Star Gazing

by Linda Gillard

  ‘I think I know what you’re referring to. After she’d met you, Louisa said, “That man’s eyes don’t miss much.”’

  ‘Did she now? Well, I wouldn’t mind betting Louisa doesn’t miss much either.’

  ‘You picked up on her sexual availability, didn’t you? The antennae waving. And you knew I’d lost someone close. You just stated it as a fact, as if you knew.’

  ‘Seemed pretty obvious to me.’

  ‘But most people can’t read blind faces. We don’t do expressions like sighted people. Especially not the congenitally blind. Our voices sound normal, but most people just see the dead eyes, feel very uncomfortable, then back off as fast as they can. The more socially skilled raise their voices and address us as if we’re mentally defective.’ She pauses, her head on one side. ‘You’ve gone quiet. Am I ranting?’

  ‘No, I’m just observing you. It’s fast becoming one of my favourite occupations. Your expressiveness is concentrated around your mouth.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Aye. Your mouth is fascinating. And very attractive. You touch it a lot. With your fingertips. And you touch it with your tongue. It’s very alluring. You want to watch that when you’re with those predatory types you mentioned. It maybe gives out a message you don’t intend.’

  Marianne’s fingers fly to her lips. ‘Oh dear. Do you think so?’

  Keir laughs and lays his fingers gently on top of hers. ‘See? You did it then. I think you react with your mouth the way other folk react with their eyes.’ He removes his hand and watches the frown lines dance between her fair brows as she tries to assimilate new information.

  ‘But this morning… when you asked me if I wanted you to make love to me, you didn’t know what I wanted?’

  ‘Did you?’ She is silent and after a moment he resumes, ‘That was an emotional minefield and I was trying not to blow myself up. I thought I knew what you wanted but I wasn’t sure if I’d been given permission. And I hadn’t. That’s what I mean about not being skilled with folk. I’m no good at playing games.’

  ‘Apart from shinty.’

  ‘Och, I’m not even that good at shinty! I’m certainly no good at the games you have to play with women. Men and animals are much more straightforward.’

  ‘And blind women?’

  ‘And blind women.’

  ‘Except that you can’t tell if they find you attractive.’

  ‘No, but I’m a quick learner. For a man, that is.’

  Marianne purses her lips and says firmly, ‘Let’s change the subject. I’m getting out of my depth.’

  ‘Well, that was admirably straightforward.’

  ‘Tell me more about your grandfather. And the toys.’

  ‘Gladly. He loved to work with wood and made us wooden toys for our birthdays. The ark was mine. My sister asked for a wooden book when she was small, God knows why. He made her one with four painted plywood pages and canvas hinges.’ Keir roots in a box, then says, ‘I wonder, can you guess what this is?’ He hands Marianne a flat piece of wood about the size of a small tea tray, irregularly shaped, but something like a starfish, or a bird with its wings spread. One side is smooth and featureless, the other is carved with wavy lines and indentations. In the middle, a series of raised lumps with serrated edges form a rough horseshoe shape.

  ‘What on earth is it?’

  ‘Something that’s of more use to you than it ever was to me.’

  ‘Is it some kind of sculpture?’

  ‘In a way. It’s a map. A wooden relief map of Skye. These winged pieces are the peninsulas: Trotternish, Waternish, Duirinish, Minginish and down here, this big piece, this is where we are, in Sleat.’

  ‘And the bumps in the middle are the Cuillin?’

  ‘Aye. They’ve lost some of their fine detail over the years. But then so have the Cuillin. Erosion takes its toll, of mountains as well as toys.’

  ‘Is the map painted?’

  ‘No, just carved and varnished. These long thin indentations …’ He takes her hand and guides her fingers over the wood. ‘Can you feel those? They’re rivers. And these depressions…’ He moves her fingers again. ‘Those are lochs. The straighter lines are roads.’

  ‘What a wonderful piece of work! But why? I mean, why a wooden map?’

  ‘He’d seen one in Canada, made by the Inuit. They carried such things in their kayaks, maps of the coastline, carved from driftwood, so they could navigate by touch when they were at sea in the dark. The map was impervious to weather and floated if they dropped it overboard. A brilliant low-tech solution to a practical problem. That would have appealed to my grandfather.

