If I Touched the Earth

by Cynthia Rogerson

  * * *

  Neal is in Glasgow, his old home town. He’s not thinking of it that way – he’s lived just as long in the Highlands as here, and it’s changed him, softened him, even altered his accent – but the shape of the buildings, the smell of the river and city, the colours, the accents all answer something in him. This is where he grew up; his tribe claims him still.

  Because he’s not prepared for this, because this is almost an accidental visit, he’s slightly slowed by the nostalgia of street names, park landscapes, shops. By the man selling the Evening Times on the corner, calling in a flat tone, ‘Evtimes! Evtimes!’ And nowhere is a reminder of his failed marriage. Glasgow pre-dates Sally. He hadn’t noticed the strain of being surrounded by reminders, till right now, here.

  He finds the right street, parks his car. Realises he’s faint with hunger and badly needs a pee but decides to plough on regardless. Alison, just find Alison. He knocks on Janet’s door, and after two minutes she opens it, leaning heavily on her walking frame.

  ‘Uh, hello, I’m looking for Alison Ross. Is she here?’

  ‘Alison?’

  ‘Aye, Alison Ross.’ He speaks loudly, in case the old lady is hard of hearing.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong house. No Alison Ross living here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ He checks the address written on a scrap of paper.

  Janet cackles. ‘Do you not think I’d know who lives in my own house? How could I not know? Did some girl gie you a fake address? Aye, girls these days.’

  ‘No, it’s not like that, really.’

  ‘Never you mind, pet.’ She shuts the door.

  * * *

  Alice/Alison is still on the train – Neal had driven faster and not stopped, unlike her train. As they pull out of Aviemore, Alice goes to the toilet and tells herself she’s Alison. ‘Hello, Alison,’ she says in a low voice, and tries out an Alison smile for the mirror. But she gets off the train at Inverness, face wet, and waits three and a half hours for the next train back south. She cannot, she just can’t. Not even for Chrissie. Not yet.

  She sits on a hard bench and rests her hands on her stomach and thinks her life is over. She’s been gone too long, not only from Alness and Chrissie and everyone she knows, but from herself. She is Alice, and she lives alone day to day. A boring menopausal fattie who doesn’t drink or have sex. Who stares out of windows and notices odd things and thinks odd thoughts. And she doesn’t care what she looks like, aside from facial hair. She is a blob, a sexless loner, and that’s just the way it is now. She rings Teddy from a payphone to tell him her change of plan, but mostly just because she has a sudden need to hear his voice. Of course, he is full of questions she has no answers for.

  Teddy Asks That Question

  ‘So,’ says Teddy, apropos of nothing, as he begins all conversations, and sometimes ends them, apropos of nothing. Alice assumes he has a perpetual stream of internal conversation and now and then opens his mouth to let some out, mid-stream.

  She is sipping her morning coffee, leaning against the chrome worktop, letting her eyes scan the front page of a Sun someone left behind. Her aborted trip to Alness was three weeks ago, almost forgotten already. What a close call! Teddy dries his big rough hands on a towel, which he swings over his shoulder, then sashays to the fridge for some milk.

  ‘When did you see him last?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Calum.’

  ‘Calum?’

  ‘Your son, right? Calum.’

  ‘Calum? The last time …’

  She looks dazed. Her swift walk to work has done its job, and she’s narrowly averted collision with sad thoughts; leapt heroically over them, and kept moving. Let the centrifugal force of her movement scatter them all. But watch out, here they come again.

  ‘Sorry love, don’t answer if it upsets you. Just I was thinking you might want to talk about it. But just tell me to mind my own business.’

  ‘That’s okay, Teddy. Let me think. Hmm …’

  But she’s only pretending to think. She knows the final scene by heart, it’s ragged with perusals. It was five days after Hogmanay, it was a mere seven months ago – could such a small slice of time really separate two such vastly different realities? Her mind, for the millionth time, automatically leaps to the conclusion that all she has to do is turn back time. A simple achievable act, turning back the clock. Surely she’s done trickier things before. Then in the next millisecond, her mind bites hard on time’s irreversible flow. That old bugger.

  The last time.

