Our Fathers

by Rebecca Wait

  Tommy had originally mentioned staying only a week. Malcolm wondered when he’d leave, but Tommy hadn’t brought it up. Malcolm wasn’t sure now whether he wanted Tommy gone or not. He was uncomfortable, and longed to have the quiet of his house restored, to be able to return to his familiar routines. But he worried about Tommy, and he felt responsible for him, even after all this time.

  During their walks over the past few days, they had twice come across other islanders. The first time it had been Ken Stewart with his collie Morag. Malcolm had found himself holding his breath as Ken approached, but Ken was naturally taciturn, and he didn’t seem eager to chat for long.

  “So you’re back again?” he said to Tommy once he and Malcolm had exchanged greetings.

  “Yes.”

  “You find it much different?”

  Tommy hesitated over this question. “No,” he said at last. “I don’t think so.”

  “No, I suppose we’re more or less the same,” Ken said. He thought for a moment, then added, “We don’t have a vicar every other Sunday now. Once a month it is, over from Islay or Mull.”

  Tommy clearly didn’t know how to respond to this.

  “Not that there are many people who go,” Ken said. “To church.”

  Malcolm wondered why Ken was talking so much about church. Ken didn’t go himself.

  “Martha Nairne’s a lay reader,” he said, not sure if he was addressing Ken or Tommy. “She takes some services.”

  There was a short pause, then Ken said, “Well, I’d best be getting on. Good to see you,” he added to Tommy.

  They said their goodbyes and Ken walked on, Morag trotting beside him.

  The second time they encountered someone, the meeting was more prolonged. Heading south again towards Alban Bay on the sixth day of Tommy’s visit, they met Fiona McKenzie coming the other way. Malcolm recognized her pink waterproof in the distance, but she’d already turned the bend in the road where it curved through a rocky pass, and must surely have seen them. They could not turn back without seeming to flee from her.

  “That’s Fiona,” Malcolm said to Tommy, wanting, in some way, to prepare him. “Fiona McKenzie. You remember her? She lived down the road from you. A quarter of a mile or so.”

  He thought at first that Tommy wasn’t going to reply, but then Tommy said, “Yeah. Of course.”

  Unbidden, a memory came to Malcolm: one of Tommy’s outbursts, quite late on. What was it that he’d thrown at Fiona, standing in the middle of the living room? The poor woman had only dropped by to return a dish. Heather’s crystal rooster—Malcolm grasped the memory suddenly, how it had shattered beautifully against the wall like a shower of confetti, perilously close to Fiona’s head, how swiftly he had rushed to get hold of Tommy’s flailing arms while Heather ushered Fiona out into the hall. He had no idea what Fiona’s supposed crime had been, what on earth she might have said to set him off. Tommy had wept about it afterwards—not over Fiona but over the rooster, which he’d loved. But it was just an old ornament, Heather told him sternly; that wasn’t the part that mattered. She made him write Fiona a letter and then she’d taken him round to deliver it in person. Tommy had submitted meekly on that occasion. Perhaps he really had been sorry, too. Malcolm had seen the letter, drafted in Tommy’s rough book and then copied out in his very best handwriting. He couldn’t recall what it had said.

  He wondered if Tommy was remembering this too, or if those years were a blur to him.

  As they drew closer, Tommy said, “She was friends with my mother.”

  “Aye,” Malcolm said. But Katrina had found Fiona hard work—Malcolm was sure he remembered Heather passing that on to him once, a rare indiscretion for both women. And indeed Fiona was hard work, an anxious person. She wanted too much from other people, that was what Malcolm thought it was. Every conversation with her felt effortful, as though she must always be coming up too close to you. But she was a good sort of woman.

  “I daresay she’ll want to stop and chat,” he said while Fiona was still out of earshot, wanting to convey the idea that her chatting would not be like Ken’s chatting.

  Tommy said nothing. He put his hands in his pockets with, Malcolm thought, the air of someone bracing themselves for an ordeal.

