“Why would I want to watch that crap?” said John.
She searched her head for something that would make him stay, but all she could come up with was: “L-last week you said you thought it was funny—when she did that thing—you know—pretending to be a nun.”
Without answering, he left the room; a minute later she heard the cellar door open, then slam shut. Well, she thought, a lump of resentment swelling inside her, I suppose my company just isn’t good enough for him, not compared to what they can offer.
MAID OF THE MIST
Two hours into the drive to Scotland, the Zetland family stopped for lunch. After bolting down his mixed grill, Dad kept looking at his watch and glancing through the restaurant window to check that the car hadn’t vanished, while John ripped up a red-and-white Little Chef napkin, letting the shreds fall onto the floor. The two of them had barely spoken all day. For some reason Marion didn’t fully understand, a form of low-level warfare had been rumbling on between father and son over the last few months, and the forced proximity of the car journey only served to heighten these tensions.
Marion ate her fish and chips slowly, each forkful feeling heavy under the weight of Mother’s gaze.
“A lady never completely clears her plate, you know, Marion,” Mother said, having barely touched the ham salad before her except to stub a couple of cigarettes out in the yolk of the boiled egg.
John rolled up a piece of napkin and flicked it at his sister.
“John!” exclaimed Mother tremulously.
“Time to make a move,” said Dad, scraping his seat loudly as he got up from the table.
Mother insisted that Marion accompany her to the restroom, while Dad and John went out to the car. Marion had to check each cubicle to find a suitable one, then hold Mother’s coat and bag while she “went.” Marion waited outside the cubicle until Mother said, “Marion, I just can’t relax. Run the taps, would you.”
When Mother finally came out, she washed her hands, squeezing the soap, scrubbing and rinsing, no less than three times.
“Did you wash, Marion?”
“Of course.”
“And use soap?”
“Yes. Are you ready now? I bet Dad has the engine running.”
“Just give me a minute, will you!” she said, snatching her bag from her daughter.
Mother took her pills from the large snakeskin handbag and popped one into her mouth. As she was screwing the lid back on, the bottle slipped out of her hands, and little white disks fell onto the floor, bouncing and rolling in all directions.
“Oh, oh!” she wailed. “Now, that’s your fault for rushing me.”
Then, to Marion’s disbelief, Mother got down on her knees and began searching for the pills that had gone just about everywhere one could imagine.
“Don’t just stand there like a slab of lard, help me.”
“But they’ve been on the floor!”
“What else am I supposed to do? We’re hundreds of miles from home, it’s not as if I can call Dr. Dunkerly and have him send over another prescription.”
Mother’s need for the medication must be pretty bad, Marion realized, if she could override her extreme fussiness to scramble around on a toilet floor picking them up; so she got down on her knees and began collecting pills in her cupped hand, hoping no one would come in and witness what they were doing.
“Make sure you get every single one,” urged Mother.
“Oughtn’t we rinse them under the tap?”
“No, no you can’t do that, they’ll dissolve just like little lumps of sugar.”
After they had retrieved as many as they possibly could, Marion and Mother returned to the restaurant car park, where John and Dad were waiting in the Bentley. They had been driving half an hour or so when John spoke:
“Can we stop to get something to eat? I’m starving.”
“But, John, you hardly ate a mouthful of your steak pie at the Little Chef,” said Mother.
“I told you, it tasted funny.”
Mother, sitting next to Marion because John got carsick in the back, tapped her husband on the shoulder. “Should we stop somewhere, Philip? Acid on his stomach could cause an ulcer.”
“Nowhere for mile and miles,” Dad answered resolutely. “He’ll have to wait until we get to the hotel.”
“If you’re desperate, I have half a banana sandwich.” Mother took a limp cellophane package from her handbag and reached over from the backseat to hand it to John. He grabbed hold of the snack, ripped off the cellophane, took a sniff, then threw it back so it bounced off Mother’s cameo broach and landed in her lap.
