by Iain Maloney
‘No, I’m angry.’ I swallowed. Blew my nose. ‘Sometimes I wish he’d died out there.’ She didn’t reply. ‘A hundred and sixty-seven men died that day. He survived but for what? Everything afterwards was horrible. Maybe someone else would’ve done something more worthwhile with their second chance.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘If he’d died that day I could’ve mourned him and moved on. It would’ve been finished.’
‘You think you’d have been any happier?’
‘Probably not. But another family would be.’
‘It was a disaster, Carrie. You were all victims, but he will die someday. He might get hit by a bus tomorrow, he might live to be one hundred. But one day he’ll be gone and so will your chance to see him. Trust me, Carrie, that hurts a whole lot worse than the anger you’re feeling now. Even after all the hurt, even through all the anger and hatred, I’d give anything to see my dad one more time.’ Now she was the one crying. My turn to hold her. A tanker was leaving the harbour to our right, slipping by the lighthouse.
We had an early night but the jet lag kicked in and I woke at three o’clock, bright-eyed and full of energy in the dark. Ash of course had no problem. Her regular breathing was a metronome I timed my own breathing against, trying to lull myself back to sleep. It was no use. I slid out of bed, wrapping a thick dressing gown around me, got my laptop and took it over to the desk, thinking I could read over my paper one last time, hoping it would send me back to bed. I tweaked the ending, adding qualifiers, deleting them.
Even at that hour I could hear traffic outside, Saturday night taxis, trucks, people who worked in the night, people who hid in the night. This end of Aberdeen was quiet, pretty safe, far from the pubs and clubs. The only people who drank this far up were the oil executives, bankers, lawyers and accountants who had offices and huge detached granite houses in the area, whose kids went to private schools like Albyn. Dad used to drink up here, Hannah too when she went out. Maybe he still did. Someone’s retirement party, leaving do, they’d both get dressed up, a taxi would come, I’d be left with the Galloways or, eventually, on my own, then they’d come back reeking of alcohol, not talking to each other or pretending not to fight until the Galloways had closed the door on us. He’d been flirting. She’d been rude. The usual. Then it all stopped.
Skye, December 2003
I wanted to leave New Zealand immediately but my new flat in Hawaii wouldn’t be ready until the new year. I could be there for Dad’s wedding, then fly out again. I’d take a holiday, get the last few months out of me, forget all about Graeme.
We had a small leaving party, Jeannie Parker and some others from the department, though Professor Meyer didn’t come, petulant at Paul and me leaving at the same time. I said goodbye to Mike after arranging for one of the PhD students to move in and shipped my belongings off to Hawaii. I’d been in Dunedin for nearly five years but there was little melancholy in the taxi to the airport. Hawaii, and Ash, beckoned. But first.
The wedding was on Skye, just four of us, me, Dad, Isobel and Isobel’s brother, Gavin. Bride, groom, two witnesses. The bare minimum. We were booked into the Flodigarry Hotel, a large country house at the north of the island. They invited me to drive over with them but I declined, rented a car and drove myself. From Glasgow, I took the road along Loch Lomond and through Glencoe. After the jagged peaks of New Zealand and the bubbling calderas of Hawaii, there was something stately and distinguished about the ancient mountains of Scotland, worn down by millennia of weather, ice ages, scarred and ripped by glaciers. They’d borne it all with gentle majesty. Names on the map, on the signs rang with the music of history, mine and ours, snatches of songs, Loch Lomond, Ben Vorlich which Dad and I climbed when I was eleven or twelve, Ben More, the Crianlarich hotel, the Green Welly, Loch Tulla, Loch Leven and the burial island of the MacDonalds of Glencoe. I took a break at the museum, the hills around us dowsed in thick snow but the sun, for now, shining, and I wallowed in the melancholy of my nation.
Ben Nevis covered in mist, Fort William dismal in the gloom and then Eilean Donan Castle, Dornie, Kyle of Lochalsh. My childhood dripped from these names.