  “Malcolm,” Fiona called out, still ten yards away. “Lovely morning. Nice and bright.” As she came closer, she said, “And this must be Tommy, of course.” Her eyes were on Tommy the whole time, barely grazing Malcolm.

  Tommy nodded, and Malcolm added, feeling more was necessary, “That’s right. Tommy, you remember Fiona?”

  “Yes,” Tommy said. “Hello.”

  “It’s been such a long time,” Fiona said to Tommy. “You were just a bairn when I saw you last. Now look at you.”

  Tommy didn’t appear to have a reply to this.

  “So what have you been doing with yourself?” Fiona said, as the pause threatened to become awkward. “Where are you living now?”

  “London,” Tommy said. “The last few years, anyway.”

  “London.” She drew out the two syllables. “Really? Well, that must be an exciting place to live. Lots going on, I’m sure. Very different to here.”

  She was speaking faster than usual, Malcolm thought. And there was something in her manner—she wasn’t at ease at all. It occurred to him then that perhaps she had been no more eager for this encounter than they had. The idea distressed him on Tommy’s behalf.

  “Aye,” he said. “Tommy’s used to a different pace of life now.”

  “And what do you do in London?” Fiona said. “For work?”

  “I’ve done a few different things,” Tommy said, and it was brought home to Malcolm again that he knew almost nothing about Tommy’s life, or how he’d supported himself over the past decade. He’d finally managed to ask Tommy rather tentatively the night before what it was he did for a living, but all Tommy had said was, “This and that. Admin stuff mostly,” and then hadn’t seemed to want to discuss it further. He was being similarly evasive with Fiona now. Still, it was true that Tommy’s life was none of their business.

  Fiona seemed disconcerted by Tommy’s laconic response. But she lived here, Malcolm reminded himself. Surely she was used to reticent men.

  She said, “And is there a wife back down in London? A family?”

  “No,” Tommy said.

  “Well.” Fiona hesitated. “Plenty of time for all that. I suppose we all settle down very young out here. We must seem dull to you.”

  “No,” Tommy said again. “Not at all.”

  “I think he’s just being polite,” Malcolm said, feeling the strain of this conversation. “Not much for a young lad to do round here.”

  “And how long will you be visiting?” Fiona said.

  Malcolm was curious about this too, though he wished Fiona hadn’t put Tommy on the spot.

  “I’m not sure yet,” Tommy said. “It depends.”

  “On work, I suppose,” Fiona said. “Doesn’t everything always depend on work?”

  There was a pause, then Tommy said, “Yes.”

  The three of them stood looking at each other for a few moments. Malcolm said, to save them all, “Well, we’d better be getting on. It’ll be dark soon.”

  “Of course,” Fiona said quickly. “The nights are closing in, aren’t they? So nice to see you again, Tommy. You take care.”

  Tommy gave Fiona a formal smile, said, “You too,” and finally she walked on, calling over her shoulder, “Have a good evening.”

  Malcolm and Tommy continued in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Tommy said, “What was it I threw at her?”

  Malcolm gave him a sidelong glance. “A crystal rooster.”

  “You remember it then?”

  “Just barely.”

  Tommy nodded. “I think she might too.”

  It’s not that, Malcolm alm
ost said, but stopped himself. Better for Tommy to think it was only the rooster.

  Tommy didn’t speak again for the rest of the walk. When they got back to the cottage, he disappeared upstairs. He was upset, Malcolm knew, but he felt he had no real grasp of the nature of Tommy’s distress, or what on earth he might say to comfort him.

  When it had got to six thirty and Tommy still hadn’t reappeared, Malcolm went upstairs and tapped softly on his door.

  “Tommy?” he said.

  After a moment, he heard sounds from within, and then Tommy opened the door.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” Malcolm said.

  Tommy considered for a few moments. “O.K.”

  He followed Malcolm downstairs and sat at the kitchen table while Malcolm made the tea. He had the slightly dazed air of someone who’d just woken up, but Malcolm didn’t think he’d been asleep.

