‘At the tree-house. Setting you down now.’ He straightens up and tugs gently at her arm. ‘This way. Take it slowly. The tree cover is denser now. Keep a good grip on your poles. And you might want to shut your eyes to protect them.’
As they weave a path through the trees Marianne says, ‘You said you wanted to show me what you were doing here. What exactly are you doing?’
‘Planting trees, mainly. Looking after them. Trying to educate folk about trees. Trying to make them love trees, I suppose. Know them.’
Marianne plods on for a moment, then says, ‘This is going to sound like a stupid question.’
‘Try me.’
‘Why?’
‘Why trees, you mean?’
‘Yes, why trees? Why not animals or birds?’
‘It’s a good question, not stupid at all. Trees encourage wildlife. They increase the space available for wildlife, like tower block flats for humans. Though personally, I’d rather live in a tree. Unlike tower blocks, trees increase the quality of that living space. Bark provides a habitat for insects, also for lichens and mosses and all the animals that live in and on those plants. A tree doesn’t even have to be alive to enrich the environment. Dead or dying wood provides food and nesting sites for all sorts of insects, like bees and beetles… and you’ve stopped listening, but you’re far too polite to tell me I’m being boring.’
‘No, carry on! I was the victim of an arts education, so science is a closed book to me. Go ahead and educate me.’
‘I suspect you’re merely humouring me, but I’ll pretend I detect a note of genuine interest… Deciduous trees provide shade and decaying plant material, which in turn provides homes for slugs, snails, earthworms, woodlice, spiders, millipedes, centipedes – och, how long have you got? And those invertebrates feed animals higher up the food chain, like birds, frogs and hedgehogs. It’s an amazing symbiotic system. If you want to deal a body blow to local wildlife, just fell a tree.’ Keir stops suddenly and says, ‘We’re here.’ He removes the pole from Marianne’s hand, and places her gloved fingers on a piece of hanging rope. ‘This is the ladder. There are wooden rungs between two thick ropes. It’s strong and it’s safe, but you need to go up first because the ladder will swing unless I hold it steady at the bottom.’
‘What will I find at the top?’
‘A platform. There’s a safety rail of sorts. Don’t lean on it, just take it as a boundary. You’ll be fine if you stand still.’
‘How many steps are there on the ladder?’
There is a pause while Keir counts. ‘Sixteen.’
‘Goodness, it must be quite high up!’
‘Aye. You wouldn’t want to fall out.’
‘Keir, I’m not sure I’m really up to this. Couldn’t you haul me up in a basket or something? I’m sure that’s what they did in Swiss Family Robinson.’
‘There is a pulley system, but it’s for goods traffic only.’
‘Don’t I qualify? As a box of chocolates?’
‘Nice try. Just count the rungs as you go up. By the time you get to ten, your head should be about level with the platform. Climb on and wait for me.’
‘And if I fall out of the tree?’
‘I’ll endeavour to catch you.’
‘Thanks a lot.’ As she grasps the rungs of the ladder, Marianne turns her head and says over her shoulder, ‘There isn’t much catching in shinty, is there?’
‘Only of colds.’
* * * * *
Marianne
The wooden rungs were slimy with damp, and treacherous. My gloved hands slipped but my boots gripped. Even with Keir holding the ladder, it swayed and soon I was no longer climbing vertically but leaning backwards, pulling myself up, my wrists taking most of my weight. At first I was frightened, then I began to feel a creeping exhilaration. My head nudged a projecting branch and, seconds later, Keir cried out below.
I froze on the ladder. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Just some snow down the back of my neck. You dislodged it when you hit the branch.’
‘Sorry.’
‘No bother. It was very refreshing. What are you grinning at?’
‘I was just thinking about that snowball fight… Oh, I’ve lost count now. Am I nearly there?’
‘Your feet are on the tenth rung. It should get easier now. The ladder will feel more secure where it’s attached to the platform.’
Reaching above me, my hand found wooden staging with a rough surface. It felt like chicken wire stretched over wood. I hesitated, wondering how I was going to haul myself onto this platform, when Keir called up, ‘There’s a handle to your right, on the platform itself. Have you found it? You can use that to pull yourself on.’
