Our Fathers

by Rebecca Wait

PART 3

  1

  It was raining again. Fiona sat upstairs on her bed and watched the rain against the window and tried not to think of Tommy. She had this bedroom to herself, Gavin having slept in Stuart’s old room for more than ten years now, since Fiona had reached a point where she couldn’t cope with his snoring any longer. When Stuart came to visit, Gavin moved back in with Fiona and neither of them mentioned their customary sleeping arrangements (it would upset Stuart, Fiona felt. She was certain, anyway, that he would have something to say about it).

  Fiona loved this space, with its crisp white sheets and pink quilt folded neatly across the bed, all her things arranged precisely on the dresser, no clutter, no dust, everything clean of her husband’s earthy, cumbersome presence. She resented ever having to share the room with Gavin, even if it was only once a year when Stuart came home. It smelled different with Gavin in it, and took on, Fiona felt, a crumpled, soiled feel. It made her almost glad when Stuart left again, and she could throw the window open and clean the room top to bottom, change the sheets, take possession of it again. If Gavin came upstairs wanting something from her, she knew he wouldn’t come straight into the room, even though it had been his bedroom too for almost thirty years, but would knock and wait politely outside the door, and instead of calling, “Come in,” Fiona would meet him at the door, blocking his way. She had noticed this in herself, and in him.

  Fiona put out her hand and stroked the quilt, absent-mindedly smoothing any wrinkles; she always liked making the bed in the morning, pulling the quilt taut. She took a moment to enjoy the feel of the material beneath her hand. Focus on the present moment—that was all the rage these days, wasn’t it? Mindfulness. Fiona had read an article about it the other day and it had sounded appealing. There were many things in the past she would rather not think about. She assumed this was the same for most people by the time they were her age.

  But it wasn’t so easy to stay focused on the present when the past rose up before you so insistently, when it wandered about the island and bumped into you unexpectedly, when it came round to your house to eat. And it was unfortunate, Fiona thought, how much Tommy looked like his father. Nobody would be able to forget the connection while looking at him, not even for a second. But it was true too that there were touches of his mother in him. Fiona hadn’t noticed it at first, but it was there when she pictured him now. It might be the shape of his eyes, or it might be his mouth. It might just be something in his expression. Fiona had never been very good at faces.

  She had done her best by Tommy, for Katrina’s sake, but he had made things awkward. He had actually come close, Fiona thought, to making a scene. She had tried to discuss it with Gavin afterwards, but Gavin had said, “It wasn’t that bad, Fi. Of course he’s going to be touchy about John, and you know how Ed is when he’s drunk.” Then, when Fiona didn’t reply, he’d added, “The lamb was delicious, hen. Very tender.” She managed, just about, not to reproach him with his own wretched error: calling the man John, for God’s sake.

  Fiona had been forced to come upstairs today because Gavin was downstairs, stomping about and verbalizing every thought that came into his head—Just looking for a stamp—God, what a day it is, all this rain—I pity Malcolm if he’s out with Robert today, he’s earned his rest, poor man—Aye, the wind’s getting up now, isn’t it?—and Fiona thought if she had to listen to him any longer she might actually kill him.

  She had told him she was going to sort the laundry, but here she was, sitting on the bed and staring blankly out at the rain. Sometimes she felt there was little else in her life except water. The grey sea surrounding them, always seeming to creep closer, however much they tried to ignore it; the rain coming down hour after hour, the moorland sodden, the sheep’s wool glistening. Fiona had grown up on Mull, was an island girl through and through, hadn’t even hesitated when Gavin suggested they settle here, his home. But Litta was not like Mull. Mull was a large island: nearly three thousand people, several schools, shops, hotels and easy access to the mainland. Out here was another matter. It was cold and it was wild. It wasn’t civilized like Mull; Litta was all drenched land and sea. It felt like living on the edge of the world, at the point where other people had dropped away and there were just a few ragged survivors left, huddled together on this dark hunk of rock, braced against the wind and the endless rain.