  More chocolate?’

  ‘Mmm, yes please.’

  Keir refills her cup. After a pause in which they both drink in silence, he says, ‘Marianne, if it’s OK with you I’d like to go and ring Annie.’

  ‘There’s no reception here, surely?’

  ‘No. None at the house either. I’ll have to drive up to the main road. I could do with going into Broadford for supplies anyway. I didn’t bring much. I prefer to shop locally. Would you like to come along for the very bumpy ride?’

  ‘Well, I’ve had better offers. Will you be gone long?’

  ‘A couple of hours. Maybe a bit longer. Depends how things are with Annie. And how many folk I meet in the Co.’

  ‘The Co?’

  ‘The Co-op. The social centre of the village. Shopping can take a while by the time you’ve caught up with all the news.’

  ‘I think I’d rather stay at home. Sorry to be anti-social, but sitting and dozing by the fireside seems more appealing. I feel quite tired after all that trekking through the snow. And when everything is new to me I get worn out, trying to take it all in.’

  ‘I can imagine. Well, I can’t, but you know what I mean. Let’s head back to the house, have some lunch, then you can put your feet up.’

  Keir tucks the stools under the table and puts the empty mugs into a plastic bag inside the rucksack. He zips up his fleece, guides Marianne towards the door and opens it.

  As the door complains again, she laughs. ‘That creak is like something out of the Brothers Grimm.’

  ‘Aye, I keep meaning to come up with an oil can to put it out of its misery.’

  ‘Don’t you dare. It’s all part of the gothic charm. Does the tree-house have a name?’

  ‘Of course. Am Fasgadh.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘The Refuge. Are you ready for the descent now?’

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be. I’ve read enough about climbing to know that going down is just as dangerous as going up. That’s when accidents happen.’

  ‘Aye, so I’ll go down first and hold the ladder steady for you. Once you’re on, you’ll be fine right enough, but take good care as you leave the platform.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will.’

  ‘Kneel down here and get your bearings.’ She does so and he lifts her hand, placing it on the handle projecting from the platform. ‘Remember to use this.’

  ‘Can I put my hands on your shoulders as you move off the platform? It will help me orientate myself, then I can copy your sequence of movements.’

  ‘Aye, hold on wherever you want. I’ll move slowly so you get the idea.’

  Marianne places her hands on Keir and feels his body twist as he lowers himself onto the ladder. As he moves out of reach she feels suddenly bereft and fearful. To maintain the contact she calls out, ‘This has been such an adventure! Lou is never going to believe what I’ve been up to. She certainly wouldn’t approve.’

  Keir’s voice travels up from below. ‘Does that bother you?’

  ‘Not in the slightest,’ Marianne replies as, gripping the handle, she extends a foot into thin air in search of the doubtful security of a swaying ladder.

  Chapter Ten

  Louisa

  Marianne would not approve.

  That was my first thought when I woke up, the day after the mugging. Actually, my very first thought was, if my
stomach was going to evacuate its contents before I managed to get to the bathroom, in which direction should I aim to minimise the damage?

  As my eyes swivelled round the room in search of a suitable receptacle, I spied – with a shudder – a bottle of brandy and two empty glasses on the dressing-table. Then, as I completed a visual circuit of the bedroom, Garth came into view, horizontal, naked and fast asleep beside me.

  That was when it occurred to me that Marianne would not approve. Not only would Marianne not approve, she wouldn’t understand, since I don’t even like brandy, but Garth had said brandy was what we needed after our ordeal, so I’d let him rattle around in the drinks cupboard being masterful, while I collapsed on the sofa and examined the damage to my poor feet and a new pair of Christian Dior tights, shredded as I’d run barefoot through the streets.

  Garth had insisted I drink the large measure he’d poured and I did feel slightly better for it. At my request he checked the locks on all the windows, then checked the front door, putting the safety-chain across. He asked if I wanted to ring the police but we agreed that I’d done more damage to Magwitch than he’d done to us, so we decided not to bother. The thought of having to study a line-up of Magwitch clones in an identity parade made me start to shake again and I didn’t protest when Garth refilled my glass.

