“Inary . . . there’s something I have to ask you,” Taylor said to me after it was finished. “How did you know?”
I couldn’t answer that one. I just smiled, gave him a peck on the cheek and walked away. Apart from my family, only Alex could ever know about my secret.
“Thank you,” I mouthed in Torcuil’s direction, touching his arm briefly as I went. I needed to be alone.
I wasn’t surprised, as I walked home from the graveyard, when I saw Rose and Mary waiting for me by a birch tree, holding hands. Rose looked herself again, her eyes sparkling blue, her cheeks rosy. I could see the tree through her body now, as if her spirit had got weaker. Maybe she was on her way somewhere else, now. To peace, at last.
They both smiled at me, and I smiled back, my eyes welling up with joy and sadness and relief all mixed up. Mary and Rose were together again; maybe Emily and I would be, one day.
47
Writing on the wall
Inary
When I arrived at the Welly the next day, Logan was grinning to himself.
“Oh, hello! And how are you today?” he chirped. Yes, my brother actually chirped. I eyed him suspiciously.
Good, I scribbled on my notebook.
“That’s great!”
Something was up. I was about to ask, when my answer came through the door, all black wavy hair and eyes the colour of new leaves.
“Hello . . .”
Aisling was carrying a backpack and a camera bag, and this time, she had shoes on.
“Hey . . .” Logan practically melted there, in front of my eyes. He walked over to Aisling, took her in his arms and – shock horror – kissed her!
It was an Irish-woman-induced sort of miracle.
So that’s what all those mysterious calls had been about . . . and the disappearances to the phantom bothies . . . and all the cartons of juice that had materialised in our fridge.
“Hello!” She smiled at me. I was too astonished to even smile back.
“You go up to the house,” Logan said to her. “I won’t be long.”
“Sure,” she replied, and gave him another peck on the lips.
My brother, the dark horse.
So . . . Aisling! I didn’t even know you were in touch!
“Yeah, just didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to jinx it.”
So that explains the change in you . . .
“No. I mean, not completely. I’ve felt better recently, yes. And Aisling helped. But a lot was about having you here.”
I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. Maddeningly, I felt my eyes welling up . . . I was about to write something when suddenly, unexpectedly, Logan threw his arms around me and held me in a tight embrace. The scribbled piece of paper and the pen fell on the floor. A wave of emotion swept me all of a sudden. All the resentment between us, all the words unsaid – the way he blamed me for having left, the way I blamed him for not accepting that I had to go, for making me pay for my decision every single time we spoke . . . everything seemed to disappear, and all the barriers were destroyed. I hid my face against his chest and we remained entwined for a long time.
“A hug fest!” he mocked, but his eyes betrayed his emotion.
*
That afternoon I was on my way home from the shop, walking slowly in the dusky light, when I saw somebody in front of my house – a woman. Her black hair gave her away: it was Mary. She was leaning down, her arm extended . . . holding onto something. There was another shadow, a little one, hanging onto her hand. For a moment, as if a flash had gone off, I saw them both clearly: a dark-haired toddler, with bright eyes and dimpled hands, his wee face turned up in adoration. And Mary – the look of perfect happiness on her features, the pure, joyful, all-encompassing love in her eyes. I’d seen that look before, between Eilidh and Sorley. The toddler must be Mary’s son.
The scene dissolved before my eyes, and I took a long, deep, easy breath. So there was my message, the message Mary was still to give me: that when all seems lost, happiness can still be in store for us. She’d lost Robert, but her life continued. And who knows what her once had been? Robert and the intensity of first love, or Alan and the long years of devotion and family and hardship faced and overcome? Love takes many different forms: it’s not straightforward, like a river to the sea, it’s a winding stream that fights its way on. It was true for Mary. Maybe it could be true for me. But who was to be my once? Who was to be my soulmate, if there was one?
I took my phone out and, all of a sudden, my fingers developed a will of their own and decided to text Alex.
I’ve got to ask you, I typed.
Oh, hello, he replied. What’s up?
You still angry with me?
Why would I be?
For saying it was a mistake. What happened between us. It wasn’t.
I didn’t wait for a reply – my fingers did their own thing. Again.
I think I’m in love with you,
. . . they decided to write. And then they tapped ‘send’, before I could change my mind.
There was nothing, nothing I could do to un-send the message and take my words back.
I felt sick. I’d just told him I loved him. Now I had to wait for the reply. Thank God for technology . . . had we lived in Mary’s times, we would have had to wait weeks for each letter to arrive.
I sat in my kitchen and stared at the phone for five minutes, ten, fifteen. No reply. Twenty minutes passed, then an hour, then two. By then I was pacing up and down, trying to distract myself – but I couldn’t stop my gaze from returning to the phone every few seconds. I checked there was a signal. There was. I checked it worked by sending a text to myself – how pathetic can you get? I got my own text. It definitely worked.