  Morning. About seven-thirty. She’d knocked on Calum’s bedroom door, got no answer, peeped in. The room smelled of tobacco and socks, a textured sweet smell. He was still in bed of course. Outside the window, a wet dark morning, like countless other January mornings. It always seemed to be getting darker or only slightly less grey.

  ‘Oh. Hey, Mum.’

  Seemed awake, more awake than if she’d just woken him. Had he been lying there, thinking of things? What things? He seemed okay. A little more secretive than usual perhaps, but okay. He never told her anything. Nothing that really mattered, anyway. She had no idea how he spent his days, since that last job ended. Nope, to the last, Calum was a mystery to his mother. Nevertheless, she felt they’d been close, in a non-confiding way.

  ‘Morning, son. Just thought I’d check to see if you need anything in the sales. I’m having a look round at lunch break. Another jumper maybe? There’s some fleeces reduced to ten pound at Markies.’

  A lie. Just wanted to check on him before she left was all. Needed an excuse.

  ‘Right.’ He got up, pulled on his jeans over his boxers, and shuffled into the kitchen. He was wearing his black Simpsons t-shirt with Under Achiever and Proud of It. She followed him. He filled the kettle, switched it on.

  ‘So. Do you?’

  ‘Do I what?’

  ‘Need anything. In the sales.’

  ‘Nah. You’re alright. Thanks anyway, Mum.’

  The kettle boiled and he washed out two mugs. Alison could tell from the lack of steam in the cold room that the water was cold. She wanted to ask him to let the water run till it was hot, wash the mugs properly, but refrained. Mustn’t fuss too much. One of her constant yearnings, so constant it was unnoticeable, was to conjure up a young woman for Calum – someone to pull his best side out – someone to wake him up, to snap him into his life. Nag him to wash up properly.

  ‘You okay, Calum?’

  ‘Course,’ he barked. His face flushed dark. Did her concern irritate him that much? Emasculate him? She wished she hadn’t asked. Made small talk instead.

  ‘So cruel, having sales just after everyone has spent far too much already.’

  ‘I suppose.’ He yawned, and she noticed he needed a shave. Also noticed he looked better with just this amount of shadow, better than the clean-shaven look. Wondered if this future girlfriend would think the same. He looked at the television, as if wanting to turn it on. Oh god, was he unhappy? He seemed more morose than usual.

  ‘Look, I’m wearing the cardigan you gave me. I love it, Calum. It’s so warm.’

  ‘Good.’ He turned to her and smiled, slow. A true Calum smile, right from the eyes, and her heart filled. Her boy loved her, so he did.

  ‘It looks nice on you, Mum. I knew it would. Goes with your eyes.’

  Then she smiled back, and for a second they both beamed at each other. What had been going on that last morning? Normally they hardly spoke, but here he was, acting depressed, then complimenting her! Smiling! Such small things, smiles and compliments, but from Calum at eight in the morning, monstrously enormous. Something was up. Something was wrong. Or was it?

  ‘What’re you up to today, then? Anything exciting?’

  ‘Nah. Same old, same old,’ he mumbled.

  ‘So, have you thought any more about applying for that cheffing course?’

  ‘Nah. Don’t worry. I’ve got some ideas, some plans.’

  ‘Early bird gets the wor
m, Calum. Whatever your plan is, do it soon.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ Leaned towards the telly, switched it on, and at the sight of her unemployed, unshaved, unmarried son sitting there watching a morning chat show, her mood plunged. When oh when would this nagging sense of helplessness end? When would he begin his life? His presence in the house was increasingly a weight on her.

  ‘Okay?’ he asked, eyes on the screen.

  ‘Aye.’

  A pause. Calum never seemed to think pauses were voids to fill with words. That thoughts were things that could be aired for no reason at all. He sat, seemingly content, while she rummaged for more subjects.

  ‘Quite a nice Christmas, wasn’t it? I thought that turkey was awful though. Maybe try duck next year. Or skip the whole thing.’

  ‘Bloody Christmas. Yeah, whatever, Mum.’

  ‘Might take back that skirt Chrissie gave me. Hope she doesn’t notice.’

  ‘Aye. Money’s better,’ grunted Calum economically.

  Pause, while she tried not to think of the dozen gifts she’d wrapped for Calum, and none of them money.