  I was halfway through the second brandy when, unaccountably, I started to cry. I just burst into hysterical tears and couldn’t stop. Garth put his arm round me and said it was just shock, that I’d been ‘a total star’ and that he’d been very proud of me. He assured me I might well have saved both our lives.

  I stopped crying then and started laughing, not at Garth’s words, which were so sweet, but at the sight of his face, which looked truly awful. He looked like a panda, with eyeliner smudged round his eyes where we’d laughed till we cried after making our escape. His pale foundation was wearing off and beneath the make-up I could see what I thought at first was a virulent rash, then realised was a mass of freckles. His black, spiky hair, so carefully arranged for our evening out, had wilted and now hung low over his forehead. The damp night air had produced the suspicion of a curl. Looking at the wreckage of his face I wondered, possibly for the first time, what Garth really looked like and why he took such trouble to disguise his appearance.

  He stared back at me. ‘What you lookin’ at then?’

  ‘You. You look ghastly.’

  ‘Well, you don’t look a million dollars yourself, love.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t! We need to clean ourselves up and get some beauty sleep.’

  He gave me a sheepish look. ‘D’you mind if I use your cleanser an’ stuff?’

  ‘Of course not. Help yourself to anything you need in the bathroom. My things are in the cupboard, Marianne’s are on the shelf. Don’t move anything of hers – it all has to be kept in the same position so she can find it.’ I heaved myself off the sofa. ‘I’ll change the sheets on her bed. I’m sure she won’t mind you sleeping in there.’

  ‘Nah, don’t bother,’ Garth replied. ‘The sofa’ll do me. I’ll wrap meself up in me coat. Russian army surplus, that is. Dead cosy.’

  ‘I won’t hear of it – not after what we’ve been through! You need a good night’s sleep. We both do.’

  But that wasn’t, in the event what either of us got.

  When Garth emerged from the bathroom with a naked face and wearing my red silk kimono, I didn’t recognise him. His skin au naturel was as pale as ever, but creamy, not dead white, and he was covered in freckles. Completely covered, I assumed, as the casually belted kimono revealed constellations of them scattered across his narrow, almost hairless chest.

  I know it wasn’t the most tactful thing to say, but I’d had two large brandies and was completely shattered. I couldn’t help myself, I was just so surprised.

  ‘Garth, surely your hair must be red?’

  He stood still and eyed me suspiciously. ‘Yeah. It is. What of it?’

  ‘You dye it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘ ’Cos I ’ate it. ’Cos kids at school used to make fun of it – that an’ me freckles. That’s why I became a Goth. It meant I could dye me ’air and cover meself up with make-up.’ He shrugged and helped himself to another brandy. ‘It was that or be gay. An’ I’m not, so becomin’ a Goth was easier.’

  I stared open-mouthed. ‘What colour is your hair really? Carrotty?’

  ‘Nah, sort of red setter colour. Carrot wouldn’t be too bad, not up ’ere. Loads of Scots blokes ’ave ’air the colour of Irn Bru. But mine’s pretty unusual. Me mum said the colour’s called titian. Like that helped,’ he added, staring morosely into his glass. ‘An’ it’s curly an’ all. If I’m not careful, I look like a bleedin’ King Charles spaniel.’ He tugged self-consciously at long black locks that were beginning to coil like springs. ‘I’ve been mistaken for a woman from behind ’cos I’m not that tall. ’Ad me arse pinched by drunks needin’ glasses. Pretty embarrassin’. So I straightened it an’ dyed it black. But that looked ridiculous with all me freckles. Weird, like I’d got some sort of plague or somethin’. But I ’ad this girlfriend, see, an’ she was a Goth. She did me face one day, just for a laugh, like. An’ I loved it! So I stuck with it.’ He grinned. ’Aven’t ’ad me arse pinched since.’

  As I struggled to assimilate a new Garth, I noticed his lovely even teeth and large green eyes. (I could have sworn they were hazel.) His appearance was really quite arresting. Not what you’d call handsome, not by a long chalk, but in an odd way, attractive.

