Star Gazing

by Linda Gillard

  You might say, life doesn’t get a lot better than that. I had it all, all I could possibly have hoped for, for myself. But I wanted more. For Marianne. I did understand her scruples. Her arguments were morally and intellectually unassailable, apart from one thing. Well, two things. She loved Keir. And – I was convinced of it – Keir loved her.

  My heart bled for them both but I couldn’t see any way round it, so I buried myself in glossy estate agents’ brochures for country houses and indulged in an orgy of book-buying: eighteenth century history and biographies, gardening manuals, books about childcare and children’s fiction. When he saw my purchases, Garth pointed out that it would be quite a while before baby James was able to tackle Treasure Island on his own and asked if there wasn’t a board-book version? I took no notice and said I was going to have a library, a proper library with floor-to- ceiling shelves. No more stacking books in teetering piles on the floor of my study.

  I didn’t tell him or Marianne that I had even bigger plans. My mind was set on a kitchen garden – walled, ideally – and an orchard. And if the house we bought didn’t come with one, I was going to plant one.

  For James. For Marianne. For me.

  For our little family.

  I hadn’t discussed the move with Garth but he must have known it was on the cards. The flat was overcrowded with the three of us and couldn’t possibly accommodate a baby and all its paraphernalia. He had never moved in and still maintained his tiny bed-sit in a notorious part of Edinburgh, made famous by the novels of Ian Rankin, an area nothing would induce me to visit after dark, even though Garth assured me there were posters proclaiming, ‘You are now entering Ian Rankin country’ and that enterprising junkies now sold autographs to tourists and posed for photos.

  Garth and I never discussed our relationship. (I tried to once. He just laughed and said, ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’) We enjoyed ourselves in bed and there was never a cross word between us, so I didn’t ask myself Where All This Was Leading. Nowhere, probably, but I’d been content to take it one day at a time until, that is, Marianne decided to keep the baby. As she said herself, that changed everything.

  Garth must have thought so too. He asked me out to lunch and said he was buying. I knew this would mean Starbucks. As I felt in need of a quiet word with him, I suggested we go somewhere quieter, my treat. I was a little disconcerted by his invitation but thought it unlikely Garth would have chosen Starbucks as a venue in which to dump me. I assumed he wanted to talk money – mine, his or Hollywood’s. We’d ordered food and were settling into our gins when he announced, ‘I’m chuckin’ me PhD.’

  ‘Oh, Garth! Why?’

  ‘Lost interest. Seems pretty pointless, anyway. I don’t want to be an academic an’ what else could I ’ave done with it? Me supervisor’s been on at me to come up with the goods an’ I can’t be arsed, frankly. I told ’er there’d been too many distractions lately. Big ones an’ all. Babies… Kidnaps… Film deals. I told ’er my academic interests ’ad been superseded by real life.’

  ‘I bet that didn’t go down well.’

  ‘You’re right, it didn’t. She told me to think carefully about me future an’ I told ’er I already ’ad. I pointed out that thinkin’ about the future was a very good way of not livin’ in the present.’

  ‘Very true. So do you have any alternative plans?’

  ‘Well, I’m ’appy to continue workin’ as your webmaster and researcher, if you want me to. But I’ve got meself a part-time job in Starbucks. As a barista.’

  ‘A barrister? Don’t you need a law degree for that?’

  ‘Nah, a barista. I’ve got to learn ’ow to make fifty-seven varieties of coffee and serve it with a superior smile. It’ll pay me rent – well, nearly – an’ give me lots of thinkin’ time.’

  The waiter brought our starters and Garth tucked in. I eyed the bread basket, decided to be strong and pushed it towards Garth, saying, ‘Whatever you’re paying for that dreadful room, it’s daylight robbery.’

  ‘Daylight robbery’s the speciality of the neighbour’ood.’

  ‘Seriously, Garth, I do wish you’d move. When we say goodbye I never feel entirely confident I’ll see you again. I dread opening the Scotsman one morning and reading about your premature and violent demise.’

  ‘Sweet of you to worry, but there’s no need. Anyone can see I’m not worth muggin’.’

  ‘But we were mugged!’

  ‘That was on your account. You shouldn’t walk around rattlin’ your jewellery.’