  ‘Well, that’s people for you,’ she said weakly. ‘And Christmas.’

  ‘Yeah. People. Christmas. Sad, innit?’

  And minutes later, she was driving to work in the murk. On the back seat was his new shirt she’d offered to return to the shop in return for a larger size. The shirt was one of the presents she’d given him. When he’d unwrapped it, she’d the impression he didn’t really like the shirt and he hid the fact to protect her. The idea of Calum patronising her was strangely comforting. Isn’t that what adult sons did to their doting mothers? And he might go to college one day – didn’t that sound healthy and exciting? And surely he’d marry one day, settle down, be a daddy. Most boys did. There were always two views to take of things – how it appeared, and how it felt from the inside. From the outside, he seemed a typical boy with his life ahead.

  ‘The last time I saw Calum? I kissed him on the cheek while he watched telly, and I drove to work. I didn’t usually kiss him, though I always used to wonder if I should more often. Or could. I mean, who ever touched him? His cheek felt cold and rough. I kissed him because I tried to, now and then, in case we ever got back to the way we were when he was little.’

  ‘Did you hug him?’

  ‘No.’

  Alice recalls the exact way Calum had looked, sitting there in front of that stupid telly. His face was like, well, no other face like it. It was Calum’s face, not to be repeated in nature again.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Well, that’s good then,’ says Teddy, reaching for the paring knife to begin slicing onions.

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Good that you had a nice last time with him. No fighting. Nothing bad. Nothing to regret.’

  Teddy smiles and Alice does not.

  ‘No, no regrets. Except maybe the hug.’

  ‘Hugs aren’t everything. You didn’t say anything mean to each other.’

  ‘No, nothing mean. But I wish … I wish I’d spent more time with him, done more things with him. Talked to him more.’

  ‘But it sounds like he was a normal lad. Not big on talking, us lot.’

  ‘Still. I remember one evening. I was on my way out to the pub with some pals, and I asked if he would be okay for dinner, and he said, “Sure, on you go, Mum.” I keep thinking of him sitting there in that empty house on a Saturday night, watching Top Gear re-runs. I should have stayed in, kept him company. It should have been him on his way out to have fun, not me. I was so selfish.’

  ‘Shush. Just a normal mum. And a normal son.’

  ‘But I used to get so angry at him, Teddy. You’ve no idea. His endless mess everywhere. Cups and plates of old food in his bedroom, filthy clothes on the bathroom floor, mud tracked all over the house. The way he never turned off the telly or the CD player. I’d come back to a house with all the lights on, telly blaring, and no Calum. Once I said it was about time he pissed off, he was only using me.’

  ‘I’d be angry too. Anyone would. Kids!’

  He turns to toss the onions onto the greased skillet, and asks, ‘Where was he off to that day, anyway?’

  ‘Don’t know. Nowhere special, probably.’

  ‘Probably a pal’s?’

  ‘Aye. Not far. He never had much petrol.’

  Teddy wipes his hands on his apron and wraps his arms around Alice. She doesn’t respond.

  ‘Sorry, darling. Really sorry I brought it up.’

  ‘Nah, it’s okay. It’s good to say his name out loud, actually.’ And this time she smiles a little, and returns the hug.

  Neal Hugs a Pink T-Shirt

  It all starts with Margaret at work, because Suzie Thomas is her second cousin. She figures Neal and Suzie have a lot in common. She’s from Glasgow too, came up in the seventies to work at Kishorn. Divorced, no kids. Lives in Fortrose now, which is kind of like a coastal Strathpeffer, Neal’s town. They are both in their mid-forties, neither believe in astrology or God, and neither has had sex in a while. Margaret knows Neal will never go on a blind date, so she tricks him. Poor dear man, but there’s no other way to help him. She invites him to celebrate her birthday at The Mallard, and when he turns up, Suzie approaches him smiling.

  ‘You must be Neal. Margaret asked me to let you know she’ll be a little late.’

  ‘Oh?’ He hadn’t really wanted to come at all.

  ‘Yes, she’ll try to come later.’ She notes his hair and thinks, She never said ginger. But nice blue eyes. Or are they green?

  ‘Who else is here?’

  ‘Just us, so far. Fancy a drink?’

  ‘No thanks. Why is it just us?’

