‘Was it the man who was in the accident with you?’
‘Aye. Did I tell you about that?’
‘Yes. Well, you mentioned another man had been injured. Allowing for your habitual understatement, I guessed things didn’t look too hopeful.’
‘No. He died this morning. Never regained consciousness. That was his wife.’
‘Poor woman.’
‘Aye.’
‘He was a friend of yours?’
‘Aye. An old pal. We go way back.’
Marianne waits for Keir to elaborate, then realises his silence speaks of the inarticulate depths of male friendship. ‘If you want to turn round and go back,’ she says gently, ‘that’s fine by me.’
‘Och no, that’s the last thing I want to do.’
‘You’re sure? I really don’t mind.’
‘What I need to do now is get home, light the stove, crack open a good bottle and brood – at length – on the transience of life and the whims of the Grim Reaper. Do you drink whisky, Marianne?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we’ll raise a glass to Mac tonight and we’ll start the holiday tomorrow. It’s what he would have wanted. Ach…’ Keir bows his head and says, his voice suddenly harsh with anger, ‘He was full of life, that guy! And one hell of a shinty player. You should have seen him! And I’m not going to apologise for that one.’
Marianne lifts her hand up to his face. She finds it and lays her fingers on his cold, damp cheek, registering the slant of bone beneath. ‘You mustn’t feel guilty, you know. For surviving. Harvey’s workmates did. Men who should have been working a shift that night, but weren’t, for one reason or another. There’s nothing you could have done.’
‘I’m not so sure. But thanks anyway.’ He opens the passenger door. ‘Hop in and we’ll be on our way.’ He takes her arm but she doesn’t move.
‘You know, I sometimes wish we would all treat each other as if we were about to die. Say all the things that should be said. And not say the things that shouldn’t. It would be different, wouldn’t it, if we could see death coming.’
‘If you could see it coming, what would you do differently?’
They stand facing each other, buffeted by the wind. Marianne sways and Keir puts out a hand to steady her. She shivers violently, then says, ‘I wouldn’t have told Harvey I was pregnant.’
‘Why not?’
‘It was just one more thing for him to worry about. He wasn’t particularly pleased. The pregnancy wasn’t planned and he didn’t think I would cope. If he had time to think before he was incinerated, his last thoughts might have been, “I’m leaving a wife behind. And she’s pregnant. And blind.”’
‘Maybe it was a comfort to him to know life would go on. Without him.’
‘Maybe. Did Mac have kids?’
‘Three.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘They’ll be taken care of. Annie’s family will see her through it. So will Mac’s. It will be very hard, but she’ll cope.’
Marianne leans into the Land Rover and grips the bar ready to heave herself in, then says, ‘You think you won’t cope. But you do.’ Keir looks down at her hands, the knuckles white, the flesh mottled with cold. ‘Somehow you just do.’
‘Aye. You look death in the eye and re-negotiate terms… Come on, into the wagon with you. We’ve a way to go yet.’
* * * * *
Marianne
I remember the last conversation I had with my husband. I remember his very last words. It wasn’t a conversation, it was a row. We parted in anger. We didn’t even kiss each other goodbye.
But you cope. Somehow, you cope.
Chapter Six
‘This is as far as the wheels take us.’
Keir switches off the ignition and peers through the windscreen at the torrent of rain hammering the bonnet of the Land Rover. ‘The rest of our journey’s on foot and we’ve two choices. There’s a narrow winding path that leads down to the house. You’d manage that, but it would take a while and you’ll get soaked. Or…’ He pauses.
‘Or?’
‘Or I can carry you down the steps.’
‘Carry me? Don’t be ridiculous! I can walk down. I’ll just be slow.’
‘I use the term “steps” in its loosest sense. I’ve set a series of flat rocks into the hillside at intervals. They’ll be muddy and treacherous and the distance between them suits my legs not yours. If you want to tackle them you’ll have to go down backwards. Scrambling. A piggyback might be more dignified. And much safer.’
