Part Six
October 1996 to February 1999
Alison is Back
‘Mother’s name?’ asks the register.
‘Alison Ross,’ she answers clearly. Alison is a bigger person with a longer history, and so Alice succumbs, disappears. It’s a seamless join. Teddy’s eyebrows lift, but he says nothing.
‘Father’s name?’
Pause.
‘Father’s name?’ Looks at Teddy, who looks at Alison.
‘Neal Munro,’ she says, in a rushed exhalation, as if he’s been held captive in her lungs.
‘Child’s name?’
‘Solas Teddina Ross. S.O.L.A.S.’
Alison chose Solas for three reasons. It sounds a little like Alice, her name for those lost nine months. It also sounds like solace, which is what new life can bring the world. But most of all, she chose Solas because solas means light in Gaelic. Alison pays tribute to light, in this naming, because this whole dark year light has been rescuing her. Impersonal, cold shafts of light in all sorts of places. Alison has begun to think the dead might reside in reflections in puddles, in rays that shoot out from under grey clouds like banners of excitement. In people’s eyes sometimes – that flash of light – when suddenly, despite themselves and everything around them, joy fleetingly grabs hold of their hearts.
Teddy gently rocks the baby, who obligingly sleeps and dreams milky dreams. He kisses her feathery red-blond hair tenderly, lets his lips linger.
‘You want one too, Teddy?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Well, you should get one. Just get one. You’d be an ace dad.’
‘You think?’
Solas shifts slightly, raising her tiny hands nearly to the top of her head, which is as far as they’ll go. Then re-settles into her dreams.
Alison takes her baby when they’re on the bus and nuzzles her head. Silently says, Here she is, Calum, here’s your wee sister. Look at her, is she not just lovely? Aye, I know I’m a bit past it and she’ll completely finish me off, but will you just look at her wee fingers? She’s got your eyes, so she does, and she’s your sister, and will you just look at her, Calum? I’ll be showing her your photo soon, the Fyrish Hill race one, don’t you worry about that, my lad.
Too right she’ll finish you off, Mum. But do you not think you need a bit of finishing off? Anyway, she’s brought you back to your mean old self, so no moaning please. And mind you get her the good trainers, not the cheap rubbish.
Course I will, son. Got to admit though, it is fucking freaky being a mum again. Like it’s the first time, really. Some days I feel I haven’t a clue. Some days I feel so scared I wonder if she’d be better off without me.
Don’t be daft, Mum. She’ll need someone to annoy later. To drive crazy and cost heaps and make messes for. Who better than you?
Aye, right. I forgot that bit of the job. Quite good at that bit, wasn’t I?
Aye. You were aye dead easy to wind up.
Alison talks to her son more now than when he was alive. So strange, to just speak her mind to him. And even weirder, he has become a sympathetic listener. He is, it has to be said, quite good company now. She can tell him anything. And she has stopped worrying about him, too. In that place where there’d been a constant murmur of Calum anxiety, now there is nothing.
Solas yawns, opens her petal mouth and roots around. She doesn’t really remind her mum of Calum. It’s been too many years, and besides, Solas is entirely her own unique self. Already it is obvious from her serious eyes and economical cries that she is quite intelligent.
Milk fills Alison’s breasts till they’re absurdly hot and hard. She’s not aware she’s crying till the tears fall on her daughter’s face. She cries a lot these days, as if her tear ducts are incontinent. Not gut-wrenching, more pressure-relieving. She cries as she pays attention to all the little necessary things a baby demands: burping, feeding, changing, rocking. And she minds none of this. It is all real and even the nappy rash is welcomed and dealt with.
Solas has not entirely returned Alison to the world, but she is making her mother’s eventual return inevitable. A baby has the power to break up heavy chunks of time into a million lighter less thought-filled pieces, simply by needing constant care. With every sad dream interrupted by infant cries, Ali moves closer to the world. Calum’s death leached the colour out of everything, and Solas is pumping it back in.
Teddy stretches his arm behind Alison. Whispers, ‘Go on, hen. Feed the poor wean.’
And she feeds Solas all the way home.