  After taking the first few sips of his tea, Tommy said, “I threw a lot of things, didn’t I?”

  “I suppose,” Malcolm said.

  “I remember the rooster,” Tommy said, “because I felt so bad about it afterwards. Because of Heather. It was hers. It wasn’t mine to break.”

  “She didn’t care about that.”

  “I suppose I had a bad reputation,” Tommy said. “Before I left the island.”

  “You were just a child, Tommy. You were grieving.”

  “Everyone must remember it.”

  “If they do, no one holds it against you.”

  Tommy drank some more of his tea, then said abruptly, “I know I’m inconveniencing you. Thank you for having me to stay.”

  Malcolm lowered his own mug and looked at Tommy. “It’s no trouble,” he said.

  Tommy nodded quickly. “And I know I said I’d move on. After a week or so.”

  There was a pause as Malcolm tried to find his feet in the conversation. “There’s no rush to leave,” he said.

  Tommy met his eye. “I’m not planning on staying forever,” he said. “Not for months or anything. I promise.”

  “It’s O.K.”

  “It’s just . . .” Tommy stopped and raised his hand to rub his face. Finally, he said, “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  When Malcolm didn’t immediately answer—he was trying to decide what to say—Tommy rushed on, “I will have. I just need a bit of time. To work things out. Just a little more time.”

  Malcolm thought of his wife, and at last, holding Heather in his mind, he found the right thing to say. “You’re welcome here, Tommy. For as long as you want.”

  And although Malcolm asked him no questions, Tommy began to speak. Without looking at Malcolm, he said, “I was living with Caroline in London. We’d been together a while. Four years. I thought maybe this time . . . but in the end it all went wrong. I made it go wrong. And after that I didn’t know what to do.”

  When Malcolm was sure Tommy wasn’t going to say anything else, he said, with more certainty in his voice than he felt, “You need a rest. That’s what it sounds like.”

  “Yeah,” Tommy said. “That’s it.”

  “I’m sorry about Caroline. Did you . . . ? Was she nice?”

  “Yes,” Tommy said. “I loved her.”

  Malcolm nodded. He thought of how he missed Heather, of how nothing helped. Finally, he said, “We’d best start tea. Lasagne sound O.K.?”

  “Yeah,” Tommy said. He got up quickly from the table. “I’ll do the onions.” He got out the chopping board and knife, fetched the onions and sat back down at the table. Turning an onion in his hand, he said inconsequentially, “A crystal rooster seems like a strange thing for Heather to have owned.”

  Malcolm was so surprised he laughed out loud. “It was a wedding present from some aunt or other. I think she was glad to see the back of it.”

  Tommy nodded to himself and began slicing the onions.

  11

  I saw Tommy yesterday,” Fiona said to her husband the following afternoon, laying down her book and watching for his reaction. She had found herself oddly reluctant to mention it the previous day, shaken by the encounter and unwilling to summon up Tommy’s presence in their living room.

  Gavin said, barely raising his head from the newspaper, “Oh? And how was he?”

  “Fine,” Fiona said angrily, unable to explain why she was angry. “He seemed fine. We had quite a long chat.”

  “That’s nice.”

  It isn’t nice, Fiona thought. It isn’t nice.

  “I’m pleased for Malcolm, having Tommy back,” Gavin said.

  “Malcolm doesn’t know him. None of us do.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Gavin said, returning to his paper. “He grew up here. He’s one of us.”

  “Don’t you remember what he was like?” Fiona said. “He was out of control. He was frightening, by the end.”

  “No he wasn’t.”

  “He attacked me,” Fiona said.

  “Oh hen, no he didn’t.”

  “He threw that thing at me—that ornament. Don’t you remember? It could have killed me.”

  “I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration.”

  She was quiet, furious.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Gavin said, “and it isn’t fair.”

  “What am I thinking then?” she said.

  “You’re thinking that he’s like his father.”

  “Well, perhaps he is.”

