Harvey was just appalled. To begin with he wasn’t angry. He spoke about it calmly, as if it was an unfortunate accident, a problem that had to be dealt with, like the car breaking down. He didn’t realise at first – because of the impassivity of my face, I suppose – that I was pleased, that I actually wanted the baby.
That was when he got angry, although I think actually what happened was, he panicked. The pregnancy was unplanned, so Harvey didn’t feel he was in control of the situation. He wasn’t used to his blind, nominally helpless wife surprising him, let alone standing up to him, wanting something different from what he wanted, so he did what men do. He blustered. He dug in his heels, took up a position and wouldn’t budge. He wouldn’t even listen. My feelings weren’t taken into consideration. They were subsidiary to the two irrefutable arguments against having a baby: we couldn’t afford one and Harvey hadn’t been consulted. (He talked about my pregnancy as if it were some kind of immaculate conception, as if he hadn’t been around at the time.)
I got very upset and then I got angry. Harvey hadn’t often seen me angry because I didn’t get angry, and never with him. I don’t remember exactly what was said but I do remember his last words, the last words he ever spoke to me before he slammed the front door, late for his helicopter flight – his last one – out to Piper Alpha. He said, ‘I’m sorry, Marianne. You’re going to have to get rid of it. And that’s final.’
And it was.
* * * * *
After breakfast Louisa insists that Marianne go back to bed and rest. Marianne offers no resistance. Beyond her bedroom door she can hear Garth and Louisa talking in hushed tones, moving quietly around the flat as if there’s an invalid in the house. Unable to discern words, Marianne can nevertheless detect the tenor of the conversation as her sister’s high-pitched, anxious chatter is undercut by Garth’s phlegmatic, sometimes forceful responses. Louisa calms down. There is a long silence followed by a girlish giggle, a sound unfamiliar to Marianne. As she drifts off to sleep she wonders, with a little envy, what kind of intimate moment has passed between her sister and her unlikely lover.
Garth stands at Marianne’s bedside holding a tray of coffee, with a newspaper tucked under his arm. As she stirs he registers the plainness of her room, the interior of which he has rarely seen. Marianne sleeps under an antique whole-cloth quilt, faded to an anaemic shade that might once have been pale blue. Thousands of tiny stitches form a ghostly design of swirls and knots, creating a complex pattern of light and shadow that Marianne can never see but is able to feel. There are no table lamps, no pictures on the walls, no family photographs. There is no dressing table, just a desk with toiletries arrayed in regimental order, like a shop window display. On either side of the double bed are small chests of drawers cluttered with CDs and tapes, labelled in Braille. Built-in shelves house books, more CDs and tapes and various objects chosen for shape and texture: shells, stones, driftwood, glass ornaments, small sculptures. The room is tidy, the floor carpeted but clear even of rugs. Furniture and possessions have been placed at the perimeter. Emanating from a vase on the windowsill, the heady scent of narcissi permeates the spartan room.
Surfacing, Marianne props herself up on an elbow. ‘Lou?’
‘Nah, it’s me. I did knock but you were out for the count. ’Ow you doin’? I’ve brought you a nice cup of coffee and some biccies. Lou says they’re your favourite – gingernuts. Me mum says, eat little an’ often. That’s the way to keep the nausea at bay – an’ believe me, she should know.’
Marianne hears pillows being plumped and rearranged behind her. ‘I had no idea you came from a large family. Lou tells me you have a lot of siblings.’
‘Five at the last count. An’ I sincerely ’ope that’s the lot, ’cos birthdays an’ Christmas are gettin’ to be a major expense.’ Garth pours two cups of coffee and puts one in Marianne’s hand. ‘Biscuit’s on the saucer.’
‘Thank you. What are they all called?’
Garth pulls up a chair and sits beside the bed. ‘After me there’s Rhodri, Hywell and Aled and the little ones are Rhiannon and Angharad. They’re twins. Me mum said she was gonna keep goin’ till she got a girl, then she ’it the jackpot an’ got two.’
‘All those names are Welsh, aren’t they?’
‘Blimey, Marianne, you don’t miss a thing.’
