by Isla Dewar
He allowed himself to drift into his favourite daydream. He had married Elspeth and she shared his cottage. After supper, which she would prepare, have ready to lay on the table the moment he got in from work, they would sit by the fire, logs roasting, flames leaping up the chimney, and she would play for him. She’d be on the wooden chair by the table, foot stamping, smiling at him. He’d sit in his old armchair, fingers dancing to her tunes, a small glass of whisky on the little table beside him. That would be grand.
A thought darkened his dream. What if Elspeth did what Lorna did? She was dreamy enough to let her attention stray, look up at some passing bombers and chop off her finger. Then what would happen to the music? Accordion players needed all ten fingers, he was sure of that.
He would take her off the snedding, and let her work with the horses. It was time, Duncan decided, to get rid of Avril. He was wondering if she had TB. He’d seen it often enough – the flushed emotions, the sweating, the coughing. Others would come down with it in this damp place. And every single one of them would be half-crippled by arthritis when they got old. The wet and the cold and the kneeling on the ground and the heaving and lifting just wore your bones away. He had it himself – a cursed stiffness in his toes and fingers every morning, a throbbing, burning when rain was on its way. Pain with every step, sometimes he thought his legs would no longer hold him up. It would get him one day. He’d need sticks to walk, then a wheelchair. He’d lose his job, his house, everything, really.
The music stopped abruptly in the middle of ‘Beautiful Dreamer’. Duncan didn’t know why. He was sad about that, ‘Beautiful Dreamer’ was one of his favourite songs.
Inside, Elspeth put down her accordion. She went a greenish shade of pale. The events of the day had caught up with her. The image of the lonely finger lying on the pine branches kept creeping into her mind. Then there had been the absurd burial, the whisky-laced tea, the long walk carrying two heavy axes, the flaccid cabbage for supper. She cupped her hand over her mouth and rushed out the door, over the mud-caked duckboards to the outside lavatory, where she threw up.
Duncan, unaware of Elspeth’s speedy exit, waiting for a new tune to start up, listened to the girls talking about Lorna. ‘Good job it wasn’t her engagement finger,’ someone said. ‘That would have been too bloody awful to bear.’
Avril coughed and agreed, ‘Gosh, yes. I never thought of that.’
Duncan smiled wearily. He spread his hands in front of him. Stumpy things, two fingers missing from the left, one from the right. ‘Ach, how many fingers d’you need, anyway?’
Chapter Six
Elspeth and Izzy
SATURDAY, SEVEN O’CLOCK, Izzy lay back on her hotel bed and sighed. She’d made it north in three hops, usually it took four. She’d left Skimpton at ten, hitching a lift to Preston in the taxi Anson. Dolores was duty pilot. From there she’d flown to Prestwick, sitting on a small metal bench in the back of a bomber. A second taxi Anson took her up to Lossiemouth on the east coast. They’d swooped in over long beaches and landed just after three in the afternoon.
After that she’d hitched a lift in a jeep to Inverness. From there she caught a bus. She’d rattled through the countryside she’d recently flown over, staring out at passing forest, hillsides, cottages cowering in huge landscapes and, from time to time, slipping into a shallow sleep. She’d wake, wonder a moment where she was – it had been a long day – then drift off again.
It was almost six when the bus pulled into Brantly, the village where Elspeth spent her sweaty Saturday nights eating fish and chips before dancing to the local band. The place was busy, narrow cobbled streets alive with uniforms, Norwegian soldiers on training exercises in the area and foresters. The pub was thronged, drinkers standing shoulder to shoulder, shoving for enough space to lift glass to lips, and the air was heavy with wafts of alcohol. Shouts, calls and whistles from foresters revving up for their big night out as Izzy passed on her way to her hotel. She ignored them, pulled her coat round her. It was cold. There was wildness in the atmosphere.
This was the third time she’d made the trip. She thought she was getting better at it, becoming used to travelling. It wasn’t something she’d done before the war. In fact, back then, a trip to town, barely twenty miles away, had been a big adventure, something to be planned in advance. It had involved filling a Thermos flask with tea, making sandwiches and taking extra clothing in case there was a change in the weather.
