Ghost Moon

by Ron Butlin

  And, yes, she’d been exactly the kind of girl he’d wanted – a girl so desperate to get away from her parents’ home that she’d make herself believe every single word he told her. That she’d trust him, totally.

  She pushed aside the covers and placed both hands on her stomach. Just over three months’ pregnant but nothing showed yet, not even the slightest bump. The Callanders must have been warned. Having thrown her out of the house, her parents must have noticed the photograph was missing and written to them, letting them know of their daughter’s shameful ‘condition’ and expressing their own church-going views on the matter. Girls became women became wives became mothers – that was the proper way of it, the only way. If a girl couldn’t wait, then she had to marry whoever made her pregnant. Call it divine intervention, call it Russian roulette.

  Maggie punched her pillow, then lay staring up at the ceiling. She’d been so ashamed. She’d thought only about leaving Edinburgh, running away as fast and as far as she could – it was as simple as that. Running away to where no one really knew her or knew anything about her.

  What had she been hoping for, coming here – the hundred thousand welcomes?

  At seven she dressed and went down to breakfast.

  Out of the dining room window she could see the storm was ­easing, but the sky remained weighted with dark clouds and a watery daylight that threatened more rain. Once again she seemed to be the only guest. The stiff-backed dining chair sighed as she sat down and the others stared blankly back at her, without passing remark. The dark mahogany dresser had clearly run out of conversation years ago.

  This grim silent room. Outside, weathered to a complete indifference to her or anything about her, were the rain-lashed streets and buildings of Stornoway. In Edinburgh she’d have been getting ready to catch the tram to join the Saturday morning bustle of Princes Street, in and out of Jenners, PT’s, J&R Allen’s, Binn’s. A pot of tea in Mackie’s or Crawford’s. Some chatter and gossip while soaking up the sun on the grassy slopes of the Gardens.

  No. No. No.

  Maggie took a deep breath and tapped her knuckles on the polished table as though to call a meeting to order. She had propositions to consider, decisions to make.

  Top of the agenda – Item One: Should she remain on Lewis, or leave?

  Straightforward enough, surely.

  As she ate her breakfast, she asked each of the empty chairs in turn for their advice and was about to consult the dresser when Mrs Stewart entered.

  ‘Another storm on its way, Mrs Davies. Some of the fishing boats are coming back so you can be sure it’ll be a big one – these men need every penny they can haul out of the sea. We’re in for it, right enough.’

  ‘And the ferry?’

  ‘Cancelled most likely. And tomorrow is the Sabbath.’

  So that was that.

  By noon the rain was coming down heavier than ever. There was a knock on her bedroom door. It was Mrs Stewart.

  ‘You’re not telling me you’re going out in that, Mrs Davies?’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind eating in the kitchen, you’re welcome to have a bite of lunch with us.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but — ’ Maggie started to protest.

  ‘I’ll not take no for an answer.’ Mrs Stewart smiled. ‘See you downstairs in half an hour.’

  Over a bowl of broth with bread and cheese for afters, Mrs Stewart asked all the questions and Maggie did her best to make up the answers. No mention of her being pregnant, of course. She’d lost her husband a year ago almost to the day, she told them. A car accident. Her parents were no longer alive, killed when the family house was bombed during the war. Her brothers had been killed too. She announced this as an afterthought, to help keep things simple. She’d been the only survivor.

  Once she got into her stride, her story seemed to tell itself; it flowed out easily and cheerfully almost. She’d come to Lewis for a short break to help get herself through the first anniversary of her loss. Her poor husband – she christened him Alfred for some reason and had difficulty keeping a straight face every time she mentioned his name – had been very brave. She described how Alfred had suffered, how Alfred had never complained, how Alfred had lingered for several months, needing her constant care. Before she could stop herself, she heard herself adding that Alfred had had a beard that just grew longer and longer as he lay there. She had to trim it so he’d not get himself tangled in the blankets when he turned over in bed. Seeing Mrs Stewart’s rather puzzled look, she quickly went on to tell how Alfred had died in her arms. She spoke brokenly, following her words with a few moments’ respectful silence.

  Mrs Stewart was very sympathetic, even more so when she learned there had been no children.

  Maggie’s offer to help clear the table was declined; instead she was urged to stay, enjoy another cup of tea and chat with son Michael.

  Later, when she was getting up to leave, Michael asked if he might ‘read’ her face again ‘so’s to help me remember, Mrs Davies.’

  She let him, naturally.

  The rain having turned into a steady drizzle, she borrowed an umbrella and went for a long walk. There was no ferry boat tied up at the quayside. Instead, a handwritten notice announced all sailings were cancelled till Monday. She felt strangely relieved. No need for a decision, not today anyway.

  On her return to the boarding house she was told that, unless she had other plans, there would be a place laid for her at the kitchen table that evening. ‘Nothing fancy, you understand, Mrs Davies. Simple fare.’

  The meal of herring and potatoes, with tinned rice pudding for dessert, was rounded off with more questions.

  No, she didn’t own the flat where she now lived. When she returned to Edinburgh she’d have to start looking for somewhere smaller.

