‘You have family in Edinburgh?’
‘Aye, I’ve a wee sister. She keeps a spare room for me to crash in. I leave all my work gear there. I’m taking her and my brotherin- law out to dinner tomorrow night. We’re celebrating.’
‘What’s the occasion?’
‘She’s pregnant. I’m going to become an uncle.’
‘Oh… Congratulations. Are you pleased?’
‘Aye, I’m fair bursting with excitement! I’ve opened an account with Toys “R” Us and I fully expect to become one of their best customers.’
Marianne fights down another wave of nausea. ‘Keir, I’m sorry, I have to go. The doorbell just rang and I’m the only one in. It’s probably Garth, forgotten his key. I’ll ring you tomorrow. Bye.’
Marianne puts the phone down, feels for an armchair and sinks into it. She leans forward and covers her face with her hands. Eventually she raises her head and says softly, but with feeling, ‘That bloody man… That bloody, bloody man.’
* * * * *
Marianne
My case was already packed. It seemed easier to go to Skye with Keir than check in to a clinic and abort his baby. Much easier. I was aware of a drastic element of procrastination but knew if I turned him down, Keir probably wouldn’t invite me again. At some point he would give up on me and I didn’t want him to do that. (I may not have known what I wanted, but I knew I didn’t want that.)
I extracted my cotton nightdress and replaced it with cosy fleece pyjamas, added a pair of jeans, a couple of jumpers, some thick socks and gloves. I also packed Keir’s scarf in the hope that I’d be able to return it without his noticing or, depending on how things went, tell him why I’d taken it.
My hand fell once again on the plastic packaging of the sanitary towels. I’d heard that lovemaking could cause a miscarriage or start labour if you were due. Was sex likely to be an option? The decision would probably be mine. Would Keir notice I was pregnant? What was there to notice? I was only nine weeks gone and there was surely nothing to see. My inability to face breakfast meant I was thinner now than when we’d made love. My breasts felt fuller, but I knew my waist hadn’t thickened yet because I could still do up my jeans. Observant though he was, I thought it unlikely Keir would notice any change in me. In any case, the problem was easily avoided. I simply had to refrain from going to bed with the man.
Which was possibly easier said than done.
Keir arrived to collect me and, since Garth was in the flat, introductions had to be made. Keir didn’t kiss me in greeting but I felt his rough, warm fingers enclose both my hands for a moment. He fell oddly silent but the room was still full of him: his hawthorn scent; the movement of air displaced as his large body moved around the flat, greeting Louisa, reaching past me to shake Garth’s hand. As they shook hands I raised mine to tidy some loose hair behind my ear, a gesture I’m wont to make when nervous. As I lifted my hand the backs of my fingers brushed Keir’s arm. It was only a glancing touch but my skin remembered the jumper from the tree-house. At least, I thought it was the same one. Soft, ribbed and warm to the touch (but that was no doubt Keir’s body permeating the wool). I remembered holding him in the tree-house – it seemed such a long time ago now – and I felt an impulse to lay my head down again on his chest, let go of all my anxiety and just listen to him breathe.
Louisa, in stridently cheerful hostess-mode, was offering us coffee. She must have been nervous too. Her behaviour towards me seemed over-solicitous and I suspected this might be her way of alerting Keir to my condition. I seethed inwardly until I remembered she’d fussed around me (and Keir) in exactly the same way the last time he was in the flat. It was just her way of expressing affection. I might be the one who was pregnant, but it was Louisa displaying maternal tendencies.
She went off to clatter about in the kitchen and I said, in the direction of Keir who I thought was still standing beside me, ‘Is the sofa empty?’
‘Aye. Garth’s gone to help Louisa in the kitchen.’
‘How very tactful. We get to have a tête à tête.’ I sat down on the sofa and Keir seated himself beside me. ‘How was your sister? Well, I hope?’
‘Aye, she looked bonny! It was grand to see her looking so healthy and happy. They’ve been trying for a while and she’s miscarried twice. Time was running out for them.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Thirty-seven.’