  ‘Oh, don’t remind me! I still have nightmares about it. That’s one of the reasons I want to move.’

  ‘Another bein’ the baby?’

  ‘Yes. Marianne and I have to move to something bigger, obviously. And we want a garden. I’d like a big garden, in fact. I’d like to grow vegetables. I think that would be very satisfying, don’t you?’

  ‘So you’d abandon Auld Reekie then?’

  ‘Yes. I’m not prepared to spend a million acquiring six bedrooms and a garden in Edinburgh, only to lie awake at night worrying about being burgled. I’ve always thought I needed the buzz of the city, the networking, the gossip, but actually I think what I’d really like to do is become a recluse.’

  Garth nodded sagely and helped himself to another bread roll. ‘You know, in terms of career development, that could be a smart move, especially if you’re goin’ to write a serious book. There’s a lot of distractions in the city.’

  ‘I know. And I’m just too accessible here. Fans know where to find me now. Some of them are very sweet but others are pretty cranky… And it’s not just my needs we have to consider. There’s the baby to think of.’

  ‘So where are you movin’ to?’

  ‘No idea. Before Keir came back from the dead I’d thought of heading for the west coast. Wester Ross perhaps. It’s mild and property is so much cheaper than Edinburgh. You get a lot for your money. But now Keir’s back on the scene – or rather, now he’s not – I don’t think that’s an area Marianne will consider. Too close to Skye. But a milder climate does appeal. And somewhere safe to bring up a child. That’s definitely a priority.’

  ‘Well, I can still run your website from ’ere, obviously. You can go anywhere and still count on my services.’

  I fixed him with a meaningful look. ‘All of them?’

  He arched auburn brows and grinned again. ‘Well, I dunno what me Starbucks shifts will be, but I must get some weekends off. Providin’ you don’t move to Shetland, we should be able to carry on… carryin’ on.’

  ‘And would that be what you wanted?’

  ‘Yeah, it would. If that suits you.’

  ‘Yes, it does. Although,’ I said, leaning forward, ‘what I would actually prefer would be for you to move in. With me and Marianne. I’d pay you a salary – a good one – for running my website, dealing with my correspondence and helping Marianne with the baby. She doesn’t need a nanny really, she just needs practical help. Another pair of hands. Or rather eyes. I think a nanny might be wrong. She could undermine Marianne’s confidence in herself as a mother. But if she had you and me to help out, well, it would be more like a family.’ Garth laid down his cutlery and went very silent. I chased some food around my plate, my appetite suddenly gone. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not trying to set up anything permanent. You’d have your own room and plenty of free time to pursue your own interests. Though if that included other women our arrangement would have to revert to business only. You could leave whenever you wanted, though a month’s notice would obviously be useful, to give us time to find someone else to help Marianne.’

  ‘An’ you’d want me to live in?’

  ‘Yes. You see, I’ll still have to go away for work now and again and even if Marianne could manage on her own, I’d feel happier if someone else was around, for the sake of the baby. Preferably a car-driver.’ The waiter cleared away our plates and as soon as he was out of earshot, I continued, ‘I know it’s a big decision and you’ll need
some time to think about it. And no hard feelings if you decide it’s not for you. Or I’m not for you. I’m fifty-one, Garth, and not quite the bird-brain I appear. I’ve had a wonderful time with you and would love it to continue, but if I thought about the future – your future – I’d have to say, leave me, get a life, find a woman your own age.’

  Garth took a sip of his mineral water, then looked me in the eye. ‘You know, I don’t ’ave a lot of time for the future. I mean, I don’t think that’s ’ow anyone should run their life. Look at it this way: I could be dead next week. So could you. A muggin’. A coronary. A terrorist bomb. Look what nearly ’appened to Keir! That’s why I’m ’appy just to take it one day at a time. Live in the moment, as the Buddhists say. So if it’s all right with you – an’ Marianne, of course – I think I’ll tell Starbucks they need to find themselves another barista.’

