Sally

by Freya North

  They continued in silence for a few strides. Sally stopped, closed her eyes and held her head.

  ‘But Aunt Cee, would you have had it any other way? Fifteen years of unhappiness, loneliness – doesn’t the pain you feel vanquish the pleasure of the love you had?’

  ‘Sal, my funny thing.’ She hugged Sally very close and when she spoke again, Sally heard her voice through her ribcage; magnified, unhindered. ‘I am not lonely,’ Celia said, ‘I am just alone now. It hasn’t been fifteen years just of unhappiness. Yes, I have grieved and I wish with all that I am that he was with me now. But had I not loved him so, I should not miss him, hey? And I rather like that feeling. It is a comfort for it can but remind me of what we had together. The pain can only be as great as the love we had, my girl. The love we had was limitless, the pain is indescribable, but the strength that love gave me allows me to sail on. Amor vincit omnia, my girl, vincit omnia.’

  They looked at each other and Sally wondered how Aunt Celia could smile so benignly when she felt like crying at the injustice.

  ‘Do you see?’ Celia continued. ‘Had I not loved so, had I not been so loved, then sure enough, I may not hurt. But then what would my life be like? It would be black and white. Silent. I like colour and song. Our life was full of both.’

  ‘But he’s not here,’ stressed Sally. Celia nodded but smiled on.

  ‘Would I that he is not here now, but was then, than he never was here at all.’ Sally regarded her aunt. Her eyes shone back at her and the confusion on Sally’s face slowly lifted. Now she understood and her gratitude rendered her temporarily mute. However, her smile, as it unfurled, spoke volumes to Celia.

  They continued their walk, both serene now, and were blessed by the magnificent aeronautics of two golden eagles who seemed to be flying just for the sheer sake of it.

  ‘Would I that he is not here now, but was then, than he never was here at all.’ Celia’s sentence had been so perfect, so full; the domain of a true poet, of one who knew. It had stuck in Sally’s mind instantly.

  It is 9.30 and Sally is tucked into bed; the crisp sheets, heavy blankets and a beautiful, hand-quilted eiderdown. Celia’s words reverberate around her head and images from the walk assault her mind’s eye. She is held a happy captive and falls asleep blanketed by the hills and accompanied by the seal. The rhythmic sound of the waves lulls her deeper and the eagles soar to keep watch overhead.

  She wakes in the small hours and lies in velvet darkness for a pleasant moment. Drawing back the curtains and throwing open the window, she marvels at the true blackness of the night, no street lights invading, only a tiny patch of orange glinting from a distant cottage. If she listens well enough, she can hear the sea.

  ‘Would I that he is not here now, but was then, than he never was here at all.’

  Well, would I? Would it have been better never to have met Richard? Would my life have been black and white and without song?

  Well?

  THIRTY-SIX

  As the days passed, Celia watched the colour bloom back to Sally’s cheeks – the spots were no less prominent, but the sparkle in her eyes and the glow of her face detracted attention away from them. Though Sally slept until lunchtime the first morning, she was soon down in the kitchen with the break of day, making porridge with a pinch of salt the Lomax way. She was very happy tinkering about with Celia and their days had a loose but welcome routine.

  After breakfast, they took a tour of the garden to check that frost had been kept at bay, and to admire new faces amongst the flowers.

  ‘Wood anemones,’ Celia cooed as she and Celia crouched in awe over the low little mauve flowers.

  ‘Wood anemones,’ Sally repeated to herself, trying to commit leaf shape and petal formation to memory.

  Celia’s garden was a font of nostalgia for Sally. Despite the brisk air, she could travel with ease back to those heady summers of her childhood. Though it was midwinter, if she closed her eyes she could even fill her nostrils with the scent of fragile dog rose and wild honeysuckle. Gazing at the rockery for long enough turned it back into the harsh mountain her dolls had struggled to climb. Feeling the springy, peaty land beneath her feet, she remembered well the secrets of the garden that not even Aunt Celia knew. Here was the place, the space, in which she had been absorbed in play, absorbed in herself.

  The garden seemed so much smaller now, but though Sally’s years had altered its scale, its charm had not been compromised.

  ‘Wild violets?’ she enquired.

