Chrissie is in Gateways supermarket. Wants to prepare a big celebratory meal. In the cereal aisle she passes the old minister.
‘Hello, Henry,’ she says.
‘Hello there, Chrissie. You’re looking very well!’
And while Chrissie explains that Alison has returned, and Henry pauses to listen, God slips away from her. She notices Him going, adjacent to the shelf of Coco Pops, and she misses Him for a minute. Then Him becomes him. She’ll need to think about it later, say her goodbyes properly, but basically God’s job is done now. Her sister has returned. She tells Henry about Solas, how sweet she looks, but he doesn’t seem to be listening anymore.
In fact, he suddenly looks sedated and kind of stupid. Drunk? No, no. Henry is feeling himself inflate with … what is this familiar feeling? Hey there, it’s You again. I missed You! Standing in this most ludicrous of all supermarket aisles, grace courses through his veins and muscles, reaches his brain and effervesces like champagne. Deliciously obliterating. He experiences such relief, he’s swooning by the time he reaches the queue. Atheism had begun to exhaust him. Utterly exhaust him. There’s simply too much in his heart to compress into a single lifetime. He needs eternity to expend it all, and he has no use at all for rationality. Not really.
Chrissie, in the queue ahead of him, is laying six boxes of chocolate éclairs on the conveyor belt, as well as four bottles of fizzy wine and six huge steaks. Her old heathen self is planning a welcome home party for herself as much as Alison.
In Henry’s basket, there is broccoli, porridge oats, bread and milk. He’d meant to buy some double cream and strawberries, but now he’s thinking Lent. Not for another month or so, but why not start practising now? He looks forward to depriving himself again, that sweet ache of unfulfilled desire.
‘Ali! Will you stop that, you’ll give some poor geezer heart failure, exposing yourself like that,’ Chrissie scolds, walking into the park.
Alison is wrapping Solas up again, and buttoning her own coat because it’s begun to rain in thin icy needles. Her sister wants them to come home, into the warm. Drink tea, watch telly. So they do.
Christmas was over two weeks ago, but the tree is still up. It’s a fake tree, so needles aren’t a problem, and besides Solas stops crying when she sees the twinkling lights. Chrissie explains how she’d waited months, then when the Council needed the house back, she’d rented a storage unit and packed up Alison’s house. Not everything of course, quite a lot of stuff went into black bin bags for Blythswood. And she’d kept some of Calum’s things. His good running shoes and the prize he’d been given in P7 for sports. A few other small things like that.
While she peels potatoes, chops onions, the house gradually fills with her daughters, and their daughters, including the new baby. Another girl. Since they moved into their own houses, it’s such a pleasure to see them. She’d thought they’d never leave. They swarm round Alison and Solas. Hugs, kisses, squeals, tears, more hugs.
‘You look fabulous, Ali!’
‘No, no. You look fabulous!’
‘And look at your wee girl, too adorable. Can I hold her?’
‘Here, take her.’
After a while, Alison sees the framed photograph on the mantle above the fire. Herself and Calum on Mangurstadh beach. Stares at it. Everyone follows her eyes, and after a second of awkwardness, offers Ali another cup of tea, or a glass of wine perhaps?
‘We miss him too. Like mad,’ says one niece.
‘Every minute,’ says the other.
Alison opens her mouth to say Calum’s absence is carved in her bones, but doesn’t. It sounds melodramatic. Pretentious even. She nods her agreement, and they all lament the fact the family is just three generations of women now. No matter that they are years into the post-feminist era, they agree it feels a bit rudderless without a man. Ridiculous, but there you go.
‘So bloody brilliant to have you home,’ says Chrissie again the next morning over coffee. Behind her are mountains of dirty dishes from last night. Pans sliding into the sink, food-crusted cutlery everywhere. Bottles lined up by the bin.
‘Great to be home,’ says Alison, and it’s true. But it’s also surreal, and this is not her house. Janet and Teddy are in her thoughts often. Even that daffodil on tartan wallpaper seems more real than Alness, though it seems a good sign that Solas slept through the night for the first time last night.
