‘What? Me chains?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yeah, so do I! I thought I’d miss all me black gear an’ the convenience of not ’avin’ to decide what to wear in the mornin’. Or me make-up. I thought that’d be ’ard, facin’ the world without all me slap on. But in fact I got over all that in a week. But I still miss the sound of me chains rattlin’. Some’ow they used to keep me company.’
‘Yes, it was a cheerful sort of noise. Friendly.’
‘Yeah, it was! An’ it followed me around. Like a dog. To tell you the truth, it’s a bit quiet without it, but I can’t say as I really registered the sound before it wasn’t there.’
‘It was you, that sound. I’d know you were in the room even before you spoke. I’d hear the little jingle.’
‘Yeah.’ Garth shuffles a pile of letters and tidies them into a folder. ‘You know, when me dad died a couple of years ago I thought I’d miss ’is laugh or ’im grumblin’ at me to cut me ’air, but what I miss, what’s missin’ when I go and see me mum, is Dad’s wheeze. ’E was asthmatic, you see, all ’is life, and it was pretty bad for the last few years. Even when ’e didn’t say much – an’ ’e was never much of a one for chit-chat, me dad – you were always aware of ’im breathin’, strugglin’ for air. We were all so used to it, we never noticed. I didn’t really register it till ’e wasn’t there any more… Bet if I was to ’ear someone wheezin’ now, it’d crack me right up. Memories of poor ol’ Dad would come floodin’ back… Funny thing, memory, innit?’
‘Yes,’ Marianne replies, sipping her coffee thoughtfully.
‘Very funny.’
Marianne
I don’t know why I didn’t confide in Louisa about Keir. After she’d told me about Garth it would have been the obvious thing to do, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to explain about getting lost in the snow. There seemed no point in worrying her and I still felt a complete idiot about having let it happen. I suppose, if I’m honest, the experience was too terrifying for me to want to relive it. Being lost and then found was an event now shut away in the vaults of my memory, along with other horrors; something that happened, then was over. Finished. I was in a different place now, geographically and figuratively.
And so was Keir.
Some memories of my time on Skye were vague, elusive; others so vivid they seemed almost tangible. I could still sense their reverberations in my body. The scent of daphne on the cold, damp air; the sharp, oily taste of the sardines I wolfed down at breakfast, ravenous after my ordeal; Keir’s body lying beside me, massive, inert, like a felled tree. These details I could remember, but what had actually happened between Keir and me, why, or what any of it meant, I didn’t know.
Perhaps I didn’t want to know. It was bad enough knowing that on the last day, when I’d come across his scarf hanging on the back door, I’d taken it without asking and stashed it in my suitcase. When I got home, I’d hidden it in my bedside drawer.
I tried not to take it out more than once a day. Mostly I failed.
I received another packet a few days later, which made me wonder if Keir was seriously under-employed in the Arctic. It was a CD this time and Louisa said it was labelled ‘Rautavaara’s Cantus Arcticus’. She read me the short note from Keir, which said, ‘You’ll either love this or think it a musical abomination. I’m hoping that blindness will incline you towards the former, a position I occupy. Beware – listening to it is strangely addictive.’
The piece was unknown to me so while I ate my breakfast Garth kindly read the descriptive notes Keir had written for me. Cantus Arcticus is a concerto ‘for Birds and Orchestra’. Rautavaara is Finnish and the bird sounds were apparently taped in the Arctic Circle. The first movement is called The Marsh and represents bog birds in spring. The second movement is called Melancholy and the featured bird is the shore lark. The third movement is called Swans Migrating.
Those are the facts. I barely know how to describe the music or its effect on me. It was – as far as I could tell – like being there. I have no sense of distance or colour, little sense of height, depth or even shape when it comes to anything bigger than I can hold, but to listen to this music in the warm sitting room of our Edinburgh flat was to be surrounded by wheeling flocks of birds. It was as if I’d been transported to a cold, northern wasteland. I felt a sense of vastness, I had an inkling of what people mean when they talk about sky. The bleak beauty of it all was inexplicably moving.
