It wasn’t a surprise, not really. Kitty knew that if her mum wasn’t interested in her once-beloved horse, it was most unlikely that a little bird skull was going to prove a hit. The handsome Ballachulish Boy was groomed and fed but rarely ridden. He too took on the drop-headed melancholy that seemed to be spreading over the estate like a malaise. And then he was gone. It had been a dark day when she and her dad had watched him being goaded reluctantly into a trailer, tears prickling their eyes. ‘He deserves better’ was all the explanation her dad could offer.
Kitty executed a forward roll in the pool, as if resetting her thoughts. Then she reassumed her floating position.
Peaceful. Thinking now of nothing…
Just as the light arrived dappled through the leaves of the laurel hedge, so sound was diluted, reaching her ears differently. Kitty closed her eyes and let her arms bob by her sides, and there she stayed, happily floating on the water with the spring sun on her skin and the muted burble of birdsong in the distance. She heard the faint echo of a car door slamming and pictured her cousins alighting with bags, sports paraphernalia and a desperate need of the bathroom, as her dad slapped them on the back and wrapped them in brief, tight hugs. Just the image of her dad close by made her feel safe.
She had no idea how long she stayed like that – minutes, an hour? Her hold on time was skewed, so lost was she to the water. But then, quite unexpectedly, she sensed a change to the shape of her world.
A dark shadow loomed between Kitty and the sunshine.
Slowly she opened her eyes to see a man standing on the poolside. He stood with his hands in his pockets, shirtsleeves rolled above the elbow. She blinked and realised it wasn’t a man but a boy; a little older than her, but a boy nonetheless. Embarrassment made her right herself in the water. Ashamed that he’d seen her in a state of complete abandonment, her blush flared.
She stared at the floppy-haired outline of him and the shape of his face, a face that would become very familiar but which was not yet known to her. It was as if the universe knew that to reveal him to her completely might be more than her teenage heart could bear. Far better this gradual revelation of the body, the name, the life that would become so entwined with her own.
Kitty quite forgot she was wearing the ugly swimming costume that was baggy in places, worn thin on the bottom and discoloured to a dull grey. Truth was, she could barely think straight.
‘Angus!’ Ruraigh’s voice called and the boy turned slowly and was gone.
Kitty watched him walk through the gap in the hedge, then lay back in the water. But she was no longer at peace. She was in fact agitated. Thoughts crowded her mind – what might be for supper, how long would it take for her toes to turn to prunes, and when would she grow boobs – and each one of them was topped and tailed by the image of a slender boy called Angus.
*
‘So that’s a fine Scottish name you’ve got.’ Kitty’s dad smiled at the boy over the dinner table as her cousins heaped peas and buttered new potatoes onto their plates, dwarfing the slabs of poached wild salmon that they’d been served.
‘Yes, but that’s about where my Scottishness ends, I’m sorry to say.’
‘Can you believe that, Uncle Stephen? There were Ruraigh and I picking him for our rugby team, thinking we were kindred spirits and that he’d know the game, guessing we might have friends in common, and all the time he was from the New Forest, masquerading as a Scot with a name given to him by his grandfather!’
‘Was your grandfather Scottish?’ Kitty’s dad asked with thinly disguised hope.
‘I’m afraid not. Ruraigh is right – I’m a fake. My grandfather served with an Angus in the war and that was how I got my name.’
Stephen Montrose shook his head. ‘Well, we shall make a Scot of you yet.’
‘No wonder we kept losing at rugby – he couldn’t kick straight if you glued the ball to his foot!’ Hamish rolled his eyes.
The boys laughed, Angus blushed, raising his hands in defeat, and her dad chortled in the way she loved, with creases at the side of his eyes and his mouth wide open. This was how he used to laugh, on the sofa in the days when her mum had managed to keep her illness at bay. Or at least when Kitty had been less aware of it; if she really thought about it, the signs had always been there.