‘That’s enough of your cheek. You’re not to take advantage of my debilitated state. Garth sounds Scandinavian to me. Old Norse, or something. Why have all your brothers and sisters got Welsh names and you haven’t?’
‘Ah well, that’s me dark secret.’
‘What is?’
‘Me name. Mum ’ad me christened – wait for it – Geraint. Well, no way was I goin’ to step outside Wales with a name like that, so when I was packed off to school – posh English boardin’ school it was – I lost me accent an’ changed me name to Garth. I thought that was dead cool. Garth Vaughan. Thought a six-stone weaklin’ needed a big butch name. I mean, would you mess with a guy called Garth Vaughan?’
‘No, you have a point, I don’t think I would.’
‘Unfortunately the name didn’t totally offset me carroty ’air and freckles, so I still got it in the neck, but at least they never knew me name was Geraint.’ Garth shakes his shorn auburn head. ‘Jeez, I’d’ve been dead meat.’
‘Oh dear, it sounds really grim. Poor you.’
‘Nah, it made me the mature, well-adjusted individual I am now. Ready for a refill?’
‘Mmm, yes, please. You know you really are a tonic, Garth. You’re such a positive person to have around.’
‘Thank you. That’s what ’er ladyship says an’ all. I do me best. Now, ’ow’s about I read to you from the paper? That’ll take your mind off things. Or would you like some of your music on?’
‘Read me the paper, if you wouldn’t mind. That would be a treat. Not depressing news, though. I don’t think I’m quite up to that at the moment. The music reviews, perhaps. Or the popular science bit. I really ought to educate myself a bit more.’
Garth reads aloud a scathing review of an opera production and then offers to read an article claiming the greatest threat to the ozone layer is flatulence in cows.
Marianne chokes on her gingernut. ‘Oh, now you’re pulling my leg!’
‘Nah, it’s true! Listen…
‘Bovine flatulence is responsible for a quarter of the UK’s methane emissions. In Scotland, where there is a greater concentration of agriculture, sheep and cows produce 46% of all emissions. A single dairy cow produces about 400 litres of methane each day.
‘Stone the crows… I dunno why you’re laughin’, Marianne,’ Garth says sternly, trying to suppress a grin. ‘This is dead serious. The Guardian reportin’, no less. The ’eadline says “Farting Furore” in great big letters.’
‘It doesn’t!’
‘You’re right, it doesn’t. My mistake.’
Helpless with laughter, Marianne pleads, ‘Oh, move on to something else, before I wet the bed.’
‘Right… ’Ow about this, then?
‘The discovery of a parrot with unparalleled powers to communicate with humans – both verbally and telepathically – has brought scientists up short. The bird, a captive African grey called N’kisi, has a vocabulary of 950 words and, like a human child, he invents his own words and phrases when confronted with new ideas for which his existing repertoire has no word. N’kisi also appears to be able to read his owner’s mind. In an experiment, the parrot and his owner, Aimée Morgana, were put in separate rooms and filmed as she opened random envelopes containing picture cards. When Aimée opened a picture of a man with a telephone and looked at it, N’kisi called out, ‘What ya doing on the phone?’ When Aimée looked at a picture of a couple embracing, the parrot said, ‘Can I give you a hug?’ Analysis showed that N’kisi had used appropriate keywords three times more often than would be likely by chance.’
Garth lays the newspaper aside. ‘Amazin’! Mind-readin’ parrots! It’s straight o
ut of Doctor Dolittle. Mind you, I dunno why I’m so surprised – I used to ’ave a dog that knew when I was comin’ ’ome. Whatever time it was, me mum would always know I was on me way ’cos Spike would go an’ sit on the doormat an’ stare at the front door.’
‘Keir had a dog he thought could read his mind. He was called Star. But he also had another name, a secret name. Sirius… Keir told me about the stars, you know. When I was on Skye. He described Orion the hunter and his dog, Sirius. I was so moved.’ Marianne’s voice is unsteady and Garth watches her anxiously. ‘I can’t really explain why. He went to so much trouble for me.’
‘I’d like to meet this Keir. From what you an’ Lou say, ’e sounds quite a geezer.’