‘Thanks for the offer, but I’ll walk down the path.’
‘OK.’
As they get out of the Land Rover the wind whips the door out of Marianne’s hand. She climbs down, then cries out, ‘Sod it!’
Keir calls from the back of the vehicle where he is opening the door for their luggage. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I just stepped into a hole full of water and flooded my shoes.’ She feels her way to the back of the car where Keir is strapping on his rucksack. ‘I don’t suppose you have such a thing as an umbrella?’
He laughs. ‘In this wind?’
She hears him haul her suitcase out of the car and says hurriedly, ‘I can carry my case. It’s really not that heavy.’
‘I suggest you just concentrate on coping with new and uneven terrain and leave the luggage to me.’
She sinks down onto the floor of the Land Rover, taking shelter from the worst of the rain. ‘Keir, I wish you’d stop behaving like something out of Jane Austen.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it makes me feel like something out of Jane Austen.’
‘And that’s bad?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because you’ve spent your whole life trying not to feel helpless.’
‘Yes,’ she replies, lifting her chin. ‘I have.’
He is silent for a moment and regards her tired, wet face, framed by hair hanging in sodden rats’ tails. He shoves the case back into the car and she feels the Land Rover sink as he sits beside her. ‘And just supposing I’ve spent my whole life wanting to be a hero?’
She puts her head on one side like a bird, as if listening more intently. ‘Have you?’
‘Aye… Some. ’
Marianne says nothing. As the rain drums more heavily on the roof of the car she kicks her feet together in an attempt to stir her circulation. Her shoes make a dispiriting squelching sound. She groans and says, ‘I’m probably heavier than I look.’
‘And I’m probably stronger than I look.’ He unbuckles the rucksack, flings it back into the Land Rover along with the suitcase and slams the door. Turning to Marianne, he takes her arm and says, ‘Come over here. There’s a rock in front of you, a wee bit lower than your knees.’ He takes hold of both her hands. ‘Step up onto it.’ She climbs on to the slippery, uneven stone and he lets go. ‘OK, I’m standing in front of you now with my back towards you.’
She extends her hands and finds his shoulders level with her chest. ‘Oh Lord – I haven’t done anything like this since primary school. I’m frightened of strangling you.’
‘You won’t. Hop on.’ With a whoop, Marianne flings herself at his back and he hooks his arms behind her knees. ‘Hold tight now.’
She wraps her arms more firmly round his neck and Keir descends crab-like, stepping sideways. As she lurches from side to side, Marianne giggles. ‘This is rather fun, actually.’ Her mouth close to his ear, she says, ‘I think we should come to some arrangement. Schedule the heroics, I mean.’
‘Yours or mine?’
‘Both.’
‘Sounds like a good idea.’
‘So it’s your shift until we get indoors.’
‘And then?’
‘Then I’ll wow you with my sightless cooking. Juggling with Sabatier knives, plate-spinning, turning water into wine. It’s quite a performance.’
‘Och well, that’s good. With no electricity, we’ll have to make our own entertainment.’
He stan
ds still, breathing heavily.
‘Am I getting heavy? Do you want a rest?’
‘No, I was stopping to admire the view in the last of the light. When you clear the tree canopy and you first see the house. It’s a ritual moment. That’s when I know I’m home. Can you hear running water? That’s the burn.’
‘Yes. And what sounds like… a waterfall?’
‘Aye, the water falls, then the burn circles the house and carries on down to meet the sea about a quarter of a mile away.’
‘Must be handy for chilling wine in the summer.’
‘Aye. You can shower under the waterfall as well. Not to be recommended at this time of year, except for card-carrying masochists. Hold tight. We’re nearly there.’
The noise of the stream recedes. The ground begins to level out and Keir walks more quickly, then stops. He releases her legs and Marianne slides down his back to the ground again. Opening an unlocked door, he leads her out of the rain into a structure that she can tell straight away has a corrugated iron roof.
‘Oh, listen to the rain! It sounds like the Edinburgh Tattoo.’
