by Meg Carter
Scotland, she remembers, reaching for the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Zeb?’ It is a Scottish voice, male, which she cannot place.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me, Fraser. I’m in reception downstairs.’
‘Fraser? Sorry, I must have dozed off—’
‘No, I’m sorry – to wake you, I mean. I’ll come back later.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ she says. ‘Wait. I’ll only be a minute.’
For she has had an idea. The thought of returning to the Duffys’ place, later, in search of Anna Dee has been playing on her mind. She’s come too far to give up, yet is fearful of meeting the landlady’s son; terrified, too, of being invited inside. But maybe Fraser can help her. By accompanying her back, perhaps he could take a message to the door. News that she has come, and a suggestion they meet somewhere neutral.
‘Fraser, I need your help,’ she begins a short while later, as they sit at the McLellans bar. She is eating a lunch so late it’s almost high tea – a toasted sandwich with a glass of sparkling water. He has just ordered a beer.
I believe I can trust you, her instinct says.
‘Shoot,’ he says, topping up her ice-filled glass from a bottle of carbonated Highland Spring.
‘I need to see Anna. But there’s someone else who lives in the house I’d rather not see – not Mrs Duffy, but her son.’
‘Davy Duffy?’ Fraser looks thoughtful. ‘Oh he’s all right, really. Though I can see your point – he doesn’t usually venture very far.’
‘What do you mean?’ Zeb asks, wiping mayonnaise from her lips with a paper napkin.
‘He’s not quite right in the head, you know? It’s sad, really. I mean he never seemed that screwed up as a kid, just a bit slow. Always preferred being off on his own in the woods rather than hanging out with other kids. Then in his teens he got into a bit of trouble, nothing serious at first – peeping Tom stuff, petty theft – until he ended up with a conviction for burglary. He tried to kill himself in prison—’
Zeb says nothing.
‘When he came out he went back to live with his mother and after that was rarely seen at all,’ Fraser continues. ‘It seemed kind of strange when Mrs Duffy took in a lodger, but as it turned out the piano teacher had a real way with him – even taught him music. He didn’t get very far with that, of course, but his mother once told me it made him calmer and brought him out of himself. Finally, he seemed to be getting his head back together – at least until a couple of weeks ago.
A gobbet of something leaden has lodged in Zeb’s throat and though she swallows hard, she fails to shift it. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He just flipped all of a sudden, apparently. Killed his dog first – left it in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor – then slashed his wrists.’
Zeb closes her eyes but this only makes her feel worse for now the room feels as if it’s spinning. Worse, in her mind’s eye she can see the man clearly crouched beside his dog, staring up at her in fury while on the stone tiles the blood pooled in the shape of a full-blown rose.
His mother had begged him to stop, but it was as if he couldn’t hear or wouldn’t listen. And then, by the time he sprang towards her, it was as if he’d lost all reason.
Hurtling out of the kitchen, she turned a sharp left into the woman’s downstairs bathroom and slammed the door. She cowered in the corner, her imagination supplementing what her ears struggled to decode. The approach of footsteps. Fists pounding the door. Then his mother’s outdoor boots clattering across the flag stones. Her attempts to pull him away.
No. Please God no, Davy! Then, as the pair retreated into the kitchen, a more soothing tone. Give me your hands, there’s a good boy. Now let me bind them.
Zeb opened the bathroom door and poked out her head. The dimly lit hallway was empty; the front door at its end just open. With head down and feet pounding she ran, propelled by the knowledge there was just one chance; determined not to slow her pace – even to grab her coat. Until she burst outside into the darkness, an iron world encased in snow. The cold made her body brace.
‘Zeb?’
‘I’m all right, really.’
‘No you’re not,’ he counters, gently. ‘How can I help?’
‘It’s hard to know where to start,’ she mumbles.
‘At the beginning?’
But where is that, exactly? Zeb wonders. The break-in at the flat? Her last trip to Scotland? The funeral, or before? She shrugs. ‘I guess it all begins with Dad.’
‘Doesn’t it always?’ Fraser smiles. ‘Sorry, go on.’
