by Mairi Wilson
“So what about this one?” she mused as much to herself as to Danny. Running her fingers over its base, she felt the ridge. Smiled as she turned it towards Danny. “Same thing.”
She came over to the table, lifted her arm again to smash this bird too, but Danny stood.
“No, Lex. Don’t smash it. This one isn’t yours.”
“I hardly think that matters in the circumstances.”
But she let Danny take it nonetheless, her eyes widening as he pulled out a Swiss army knife from his jeans pocket. She shouldn’t have been surprised. Danny the Boy Scout. Always prepared. But a Swiss army knife wasn’t really something she’d expected him to possess. It was a bit too … rugged.
“Danny,” she laughed. “Where on earth did you get that?”
“Had it for years. Thought I better bring it in case … in case I needed … Well, you know.”
“Danny, this is Scotland, not the jungle,” Lexy said, choosing to ignore her own earlier broodings on the hostility of the environment as she succumbed to the temptation to tease him with familiar ease.
“Yeah well. Better safe—”
“—than sorry,” she finished for him, as she always had, and they both laughed briefly before an awkward silence descended.
Danny cleared his throat and sat on the bed, resting the bird on his lap as he opened a blade on the knife. Carefully, he began to scrape at the ridge, blowing the dust away from time to time and then scratching the blade a little deeper, a little deeper.
Lexy, fully recovered now, paced up and down in front of the window, dying to wrench the bird from his hands and just smash it as she’d originally intended to do. What did it matter? Helen wouldn’t care – not when Lexy confronted her with the truth. She’d have much more important things to care about.
“Oh, come on, Danny!”
He paused briefly, then returned to his painstakingly methodical scraping. Good grief, he’s annoying, Lexy thought. No wonder it hadn’t worked between them. Look at him, chip, chip, chipping away, when all she wanted to do was grab it, smash it, get to its heart at once. Chalk and cheese, they were, night and day, tortoise and hare—
“Gotcha.” Danny dropped the knife, twisted his hands in opposite directions and the bird fell neatly into two pieces, a folded yellow square falling down onto Danny’s lap.
Lexy snatched it up, no longer afraid of what it might contain, anxious to read the name on what she knew would be another birth certificate. David’s, it would be David’s, and then she’d have all the proof she needed.
She felt the colour drain from her face, sat down in the armchair as heavily as if she were winded again.
“Lex? Lex, what is it?”
“It’s not him. It’s not David.” She was speaking slowly, eyes running over and over the words on the page as she tried to understand them, tried to force them to spell out what she’d expected to see.
Danny came over and sat on the arm of the chair, took the paper from her.
“Sen … Senga? Who the hell is Senga? And what kind of a name is that anyway?”
“It’s another one.”
“What?”
“Another child. A fourth child. Helen had another child. Look.” She pointed to the mother’s name: Helen Munro. “That’s her. It has to be.”
“No Buchanan this time, though.”
“No, and no father’s name, either.”
31
Taigh na Mara, June 19th
Helen had had another sleepless night. She’d been in the workshop since the small hours, glazing pots, something she usually found soothing and therapeutic. But not today. Her hands hadn’t been steady and she was sure she’d spoilt at least three but wouldn’t know for sure until they’d been fired. They’d start the kiln later. Ross always liked to help with that. She wiped her hands with a damp cloth, dried them on her dusty apron. Breakfast. Ross would be hungry. She paused for a moment outside the workshop, looking at the islands in the distance, sun bouncing off the water all around them. She wished she were on one of them, sometimes. This island she’d tried to maroon herself on here on the mainland not enough to keep the world at bay. Alexis had found her. Lexy. She regretted sending her away. It was the shock. She’d been expecting Izzie and hadn’t known what to say to the vibrant young woman. Her granddaughter. Helen found she was hoping Lexy wouldn’t give up, would try again.
The door creaked its welcome as she pushed it open.
“Ross?” she called, craning her neck up the stairs behind her as she slung her jacket over its hook. “Ross, darling? Are you up? Breakfast.”