And here she was making her way almost from one end of the country to the other and booking into a hotel on her own. She thought her parents would be proud of her, if they knew. But they didn’t because telling them would lead to questions – for example, if she could go to Brantly to visit Elspeth, why didn’t she come home to visit them? Were they not a couple of hours’ train journey further down the track?
Seeing them was hard. She had to watch what she said lest she let slip that she was working as a pilot and not, as she’d let them to believe, as an assistant operations officer. Keeping up her stream of untruths, easy in short phone calls and letters, was tricky when talking to them in the flesh.
This time she would visit, however. She wondered if she should have sent them a letter telling them she was coming. But no, this would be a surprise visit. They’d love that. She’d go tomorrow morning, sleep in her childhood bed, eat at the big kitchen table, hope for custard, make small talk and try not to tell too many lies before heading back to Skimpton on Tuesday. Now she had a new lie to add to her other lies. She’d have to let them think this was her first trip back to Scotland. She felt guilty about how hurt they’d be to discover she’d seen Elspeth without dropping in on them.
The hotel foyer was tricked out for Christmas, though it looked a little unenthusiastic. Dusty paper chains hung in deep loops from the ceiling, a small cluster of cards were grouped on the reception desk, a tree draped with lights and tinsel stood in the corner. And beside it had sat Elspeth.
She’d got up and spread her arms. ‘At last. Where have you been?’
Izzy had smiled and said, ‘Getting here.’
After she had checked in and taken her key, the pair of them had gone up to her room on the first floor speaking in library whispers. Hotel life thrilled and hushed them. It gave them a brief taste of a life they’d always thought beyond them.
Their room was large and frighteningly patterned – floral wallpaper and tartan carpet. The sparse furnishings – two single beds, both with a discreet chamber pot tucked underneath, a fat uncomfortable chair and a dresser – were a relief. Izzy had dropped her case and lain on one of the beds; Elspeth had draped her coat over the chair, taken a towel and gone to the bathroom across the hall. ‘A bath,’ she’d said. ‘Been looking forward to this for ages.’
This was the routine they’d developed. Elspeth would take the first of several baths she would indulge in during her overnight stay; Izzy would lie spreadeagled on the bed, recovering from her journey and from the long days leading up to it. She normally worked thirteen days on, two days off. But in order to get four days off, enough time for a trip north to visit Elspeth, she had to run two stints without a break. It was tiring.
Eventually, Izzy heaved herself from the bed and changed out of her uniform. She put on a simple wool dress, folded her jacket and trousers and put them in the bottom of her case. Tomorrow, when visiting her mother and father, she’d wear her blue tweed suit. She never let them see her in uniform; the wings on her jacket would give away her secret. They’d know she was a pilot.
At eight they went down to dinner. It was too late for both of them, used to eating at six, so they were beyond hungry. For the first ten minutes, they ate in serious silence.
‘Are you going to tell your folks the truth when you’re home?’ asked Elspeth when she’d cleared her bowl of soup. She sat back waiting for her next course, roast beef.
Izzy said she’d thought about it. ‘But I don’t want to ruin things. I haven’t seen them for months and months. Next time, per
haps.’
Elspeth said, ‘It will all come out one day, you know.’
‘I know,’ said Izzy. ‘But I’m having fun right now. If they found out, they’d disapprove, we’d argue and fight. In the end, they’d win. They always do. I’d give up my job to please them. And I’d be miserable. Sometimes it’s best to lie.’
Elspeth said she thought it strange someone should lie to their parents about the job they did. ‘People usually lie about their sex lives.’
Izzy said that right now she didn’t have a sex life to lie about.
Elspeth said that families were difficult. She was glad she no longer had one. ‘You seem to navigate your relationship with your parents through an intricate tangle of lies.’
‘Not exactly lies,’ said Izzy. ‘A re-routing of the truth.’
They ate their main courses quickly. The waitress appeared, cleared their plates and asked if they wanted pudding.
‘Of course,’ they said.