I’d forgotten about the bridge, had never seen it. Last time, every time, we’d taken the ferry. I was looking forward to standing on deck, the wild wind whipping over me, but I rolled easily onto the bridge and minutes later was on Skye, the glamour, the romance of it taken from me. But the sun came back, some of the mist cleared and my spirits rose with the slopes, the scree and the scrub, through Portree and onto the single track roads. I was almost disappointed when the hotel came into view.
I parked, stretched. An Alfa Romeo was the only other car in the car park, black, splashed with mud, the engine still ticking as it cooled. I took a few steps towards the view, the rich green lawns of the hotel, stepping down towards the sea, two small islands offshore, the sea scattered with boats.
‘Carrie.’
He was standing in the doorway, like the Laird, green Barbour jacket, slacks, a beard. He’d filled out, had colour in his face, though that could’ve been the wind. We stopped a few paces from each other.
‘What way did you come?’
I told him.
‘A beautiful road.’
‘I don’t like the bridge.’
‘No, not the same.’
‘This must be Isobel.’ Behind him a small woman appeared, a similar outfit to Dad, her hair a curly black helmet rippling like a bush in the wind. We shook hands.
‘Pleased to meet you, Caroline.’
‘Likewise. Please, call me Carrie. Only my mother calls me Caroline.’
‘Carrie.’ She put her hand on my father’s arm, the move almost aggressive, protective. ‘Marcus, the room is ready, would you like to unpack and freshen up?’
‘Good idea. Carrie, why don’t you check in and we’ll meet you in the bar in half an hour?’
‘Sure.’
A man in a purple psychedelic shirt was leaning on the counter chatting to the receptionist. He had a similar hairstyle to Isobel, wild curls, and a beard, jeans and sandals. ‘You must be Gavin,’ I said, ‘Isobel’s brother?’
‘Ah, and you must be young Carrie?’
‘I’m Carrie, yes. Pleased to meet you.’ I held out my hand.
‘Och, none of that, we’re near enough family.’ He pulled me into a bear hug, gave me a kiss on my cheek, managing to catch a bit of my mouth.
‘I suppose so,’ I said, freeing myself. ‘I’d like to check in, please,’ I said to the receptionist. ‘Carrie Fraser.’ Gavin stood back, waiting, whether for me or for the girl to be free again I couldn’t tell. Now I had arrived, tiredness caught up with me. The wedding was first thing the next morning at the Portree registry office and there’d be little chance of an early night. I got my key. ‘We’re meeting in the bar in half an hour,’ I said to Gavin. ‘I’ll see you there.’
‘Best dump the bags then.’ He followed me through the lobby and up the stairs. On the first landing we looked at our keys. ‘Looks like this is you,’ he said pointing to the left. ‘And this is me. Just across the way.’
‘Okay then.’ I closed the door, backpack, jacket and suitcase slipping into a heap, stripped down to my underwear, the stink of travelling released into the room. They could start without me.
I tidied myself up, the room, made it temporarily mine. Books by the bed. Alarm set for six. Shoes ready by the door. Gifts prepared. Dirty clothes into a plastic bag. Half an hour. Forty-five minutes. I’d have to go down eventually.
They were waiting for me, finishing their first drinks. I sat in the empty seat beside Gavin, a waitress came over. Another young girl, late teens, early twenties, another Eastern European accent. She smiled at me, looked at Gavin with a wary eye.
‘Do you have camomile tea?’ I asked her. She nodded.
‘Tea?’ said Gavin in mock disgust.
‘Carrie doesn’t drink,’ said Dad. ‘Another pair of pints, and another wine, oh my love?’
‘No, this island air is making me thirsty. I’ll have a half of the same beer and a Talisker.’
‘You don’t drink?’ said Gavin. ‘Ever?’
‘Occasionally. I have a very low tolerance for alcohol.’
‘A cheap date, you mean?’
The waitress brought our drinks over and we toasted the wedding.
‘Isn’t it bad luck to toast without alcohol?’ said Dad.
‘It’s bad luck with water, but not with tea. Dad said you are a lawyer,’ I said to Isobel.
‘A solicitor, yes.’
‘In what area?’
‘Employment law.’
‘My friend is a lawyer.’
‘In New Zealand?’
‘In New York. The UN.’