I had to get out. I threw a jacket on and took refuge at La Piazza. I sat at my usual table beside the fire, staring at the phone.
Debora approached me. “Hey sweetie. All okay? You look shattered.” Great, thank you. I nodded, and mouthed double espresso, please.
She came back with a little cup and a gorgeous red velvet cupcake with a gossamer-thin butterfly on it.
“To take the worry away, darling,” she said with a smile. I looked at the cupcake desolately. It was beautiful, but there was no way I could take a bite, my stomach was so knotted up. I raised the coffee to my lips and went to take a sip, when the sound of message notification filled the air. It really filled it, because I had put it on high to make sure I heard it. Two old ladies gave me a dark look and Debora’s cat made a beeline for the back door.
“There he is! He texted you!” called Debora from beyond the counter, smirking.
I was frozen, my cup in mid-air. My hands were trembling as I put the cup down and picked the phone up.
I didn’t want to look.
But I had to.
Can you buy bread + bin liners. Ta.
What?
Shit. It was from Logan. I swept back my hair in frustration. Shit, shit, shit.
I needed to wash my face. I strode to the bathroom in the back – the potpourri of the day was a lovely peach, I couldn’t help noticing – and splashed cold water over my face.
“Your phone beeped again. I think they heard it in Aberdeen, my love,” said Debora as soon as I stepped out.
It did? It beeped again? My heart started racing – maybe it was Logan again, sending me on some other errands – I shouldn’t get my hopes up. I opened the message.
I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you too.
48
My story to tell
Inary
There would be no more werewolves, no thoughts of what publishers might like or not like, of market trends or what gave me the best chances to get published. I had a story inside me, ready to be put onto the page. Like Emily and Alex had said, it was a Glen Avich story, and it had come to me – it had been there for me to see all along. How come it had taken me so long to understand?
It was like a switch going. I opened my soul, and I wrote for hours w
ithout stopping, in a long, blissful gush.
I wrote until dawn broke in the sky. As light began to seep through the curtains, I threw myself on my bed and fell into a deep, contented sleep like I hadn’t had for months.
In the next few weeks I just couldn’t be dragged away from my computer. I even skipped a few Wednesday mornings with Eilidh, as much as I wanted to see her. Every moment I wasn’t working at the shop or talking to Alex, I spent writing. I was eating at the keyboard, stealing a few hours’ sleep at night, and feeling happier than I’d been for a very long time. This incredible sense of release had possessed me, like I’d been thirsty for a lifetime and at last I was allowed to drink. Alex’s love for me and my writing: for the first time in years, I felt sated.
49
Scotland
Alex
I’d had to break up with Sharon. There was no way we could keep going. And as if somehow Inary had sensed it, as if she’d felt I was once more open and ready, in spite of all my fears – in spite of all that happened in the past – she opened up too.
When I got her message, I couldn’t believe it. After all the hope and waiting and love suspended, there we were, at last. Inary and her ghosts and her writing and her little Inary world, the world I desperately wanted to be part of. And finally, I was.
I wanted to be with her straight away; the letters just weren’t enough, nothing was ever enough. I had a few things to sort out first. But it would not be long, now.
50
Spring inside me
Inary
It was the morning of my twenty-sixth birthday. On a breezy, sunny day, one of those late spring days where everything brims with life, I strolled along the loch shore listening to the lapping of the water, wearing Emily’s green silk dress. There was no fear around the loch now, only peace. The little lost girl was home, and so was I. I had felt besieged by death, with my parents and Emily being taken away from me. And now I was overflowing with life.
Alex had told me that he was preparing a surprise for me, and I was too excited to sit still. I was expecting something owl-related of course, but Alex had given strange hints and clues that I couldn’t quite decipher.
The time had come to make a decision. I felt in my heart I couldn’t go back to London, that my place was here – I’d had to go away to realise where my home truly was. But Alex was in London. And I couldn’t lose him, not again. I knew that sooner or later we’d have to face the small matter that there was a day of driving between us, or a plane flight and neither of us wanted to be so far away.
But just the idea of leaving Glen Avich again broke my heart.
Also, I was scared of going back somewhere as big as London without being able to speak. I’d been silent for months now, and there was no sign of my voice coming back. How could I negotiate my old life without talking? Here, everyone knew me. I could go to Peggy’s shop and to La Piazza, I could spend time with Eilidh and my old friends, work in Logan’s shop, negotiate every aspect of life relatively easily. If I went back to London, I would feel lost.
And my stories to tell. My stories were here.
*
I clutched my phone and sent him the text I had prepared, words that had come straight out of my heart. I had to tell him how I felt about Glen Avich. No more birthdays away from here.
