Sally

by Freya North

  God, where am I? How long have I been asleep? The walkers, the skirts, have they come and gone? Oh God, I’ve been sick. I want to move. Can I move? Let me try. Christ, my leg! I can’t move. I can, I can. I’ll pull myself away; away from the mess. I’ll drag myself over to that clearing. Come on, Sal, come on, girl. You can do it. I can do it. I have to.

  The pain was almost overwhelming but the need to be found, to be rescued, was stronger. It took forty minutes to haul her broken body less than twenty yards to a low, bunker-like clearing; the scar of a small land slip.

  Sally was a good girl, a sensible girl, and though she did not really feel like it, she sipped at the tea which tasted nostalgically plasticky.

  When was the last time I used a thermos? Was it the trip to the Zoo? I think it was. Richard and the penguins, how could I ever forget? That darling key-ring he bought me – that I threw away when he told me he loved me. What I’d do for it now. What I’d do for it now.

  Every time she moved, be it a fraction of an inch, a sharp stab of pain ran through her body. It seemed that breaking a bone of one limb had taken its toll on her whole body. The leg itself felt simultaneously heavy yet not there at all. The base of her neck and the small of her back seemed to ache the most, though thankfully the sickness had gone. She was perspiring yet she was cold. Tears threatened as she took stock of her recent run of medical dramas. It really did seem most unfair.

  In a mess. Focus your mind. Focus it.

  On what? One, two, three, four, five, six Treshnish Isles. The Dutchman’s Cap? I suppose it does look like one. But I want to be on the walk. The guide says I can view the islands in a line abreast later on.

  The realization hit Sally: she would be going nowhere and, unless she was found, she would be staying put for goodness knows how long.

  ‘If that is the case,’ she reasoned out loud, partly to keep the tears at bay, ‘I’d better keep calm, concentrate on being warm, concentrate the pain away. Just concentrate.’

  Time to start, Sal.

  I know.

  See the young woman, propped up awkwardly on her elbow, her head resting on her shoulder, one leg stretched out, the other twisted as it should not be. See how she is looking out, way over the cliffs, seawards. She is looking far beyond the sea, beyond the horizon even. Nothing in particular meets her gaze and yet she sees everything. The panorama is exclusively hers for it does not really exist. It is not the Isle of Mull which captures her gaze for, though her eyes are directed ahead, they see only within.

  The breeze and the purity of the sea air clear the tangle of her thoughts.

  If she were not here, she would not be able to see, and yet it is not ‘here’ that she sees at all.

  Mull itself does not hold the key to unlock her door nor does she hold the key herself. The key is in her lap – dropped there by the situation.

  Sally is truly alone and for the first time in her life, lonely too.

  She is in pain, she is frightened. She is sitting, disabled and vulnerable, in a landscape that is at once beautiful and mean, majestic and cruel, seemingly hospitable yet wholly unforgiving.

  She sits askew, asking questions and answering them too.

  Why did I come to Mull? Was it really to recuperate from the chicken pox? Was it really to have some ‘thinking’ time?

  No, it was neither. I came to Mull to continue my adventure. I came here so that I could leave with no explanation; I left with no explanation to see the effect it would have. On Richard, of course.

  And yet how could I monitor that effect if I am here and have made no contact?

  How do I really think he would have reacted?

  I wanted him to contemplate my actions and think, ‘Wow, the woman is certainly an enigma and has me bound by her spell. Oh, Sally, Sal, come back to me.’

  In truth, I think he was probably immensely hurt and subsequently very angry too. Justifiably so. I must remedy that. I must abate his anger with an apology and I must soothe his hurt with honesty.

  And yet if I restore him, his feelings for me to how they were, then what? And why? Do I want him to regard me as he did? Do I want to undo the knot I have pulled tight?

  I was, as Aunt Celia said, a stupid, immature girl playing a heartless game with the goodness of my man’s soul.

  There’s my answer.

  He is my man.

  Will he still want to be? If I can help it, yes. I hope that I will not live to regret my appalling actions of late. I am here in Scotland, lost and yet found, but Richard – so far away and for so long – does not yet know. All may be in vain indeed.

  So, am I ready? To share? To compromise? What will I gain and what will I lose? I will lose my name. But I don’t have to.

  I will lose my flat – but I will gain a new home.