  She did not know sometimes how the others could bear it, but if she ever voiced these feelings to Gavin, he would laugh and say, “Aye, it’s not for everyone.” It was impossible to get him to take things seriously. Nobody else on the island ever seemed to mind its terrible isolation. They took pride in it, in fact, so that Fiona could never express any contrary opinion without revealing some weakness in herself, some shameful unfitness that she had always known it was her duty to hide.

  But she coped well. She knew this was true. She put on a good show, made the best of things, and she expected her husband, who had brought her here after all, to do the same, so that if Gavin ever expressed any minor complaint—the ferries were irregular, or the service had been temporarily halted due to staff shortages—Fiona would snap at him, “We’re lucky to have them,” when really this was not what she thought at all.

  When Katrina had first come to the island, Fiona had recognized the bewilderment in her as though it had been her own. In someone else it might have made her angry, but Fiona saw how Katrina guarded her weakness just as she herself did, and perhaps it was this that had made Fiona unbend to her. They had been close for a while, when Katrina had first arrived and was still struggling. Fiona believed they had been close, at any rate. She sometimes thought she had never been happier than during that first year, when she saw Katrina almost every day. She hadn’t had a close friend before, not since she was a young girl at least. Fiona had often wondered why, and had even wept over it in secret a few times, when she was much younger. She had watched other women in the past, noticing how easily they seemed to form friendships with one another. With her, there was always, it appeared, some invisible barrier that could not be surmounted, some simple trick that eluded her. People never gave her quite what she wanted, and she sometimes thought she caught them turning discreetly away from her, turning towards others instead, so that she wanted to clutch at them and say, “What is it I’m not giving you? Tell me, and I’ll give it.” She tried so hard, and other people were not grateful.

  Katrina had been, though. Fiona had thought that whatever the trick was, she had finally mastered it. For once, it had felt easy. But it was natural, of course, that it had not lasted. Katrina had a young family and a husband to look after, and once she was coping better it was only to be expected that her focus would turn inwards again. The raising of the drawbridge had been so slow and gentle that Fiona hardly noticed until Katrina was completely walled off. Fiona’s visits to Katrina grew shorter and less frequent—often Katrina wouldn’t be in, or even if she was, Fiona did not feel welcome—and Katrina rarely returned them. They remained friends (Fiona thought so, at any rate), but they were no longer close, especially by the time Katrina’s boys were in school. Fiona had not resented it, of course; she had understood. Katrina was not the type to have close friends, and her first priority had to be her husband and children. She was the kind of person who didn’t need to look outside the home for her fulfilment. Nevertheless, Fiona could not help it if sometimes she felt she had been . . . well, used was the word. She felt a little used.

  All the same, they had been good neighbours, Katrina and John. Pleasant people to spend an evening with. John especially had gone out of his way to be helpful and kind. Nothing was ever too much trouble for him (how thoughtful he had been when the car broke down). In truth, by the end, Fiona would have said she was fonder of John than of Katrina.

  “Fi, are you all right up there?” Gavin called.

  “Yes,” she called back. Soon she would have to reappear with an armful of laundry or else he would come up to check on her, a
nd she felt she could not bear that.

  In a moment, she would go. For now, she continued to watch the water against the windows. The weather was pressing in too close, as it always did. Tommy looked like his father, but if there was coldness in him, as Fiona thought she had detected, then perhaps that came from his mother.

  2

  Malcolm was out of the house when Tom woke the next morning, perhaps his thirteenth or fourteenth day on the island; he was starting to lose track. While he ate his cereal, he read a book he’d found on Malcolm’s shelf about the Vikings. It was A4, with colour illustrations, and Tom spent a long time looking at the section about Viking raids on Iona, the brutal slaying of the monks and the loss of so many treasures. He would like to go to Iona again, he thought. He’d been taken to visit the abbey as a child.