She felt torn, hating the male camaraderie and her exclusion from it, but pleased her dad was laughing. When he was like this, his happy mood lifted everyone, made everything seem possible. Gone was the stilted conversation around the table, when everyone ate too quickly, in a hurry to be elsewhere, and gone too were the worried glances at the dark shadows beneath eyes in want of sleep. The knot of unease in her stomach miraculously unwound, leaving her with a void that she filled with hope. It was nice to get a break from the anxiety.
She wished it could always be this way.
‘Well, if it’s a kicker you’re wanting, you could do a lot worse than Kitty, isn’t that right?’ Her dad waved his laden fork in her direction. ‘Been training her since she was knee-high.’
‘Not much call for kicking in a swimming pool!’ Hamish nudged his brother and they laughed. ‘Got them gills yet, Kitty?’
For the first time, she wondered if she too had changed. Maybe her cousins were not solely to blame for their gradual estrangement. Ordinarily she would have stood and thrown a spud at Hamish or shouted out loud that she’d seen him close to tears when they watched Kramer Vs Kramer – she had a store of insults ready for occasions such as this. But today the words stopped on her tongue and her cheeks reddened. She was aware only of Angus’s presence and how she might appear to him if she let her rage get the better of her.
She was still trying to think of an appropriate response when Angus leant forward, his elbows on the table, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal bronzed forearms peppered with fair hair.
‘I thought a strong kick was exactly what’s needed to propel you through the water?’
He didn’t look at her, didn’t address her directly, but she knew that he spoke in her defence and it felt wonderful! Fireworks of happiness danced in her stomach, along with something else – a tingling, a churn of longing that was as new as it was scary. As if on autopilot, and to mask her confusion, she did what came naturally, picked up a spud and lobbed it – scoring a direct hit at Angus. Immediately, she ran from the room, tears gathering.
Twenty minutes later, Kitty sat with her jeans rolled up and her feet dangling in the water. The pool lights were on and the bright turquoise space seemed to glow in the evening darkness. She heard the rustle of the hedge and whipped round to see who or what might be disturbing her moment.
‘It’s only me.’ Angus spoke as he approached and Kitty’s heart leapt into her throat. He padded around the tiles and came to sit next to her, so close she could smell the tang of his end-of-day sweat and the whiff of supper and nerves on his breath. She stared ahead, hoping that her heart didn’t sound as loud to him as it did in her ears, thinking it would be a most bizarre thing for him to hear. He slipped out of his Docksides and rolled up his jeans before sitting down next to her, only a reach away, then placed his feet in the water next to hers.
‘I’m sorry about your shirt,’ she whispered, still mortified at the memory of the buttery spud landing squarely on his chest.
‘It doesn’t matter. It’ll wash. Your dad said Marjorie might have a go at it tomorrow.’
She nodded, thankful for Marjorie, who just might save the day. ‘I wasn’t aiming for you.’
‘As I said, no harm done.’
She kicked out in the water and watched the ripple spread.
‘I think there’s so much more to a swimming pool than a place to swim,’ he began.
She turned her head to the left. He had her interest – although he could have been reading aloud from the phone book and she would have been drawn.
‘What d’you mean?’
Angus took a deep breath through his nostrils and spoke softly. ‘When you get into a pool a
lone, it has a special kind of feel about it. You almost become one with the water.’
‘Yes!’ She nodded. Exactly. This boy might be a friend of her cousins, but he understood.
‘It always feels like the biggest win if you arrive at a pool and there’s no one else in it. I think you swim at a different level – it’s impossible not to, with that whole body of water there just for you. Doubly so if the pool is outside.’
‘I’ve only ever swum here and in the sea.’
‘Which do you prefer?’ He looked at her now. She noticed the way his hazel eyes meandered all over her face, as if committing her to memory, learning her, and she liked it.
‘Here. It’s my spot.’
‘Yes, I saw you here when we first arrived…’ He let this linger.
She smiled and nodded at the memory of that moment, which had managed to set the tone, hijacking her day.