‘I don’t know if you will get to meet him now. Things have got rather… complicated. But I would have liked you two to meet. I think you’d get on well.’
‘What’s ’e like, then?’ Marianne is considering how to change the subject when, without waiting for an answer, Garth says, ‘I mean, what kind of bloke listens to a bird concerto? A bird-lover or a music-lover?’
‘Keir’s both. He’s a polymath. A geologist who’s interested in zoology, astronomy and music. He’d never admit it, but he’s also something of a poet, I think. He’s a gentle giant. And lonely, I suspect. He sees himself as something of a misfit. He’s an acutely sensitive man working in a world populated by stoical tough guys. I think there are two Keirs and he keeps them carefully compartmentalised.’
‘Sounds tricky.’
‘Yes, I think it probably is. He views the world holistically, as an entity. He doesn’t really make divisions. That’s why he can describe colour in terms of smell; why he sees landscape in terms of music. But he splits himself into his component parts and lives divided.’
‘Why?’
‘A survival mechanism, I suppose. Self-protection. Well, you’d know all about that. He never exposes all of himself, just the bits he’s prepared to show you. He offered someone the whole show once and she didn’t want to know. I suspect he clammed up after that. I think most of Keir’s feelings are shut away in a metaphorical toy-box. They’re things he’s done with, they belong to his past. He occasionally takes them out to handle, for old times’ sake, then they go back into the box.’
‘’E sounds fascinatin’. Complex. For a bloke, I mean.’
‘He’s not like anyone else I’ve ever known. When I first met him I actually thought he was a figment of my imagination. He didn’t seem real somehow, he was so strange. Then, as I got to know him, I couldn’t understand what he would see in someone like me.’
‘Well, there you go. “As a man is, so he sees.” That’s William Blake, another visionary. This Keir sounds like a bright guy to me. ’E obviously sees beyond the surface of things.’
‘Oh yes, he does. Way, way beyond the surface…’
Chapter Fifteen
Marianne
Louisa bought me a homeopathic remedy for morning sickness, which helped a little, and Garth’s mother suggested starting the day with camomile tea and a Digestive biscuit. It was apparently important to consume these before getting up, so Louisa – and sometimes Garth – took to waiting on me first thing in the morning. I was very touched and grateful for their support. As the sickness abated, I felt I was coping better with my predicament.
Although I sounded as if my mind was made up, my feelings about the termination were mixed, largely because I seemed unable to separate my feelings about the pregnancy from my feelings for Keir. At times I was certain I wanted the man, but not the baby; at others I was convinced I didn’t want the man, but possibly wanted the baby. Under the circumstances, a clean slate seemed to be the only sensible plan. As I’d so far failed to miscarry, it looked as if I was going to have to make a decision and take belated responsibility for my rash actions.
Louisa had insisted on booking me into a private clinic. We both thought privacy and comfort would be desirable, not least because of my blindness, and I was to stay in for two nights. I packed my case, leaving the CD of Cantus Arcticus on the bed. I was trying not to pack it – a symbolic act of severance. I put it in, then hurriedly took it out again, rearranging a packet of sturdy sanitary towels which Louisa had tactfully pointed out I would need. I hadn’t worn such things since I was at school and my heart sank at the thought of them, then tears came to my eyes as I thought about why I was going to need them, what I was about to do.
Overwhelmed with grief and shame, I sank down onto the bed, on top of Cantus Arcticus, cracking the CD case. I swore aloud, glad of a reason to be furious with myself, to chastise myself for stupidity, sentimentality and all-round incompetence. As I worked myself up into a lather of self-loathing, the phone rang.
And I knew it would be him.
* * * * *
‘Marianne?’
‘Oh…’
‘It’s Keir.’
‘Yes. I recognised your voice. Where are you?’
‘Oslo. The airport. I’m on my way home. Well, back to Edinburgh. How are you?’
‘I’m… I’m very well, thanks. Thank you for the parcels. I did enjoy them. It was kind of you to think of me.’
‘No bother. Thinking of you is one of my preferred recreational activities – there’s no hangover… You’re sure you’re OK?’