  I will forsake my independence – yet Richard has made me feel stronger and more liberated than ever I felt when alone.

  My late-night last thoughts – who says they have to be given up?

  Talking to my plants, my things? But Richard loves me for that. Who says a Mrs Stonehill can’t gaze at nothing in particular like a Miss Lomax can? Really, there is little that I will lose, much that will change, and so much more to be gained.

  Why did it take me so long to see? Did I have to break my leg to break my block? Who set this block anyway?

  Jackie bloody Collins, that’s who, J Bloody C indeed. Erica Jong – it’s her fault too. Xaviera Hollander, she has to answer for this.

  No.

  You ladies are in the clear. My apologies to you all.

  The person at fault was the Sally Lomax who never was.

  ‘Mary, what’s that?’

  ‘Gracious! It’s the cartwheel girl.’

  Through a haze of semi-consciousness, Sally saw disembodied tartan skirts run into and out of her view. Then she saw nothing.

  It was time to open her eyes again and, as she did so, two pairs of tan leather, sensible lace-up shoes with hefty crêpe soles came into focus. She forced her glance upwards, over two pairs of sturdy ankles, up two sets of well-stockinged calves to the tartan skirts. One she recognized as McKenzie, the other she knew to be classic Black Watch. Her eyes travelled on and arrived at two good, weather-beating anoraks. Both were zipped against the wind, one enclosing a wiry figure, the other a more portly frame. Sally completed her tour, alighting on the faces that belonged to the skirts which had been at the back of her mind since she fell. Glinting eyes, kindly smiles and worried brows met her gaze benevolently.

  ‘My dear lassie, look at you! Hush, hush, fear not, all is well. My name is Mary McKenzie,’ spoke the wiry one in the predictable kilt.

  ‘Poor duck, what happened?’ cooed the portly one in Black Watch who Sally deduced to be Isla. ‘We were admiring your cartwheels earlier and now you’re all fall doon. How did it happen? Can you talk?’

  With all her might, Sally spoke, choosing the most salient information, knowing she could not manage much. The two ladies crouched down beside her; Isla took her hand, Mary stroked her forehead.

  ‘My name is Sally Lomax. I am twenty-five. I think I have broken my leg. I have had chicken pox but I am not contagious. Celia Lomax is my aunt. I’m sorry to spoil your walk.’

  ‘Celia! Well, we know Celia very well and have heard her speak of you often – you are the one she says all her hopes are invested in! Isla, I’ll nip back, you stay here with Sal and keep her comfy.’

  Without further ado, Mary was off, heading for Sally’s beloved Magic Beach, heading for help.

  ‘We’d better prepare ourselves for an hour or so,’ said Isla kindly, plumping herself down on the grass next to Sally. ‘Would you care for some tea? I have some in my thermos.’ Sally shook her head and murmured, ‘I had some too, in my thermos. I’ve been sick.’

  ‘Well!’ announced Isla, and it sounded like ‘wheel’ in her tender, jovial voice, ‘I have just the medicine for you, my lass!’ From her anorak pocket, she pulled a small, pewter flask. ‘Ten-year malt!’
she confided triumphantly.

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Sally meekly.

  ‘Come, come. ’Tis not an offer, ’tis an order! It’ll do ye good. Just try – for Celia.’ Sally did as she was told and, after a dicey moment when she felt the liquor burning its way to her stomach, it worked wonders and she felt stronger.

  ‘There!’ declared Isla. ‘More?’

  ‘Please!’

  ‘Have as much as you like. In fact, finish it off.’

  ‘I’m not contagious.’

  ‘That’s not the point at all.’ Isla laughed. ‘Mary and I have had a fair few swigs – we don’t want folk to think we’re drunk!’

  Sally sipped the whisky slowly, gazing at the Treshnish Isles which seemed darker and more distant. She asked what was the time and was surprised to hear that it was nearing four o’clock.

  ‘I thought perhaps you had done the circular walk and would not find me. You see, I saw you this morning – while I was cartwheeling. I wanted the Magic Beach to myself. Later, when I fell, I could hear you and Mary talking about shags and the brow of the hill and having a cuppa. But I couldn’t call for you, my voice broke down with my leg. I was over there,’ Sally pointed precisely, ‘on a ledge. I hauled myself here because I thought I’d be safer, more visible. I prayed that you’d come back. And I assessed my life while I waited.’