They were offered apple crumble or jam sponge. They opted for the crumble, fearing the sponge would be a concoction of National flour and dried eggs. The waitress took their plates and bustled off.
‘Re-routing?’ said Elspeth.
‘Just pointing the truth in the most convenient direction.’
Elspeth said, ‘What do you mean? A lie is a lie, isn’t it?’
Izzy shrugged. ‘In a way, I suppose. But take the job thing. My father doesn’t want me to do a job he couldn’t do. He likes to think of me as his little girl. So he’d prefer me to be a typist or a secretary, something girly. Also, he’d hate me to be doing a job that required me to wear trousers. He thinks it’s really wrong for women to wear trousers. So, he knows I’m in the ATA, he just doesn’t know I’m a pilot. It’s convenient for us both. Of course the sex thing is just a normal lie that everyone tells.’ She took a swig of water. ‘Nobody tells their parents they’ve had sex, especially if they’re not married. I wasn’t going to burst into the living room waving my fists like a champion boxer and shout that I’d done it. I wasn’t a virgin any more.’
The waitress put a bowl of crumble and custard in front of each of them, looked at Izzy and hurried off.
‘She’s got a fine bit of eavesdropping to report,’ said Elspeth.
Izzy agreed. ‘Of course, my big lie is God. I just can’t tell my father I don’t believe any more. It’s against all his teachings. He’d be furious with me. I’m scared he’d banish me from his life for ever. I’d hate that.’
Izzy had been about twelve when her doubt set in. Then, it had shown itself as curiosity. She’d asked her father endless questions.
‘When Adam and Eve were first put on earth, how did they know what to do?’
He’d put down his book and looked at her over the rim of his glasses. ‘What do you mean?’
‘How did they know how to light a fire and get something to eat?’
‘He spoke to them.’
‘What language did he use? Did he make Adam and Eve complete with fingers and toes and speaking English?’
‘He spoke to them in their minds. He gave them instincts, thoughts. They knew what to do as naturally as breathing.’
‘So how did Adam and Eve speak to each other if they only had thoughts and instincts?’
Her father had smiled at her. ‘Questions, questions. I like questions, a sign of a healthy enquiring mind, but sometimes you just have to believe. Have faith, don’t ask questions.’
‘But the apple,’ said Izzy. ‘How did they know not to eat the apple? If they didn’t speak, and didn’t have an actual language, how did they know what an apple was?’
Her father hadn’t answered. He tried to read.
‘How old were they. Did they arrive on earth as grown-ups? If they were children, wouldn’t they have needed a mum and dad, if only to tell them what an apple was?’
‘They had God,’ her father had said. ‘They had everything.’
Izzy had known this was a dismissal. She went to her bedroom to finish her homework. But the questions lingered in her head. Over the next few months, she’d pestered her father with them. ‘Noah? How did the animals know to come to the ark?’
‘God told them.’
‘How did they get there? Tigers all the way from India and lions from Africa and badgers and squirrels?’
‘God guided them.’
‘Did they swim over oceans and crawl over deserts?’
‘Yes.’
‘Suppose the hedgehogs came from here, Perthshire – did Perthshire exist then?’
‘Yes, but it was called something else.’ He hadn’t known what.
‘How would they have got to the ark? Would they have walked right down to the bottom of the country and jumped into the sea and swam to France then walked for miles and miles and miles?’
‘Yes.’
‘And why did God choose these hedgehogs and not another two?’
‘God knows a good hedgehog when he sees one.’ And he’d flapped her away.
Izzy hadn’t been satisfied. Questions plagued her. She needed answers. ‘How did Moses manage to carry all those tablets of stone down the mountain?’
‘God gave him strength.’
Doubts had filled her mind. She chased them away with prayer. Every morning and evening she got on her knees and prayed. She prayed in break times at school, though not on her knees. She’d find a quiet corner and communicate with her Maker. Soon, she was regularly talking to God, keeping him up to date with her regular comings and goings. ‘It’s me again, God. I’m walking down the road on my way to school. Had porridge and a boiled egg for breakfast.’ It had seemed to her that she was doing all the talking in this relationship. She supposed He must be busy. Then again, perhaps he wasn’t there at all.
