To Be Continued

by James Robertson

  ‘Just sit and have a sleep there. It’s not bedtime yet.’

  ‘I’m tired.’

  And he is. He doesn’t mind us leaving. He wants us to leave. We say we’ll come again soon. ‘Okay,’ he says. And when we do go, he makes no attempt to stand up, to follow, to call me back, as he often has done. He watches us go, and when I wave from the door he waves back.

  ‘Bye, Dad.’

  ‘Bye, son.’

  I’m tempted to go back and ask him if he’s ever had a conversation with a toad. Then I decide I’ll save that one for another day. I don’t want to upset the ease of us going. Because it won’t always be this easy. It will probably be quite different on the next visit. But mark this down on the card: a good visit, and a good departure. Man, go forth, man! Go! Twelve points.

  EVERYTHING IS UNREALISTIC

  We stop a taxi on the street. As it takes us home, Rosalind says, ‘I think your father has benefited hugely from his night out. He was quite at ease.’

  ‘He’s not always like that.’

  ‘No, but imagine the good it would do him if he was out of there altogether. If he came away with us.’

  ‘Gran, you’re not proposing Tom comes to live in Glentaragar?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, my dear. He wouldn’t last a week. Mind you, what a week it would be!’

  I throw my weight behind Poppy’s scepticism. ‘It’s out of the question, Rosalind. Even getting him there. But once he was – one fall and that would be it. Over.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t. He falls all the time, you’ve told us. So let him fall. Let him fall until he can’t get up again. A week would do it.’

  ‘Gran!’

  ‘It’s not realistic,’ I say.

  ‘I know, Douglas. Nothing is. Everything is unrealistic until it happens, and then one sees that it always could have happened. But if you had a choice between giving him one week with us at Glentaragar – not now, but in the spring, say, with the sun shining and the birds singing and all of us just enjoying each other – or three more years of what he has, would you hesitate for a second? Wouldn’t you give him the week?’

  ‘Of course I would.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  ‘Let’s see where we are in the spring, Gran,’ Poppy says. ‘Let’s see where we all are, and then we can decide.’

  ‘I’m not serious, really,’ Rosalind says. ‘He’s safer where he is. It’s just a thought.’

  ALL CLEAR

  As we’re getting out of the taxi, a fat, familiar figure, with a rucksack on its back, is dismounting from its bicycle outside the house.

  ‘Douglas! Theseus! Ulysses! Whoever the hell you are, you’re home!’

  ‘Ollie!’ I am as glad to see him as he seems to be to see me. We shake hands. We embrace.

  ‘I was just in the neighbourhood and thought I might catch you. Good timing!’

  I unlock the door and he wheels in the bike and parks it under the purple heather and hairy coos. We go through to the kitchen and he dumps the rucksack on the floor. I do the introductions. Ollie and I fill each other in on developments as quickly as possible whilst trying not to exclude Rosalind and Poppy from the conversation. Ollie, always expansive, is in an exceptionally cheery mood. He turns the charm up to full blast and starts rewriting history.

  ‘You’re a remarkable woman,’ he tells Rosalind. ‘It’s an honour to meet you. I’ve been reading up about you ever since Douglas proposed his article. What a life you’ve had! And Poppy’s your granddaughter? You’re in good hands there, I can see. And Douglas too. Eh, Douglas?’

  I’ve put the kettle on and Poppy is busying herself with plates and glasses for some reason and we must look very domesticated to him. And Poppy confirms it by smiling at him and touching my shoulder as she goes past.

  ‘Quite right, Ollie,’ I say, throwing him a warning glance.

  ‘Aha!’ he says. ‘Discretion is my middle name,’ he says. ‘Or it was, but I changed it to Brendan. Discretion sounded too Irish.’

  Poppy strikes a match, turns around and produces what she has been discreetly preparing – a chocolate cake, in the middle of which she has planted a single candle.

  ‘I didn’t have time to bake, so I bought this this morning,’ she says, lighting the candle. Then she brings a bottle of champagne from the fridge and pops the cork.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Rosalind says.