“I’m not eating that shit, you stupid cunt.”
After shooting a furious glare at John, Dad did something violent with the gears of the Bentley that made the engine howl in pain. As they sped forwards the car filled with earsplitting silence as in the aftermath of an explosion. Marion saw Mother reach into her handbag for her medication, then place two white disks on her narrow, slightly furred tongue. Marion’s lip curled back when she remembered picking pills up from close to the porcelain base of a public toilet, blowing on them to remove fluff and grit.
The rest of the journey went by in deepwater slowness. Mother gazing blankly out at the heather, the sandwich growing stale in her lap; Marion chewing Bettina’s ears for comfort and staring so hard at a single spot on the back of the car’s passenger seat, she wondered it didn’t singe the upholstery.
It wasn’t until almost 8 p.m. that they rolled up along the gravel driveway of the Brigadoon Hotel: a daunting stone building with a single turret overlooking Loch Lomond. The interior of the hotel was filled with tartan and taxidermy; a stuffed stag’s head with great twisted antlers stared out from above the reception, while the sweetly startled faces of deer lined the wood-paneled hall and sweeping oak staircase.
Mr. Galloway, the owner of the hotel, greeted them. He was dressed in kilt and blazer, his jolly smile propping up jaded, bloodshot eyes. Mother and Dad were shown to their usual room, the Balmoral Suite. Tam O’Shanter had been reserved for John and Marion.
As soon as they got to their room, John threw his case next to the bed and then went into the bathroom and slammed the door. After unpacking her suitcase, Marion wandered around examining the various stuffed birds and animals that decorated the room. A dusty mongoose was sprawled on the window ledge, a small white hare glanced nervously over its shoulder beneath a glass dome on the mantelpiece, and several stuffed birds stared down at her from the walls.
“Don’t you think now I’m almost thirteen and John is fifteen we should have our own rooms?” Marion had asked Mother a few weeks before the trip.
Mother seemed surprised by the suggestion. “But the two of you have always shared. I don’t see why this year should be any different.”
“But wouldn’t some people consider it weird?”
“What could possibly be weird about a brother and sister sharing a hotel room?” Mother inquired innocently.
Marion thought of the funky, spicy smell her brother had recently acquired and the habit he had of staring at her as if she’d just sprouted a second head, but she knew that if she tried to explain these things to Mother, she would be told she was being silly.
• • •
AT 9 P.M. they were the last guests eating dinner in the Walter Scott Room: brown soup, beef in gravy, ice cream in small metal dishes. Their parents chain-smoked from their own individual packets of cigarettes, Mother’s green and gold elegantly feminine, Dad’s red like the uniform of a royal guardsman. No one mentioned the incident in the car. It had become a feature of family life that such moments of brutal drama often slipped from everyone’s mind a few hours later, so that Marion was left wondering if she had imagined them altogether.
After the dinner they went to the bar. Marion had a little bottle of Britvic orange. Mother had a small sweet sherry and Dad drank whiskey. John insisted he wanted beer.
“Why not?” said Mr. Galloway, pouring himself a
whiskey from the same glowing amber bottle he had served Dad. “The lad needs a few hairs putting on his chest.”
So John was given a half glass of milk stoat. After the first sip he licked away the foam mustache and gave a little sigh as if he were a workingman unwinding at the end of a long day.
Relaxed by the sherry, Mother got into conversation with Mrs. Galloway. Having presumably forgotten, if not forgiven, John’s earlier outburst, she began to brag about her son’s academic achievements. “John—John, what was the name of that thingummy—you know what I mean—the prize they gave you?” she asked, her voice slurring a little.
John gave an impatient huff.
“The Wilkinson Award for promise in scientific achievement.”
“Yes—the Wilson Award—”
“Wilkinson!” he snapped.
“Oops—silly old me. Wilkinson,” said Mother, shielding a guilty smile with one hand.