  She would have to find a job, too.

  Had she ever worked?

  Only making bombs.

  When Michael asked what colour her hair was and what she was wearing, Mrs Stewart interrupted the awkwardness of her reply to say that their guest was being far too modest.

  ‘She’s a bonny lass. Nice face, nice figure and just coming into her mid-twenties (she winked at Maggie, who’d been about to protest, and put a finger to her lips). They’ll not be letting her leave the island, you can be sure of that.’

  ‘Mrs Stewart, I — ’

  ‘Never heed me, lass, just teasing . . . But maybe you’ll be finding yourself staying on the island just that wee bit longer than you planned!’

  ‘Mother! Don’t embarrass our guest. I must apologise, Mrs Davies, my mother can sometimes be rather — ’

  ‘There’s no problem, really. I can take a joke.’ She glanced back across at Michael but, of course, he hadn’t noticed her quick smile, and never would.

  Later, when Maggie said she would go upstairs, Michael asked if he might be allowed to pass his hands over her face one more time. ‘It’ll help me really picture you.’

  ‘So, you’re coming to join us at the kirk, Mrs Davies?’ Mrs Stewart greeted her at the foot of the stairs, while her son stood waiting at the front door. Both of them were dressed as for a funeral – their best black relieved only by the red edging on the older woman’s bible and by the white of ­Michael’s stick.

  ‘Church? Oh, I hadn’t thought.’ Then Maggie had an inspiration: ‘The service will be in Gaelic, won’t it?’

  ‘Aye, it will, but — ’

  ‘Mrs Davies has no need to sit through two hours of boredom. It’s a glorious summer’s day that God has given her. She should go out and enjoy it.’

  Which she did.

  Next morning, after breakfast, Mrs Stewart called up to say that she’d be off to the shops shortly and wouldn’t be back till after twelve. ‘Kitchen table’s set for three.’

  Before she could reply, Maggie heard the front door being shut.

  She pla
nned to take a walk into town to find out when the normal ferry sailings would be resumed and was getting herself ready to leave when she heard someone come out of the sitting room. Next, they were coming up the stairs.

  Quickly, she crossed to the mirror that was set in the wardrobe door.

  A light tap on the door. The slight hesitancy in his voice: ‘Mrs Davies? . . . Maggie?’

  Giving her hair a pat, smoothing down the front of her blouse.

  ‘Maggie? I was wondering if you’d like to come down and join me for a cup of tea?’

  Trying to re-fasten the clasp of an awkward brooch in the mirror, wrong-handedly.

  ‘That’d be nice, Michael. Be with you in a few minutes.’

  Stopping herself, hand poised in mid-air. What was she doing? Michael wouldn’t notice if she wasn’t looking her –

  Maggie came into the kitchen to find Michael pouring out a cup of tea for her. The wooden table had been laid with teacups and saucers, side plates, milk jug, sugar bowl. He placed the teapot on the tea-stand and covered it with an embroidered tea-cosy.

  ‘I forgot the biscuits. Would you like one?’

  ‘That’s kind of you. But, Michael, please don’t trouble yourself to — ’

  ‘It’s no trouble. Have a seat. Help yourself to milk and sugar.’

  Maggie watched in fascination as Michael crossed to a cupboard, opened the door and, without any hesitation, selected and brought out a large tin. He returned to the table, took his seat, removed the lid. So surely did he move about the kitchen performing his various tasks that she would never have known he was blind.

  ‘There should be a couple of snowballs left in there as well as some digestives. One of them’ll have your name on it.’

  ‘But how can you – ?’ she began before she could stop herself.

  ‘Oh, I keep an eye on the snowballs!’ he joked. ‘But really, Maggie, just because I’m blind doesn’t mean I’m completely helpless. I know this house, because I’ve learnt it. So long as things remain in the same place I’m fine. Quite independent really. In fact, when Mother had to keep to her bed for a few days last winter with a bad cold I managed to look after her perfectly well, and with no outside help. Cooking, washing, cleaning – the lot! You might say that my blindness didn’t make a blind bit of difference! Slightly slower than the average home help perhaps, but no less thorough, so I’m told – at least for a man!’ He laughed. ‘I know the streets of Stornoway, too, and the shops. If you fancy, we can go for a walk through the town afterwards to let you get properly acquainted with the place.’

  Half an hour later they had left the house and were walking along the quayside. It was turning into a beautiful summer’s day and, for the first time in months, Maggie felt herself relax as they strolled along together, Michael’s white stick tap-tap-tapping out a path for them.

  He took her to the Town Hall, to the bank where he’d worked before the war; he showed her his favourite bar. Then, having come round almost full-circle, they returned to the harbour.

  ‘Along here is a bench where I sometimes go to sit in the mornings, to feel the sun on my face.’

  The instant Michael had spoken, Maggie was certain he was about to lead her to the very same bench where she’d eaten fish and chips that first evening she’d arrived.

  Which he did.

  Once they’d sat down, Michael touched her lightly on the arm: ‘Tell me what you see, Maggie – and give me colours, lots and lots of colours.’