  ‘Happy birthday to you!’ Poppy sings, and suddenly I remember.

  ‘Happy birthday to you!’ (Together.)

  ‘Happy birthday, dear Rosalind!’ (Ollie adds a rich bass line.)

  ‘Happy birthday to you!’ (The ensemble.)

  ‘I’d completely forgotten,’ Rosalind says. ‘Is it today? My goodness! How kind!’ She leans over the cake and blows out the candle.

  ‘One candle, one century,’ Poppy says. ‘And no presents.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Rosalind says. ‘Who needs presents when there’s cake?’

  She receives kisses from all three of us.

  ‘I completely forgot too,’ I tell her. ‘Your hundredth birthday – the whole bloody reason for me going to Glentaragar.’

  Rosalind gives me a stern look. ‘Oh, Douglas, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Just think,’ Poppy says, ‘Harry the postie will have driven all the way up the glen with your telegram from Buckingham Palace, and there’ll be nobody there to take it.’

  ‘Even better,’ Rosalind says. ‘Poor Harry. Never mind, we’ll see him next week. You cut it, dear. A small piece for me.’

  ‘A big piece for Ollie,’ I say.

  ‘Talking of pieces,’ Ollie says, ‘I’m not sure how to put this, but …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s all change at the Spear.’

  ‘What, again?’

  ‘John Liffield’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ I say. ‘Not – like Ronald?’

  ‘Dead? No, just gone. Fired. That was the editor,’ Ollie explains to the others. ‘Our Friends in the South didn’t think he was taking the paper in the right direction. Told him to clear his desk on Monday, and he cleared it. In on Monday. Gone on Tuesday. That’s what it’s like in newspapers.’

  ‘But he had all those plans,’ I say. ‘He’d just survived that big meeting.’

  ‘So he thought. The facts would suggest otherwise. Anyway, he’s away and there’s a new man starting on Monday. Don’t know anything about him. It might even be a woman – that would be a change. But I’m not sure if that series Liffield planned – what was it, The Idea of Scotland? – I’m not sure if that’ll run now. And what I was going to say was, did you nail him down on a fee and a contract for your interview with Rosalind?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I did warn you,’ Ollie says. ‘Nothing in writing?’

  I shake my head again.

  ‘Good. All is not lost. You can sell it to someone else.’

  ‘Rosalind,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t foresee this.’

  She does look crestfallen. The champagne fizz sounds a little mocking. ‘I did want to see it in print,’ she says. ‘I wanted to lay my soul bare to the world. Or, more prosaically, I wanted to correct an untruth.’ She smiles at Ollie. ‘Douglas knows what I mean.’

  ‘You know,’ Poppy says, ‘maybe it’s better this way. I don’t think Douglas can do you justice, Gran, in one newspaper article. Maybe not the truth either. Here today, gone tomorrow. You deserve more than that – a fuller picture, warts and all. Because you are not perfect, you know.’

  ‘One cannot reach a hundred and be perfect,’ Rosalind says. ‘But I do not have warts.’

  ‘What about you and Douglas talking some more? What about all your papers up at the house?’

  ‘You have papers?’ I ask.

  ‘Boxes and boxes of them,’ Poppy says. ‘There’s a whole book to be written about her life and times.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Rosalind says, but I can see that she isn’t entirely dismissive of the idea.
‘What do you think, Douglas?’

  ‘It would be a project,’ I say. ‘I have a bit of spare time.’

  ‘It could be the job I said we didn’t have for you. I don’t suppose Corryvreckan would mind, would he, Poppy?’

  ‘I’m not sure that Corryvreckan will even notice,’ Poppy says. Rosalind raises an eyebrow at this.

  ‘If there was a book in the offing,’ Ollie says, ‘then maybe the new editor, whoever he or she is, would be interested in a news story. Rather than a profile, I mean. Or maybe that’s the hook. What was it you said? “Munlochy to bare her soul through new biography, the Spear reveals on her hundredth birthday.” ’

  ‘That’s another thing,’ I say. ‘I forgot to take any photographs.’

