by Ron Butlin
Dear Michael, I’m sorry to have to write to you with bad news but . . .
Michael’s mother had slipped in the street – it was a serious fall. She’d needed an ambulance. She was back home now and holding her own, so far. Could Michael come as soon as possible?
The soothing warmth of someone’s hand as they continue to sit here holding yours. No need to say anything, no need to make the effort to open your eyes —
Maggie’s spoken to the guard who helped her put Michael onto the train at Lockerbie station. Lockerbie, Carstairs, Glasgow Central and then the West Highland Line to Mallaig, the ferry across to Lewis – he’ll be passed from guard to guard like a precious parcel to be delivered safely to his mother in Stornoway.
You are with Maggie now on the platform, giving her the courage she needs to send the man she loves on his way. Giving her the courage to kiss him goodbye.
Together you share the warmth of his fingertips as they pass over her eyes, her cheeks, her lips: ‘So’s I’ll have something to remember you,’ he whispers.
There’s a belch-belch-belch of grey smoke as the engine shudders forward, its wheels gaining traction on the steel rails. Straining, it gradually picks up speed and pulls out of the station. When the train has disappeared from sight, you accompany Maggie and Tom back towards the exit, ready to return with them to the gatehouse, ready to help them through the coming days, weeks, months.
No longer having the strength to hold on, drifting to and fro, from moment to moment —
Once again you are back with young Maggie Davies on her ferry trip across to Stornoway, once again you can feel the salt dampness soaking into your coat and scarf, its freshness tightening the skin on your face.
The handrail is ice-cold. Slate-coloured waves slide over each other, sealing in a stretch of water whose briefly churned-up surface always flattens afterwards to a dead calm. The small boat trails silence in its wake. Together you look down into the depths, and shudder with an abruptness that makes the blood stall in your heart, the breath catch in your throat . . .
Your body trembles; your nerves seize. Held under the weight of the duvet, your arm again struggles to raise itself as though to grasp hold of an invisible clock’s next tick and force it on —
It is late September, a glorious autumn morning. The post has just been and you’ve returned indoors with another of Michael’s weekly letters. You expect it will be filled with the usual words of love and reassurance, the usual hopes and promises. He’s been away for nearly five months.
You sit down at your work table, slit open the envelope.
The doctor, he writes, now believes that though she will likely live for a good many years to come, his mother will never regain her full strength and mobility. It seems that she’ll always need someone to look after her. She has never left the island and now she never will.
I’m all she’s got, he explains, and so I’ll have to stay here with —
You let the page drop. You know what’s coming. With every passing week, you’d grown to dread Norman the Post’s rap at the door. You’d been half-expecting this letter, but now that it’s arrived, it’s almost a relief. You glance over at Tom who’s sitting on the floor next to the tea-trolley, completely absorbed in throwing your playing cards around the room. Seeing you look at him, he holds out a crushed fistful towards you.
Michael goes on to say that he loves you and misses you. He misses you more and more each day. He misses Tom, too.
And you miss him. You love him and know he will be the only man in your life. But what did Mrs Saunders say that time – love is the easy bit?
When the time is right, he continues, he’ll start telling his mother about their plans to get married. So far it’s not been possible to say anything . . . she’s very easily upset . . . but as soon as there’s an opportunity . . . pick his moment carefully . . . take time . . . he’s sure you understand . . . talk her into allowing you and Tom . . . because he can’t leave her, not now she . . .
Having folded up the letter, you put it back into its envelope, place it on the table. For several minutes you sit with your hands in your lap, head bowed, staring down at your neatly written name and address, and at the slightly smudged Stornoway postmark . . .
Letting your breathing ease back to normal, your heartbeat steady itself once more —
You’re feeling very tired suddenly. A very pleasant tiredness, as though you were already half-asleep —
An hour later you’ve written your reply, sealed the envelope and stamped it. If you leave now, you will be in time to catch the post. The sooner the letter goes, the better.
You lift Tom into his pushchair, put on your coat, your hat.
Last thing, you glance in the hall mirror to check your appearance. A dab of powder, a quick touch of lipstick.
You’re ready.
The buttons of your coat fastened up and your hat straightened, you give yourself a smile. You’ve written to Michael for the last time. You’ve dried your tears. You have made your decision and will stick to it. You will manage, somehow. The door pulled shut, you start off down the front path.
A gust of wind sets the fallen leaves swirling around your feet, and when you scoop up a handful to scatter over his head Tom tries grabbing them as they tumble all about him. He’s laughing and squealing.
‘whee!’ You send him and his pushchair several yards ahead of you along the road. A few steps and you catch up. ‘whee . . .!’ Pushing him again several yards ahead. Then hurrying after him to catch up. Above, the sky is a clear and cloudless blue. Small birds flit in and out of the hedgerows on either side and it feels like they’re keeping you —
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Excerpts of this novel have appeared in the Scotsman and Gutter 09. The author would like to gratefully acknowledge a Royal Literature Fund Fellowship at Edinburgh University (Office of Lifelong Learning), which allowed him time to write. Grateful thanks also to my wonderful editor Nick Royle, to my ultra-patient agent Lucy Luck, to Lesley Glaister, Andrew Greig, Moez Surani and Dora Staub for their valuable comments, and most of all to my wife Regi Claire for her insightful readings of the text through its many versions, and for her endless patience and support. This novel was written while I was the Edinburgh Makar / Poet Laureate and I would like to thank the City of Edinburgh Council and the Edinburgh UNESCO City of Literature for their support during this period, in particular Lynne Halfpenny, Denise Brace, Ali Bowden, Peggy Hughes and Sarah Morrison.