31
Rivers of time
Inary
“You ready?”
I nodded. Taylor opened the car door for me. It was a cold Thursday, a throwback to winter, and I was all wrapped up in a scarf and a red beret.
“What are we looking for today?”
I grabbed my notebook. Marriage records.
“Right. We need to find out who Mary Gibson was married to?”
Yes. Thanks for doing this, Taylor.
“No problem. I can’t think of a better way to spend my free time than sitting in a library.”
I laughed, and he looked at me, surprised. “I’m not joking. I’m an archaeologist, remember? We love this kind of thing.”
As we drove, I stole a glimpse of his profile. He was squinting in the winter sunlight, his hair golden, a hint of freckles on his nose . . . and beyond him, the infinite shades of browns and purples of the landscape darting to each side of us. My heart tightened all of a sudden, and I wasn’t sure why – what thought, what memory had just hurt me, like a jab in my side? Oh, yes, of course. The colours. Alex. I wondered what he was doing, if his life had kept going, while mine seemed to have halted. On replay, like a groundhog day. Suspended.
Lucy was very happy to see us. Okay, she was very happy to see Taylor. She showed us into the archives room again and wished us luck. We needed it, because three hours later we were still scouring documents. The marriage records for Glen Avich, for some reason, were grouped together with ones from Kilronan and Kinnear – that made a lot of documents.
“Tea and a scone?” Lucy peeked in.
“Let me guess. Your mum made them?” said Taylor.
Lucy blushed and giggled. “She did, yes! Good day for you to come.”
On you go, I’m good, I wrote.
“Won’t be a minute,” said Taylor, following Lucy next door.
Left alone, I sat back into my chair and sighed. I knew I was becoming obsessed with Mary and her story, but it was something to distract me from the constant ache in my heart. And I couldn’t help thinking that I was meant to find out more about her.
After a few minutes, Taylor walked back in with a cup of tea and a scone. I made an inquisitive face, remembering the librarian’s words on our first day: food and drink were not permitted in the Heritage room.
“She likes me,” he whispered. “So she let me bring this in for you.”
I smiled and dug in.
“Wait, Inary. Is that not . . .” Taylor pointed at the screen. “Look, Mary Gibson . . .”
I sat up, alert. There had been a few false alarms – apparently Mary Gibson was a common name–surname combination at the time . . .
“Mary Gibson, born 1 October 1895 . . . that’s her!”
I nodded frantically and scrolled down. Married to Alan Monteith . . . Monteith, my own name! But . . . Alan? Not Robert?
“High five!” He offered me his open palm. I slapped it with mine, laughing. He was so . . . American, at times, in an expansive, funny way. He always dragged a smile out of me. “Looks like you’re related. Of course,” he said, “you’re related to everyone! I’m surprised that you don’t have three legs and one eye in the middle of your forehead . . .” I couldn’t help laughing. He had a point – everybody was related around here. Thank goodness for newcomers . . .
I nodded, taking note of the document. The excitement of the find was beginning to wear down as it was sinking in: Mary and Robert hadn’t married, in the end. Robert broke up with Mary for good. He must have married Anna, the beautiful woman from my vision, and Mary married Alan Monteith.
“Are we finished here?”
I nodded, feeling a bit deflated.
“Thanks for this, Lucy,” he said to the young librarian and actually winked. He winked. I rolled my eyes, but I thought it was funny.
“Oh, you’re going already? When will I see you again? I mean, is there anything else I can do . . . ?”
“I’m sure we’ll be back,” said Taylor.
“I’ll see you again, then,” Lucy replied. Subtle.
There had been no happy ending for Mary and Robert, then. She’d given him her soul, like I’d given mine to Lewis. And when they went, there was nothing left of us, nothing but a little spark, threatening to be extinguished any second. Gone was the strength and the joy and the hope of happiness.
You shouldn’t have loved him as much as you did, Mary. This is what happens when you love too much, when you love at all, I thought sadly.
32
In search of a heart
Alex
Everything was going great. And then she mentioned Scotland.
Sharon and I had spent the day in Hyde Park, and then we’d gone back to mine; she’d cooked some mezze for me, and we put music on, and it was all good . . . until she asked me when I planned to go home next.
The vision of a city with a volcano in the middle and a stony castle on top of it appeared in front of my eyes. And more: windy hills and moors and heavy skies and endless beaches – home.
And in a weird way, home was Inary.
The spell was broken. I was distracted for the rest of the night – I could see the worry in Sharon’s face, and I hated myself for causing her pain. Was I stringing her along, had Inary been stringing me along, both of us unwittingly? Was this some sort of misery dance, where each one of us was bound to one another in a set choreography, and each one of us was destined to get hurt?
It was just typical that after having spent the whole evening with Sharon, it had to be Inary who came to me in my dreams. I dreamt of an afternoon we’d spent in Regent’s Park, at the open-air theatre. I was still at the stage where I thought there could be something between us, before I realised how determined she was to keep our bond within the realms of friendship. Or within the realms of torture, depending on the point of view.