  I was so pleased, I’d helped myself to a piece of bread, buttered it and wolfed it down before I knew what I was doing. As the waiter deposited our main courses, Garth said to him, ‘Would you bring us a bottle of champagne, please? Your best.’ He looked back at me and said, ‘This is on me. I insist.’ He sat back and beamed. ‘I’ve always wanted to do that! Order bubbly on the spur of the moment, just like that! Never ’ad much worth celebratin’, though. It’s been a Buck’s Fizz sort of life up till now. Not much call for the Bollinger.’

  ‘Oh, I think all that might be about to change. Hollywood calls. Who knows what doors might open for us?’

  The wine waiter brought champagne and filled our glasses. Garth raised his with a flourish and said, ‘To Marianne and the baby!’

  I raised mine. ‘To pastures new! And a big house in the country.’

  ‘With an orchard.’

  ‘And a secret garden!’

  ‘An’ ’ere’s to us.’

  ‘Yes, here’s to us. Thank you, Garth. For everything. There’s no doubt about it, you are an absolutely diamond geezer.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Louisa

  The summer wore on and wore Marianne out. She took fewer walks and slept more. She was subdued, though someone who didn’t know her recent history might have mistaken her for serene. Serene or resigned, it was hard to tell. She showed little animation except for matters concerning the baby. Her interest in house brochures was dutiful, though she seemed pleased Garth was to become part of the fixtures and fittings and agreed it would be good to have a man around the house. She liked the idea of a garden but showed more interest in flowers and vegetables than trees. I couldn’t engage her on the subject of planting orchards or woodland and it was Garth who guessed why. I hastily dropped the subject.

  Marianne drifted around the flat in flowing ethnic gowns, silent, like a ghost. She’d turned her nose up at the maternity-wear we’d found in the shops. She couldn’t see what she looked like but could tell it didn’t suit her – too short, too girlish, too many synthetic fibres. Nor was Marianne the type to slop around in over-sized T-shirts and tracksuit bottoms. She wanted cotton and linen, nothing that clung. Once she’d found a source of loose-fitting Indian dresses and kaftans, she seemed more at ease with her rapidly changing body.

  She was nearing the end of her middle trimester now and blooming. Her hair was thick and lustrous and her flawless skin now lightly tanned. She’d filled out, but the extra flesh suited her. In her straw hat and a pretty cotton dress – full-length, gathered Empire-line under her now opulent bust – she looked like something out of Jane Austen. I thought she looked quite, quite beautiful and found myself wishing Keir could see her.

  June became July, the month when Marianne paid her yearly visit to the Piper Alpha Memorial in Aberdeen. I thought she might give it a miss this year, what with the pregnancy, but no, everything was to be as usual, she wouldn’t spare herself. So I booked bed and breakfast in the place we usually stayed and on the morning of the sixth I escorted her to Hazlehead Park, to the North Sea Rose Garden, where she would pay her respects to Harvey and his dead comrades. As was usually the case on that date, it was a fine, sunny morning and the air was full of the scent of roses. But death was on Marianne’s mind. On Marianne’s, and many others’ in Aberdeen.

  * * * * *

  Marianne and Louisa stop at the entrance to the Rose Garden and, as is their custom, Louisa reads aloud the words on the plaque that describe the memorial to be found in the centre of the garden.

  Piper Alpha Memorial

  This commemorates the 167 men killed in the prime of life, on the 6th July 1988, at the Occidental oil platform, Piper Alpha, 120 miles offshore in the North Sea. Only 61 men were rescued from the platform.

  On the south face of the Memorial plinth above the Celtic Cross the names of the 30 men with no resting place on shore are inscribed. A casket of unknown ashes is interred behind the Cross. On the east face of the plinth are inscribed the names of the 2 heroic crewmen of the Sandhaven who made the supreme sacrifice for their fellow men.

  The tragedy was the World’s worst off-shore disaster and led to a 188 day public enquiry and detailed report by Lord Cullen. Improvement in safety provisions for off-shore personnel was strongly recommended.

  The families of those lost commissioned the Memorial which was designed and sculpted by Sue Jane Taylor at the Scottish Sculpture Workshop Lumsden, cast at High Wycombe and funded by private and public subscribers listed in the Memorial Book displayed in Aberdeen Art Gallery.

  On 6th July 1991 the Memorial was unveiled by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother.

  After a suitable pause Louisa turns to Marianne and says, ‘Usual arrangements?’