I’ve never held a live bird. I’ve never seen one fly and have no concept of the movement of birds in the sky, either individually or as a flock. (My mother told me birds flew in the sky the way fish swam in the sea; that a shoal of fish was something like a flock of birds. I was none the wiser. I put my hands into our aquarium to see if I could feel the fish swimming, but all I felt was the occasional slimy touch of something slithering through my fingers, like seaweed.) I know some people are moved by the sight of a skein of migrating geese and I’ve listened to a mathematical computer buff talk about modelling the flight patterns of roosting starlings, but until I heard this music, it was all just so many words to me. I had no sense of birds in their context.
Cantus Arcticus revealed to me not the form of a bird – its feathers, its wingspan, the way it moves – but the movement of the flock, the emptiness of their natural habitat, its scale. Birdsong alone could not have done this for me. Nor could music. I’m familiar with pieces such as The Firebird and The Carnival of the Animals and never much cared for them, even as a child. A musical friend said you needed to know what birds and animals look like and how they move to appreciate how clever Stravinsky and Saint-Saëns were. Their music assumes prior knowledge. These composers aren’t trying to depict animals for someone who has never seen them. Nor, I am sure, was Rautavaara, but that is what he managed to do for me.
I’ve stood beneath cascades of flapping pigeons in Venice and Trafalgar Square; I’ve lingered in Edinburgh squares at dusk to listen to the gossipy chatter of roosting starlings. I heard them move, but never saw. I never saw patterns, formations of birds moving against the sky.
The first time I listened to the concerto I was stunned, barely able to respond. The second time, I was fighting back tears and I didn’t know why. I thought it must be something to do with Keir. The third time, I allowed myself to weep because I knew I was crying tears of joy. And gratitude.
Chapter Thirteen
Louisa
Marianne seemed a little more settled after receiving her two parcels but she still looked peaky. She didn’t seem to know when Keir was due back and tried to make light of the matter, but she didn’t fool me for one moment. She played that maddening bird CD non-stop until I thought I was living in an aviary. I took to wearing headphones when working, so Garth had to semaphore when he wanted my attention. He pointed out that it was Marianne who should be wearing the headphones, but I explained that she depended too much on her ears for ‘seeing’ ever to exclude ambient sound. I didn’t really begrudge her the strange music as, oddly enough, it did seem to lift her mood.
Choosing my moment carefully, I suggested she go and talk to Dr Greig, our female GP, about coping with the onset of the menopause. I expected resistance but, to my surprise, met none. Marianne said she’d been wondering whether that was what was wrong with her, especially as her periods seemed to have become erratic. I said that was a sure sign and it was obviously time to start thinking about HRT. It was ridiculous to have to put up with all the ghastly and humiliating symptoms of the menopause as young as forty-five!
Before she could change her mind about going, I rang the surgery and made an appointment for her the next day. We strolled round to the surgery together and I sat in the waiting room, happily leafing through back-numbers of OK! and Hello!, wondering how she was getting on.
* * * * *
Marianne thinks she must have misheard. More and more, she seemed to be succumbing to what Louisa referred to as ‘senior moments’.
‘I’m sorry, could you repeat
that? I didn’t quite catch…’
Dr Greig looks over the top of her spectacles at her blind patient and enunciates clearly, but not unkindly, ‘I said, the commonest cause for the cessation of periods in a woman your age, in good health, and in the absence of other symptoms, is pregnancy. It would also account for the mood swings, feeling faint and so on. Is it possible, Mrs Fraser, that you could be pregnant?’
Marianne blinks several times before answering. ‘Yes… Yes, it’s possible.’
‘Then I suggest a pregnancy test. If the result is negative we’ll think again, but I think you’ll probably find you get a positive.’ Dr Greig notes with some concern her patient’s pallor. ‘I take it this would come as something of a shock to you and your husband?’
‘It comes as a shock to me. My husband will no doubt take it in his stride.’
‘Well, that’s good to hear.’
‘He’s dead. He died eighteen years ago.’
Dr Greig removes her spectacles and searches Marianne’s impassive face. ‘I see… And the baby’s father?’