  ‘Gracious!’ exclaimed Isla. ‘Thank heavens we came back, hey! Mind you, we always walk A,B,A, here. Never A,A.’ Sally looked puzzled. Isla clarified: ‘No point doing a circular walk at Treshnish – who cares for miles of bracken and the silly old road when you can have all this twice!’ She waved expansively. ‘Did you call it the Magic Beach?’ she asked. Sally nodded. ‘May I ask why?’ Sally nodded again and answered.

  ‘Because my Uncle Angus and my dad said it was so. I wasn’t allowed to come as a kid. I had to wait till now to find it. It is so magical, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ll say “aye” to that. Is that why you were cartwheeling?’

  ‘Yes, I think it must have been.’

  They sat quietly, Sally trying hard to be polite and cheery and to keep her mind from straying to the pain now focused in her leg. She looked at Isla and thought her plump, glowing face very pretty indeed. Isla returned her gaze and smiled.

  ‘Cartwheeling and assessing life, hey! Well, you could find no better place to do either.’

  The whisky had lubricated Sally well and she replied with gusto.

  ‘The cartwheeling came first. Although I had come to walk by myself, to think a few things over. I had questions to ask and answers to find.’

  Isla nodded and cocked her head. Sally continued.

  ‘I’ve never broken anything before although I had my nose broken for me. And, if truth be told, I’ve gone and broken someone’s heart.’

  Isla tutted sympathetically and Sally was compelled to elaborate – for her own sake as much as for her companion’s.

  ‘While I was waiting here, I suddenly saw my mistakes so clearly. Yet I didn’t flinch from them; I believe I really confronted them. You see, there is a man whom I love as I have never loved another and yet I have never told him so. In fact, I have spurned him.’

  ‘And now you want to set things right, to ensure the happy ending?’ interjected Isla. Sally nodded.

  ‘I’m so impatient to do just that – but I’m stuck here with a broken leg. Do you think it might be too late?’ she asked timidly.

  ‘Och, no! If he is a good man, and if he is worth loving, with all that you are, he will understand, I’m sure. Mine did.’

  Sally laid her head in Isla’s lap and closed her eyes, listening intently to Isla’s story and hoping that history might repeat itself.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘Morning, Mr Stonehill.’

  ‘Morning, Sandra. Please call me Richard. You make me feel so old, “Mistering” me!’

  Mary winked at Sandra who blushed vigorously.

  ‘What time are Ben Shaw’s lot coming in?’

  ‘Ten o’clock, Richard.’

  ‘Right ho! Hold all calls until then, could you?’

  ‘Course I can, Richard.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Stonehill is in a meeting. Could I take a message? Celia Lomax, 016884 156. Lovely, I’ll ask him to call you as soon as he’s free. ’Bye-bye.’

  ‘Who’s Celia Lomax, Mary?’

  ‘Never heard her.’

  ‘Richard did say hold all his calls, didn’t he?’

  ‘Richard did, Sandra. Oh, it looks like his ten o’clock has arrived. Hello, gentlemen, Mr Stonehill is expecting you. This way, please.’

  ‘I’m telling you Sandra, that assistant of Ben Shaw’s couldn’t take his eyes off you!’

  ‘Leave it out!’

  ‘I’m telling you!’

  ‘Nah!’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure!’

  ‘He was pretty gorgeous! Do you know his name? It just says “et al” here!’

  ‘Just one moment, I’ll see if he’s available, please hold the line … Damn! It’s that Cecily Lomax – from this morning. I forgot to pass her message to Richard.’

  ‘You did have a lot on your mind!’

  ‘Can you believe he asked me out? I think Mr Shaw even gave me an approving wink. Martin Blakely … I’ve never been out with a Martin. Oh, Mary, what do you think? Sandra Blakely, Mrs S. Blakely – has a ring to it!’

  ‘Sandra! The phone! Buzz Richard, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Richard, there’s a call for you on line one. A Cynthia Lomax.’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Richard Stonehill?’

  ‘Aunt Celia?’

  Celia filled Richard in on the bare bones of Sally’s fall; she knew he was a busy man and did not want to swamp him with the minutiae. Richard, however, wanted to be deluged so Celia told him all she had gleaned from the doctor, from Isla and Mary, and from Sally herself.