  ‘Well, it really is a lovely day, hardly a cloud in the sky – in the blue, blue sky, I should say. The sea is flat, totally calm. The water looks greenish and shiny with the sun on it. There are two fishing boats at the quayside, one’s natural wood with a yellow cabin, the other has a black-painted cabin. Just along from us, a fisherman in a dark brown jersey and with green wellingtons up to his knees is sitting next to a heap of lobster pots; he’s doing something with a net, untangling it or mending it. There are white seagulls, a red van . . .’

  She felt a sudden need to close her eyes. Like she was trying to imagine what Michael saw, sitting here beside her on the bench on this beautiful sunny day. Darkness. Pitch-black darkness, a night that for him went on and on and on, and that he awoke to every morning.

  She just wanted to feel what it was like for him.

  Didn’t she?

  No.

  That wasn’t it. Not really.

  Rather, it felt like –

  Like she’d stepped into one of those screened confessionals for Catholics, where they speak to an unseen priest.

  She’d closed her eyes because she wanted to confess, was that it? To tell him she was pregnant? Tell him, and be ­forgiven?

  She wanted to tell him – yes. She needed to. All morning she’d felt that need get stronger and stronger, until it had become almost unbearable. Like a threat, it had now taken over everything she could see and hear – the harbour, the sky, their sitting together on the bench. It had built up inside her until her whole world seemed to shudder from moment to moment with the force of what remained unspoken.

  But there was no reason to tell him. What would it matter to him that she was pregnant?

  She had to, though. She couldn’t help it.

  Her eyes tight shut, she was about to speak when –

  ‘I was driving a British Army truck in a convoy across France. It was a summer’s day, Maggie, just like this. Blue skies and hardly a cloud to be seen, exactly how you described it. Overhead the German fighters were strafing us, sometimes Stukas dive-bombed. My lorry got hit. Seems I was thrown clear; they found me crawling on my hands and knees along the ditch beside the road. Not that I remember anything, except waking up . . .’

  Maggie had to stop herself from reaching over to touch the back of his hand.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Michael. It must have been so . . . so terrible. I can’t begin to imagine how you . . .’

  ‘It was seven years ago. I’ve had seven years more than the other men who were in the lorry, and I get the gift of an extra day every morning. Like today – and here I am sitting on this bench in the sun with you, and enjoying the blue sky, the red van, the fisherman’s dark brown jersey and his green waders. All thanks to you!’

  Without thinking about it, she gave his arm a comforting squeeze.

  When they returned, Michael asked if he could read her face again. ‘To keep in touch,’ he smiled.

  Afterwards he didn’t step away.

  ‘Would you like to try? See what it feels like?’

  She closed her eyes.

  There was no tremble in his hand as he guided her fingers across his smoothly shaved cheek. But, as she stood there, I’m pregnant, I’m pregnant kept hammering over and over in her head. All she could feel was the effort it was taking her to stop from screaming the words out loud.

  In bed that night she allowed herself to relive the touch of Michael’s fingertips, their warmth as they’d traced out the smoothness of her forehead, her eyelids, cheeks, lips, the curve down to her neck.

  Suppose he had begun to stroke her hair, suppose he had taken her in his arms and kissed her? Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.

  The spell of good weather continued. A few days later, while they were enjoying a picnic of sandwiches and a thermos flask of tea on their bench, Maggie heard herself say: ‘I don’t know what’s happening between us, Michael . . .’

  She knew perfectly well, of course – what was happening to her, certainly. She was falling in love. She couldn’t help herself.

  ‘. . . but it’s good. It feels very good.’

  Next thing, he had fumbled for her hand and taken it. Raised it to his lips.

  That night she lay awake for hours remembering what happened next. When they’d kissed, she’d longed – longed with a desperation she’d never known before – for his kiss to be all there was to her life.


  She stood at the top of the stairs one morning, gazing around at the seascape print on the wall, the runner carpet, varnished floorboards, the view of the harbour through the small storm window, the arrangement of flowers in a vase . . . Was it possible that her days would begin with a glance like this out of the low window to check on the weather, with her noticing some mornings that the flowers looked a bit tired and could do with being replaced?

  Mrs Stewart insisted on always setting a place for her at table. ‘Don’t embarrass me,’ she’d say whenever Maggie brought up the subject of payment for her lodgings.

  One afternoon she heard him whisper: ‘I’m so happy we’ve found each other, Maggie.’

  Yes, she answered into herself. Yes. Then she said it aloud: ‘Yes, Michael. So am I.’

  I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant.

  Next moment, she’d blurted the words out. Told him how it had happened. Then closed her eyes, waiting for his reply. When it came, it was short.

  ‘We’ll manage.’

  The following afternoon they almost bumped into the Callanders. She and Michael were walking along the main street having been to the butcher’s and greengrocer’s – mince, potatoes, onions and carrots for the evening meal – and were making for the baker’s, the last on their list.

  The Callanders were approaching from the opposite direction – Mr Callander with a black and green tartan shopping bag in his right hand. Noticing her, they came to a halt right outside the shop. They stared. Not a word was spoken.

  ‘The baker’s, Maggie, and then we’re done,’ said Michael.