‘He brought me up after my mum died. And we were really close, you know? But then when I left university… well, he and I had different ideas about what I should do. I moved to London, a place he’d hated and left long ago. And it was fun. I had lots of different jobs. Travelled a lot, with friends. We didn’t grow apart exactly – he was always there for me, helped me buy my first flat… But I guess looking back I always knew deep down, I suppose, that he disapproved of the choices I made…’
‘That’s tough,’ Fraser concurs when, reaching the part about balancing caring for Matty with working at the gallery – the job Dad found her – she pauses for breath. ‘Raising a kid on your own.’
‘Not really alone. We share custody, and Dad was always happy to help…’ Zeb presses on, defensively. He doesn’t understand, that’s all. Now is her chance to explain.
‘Anyway, earlier this year when Dad died a woman got in touch with me claiming to be an old family friend. She sent me this box of bits and pieces from when I was little, and other stuff I didn’t recognise, along with a letter in which she told me my mum is still alive.’ She falters as the thought of the letter she found at Dad’s place, what this could mean, and the implicit suggestion of a side of life Dad might have tried to conceal, makes her eyes well. ‘The point being that all my life Dad lied.’
Fraser nods. ‘So can’t you ask the woman – the one who sent you the letter – to explain what she means?’
‘That’s the thing,’ Zeb sighs. ‘I’d like to and that’s why I came.’
He nods. ‘Anna Dee?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well that’s easily enough sorted,’ Fraser smiles.
‘Actually, it’s complicated.’
‘Try me, I’m an expert at puzzles.’
Zeb juggles with what excuse will sound most convincing. ‘It’s Davy.’
‘Ah, well I’ll grant you he looks pretty intimidating, but really he’s—’
‘Would you speak to Anna for me?’ Zeb says suddenly. ‘Arrange a place other than Mrs Duffy’s where she and I can meet?’
‘Is that all? Sure, of course.’
‘That would be great. Really. Thank you.’
Fraser drains the last of his beer. ‘Then what?’ he asks. ‘I mean, once you’ve seen Anna. Will you track down your mum?’
‘I guess I just want to find out… why she left me.’ Zeb bites her lip, for this is something she’s yet to fully think through. What will she do if she discovers from Anna her mum really is alive? How will she feel? ‘It’s important – to me, at least. More important than ever now Dad’s gone, I guess. It’s about where I came from, who I am.’ She rubs her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Does that make sense?’
When at last Fraser speaks his voice is quiet. ‘It does, though I can’t say I’d do the same—’
Zeb starts to interrupt but pauses as he holds up his hand.
‘I never knew either of my parents,’ he says, ignoring the change in her from surprise to contrition. ‘We were adopted, me and my sister, when we were babies. By a couple who couldn’t have kids of their own. We were loved and happy, too – even when they eventually told us the truth. Because by then I knew it didn’t matter. I was who I was – and still am – because of the life I had led rather than some hand-me-down genetic blueprint. So when the law changed and I had the chance to find out about my real parents I knew what I had to do
– or, rather, not do. I did nothing. They didn’t want me and I didn’t need them. Trust me, Zeb, you’re better off not knowing. Because knowing is, well, irrelevant.’
Anger burns away the tears that have been welling in Zeb’s eyes. He is so wrong, she thinks, but she lacks the words to structure a coherent defence.
‘No,’ she insists. What does Fraser know about her life, Dad, their family? How dare he. ‘It is important. It does matter.’ She sniffs. ‘Well, it matters to me.’
‘Don’t be cross,’ he soothes. ‘I’m not judging, honest. Look, of course I’ll help.’
She turns towards him. Thank you, she wants to say but before she can he touches her hand. Her skin tingles. His face creases into a smile as the gulf between them closes.
* * *
They emerge from the hotel a short while later to find the wind has dropped and patchwork clouds are hanging high against a limpid sky. It is cold, though, and as they cross the car park at the hotel’s rear Zeb buries her hands deep into the fleecy lining of her jacket pockets.