I fought an urge to burst out laughing, then said, ‘Oh, that’s no age at all. Not these days. When is she due?’
‘September.’
‘Will you be around then?’
‘I don’t know. I never really know. I take the work when and where I can get it.’
There was a lull in the conversation during which I could hear Louisa humming. Lou never hums. As coffee was still not forthcoming, I said, ‘Are you wearing your brown jumper?’ I felt Keir turn suddenly to face me.
‘How the hell did you know that?’
‘I recognised the feel of it. You wore it that day in the tree-house. And I held you. Don’t you remember?’
‘I remember you holding me. I don’t remember what I was wearing.’
‘You told me it was a brown jumper. I think it was this one.’
‘But… you haven’t touched me since I arrived.’ Was that a note of reproach in his voice? Or just disappointment? ‘My clothes, I mean. I held your hand earlier.’
‘My fingers brushed your arm. Or it might have been your shoulder. When you shook Garth’s hand.’
‘And that was enough?’
‘Yes. That was enough.’
* * * * *
‘Blimey, ’e’s a big feller.’
‘Sshh, he’ll hear you!’
‘Nah, ’e’s only got eyes ’n’ ears for Marianne. I don’t think we even register on ’is radar.’
‘Well, that’s not my impression,’ Louisa hisses, rattling saucers. ‘So I’ll thank you to keep your voice down.’
‘Sorry!’ Garth replies in a stage whisper, then shakes the biscuit barrel. ‘You’re low on biscuits. Marianne must be gettin’ through ’em.’
‘No, that’s me, I’m afraid. I eat two for every one she manages to get down. I think it must be anxiety. It brings on severe attacks of the munchies.’
‘That’s your story.’
‘And I’m sticking to it.’ She looks at her watch. ‘How long do you think we can string this out for? I want to give them time to chat. You know, I’m really worried she’s going to change her mind.’
‘About the abortion?’
‘Sshh! No, about going to Skye.’
‘Well, unless you want them to be ’ere all day, it might be a good idea to switch the kettle on.’
‘Oh, God, yes.’ Louisa flicks a switch. ‘Thank you. I don’t know what’s got in to me today.’ She grabs a cloth and, humming, begins to wipe down an already clean worktop. With Zen-like calm and precision, Garth arranges biscuits on a plate.
* * * * *
Marianne
Coffee finally appeared and the conversation became general again. I sat back on the sofa, content to listen while I debated yet again the wisdom of another trip to Skye. It seemed Garth knew Skye from childhood holidays and he and Keir struck up a conversation about the advent of wind farms and their impact on bird life. Despite the subject being close to his heart, Keir sounded ill at ease and I remembered what he’d said about not feeling comfortable with people. But then the circumstances were rather strange. Keir and I were seated side by side on the sofa, lovers who had barely touched after nine weeks apart. I couldn’t see him and I imagined he wasn’t looking at me. He wasn’t even talking to me, but answering questions about sea eagles from a surprisingly wellinformed Garth.
Finding myself tongue-tied by the awkwardness of my situation, overwhelmed by a lassitude that I assumed was hormonal, I was happy to leave social niceties to Garth and Louisa. My befuddled brain was busy coping with the fact that I was pregnant with Keir’s child and he was the only person in the room who
didn’t know.
* * * * *
They say their goodbyes and Keir carries Marianne’s case downstairs to the echoing hallway. As they reach the massive front door, he puts the case down, turns to Marianne and says, ‘You’re sure now? You do want to come?’
‘Of course! Why do you ask?’
He shrugs. ‘The Ice Maiden performance, I suppose.’
‘Ice Maiden? What do you mean?’
‘Your behaviour. And you’re dressed head to foot in white. ’
‘Am I? Damn! It was meant to be black. I don’t know what’s happening to my memory these days.’
‘You look untouchable. It’s very alluring, but hardly encouraging. And it’s not just your clothes. You seem… unreachable somehow.’
‘You’re the one who’s unreachable.’ Marianne raises her hand in the direction of his voice and finds his face. Her fingers falter for a second when she encounters stubble. Standing on tiptoe, she cranes to press her lips against his rough cheek, then, navigating her way across his face with her fingertips, she kisses his mouth and notes a film of sweat on his upper lip.