Later she takes a walk to the shops while Chrissie watches Solas. When she sees Finn and William walking separately down the street, they remind her so sharply of her son, she almost can’t speak to them. They notice her, and also notice each other. Their faces turn pink and their walk slows till they are both in front of her.
‘Alison!’
‘How are you, William?’
‘Alright. Freezing, like. But.’
‘And you, Finn?’
‘Oh, fine. Great to see you. It’s been a long time. How are you?’
‘Okay, it’s good to …’
Then her throat constricts and her words stop. Eyes filling, she smiles and nods to release them. They start to turn away, when suddenly she reaches for their hands, one in each of hers, so they form a chain, and she squeezes their hands tight.
‘Take care of yourselves, boys. I mean it. Good luck with … everything.’
Then she drops their hands and rushes away. After a minute, Finn says to William, ‘Heard she’s got another kid now.’
‘Aye. A wee girl.’
‘Calum would have loved that. A sister.’
‘So he would.’
Pause.
‘Heard you got married, Finn. That was sudden like, eh?’
‘Aye. Well.’
‘Congrats, man!’
‘Ta. Heard you’ve joined the army.’
‘Aye. Well.’
Then Finn and William, Calum’s pals from playschool, from Coul Park Primary, from Alness Academy, from that desperately confusing post-funeral rain-soaked morning, look like they might hug. But they don’t. They hurl hands towards each other, and smile. Pump each other’s hand for a second or two. A hard pumping, but nothing mere acquaintances mightn’t do. Then each turns and walks away in an opposite direction. Shoulders squared, steps quick. William hops on a bus. Finn disappears round a corner, then his mobile phone beeps with three rising notes.
Take care of yrsel man.
Finn smiles and texts back: U 2.
The Sign
Saturday morning, Neal takes the sign and hammer and wanders about his own front garden. Wonders where would be the best place to announce an era has finally ended. Where should his marriage be buried? Under the cherry tree, which will be hideously cheerful in a few months? Down by the pavement, where folk can get a good look?
It is all very strange. This time last year Neal had a good job, a good marriage and a nice house without a For Sale sign stabbed into the front lawn. He stands holding the rough wooden sign in one hand, the hammer in the other, and it begins to rain silently. Straight up and down rain, soft and soaking. This helps somehow, and by the time his face is wet and his shoes damp, he’s driven the For Sale stake into the ground, halfway between the tree and the road. He returns to the house, quickly changes his clothes and goes out again. He gets into his car and drives to the newspaper office. He’s not going to work because he doesn’t exactly have a job anymore. He has a weekly slot, and that’s all. Last month, the editor took him to lunch at The Mallard and explained the situation:
‘Sales down, Neal, and the paper’s shrinking. Happening everywhere! But we’d like you to carry on with the Years Ago Today column please. If you want, I mean. Not much money in it, I’m afraid, but we could offer you a stipend.’
Neal had slumped over the table a bit, his face pink. ‘Oh, you don’t have to let me keep the history column. Honestly.’
‘Hey, you think I feel sorry for you?’
‘Aye.’
‘What, sorry for a sad bastard who actually enjoys reading ancient newspapers? Fucking r
ight I feel sorry for you. Want to keep doing 150 Years Ago Today or not?’
‘There wasn’t a paper 150 years ago.’
‘Crap, Neal. Who but you would know that? Who would care?’
He’s been given a goodbye and good luck party, and since then he’s tried to avoid the office during work hours. Goes in on the weekend when it’s empty because it feels rude to re-appear when they’ve all said goodbye so sweetly. They’ve given him a hundred pound book voucher, of which he still has twenty-five pound. He ekes out this treat on mid-week forays into Inverness. Thin’s Book Shop, then Leakey’s for a bowl of soup. The job hunt has been humiliating of course. A history degree is not, it turns out, much use, and all the other papers are cutting back. Plus, it’s common knowledge that Neal has become less punctual, less reliable.
Time has taken on a whole new shape. There’s lots of the stuff, but once corralled into segments, it slips by as painlessly as when he worked full time. Many of his daily tasks, like getting dressed and eating breakfast, have simply expanded into the larger time frame, and some days he actually feels like he is rushing from one task to another.