They have decided to walk back up to the Duffys’ place and as they traverse the village centre past the empty pub, Fraser loops his arm through hers. The moment seems charged. On the far side of the road, he tells her, they will take the right-hand track that leads up the hill to the north of the village where the Round House will be visible through a wall of ragged trees. But the incline seems steeper than it did driving in Fraser’s van, and soon after starting their ascent Zeb is hot-cheeked and short of breath.
‘Tell me about Matty,’ he prompts, as she frees her arm from his and slips into step slightly behind. ‘Short for Matthew, right?’
Out of breath already, all Zeb can do is nod.
‘How old is he?’
‘Seven.’
‘Same as Evie! It’s a fun age.’
Zeb grins. ‘He had an imaginary pet rabbit for a while which he had to take with him everywhere, even in the bath. But that was before Star Wars.’
‘Star Wars?’
‘Now it’s Finn and BB-8.’
‘On the way to school? In the park?’
‘Everywhere,’ she smiles. ‘The boy’s obsessed!’
‘Evie, too. And not just with Rey. She’s got five lightsabers.’
As they draw level with the Round House’s garden, Fraser pauses by the rough stone wall, moss-veined and shoulder height, which marks the boundary with the public right of way.
‘Wait here,’ he says as Zeb draws level.
Peering over the wall at the front of the house, Zeb spots a broad figure standing in the open doorway of an outhouse to the left of the main building. Quickly she ducks down and out of view.
‘Are you OK?’ Fraser asks.
‘All good,’ she answers, lightly, hoping he does not notice her clenched fists.
Cautiously peeking over the wall Zeb watches as Fraser passes through the gate then climbs the drive to the three stone steps leading to the front door. The clouds twist and turn like wringing hands. The morning has turned even colder and the occasional fleck of rain feels more like snow. Adjusting her hat, she shakes her arms and stamps her feet to get the blood circulating.
Looking towards the outhouse, Zeb sees that Davy has disappeared from view. Refocusing on Fraser, she watches as he pauses at the bottom step before reaching out to grasp the ancient metal knocker. A moment later, the front door opens just enough for Mrs Duffy and him to exchange pleasantries.
An engine burst signals the ascent of a car from the valley below as the driver changes gear. Please, God, let Anna be there, Zeb wills, as she scrutinises their body language for any clue. But then, almost as if in answer, the woman is shaking her head and stepping back into the darkness. As the car rounds the bend to her left, she realises the road merges to a single track just before the point at which she is standing.
There is ample room for the vehicle to pass and sufficient time for anyone to see her and brake, she figures, yet the driver does neither. Without slowing, a four-by-four screams past her with just inches to spare, forcing Zeb to flatten herself against the wall. It is a silver BMW, like the one she saw at Dad’s and outside the flat in London. But, the driver’s apparent lack of interest in her means it cannot be the same one, she decides.
She brushes shards of stone and fragments of lichen from the sleeves of her jacket. She is shaken but unharmed. Mystified, too, by what kind of an emergency could make someone drive so recklessly. But the car is gone, leaving the road empty, the morning silent. And it is only then that Zeb raises her head and sees, with a surge of excitement, that Fraser has not moved. He is waiting, and the Duffy’s front door still stands wide.
Zeb crosses her fingers as a slender woman appears in the doorway. Though she is too far away to see properly, Zeb is sure this is Anna, and words from her letter begin to soar and dive inside her head.
She thinks of Wendy and the morning Dad told her they were to be married. The way his dark eyes that never missed a trick had been incapable of meeting hers. How the tension in his jaw had made his lips as taut as wire. She’d noticed how his thick, dark hair was fading to grey at each temple. It was the first time in her life he’d seemed vulnerable to the passing of time.
Back then, Zeb had assumed this was all about how Dad feared his daughter would take the news of Wendy finally, formally, becoming her stepmother. Now she is not so sure. Wendy had been a part of their lives for almost five years by then and she and Zeb had grown close. But now, looking back on it, it strikes her as strange to think that Dad could have had any doubts about his daughter’s reaction to his putting their relationship on a more formal footing, unless he felt guilty in some way for betraying his first love.
