Face The Wind And Fly

by Jenny Harper

  Andrew said, very quietly, ‘Now I’m scared.’

  ‘This is what you wanted. Isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought I did. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Because I’m the one calling time, not you?’

  His eyes flickered away from her and she knew she had hit on the truth. Where women were concerned, Andrew obviously liked to call the shots.

  ‘This is what she wants, isn’t it?’ she said, callously seizing advantage of her insight.

  ‘Yes. It’s what Sophie wants.’ He sighed heavily.

  Her fury returned. ‘Go. Just go. I can’t bear to talk to you any more tonight.’

  She went into the dark living room and tumbled untidily onto a sofa, not bothering to put on any lamps. The room looked ghostly in the shaft of light that beamed through from the kitchen, a cocky intruder from another world. She didn’t want light. She wanted to sink silently into the dark oblivion the room seemed to offer. She didn’t want to think and above all, she didn’t want to feel. Her hand found the netsuke mouse: a treasured gift from Andrew. Charlotte’s words scorched her mind as she remembered: he’d given it to her the day after she’d been at that lecture with Mike. The day after, according to Charlotte, he had slept with her best friend.

  She dropped the mouse with a clatter. Another sweet memory had been destroyed.

  This was what it was like, then, to come to the end of something beautiful and untouchable. This was what it was like to uncover a lie – a whole nest of lies – and realise that your entire life has been a twisted, poisoned scrap right at the heart of it. She had thought that their marriage had been constructed by some divine hand, that meeting Andrew had somehow been meant. She’d thought that getting pregnant had been predetermined, that their stars had been charted and their paths had been destined to intertwine – but that was the kind of twaddle only a student fresh out of university could believe. If only she’d talked to Val, instead of pitying her!

  ‘I’m off then.’ Andrew clipped on the switch at the door and a cold light flooded the room. Kate blinked, disorientated and confused, and threw her hand up to shield her eyes from the glare. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow. I don’t want this to end like this, Kate.’

  ‘If you must,’ she said, hardening her heart at his pathetic look.

  ‘Unless you—’

  ‘Call me tomorrow, if you have to.’

  ‘Yes.’ He dropped his head. ‘I’ll do that. Tell Ninian’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Good bye, Andrew.’

  She heard him throw something into the car, then his engine started up. She shivered. The sense of power she had experienced, briefly, was gone. The room was cold and shock was setting in.

  Kate stirred in the vastness of her double bed, unable to sleep. How do you accommodate your body to a large double bed when there is no-one to share it with? How do you face the day ahead when it is empty of meaning? How do you reconcile recollections of happy times with the knowledge that even then, even when you were at your happiest, the corrosion had started?

  She shivered, unable to get warm. Her bedroom – her favourite room, she had to remind herself – seemed chilled and abandoned. The wardrobe stood open where Andrew had seized clothes, probably at random. She got out of bed and stood, shivering, peering into its dark recesses, trying to work out what he had taken. His dark suit. A couple of pairs of cord trousers. His favourite old threadbare tweed jacket. She pulled out one of the drawers and saw that he had not taken the fabulously soft, richly patterned alpaca sweater she had given him for Christmas a year ago. Its presence seemed like a metaphor: given with love, now rejected. She lifted it up and held it to her cheek. The smell of him was still on the wool and the immediacy of his presence unlocked the tears she had been holding back. She sank to the floor and, cuddling the sweater in her arms, howled for her lost love.

  When she could cry no longer, she slipped the sweater over her head and felt its soft warmth envelop her. She crept downstairs quietly, as though she might disturb someone, and filled the kettle. Sleep still seemed beyond her, so she made herself tea and cradled the mug in her hands, then padded around restlessly – but the kitchen floor was cold on her bare feet and the living room still held the dark despair she had nursed there earlier. She could see light spilling out from underneath the door to Andrew’s study and a flicker of hope caught in her heart. Could he have returned? Was he in there, writing? Had he come back to fight for her? She pushed open the door – but the room was empty. He had merely left the lamp on his desk burning.