  Later, he went upstairs and switched on his phone. The anxiety was giving him a stomach ache, but he couldn’t put it off any longer. Couldn’t always be such a coward.

  Caroline answered on the third ring.

  “Tom, where are you?” she said.

  “Still on the island.”

  “With your uncle?”

  “Yeah.” There was a long pause as Tom realized he should have planned this conversation in advance. He said, “How have you been?”

  “Not great, obviously.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I messed everything up.”

  “Yes.”

  A silence, then Caroline added, “You’re not coming back, are you? Not back here. To me.”

  “No.”

  “Not sure why I asked.” Her voice sounded faint. “I already knew that. You were quite clear.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “You didn’t deserve this.” What a pointless, empty statement.

  Apparently Caroline thought so too. She burst out, “What do you think it’s been like for me? A fortnight of wondering if you’re O.K.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Stop saying that. It’s useless to me.”

  There was another silence. Besides apologizing, Tom wasn’t sure what else to say.

  “So that’s it then?” Caroline said at last. “All over.”

  “Yes.”

  “I wish I’d never met you. I wish I could go back and make it not happen.” Her voice broke.

  “I wish you could too,” Tom said. They’d met at a party. The room had been packed. It would have been so easy to turn away from her, not towards her.

  “The worst part,” Caroline said, “is that I will always worry about you. Even on the days I’m furious with you, I still worry about you. I think I’ll worry about you forever.”

  “You don’t need to,” Tom said. “Please don’t.” He intended it apologetically, but now he thought he sounded churlish.

  “I’d rather not as well,” Caroline said. “But there it is.”

  Tom could offer nothing but a statement of fact. “I should have behaved better. I treated you so badly. Like I—’

  “What? Hated me?” Caroline stopped and sniffed. Then she said, “No. It’s yourself you’ve always hated.”

  Tom was silent.

  “I’ll move on, I know,” Caroline said. “Eventually.”

  He recognized her courage, and was moved by it. “You’ll get married. To someone much better.”

  “Hope so.” Then she said, suddenly brisk, “I’ll box up your stuff. Where should I send it?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know.”

  “Right.”

  Tom hesitated, remembering the warmth of her in his arms. How funny she was, and how kind. He said, “Do you know, Caz . . .” and couldn’t go on.

  “What?”

  Tom looked for the right words, but they weren’t there.

  There was a long pause, then Caroline said deliberately, “You take care, Tom.”

  “And you. Just . . . take care.”

  Then it was done. Tom turned the phone off and laid it carefully down on his bedside table. How exhausted you could feel just from staying alive, day after day, year after year. At least Caroline was free now.

  He went downstairs to make a sandwich for his lunch, but found he couldn’t eat. Then it came over him again, the restlessness that felt like rage. Feeling the need to be in motion, he put on his jacket and boots and went outside.

  The air was fresh and the wind was cold. Tom found his steps taking him north along the road, as though he was going to look for seals with Nicky. The rough moorland stretched out on either side, sloping and uneven, broken with rocky outcrops and patched with bracken the colour of dried blood. In the distance, rugged hills loomed up, blocking the horizon like a mountain range.

  Tom walked for some time without any thoughts in his head at all. It was a kind of release, for a while, to focus only on the tramp of his footsteps and the cold on his face, carrying with it the damp of sea air even when the sea was nowhere in sight. He would tire himself out, and later he would sleep. But though he walked fiercely and fast, the restlessness didn’t leave him completely. The island, being so unpeopled, gave the illusion of freedom and space, made you think you could walk for hours and hours until you had exhausted yourself, and still be left with great tracts of ground to cover. But this wasn’t the case. In reality, it was a small rock, bounded by the sea on every side. It was little more than a large pen and you were no less confined for being outside than if you’d been locked in a room with no windows. Tom thought you could probably go mad here, trying to walk yourself free but seeing no escape beyond the endless sea and sky. He thought of the Vikings, those ruthless warriors for whom the sea had been no barrier but rather a rousing challenge, a call to arms. It troubled him that he couldn’t say now whether he’d admired them as a child for their courage or for their violence.