  ‘Next month,’ Celia informed.

  And I’ll miss them, rued Sally.

  Having ensured that all was well in the garden for another twenty-four hours, Aunt Celia’s timetable read elevenses time, and chocolate brownies were dunked into cups of coffee. After that, the infinite bits and pieces to do around the cottage took them to lunch-time. Sally implored her aunt to load her with chores. Somewhat begrudgingly, Celia obliged and Sally set about waxing the tables, scrubbing out the hearth, polishing the copper, dusting the books and giving all the window-sills a fresh lick of gloss paint. Seeing Sally beavering about her work, so thorough and attentive to her task, struck Celia.

  She’s me!

  Where’s her Angus then, Celia?

  Has she an Angus?

  Why not ask.

  Och, no! That’s for her to tell – not for me to pry.

  Lunch-time was invariably followed by an excursion.

  ‘The beauty of being retired, so to speak,’ Celia had told Sally, ‘is that you can turn a trip of necessity into a little outing for the afternoon! I may need a loaf of bread, but why go to Dervaig to buy it when I could have a jaunt to Salen, to Bunessan even!’ Therefore, each day Celia made sure there was something to buy and whether it was a couple of apples or a fresh salmon, a pint of milk or a pound of potatoes, she ensured the route took them to far-flung corners of the island and passed outstanding viewpoints. They even took the ferry to Iona to buy soap, because Celia justified that the soap in the Abbey gift shop was not tested on animals and smelt heavenly too. Similarly, the journey back from Tobermory took them around two sides of a triangle so that they could enjoy a stroll to Loch Frisa. Invariably, they were home for teatime dunking. One afternoon, they forsook a jaunt altogether – the film of Greyfriars Bobby was on the television and, armed with handkerchiefs and a bowl of home-made fudge, they munched and wept the afternoon away.

  In the mellow hours between tea and dinner, a fire would be lit and the two women snuggled deep into armchairs to read, sharing their space and often snippets from their books too. Celia sang old Gaelic songs while Sally shut her eyes and let the warmth of the fire and the sweetness of her aunt’s voice course through her body. Sally read passages of Scott and verses of Burns out aloud, Celia assisting her accent.

  ‘Make it rounder, my duck, rounder. Smile while you speak. Use all the muscles of your lips. Hear the words sing in your mind first.’

  Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon

  How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?

  How can ye chant, ye little birds,

  And I sae weary fu’ o’ care?

  ‘Magical, Sal. You’ve got it! Robbie would be proud – both of them, Burns and Lomax!’

  Sally drifted along, content that each day should come and go like the tide. Mull enchanted her so much that she exclusively devoted her sight and her soul to its gifts. Richard and Diana and Highgate and School were way down South, metaphorical miles from her mind too. After nearly a week, she had slipped easily into Celia’s way of life, and Mull and its ways became the norm. This then freed Sally’s thoughts and they began to wander. As she dug in the garden, or worked a hard-bristled brush over the flagstones, her mind travelled. Sometimes to nowhere in particular, often to her recent past, rarely to the present and never to the future.

  The future will of course become apparent when the past is analyzed and the present confronted. For the time being, however, it was enough for Sally to think back over her time with Richar
d. Mostly she called upon specific events, blissful evenings, thrilling love-making; allowing herself a private smile, a guarded giggle, a stifled sigh. She realized with some surprise that the last time she had had sex was nearly two months ago. And in Paris. And with J-bloody-C.

  I haven’t made love with Richard since last year.

  Occasionally, she contemplated just what it was that she had with him. She understood what had been intended as a dalliance had drifted into the Richard Thing which had in turn established itself, unasked, as a relationship.

  What is it now? Is it anything? Does it exist at all?

  She could not quite ask herself if she missed it.

  As Sally started to mull and consider, cogs of recognition and springs of curiosity began to turn in Celia’s mind.

  She had been silent witness to Sally standing stock still, duster redundant in her limp hand, staring intently with a peculiar smile at the tall standard lamp.

  Gazing so deep, Celia considered, as if caught by the eyes of someone. So who?

