by Lynne Chitty
“Hi Edith how you doing?”
The carer she liked the most, Lara, swept into her room, a book under her arm and a tray in her hands. Edith hauled herself upright and after her daily wash looked to see what treasure Lara had brought. She was interested in the book more than the food. She ate because she had to, she read because she wanted to. No prizes for guessing where Eliza got her love of words from. Food like the tablets she took kept her alive. Books kept her sane. At least she thought they did and if they didn’t they at least made madness bearable.
“Got you something a bit different this week” Lara said pleased with herself. “It’s set in Venice and called Miss Garnet’s Angel. It’s by a woman called Sally Vickers. Anyway it was being handed back in just as I walked past the desk and the lady was raving about it so I grabbed it for you. Brought you a Belgian bun to go with it, thought you could go all European today.” She smiled.
Edith smiled back. Lara was the youngest of the three carers who took it in turns to help her. She was barely twenty yet she was as thoughtful as a daughter might be. Fun too with her pierced eye brows and bottle red hair. She was a one off. Complete opposite of her real daughter who would never even wear a red jumper let alone dye her hair. Sensible you could describe Eliza’s dress sense. Flat shoes,full length skirts. Plain blouses and jumpers. You would never be able to guess what season it is was by Eliza’s clothes. Edith suddenly felt sorry for her daughter. She had missed out. She had never been young, In years yes, but in spirit never. She hadn’t travelled.Never gone to parties or raves or whatever it was that kids went to. She realised with horror that as a mother she had been selfish. She hadn’t encouraged Eliza enough. She had been glad, even manipulated her into staying in with her. Or going out with her to the pictures. Even bingo once or twice. No wonder she had never met anyone or even made any real friends. It was her fault. Everything was all her fault. She screamed inside with a bitterness as vicious as her son. As Lara called out goodbye, the walls began to close in on her and the terror of what had happened unleashed itself again. I’m sorry Eliza. I’m so sorry she howled as tears wracked her body until she barely had the strength to breathe.
ELEVEN
ELIZA
Eliza had just put her book down ready to turn off the light when a note was pushed under her door. It was from Pete reminding her that the mini bus would be leaving for Portree for the Half Marathon at 7.45 in the morning.The hotel had agreed to do an early buffet breakfast for the runners which would be available from seven.No pressure it said.
Portree was the capital of Skye so it would be good to have a look round Eliza thought. It was situated on the east side of the island overlooking a sheltered bay, and surrounded by hills. Ben Tianavaig to the south, Suidh Fhinn or Fingal’s Seat to the west, and Ben Chrachaig, to the north.
Further north along the road to Staffin was the famous Old Man of Storr. Across the bay to the east, the Island of Raasay could be seen with its distinctive conical hill, Dun Caan.
Portree was only about 200 years old and was created as a fishing village at the beginning of the 19th century by the then Lord MacDonald. The name Portree or Port Righ, King’s Port in Gaelic, was popularly thought to derive from a visit by King James V of Scotland in 1540 but the area around the harbour was called Portree or Portray long before the arrival of the king. Its name really came from the Gaelic for Port on the Slope.