‘The pool at Vaizey isn’t up to much. It’s big but not pretty, and they keep it on the cool side. And there’s something quite revolting about a school pool that has a hundred or so unwashed boys’ bodies in it each and every day.’ He laughed. ‘One of the lifeguards once told me I wouldn’t believe the things they found lurking at the bottom!’ He pulled a face.
‘Urgh, no thanks!’ She felt a little sickened by the thought.
‘Well, you’ll have to get used to it or find somewhere else to swim, and that’s not easy in rural Dorset.’
Kitty turned her body to face him. ‘I’m not going to Vaizey! No way! Why would you think that?’ She shook her head at the absurdity of his suggestion.
‘Oh, I don’t know. My mistake. I… I thought…’
‘There you are, Angus!’ Ruraigh called from the gap in the hedge. ‘Fancy knockout snooker in the games room?’
‘Sure.’ He stood and stamped his wet feet on the tiles, gathering up his Docksides and holding them in his outstretched fingers as he walked off.
Kitty stared at the imprint of his wet feet on the ground next to her. She watched them dry and fade, wondering if he’d been hinting that he might like her to attend Vaizey… But surely not – he was sixteen and she was pale and boyish with a wonky arm and no boobs and, according to her cousins, the most boring girl in the world.
*
Over the rest of the Easter holidays, Kitty tried to engineer ways to be alone with Angus; she wasn’t trying to be devious, she was simply keen to study him without anyone else around. Once or twice she caught him at the tail end of breakfast. Ruraigh and Hamish always wolfed down their eggs and toast at breakneck speed, unwilling to waste a moment of the day. Such was their impatience, they’d abandon Angus, who ate in the same manner with which he undertook any task, with precision and consideration. He would sit alone at the table in the morning room with a slice of Marjorie’s homemade bread raised to his chest, the crust of which was always thick, hard and slightly burnt, delicious with a generous curl of salted Scottish butter.
One time Kitty walked nonchalantly into the room to look out of the window, as if assessing the weather. On another occasion she opened the drawer of the mahogany sideboard, searching for goodness knows what in a place that she knew contained only faded playing cards and her dad’s ancient solitaire board with some of the little white pegs missing. These activities were a red herring; her sole purpose was to be near him, to look at him, gathering images that she would store in the evolving montage in her brain. Tiny details held unfathomable fascination for her: the way his long fringe flopped over one eye when he leant forward; the square shape of his fingertips when they flattened on a surface; the barely audible ‘T’ sound he made before he laughed, and how if something wasn’t that funny to him, he omitted the laugh altogether and just uttered the little ‘T’. Kitty collected up all of these snippets and built Angus in her mind, layer by layer, filling in the gaps with her wishes and desires about what a boy, no, what a boyfriend should be.
Today she’d been pretending to look for the morning newspaper.
‘Where are you off to?’ he asked from the table.
She looked down at her jodhpurs and riding jacket. What is it with people?
‘I’m taking my pony Flynn out for a hack. He’s getting on a bit and I need to keep his joints moving or he seizes up.’
Angus seemed less than interested.
‘Do you ride?’
Please say yes… She pictured the two of them cantering along the ridge as day broke, watching the warm sun soften the brittle spikes of the conifers that loomed large on the snow-capped hilltops.
‘God, no!’ He laughed and she heard the echo of that little ‘T’.
‘Have you ever tried?’ she pushed, unable to accept that someone was willing to miss out on the most fabulous experience the world had to offer. After swimming, of course.
‘Yes, once or twice. Not really my thing.’ He dusted the crumbs from his hands and reached for a napkin. ‘Plus I’ve seen your pony. Don’t think he’d take too kindly to having to ferry me around.’
‘He’s stronger than he looks.’ She leapt to her beloved Flynn’s defence. ‘You should have seen my mum’s horse, he was a beauty.’ Kitty smiled at the image of her mum in her riding habit astride the impressive Balla Boy, who used to do her bidding at no more than a click of her tongue or a flick of the reins. ‘But he’s been sent to a yard somewhere near Hawick. He needed a lot of looking after.’
‘I guess with your mum being depressed, that was hard – too much for her.’