‘This is what Americans would call the mudroom.’ She hears the turn of a key. Taking her arm, Keir leads her inside the house. ‘Stand there and drip while I light the stove.’
As she unlaces her shoes, Marianne hears him move away, then the clank of a metal door, a scrabble for matches and the sound of wood and paper catching light.
‘That was quick!’
‘I always lay the fire before I leave. Come and sit down.’ Keir relieves her of her wet coat and she kicks off her shoes. He leads her to an armchair by the stove. ‘I’ll go back up and get the luggage. You’ll be OK for a few minutes?’
‘Yes, of course. I shall sit and inhale wood smoke. Glorious.’
‘If carcinogenic.’
‘Oh, who cares? Life is terminal.’
‘Aye, right enough.’
Her face falls and her fingers fly to her mouth. ‘Oh, that was really tactless of me considering the news you had today. I was forgetting in all the excitement. I’m so sorry, Keir.’
‘Don’t be. I never thought Mac would make it. I’ve had more than a week to grieve already. You hope, but… Well, you’ll know yourself, accidents on rigs – bad ones – go with the territory. There’s a lot of bloody waste… Are you excited, Marianne?’
‘About this trip? You bet I am. This is a real adventure for me. Pure Enid Blyton – a much maligned author, in my opinion. I hope you’ve got in a good supply of cocoa,’ she says, rubbing her hands together to warm them. ‘I feel a midnight feast coming on… Keir, you’ve gone quiet again. Are you laughing at me?’
‘No, I’m just tired. And relieved.’
‘What about?’
‘That you’re pleased to be here. That you haven’t complained about the rain. Or the cold. Or the undignified mode of transport.’
‘You or the Land Rover?’
‘Me.’
‘I wouldn’t have missed that for the world. You can’t afford to stand on your dignity if you’re blind, you know. It doesn’t do. I can just about cope with feeling beholden, but I warn you now, I don’t really do grateful. You’ll just have to take that as read.’
‘I think you’ll find I’m pretty good at reading between the lines.’
‘Then you’ll know how relieved I am.’
‘Relieved?’
‘That it was poor Mac and not you.’ He doesn’t reply and she adds brightly, extending her hands towards the stove, ‘It’s definitely warming up now. Wood-burners are marvellous, aren’t they? I expect they create a lot of dirt but that’s not something I ever worry about. What the eye doesn’t see…’
He opens the front door. ‘I’m away up the hill now to get the luggage. Speak kindly to the stove – it needs encouragement.’
‘Don’t we all. Take care on those steps.’
‘I always do. We’re a long way from a hospital. A long way from anywhere.’
‘What a thrilling thought,’ she replies, peeling off dripping socks.
‘How do you take your whisky?’
‘As it comes, thanks.’
Keir places a glass in her hand and says, ‘Now you get the tour. It won’t take long. This place is tiny but it’s as well to point out some hazards. Which, as it happens, is what I do for a living.’
‘What is?’
‘Hazard prediction. Identifying conditions that could be hazardous to drilling operations.’
‘How on earth do you do that?’
‘“How on Earth”…’ He smiles and raises his glass. ‘I like that. 3D seismic technology is how. And I have a wee crystal ball that comes in handy… We’re in the kitchen now and it has an old Rayburn. When it’s alight you’ll be aware of the heat, so that’s not a hazard. The table and chairs are over here against the wall, out of the way, and everything is stored on shelves or cupboards, so there’s nothing to trip you, apart from the rug which is threadbare in places. I’ll maybe roll that up so you’ve an even surface to walk on.’
‘Really, there’s no need. I have a very good memory. Once I’ve moved around a bit, I’ll remember the layout. Mobility isn’t a problem for me except when people move things. Guests always seem impressed when I cook for them – even just make a cup of tea – as if it’s some wonderful feat, but really it isn’t, not if everything is where you left it. You could make tea with your eyes closed if you knew where everything was. The feat, if feat it is, is one of memory.’