Neal Walks All the Way Home
Another Saturday night, and they’re watching telly. Inspector Morse. Her legs stretch over his lap, and he absentmindedly strokes her ankle. He wonders if her ankles are an erogenous zone, and if so, if they are a major erogenous zone or only a minor one. He mildly enjoys stroking them – maybe she only mildly enjoys it too. Maybe at their age, only minor zones are left. Where have the major ones gone? He manages to follow the film closely while having these very familiar thoughts. Then Neal lifts her legs off and stands up.
‘Fancy a cheese toastie?’
‘No, no thanks.’
‘Oh aye, forgot. Bread. Gluten.’
‘And the dairy. Cheese is dairy.’ She doesn’t take her eyes off the screen.
‘Sorry. Fancy a … an oatcake and … peanut butter?’
‘Aye, thanks. Sounds delicious.’ She turns and gave him an extra big smile.
In the kitchen, he turns on the grill, grates the cheese, butters the bread, hums to himself. Makes a cup of tea while the cheese is melting. His thoughts wander where they will, down the usual paths. He returns to the sitting room, still humming, and is startled momentarily by the sight of a nice-looking woman wearing pink lipstick sitting on his sofa. A woman that is neither his wife nor Alison.
‘Where’s my oatcake, then?’ she asks. ‘And is that a cup of tea? Lovely.’
So, Suzie slips his mind easily, but isn’t that a good sign? He’s already taking her for granted; it’s wonderful to be at that stage again. So relaxing. He’s going through the motions, but from the outside it looks exactly, but exactly like the real thing.
A week later, Neal invites the woman who’d originally taught him to live like that, his learner-wife, out for lunch.
‘Alright,’ Sally says on the phone. ‘Where?’
‘That new café in the courtyard behind the Tesco car park?’
‘What’s it called?’
‘No idea.’
‘I know,’ she says in her precise tone. ‘Courtyard Café.’
‘Makes sense,’ he concedes.
‘Yes. Lovely pancakes. Coffee … not strong enough for me.’
‘No. Do a nice pot of tea, though.’
On and on, the sort of small talk they always talked. Eerily like it’s just been a few hours since their last conversation. He’s not seen Sally for almost two months, and the first sight of her pierces him. Her familiarity is physically painful. Her double chin is adorable.
After she orders pea soup for them both without even asking him, in her usual way, she tells him she has a boyfriend. Which explains the glow he now notices. In fact, she is looking damned pretty. Far prettier and nicer than pink Suzie. Not Suzie’s fault she’s just an inferior Sally replacement, but. The words he’s been rehearsing suddenly sit up and gasp. A boyfriend? What the hell!
‘What? Who?’
‘James Black. From Jamestown, remember?’
‘You and James Black?’ Neal giggles now, he can’t help it. There’s not an ounce of humour in his heart, this is a nervous reaction.
‘What are you sniggering about?’
‘Not laughing, really. Sorry. Bit shocked, to tell you the truth. God, Sally, he’s like, like, I don’t know. You never even used to like him.’ Jealousy, an emotion he’s never experienced before, is rising like a bilious storm in his gut.
‘Have you lost weight, Neal? You look great.’ True. All that sex has burned calories. He loo
ks more toned, more alert, altogether more attractive now.
‘Don’t change the subject, Sally. You used to laugh at James. You said his breath always stank. Hali whatever. His breath pongs!’
‘Things change. How are you, anyway? Has Alison returned?’
‘What? No!’ How dare she bring that distraction into the conversation.
‘Well, are you seeing anyone?’
‘No.’ Suzie and Saturday nights, what are they? Less than nothing right now.
‘Oh. Well, really glad you wanted to meet. I was thinking we should start sorting out things, Neal.’
Nothing about this lunch is going according to plan, and his soup gets cold.
‘What do you mean? Sort what things out?’
‘Neal! Honestly! We have to sell the house, for one thing. It’s my house really, and I need that money now. Unless you want to buy it and stay there.’
‘I don’t want to sell. I’m sorry. I do not want to sell.’ This is making him feel about four years old. He knows he’s sounding ridiculous but cannot stop himself. There are tears in his voice. ‘Why should I move?’ he says petulantly.