It was less than forty miles away but would take over an hour to get to. She told herself she had survived the conversations earlier so why shouldn’t she give it a go? She would see how she felt in the morning. She usually managed to talk herself out of doing anything vaguely exciting or adventurous. Always too many things that might or might not happen. Too many expectations she might not be able to fulfill. In the end she would end up so exhausted thinking about it all she gave up and stayed in. How she wished she could be gung ho, say yes to anything and worry about it afterwards. She had been reading about a local hero, a mountaineer called John Mackenzie. Born in 1856 he started climbing at the age of six and in 1906 had made the first ascent of Sgurr Mhic Choinnich naming it the Cloch. Now known as the inaccessible pinnacle and yet he had tackled it and gone on to be the first professional mountain guide to work in Britain. Why couldn’t she be brave like that? Instead of being Ms. Boring, Careful and Anxious. Sleep would never come now. She made herself a cup of tea and sat in the darkness looking out across the water. She couldn’t see anything except the blackness of night. There were a few lights still on in a couple of rooms in the hotel cottages to the left of the bay. It was now gone midnight and she wondered what they were thinking about. Though she couldn’t see the mountains, she knew they were there. They weren’t afraid. They stood strong and bold, confident in their ability to withstand anything the Scottish climate or humankind could throw at them. They had stood for thousands of years and would be standing for thousands of years to come. She thought of Pete approaching seventy and yet ready to tackle a race that many half his age would shrink away from. She couldn’t even run a hundred metres. Her thoughts turned to her mother. The same age as Pete and yet all but confined to her bed. Guilt made her close the curtains and as she washed her tea cup. She wondered whether she would ever see her mother again. She couldn’t visit now Marcus was back. Why hadn’t she gone to see her before coming to Skye? It had been March, Mothers Day the last time she had made the trip back to Wellington and the house that had been both home and hell. To celebrate his seventieth birthday Pete had said he was going to run the Edinburgh Marathon next May. What would her mother do on her seventieth? Would she even know it was her birthday? Questions, guilt and the pain she recognised so well battled for room in her brain until she heard the first sounds of morning outside. She supposed she must have slept but exhaustion was all she felt as she headed to the bathroom. It was only six thirty. She had another half an hour to agonise about whether to go to Portree or not. Maybe she would just go back to bed.
MARCUS
Marcus had had a thought. A rather good one as it happened. He would clear out Eliza’s room and make it into a guest room. It wouldn’t cost much, he could do the work himself. Then he could rent it out and make a bit more a month. Get a chap in who didn’t mind basic and he would be quids in. It wasn’t as if Eliza would ever come back. She would never set foot in the house again so why pretend she would. Anyway it was his house and he would do what he wanted with It. Which included leaving it to the RSPCA. He had scribbled out a note to that intent and would get it all done legally when he next had a bit of spare cash. It wasn’t as if he would be kicking the bucket anytime soon, He grinned, imagining the look on everyones face when they found out. SURPRISE SURPRISE! God forbid that he should go first though. He was the youngest after all. No Eliza would never come back and he had no desire to set eyes again on the woman who had cost him over seven years of his life. She had quite simply led him on. It might not have been quite right, her being his half sister and all that. But she had been the one up for it. She had encouraged and teased him then called it rape, the bitch.He snarled inside at the very thought of her. Played the innocent butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth victim. Everyone believed her too which still enraged him. He was the victim, not her. He was the one who had been cooped up, whose name had been dragged through the mud. It was always the bloke who got done and it made him sick.
Consumed by the thought that the world owed him, and knowing he had unfinished business to sort out later. Marcus turned off the light and lay in the dark, listening to the sounds in the street outside. It was never quiet. Just like prison. Always someone somewhere making a noise or kicking off. The world was full of whingers, just like his mother. She might never say anything outright, but she punished him with her silence. The way she looked at him, or rather the way she avoided looking at him exuded disgust and disapproval. He shouldn’t have hurt her of course he shouldn’t. It was her who went for him with the bread knife though wasn’t it. She was the one who poked her nose in trying
protect her precious Eliza. It had been none of her business. Eliza had it coming to her. It been an accident her getting cut so bad it really had and if no one believed him then they could all go to hell. He was out. He was back and he would do what he wanted, when he wanted. Sod the rest of the world.