  He’d been walking for about half an hour when he saw in the distance, before the road curved out of sight, a figure in a pink waterproof. No, he thought. He would not talk to any of these islanders today, and he would certainly not talk to Fiona McKenzie. Not caring if the distant figure had seen him or not, he turned and left the road, walking down the slope to his right where the road was slightly raised, and out on to the moorland. The terrain was so uneven, the rocky hummocks and ridges so numerous, that he was soon hidden from the sight of the road.

  And now, away from the road, he felt the strange scale of the place more keenly than before. It was not that of a small island. Surrounded by jagged outcrops and the expanse of moorland, you felt yourself lost in a vast, mountainous wilderness.

  It had rained heavily again overnight and the ground was boggy beneath his feet. Tom tried to step on the thicker clumps of yellow grass and avoid the bright green patches where the ground was at its marshiest, but his boots were soon soaked from straying into small pools, and it wasn’t long before the water had seeped through to his socks. He decided, once he was a safe distance from the road, to aim for higher ground, and began to make his way towards one of the small hills before him. He was now heading inland, and he thought that if he curved left again shortly, he would be walking north-west across the moorland and would eventually reach the machair on the north-west coast, which he could cross to join the road again.

  But he couldn’t continue in the direction he wanted; he came to a stream that must have risen up during the night’s rain, or at least thickened, and it barred his way. It was too wide to jump and too deep to walk through without soaking his jeans up to the calves as well as his already-wet boots. Tom turned again and followed the stream for some time, hoping for a suitable crossing point, but although he followed its winding path for twenty minutes, at no point did it become narrow enough for him to jump. Not wanting to retrace his steps, he changed direction instead, and made for one of the outcrops behind him. A small band of wild goats was eating the grass near the top of the mound, and watched Tom sullenly as he climbed it, scatt
ering with startling grace when he neared them. The hill wasn’t high enough to afford a useful view of the ground below that might guide him back to the road. None of them were, he thought. The terrain was too much of a patchwork, with one mound hiding the next from view. Tom saw only the occasional sheep; there wasn’t much here for them to graze on.

  Still, he liked knowing he wouldn’t meet anyone else walking out here, and since he was in no hurry anyway, he didn’t particularly mind taking a more circuitous route back than he’d planned. He continued to scramble up and down different outcrops, and found that the concentration required in order not to slip on the damp rocks or miss his footing meant that he was free for the time being from other anxieties. Eventually, having walked for a long time without seeming to make any progress, he began to think he’d better focus on getting back to the road or he would not be home before dark. He wasn’t exactly sure which direction to go in anymore, but he thought he probably needed to bend to the right, which he had an idea was west.

  It took him longer than it should have done to accept that he was lost, because it seemed so impossible that he could be lost, right here on this island he’d known so well once and on what was, after all, such a small stretch of land: there were only a few miles of hills and moorland to get lost on and somehow he had managed it. The northern-central part of the island lacked the clear landmarks of the coastal areas. It was easy to go round in circles without realizing it, as Tom came to believe he had been doing. Even easier once the light was fading, as it was now.

  He needed to rest and decide what to do next. He found a thick gorse bush halfway down one of the mounds, which afforded him some shelter from the wind—growing stronger now—while avoiding the damp of the lower ground. His feet were very cold in the wet boots. Tom huddled down in the shelter of the gorse and thought, This is a predicament.

  He had no real fear. It wasn’t cold enough yet that a man would freeze to death out in the open air at night, and there were no deep bogs he was likely to stray into. Still, if he really couldn’t find his way home, it looked to be a very uncomfortable night. There was no hope, even, of someone coming out to look for him in a car; he was too far from the road for that to be helpful at all.