  Like a conjurer Ollie draws out the wee sliver of techno-wizardry that is his phone. ‘Relight that candle, Poppy,’ he says, ‘and we’ll rectify that at once.’

  ‘Ollie gets my vote for editor,’ Poppy says, obliging with a match.

  ‘That’s not such a bad idea,’ I say, only half-joking. ‘You know all about subbing, you can knock off a front-page article at short notice, you’ve been there longer than most. You could write and edit the entire paper.’

  ‘Piss off,’ Ollie says. ‘Excuse me, ladies. I’m just about surviving in there. Even football managers last longer than newspaper editors these days. I’ll stick with the job I have, thanks.’

  ‘The Spear was a very fine paper once,’ Rosalind says.

  ‘The Spear will rise again,’ Ollie says, ‘or something will rise in its place if it doesn’t. Life doesn’t sit still. Neither do you, Rosalind, and I wish you would for a few seconds. Perfect. Thank you. Roy and Grant send you their regards by the way, Douglas. And they’d send them to you too, Rosalind, if they knew it was your birthday.’

  The phone rings. I excuse myself and go into the hall to answer it.

  ‘It’s Ed,’ says Ed.

  ‘Ed, we were just talking about you. Well, actually, we weren’t. I assume you are still Ed?’

  ‘I just said I was,’ says Ed. ‘Sonya would like to have a word. She feels you’re owed an explanation.’

  ‘I’ve been wanting one of those for a while,’ I tell him. ‘Not from her; from you. But now that I think about it, I’m not that bothered.’

  ‘I’ll keep it brief,’ says Ed. ‘Many years ago I came to Edinburgh during the Festival. I stayed for a week or two. I was a singer and a musician and I did some busking.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I just, kind of, somehow, do.’

  ‘I had a stage name, or should I say a street name? Stuart Crathes MacCrimmon. Perhaps you heard me play?’

  ‘Not back then; but the name is familiar.’

  ‘Well, it’s odd if you do remember it, because I wasn’t famous. Anyway, that was how I introduced myself to everybody. For two weeks I had a ball. I made money by day and I spent it by night. I slept on people’s floors and I hung out with other musicians and actors and we had a wonderful, liberated time. Do you understand what I mean by that?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘And one of the wonderful, liberated people I met was a beautiful young actress called Stella Celeste. That was a stage name too. She was a Business Studies student, but that summer she was playing the part of Felicity in a production of The Real Inspector Hound by Tom Stoppard. Did you ever see that play?’

  ‘No, Ed, I never did.’

  ‘I saw it six nights in a row. Stella was brilliant. After the first performance I went backstage and congratulated her. There was a chemistry between us.’

  ‘That would account for the glow.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Well, one thing led to another and for those six nights I slept on Stella’s floor. Only not on the floor. Do you understand what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, Ed.’

  ‘We were in love. I’ll put Sonya on in a minute. She wants to explain, but I have to explain too.’

  ‘No, you don’t. I’ve worked it out.’

  ‘We were in love but I didn’t realise it. I was only passing through. I had this crazy fixation that my destiny lay elsewhere. I felt as if – as if I were –’

  ‘A changeling?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘I felt as if I were a Scotsman. More than that, a Highlander. I’d felt it in my blood for years, an overwhelming need to find out who I really was. It’s all a mad dream now, but I left Stella on the seventh day and did not return. I felt that if I did not go she would be like a Siren, luring me from my true quest. So I left. I forgot about her and I thought she must have forgotten about me. We were liberated people, after all. We moved on. But she hadn’t forgotten me, and she didn’t move on, at least not physically, although she did complete her Business Studies degree. And when we met again today, well, I found that I hadn’t forgotten her either. Everything came flooding back – the memories, the emotions, even her lines from The Real Inspector Hound. I felt as though I had been in another world for twenty-five years.’

  ‘You have. You’re breaking up, Ed,’ I say, and then Sonya’s voice sounds in my ear.

  ‘He’s not breaking up, I was just taking the phone out of his hand. It’s all right, darling, go and sit down, I’ll be with you in a minute. Douglas?’

  ‘Sonya.’