In this moment, she actually likes Neal far more than she’s liked him for a while. He feels like someone she could be friends with. For a moment, she actually prefers Neal to James! Neal makes her laugh, without even trying. His face is funny, especially now. It reveals so much male vanity and male naivety, all mixed up. This is not a face that could break any woman’s heart, that’s for sure.
‘So, are you serious about James? He what … buys some mouthwash, so you ju-ju-jump into bed with him?’ His face is red.
‘Hey, you started this,’ she begins gently.
‘Ah!’ This ah is dangerously low. ‘I was waiting for that. I get it now. No matter what happens to you for the rest of your, your, your righteous little life, you’ll blame me. For a one-night stand.’
Neal pauses here, shaking. He has so little practice saying mean things, it takes him far from himself, depletes him. What was he going to say to her? Those rehearsed words. It’s all going horribly wrong. He takes a breath and says in a single exhalation, ‘I wanted to say something to you today, Sally.’
‘Go on.’ Expressionless.
‘I wanted to apologise. And to explain. I don’t think I ever properly explained.’
‘Go on.’ Still dead.
‘Alright. About Alison. And Golspie. I didn’t want to do that. It wasn’t my plan at all. The whole thing. And I am so sorry.’
Sally doesn’t say anything, just stares, still the unreadable eyes.
The waitress clears their table and asks, ‘Are you wanting some dessert? We have a lovely chocolate gateau today.’
‘No thanks,’ says Neal.
‘Yes. I’ll have the pancakes and maple syrup please,’ says Sally.
How can Sally eat at a time like this? His gorge rises just hearing the word syrup.
‘I believe you, Neal, about it not being intentional. I do! You’re not a bastard philanderer, and I’m not angry at you anymore. Truly.’ Her voice is suddenly genuinely warm, so much like her old self, he wants to hug her right now, hold her and squeeze tight, like they used to.
‘I want you to come home, Sally. Come back!’ he says, his voice quivering like a girl’s, pressing his thin lips together at the end to hold back an outpouring.
‘Ah, Neal.’
‘Please. Please, Sal.’
Her face scrunches up, as if she’s eaten something that doesn’t taste like she expected it to. Surprise, but not necessarily dismay. Doesn’t open her mouth to say anything. Just scrunches.
‘I love you,’ he whispers. ‘I love you, Sally, and I miss you.’
‘Ah, Neal. I love you too. I really do! You’re bit annoying sometimes and you screwed up big time. But you’re a good man, really.’
‘Come home, Sally.’
‘Sorry. It’s too late. I can’t come back now, Neal.’
‘Why not?’ Hating the whine in his voice.
‘James is in love with me,’ she says helplessly. ‘I couldn’t do that to him.’
‘Go on. Do it anyway. He’ll get over it.’
Sally rubs her eyes, waits as the waitress places her dessert in front of her, then says, in her old taking-charge voice, ‘Neal, listen. You know what I’ve been thinking?’ She raises her fork, holds it over the pancakes. Pauses, then shakes her head as if she’s decided not to say those words after all. Laughs briefly and says, ‘I am so bossy. I’m a terrible bossy-boots all the time.’
It’s true, Neal thinks. Sally always makes the rules. She begins to eat her pancakes with gusto, and he suddenly remembers the first time he saw Sally. Her unlined, yet strangely grown-up expression when he introduced himself as the reporter. The way she’d smiled quietly, even while talking, assessing him. He remembers the way she’d given his hand a secret squeeze as they parted. Said See you soon, though as yet no date had been made. As if a deal had just been brokered, with a satisfactory conclusion. That’s what I’ve been missing, more than anything else, he suddenly realises. Sally’s certainty.
‘But I kind of liked you being the boss. Be my boss again, Sally.’
She begins to laugh.
‘Please.’
‘Sorry. Really, Neal, I am so very sorry. The problem is, I’m the boss of James now, and you know me. Loyal as stink.’ She reaches for his hands with both of hers, and he tries not to mind that her hands are sticky with maple syrup. It’s one of the things he cannot stand, normally.