When he speaks she can hear his smile. ‘If I’d thought you’d do that, I’d have shaved. Your double messages are coming over loud and clear, Marianne.’
‘I’m sorry. I am pretty confused.’
‘You’re confused? Here, let me clarify.’ He lays his hands on her shoulders and pulls her towards him. She lifts her head and her mouth is grazed by his, not unpleasantly. He releases her and they stand facing one another, not speaking, not touching. Eventually he murmurs, ‘You’ve no need to come. I’ll still want to see you. It’s not a test. Some kind of Outward Bound bonding exercise.’
‘I think we already did that. In the snow.’ He laughs and she raises her hands, spreads the palms on his chest, as if steadying herself. ‘Can we just take it one step at a time, Keir? Make no assumptions. But be honest with each other?’
‘Oh, aye. I’m not thinking about the future. I try not to. You know why.’
‘Let’s go to Skye and – and see what happens. Can we just… play it by ear?’
‘Aye, that’s fine with me.’ He cradles her face with his hand. ‘You hum it, Marianne, and I’ll play it.’
Chapter Sixteen
Marianne
I was a fool. A complete fool. A fool to go back to Skye, a fool to think I could control the situation, control my body, keep that man out of my bed. Did I think I’d be able to hide my feelings? From Keir of all people?
I was a fool to think I would be able to resist the island: the scent of daffodils, gorse and primroses; the pitiful bleating of day-old lambs; the symphonic dawn chorus; the knowledge that, a few metres from my muddy, booted feet, grazing in the evening sun (could I actually hear them munching?), were a pair of hares. When they moved away, Keir drew my hand down quickly to the flattened grass where they’d sat, ‘looking like tea-cosies’, and it was warm to the touch.
Everywhere we walked, everywhere we sat, there was teeming life, scents and sounds to make one swoon. We walked in wind, rain and surprisingly strong sun, till my muscles screamed for mercy. But the only mercy Keir showed was to carry me, laughing, up the stairs to bed.
* * * * *
‘This is what you want?’
‘Oh, yes. You can have it in writing, if you like. Give me a pin and I’ll punch it out in Braille.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
She hears sounds of clothing being removed, falling to the floor. A zip. The scrape of his watch as he slides it across the bedside table. Unbuttoning her shirt with clumsy fingers, she asks, ‘Is it still light? I feel a bit nervous… about you looking at me. I’d rather you didn’t light the lamp.’
‘I wasn’t going to. It’s dusk. But I can see you. Just. You look beautiful.’ The mattress sinks as he sits beside her.
‘Well, it’s all relative, I suppose. The last time you made love to me I was wearing a woolly hat and had gloves on my feet.’
‘Och, I knew I was missing something.’
She reaches a hand out towards his voice and meets his naked chest. She lets her fingers trail down through curling, springy hairs, over his chest, his belly and into his lap. ‘That reminds me,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘You never showed me the drumstick primulas. In the woods. I wanted to feel them.’
Keir’s mouth is close to hers. ‘You were flagging. I took pity on you and brought you home. You’ll have another botany lesson tomorrow.’
She lifts a hand in search of his face and lays it on his cheek, fingering the ridge of bone. ‘So what’s this, then? Sex education?’ She feels the muscles of his face contract into a smile.
‘Play-time.’ He leans forward and kisses her. ‘So… I have your permission to do this?’
‘Yes.’
‘And, presumably, this?’
‘Yes…’
‘And… this?’
Marianne’s reply is indistinct. Keir assumes something in the affirmative. His lovemaking is gentle at first, considered, as if compensating for the excess of exhausted, despairing passion that fuelled their previous encounter. He is surprised, then excited by the eagerness of her responses, flattered by her hunger for him. He feels every part of his body touched by her seeing hands; feels her mind reaching out towards his, but he senses something, somebody between them, some barrier.
Used to seeing death in the midst of life, Keir assumes it must be Harvey.