In my dream, every detail came back to me like it had happened yesterday. She was sitting beside me, reading the programme, an aqua-coloured cardigan folded on her lap and auburn tendrils wrapped around her ears like seaweed around a shell. She was wearing a short flowery dress in the tones of green, teal and blue, to bring out the startling, pure blue of her eyes. The setting sun shone on her hair, making it shimmer copper and gold. In my dream I could even smell her scent, sun cream and something flowery, like her dress. Her presence beside me – tenderness and excitement and the promise of soft skin – and the dreamy scenes of A Midsummer Night’s Dream melted together, and by the time it was finished I was in a dream too.
And then the dream turned strange. Inary touched my face and leaned in to kiss me – but in the fraction of a second before our lips met she began to vanish, like a vision. Like the fantasy she’d always been.
Beside me there was an empty plastic chair, the programme bent and muddy at my feet, and no sign of Inary.
She was gone.
This was our reality now, whether I liked it or not. Inary was away on the other side of the country, miles and miles away from me. We’d been blown apart – no, wait. We were never together.
33
Colliding
Inary
I opened my eyes in full light – strange for me, I usually woke up a lot earlier than that. The dream had been so real, so powerful.
I hadn’t thought of that night in a long time: the night Alex and I went to see A Midsummer Night’s Dream. That night at the theatre I was unaware of just about everything but the fact that it had been my birthday the day before and Lewis hadn’t called. I didn’t want him to call, but it was surreal. It seemed impossible that I would not speak to him on my birthday. Or ever again.
Like I had woken up in a nightmare.
In the days leading up to that birthday I’d been frantically active, unable to stop – work, shopping, exercise classes I hated, clubbing – anything but being alone and thinking about what a mess my life was. I was exhausted, and my activity overload hadn’t had the effect I’d hoped anyway – my mind was still working constantly, tak
ing me to lonely, wintry places. So I welcomed Alex’s invitation to spend yet another night out of the house, trying to distract myself. Alex’s presence calmed me. Even just hearing his voice relaxed me, gave me respite from the chaos of my emotions. Apparently, he had the same effect on a lot of people.
It was a peaceful evening. I nearly felt happy again for a few moments – not quite, but nearly. After the play we went for an evening walk, eating chips from a newspaper cone – we laughed about being able to read the paper on our fish. When he took me home and left me on the doorstep I remember feeling truly bereft. I wanted him to come in with me and help me forget, but I stopped myself. And I should have stopped myself that other time, too.
In my dream I relived the whole night, still frame after still frame of calm companionship and easy joy.
When I woke up I expected to see the lilac walls of my London room, and to hear the low noise of traffic through the window. It took me a few seconds to realise I wasn’t in London, but in my Glen Avich home, and Alex was so, so far away.
34
Headland
Inary
I made a little calendar with the days left to Lesley’s arrival – and every morning I crossed one day off. I just couldn’t wait. Finally, the day was here, and she had sent me a text to say she was only an hour away.
When I saw Lesley’s car appear at the bottom of the street – I’d been checking at the window every ten minutes since she’d texted me – I ran downstairs and started waving like a windmill. She didn’t even have time to get completely out of the car before I was holding her tight, breathing in the sweet vanilla scent that was her signature.
“I missed you!” she said, as we did a little hug-dance in the street. “Let me look at you.” She held me at arm’s length, her hands on my shoulders. “You’ve lost weight . . .”
I need a curry of yours, I wanted to say, but I couldn’t. I’m fine, I mouthed instead. Her eyes grew sad all of a sudden. Yes, still not talking, I’m afraid. She knew about that, of course, but I could imagine how it was still a shock for her to see it with her own eyes.
Don’t worry, I mouthed. But I knew she wouldn’t be reassured.
“Oh, Inary . . .” she said and hugged me again. I smiled and shrugged, trying to pretend that it was fine, that I’d got used to it.
We carried her luggage inside – two suitcases for a weekend! That was the Lesley I knew and loved. I gave her the present I’d prepared for her – a necklace made by Jamie McAnena – and she ooohed and aaahed over it just like I’d hoped. Then she took out something from her bag. “For you,” she said, and handed me a gift wrapped in red polka dot tissue paper and tied with white ribbon. I opened it carefully, minding not to rip the lovely paper. It was a teddy bear dressed like a Queen’s Guard, tall hat, red uniform and all.
“To remind you of your home in London,” she said, and we both had tears in our eyes. And there were more tears to come, because I had to give her something too.
I took Lesley’s hand and led her into Emily’s room. I opened the little drawer at the side of her bed and I took out her bright-green iPod. I handed it to Lesley.
“Is this . . . was this Emily’s?” she asked, taking it gently from my hand.
I leaned on Emily’s desk to write. It’s all her music. She said that you should have it.
Lesley brought her hand to her mouth, choked.
“Thank you,” she said finally. “I’ll treasure it.”
*
Half an hour later we were at the Green Hat in front of two vodka oranges.
“So what’s the story with your voice?” Her forehead creased in a frown.