‘He’s somewhere in the Arctic Circle. But it might as well be the Seventh Circle of Hell. It doesn’t really matter where he is, he’s just the biological father.’
‘This would be… a casual relationship then, I take it?’ Dr Greig says carefully.
‘Yes, it is. I mean, it was.’
So… you’ve no partner currently?’
‘No. I live with my sister.’
Dr Greig glances at Marianne’s notes. ‘And you’re… let me see now – forty-five?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have any children?’
‘No.’
‘Does your sister?’
‘No. Not unless you count her lover. He’s not long reached years of majority.’
‘I see,’ says Dr Greig, only just managing to keep the surprise out of her voice. She replaces her glasses and resumes her professional manner. ‘Well, Mrs Fraser, assuming you are pregnant, you have various options. You’ll no doubt want to give them some thought. Single parenthood is a challenge at any age, but given your added difficulties… As I expect you’re aware –’ Dr Greig lowers her voice tactfully, ‘– at your age, there is a greater risk of miscarriage.’
‘Yes. That’s what happened last time.’
‘So you’ve been pregnant before?’
‘Oh yes. Many years ago. But I miscarried. They said it was probably the shock of my husband’s death. That caused the miscarriage, I mean. But perhaps I would have miscarried anyway. I was told it’s a very common occurrence. One in five pregnancies, I gather. Nature is very wasteful, isn’t it?’ Marianne hears herself chattering away like a demented typewriter and wonders if this signals the onset of hysteria, even mental breakdown. Realising Dr Greig is speaking again, she makes an effort to assimilate the information.
‘Miscarriage is indeed very common, much more so than people realise. There’s also, as you’ll no doubt be aware, a higher risk of abnormality at your age. But we’re jumping the gun. Let’s do a pregnancy test, then we’ll take it from there. We can do one now if you could provide us with a urine sample?’
‘Thank you.’ Marianne stands and gathers her handbag and cane. ‘I can probably manage that if you’d care to direct me towards the loo.’
‘No bother at all.’ Dr Greig rifles in a drawer, then places a plastic container in Marianne’s hand. Taking her arm, she walks her to the door. ‘You have someone waiting for you, I take it?’
‘Yes. My sister. Oh, but please don’t mention this to her. I’d rather she didn’t know. For now. She’ll only make a fuss.’
‘Mrs Fraser, do you not think confiding in your sister might be a good idea?’
‘No, I don’t. Believe me, telling Louisa would only complicate matters.’
‘And there’s no chance that the baby’s father–?’
‘No,’ Marianne says firmly. ‘No chance at all. Really, I’d rather deal with things in my own way, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course. That’s your prerogative.’ Spotting a nurse, Dr Greig calls out, ‘Peggy, could I have a wee word? I’d like you to assist Mrs Fraser here.’ Turning back to Marianne, she says, ‘I’m handing you over to Nurse Peggy now. She’ll do the necessary. Now come back and see me if there’s anything you’d like to discuss. Anything at all,’ Dr Greig says with a meaningful but wasted look. Thrown by the vacancy of Marianne’s expression, she pats her arm and says, ‘Good luck, Mrs Fraser.’
‘Thank you. It seems I might be needing it.’
* * * * *
Marianne
At some level I suppose I must have known. Known it was a possibility. But if I’d admitted pregnancy was a possibility, I would have had to admit how little I actually remembered about the encounter that had led to my interesting condition.
I remembered waking up and finding, when I moved, that Keir was lying beside me, audibly asleep. I could remember taking him in my arms the night before, but not what had made me do it. I thought I remembered tears. But were they mine or his? As I moved slightly in bed, I became aware of my own tender flesh and a moistness that left me in no doubt as to what had happened, but I had no memory of anything said, least of all any discussion about a condom. If you’d asked me, if Keir had asked me – and perhaps he did – I’d have said that, at nearly forty-six, my chances of conceiving were so remote as to be not worth considering.
Life always has the last laugh, doesn’t it?