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘Och, no reason. You sound a wee bit fragile, is all. Are you hung over?’
‘No, I was just surprised. Hearing your voice after so many weeks.’
‘We agreed we wouldn’t ring. That was what you wanted.’
‘Yes, I know, I didn’t mean it as a criticism. Why are you ringing now?’
‘I just wanted to know if you were OK. You are OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine! A bit low in spirits, perhaps.’ When he doesn’t respond, Marianne wonders if they’ve been cut off. ‘Keir? Are you still there?’ Her stomach lurches in the second’s silence before he replies.
‘Aye, I’m here.’
‘Oh. Good. I’ve been wanting to ask you… Why do you take so much trouble?’
‘The parcels, you mean? It’s no trouble.’
‘No, I mean, why do you take the trouble to share so many things with me? What’s in it for you?’
When Keir answers, Marianne hears a different note in his voice: something raw and unprepared. ‘There’s no one else I can share these things with.’ She hears an intake of breath, then his voice, louder now, energised, resumes its customary bantering tone. ‘You’re a captive audience and I exploit you mercilessly. Who else wants to know about Rautavaara’s Cantus Arcticus – apart from Mrs Rautavaara, all the wee Rautavaaras and Pilkku the dog?’
‘Pilkku?’
‘It’s Finnish for Spot.’
‘You’re pulling my leg.’
‘Honest to God, Pilkku is Finnish for Spot. I’ve been working with a Finn and he told me that was his dog’s name and translated it – aye, and showed me photos too. It was a Dalmatian. A fine specimen.’ Keir sighs, then says, ‘Och, I know, I really should get out more. But it was the Arctic.’
‘I have to say, Louisa was unimpressed with the bird concerto, but Garth and I are completely hooked. I play it almost every day.’
‘Aye, it gets you that way. I did warn you.’
‘I love what he does with the brass in the final section. It’s so unexpected.’
‘Aye, that’s genius!’
‘You were right about Garth and Louisa, by the way.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘No. Love’s young dream. I was sceptical to begin with, but actually they’re very sweet together. Garth is an exceptional young man, I think.’
‘I’d like to meet this guy.’
‘He’s not a Goth any more, I’m afraid. He’s gone straight. He tells me he looks quite ordinary now.’
‘Presumably Louisa doesn’t think so.’
‘No, I suppose not. But then love is blind.’
‘Is it love, d’you think? Already?�
�
‘Far too early to say. But they seem to be having fun in the meantime.’
‘Good for them. Though that must leave you feeling like a spare part.’ She doesn’t answer and, after a moment, he says, ‘I’m flying back to Edinburgh this afternoon. I won’t be there for long, I’m on my way to Skye. I was ringing to say… you’re very welcome to come with me. To Skye. No strings. And no snow either. It will all be gone now, except on the Cuillin. That sometimes hangs around until May.’ She says nothing and he continues, ‘No pressure, I just thought… Och, hell – how d’you say to a blind person, “Do you want to see me again?” when see doesn’t mean see, but “resume our tentative and decidedly weird relationship”?’
‘I think you say, “Do you want to see me again?” and hope the blind person can read minds.’
‘Do you?’
‘Not as well as you.’
‘I meant, do you want to resume where we left off?’
‘Not exactly where we left off, Keir.’
‘No, no strings… Just lunch, as they say.’
‘Sardines?’
He laughs. ‘Whatever floats your boat.’
The thought of sardines provokes a sudden wave of nausea. Marianne breathes deeply and says, ‘Keir, can I think about it? I’m not sure… I’ve been a little unwell lately.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. When I asked earlier, you said you were fine.’
‘Yes, I know. I think I was a bit flustered. Hearing your voice … and I was in the middle of something.’
‘Aye, well, I won’t keep you from it. But something’s wrong, isn’t it? Your illness – it’s nothing serious?’
‘Oh no, I’m not ill, exactly. Just… a little run down, that’s all. I’m not sure if I’m up to the rigours of Skye. Can I let you know? When are you setting off?’
‘Soon. Day after tomorrow, probably. I was going to spend a day catching up with sleep. And my family.’
Star Gazing Page 18