  ‘Yes. Come back in an hour and we’ll go for coffee. Is that all right?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll have a stroll around the park and find a bench in the shade. I’ve got a book to read.’

  ‘Before you go, would you take a look for me and see if any of the benches are already occupied.’

  As Marianne shakes out her cane, Louisa pops her head round the hedge and surveys the almost empty garden. Her spirits are simultaneously uplifted and cast down by what she sees but, turning back to Marianne, her voice remains calm and matter-of-fact. ‘There’s an elderly woman standing beside the memorial. She has a stick too, so watch out for that. And there’s a man sitting in the far left corner. Otherwise you have the place to yourself.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll be all right now.’

  ‘It’s ten o’ clock. I’ll be back in an hour. Any problems, just give me a ring.’

  * * * * *

  Marianne

  I have a set routine which I’ve followed since 1991, the year the Piper Alpha memorial was unveiled. The North Sea Rose Garden is square and laid out in a grid pattern. It’s quite straightforward to follow a broad brick path from the entrance up to the memorial in the centre. That is what I do, have always done and did that day. I approached the memorial with my hand extended and found the smooth granite face of the plinth on which 167 names are engraved. (The lettering is gold, apparently.) I know exactly where to find Harvey’s name. Next to each man’s name is the age he was when he died. I ran my fingers over the incised words and numbers:

  HARVEY FRASER 33

  As I get older the shock of the relative youth of the dead men seems to increase. Talk to anyone in Aberdeen about Piper Alpha and eventually someone will say, ‘They were so young.’ Most of them were. Some were in their twenties. If you talk to women who lived through it, even women who weren’t personally bereaved, you’ll hear voices become choked with emotion, then fall silent and, twenty years on, they start to weep. I’m glad of it. It’s fitting that people should. It shows the men are not forgotten.

  The memorial has never been vandalised. Aberdonians are proud of that and cite this as yet another indication of how deeply people were affected. The scar on the city’s psyche has scarcely faded and I doubt it will, not until everyone who was there on the night of 6 July, 1988 is dead.

  I ran my fingertips over some of the other names, reading t
hem. (I don’t know if I read them or whether, after all these years, I simply remember what they say.) If I raise my arm above my head I can just reach the foot of one of the three figures representing oil workers. I touch a booted toe, as I always do and wish, as I always do, that I could run my hands over the bronze figures to read them, to get a sense of what I’m told is a striking group. But I have to content myself with touching a booted toe. At that point, I always think of Bill Barron, one of the survivors, who posed as a model for the sculptor and I wonder, as I always do, if, with the passing of the years, it gets easier or harder to live with the burden of having survived.

  At that moment I thought of Keir. I tried to banish him from my mind but the baby chose that moment to do one of his slow cartwheels. I braced myself, one hand on the granite plinth, another on my bump, and waited for the discomfort to pass. I walked all the way round the four sides of the memorial and then headed back the way I’d come, pausing to smell some of the many roses in bloom. I ran my hand gently over the petals and felt some cascade through my fingers and fall to the ground. Repeating the movement, I caught a handful of petals this time. I opened my handbag and withdrew an envelope, placed the petals inside and put it back in my bag. These would be dried and added to a new bowl of potpourri in my bedroom, a ritual I performed every year.

  I continued along the path, back towards the entrance to the garden, then turned sharp left. Moving on to the grass, I located a bench with my cane. To be certain I wasn’t intruding, I said softly, ‘Is this bench free?’ There was no answer and so I sat down and collapsed my cane. I knew I was now facing the memorial. I hadn’t heard anyone else enter the garden and I thought the elderly woman had left. Earlier I’d been aware of the tap of her shoes and stick as she walked along the path, but I thought I was probably alone now.

  The garden has an open feel to it, yet paradoxically, with its walls and hedges, it feels something like a room. You are surrounded on four sides (and I sense that because I hear sounds from all four sides: birds in the hedge, leaves rifled by a breeze or tapped by raindrops) but there’s also a sense of the gardenroom being roofless, open to the sky, open to noises overhead, particularly helicopters, a sound no oil wife ever hears without a frisson of dread. There were no helicopters this morning, just the distant shrieks of peacocks and children happily lost in the maze.