The harder I tried to remember what had happened, the less I could recall. I couldn’t remember anything in detail but a conviction was forming in my mind that I could have died and that Keir had probably saved my life. But I knew gratitude wasn’t the reason I’d taken him into my arms, into my body. I did remember – with some embarrassment – just how much I’d wanted him, how suddenly, how fiercely.
I’d woken early the following morning, but instead of turning to Keir, waking him, making love again, consciously, I’d got out of bed without disturbing him and gone downstairs to shower. By the time he woke, I was dressed and drinking coffee. I heard him walk slowly downstairs and into the kitchen. It must have been dark still. I heard him fumbling with matches and then the scrape of an oil lamp’s glass chimney. He must have stood still for several moments, trying, I suppose, to gauge how things were between us. My nerve broke and I said, ‘It’s not fair. If you don’t speak or move, there’s nothing for me to read.’
Eventually he said softly, tentatively, ‘Marianne… I have to go back to Norway. Next week.’
‘For long?’
‘A couple of months.’
‘Oh… I hope you’ll send me one of your postcards. I do so enjoy them.’
After another long silence he said, ‘Yesterday… Was – was it not what you wanted?’
‘Yes, it was. It was what I wanted. Then. I thought I’d nearly died. It was what I wanted.’
‘But now?’
‘You mean, what do I want if I’m not going to die? I don’t know. I remember so little about what happened, I think it probably best to act as if it didn’t. For now.’
He was silent again, then I heard a great intake of breath and he spoke in a rush. ‘If I misread the signs, I’m very sorry. I thought – I mean, you made it pretty clear – ’
‘Yes, I’m sure I did. Please don’t feel badly, Keir. I don’t remember the details but I do remember how much I wanted you. I’m not saying it shouldn’t have happened, all I’m saying is, now that it has, I haven’t the slightest idea where it leaves us. Especially if you’re off to Norway. I think I’ve done my fair share of waiting for men to come home to me. Or not come home to me.’ He didn’t reply. I could hear that he hadn’t moved. I knew he must be staring at me, uncomprehending. Sensing the intensity of his gaze, I felt more naked than when we’d been lying in bed together. Relenting, I said, ‘Keir, I wonder if you’ll understand if I say my body got way ahead of my mind?’
‘Oh, aye. Men live like that all the time.’<
br />
‘My mind needs time to… catch up. Assimilate.’
‘Aye… I’d a notion that bed was where we were headed, it was just a question of… timing. Looks like we blew it. I’m sorry if I rushed things. I should have – ’
‘Would you mind if we didn’t discuss it any more? For now? I don’t know if it’s delayed shock or exhaustion or what, but I feel rather wobbly. I think I’d just like to sit quietly by the stove for a while.’
‘Surely. I’ll see to the fire. Then can I get you some breakfast?’
‘Yes, that would be nice. Would you mind?’
‘There’s no bacon left. You’ll remember I didn’t get as far as the Co-op. Beans on toast? Or those sardines I promised?’
‘How did you know I liked sardines?’
‘You told me. Yesterday.’
A memory stirred. ‘Did I?’
‘Aye. You said Louisa hated the smell.’
‘I must have been rambling.’
‘Aye. Hypothermia takes you like that.’
Another memory tugged at my brain and I shivered, but not with cold. ‘Keir, I didn’t dream it, did I?’
‘Making love?’
‘No. What you said about … the things you see.’
I heard him exhale, then the sound of his bare feet shuffling on the floor. When he finally answered, he sounded tired. ‘No… You didn’t dream it.’
‘You knew somehow that I was in danger?’
‘Aye, I did.’
‘You know, I think I really do need to sit down…’
There was, of course, no question of my keeping the baby, even if I did manage to carry it to term, so I didn’t even ask myself if I wanted it. There was no point. My age, my blindness and my circumstances were such that I couldn’t entertain the idea for a moment, and so I didn’t. My dilemma wasn’t so much what to do, but how best to do what undoubtedly had to be done. I didn’t see myself coping with an abortion and its physical and emotional aftermath unaided. In the absence of a partner or close girlfriend, the obvious course of action was to confide in Louisa (who was in fact my closest friend), but this I was reluctant to do and I wasn’t sure why.
Star Gazing Page 16