‘Wow, bigshot,’ said Dad. ‘How is life in New Zealand?’
‘Over,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a new job at the University of Hawaii.’
‘Hawaii? I know who I’m going to be visiting on my holidays,’ said Gavin.
‘Hawaii?’ said Dad. He gave me a strange, searching look. ‘I thought you were settled in Dunedin.’
‘Five years is long enough.’ He looked like he wanted to say something else but I cut him off. It was beginning to feel like an interview. ‘So, Gavin,’ I said, ‘what do you do?’
‘I’m a musician. And a historian of music.’
‘What does that involve?’
‘I collect and archive the folk music of Scotland so it can be preserved for posterity. Have you any idea how much of our culture has been lost? In places like Shetland we’ve been lucky, being isolated, but the closer you get to the central belt, the more has been lost.’
I wondered how he’d feel in Dunedin, whether he’d appreciate it as a living lineage or a pastiche. He seemed the type of man who could happily have a party on his own but was all the livelier in company. Dad and Isobel seemed a good couple. There was a calmness between them, like a beach the morning after a storm.
I was struggling, wanted to go back to my room and get a nap. I thought Dad should do the same, the drinks he was putting away, but I kept that to myself. We agreed to meet again for dinner at seven. He followed me out into the lobby while Isobel and Gavin stayed at the table. I noticed he was limping.
‘It’s good to see you, Carrie. It’s been too long.’
‘Durham,’ I said.
‘Not my finest moment. I’ve changed since then, Carrie.’ He was holding a present in his hand, wrapped in shiny green paper with a white ribbon. ‘I got help.’
‘You’re still drinking.’
‘Not like I was.’
A member of hotel staff walked by, gave us a ‘Good afternoon’. We waited until he’d gone.
‘Dad, if you want to talk maybe we should go upstairs.’
‘I don’t want to talk, I mean, not now. After tomorrow. It’s great to see you, Carrie, but this is a wedding party. Digging up old hurts would spoil the mood a bit, don’t you think?’
Pretend it was all fine? Well, I was used to that. ‘What have you got there?’
‘For you. No, open it upstairs.’
‘Thank you. I have presents…’
‘Tomorrow, this is something aside from the wedding. You’ll be back down for dinner?’
‘I will. You won’t get too drunk before then?’
‘I will.’
From the landing I saw him return to the bar, swaying slightly like he was pivoting around something. Once in my room, I kicked my boots off, lay down on top of the bed and fell fast asleep.
When I woke I guzzled half a bottle of water, dropped an effervescent vitamin C pill into the rest and shook it up. A cabin attendant once told me that vitamin C is a great help for jet lag and whether it’s true or just a placebo effect, I’d followed her advice ever since. It was six o’clock, I still had an hour until dinner. I knew I wouldn’t sleep more but it was nice just lying on the bed, not having to do anything. There was a warm hum in the room, the heating probably, and the muffled sounds of a hotel at work. I found my hand resting on the present Dad had given me. I picked it up and eased the wrapping off. When I was a kid Dad had got frustrated every Christmas morning by the slow, methodical way I’d unwrap my presents, picking the tape, folding the empty sheets before turning my attention to the present. He wanted to see my face, wanted me to rip the paper off in excitement.
It was a book, a paperback, cheaply bound. There was no cover image, just white card with Piper Alpha and Me by Marcus Fraser. I dropped it onto the bed, my fingers burnt. He’d written a book. Not a real book, this looked like he’d had it printed and bound himself, but it was his story. Our story. He’d written it all down.
Downstairs in the bar pouring alcohol down his throat. Why had he given me this? Why now? Why today?
I picked it up again. He’d written inside. Carrie, I’m sorry for everything.
Is that what this was: his explanation? His apology? I flicked, stopped at random.
I was still going into work every morning though to this day I’ve no idea what I did when I got there. For a while they kept my desk clear, then they gave me redundant work, checking calculations, going back over old projects and tying up loose ends. Nothing that could cause any problems. Nothing where decisions had to be made. No one knew what to do with me. A geologist, usually working in the office, being out there that day was the unluckiest of timings. The other survivors, they worked offshore every day, were only back between contracts or on leave. There was a split between management and offshore workers, the management, those at the sharp end of the oil industry.