  Moreover, at breakfast one morning, she saw Sally’s shoulders give a little shake as she washed up at the sink and a mute reflection from the window pane revealed that same quirky smile. Furthermore, browsing around a bric-à-brac afternoon at Tobermory Town Hall, she was choosing notelets when she caught sight of Sally at another stall. Oblivious to the vendor’s expression – oblivious to all around – she was holding a jar of honey aloft while staring distractedly, mouth half-open, at nothing in particular.

  Or is it at something very particular? Celia had wondered.

  ‘Can’t I stay here? For ever?’

  ‘Sally Lomax, Scotland may be in your blood but you’ve never felt your blood chill, your kidneys ache in the full grasp of a Mull winter! How would you fare then?’

  ‘I’d wear lots of layers!’

  ‘When the generator grinds to a halt weekly?’

  ‘I’d fix it!’

  ‘I think not. And the rain and the mist?’

  ‘But it’s so wonderfully sombre! Romantic! To just make out the shrouded hills, but the distinction between land, sea and air all blurred!’

  ‘It’s sombre all right!’ Celia said, looking Sally straight in the eye. ‘And after week upon week it’s no longer wonderful. You cease to look at the mountains as ethereal, romantic. You just want to be able to see them clearly. You long to see where the land meets the sea. You crave to see the sky again. It can pull a man down, Sal. Folk this way often hibernate – as a precaution against depression.’

  ‘I still think it’s preferable to Highgate and all that stuff,’ Sally said grudgingly.

  ‘Well, I think you’d miss it,’ said Celia quite sternly over the top of Sally’s pout. ‘I don’t think you’re giving enough credit to the freedom, to the very predictability it affords you.’

  Sally looked hurt.

  ‘Things seem easier here,’ she said quietly, raising doleful eyes.

  ‘It is not an easy life,’ said Celia calmly. ‘It suits me because I am old and set in my ways. I have few expectations. You, my lass, should be bombarding yourself with expectations, standing as you are on the threshold of your adult life.’ Sally made a half-nod. Celia continued gently, ‘If Things seem easier here, maybe you’re saying Things are not easy in England. In Highgate? To forsake Highgate for Mull is hardly the answer. Merely geography.’

  Sally remained silent and stared fixedly at the embers.

  ‘Though Mull won’t solve your problems for you,’ said Celia gazing at the photograph of the two brothers, ‘it might very well help you to do so.’

  Sally let it lie. After a subtle silence she changed the subject and they chatted the afternoon away. Easier that way.

  Sally has lived on Mull for a week. Last night they had fish and chips at Tobermory, eschewing a table and crockery for a harbourside bench and vinegary newspaper.

  ‘The only way to eat fishy chips!’ praised Celia.

  ‘I’ll say “aye” to that!’ hailed Sally.

  To Celia’s delight, Sally has offered to cook tonight. Earlier, they had driven twenty miles in one direction for a bottle of Chardonnay, and fifteen miles in another for a head of garlic, the trek home readily interrupted by tea and scones (dunkable) at a small café near the shores of Loch Ba.

  Celia is now helping Sally prepare – she is chopping what she is told, slicing as she is instructed, dicing as she is asked. Mendelsson’s Hebridrean Overture has been chosen to accompany their labour and the women sway and la la in harmony as they work.

  ‘OK, Aunt Cee!’ chirps Sally, ‘off you go now. Away! Put your feet up, have a Scotch – ooh, pour me one too! I’ll cast my top secret magic over this lot and a feast for two will be on the table in precisely half an hour’s time!’

  They dined on cheese soufflés, followed by grilled trout lashed with butter and smothered with toasted almonds, and finally a breathtaking bread and butter pudding. For the most part they were silent, occasionally catching each other’s eyes to hum with appreciation.

  ‘Mmm, can you cook, my lassie!’

  ‘Mmm, thank you! More potatoes?’

  Because the trout had been small and so light, seconds and thirds of pudding were justified. As one of the penultimate spoonfuls from Celia’s bowl neared her lips, she bit the bullet instead and let the spoon hover as she spoke:

  ‘Well, Sal! Seems a shame not to lavish such culinary expertise on someone more special!’

  ‘Aunt Cee! Who could be more special than you?’