‘I’m frightened I’ll fall if I let go of the ladder.’
‘You won’t. Find that handle with your right hand. Now move your feet up a rung. And another. Keep going… That’s the last one. Now you can wait till I get up there, if you like, but the ladder will swing like hell as I come up. Or you can lift your left leg up and onto the platform. This is where those expensive sessions at the gym will really pay off.’
I clambered onto the platform trying not to think about how far it was to the ground and whether or not the snow would break my fall. Keir called out, ‘That’s right! You’re on! You can stand up if you want – there’s head-room.’
‘No, thanks, I won’t push my luck. I think I’ll just sit quietly and wait for you to join me.’
‘Coming up.’
The platform tilted slightly as he climbed and I clung to the handle for dear life. I heard him arrive, then he took my hands and helped me to my feet. Cowering, I said, ‘Are we standing with our heads in the branches? I’m worried about my eyes. They may be useless but I’m still quite attached to them.’
‘We’re under a sort of wooden porch here. Part of the treehouse. There are no branches near your eyes. But if you come over here…’ He put an arm round my shoulders and propelled me forwards. ‘You’re out from under the porch. It’s like being on a balcony. You’re twenty feet up in the air.’ He placed my hand on a branch the thickness of my arm. ‘Up in the tree’s canopy.’
I grasped the branch and bounced it up and down. There was a shuffling noise and a slap as snow fell from upper branches and landed on the platform.
‘Did I get you that time?’
‘No, you missed.’
‘I always was a rotten shot. God, it’s cold up here, isn’t it? You can feel the wind.’
‘Hot chocolate, madam? Brandy?’
‘Is that what you’ve got in the rucksack?’
‘Aye. Though it’s the St Bernard that’s so damn heavy.’
There was the sound of a latch being lifted, then an agonised creak as a door swung open on its hinges. I felt Keir’s hand on my arm. ‘Step this way, madam. Refreshments will be served shortly.’
* * * * *
‘The space is probably small enough for you to navigate with your hands. But you’ve got plenty of head clearance.’
‘Have you?’
‘Enough. My grandfather was a big man. He built it for his children and grandchildren but he liked to spend time up here himself.’
Marianne removes her gloves and extends her hands, exploring. In the middle of the room she encounters a rough, curved surface. The sensation is familiar and she recognises it at once. She reels back, astonished, then extends her hands again, eagerly. ‘This is the tree-trunk! The tree is growing inside the house!’
‘Aye. There’s a branch as well. It travels diagonally across the room.’ Keir places Marianne’s hand where trunk and branch fork. ‘It forms a sort of room-divider. This side’s the living room, the other’s the sleeping quarters.’
‘There’s a bed?’
‘Oh, aye. Grandfather didn’t do anything by halves. There’s two beds and hooks to sling hammocks. There’s a collection of old blankets and eiderdowns in a wooden kist to the right of your feet. Mind you don’t trip. I’ve brought your pole up
so you can use it like your cane, if you want.’ He hands her the pole and Marianne sweeps it in front of her, tapping the furniture.
‘What else is there? Oh, this is so exciting!’
Keir turns his head, looks at her and grins. ‘We’ve a small round table and some shelves with big lips on them to stop things falling off in a gale. Grandfather really wanted to set them on gimbals but I think the technology defeated him. The tree never moves that much anyway. The branches do, but not the trunk.’
‘Have you been up here in a gale?’
‘I’ve slept up here in a gale.’
Marianne exhales, her fingertips placed to her lips in a childlike gesture of wonder. Something catches at the back of Keir’s throat and he swallows before continuing, ‘There’s plates, mugs, cutlery, plastic glasses – everything you might need for a picnic or a midnight feast. Are you ready for some hot chocolate?’
‘You bet I am. Are there chairs?’
‘Of sorts. Creepie stools. The crofter’s equivalent of the occasional table. Stools you can sit on, eat off, rest your feet on – or a dram. Small, portable, one size fits all.’
He hands Marianne a sturdy, rectangular wooden stool and she sits. He places another in front of her, sets two enamel mugs on it and pours chocolate from a Thermos.