This is my home. I don’t want to leave it again. I love you with all my heart x
My heart was in my throat as I waited for the reply. I was dreading an I’ll never want to live in the back of beyond; I was hoping for a let’s talk about it . . .
I certainly did not expect what I got.
Ready for your birthday present?
Oh. Talk about changing the subject . . .
Yes, of course! x
You’ll have it in twenty minutes.
What? As in, a parcel will arrive in twenty minutes? Should I go home and wait for the courier?
What do you mean? I asked.
I mean I’m at the station.
He’s where?
What station?
The sign says Glen Avich.
*
I don’t think anyone ever ran the distance between Loch Avich and the train station as fast as I did that late spring day.
A chilly wind blew from the loch, and daffodils and crocuses were blooming all around, splashes of colours here and there, after the grey of winter.
I passed Maggie and Liz, about to step into Peggy’s shop. I could just imagine the conversation – I just saw Inary, she was running down the Way like the Devil was at her heels! I wonder what’s up with her now . . . I passed Eilidh and little Sorley in the play park, sitting on the bench – Eilidh jerked her head sharply to see who was running behind the fence, and she smiled and waved as she saw me. Strange, in my excited thoughts they had become like an ancient carving, or a Renaissance painting – a mother and child tableaux.
Laughter sprang from my chest, exhilarated by the running and by the knowledge he was there, there waiting for me already . . .
I spotted his familiar frame – the blue jacket I’d seen a million times, his old tattered rucksack by his side, his strong shoulders and his hands, one burrowed in his black hair – he was anxious, I could feel it. I wanted to call his name, but I couldn’t. I stopped, suddenly shy, panting with the effort. I’d been so sure I’d run straight into his arms, but for some reason, I stopped.
We stood in front of each other, awkward and happy and shy and longing, longing. His face broke into a smile, and the sight of his joy in seeing me brought tears to my eyes.
“Inary . . .”
We were together at last, and it could have happened years ago, it should have happened years ago, had I not lost myself, had I not been too busy wandering in the labyrinths of my mind, instead of living. His arms were around me, his face close to mine – how many times I’d inhaled his scent, his Alex-scent – our lips were meeting for the second time, but this time we belonged. I had expected tenderness, and there was tenderness, but not only – my knees went and I felt a rush of desire. I wanted everything to be inside me, the hills and the sky and the spring blooms and Alex. I was hungry for life and for love and for all the time I’d lost and I wanted back.
I wanted to be held and kissed and I wanted to write, and I wanted to laugh and be Inary. And be here, be home.
“Inary . . .” he whispered – how come I’d never noticed how beautiful, how deep his voice was – his accent had always felt familiar in London, surrounded by unfamiliar voices. “I never want to be away from you again.”
From over his shoulder, I caught a glimpse of a woman standing looking at us. The glare was so strong that I couldn’t make out her features. Some Glen Avich nosy biddy, I thought at once. Two people kissing in the station, in plain daylight, in front of the whole village – they’d dine out on that (or tea out on that more like) for months. But then I felt the familiar tingling in my limbs, and cold spreading on my shoulders – someone was behind me, someone who wasn’t alive. Mary, for sure.
I disentangled myself from Alex’s arms and stood, looking at her. It wasn’t Mary.
It was Emily, my Emily, standing a few feet away from us, smiling.
She waved, and then she turned away to lose herself in the hills of our home.
I opened my mouth, and for the first time in months, I spoke; I spoke the words that had been choking me all along.
“Goodbye, Emily.”
Epilogue
The dead have been seen alive
The streets of Glen Avich, its woods and hills and the waters of its loch, are full of stories that will not be forgotten. Simple stories of love and strife and rainy days and weddings and illnesses and children playing and men and women making love, the threads of families and lives past woven before my eyes. The men and women who lived and died before me, some of whom share my blood – the tears they cried, their laughter, the days babies were born and the days loved ones died, the love and hate, the joys and separations are written all over these wal
ls, tangled in the trees, rising from the soil like mist.
I hear the stories as I walk, every step a whisper; I see them carved in stone and swirling in corners like whirlpools, waiting to be untangled. I gather them in my hands, they trail after me and envelop me, waiting, wanting to be told. Everywhere I turn I see them, the people who were here before, and they call to me. I see spirits in the children’s eyes – I see into their blood as if I were reading a book. I see every generation gone. My dreams might tell the future, but the dead come to me so that the past is not forgotten. I cherish every day and night when the dead have been seen alive, because these are the stories for me to tell.
COPYRIGHT
First published 2013
by Black & White Publishing Ltd
29 Ocean Drive, Edinburgh EH6 6JL
www.blackandwhitepublishing.com
This electronic edition published in 2013
ISBN: 978 1 84502 768 1 in EPub format
ISBN: 978 1 84502 746 9 in paperback format
Copyright © Daniela Sacerdoti 2013
The right of Daniela Sacerdoti to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.
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