  “No, Fi.”

  There was a silence. Fiona thought Gavin wasn’t going to say anything else, but then he let the newspaper rest in his lap and said, “I saw them too, actually. This morning. Down by the harbour.”

  This was so like him, to bring it up as an afterthought.

  “Really?” Fiona said. “Did you speak to them?”

  “Aye,” Gavin said. “I invited them round to eat with us. I meant to say.”

  Fiona had been going to pick up her book again, but now she froze. “You did what?”

  “Invited them round.”

  “Without asking me first! Why would you do that?”

  Gavin shrugged. “It seemed unfriendly not to. And it’s only a meal, after all.”

  “I don’t want him here,” Fiona said.

  Gavin looked at her searchingly for a moment. “Fi,” he said at last. “You have to let it go—this . . . thing about Tommy. It wasn’t his fault.”

  “I don’t have a ‘thing’ about Tommy,” Fiona said coldly. “But I’d have liked to have been consulted first, about the meal I’ll be cooking, in my own home, for someone we barely know, after all.”

  “I’m consulting you,” Gavin said with exaggerated patience, “now. You can name the day. I said we’d ring up to arrange it.”

  Fiona was silent.

  “What do you think will happen, hen?” Gavin said, his infuriating good humour returning. “Do you think he might murder us all when he comes round?”

  “It’s not funny,” Fiona said, her voice rising. “That’s a terrible thing to say. I don’t understand how you can joke about it.”

  Gavin was unmoved. “It happened more than twenty years ago,” he said. “It was a horrible thing, but there it is. Life goes on.”

  He didn’t feel things deeply, Fiona thought as Gavin picked up his newspaper again. He never had. But wasn’t it true that she’d loved that about him once, how easily he took life, how sensible and matter-of-fact he was? Her own family had always been histrionic; it had driven her mad, how everything was always a big drama for her mother, how everything had to be picked over and gone into. Fiona had fled at nineteen into Gavin’s no-nonsense embrace. But that was the problem. Almost everything you did as an adult was a reaction against your upbringing, so you ended up marrying your opposite in a bid to escape your family, not realizing that it was already too late. They had already had their way wi
th you, burrowed into you until one day you looked in the mirror and saw your own mother or father staring back at you, having bided their time and then emerged like a well-fed parasite from beneath your skin. Fiona had over-corrected in choosing Gavin, and found as the years passed that rather than growing into each other, their differences had become more pronounced. Gavin must surely be aware of this too, aware that he should have married someone practical like Heather or Kathy. Fiona had enough insight to know she infuriated her husband sometimes, how patient he had trained himself to be with her.

  Then there was Stuart (who perhaps took after her more than Gavin), who was moody and thin skinned and never seemed to want to visit them. She worried about him, and knew Gavin did too. His life, she feared, had not been happy. The divorce had been painful, and she still wasn’t sure Stuart had recovered. He didn’t see his children much, though Joanne was very fair about things like that. Fiona and Gavin saw them hardly at all. Stuart’s new wife Lucy seemed to work long hours and didn’t want children. Fiona supposed she herself was to blame for many of her son’s mistakes, because parents usually were, and most especially mothers (Gavin had not helped her enough; Gavin had been unconcerned). But somewhere deep down she also blamed the Bairds for Stuart’s absence from the island, though she knew really this had nothing to do with why her son kept away.

  Still, it was true that the Bairds had brought horror to the island. And Fiona blamed them for it, blamed John of course, but also Katrina, and even Tommy, because he was the living reminder, and because he knew things they didn’t, had seen things nobody should see, and now here he was again, drifting about among them like a ghost.

  “I remember him sitting right here across from me,” Gavin said, startling her. “John, I mean. You and Katrina would be in the kitchen, chatting away, and John and I would be in here. Having a whisky.”

  Fiona saw John’s face, as she often did, his considerate expression as he asked her about herself. He listened, too—really listened. No trouble from your life was too small to hold his attention. He’d changed, perhaps, towards the end.