  ‘Garth, I’m seeing you in a whole new light! I realise I’ve never really looked at you before. I just saw the daunting Goth exterior, not the man beneath. You know, you have beautiful green eyes and I’ve never even noticed!’

  ‘Yeah, people don’t really see you, they just see the gear. Suits me. I got stared at enough as a kid to last me a lifetime.’

  I stood up and set off uncertainly towards the bathroom, then, as the room did a pirouette, thought better of it. I steadied myself with a hand on the back of the armchair and peered at Garth. ‘I wish I could see your hair in its natural state. I’m trying to imagine it… It sounds gorgeous!’

  He snorted and took another mouthful of brandy. ‘Me aunties used to ruffle me ’air an’ say, “Wasted on a boy.” Charming, eh? At least I could punch the morons at school.’

  ‘Oh, I could murder the brats who teased you! Why do children have to be so cruel?’

  ‘You know what kids are like – if it wasn’t me ’air, it would’ve been somethin’ else, I expect.’ Garth took a step towards me, his head bent. ‘You can see the real colour at the roots. It needs doin’ but I ’aven’t ’ad time lately.’

  He stood in front of me and raised his arms, parting his thick black hair. As he did so, the kimono belt slipped undone and the scarlet silk gaped open. Garth looked down. So did I.

  ‘Ah – there you go!’ he said and pointed. ‘It’s that colour!’

  * * * * *

  After a simple lunch of cheese and oatcakes, Keir makes a shopping list, tends the stove, and brews a pot of coffee for Marianne.

  ‘I’m away to Broadford now.’ He lays a hand on her shoulder, registering with an odd pleasure how the curved bone fits neatly into his palm. ‘The stove won’t need any attention for a few hours. You’ll take care now?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’m safer here than on the streets of Edinburgh.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Vegetate. Fall asleep in a chair beside the stove, probably. Or if I’m feeling energetic, I might sit outside and listen to the sounds of Mother Nature at work. What’s the weather doing now?’

  ‘The sun’s shining but there could be more snow on the way. The weather changes fast on Skye… You’ll find a dish by the back door with bacon scraps. On the windowsill on the right. If you throw those down round your feet, you’ll not be short of company. The robin feeds from my hand but I doubt he’ll do you the same honour. You
might get the weasels though.’

  ‘Weasels?’

  ‘Aye. There’s a nosey pair that come to the back door. You know how folk use “face like a weasel” as a derogatory term? Well, let me tell you, it’s a calumny. They have bonny wee faces with big, soulful eyes. So listen out for anything that doesn’t sound like a bird. It’ll be a weasel… Right, I’m away. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  ‘Stop fretting! I’m not going to get mugged by a pair of weasels, am I?’

  ‘Not if you feed them.’

  * * * * *

  Marianne

  I took a mug of coffee and the dish of bacon rinds out into the garden. Sitting on the bench, I tossed the scraps down and waited for visitors. The sun was weak but welcome and I turned my face upwards, shutting my eyes. Without the distractions of Keir’s voice and physical presence, I was at liberty to absorb the sounds and smells around me, foremost among which was the daphne, underscored by a strong scent of vanilla that I couldn’t place. Another shrub in flower, perhaps, or was it just the effect of sun on the snow? I thought of a time when I was small and tried to make icecream with a mixture of snow and strawberry jam, a culinary experiment I remember whenever I eat sorbet, which I think of as fruit snow.

  Basking in the sun, surprised I felt no need for coat or hat, I considered the information Keir had given me over lunch. The house had been built in a clearing among the remnants of old, decaying woodland. Keir’s grandfather had chosen the spot because it was sheltered but still had a view of the sea and, in good weather, of the Cuillin mountain range beyond. (I asked Keir if he could suggest a musical equivalent for the Cuillin, mountains being even more beyond my grasp than cathedrals. He was silent for some time, then said, ‘The third movement of the Hammerklavier.’ To my astonishment, he’d named the longest and most beautiful adagio Beethoven ever wrote for the piano. I hoped I wasn’t falling in love with this man. I was resigned, however, to falling for his mind.)