When Mrs. Galloway asked about Marion, she gave a shrug and said, “Marion is Marion,” as if that required no further explanation.
• • •
THE NEXT MORNING they went down to the pier to take a trip around the loch. The boat they took was called The Maid of the Mist. When Marion was a small child, she had believed it to be as grand as an ocean liner; now she realized it was nothing more than a shabby little ferry.
As the boat cut through the choppy waters of the loch, they clung to the guardrail, taking deep breaths to reduce seasickness. Marion was sure the scenery would have looked breathtaking if it weren’t for the blinding rain blowing straight into her eyes. The worsening weather forced the family to find indoor activities over the following days. They visited the Museum of Marmalade, where John spat out the preserves on the floor, then a ruined castle, taking a tour of the dungeon.
A guide, dressed in a black cloak, showed them around the subterranean vaults, relating the history of the castle while in the character of a medieval executioner. The performance was subject to John constantly querying the guide’s knowledge of historical facts and laughing at his attempts to frighten the visitors with stories of historical “ghosts and ghoulies.” The other members of the group coughed and shared glances while Mother simpered apologetically. Neither she nor Dad seemed to have the courage to stand up to John.
“You’re spoiling everything,” Marion whispered. “Why can’t you stop being so horrible?”
“Why can’t you stop being so ugly and stupid?” he spat back at her.
“I just don’t know why Dad lets you get away with being like that.”
“He won’t say anything.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know stuff.”
“What do you mean, John?”
“Stuff he doesn’t want her to find out about.”
Then he gave her a look and tapped the side of his nose, which had recently begun to sprout blackheads. What on earth could John know about Dad that he didn’t want Mother to find out about? For some reason, Marion was sure it had to involve the time the two of them spent down that awful cellar together. Yet part of her didn’t want to know, any more than she could face the idea of descending those steep stone steps and nosing around amongst the mold and shadows.
• • •
IF THINGS WEREN’T bad enough in public, Marion hated being alone in the hotel room with him even more. She always went into the bathroom to get undressed, but on more than one occasion John pulled down his pants right in front of her, making her burn with shame. He left the toilet unflushed and farted without caring if she was in the room or not. Complaining made his behavior even worse; it was as if he enjoyed shocking her.
“But what would you like to do today, John?” Mother asked one morning over coffee and grapefruit segments in the breakfast room.
“I dunno, what is there to fucking do in this boring hole?”
Mother’s hand went to her jaw as if she’d just fractured a filling. She glanced at Dad, who was staring out the window, his face expressionless.
“I mean, why the hell do we even bother coming here?” John continued. “We might as well stay in the Northport Grand and play bingo with the old codgers.”
A gray-haired lady in a tweed suit looked at them over her copy of the Herald.
So they stayed in the hotel that day, Dad drinking whiskey after whiskey in the bar, while Mother read her tarot cards in the Glen Carrick Room, with its roaring fire and panoramic view of the loch. Marion went up to her room to fetch a book to read; as she was about to go back downstairs, she saw John standing with his back pressed against the door, blocking her way.
“I know, why don’t we play a game?” he suggested with a malicious glint in his eye.
The “game” consisted of John making Marion do increasingly ridiculous and humiliating things. He made her touch her toes fifty times until she nearly fainted from lack of breath, then eat toothpaste until she threw up. She crawled on the floor like a dog while he prodded her with a walking stick he’d found in the lobby. He said if she didn’t do these things, he would stuff Bettina down the toilet.
Marion thought at least by playing his game she might draw off the dark energy, and he would turn back into the old John who had helped her with her homework and played gin rummy with her, sometimes even letting her win, but it soon became apparent his nastiness was in never-ending supply.
• • •
AFTER DINNER ON the final night, they went to the bar to listen to Mrs. Galloway sing. Marion thought she looked elegant in a white shift with tartan sash, her long brown and silver hair piled up on top of her head. A smiling Canadian couple, round as pumpkins and wearing matching Fair Isle sweaters, said good evening as they sat down at the table next to the Zetlands. Mr. Galloway played the piano while his wife sang in a swooning soprano of banks and brays, lasses and laddies and rye.