  ‘Who indeed?’ smiled Celia, letting her question hang in the air for a moment or two before she leant towards Sally and probed further.

  ‘Who indeed? You know they say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?’ Sally cocked her head. Celia continued, ‘Is there a man, Sal, whose stomach you seduce, hey?’

  ‘Gracious, Aunt Cee!’ said Sally, trying to look taken aback rather than downright taken off guard.

  ‘Tish!’ announced Celia, scraping the last of the pudding from the bowl. ‘What am I saying? I shouldn’t be prying, Sal. Apologies, apologies. I just remember how terrible it was for you with that insufferable chap – you know, the one who … I was just hoping that perhaps there was someone making you happy?’

  Still Sally looked non-committal and Celia tried to look nonchalantly everywhere but at her face. She heard a stifled sniffle and glanced round to see that it had its roots in a smile. Sally tipped her head and ran her finger around her bowl. Sucking it clean, she then wrapped her napkin around it and decided to welcome her aunt into her private world.

  ‘Well, there is someone, Aunt Cee.’

  Silence hung like dark velvet curtains, heavy and containing. Celia wondered whether that was all from Sally and was just about to change the conversation to the merits of trout over salmon, when Sally spoke again.

  ‘His name is Richard Stonehill. He is thirty-five years old and drop-dead handsome!’

  Celia decided there were plenty of fish in the sea so she let the trout and salmon go and turned, all ears, to her niece. With a smile that she hoped was persuasive, she put her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands.

  ‘Ooh, do tell me more, Sal!’ she cooed, eyes sparkling in what she hoped was a conducive way.

  ‘Richard is an architect. A very brilliant one, I think. He believes buildings are the backbone of our environment and must be sympathetic to, and reflective of, our lifestyle and our needs.’

  Celia nodded approvingly, believing it was what Sally wished to see. It worked; Sally continued.

  ‘He’s very manly and has a lovely flat in Notting Hill – always clean; fresh flowers; good food. He’s fit and healthy – and a wonderful cook!’

  Celia continued to nod and felt a little prompt or two would not go amiss. ‘And how long have you two known each other?’

  ‘Since the autumn,’ said Sally.

  ‘Going steady, then?’ Celia asked rhetorically. Almost instantly, she sensed Sally pull back.

&n
bsp; ‘Well, I don’t know if you could call it that,’ she said somewhat flippantly. Celia mouthed ‘Oh’ in reply. They sat awhile contemplating their empty bowls. Sally refilled their glasses with the last of the wine.

  ‘I call him Richie and he calls me Sal – you and he alone, an honour indeed!’

  ‘I’ll say!’ said Celia, raising her glass. Taking a thoughtful sip, she steered the conversation back. ‘Well, if you’ve been with him since the autumn but are not going steady, what is it that you have? Please, dear God, not one of those “open” relationships?’

  Sally giggled. ‘No, not very open at all,’ she mused under her breath.

  ‘Go on,’ encouraged Celia.

  ‘It’s difficult to explain. It started as a bit of a rampant fling – you know, Jackie Collins bodice-ripping and all that?’

  Celia had never read Jackie Collins.

  ‘Erica Jong?’ ventured Sally.

  Celia shook her head.

  ‘Xaviera Hollander?’ she suggested.

  Still Celia drew a blank.

  ‘Anyway, Sal, I’m sure my reading matter isn’t relevant. After all, we’re not talking fiction or fantasy, are we? Just life – yours.’ Celia’s swift overview of the reality of the situation made Sally feel vulnerable and somewhat belittled. She felt defensive.

  ‘Aunt Cee,’ she corrected sternly, ‘you’d be surprised what I can get up to in my little life in Highgate. It may not be Los Angeles or Paris or wherever, but my small flat can be a hot-bed of passion, a boudoir of sins of the flesh! What goes on in there can compete with the best of them – the very stuff that books are made of!’

  Sally’s eyes glinted, Celia’s soul winced.

  ‘I – I’m not sure I quite follow, duck.’

  Sally was on a roll. ‘I set myself up as a true femme fatale to trap a man,’ she explained triumphantly. ‘And did I ensnare a prime catch! It was fabulous and all so naughty!’

  ‘But what about Richard?’