I shrugged and looked down. I hated to see her so worried for me. And I was afraid she’d try and convince me to go to the doctor again. I wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet.
“God, what do you do for trauma? Therapy? Anti-depressants?”
I shook my head. Time, I wrote.
“Honey, it’s been three months . . .” A pause, then a sharp intake of breath. “You’re not coming back to London, are you?”
Oh. I wasn’t expecting that question. I don’t know. Logan is on his own. Haven’t resigned from my job yet. If I do stay, I’ll give you notice, for the flat I mean.
“Don’t worry about that. I understand.” There was another moment of silence, and then: “Is that the one Alex sent you?” she asked, pointing at my notebook.
I smiled. Yes.
“I spoke to him yesterday.”
I just didn’t know what to say to that. Did he know you were coming to see me?
“Yes. But he didn’t say anything.”
Oh.
“By the way . . . I think he’s seeing someone. I’m not sure, though . . .”
I blinked once, twice. A firework of confusion exploded in my head, so that I couldn’t make out what Lesley said next.
Sorry, what did you say?
“I said I think Alex is seeing someone. This girl at work, Sharon. I’m not a hundred per cent sure they’re together as such, but I saw them together recently and there was definitely something there. Probably just as well, Inary. You couldn’t keep toing and froing, the two of you.”
The fireworks kept going off, and I desperately tried to silence them before Lesley noticed. I was furious at myself for feeling that way. I’d refused a relationship with Alex. He was free to see whoever he wanted. Actually, it was supposed to be a relief for me. I was trying to put distance between us, wasn’t I? Alex had to be celibate forever and keep pining, otherwise I’d get upset. Selfish and completely absurd.
So good to have you here, I wrote, trying to smile back. Like everything was good. Like I really didn’t have feelings about Alex at all, secret or otherwise.
*
We all went out to Kinnear together, Lesley, Logan, Taylor and I. My head was somewhere else. I couldn’t help it. I kept thinking of Alex seeing . . . that girl. I couldn’t bring myself to say her name.
“I got a call from Lucy earlier,” said Taylor as we were left alone for a minute.
Who? I mouthed.
“Lucy, the librarian, remember?”
I smiled. So you gave her your phone number! Smooth, I wrote on my notebook. Clearly my rejection had left him heartbroken . . .
“Not like that! I mean, not as such. She said in case she found out something else that might interest us . . .”
And what did she find out? I wrote, suddenly alert.
“She told me there’s somewhere else we can look for information.”
I nodded, encouraging him to continue.
“Do you know the Ramsays, from Glen Avich?”
Oh yes. They’re cousins of mine. On my mother’s side.
Taylor laughed. “Of course! I should have guessed! Well, apparently Lord Ramsay is a patron of the library. Lucy did some work for them in her own time, cataloguing stuff. She said they’re big into local history . . .”
Lord Ramsay . . . Torcuil, I mean . . . was at Emily’s funeral. I have his number, I wrote, taking out my phone.
“Do you want me to phone him?”
Would you mind?
“No problem. Give me your phone . . .”
Ten minutes later, he stepped back into the club. “Torcuil is in London right now, but he will get in touch when he’s back,” he smiled. “By the way, Lucy said, for your voice . . . have you tried anchovies?”
*
Later, Lesley and I sneaked out to get chips from the Golden Palace. We ate them sitting in the St Colman gardens, just the two of us. It would have been perfect, had my mind not insisted on going back to Alex every two minutes. I had a horrible suspicion I’d met that girl once. Horrible, because if she was the girl I remembered, tall and dark with silky hair that fell in waves across her shoulders, she was beautiful.
I’d messed up, hadn’t I?
“You know, the flat is just empty without you, Inary . . .” Lesley said.
Empty without my mess, you mean! I wrote, laughing, leaving a tin
y mark of chip grease on the page. I realised that that notebook held the whole story of the last three months – each word, each stain, each mark, held a memory. My whole life in a notebook, its pages battered, its leather cover scratched, stains of tea and grass and make-up, telling the story of my days.
Lesley sighed. “I’d take the mess any day, to have you back.”
35
It will be soon
Inary
“I’d love to come up this summer, maybe with Kamau . . . You won’t be able to get rid of me!” Lesley’s smile had a touch of sadness to it. Again there would be nearly the whole of Britain between us.
You know you’ll always be my best friend anyway. Distance doesn’t matter, I wrote, then took her hands in mine, negotiating our muffins and cappuccinos.
“When I’m rich and famous I’m going to buy a holiday home here. No, seriously! Scotland is amazing. Alex always said he wasn’t planning on coming back to Scotland to live, ever again . . .” I looked down. “. . . but weirdly enough, a while ago he told me just the opposite. That he missed Scotland. He missed being near his family.”
My heart skipped a beat.
“He said he’d looked up the exact distance between Glen Avich and London: five hundred and twenty-three miles.”
Oh, I mouthed. What else did he say?
“That it was an awful long way.”
I’m sure Sharon will fill the void, I wrote, a bitter taste in my mouth.
Take Me Home Page 18