-free daytime TV, without Marianne’s acerbic comments to inhibit my channel-hopping. I was about to tune in to a re-run of Buffy the Vampire Slayer when I remembered Keir’s presents. The thought of some quality chocs cheered me up. Sure enough, one box contained Belgian chocolates.

  The other turned out to be a DVD.

  I don’t suppose I need to tell you what it was.

  Harvey.

  It was awfully good. (So were the chocs.)

  Chapter Five

  Marianne

  I hardly ever think about sex. I don’t particularly miss it. But I think about men. Men other than Harvey, I mean. (I try very hard not to think about Harvey. His life was so completely subsumed by the manner of his death that thinking about him means – will always mean – thinking about how he died.) But I think about other men. Sometimes. Men and maleness. I think I miss the difference of men.

  I can hardly remember what sex feels like and you can’t really fantasise about something you’ve forgotten. Virgins can fantasise about sex because they might be right, it might be like that. But when you’ve forgotten how it feels to make love and try to remember, you know it wasn’t quite like that, it must have been better than that, surely? And you realise the memory has gone. You know the only thing that could remind you what it was like would be making love with a man.

  But that wasn’t going to happen. I was quite clear about that. I was quite clear because there was absolutely no question of my asking Louisa to shop for condoms. Nor was I prepared to stand at the counter in Boots, at the mercy of a gormless shop assistant who might compound my embarrassment by enquiring if I preferred ribbed or flavoured.

  Whether the lack of sexual opportunity was a disappointment, I didn’t bother to ask myself (though I suppose the fact that the shopping difficulty had occurred to me tells its own story). I confess I might have envisaged – very briefly – some romantic scenario worthy of Louisa at her worst. I was, after all, about to be whisked away to an island in the far north by a man I hardly knew and who was (Louisa assured me) quite attractive. I was prepared to believe her. Keir was taller than me, younger than me and nicer than me. Louisa would have said it doesn’t get a lot better than that, not when you’re middle-aged and single. Certainly not if you’re middle-aged, single and blind. Nevertheless, there would be no sex. Unless, of course, Keir, in true Boy Scout fashion, came prepared.

  He struck me as the sort of man who might be ready for anything.

  * * * * *

  Keir installs Marianne in a waiting black cab, loads their luggage and announces ‘Waverley’ to the driver. As he eases his bulky frame between Marianne and their cases she says, ‘We’re going by train?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘It’s an awfully long way.’

  ‘That’s why we’re going by train. My Land Rover’s parked at Inverness anyway. D’you not like trains?’

  ‘I’ve hardly ever used them. They’re pretty awkward if you’re blind. And impossible if you’re travelling alone. A train journey will be something of a novelty for me.’

  ‘Aye, that’s what I thought. Long car journeys must be high on your list of all-time boring activities, I should imagine.’

  ‘Depends on the CD collection of the driver. If it’s Louisa you have to suffer some pretty ropey tenors. I can only assume their looks must compensate for their voices. Do we have to change trains?’

  ‘No, we go all the way to Inverness, have lunch, then pick up the Land Rover, head west to Kyle, then drive over the bridge to Skye.’

  ‘You know, I’m not sure I approve of islands being connected to the mainland by bridges. Seems perverse to me.’

  ‘You might think differently if you lived there. Isolation can be a mixed blessing. And the bridge has brought us many benefits.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Pine martens.’

  ‘Pine martens? They’re animals, aren’t they?’

  ‘Aye. Mammals. The size of a cat.’

  ‘They walked across the bridge?’

  ‘Aye… Carrying their wee suitcases.’

  At Waver
ley, Keir pays the taxi driver, shoulders his rucksack and picks up Marianne’s case. Offering her an arm, he escorts her across the concourse to the platform.

  ‘You walk very confidently without your cane.’

  ‘I fall over very confidently too. I’ve got one in my bag but I don’t use it if I can help it. But then I don’t often venture out of familiar territory.’

  ‘So I’m taking you outside your comfort zone?’

  ‘Oh, yes. In more ways than one… Are you laughing at me?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘But you were grinning?’

  ‘Aye, as it happens, I was. How did you know?’

  ‘An educated guess.’

  ‘Based on what evidence?’

  ‘The silence… And your arm relaxed suddenly.’

  ‘I feel like Doctor Watson tagging along with Sherlock Holmes. I can see I’m going to have trouble keeping up with you.’

  ‘Not as much trouble as I’m having keeping up with you,’ she replies. ‘Do you think you could possibly slow down? You do have the advantage in leg length.’

  ‘Sorry. We’re about to get on the train. Wait here while I stow the luggage, then I’ll find our seats and come and fetch you.’

  ‘Do you want the window seat?’

  ‘So I can admire the view?’

  ‘No, so you don’t have folk thumping you with their luggage.’

  ‘Oh… Sorry. Forgive the sarcasm. I’m feeling rather nervous. The unfamiliarity.’

  ‘No problem. Will I take your coat? I’ll put it in the rack overhead.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Marianne hands him her coat and settles into her seat.

  ‘The seats opposite aren’t reserved so you can stretch out your legs for now.’

  ‘They are stretched out.’

  ‘Sorry. I forget other folk aren’t as obsessed as I am with leg-room.Another reason I prefer the aisle seat.’ He sits down beside her and Marianne is thrown momentarily by the unexpected body contact in their narrow seats.

  ‘When do we get to Inverness?’

  ‘Midday or thereabouts. Then we’ll have lunch and drive to Skye.’

  ‘You’re really excited about showing me your island, aren’t you?’