‘And I suppose your memory develops without sight for back-up? Now I come to think of it, when folk try hard to remember something they often shut their eyes. Using some kind of inner eye to visualise, I suppose… OK, there’s a back door on the far wall. Outside there’s a rough sort of garden and a pond, so mind your footing if you go out there. There are paths – I’ll show you round tomorrow. So, if we retrace our steps to the entrance to the kitchen – on your left you have the front door where we came in. On your right, a door leading to the bathroom, which is very small, just a loo and a shower. If you step across the hall now – Marianne, are you counting?’
‘Yes. And memorising. I navigate by a sequence of numbers, you see. The number of paces between things.’ Keir makes no comment. ‘What’s the matter? You’ve gone quiet again.’
‘I was just thinking. It must be difficult. Being a blind child. If your safety depends on feats of memory, sequences of numbers, it must be hard to be spontaneous, to play, to be a child.’
‘You fall over a lot and you’re permanently covered in scabs and bruises, but you just get on with it. I was at boarding school with a lot of other blind children. We were all in the same boat,’ she adds briskly. ‘Where are we now?’
‘In the sitting room. To your right is the open-tread staircase that leads up to the sleeping area. That’s a platform over the sitting room and it’s partly open, but there’s a safety rail, about waist height. I’ll show you in a minute. In here we have my desk by the window and there’s an armchair beside the stove – both of which you’re already familiar with. On the far wall is the sofa where I’ll sleep.’
‘Is it a sofa bed?’
‘No, but it’s big and comfy. It lets down at the ends so I can stretch out.’
‘I could have slept on that. It might even have been safer for me than negotiating the stairs.’
‘Aye, I wondered about that. It’s up to you, but if you sleep down here you’ve no privacy. There’s no door. There’s no curtains either and the bathroom isn’t big enough to get dressed in. I thought you’d prefer to be in the bedroom. But it’s up to you.’
‘You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought. Perhaps I would be better off upstairs.’
‘Aye, and you’ll be warmer too at night. Shall we try negotiating the stair now? Will you follow me up? There’s a handrail on your left. There’s ten steps and they’re open-tread, mind.’
Marianne follows him up the staircase. He draws her into the middle of the room, then po
sitions himself at the head of the stairs. ‘I’m standing in front of the stair now so you can’t fall. You’ll only be able to stand upright in the centre of the room, which is where you are now. Put your hands up and you’ll feel the sloping ceiling. There’s a double bed – not made up yet – and a small table and a chair under the window, which is in the roof and has no curtain. There’s a chest of drawers beside the bed. I’m clearing the top now so you can put your things on it. On the wall facing the bed there’s shelves and baskets containing clothes and assorted junk. And that’s it. Not much to it. There’s more of interest outside than in. One other thing I should mention – there’s no electricity so the lighting is oil lamps.’
‘Keir, I don’t need any light!’
‘I know, but the oil lamps will be another hazard. You’ll need to know where they are and if they’re alight. That’s another reason I thought you might be better off up here. Less to worry about.’
‘I imagine I’ll feel the heat from the lamps if they’re alight. And I’ll smell them.’
‘Aye, that’s what I thought. I’m sure it won’t be a problem. Less of a problem in fact than cables trailing round the room. How’s your glass?’
‘Empty.’
‘A shocking dereliction of duty on the part of the host. Will you come down and have another or will I bring it up to you while you unpack? Do you need a hand with anything?’
‘No, just find me a space to put my clothes – a drawer or basket or something. I didn’t bring much.’
She hears him pull open a drawer, scrape the contents out and dump them elsewhere. ‘Top drawer beside the bed is now empty. Do you want some hangers?’
‘No, but if there was a hook for my dressing gown it would make it easier to find.’
‘No problem. There’s a picture hanging on a cup-hook here, at the side of the bed. If I remove the picture…’ He lifts her hand and presses her fingers to the wall. ‘There. Can you feel? Hang your dressing gown on that.’
‘What is it a picture of?’
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