EDITH
Sleep again eluded Edith, so she flicked on the bedside lamp and picked up the library book. Miss Garnet was a revelation and she only turned the light off when she could no longer focus on the page or keep her eyes open. She remembered the film The Bucket List with that crazy actor, what was he called Jack something…. Jack Nicholson that was it and that rather nice man Morgan Freeman. For some reason the final words from the film came to her Jack Nicholson had said of Freemans character, he died with his eyes closed but his heart open. The speech had moved her at the time and it did again now. That was how she wanted to die. With her heart open. The only trouble with that was that her heart was sealed up, stony and dour. Fear, regret, bitterness. She had harboured them all in her pitiful heart until love and trust and hope had dried up. She could forgive Marcus for what he had done to her. She knew he hadn’t planned to injure her so badly. She could never, not in a million years though, forgive him for what he had done to Eliza. It had been sheer viciousness and he had never shown an ounce of remorse. Not that she could see anyway. Presumably he had spun the prison governor a load of lies or else he would still be locked up. She should have seen it coming but it had never once entered her head that he was capable of such evil Because that’s what it was evil. Her own son, raping his own flesh and blood. You read about things like that in the paper of course you did. It didn’t happen to people like them though did it. The only mercy was the fact that Eliza hadn’t fallen pregnant. It had destroyed her though. She had shrunk before her eyes, getting thinner and thinner. Withdrawing more and more until finally she had been sectioned. It had saved her life but it hadn’t healed her. Perhaps nothing, or no one ever would be able to do that. Edith sighed, aware that her thoughts were spiralling down again. If only sleep would come, and come soon.
TWELVE
ELIZA
It was just no good. Eliza would never be be able to stomach porridge again. The runners were tucking in with slices of banana and honey heaped on top. She stuck to muesli and toast as ever. Going to the race had seemed the only way to escape the relentless attack of negativity in her head. She had made an effort and worn the one and only pair of trainers she possessed. It hadn’t made her fit in any better though. She felt old and tatty in her cords and baggy jumper, from another age. Now just stop it she told herself sternly. No one cares what you look like or what you wear so get on with it.
Pete had been right about the atmosphere, but wrong about the weather. There was a wonderful buzz at Portree School where the race would start and finish. A chilly wind was the only unwelcome guest at the gathering. There had been a quiet excitement on the journey there. Pre race nerves and times, splits she thought they called them, that had to be hit each mile to achieve a PB which she discovered was a personal best. Talk of training and medals petered out and each soon settled into the silence, taking in the incredible landscape once again.
One part of the journey had terrified her and she had had to look away as there seemed to be very little between the bus, the side of the road and a very long drop. Already she was dreading that bit of the journey coming back. If anyone noticed her fear they didn’t say and eventually the road levelled out and they made the descent into Portree.
There must have been seven hundred runners milling around. Some doing strenuous warmups, others sitting on the grass. All Elizas pre conceived ideas of what a runner looked like went out of the window. Every shape and size of person was represented. Some had athletic club vests on and shorts and looked like Scottish versions of Mo Farah. Others were in leggings, tracksuits, long sleeved tops of every colour. Dozens of charities were represented, There were a few kilts and even a chap in a Superman costume. It was wonderful, she completely forgot everything as she was swept up in the camaraderie. Many were running the race for the second or third time. Friendships were renewed, jokes shared, hopes outlined. For some it was obviously a very serious business, but for most it seemed like a great day out. Though why anyone would choose to run thirteen miles on their day off she couldn’t fathom. She was jealous though. She wanted to be with them on the start line. She wanted to be one of them. Could she really set herself the goal of coming back next year to run? No that was ridiculous. She was getting carried away.
Pete had told her that the Skye Half Marathon had first been run in 1984 over the distance of thirteen point eight miles with 140 runners braving the undulating course. It had been part of a week of events celebrating the riches of Skye and had grown year on year. The first winner had somehow managed to finish in a mind blowing one hour and sixteen minutes. It had become one of the most popular races in the Scottish calendar and attracted competitors from as far away as America. Mostly though it was a gathering of Scots celebrating their heritage and pitting themselves against the landscape of this incredible island. She had even heard bagpipers mentioned though she couldn’t see any. The course was a single loop with a steady climb from the eight to the eleven mile mark before the road dropped back down again returning to the Fingal Centre where they started.