She was answered by a thump and scratch of a chair from the kitchen. “Ross? Everything all right?” She sighed. He’d be trying to make tea, to surprise her. Sometimes he managed, other times he struggled, dropped or smashed cups, spilt hot water on his hands, threw milk across the room in frustration. The metallic clatter of the kettle lid falling onto the kitchen flagstones told her which it would be today.
“Ross, I’m just coming, darl—” The kitchen door swung open and she saw Ross sitting at the table, panic on his face, and a young woman standing behind him, one hand on each of his shoulders pressing him down into the wooden chair, a smile of sorts on her face. A smile Helen felt she’d seen before.
“Ross, are you—”
“Oh, he’s fine. For now.” There was menace in the voice, a familiar undercurrent.
Ross whimpered. “Dropped kettle,” he said.
Helen saw the water pooling near the door as it trickled its way across the uneven floor.
“Not really a good idea to leave the kitchen door unlocked, even out here. Never know who might happen along. I gave you a bit of fright there, Ross, didn’t I?” The woman squeezed Ross’s shoulders as she leant forward and placed her head alongside his, her eyes never leaving Helen’s face. “But we’re all right now, aren’t we, Ross?”
Seeing the two faces side by side, one dark and puzzled, one light and smiling, Helen’s eyes widened. The resemblance was there and yet … she was young, this woman. Too young.
“You’re not … You can’t be …”
“Who? Who can’t I be?” The hand slid off Ross’s shoulder, cupped his upper arm and pulled him closer. “We’re going to be such friends, Ross, aren’t we? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, a friend?”
Something about her tone alarmed Helen, but Ross looked back at the smiling face and grinned, nodded vigorously. “Friend.”
“That’s right. Friend. Good, Ross. Very good.”
Helen took a step forward, picked up the kettle lid that lay upside down at her feet, held it in both hands in front of her like a miniature shield.
“Who are you?” she repeated, although a slow nausea was building in her stomach as she began to wonder if she might already know. “What are you doing in my house?”
“I’ve come to visit. Family should, after all.”
Helen kept her face still, her eyes steady, anything to fight the growing tide of realisation that was sweeping through her body, a physical pulse of disgust and horror. But she was too young … like the other one yesterday … Oh dear God.
“Nothing to say, Gran? Don’t you even want to know your granddaughter’s name?”
“You’re not my granddaughter.” This could not be. It wasn’t possible.
“Yes, I most certainly am.”
“You … you’re … Alexis is my granddaughter.”
“Lexy?” The woman laughed. “So she is. And I’m sure she’ll be along soon, too. She’s not one to give up, that cousin of mine. She’s been beavering away, dig, dig, digging to get to the bottom of the scam you and your friends put together all those years ago. All I had to do was follow on behind. I feel I’ve come to know her quite well already. Trust me, she’ll be back.”
Helen slid down into a chair across the table from her son and this … this stranger. The cold metal lip of the kettle lid was digging into Helen’s hands, the pain helping her keep her focus, take in what this fami
liar stranger was saying. Her mind was trying to fight what she was hearing, find a way of making it all lies … and yet … Helen knew.
“That’s better, take a load off. Don’t want that hip playing up, do we? Thought we could have a little family reunion later, when Cousin Lexy gets here. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Ross, a party? And Gran can tell us more about her adventures in Africa, won’t that be fun?” She leant in to the bewildered man, squeezed his arm, too tightly, smiled at his yelp of pain and surprise.
“Leave him alone.” Helen’s voice was steady, despite the adrenalin crackling through her veins. “Get out. I don’t know who you are or what you—”
“Oh Gran.” Even the pout was familiar, Helen realised with horror. “Don’t be mean. You know who I am. Think. Think back to Malawi, to a time I know you’ve a tendency to forget. But I’m sure it’s all still in there somewhere.” She leant over, flicked Helen’s forehead and laughed again as Helen gasped in shock. “Come on, Gran. You can do this.”