‘All sorted.’
Zeb’s eyes snap open.
Tomorrow at midday – not long to wait, Fraser explains, pausing briefly to blow into his hands. She’s suggested meeting somewhere discreet – a tea room a short drive away at a Forestry Commission-run place. Then he thrusts his hands deep inside his jacket pockets, leaving his left one elbow kinked enough for Zeb to slip her own arm through.
‘I don’t know about you, but I could murder a drink,’ he grins. ‘Coming?’
* * *
Beauloch’s stone-clad pub, The Crofter, sits on the far side of the crossroads opposite the village post office which doubles up as a convenience store. On its far side is a modern extension with floor-to-ceiling windows – to sustain a promise of every table having a panoramic view, perhaps. Not this evening, though. It’s dark, and the low cloud has brought with it flurries of snow.
Zeb thinks of a painting she once saw of a late-night American diner – though the scene now before her is like an inverted pastiche of it.
This bar may also stand out from the inky blackness, but rather than providing sanctuary to a couple of loners, its interior is alive with the buzz of animated chatter. Dozens of customers – locals and outsiders alike – stand shoulder to shoulder, talking and drinking, as they must have since daylight faded. Who are all these people and where have they come from? she wonders.
Fraser opens the door with a dramatic flourish as he ushers her inside.
‘So, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’ he asks a few minutes later, placing a pint of Guinness and an orange juice and lemonade on the table.
Zeb grins. There is something about this soft drink that will mark the start of the next beginning, she has decided, determined to prove to the world – Richard, especially – that she is OK. She raises her glass in thanks, though toasts in silence.
To the new me.
They are in the Garden Room at the far end of the bar where drafts from the windows make the tealights flicker. The cramped annex is filled with glass-topped tables and wicker chairs, with each cluster of seats carefully positioned to look out at the view. However, this early evening, the only thing visible is the outline of a nearby clump of conifers. Prime position for an approaching storm, Zeb notes as a gust of wind rat
tles the window by her side.
Fraser is now wearing faded jeans and a thick plaid shirt which he’s rolled to the elbows, revealing a white long-sleeved T-shirt beneath. Without his padded coat, Zeb can see his body is slim but muscular – from mountain running, he has explained. With his high cheekbones and sculpted jawline he has a strong face. Though the fact she’s noticed all this now makes Zeb awkward.
‘How do you know Anna?’ she asks.
‘She teaches Evie piano.’
‘Local?’
’No, a southerner, like you.’
‘But after the referendum, isn’t Scotland—’
He smiles. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘So she didn’t grow up here?’
‘I think from what Jeanette said she moved here ten, maybe fifteen years ago. I was living in London at the time, so I’m not sure. What I do know is that she’s always lodged where she lives now, though – Aileen Duffy is an old family friend.’
A roar of laughter from the far end of the bar distracts for a moment as they turn towards a group of men in padded shirts and waterproof trousers sitting around a table crammed with a dozen or more empty pint glasses. They are exchanging jokes as they wait for the sixth member of their party to return from the bar with yet another round of drinks. Fraser rolls his eyes at Zeb.
‘Friends of yours?’
‘Contemporaries, I guess,’ he winces. ‘We all went to the same school, though I managed to get away.’
‘A lucky escape?’
‘For a while, I guess.’ He shifts in his seat. Leaning across the table he reaches out to touch her hand. Staring at his fingers, she is too surprised to move her hand away. ‘You’re very pretty, you know.’ His forefinger draws a fleeting circle on the inside of her wrist. ‘Sorry, you don’t mind me saying that, do you?’
‘No, I don’t mind at all,’ she exclaims.
Raised voices once more interrupt them, though this time from the opposite side of the room where another group of men are standing by the side exit leading to the Gents. It is the sound of heckling as their target – a long-limbed figure in a navy boiler suit – sways clumsily into view. He must be at least six foot tall, she reckons. And as he makes his way through the throng of people, a number of drinkers jeer until he disappears from view.