  ‘Do you understand what Ed meant by everything he has just told you?’

  ‘I think so. He was a singer called Stuart, you were an actress called Stella. One summer you and he were together, he fucked off, you both got on with your lives, but what he didn’t know was that you were pregnant with his child. Is that about right?’

  ‘Yes, except he did not “fuck off”. He went in search of his destiny.’

  ‘Fair enough, but when you realised you were pregnant, why didn’t you go after him?’

  ‘I didn’t know where he’d gone. And anyway, Douglas, I didn’t know I was pregnant with his child.’

  ‘You just said you were.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. You did. I knew I was pregnant, but not immediately. By the time I did know, I thought it was somebody else’s child.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Ben’s.’

  ‘Paula’s father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But Paula wasn’t even born.’

  ‘Of course she wasn’t. Don’t be obtuse, Douglas. I met Ben days after Ed went away.’

  ‘You didn’t hang around.’

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if I were a man.’

  ‘I might. I’m just a bit shocked, that’s all.’

  ‘You’ve lived a very sheltered life, Douglas. Ben and I stayed together when we found out I was pregnant. I thought Magnus was his child. And then Paula came along five years later.’

  ‘But Magnus looks like Ed.’

  ‘Yes, he does now. But he didn’t always. For years he actually did look a bit like Ben.’

  ‘I couldn’t say. I’ve never even seen a photo of Ben. Even though you were together, well, about the same length of time we were.’

  ‘There weren’t many photos of Ben. I shredded them anyway.’

  I wonder what will happen to any photos she may have of me. Are they, too, bound for the shredder beside her desk at the education consultancy?

  ‘So today,’ I say, returning to the fray, ‘when you and Ed – are you calling each other Ed and Sonya, by the way, or Stuart and Stella?’ I could add, ‘When you’re not calling each other “darling”,’ but it would be hypocritical.

  ‘We are calling each other by our real names, Douglas.’

  ‘Ed and Sonya.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘I just wanted to clarify that. When you and Ed recognised each other in the hospital, it must have been as if you had each found your soulmate once more.’

  ‘That’s a nice way of putting it, Douglas. Thank you.’

  ‘Not at all. There was
this noticeable glow between you. You don’t feel resentful about the way he went in search of his destiny all those years ago?’

  ‘We all have to search for our destiny, Douglas. If we’re lucky, we find it.’

  ‘Then I take it Ed isn’t rushing off again?’

  ‘No. We need some time to talk things through, but he isn’t rushing off anywhere.’

  ‘And how has Magnus taken it?’

  ‘In his stride.’

  ‘Metaphorically, obviously.’

  ‘He is very happy. His real father has come home to him. He never liked Ben much anyway.’

  ‘And Paula?’

  ‘She’s not back from work yet. She’ll be cool about it. She’ll take it in her stride, too.’

  ‘Even though her real father hasn’t come home to her?’

  ‘Her real father is Ben. She never liked him much either. She’ll like Ed, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘She might feel resentful.’

  ‘She’ll be fine.’

  I think about Paula. Sonya is probably right. She will be fine.

  ‘What about you?’ Sonya asks. ‘Are you fine?’

  ‘Kind of you to ask, Sonya. I’m fine.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better.’

  ‘Do you have anything you want to explain to me?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as, what is your destiny, Douglas?’

  I mull that one over for a few seconds. ‘Sonya,’ I say, ‘this is a big moment for you. And for Ed and Magnus and Paula. I don’t want to spoil it. Let’s save my destiny for another day.’

  We exchange a few more pleasantries, establish that Ed will probably not be coming back to the Elder residence tonight, although at some point tomorrow he may pop round for his toothbrush and anything else he’s left here, and then – on very cordial terms, I must say – we end the call.

  When I return to the kitchen, Ollie asks, ‘You were a long time? Who was that?’

  ‘Ed and Sonya,’ I tell him. And then I tell them everything that Ed and Sonya have just told me.

  ‘Well, well,’ Poppy says.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Ollie says.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about a birthday present,’ Rosalind says. ‘I think, when someone attains the great age I have, that she should give somebody else a present.’