Helen’s mouth was dry, speech impossible. She shook her head slowly.
“I can see it’s all coming back now. Good, good. No point in denying it, Gran, now, is there? Blood will out and all that. But how rude. I haven’t told you my name. I’m Jenny, Jenny Kennedy, although that name won’t mean anything to you yet, I expect.”
But it did. Ursula’s letters, Ursula’s fears. Blood buzzed in her ears. She grabbed at the edge of the table, pushed herself back to stand, the chair legs scraping on flagstone as it fell behind her.
Jenny darted round the table, righted the chair and pushed Helen back down into it.
“No, no, Gran, don’t you worry yourself. I’ll do that, shall I? Put the kettle on?” Jenny plucked the kettle lid out of Helen’s hands, picked the drum up from the floor at her feet. “Nice cup of tea should see us right. After all, we’ve a fair bit of catching up to do, haven’t we?”
32
Ross-shire, June 19th
Danny watched from the window until Lexy’s car disappeared over the ridge. He really wished she’d let him go with her. But as usual, he’d given in to her. And he could understand why she felt Helen might not take kindly to an audience when Lexy confronted her. He just hoped Lexy would keep her temper in check. It worried him to see her so tense, so brittle. Ready to go off on one at the slightest thing, ready to break down into tiny pieces. He was glad he’d come. Even if she wouldn’t admit it, he knew she was glad he had too. But he was no fool. He knew this didn’t mean she’d have him back. Whatever happened, though, he had to make sure she was okay.
He lay down on the bed, closed his eyes, but his body could still feel the juddering of the steering wheel as he’d driven at speed on motorways, more cautiously on single tracks, thumping over potholes there was no room to swerve and avoid, his eyes straining against the darkness and, later, the mist that had tumbled down off the hills rising up to either side of him as he’d neared his destination and a green-tinged sun had risen slowly behind him. And now his mind itself was still running on at a hundred miles an hour.
Was Lexy right? Was she really related to this odd woman and her retarded son, to some corporate fat cat in Malawi? Was she really an heiress to a fortune? It was so far-fetched, she might as well have claimed to have won the lottery.
Everything she’d said, every outrageous twist in her story just put her further out of his reach. And into the arms of that man Robert, no doubt, no matter what she said.
It was no good. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep. Too much to think about, too unused to the barbs of jealousy snagging at his thoughts every way he turned. The flask of black coffee he’d used to fuel him during the night drive probably hadn’t helped either. The light, dull and grey though it was, filtered through the thin curtains and kept reminding his overactive brain that it was day. Not sleeping time. Lexy laughed at him, called him a creature of habit, was irritated by his love of ritual and routine. And here it was again. Couldn’t sleep if it was day; couldn’t stay awake if it was night.
He wondered how Lexy was doing. He picked up his phone, wondered if he should call her. She’d probably only be annoyed with him, but even so … He tapped the screen, watched the light snap on, the screensaver resolve.
It wasn’t his phone.
The cuddling kittens screensaver told him it was Lexy’s. She must have taken his by mistake because he’d definitely seen her drop a phone into her bag. Typical. Never paid enough attention. Fine, he’d phone himself then.
His finger hovered over the phone icon as he hesitated, looking at the red circle protruding from another icon at the top of the screen. The green message icon. Three unopened texts. He tapped. Three unopened texts from Robert.
He dropped the phone, steepled his hands and pressed them against his lips. It took every ounce of his integrity not to read them. But what good would that do? And Lexy was right. It was none of his business any more. He stepped backwards, away from the phone to stop himself picking it up again and scrolling through it. Would there be voicemails? Emails from him? God, this was unbearable.
As if to taunt him further, the phone buzzed; the opening bars of something new, tribal, African, played loud in the quiet room as the phone danced and span on the bedspread, telling him who it would be before the name appeared on the screen spinning round to face him: Robert.
He picked up.