Depressed. She stared at him. It was as if a thunderbolt had been fired into Kitty’s chest. That was the first time she’d heard the word associated with her mum. She knew almost nothing about depression, but she instinctively sensed Angus might be right. Her stomach bunched with equal measures of sadness and anger. How come Angus knew about her mum’s illness, which meant Ruraigh and Hamish did too, and yet she didn’t?
Tears welled and colour bloomed on her cheeks – entirely regrettable in front of Angus. She drew herself up tall, turned on her heel, and without another word marched out of the door, along the hall and across the back yard. Without knocking on the door of the former stable that had long ago been converted into the estate office, she turned the handle and walked in. Her dad was on the phone. He winked at her and pointed at the leather chair positioned on the other side of the wide mahogany desk, which was cluttered with piles of paper and faded, dog-eared files. While he continued his conversation, she sat and stared at the tartan carpet, until her eyes felt a little fuzzy.
‘Yes, yes, of course, Malcolm, that sounds good. Will you call Dezzy for me about next week’s fishing permits and lodge accommodation?’ Her dad nodded, as if Malcolm on the other end could see him. ‘You’re a pal. Speak soon.’ He put the phone down and clapped loudly. ‘Well, how lovely, a visitor!’ He beamed. ‘Although in future please remember that the only thing better than a visitor is a visitor bearing tea.’
Kitty declined to comment, in no mood for his banter, not right now.
He failed to take the hint. ‘And if memory serves correctly, you usually only come down here when you either want something or I am in trouble. So, which is it?’ Her dad smiled and sat forward, knitting his knuckles together on the desk.
‘It’s both.’ She picked at a loose thread on her sand-coloured joddies.
Stephen Montrose let out a loud laugh that sent ripples of love around the walls. She wished he wasn’t being so upbeat, not when the topic was anything but.
‘Is Mum depressed?’ She sucked in her cheeks, disliking the feel of the word in her mouth.
Her dad sat back in the chair, his soft expression disappearing. He rubbed his eyes and face, as if suddenly overcome with fatigue. ‘Who said that to you?’ he asked quietly.
‘Angus, but I know he will have heard it from the boys.’ Whip-smart and in tune, she held his gaze, daring him to lie to her.
He nodded and let out a deep sigh. ‘I suppose I’ve been waiting to speak to you about it, or, more accurately, putting it off.
’ He inhaled and continued, his voice barely more than a whisper. ‘Your mum… Your mum is very poorly. A lot of people say, “Oh, I’m a bit depressed,” but what they really mean is fed-up or angry or tired, and that’s very different.’ He paused again and looked skywards, in the way that he always did when considering his words. ‘What your mum has is much more than being a bit fed-up. It’s called severe clinical depression and it isn’t a trivial thing.’
Kitty racked her brain, instantly trying to think of the times in her life when she had seen her mum with her head back, laughing. Happy. ‘She did my hair the other day and she seemed fine – she wasn’t dressed or anything, but she smiled at me.’
Her dad nodded. ‘She has days, moments when she is good.’
‘What about a nice holiday, or a day at the beach, or we could go up to Kilan Pasture and pick her some wildflowers?’ Kitty suggested.
Her dad continued, with a quiet, sad smile. ‘I wish it were that simple, darling. I wish there was a place or an event or a distraction that might bring her happiness, but it’s nothing she can snap out of, it’s not like a mood. It’s as if your mum has been plunged into darkness and no matter where she is, what lies ahead, how good things are or how much we love her, it doesn’t bring her any joy. Nothing does.’
‘Not even me?’ Kitty’s voice was small.
Her dad sniffed and pulled his handkerchief from his corduroys before blowing his nose loudly. ‘Well, Kitty, never doubt how much she loves you, how much she loves us. But this should surely show you how terrible this depression is, because you… you are all the joy in the world, and so if your mum is unable to take part in that, to enjoy you, it must surely be because part of her brain is a bit broken.’
How to Fall in Love Again: Kitty's Story Page 3