He arrives at the empty office, unlocks the door and makes a cup of strong coffee. Switches on his old computer, which is someone else’s now. Automatically, he avoids looking at this other person’s personal detritus, like the framed wedding photo, the lipstick-stained I Love NY mug, the discarded tissues. Neal is intruding, and he is a very tactful man.
But after a minute his old bubble begins to descend and he is happy as a clam. Look at him: There he is, humming away, calmly tapping in details from a time not that long ago, but already almost completely gone from most memories.
26th April 1976: TWENTY-ONE YEARS AGO TODAY
• Rooms to rent, Alness. HW and colour TV. Mrs MacKenzie 884087
• Heat wave; Black Isle farmers panic about crops and hold emergency meeting with minister in Inverness.
• Black Rock Rovers FC dance, Diamond Jubilee Hall, Evanton 9:30.
• The Tools play at the Royal Hotel, 8:00 Friday night. 50p entrance.
• Found: Yellow offshore jacket and helmet, left in National Hotel, Dingwall. Claim at reception.
• Staff wanted: Welders, engineers, fitters, catering and cleaning staff. Apply labour exchange, Kishorn.
• Dingwall Academy – Spring concert with a performance by local choral group, with guest singer Isobel McDonald.
• Daffodil Tea at Foulis Castle, Evanton, to be held Saturday between 2 and 5. Teas, cakes, stalls, and jumble. All proceeds to the Red Cross.
• Sixty-two 2 and 3 bedroom houses now available in Westford Estate, Alness. For information contact Highland Council Housing office.
And then he types in the very ad that led to this current situation:
• Farm cottage to rent in Alness. Suit Nigg workers. £40 a month. Contact Mr Ross 885498.
He’s not been aware of it, but this is what he’s been looking for all along – evidence of his own past, preserved somewhere, aside from his own grey brain cells. The twenty-three-year-old virgin Neal had read this same paper, and wondered if it was too late to ring Mr Ross. Sat in the National drinking a Carlsberg Special, and hoped no one had beaten him to it. This led to that, and that led to this.
By the time he finishes his coffee, Neal is tranquil. He looks older than his age, but that’s just his contented slouch, his receding hairline, this air of calm resignation. Things are alright. He’s signing on while he looks for another job. He has enough to get by, if he’s careful. A perfectly nice woman with a cheerful disposition has invited him to live with her, meantime. For a second or two, he can’t recall her name – but he doesn’t panic. Attributes this blankness to his middle age, to all the other thoughts filling his head. Anyway, what’s a name? A name is nothing. Suzie! That’s it. Another S woman in his life. Sex with S women, that seems to be his lot. S for safe. S for civilised, phonetically.
Later, he drives back home, stopping on the way to buy milk, bread, Fruit and Fibre. The For Sale sign is still on the lawn, looking like it means business. The house already looks shifty, ready to belong to someone else.
* * *
Alison borrows her niece’s car, which used to be her own car. She straps Solas into the borrowed car-seat. Solas is fat in her winter outfit, bulked into a stiff little package. She stares at Alison.
‘What’re you staring at?’ her mother mock-growls, a silly voice, and Solas smiles, showing no teeth. Every time Solas smiles, Alison smiles back and it’s like a door in her chest opening to a warm uplifting rush of air. Smiling is still so new for them both.
Halfway down the High Street, a man waves her down, and she stops her car. ‘Ali! Hey! Wow, brilliant to see you, Ali. Missed you, babe.’
‘Jimmy. Good to see you too.’
‘Ian.’
‘Sorry.’
‘No worries. Christ, it’s been a while. Totally get it. Fancy a drink later? You staying with your sister, yeah?’
‘Aye.’
‘Grand. See you later, then. About eight, yeah? Cool.’
‘Okay.’
Alison considers driving through Evanton, avoiding the crash place, but at the last minute doesn’t. Heads south on the A9. Says hello to the ragged remnants of Zara’s memorial. Her heart leaps out. It doesn’t even tell her it’s leaping. Crows perch on the wire above the embankment, the sun glinting off their feathers. They all face the same way, but one.