‘That smells wonderful.’
‘It’s right in front of you. Are you hungry?’
‘I can’t be. I ate that huge bacon sandwich.’
‘But somehow you are. I think it’s this place. Tree-houses bring on severe attacks of the munchies.’ He reaches down a tin from a shelf and rattles it.
‘You keep food up here?’
‘Bird food. And a little for humans. Tablet. It’s not that old. I was up here two weeks ago, cleaning up. Hold out your hand.’ Marianne obeys and he places a cube in her palm.
‘You know, I wouldn’t touch this stuff in Edinburgh. Instant tooth rot.’ She pops the fudge-like sweet into her mouth. ‘It’s practically frozen! But it tastes really good.’
‘Hunger is the best sauce,’ Keir replies, his mouth full.
‘Describe the tree-house to me. How on earth did your grandfather build it to accommodate live branches?’
‘The house sits in the tree. It’s perfectly safe but it’s not attached. There has to be a certain amount of give to allow for gales and tree growth, so basically the house sits on a framework built around bits of the tree and there are sliding bolts that shift a few inches to accommodate movement.’
‘But what about the girth of the trunk? That must have increased over the years. And the branch inside? I assume it passes out again through the roof or wall?’
‘The holes he cut in the floor, roof and wall were all bigger than was necessary at the time. They’re smaller now.’
‘So are there gaps? I can’t feel any draughts.’
‘No, all the gaps are sealed with rope – anchor cable. It’s fixed to the house but not the tree. It’s a kind of heavy-duty draught excluder. And quite decorative.’
‘How clever! Will the tree outgrow the holes?’
‘Not in my lifetime.’
‘In your children’s?’
‘I don’t have any.’
‘I was speaking figuratively. Any nieces or nephews?’
‘Not so far.’
‘That’s a shame.’ Marianne sighs. ‘A place as special as this should have children to love it.’
‘I don’t think I love it any less now than I did when I was a boy. And there was a time in my teens when I wouldn’t go near it. Dismissed it as kids’ stuff. I abandoned it to my wee sister and her dolls. She commandeered it as a sort of sanatorium for broken toys. Some of them are still lying around. The terminal cases. I should throw them out but I think they probably have as much right to be here as I do.’
‘Describe them for me.’
‘There’s a wooden horse. The kind you pull along on wheels. Or you could if it still had any wheels. And there’s the remains of a collection of wooden animals. The Lonely Hearts Club.’
‘Why do you call them that?’
‘They were pairs originally and they lived in an ark. Grandfather made them all himself and painted them. But over the years we lost some of them, so their partners ended up as singletons. Poor old Noah was accidentally used for kindling a campfire, so Mrs Noah became a harassed single parent and zoo-keeper.’
‘A widow, in fact.’
He pauses then continues softly, ‘Aye, I suppose so.’
Marianne sets down her cup of chocolate. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve reminded you of Annie, haven’t I?’
‘And I reminded you of Harvey.’
After a moment she says brightly, ‘Are there any wooden rabbits?’
‘Aye, hundreds of the buggers.’
She laughs. ‘Can I hold one of the Lonely Hearts Club members?’
Keir hands her an animal and says, ‘Can you guess what it is?’
As Marianne runs her fingers over the wooden shape Keir studies her wide, expressionless eyes, a cloudy blue, like a sky threatening rain. Looking into them, unregarded, he feels like a voyeur until he remembers watching deer from the cover of trees, his gaze observant, but not invasive. He notes a flicker of an eyelid, a quiver at the corner of her mouth as she runs her fingers lightly over the wood, her head lifted, her throat exposed, like an animal scenting the air. She holds out her hand towards him, the toy cradled in her palm.
‘Easy. A giraffe. I can feel the spots as well as the long neck.’
‘Aye, it does have something of the look of a Dalmatian about it. Grandfather was good with his hands but not much of an artist. I think his style could best be described as expressionistic.’
As Keir reaches for the giraffe, his eye is caught by the branching veins at her wrist, blue against her pale, mottled skin. He lays his fingers on the veins, feels the surprised tendons flex, the chilly skin begin to warm under his hand.
‘Are you taking my pulse?’