  She woke the next morning to the sounds of Mrs Gillies clattering dishes in the kitchen. The memory of what had happened the night before flooded back to her. She started to shiver again, though the central heating had kicked in and the bedroom was warm. What had she done? Was it too late to beg Andrew to come back?

  The kitchen radio blasted out Chris Evans’ breakfast show. Irritated, she leapt out of bed. For years she had tolerated Mrs Gillies changing the station on her kitchen radio from Radio Four to Radio Two, but she wouldn’t put up with it any longer. She didn’t need Mrs G and she didn’t want her around, with her proprietorial manner and annoying assumptions of quasi-ownership. She didn’t like the way Jean Gillies implied that she cared about Ninian more than she did. Ninian was her son, and Willow Corner was her house – and with Andrew gone she could claim her territory absolutely.

  She flung on her jeans and Andrew’s alpaca sweater and ran down the stairs. Mrs Gillies’s bottom was angled up at her newly repainted kitchen ceiling because she was emptying the dishwasher – Andrew’s dirty dishes from the day before – and she couldn’t hear anything above the radio. Kate reached across the cream granite worktop and switched it off. The silence was immediate.

  ‘Oh!’ Mrs Gillies straightened and whirled round, glowering at Kate as though it was her kitchen and Kate was the intruder. ‘I didn’t know you were in, Kate.’

  ‘I’ve been in,’ Kate said icily, ‘every morning for weeks now, as you surely know.’

  Mrs Gillies looked away. Her head dropped and she made a play of studying her gold rings, twisting them so that the tiny diamonds showed. Her loyalties, Kate realised now, all lay with Andrew, who she admired, and with Ninian, who she adored.

  Too bad.

  ‘Mrs Gillies,’ she said, ‘how many years have you been with us?’

  ‘Since just after you came here, Kate.’

  ‘Mrs Courtenay,’ she corrected, irked by the familiarity.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My name is Mrs Courtenay. To you.’

  ‘Is everything all right, Kate?’

  ‘No. Everything is not all right.’

  She wanted to yell, Alan Sugar-style, ‘You’re fired!’, but she’d been too well drilled about employee rights and employment tribunals and instead she said crisply, ‘Mrs Gillies. I’m afraid there’s bad news. Mr Courtenay and I are getting divorced and we will be selling Willow Corner, so I’m going to have to dispense with your services. As of now. Of course, I will pay you a month’s wages, which I think is the understanding we have, is it not?’

  She found her handbag and fumbled in it for her purse. ‘Actually, I only have five pounds,’ she said, a little deflated, ‘so I’ll call round to your house later with the cash, if that’s all right.’

  Kate looked up as Mrs Gillies’s mouth rounded into an ‘O’, a perfect ring in her circle of a face. She realised, too late, that Mrs Gillies’s cleaning pals formed a well-entrenched network of gossip and control in the neighbourhood. News of her difficulties would be round Summerfield within hours and probably round Forgie not long thereafter.

  Well, so be it.

  ‘If that’s all right, Mrs Gillies?’

  ‘Well, I—’ The housekeeper sank down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs. ‘Is that it then? All these years of service and sacked just like that?’

  Kate felt sorry for her before she remembered the dining room she had
prepared for Andreas Bertolini and his wife: that hadn’t been mere housekeeping, she’d taken over. She recalled her insistence on moving the vase on the mantelpiece in the living room from one end to the middle and the fact that she never put the sofa back quite in the place Kate liked it to be. She remembered the peremptory notes of reprimand and instruction: We are out of bleach. The lingering smell of cigarette smoke, which counteracted the freshness of pine cleaner – if she had to smoke, why couldn’t she go outside?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said firmly. ‘I won’t be able to afford your services any longer. I’ll pay you extra for today, but I think it would be best if you just go. Now.’

  ‘But I haven’t had my coffee yet.’

  Kate thrust the five-pound note into her hands. ‘Here. That should be enough for a couple of coffees.’