I flicked again, back, forth. He went into details, the levels, the separation. Things I’d picked up over the years, things I hadn’t known. Decisions about safety, budgets, cuts, were made onshore by people who would never be put in danger. We treated them like faceless drones there to keep profits up and problems down. Piper Alpha ripped that Chinese wall to shreds. For weeks, every night you turned on the TV there they were, the survivors, the families, not faceless, not nameless. There they were. In the offices they couldn’t hide from it. Reality wouldn’t leave them alone with their balance sheets and legal loopholes.
While Red Adair was offshore putting out fires, capping wells and eventually sinking Piper Alpha to the bottom, I went into the office every day, the scars on my hands, the stink of drink off me, the chance that I could lose it at any moment, that was so much worse than any Grampian TV report or Newsnight interview. Every day they saw me, every day they had to face it again.
He was angry. He raged. They were afraid of him. He hadn’t spoken to anyone, professionals, journalists, no one, but people were always calling, asking. Maybe that’s why they didn’t let him go. Fear of what he might say if he did speak to the press. But he was useless. They shunted him sideways, moved him off important projects. He spent his time reviewing other people’s work, possible fields, ways of getting more oil out of known sites.
Was it all about work? I flicked again but there was no contents page, no index. Isn’t that what everyone did in these situations, checked the index for their own name?
We both had affairs. Cabin crew. Waitresses. Whoever I could find on business trips. She had Frank Carpenter in Bristol for years.
I flicked, rifled.
When I went down to Durham for Carrie’s graduation I was near bottom. That night, Hannah, me and Carrie… I left, ran off into the Durham night, drank all night, picked up my bags and took the first train home in the morning, slept then went straight to Under The Hammer. I could see myself there, holding court in the corner with the other regulars, life and soul, hiding the pain. And then the fall.
Hospital. His hip replacement. I knew none of this.
It was Carrie leaving that was the final straw. I hadn’t known how much she held everything together. She had to leave. I’m glad she got away. But it nearly killed me.
That taxi. Leaving him on the doorstep.
Carrie was in Durham.
Carrie was
in New Zealand.
But Isobel was there. The only one who never left me.
I’d gone to Aberdeen so I could look after him. He’d made me go to Durham. He’d given me the money to do whatever I wanted when I graduated. I’d been there, six years I looked after him like his carer.
The only one who never left.
Seven o’clock flickered by on the LED clock. Gavin knocked on my door, called through to me, his voice distant as the wind, just another muffled sound from the hotel. I kept flicking.
Isobel, how she nursed him, helped him, put him back together while his daughter got on with her own life. The cooking – my dad cooks? – the walking to rehabilitate, then it became a love story, a proposal under a meteor shower in Findhorn.
I closed the book. All those things I never knew. All those thoughts, the pain. He hadn’t talked so I hadn’t talked. But in his words it seemed so much worse. He couldn’t talk. I didn’t want to. I was selfish. I was cruel. I ran off like Hannah. My mother’s daughter. I left and Isobel picked him up.
The only one who never left.
Even before Piper Alpha, Hannah had one foot out the door. But I stayed. I stayed until I couldn’t stay anymore.
He’d given me permission. Told me to go. After the day at the memorial I thought he’d turned a corner.
I didn’t know any of those things because he’d kept them from me.
To my daughter, Carrie, I’m sorry for everything. A PS. An afterthought. I threw the book across the room. It hit the wall and dropped down behind the chest of drawers.
This was all Isobel knew of me, sitting downstairs, judging me.
They’d have eaten by now but they’d still be sitting around the table, bottles of wine, discussing me. The girl who ran away, hiding in her room.
I paused in the lobby, rearranged my face. Hands raised in apology, ‘Jet lag,’ I said, taking my place, ‘caught up with me. I was on the other side of the world yesterday. Or the day before. I’m not even sure what day it is.’
‘You missed dinner,’ said Gavin. ‘I think the kitchen’s open. We don’t mind watching you eat if you don’t mind watching us drink.’