‘No. But I can feel the blood in your veins. Just. Your wrist is so small, the bones so fine… I wanted to touch. Sorry, I should have asked first.’ He takes the wooden animal from her palm. ‘Should I? I feel like I’m stalking an animal here. I’m always downwind of you and you never know what I’m going to do. It doesn’t seem fair.’
‘No, but that’s how it always is for me. I’m used to men taking advantage of it.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean you. I meant other men. Ages ago. Really, I can hardly remember… I spend my life touching things, but very little touches me now. People, I mean.’
‘Do you?’
‘Do I what?’
‘Do you mean people don’t touch you?’ He takes her hand and runs his thumb over her inner wrist again, smoothing the protruding veins. ‘Or did you mean what you said? “Very little touches me now.”’
Marianne stands quite still, her hand limp in his, her head bowed in thought. Eventually she says, ‘There’s music, I suppose. And my walks in the Botanics. There’s your island. The idea of it, I mean. And… there’s you.’
He lets go of her wrist. After a moment he says, ‘Do you want to touch me?’
He watches her lashes flicker with indecision, then the tip of her tongue as she moistens dry lips before replying. ‘All the time. I can’t work out whether it’s just curiosity or something more. I want you to be more than just a voice to me… Like my trees. I hear them. I know a lot about them from the noises they make – or don’t make – but I want to know about their physical being. And the only way I can do that is by holding them. So I do. When I think no one’s around, I lean against them. Sometimes I – I press my face to the bark and I… breathe them in.’
His voice, barely a whisper, says, ‘Show me. Show me what you do.’
They stand facing one another and she extends her palm in the direction of his voice, meeting the cold metal of a long zip, embedded in fleece. Pulling on the zip, she undoes his jacket and pushing it aside, lay
s both her palms on the ribbed woollen jersey beneath, placing them, with fingers spread, above his diaphragm. ‘You’re warm. And softer than the trees. I can feel the ribs of your jumper… and they run in the opposite direction to your ribs… There’s a criss-cross pattern. And it’s all moving, very slowly as you breathe… in and out.’
She moves her hands under the fleece jacket, round to his back. Placing her palms on the projecting mounds of his shoulder blades, she turns her head to one side and lays her cheek against his chest. She inhales deeply but says nothing as her head rises and falls. After a few moments, she murmurs, ‘I could drift off to sleep like this. Standing up. Like a horse.’
‘Can I put my arms around you?’
‘Yes.’ He moves and she feels the contraction of muscle, the shifting of shoulder blades as he encloses her in fleece-clad arms. She’s aware of a brief, gentle pressure on the crown of her head and guesses its significance. Curbing an impulse to lift her head and offer her mouth, she says, ‘You prefer trees and animals to people, don’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t put it like that. I feel more at home with trees. And I find animals easier to be with.’
‘Why is that, do you think?’
‘I had a dog who could read my mind and I could read his. That was a hard act to follow.’
‘There’s more to it than that, surely?’
He is still for a moment, then releases her. ‘I’m just not good with folk. For a start I don’t do a lot of eye contact – something you wouldn’t be aware of. That’s one of the reasons I find you easy to talk to. I don’t have to look at you. Though I do, so I suppose I mean, I don’t have to be looked at.’
‘Why does it bother you? It’s not as if you’re ugly or disfigured. And I don’t get the impression that you’re shy. Reserved, perhaps, but not particularly so for a Highlander. In fact compared to some dour specimens I’ve met, you’re the life and soul of the party.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So why don’t you want to be looked at?’
‘I suppose it’s mostly the eye contact thing. Folk are unsettled by my eyes but they don’t know why. And sometimes… sometimes I see more than I want to.’
‘What do you mean?’
Marianne hears him move away and the scrape of a stool on the wooden floor as he sits again. ‘It’s some sort of overdeveloped crap-detector. It must be the result of a lifetime spent watching animals and birds, registering tiny changes in behaviour, flight patterns, alarm calls… I can stand very still for a long time – like a heron – and just… take something in. When I look at folk they must feel as if they’re being photographed. Hell, they probably feel they’re being X-rayed.’
Star Gazing Page 11