  She watched the housekeeper march down the path with her hat jammed on her head, every step an expression of righteous indignation. She felt victorious, just as she had over Andrew the night before – and, just as quickly, the feeling evaporated and reality set in. Now she’d have to cope with all the cleaning on her own. She’d have to discover all the nasty, dirty places she didn’t even know existed and suck out their dark secrets through the nozzle of a vacuum cleaner. Her tale would be all over the neighbourhood before lunch, no doubt with a twist or two that put her in the role of pantomime villainess.

  Still, much more worrying than Mrs Gillies’s wounded sensibilities was how Ninian would feel about it all.

  She need not have worried too much on that count. Mrs Gillies’s departure was considerably overshadowed for Ninian by news that his father had left home and that his parents were considering their future together.

  ‘Has he gone to the Maneater?’ he asked, his face contorted.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Kate lied. Andrew was the one at fault here and it should be Andrew who explained what had happened and why he had gone. ‘We’ll talk in a few days, all of us.’

  ‘What is there to talk about?’

  ‘Oh Ninian.’ She sank her head into her hands. She wanted to seem strong, but she couldn’t manage to hide her hopelessness. The bleakness of her situation became painfully real. She had no husband and potentially no job either. She lifted her head, though, determined that Ninian should have faith in one parent, at least. ‘There’s so much to think about. Where we will live, where you will live, for a start.’

  He slammed his fist onto the kitchen table. Two plates, still waiting to be put away, clattered alarmingly. ‘How could you do this to me, Mum?’

  ‘We’re not going to start blaming anyone. I won’t blame your father, he won’t blame me, and you won’t blame either of us. Shit happens. We will work together to find a civilised way through it.’

  She wasn’t sure, even as she said it, that she believed it, but she needed to try, for all their sakes.

  Ninian’s self-regarding outrage crumpled abruptly. ‘What’s the point of falling in love, then, if it all ends like this?’

  His hands were fisted in tight, sour balls. She uncurled them finger by finger, then sandwiched them between her own hands and stroked them softly. This was about Alice Banks as much as his parents.

  ‘She’s lovely, Ninian.’

  He looked at her, his eyes dull and hopeless.

  ‘Listen to me,’ she said, finding the right voice at last. ‘You make choices in life, you follow a path, you see where it leads. Sometimes it goes round a blind bend and ends up against a wall. Then you have to retrace your steps and find another route.’

  His head had dropped.

  ‘Look at me. Ninian, look at me.’ She pumped the words out with urgency. When she had his attention, she grasped his hands more firmly and said, ‘It can be hard, of course it can, but there is always the possibility that the new path will be a better one, and of course you will bring to it all the things you have learned on the first path, so you will be stronger and better able to travel along it. That’s life.’

  His mouth was still slack and his lower lip jutted out like a small boy denied sweeties. ‘I don’t want you and Dad to get divorced.’

  ‘Let’s just take one step at a time. Hey?’

  The tension in his shoulders relaxed just a fraction and his hands softened. Kate thought, I’m getting through to him, but he jerked his hands away. ‘I don’t believe this is happening,’ he muttered. ‘You and Dad—’

  Kate didn’t quite believe it herself.

  It wasn’t all gloom. Nicola Arnott dropped by for a coffee and to give Kate an update on the garden.

  ‘The digging’s finished, but I guess you know that. We owe you a huge amount, Kate, both for the idea and for setting things in motion. And for persuading Ibsen Brown to get involved.’ She smiled across the mug. ‘He’s quite a character, isn’t he? Everyone adores him.’

  ‘Ibsen. Oh yes. Quite a character.’ Kate stirred her coffee slowly, watching the treacly liquid swirl and eddy.

  ‘He’s done a fantastic plan, you know. We had an open meeting to discuss it. I did email you an invitation but—’

  ‘I’m sorry. Things have been a little strained here,’ she muttered. She was only half thinking about what Nicola was saying because the delicate blocks of colour and fine pen work of Ibsen’s painting had started to swim in front of her eyes, each stroke the outline of an intricate memory. The paper had still been warm from his body. That was the night they had made love. Two fragile souls seeking solace, perhaps, but it had been a union of sharp delight.