  ‘Could I speak to her?’

  ‘I’ve put her to bed. In fact, I’ve had to rummage through her address book to find your phone number. I presumed that the “R” contained within the heart was you!’ Richard laughed and wanted to weep.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Lomax?’

  ‘Celia, please. Well, Sally was going to head home at the weekend but of course she cannot now drive. I wondered perhaps if you would fetch her? Maybe you would like to make a weekend of it?’

  Richard thought for a moment.

  ‘Does she know?’

  Celia thought for a moment.

  ‘No.’

  Richard was silent. She spoke again.

  ‘I do know that she has done a fair bit of thinking, and that she is not very proud of the way she has behaved. But I can see the impact you have had on my girl, and if at my old age I can assist in a bit of enforced matchmaking, then I’ll jolly well do so!’ Richard swallowed hard as a sudden burst of sunlight streamed through and struck his face.

  ‘What’s tomorrow? Friday, Friday …’ He thought aloud. ‘I may as well take the sleeper tonight. So, Aunt Celia, we’ll meet at long last tomorrow morning. No, no, please … I’ll take a cab from the ferry. Thank you so much for calling. For understanding.’

  ‘Richard,’ Celia faltered, anxious to hold him a moment longer, ‘you sound – well – as lovely as you sounded.’

  Richard regarded the replaced handset and then asked Sandra to book a one-way ticket to Oban. For once, Sandra did not mind that he gave no explanation. In fact, she was not remotely interested.

  ‘Hi, Di!’

  ‘Hullo, Stonehill!’

  ‘I’m off to bonny Scotland.’

  ‘Sally! When did she call? What did she have to say for herself?’

  ‘Actually, it was the venerable Aunt Celia who called. The girl’s gone and broken her leg in two places while soul-searching in the heather.’

  ‘Serves her bloody well right!’

  ‘She doesn’t know that Celia called me. She doesn’t know that I’m go
ing up.’

  ‘Ha! Serves her even more bloody well right!’

  ‘Any messages?’

  ‘Tell her she’s a stupid old cow and I hate her. Tell her I’ll break her other leg when I see her.’

  ‘Right ho.’

  ‘Oh, and Richard?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Send her my love. All of it.’

  Richard packed a small bag with a host of emotions crammed into his head. He had been so relieved to have had the contact, albeit indirect, with Sally. Yet he felt somewhat peeved that once again he was at her beck and call. And yet Celia’s lovely voice, her words, had created a hope he had not felt for a long while. Though he was concerned to hear of Sally’s new plight, a part of him was really rather satisfied.

  ‘After all,’ he mused to his toothbrush as he packed it, ‘there is no come-uppance more severe than that dished out by oneself.’

  Catherine had clapped her hands for joy on hearing the news. ‘See, Richard,’ she had said, ‘the time is coming. One way or the other; for better, for worse. It’s what you need. Whatever happens, it will be for the best. And we love you lots.’

  Richard was simultaneously excited and yet filled with dread; he brimmed with sympathy yet boiled with anger. Only the one emotion lay intact, and that was his love for Sally. It was unconditional and that irritated him supremely.

  The journey passed without mishap. He had a surprisingly good sleep and an even more surprisingly good British Rail breakfast. Catching the Oban train at Glasgow, he felt relaxed and fresh and sat back to enjoy the immense scenery of the West Coast. With time to kill in Oban, he browsed through the town and visited the porcelain factory, buying a small seal for Celia, and a penguin for Sally.

  If she’s lucky.

  As the CalMac took him across the water, he hummed ‘Speed Bonny Boat’ and made up his own verses replacing ‘Skye’ with ‘Mull’ and ‘carry the Lad who’s born to be King’ with ‘give me the girl who’s born to be mine’.

  Richard, who had never had sea legs, silently thanked the boat as he left it at Craignure. Filling his lungs with the salt-tinged air, he was swept with a sense of well-being and a feeling that his trip was indeed positive. As he turned to find a taxi, a figure amongst the busying throng caught his eye. Instinctively, he knew she was Aunt Celia and by the smile on her face, she’d recognized him too. She lifted her hand and he responded, sauntering over to her. They contemplated each other quietly for a moment or two before he tipped his head and kissed her cheek, saying it was his true pleasure. Celia said she was delighted.