“Hello? Lexy? Why haven’t you answered my messages?” The voice was deep, strong, clearly irritated. Danny felt a nip of smugness: not just his messages she ignored, then.
“Lexy?” The voice was getting sharper. “There’s been a … development. And … and Gran, she’s … Lexy? Lexy!”
“She isn’t here.”
There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end. “Who the hell are you? Where is she?”
“I’m Danny, her—”
“Her ex. I know. Put her on the phone. I have to talk to her.”
“She isn’t here.” Danny didn’t feel inclined to be helpful.
“I haven’t time to mess around. This is serious. Let me speak to her.”
“She isn’t here.”
“Then why have you got her phone and where the hell is she?”
Danny was taken aback by the other man’s anger.
“She’s gone to see …” The unhelpful inclination returned, swept in on a wave of Danny’s own anger. “It’s none of your damn business, actually. I’ll give her a message for you, but that’s it. She’ll tell you anything she wants you to know herself.”
“For Christ’s sake, man, this is serious. I know she’s looking for Helen, her grand … I’ve got David Buchanan here with me and he’s just had a call from the chief of police… Hugh Pendleton was arrested for defaulting on his gambling debt to Richard Chakanaya—”
“Who?”
“—and tried to get out of it by making some pretty wild accusations. But the upshot is he’s been working for Jenny Kennedy.”
“What? Slow down, man.”
“Jesus. Where to start? He’d been spying on Lexy, trying to scare her into leaving. He even … It was him, the schoolroom and snake and—”
“The snake? What the—”
“Just trust me, okay? She’s in real danger. I know she’s looking for Helen Buchanan. But if she finds her … You have to stop her! Someone else is looking for Helen too, and she’s dangerous, armed, we think, and she’s—”
“Senga,” Danny cut in. “Senga Munro.”
“Not Senga, her daughter … But how the hell … Do you know who she is? Danny, she’s really dangerous. You have to get to Lexy. If she’s gone to Helen’s, get her out of there!”
*
Lexy’s hand rubbed the smooth head of the ceramic honeybird in her pocket like it was a talisman, patted her bag where the other one, in pieces, was wrapped in a polythene bag. Helen couldn’t deny her now. She’d have to acknowledge her. Lexy fleetingly wished she had the third honeybird from Ursula’s flat. But it didn’t matter. Two had to be, s
urely would be, enough to break down Helen’s denials.
Lexy took a deep breath, exhaled, rolled her head and shoulders like a prize fighter about to go into the ring, which wasn’t too far from how she felt. She banged on the croft door; her ears pricked, listening for sounds from within. She’d seen Helen’s old car at the back of the house as she’d driven down the track, and she’d peered into the workshop window to check, but no one was in there. So they had to be in the house. The absence of smoke from the chimney concerned her, but it was a milder day today so perhaps there was no need of a fire.
Or perhaps there was no one there.
No, there would be, there had to be. She banged again, more heavily and with more determination. Then she tried the handle and was amazed to find it turned, but before she could push open the door it was pulled back a few grudging inches and Helen’s face appeared in the crack.
“You! Go away. I told you, you’re not welcome,” she hissed, eyes flicking back and forth between Lexy’s face and the shadows of the croft’s hallway over her shoulder.
Lexy put a hand on the door to stop Helen closing it. “I’ve come to return something of yours. Something I know is important to you.”
“You can’t have anything of mine. Just go. Keep whatever it is, but just go.”
“It’s something Ross gave me.”
“Ross.” Helen laughed bitterly. “You’ve done enough harm there.”
“Has something happened to Ross?” Lexy was surprised at the concern that swept through her.
Helen’s head jerked round as if she’d heard something behind her.
“What’s the matter, Helen? Can I help?”
Helen snapped her head back, her voice now no more than a hoarse whisper. “You have to leave. Please. Just go aw—”
Helen stopped as she saw the honeybird Lexy had pulled from her pocket, nestling in the younger woman’s palm. What little colour was in the thin cheeks drained away.