‘The thing is, it’s too late now. But we can be friends.’
After an eighty-seven-second stare-down, during which Sally mouths Sorry, Neal concedes. Withdraws his hands. Puts on his jacket. Walks away and keeps walking. With every step, and there are many – he leaves his car behind and walks all the way home – he thinks he understands more.
Oh! His romantic life is the victim of massive bad timing, and he’s doomed to love who he has lost. Oh! He’s developed a flair for melodrama and feels stupid after the first mile. His feet are killing him. When he gets home, he’ll need to call a taxi to take him back to his car. Even his dramatic gestures end pathetically and expensively. Then as if to underline his foolishness, it begins to rain in cruel icy bursts, and his feet are quickly soaked.
Prodigal Sister
Raining so loudly, Chrissie doesn’t hear the doorbell and Alison opens the door and shouts, ‘Hello!’
‘Jesus! I can’t believe it! Fuck me, for fuck’s sake, Alison Ross,’ Chrissie says, gaping in her doorway at her little sister with a baby under her arm. ‘Oh my God, thank you God, oh dear, oh dear,’ she says over and over, as she passes the obscenity stage of surprise. ‘And who in the world is this? Give her to me, what a weight, what a perfect wee face, how old is she?’
‘Just over three months.’
‘Bless. What’s her name?’
‘Solas.’
‘Solas? What are you like, Ali? What kind of name’s that for a bonnie wee girl like this? She’s yours, I take it? Looks very like you, actually. Aside from the ginger hair, of course. Your eyes.’
‘Aye, she’s mine.’
‘Wow, you work quick girl. And who with? Have you got a fellow, then?’
‘No, not as such. A friend who helps me out. A man called Teddy. In fact, it was his idea that I come up for a wee visit.’
All this time, Chrissie pulling Alison into her over-heated house, pulling off her coat, her gloves, pressing her into an armchair, bringing her a cup of tea, touching her hair, patting her shoulders. Making a fuss of the baby.
‘Is this the only bag you’ve got, then? Not much to show for all this time away, then.’
‘I’m just here for a visit, Chrissie.’ But the bag contains a brown body-shaped container.
‘Could have phoned, Ali. I’ve been so worried. All this time. You don’t know. I thought, for a while, you were dead somewhere.’
‘I sort of was. Sorry.’
‘So did Neal. H
e even went to Glasgow to look for you.’
‘Neal?’
‘Aye. He’ll be dead chuffed to hear you’re okay.’
‘Don’t tell him just yet, will you? Not ready.’
‘Okay. But why, Ali? Why did you just bugger off like that?’
‘I don’t know. I just couldn’t. I … I just couldn’t stay, Chrissie. It was so hard to even talk.’
‘Hard to talk to me? Surely.’
‘To anyone. Anyone who … knew me. I didn’t have a plan, but … I couldn’t be here anymore. I can’t explain it.’
‘Alright, darling. But are you okay now? You seem … well, different.’
‘Well. I am, I guess.’
‘Of course you are. Ignore me, that was a stupid thing to say. Being here again, it must feel like you’re … I don’t know. Re-entering an orbit or something. Bits of you scraping off on re-entry, falling to earth. Like that satellite a while ago.’
‘I’m fine, Chrissie. Honest. Not the same, obviously, but I’m okay. Is the pot empty? Could do with another cuppa.’
* * *
The next afternoon, Alison and Solas are in the play park, even though it’s freezing and will probably begin to rain in a minute. Solas is warm enough, tucked under her mother’s jumper, sucking away. They’re waiting here till Chrissie finishes the shopping.
Alison feels like she’s floating. Her tired heart is beating quickly. There is so much to take in, so many forgotten cues to memories. The yeasty smell of the distillery, the sound of the gulls. Even the graffiti on the see-saw, the way the middle swing is still cock-eyed. She holds Solas closer. Tells her silently, It won’t be long, love. Won’t be long till you’re begging to be pushed higher and higher on a swing somewhere. You’ll probably scream as if you’re scared to death, then moan when I stop pushing.
If I Touched the Earth Page 18