  ‘Go on. I’m having a gin and tonic. Flu. Everyone’s sick with the flu.’

  ‘Oh. An orange juice then. Thanks.’

  And when their drinks come and Suzie has paid, she suggests they sit down. They find a corner, and Neal looks uncomfortable and drinks his juice quickly. Suzie frowns a little. He’s not as good company as Margaret promised. Bit boring. Didn’t offer to pay for their drinks and hasn’t asked her a single question about herself. But then she notices that he’s noticing her very tight, very low cut pink t-shirt. Her nipples are pressed against the cotton about twenty-four inches from Neal’s mouth, which begins to salivate like a baby despite the fact he has no particular liking for Suzie yet. Neal has lost control of his own mouth.

  ‘Aye, I knew she’d be this late. She was in a proper tizz about something, alright,’ she says, smiling.

  She begins smiling a lot. Leans forward so when she giggles her breasts bulge even further upward till they seem to be leaping over the table to him. And it goes on from there.

  It isn’t difficult. He’s lonely, shy and sober; she’s lonely, confident and a little drunk. She asks for a lift home when it becomes obvious Margaret is not coming. She offers him a whisky, which he accepts though he hates whisky. They sit on her sofa, he drinks the whisky as if it’s needed medicine, and she presses those breasts against him and kisses his mouth. Her lipstick tastes awful, like a perfumed candle. Then, before he has time to worry about anything, they’re both naked in her bed, quietly humping away. Suzie is his third lover, and Neal is her sixty-seventh. Not that she keeps track.

  In a way, the vision of her nipples squashed into her pink t-shirt has stayed with him because now, in the dark, he seems to think of her entire body as pink – feminine, soft, open, perfumed. Suzie is just very, very … pink. And open. And making love with her feels remarkably like scratching a very itchy place. If it is a counterfeit of the real thing, so what? It satisfies.

  Maybe his dad has been right all along and all his problems are simple ones after all, with a single simple solution. All he needs is a decent shag. And he is calm afterwards. Not invigorated, not scoured out or stunned, but just relaxed. It’s happened so easily, so effortlessly. It seems the odds of pulling, so to speak, have improved substantially since he’d been a young man. His last thought is that he’ll phone hi
s dad tomorrow. And then he drops into a solid sleep, as nourishing as a decent hot meal.

  A Bad Day

  Janet likes a decent hot breakfast, none of this Rice Krispies nonsense. She wakes up every day looking forward to her soft-boiled egg, bacon and toast. But this morning she waits in vain. She waits for her cup of tea, waits for her medicine and vitamins and waits for help onto the toilet. Then hobbles to Alice’s room to scold her. The door is open so she enters the room. The curtains are drawn and Alice is under her candlewick cover, but she’s not asleep. She stares at the ceiling with hard shiny eyes. Janet opens her mouth to say, ‘Get out of bed you lazy cow.’ But Alice’s eyes are too strange. Feral. Janet feels timid for once.

  ‘Alice, dear, are you alright?’

  Alice slowly turns her face to look at Janet, expressionless.

  ‘Are you ill, pet? It’s way past getting-up time, you know. Is your alarm working?’

  Alice closes her eyes.

  ‘I’ll ring Teddy, that’s what I’ll do,’ says Janet. ‘I’ll be back with Teddy. You just stay here.’

  Twenty minutes later, Teddy arrives with his apron still on. The café has been open for an hour, and a regular is looking after things.

  ‘Alice? Mum said you were poorly. Alice?’

  Alice’s eyes are open again, but this time instead of hard and shiny they’re soft and shiny.

  ‘Do you want some paracetamol?’

  Alice shakes her head. Her lips press hard together.

  ‘I’ll get you a nice cup of tea, then you can tell me all about it, eh?’

  When he returns, Alice is sitting up on the bed, an old cardigan over her nightie. She sits on her hands, then slips her hands out to sip her tea. Grimaces.

  ‘Oh. You don’t take sugar, do you?’

  ‘Aye.’ Clears her throat. ‘But that’s alright. It’s fine.’

  ‘I never remember, me.’

  ‘No, nor me. Anyway, it tastes fine. I’ll get dressed in a minute. Meet you at the café as soon as I see to your mum. Sorry. Is she alright?’