As soon as John began to snigger, Marion got a sharp feeling in her throat.
Mother slid a cigarette from the gold-and-green packet with shaking fingers, and Dad lit it for her.
“Please stop it,” Marion muttered.
“Rubbish,” said John, loudly enough for the Canadian couple to stare at him, their smiles hollowed out into little cavities of shock. Mrs. Galloway kept on singing.
“John—you bugger,” hissed Dad.
Then John cupped his hands to his mouth.
“Shut up, you ugly old trout!”
The singing finally stopped, and the room fell quiet. Mrs. Galloway’s fishlike eyes peered at them from beneath drooping lids.
Dad grabbed John’s arm, pulling him abruptly to his feet, then Marion jerked her head backwards, feeling the slap across her brother’s face as keenly as if she had been struck herself; in fact, she would have preferred to have taken the punishment. That way the horror would have stopped there. As John rushed out of the room, Mother got up to go after him, but Dad told her to sit down and finish her drink. So the three of them stayed and listened to the rest of Mrs. Galloway’s performance, which had tentatively started once again.
An hour later, Marion went back to her room, fearful of what might await her. When she turned on the light, it took a minute for her mind to reassemble the broken-up jigsaw before her. Furniture had been overturned, things smashed, beaks and feathers, mongoose fur, sawdust, tufts of woolly stuffing were scattered everywhere.
John wasn’t there. His coat, boots, and that old satchel he didn’t like anyone to touch, were gone. Could he have run away? Might he never come back? For a moment this thought filled her with joy. She would be free from the awful anxiety of never knowing what he would do next. If she waited until morning to tell her parents that he had run off, that would give him a chance to get far away, perhaps so far no one could ever find him. Wouldn’t that be the best for everyone? She went over to the window and pulled back the heavy tartan drapes. The sight of the loch and its glittery black nothingness filled her with dread. What if he’d gone out in the dark and fallen into the water? She realized then that her love for her bro
ther was separate from herself, something that could not be reasoned with nor controlled, a hungry animal that clawed at her heart. He had to be found. As much as he enraged and hurt her, losing him would cause even greater pain.
After several minutes’ knocking on the door of the Balmoral Suite, Dad, wearing his red dressing gown and pungent with whiskey, answered the door. Marion spluttered out her story in such a confusing mess of severed heads and sawdust that it took several minutes for him to understand exactly what had happened. She waited in the corridor while he got dressed.
When he returned in his tan overcoat and driving gloves, he pinched her cheek and said:
“I’ll find him, Chuckles, you go wait with your mother until I get back.”
Mother was lying in the middle of the four-poster bed, the bottle of medication within easy reach on the nightstand. It looked to contain about half the number of pills that they had retrieved from the restroom floor. Marion lay down on the bed next to her.
“Are you worried about John?” she asked.
Though Mother’s eyes were open, she did not seem to be fully awake. Marion reached out and gently took hold of her hand. The older woman flinched and made a funny squealing noise, like a cat does when you accidentally step on its tail, then shook free of Marion’s grasp. Careful not to touch her again, Marion closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
• • •
IT WAS ALMOST morning by the time Dad returned. He and Mr. Galloway had found John on The Maid of the Mist, stowed away with a supply of shortbread and bottled Highland Spring water. It was hardly as romantic as running off to sea since the ferry didn’t go anywhere except back to the small pier. He would have spent the rest of his life sailing around the loch in circles.
John was already in the car when they left the hotel. His face was dark with engine smut from the boat, and his eyes had the wary, hunted look of a captured convict. Marion said nothing as she got into the backseat next to him. As Mother approached the car she looked surprised to see him. Opening the rear door, she bent down to speak to him: “John my love, what are you doing in the back? You know that makes you carsick. Get out and I will sit next to Marion.”
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