Marianne lies in the crook of Keir’s arm, her head pillowed on his shoulder. She has spread her fingers so they lie in the shallow grooves between his ribs, rising and falling gently. Feeling the tug of sleep, she stirs, reluctant to waste a moment in unconsciousness. She turns her head, kisses his chest, then murmurs, ‘Where exactly do you see your visions? Are they inside your head? Like memories? Or are they outside, in front of you, “before your very eyes”? It’s hard for me to imagine how sight works. Let alone yours.’
He doesn’t reply at once. She feels his lungs inflate and then, with a jerk of his diaphragm, he speaks abruptly, his voice too loud for the intimacy of the bed. ‘What I see seems real enough. I mean, it appears the same as reality. Mac appeared to be in the theatre bar. He didn’t look like a ghost. Not that I know what ghosts look like. But my visions are… layered. As if one kind of reality is being superimposed on another.’
‘That’s a bit hard for me to understand.’
His arm tightens around her and his voice softens. ‘It’s hard for anyone to understand and that includes me. Think of an orchestra playing. When a new musical theme is introduced, the sound becomes layered. The instruments blend, but they also have their own music which exists independently. Given a good acoustic, you hear them both separately and together. How I see is something like that. I can try to concentrate on the tune – the violins and violas – but I can’t shut out the cellos and double basses underscoring. They affect how I hear the other strings. The vision is both inside my head and outside it. Like the music. It surrounds me. I can see it being played and it’s taking place inside my head. It’s being played on the tiny bones of my ear, sending impulses to my brain, to the centre of my being.’ He sighs. ‘Did that make any sense at all?’
‘Yes, it did. I think I’m beginning to get an idea… But are you all right talking about it?’
‘Aye, I suppose so. To be honest, I preferred our previous activity.’
She checks his roving hand and says, ‘I’ve exercised my muscles – and yours. Now I’m trying to exercise my brain cells. Believe six impossible things before breakfast. How long did you know about Mac? Before it happened, I mean.’
‘I saw him when I was talking to you at the opera. That was the beginning of January. The accident happened on the third of February.’
‘So you had about a month of knowing.’
‘Thinking. I never know.’ He removes his arm from behind her head and sits up in bed. Drawing up his knees, he hooks his arms over them and stares into the darkness. ‘I always hop
e I’m going to be wrong.’
‘Have you ever been wrong?’
His laugh is short and humourless. ‘How can I be? If they’re still alive, they just haven’t died yet. I’m not given a timetable.’ Keir lifts his head and gazes out through the window at the night sky where his eye is caught immediately by Arcturus. Noting its position, he computes automatically and registers the late hour. They must have slept for some time.
Behind him Marianne stirs and says, ‘So… you had about a month of treating Mac – how? Differently?’
‘Aye, I suppose so.’
‘What was different?’
‘I laughed at his jokes. Mac tells – told – jokes. Badly. But in that last month, I laughed.’
She says tentatively, ‘You know, it is a kind of gift. A gift of time. Time to make a difference. Time to put things right if need be.’
‘It’s a gift I don’t want.’
‘But that doesn’t seem to be an option, does it? And if that’s the case, don’t you just have to accept it?’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to do for more than thirty years,’ he replies wearily. ‘I’ve not made much headway.’
Marianne sits up and slips her arms round his waist, resting her cheek against the curve of his back. She listens to him breathing for a moment, then asks, ‘Have you ever foreseen the death of a family member?’
‘No.’ The sound is low, a growl from deep inside his body.
‘Not even distant family?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know of anyone who’s foreseen the death of a family member?’
‘No.’
‘That’s interesting. Maybe something blocks it.’
‘Such as?’
‘Love?’
‘Why would love block the visions?’
‘I don’t know. Because love is blind?’
‘Coming from you, that’s very funny.’
‘So you’ve never foreseen the death of anyone you loved?’
‘No.’
‘But that’s your greatest fear, I would imagine?’
After a pause he says, ‘Aye.’
‘You’re a scientist, Keir. Look at the evidence! Or rather lack of it.’
Star Gazing Page 19