  Kate sat bolt upright. The coffee slopped onto the table as she thudded the mug down, heedless of its fragility or of its contents. Ibsen had allowed her to glimpse his pain. Why had she not understood that that was important?

  ‘Kate? Is everything all right?’

  She shook herself. ‘Sorry, what? I just thought of something.’

  ‘About the garden?’

  Kate could feel her cheeks growing hot. ‘No. No, not the garden. A related issue. Listen, I’m sorry, what were you saying?’

  Ibsen confided in me. And I turned my back on him.

  How could she have been so stupid? Didn’t she have an ounce of insight?

  ‘I said, Gail from AeGen came to our meeting to give us advice about what we needed to do about applying for funding. We need to get started now, apparently, because funding kicks in from the day the wind farm comes into operation.’

  ‘If it comes into operation,’ she said automatically, her mind still on Ibsen.

  ‘Looks pretty likely, don’t you think?’

  ‘I really wouldn’t know, I’m not working there at the moment.’

  ‘Neither you are, I keep forgetting. I’m sorry Kate. They don’t appreciate how terrific you are.’

  Kate’s lip curled at the compliment. It was only half a smile. ‘Apparently not. They’re alleging gross misconduct and they’re doing a “full investigation”.’

  ‘That’s terrible! What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m hoping they’ll reinstate me.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Nicola must have seen the look on Kate’s face because she added, ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  Andrew called, sounding strained. ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘Don’t you think the time for talking’s over?’

  ‘Come on, Kate. For better or worse?’

  ‘What could “better” be?’

  ‘Talking. Trying to understand each other.’

  ‘Where are you, Andrew?’

  ‘That’s not important.’

  ‘You’re at Sophie’s, aren’t you?’

  His hesitation told her everything she needed to know. She slammed the phone down and went out for a walk.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Wellington hated storms. Lightning made him jittery. This particular storm swept in from the northern Atlantic and past Iceland and Norway, gathering momentum and getting colder all the way. By the time it reached Edinburgh it was three o’clock in the morning. It hit
Summerfield half an hour later. Unable to contain his terror any longer, Wellington lifted his head and howled.

  Ibsen woke, sweating, from an uneasy dream. It was one he often had – he heard a child crying and was walking down a long, dark corridor towards a crack of light under a door. When he opened the door, the crying stopped. There was a cot – but it was empty.

  Damn. He hadn’t had the dream in an age.

  He rolled onto his side and was about to pull the bedclothes back over himself when he heard the dog.

  Howl .

  The wind was up. It had found the cracks in the old window frame and was strong enough already to make the flimsy curtains flutter. ‘Why don’t you get new ones?’ Mel used to ask, irritated by his lack of domesticity.

  She wasn’t around to nag him any more.

  Howl.

  He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled on a sweater and joggers.

  ‘Okay boy. You’re all right.’ In the kitchen, he squatted down and gathered Wellington into his arms. The dog was shaking from head to tail. Damn. If he’d known the storm was coming, he could have given him a tranquilliser. Getting anything down him now would be a task and a half. Wellington buried his head as deep as he could in Ibsen’s lap, reminding him of how he loved Kate’s crotch.

  Couldn’t blame the dog.

  ‘Okay boy. We’ll sit it out together, right?’

  He contemplated trying to lift Wellington and carry him through to the bedroom, but the kitchen seemed a better option. He turned on the oven and opened the door, then sat on the floor with a great lump of hairy Labrador in his arms while the lightning flashed above them and the wind seemed to take up the dog’s howling.

  ‘Hush, boy. Hush. You’re all right.’

  After a time, they both slept.

  Kate wasn’t used to being on her own. She was only just beginning to drop off to sleep when she heard the wind begin to rise. When it started to whistle round the chimneys, whipping twigs and leaves off the trees and slapping them against the windows, she gave up all hope of rest and pulled open the heavy curtains. She saw the lightning first, but the thunder was barely a second behind it. The wind had merely been the herald of a full-scale storm – and Willow Corner was right in its eye.