She had thought it would be a long wait for the finishers to stagger in so she had brought her book. However some would be crossing the finish line in just over an hour and a half. Unbelieveable. Pete had hoped to finish in around 2 hours forty. Libby in three hours, it was her first long race and the hopes of the others lay somewhere in between. Only Thomas was expecting to break two hours.
The four of them who were weren’t running squeezed themselves in at the front of the crowd and clapped and cheered as the race started. It was a colourful blur of smiling faces and bright vests and as each of their group passed by the four cheerleaders shouted their names proudly and with great excitement. Secretly wishing they were out there running too. Once they were all underway, Eliza made her way to the refreshment stall for a much needed hot chocolate. Being happy was thirsty work she smiled to herself as she settled down with Rachel Joyce’s Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, in a world of her own. A world that for once she was actually glad to be in.
MARCUS
In the end Marcus hadn’t trashed the pub. He’d been more subtle and torched it. His mother gave him an alibi:
No officer. I didn’t go out all evening. You can check with my mother. I watched the television and had an early night. Reformed character me, as you know he had smirked. What a shame. Such a nice landlord too. Actually the fire had hardly got going before the alarm was raised so there was minimal damage. Neat really. A bit of re decorating to cover the smoke damage, but the pub was still open. He would go in on Sunday, bold as brass. He was back alright. Oh yes he was back. They would never be able to prove it was him. They knew though. They knew alright. He wouldn’t be taking too many risks. Not worth it. There were times though when people needed to be taught a lesson. No one was disrespectful to Marcus Grady. No one.
EDITH
The police came this morning. I thought I was dreaming she told the carer. Or more like it having another nightmare. It was real enough though.Terribly nice young man and a police woman too.
“We are really sorry to intrude Mrs Grady but there was an incident last night the young officer began, in the Golden Cockerel. We don’t for one minute suspect that Marcus was involved.”
What a good liar Edith thought, his blue eyes never stopped looking at her and his voice never quavered.
“However,” the officer continued. “We are checking the whereabouts of everyone who is a regular there and of course your Marcus’ name came up.”
‘Your Marcus’ Edith had shuddered when the officer had said those words. She had wanted to scream out He’s not my Marcus. He’s my cross. He’s my punishment for marrying a man I didn’t love. She tried to concentrate as the
officer continued. What did he say his name was Fisher was it? Oh Lord she was going to pieces. The gangly and earnest young man barely looked out of his teens. Though he was probably nearer thirty than twenty. Everyone looked younger than they were these days . Except her.
“Your son,when we interviewed him, said that he was home all last night, watching the television and that you would be able to verify that. He said he hadn’t gone out at all and had gone to bed about eleven.”
It was true the television had been on. She had heard the front door open and close though. While the local news was on so would have been after ten thirty. He had had the sound up much louder than usual. Now she knew why. He’d wanted her to hear it and to remember that it had been going all evening.
There was an uncomfortable silence and the officer said. “We are truly sorry to have had to come and disturb you, but if you could just confirm that your son was in all night we can go on our way and leave you in peace.”
Leave her in peace. Didn’t they understand that she would never be at peace? Not until she was in her grave. Again the urge to scream rose up from within her but she found herself saying
“Yes, he was in all night.” It was a lie but inspite of a desperate longing to shout he went out, he went out, so send him back to prison NOW NOW NOW she stuck to her story.
“Are you absolutely sure Mrs Grady” the police woman was speaking for the first time since they had come into her room. “I know he’s your son and it is hard not to cover up for them sometimes. Family ties go deep we understand that. However we are treating this as a very serious incident and whilst we don’t want you to think we are picking on your son because he has been in trouble in the past, we do want to get to the truth. You needn’t be afraid of telling the truth” she said more softly. “If Marcus did go out and was involved in the fire, it would be a violation of his parole and he would be sent back to prison. Now I’m not suggesting you would want that but just so that you know. Now take your time before you answer. Are you absolutely sure that Marcus didn’t go out at all last night. That he was here all evening watching television?”