She then started asking for signs. ‘Don’t mean to be annoying, God, but could you send me a sign that you exist. If you do, I promise to dedicate my life to you.’ She’d thought she might travel the land on foot preaching to people in towns and villages. No sign came. Izzy hoped for a white stag to appear in the garden, a shower of meteors, or for the sky to open and a booming voice to call, ‘Izzy, why do you doubt me?’ Nothing.
In time, the fervour had faded. The doubt, however, stayed. Izzy went to church on Sundays, listened in awe to her father’s sermons, but didn’t believe what he was saying.
There would be stories about Jonah living inside the belly of a whale, Daniel in the lions’ den, the walls of Jericho tumbling down and Izzy would gaze round at the congregation in amazement. Did all these people really believe this stuff?
By the time she was fifteen, Izzy was a secret atheist. When, one day, her father had asked if she was having doubts about her faith, she told him, ‘Of course not.’ He’d summoned her into his study for one of his chats.
These mostly one-sided conversations took place once a month. Hamish would impress on his daughter the importance of working hard at school, being respectful to her mother and setting an example in the community. She mustn’t be seen in the company of the village’s rough elements. She had a responsibility to her family, and her family had a responsibility to the village. ‘We must set an example,’ Hamish told her. ‘We must show the way. We must be kind, respectable and good-hearted.’
This little chat, however, had been about Izzy’s behaviour in church. ‘I can’t but notice that you are not paying attention. You are looking about you, staring at the other members of the congregation.’ The room smelled musty, of tobacco, papers, ink and old air. He never opened a window. In the hall outside, the grandfather clock ticked, a loud sombre beat. Her mother had rustled past the door, carrying a bunch of lilacs from the garden.
Izzy had told him that she liked watching people watching him. He was flattered. That was good, but she had to listen to his sermon. ‘Partake by listening and being seen to listen. In fact, I’ve been wondering if you’ve been having doubts, if you’ve lost your faith.’
Izzy said, ‘Of course not. I just needed to wor
k out things for myself. I think you have to find your own faith.’
Her father said, ‘Good girl.’ Then he’d rummaged in his desk drawer and brought out a rumpled bag of lemon drops, offering her one. They’d sat back sucking in unison, smiling at one another. She loved him too much to let him know she didn’t share the passion that drove his life – his calling. And she loved her own peace of mind too much to suffer one of his lectures.
Izzy had found her way. She knew now how to get by, how to avoid fuss and arguments. She would agree with her father and, privately, think her own thoughts, follow her own path. She’d do whatever she wanted to do without asking his permission. She’d keep her life a secret. She didn’t want to upset him with her longing for adventure.
Izzy and Elspeth finished their pudding and asked for their coffee to be served in the hotel lounge. ‘Oh joy,’ said Elspeth, ‘a comfy seat. The simple pleasures are the best.’ She caught Izzy’s surprised expression. ‘Life is harsh in the forest.’
‘But you’ve made new friends?’ Izzy asked.
‘Yes. We are united in our discomfort.’
‘What about the men? Do you fancy anyone?’
Elspeth shook her head. ‘There’s one who has taken a shine to me – Tyler Bute. He sings to me, calls my name, makes jokes to me. It all a bit schoolboyish.’
‘Is he nice?’
‘He’s big.’
‘Fat?’ asked Izzy.
‘No, tall, broad. There’s a lot of him and he has a huge personality. He’s the one in the crowd that you notice. The main man, I suppose. If we were together, there would be him with his big voice, hearty in his plaid shirt, and me with my accordion. I think we’d be the sort of couple people avoid.’
They sipped their coffee, agreed it was ghastly.
‘I can’t help thinking about your mother and father,’ said Elspeth. ‘All the years you’ve been part of their life, all the time you’ve been with them, the things you’ve shared – your first words, first steps, birthdays, Christmases, holding your hand when you walked along the street, scolding you, hugging you, reading you stories, playing games, loving you and, in the end, they know nothing about you. They want you to be their little girl. They don’t know who you are.’