At the Ardullie roundabout, she continues south into Dingwall, then west to Strathpeffer. She’s never been to Neal’s house, but she has the address scribbled down on a piece of paper which slides around the dashboard. Strathpeffer is not a big place. She’ll just drive around, and if she doesn’t find it, well, she’ll just go back home. She doesn’t feel strongly motivated; this is a journey with mixed feelings. Solas whinges a bit, then falls asleep as The Cat’s Back looms up, a dark swell of treeless hill, like a wave. Her mouth puckers in suck dreams.
Oh dear. Neal’s house is easy to find, and Alison is in front of it before she knows it. Now what? She looks at it – very nice, very prim, she thinks. A traditional Victorian stone house with a For Sale sign in front. I’ll get Chrissie to put him off, she thinks. Jimmy, Ian, whoever. What on earth had she ever seen in that man? Or any of them?
Then she thinks: Closed curtains. Good, no one is home. But she can’t leave just yet. She sits and thinks of things she hasn’t thought about in a long time. Some of these things she has never properly thought about before. Well, it’s Neal’s house, why shouldn’t she have Neal thoughts so near it? Loch Achilty, and countless other times float through the car. A blurry sensation comes over her. And she silently says, Check it out, Calum. Nice house, eh?
Then she turns the key in the ignition. Begins to reverse. Turns around, then hears a pounding on her window. Puts it in neutral, pulls the handbrake on.
‘Neal! What are you doing here?’ she says stupidly. Then she rolls down her window and says it again.
‘Me? Alison, I live here. This is my house.’ He stares at the woman he’s been searching for. None of the expected responses are forthcoming. No joy. No relief. Some surprise that they seem to be arguing. And a numbness. He feels peculiar. Faint.
‘Oh. Is it? Sorry, I knew that.’
‘Alison? It’s really you. I saw you from the kitchen window.’
‘Yeah. I was just about to …’
‘I like your hair short like that. And the colour too. Nice.’
‘Ta. Easier. Keeping it. My own colour.’
Pause, while she runs her fingers nervously through her hair. It spikes up above her forehead, giving her an exposed startled look.
‘I thought your house. Looked empty. I was about to leave.’
‘I saw you. I can’t believe it. You look great. When did you get back?’
‘Oh. Not long ago. A while ago.’
‘Chrissie just stopped ringing. I never thought.’
‘Been trying to lay
low.’
‘Sure. You okay now?’
‘Better. Thanks. Chrissie told me you’d been asking. After me. And looking for me.’ She can’t stop speaking in staccato.
‘Aye. Well, I was worried, Alison.’
‘Yes, I know.’
Pause.
‘Aye,’ says Neal, his numbness evaporating. His head straightens up, then he tilts it in another direction, this time towards her. Every word Alison says, every movement, her breath even, these are all sharp arrows to his heart, which now lives on the outside of his shirt. He tilts his head to divert their aim, or ease their entrance. He can’t tell. It’s like entering a different element, just being this near her.
‘Chrissie said you and, and, and …’ She gestures to his house, to the For Sale sign.
‘Me and Sally?’
‘Yes. Chrissie said you and your wife spilt up. Sorry.’
‘Yeah. Me too.’ He flaps his hands around a bit then lets them settle.
She has to make herself breathe deeply now. Where’s this going? Why has she come? A shudder rolls visibly through Alison’s body, and Neal suddenly knows he’ll never live with Suzie. He says, ‘You’re cold. Come in for a warm drink. A cup of tea.’
Silence. Alison looks straight ahead. Her head does not tilt, but the world does.
Neal stares at her profile a minute then reaches in and turns off her ignition. Very unlike him to be so masterful, and they are both a little stunned. He opens her door. After a minute, puts a hand on her arm to ease her up out of her seat. Her head suddenly feels too heavy, and she’s horrified to find it moving towards Neal’s shoulder. It’s seeking the shelter of that spot between his shoulder and neck. There it goes, coorying in like a kitten.
‘Alison,’ he says with relief, which is finally pouring in, the immense simple relief of her. But she is not relieved, and her muscles tense.
‘Neal, what happened? Golspie. It was a one-off. You know that, right?’ She is talking into his shoulder.
If I Touched the Earth Page 19