“Yes. I got a prize for an essay I wrote about it. And we each tried to grow date palms. Only Bridget’s came up.”
“She had the warmest bedroom, above the kitchen. No wonder.”
“You sound grumpy.” Mollie laughed.
“I am a bit. I mean, I was the youngest and yet they put me in the attic to freeze just because I was a boy. That’s why I turned out such a recluse.” He tried to join in her laughter, but she saw him tuck in his chin in a hurt gesture.
He carried his bowl to the sink and, ignoring the other dishes, rinsed it and placed it in the dishwasher. Mollie was reminded of Daniel and Rebecca, who had performed exactly these tasks at the end of every meal, irrespective of how many dishes, pots, and pans lay scattered around. Then she thought of her little brother lying shivering in the attic while downstairs she and Bridget scampered back and forth between each other’s rooms, sharing barrettes and secrets. She had always blithely assumed that Ewan’s childhood was more or less similar to her own. Now it came to her how vastly different their experiences might have been.
“Well,” Ewan said, closing the dishwasher, “enough of this dawdling. Time to get under way.” From his breast pocket he produced a notebook and pen. He flipped open the notebook and clicked the pen expectantly. “Did you have a chance to make any phone calls?”
Mollie’s chest tightened. “No, no, I didn’t. I’m sorry. I just … I didn’t know where to start.”
“Of course,” Ewan said, instantly soothing. “No reason why you should. I’m the one who got us into this pickle. Do you have a phone book?”
“There’s one in the study, and a phone too.”
“Excellent. I’ll get another cup of coffee and set to work. If that’s all right with you?” His whole manner had changed. Chae used to joke about Ewan’s ineptitude—he couldn’t build a stone wall, plant a row of potatoes, prune an apple tree—but Mollie glimpsed that in his own territory, Ewan might be wonderfully effective. She could see him keeping track of facts and figures with dogged accuracy, analysing situations in penetrating detail. Stop, she wanted to say; go back to being incompetent.
He made a couple of notes. “Is there anything else we need to do for her?”
“Do?”
“Yes, for the baby. Once I’ve contacted the appropriate people, are we ready to leave? Does she need feeding?” He flapped a hand. “Whatever?”
There it was again, that misleading vagueness. I have to be very careful, thought Mollie. This isn’t my bumbling younger brother. This is an international banker, a conservative who believes passionately in law, order, and private education. But two can play this game. He has his notebook; I have my neuroses. She wrung her hands and quavered that she would organise the baby.
At once Ewan grew soothing again. “There’s no rush. I expect I’ll have to call around to find the baby people.”
Soon after he left the room, Olivia woke from sleep into bad temper. Perhaps, like Sadie, she received messages in her dreams, and sensed herself to be the subject of Ewan’s phone calls. She began crying at twenty past eleven and was still going strong when he returned downstairs at quarter to twelve. By which time Mollie was wretched with fear. Suppose something was seriously wrong with Olivia. She could have caught some disease, lying on the lavatory floor. Or been abandoned in the first place because she was ill. What did she, Mollie, really know about babies? There wasn’t even a book in the house to consult. Colic, croup, scarlet fever, diphtheria, pneumonia, on and on stretched the list of possible ailments she had never witnessed and had no idea how to treat. When at last the door opened and Ewan stepped into the room, she felt immense relief.
“What’s this?” He frowned. “Is she hungry?”
“I don’t think so. She refused a bottle, and her nappy is clean. My theory is she’s out of sorts.… Aren’t you?”
Ewan’s presence made it easier to resume her facade of competence. She held up Olivia and peered into the small face, streaked with tears. At that moment, astonishingly, the crying stopped. Olivia hiccuped twice and grew quiet.
In the lull, Ewan reported his discoveries. The social services office was closed until Monday. As for the police, they’d kept him on hold for ten minutes. “I finally spoke to a sergeant with a Glaswegian accent you could cut with a knife. There didn’t seem to be any reports of a missing baby.”
Christ, thought Mollie. In all her intricate scheming, the possibility of his reporting Olivia over the phone had never occurred to her. This is Ewan Munro, she heard him saying. I found a baby girl, three or four months old. We’re at my sister’s. And then her name and address. “Ewan,” she said hoarsely, “you didn’t tell him, did you?”
“Not exactly. The sergeant was so brusque. I thought it would be easier to explain in person.” He fiddled with his shirt cuffs, refusing to meet her gaze.
And suddenly Mollie guessed what must have happened: confronted by a rude stranger, Ewan had begun to stutter. She wanted to fling her arms around him. Instead she kissed Olivia.
“At this point,” Ewan said, “I’ve no idea if we’re Good Samaritans or criminals.”
“Good Samaritans,” said Mollie, laughing with relief.
They took turns holding Olivia and getting ready. When Ewan came downstairs, Mollie noticed he’d put on a tie and was carrying his briefcase. Perhaps he hoped these talismans of respectability would protect him from any charge of deviancy. She herself wore what Daniel and Rebecca used to call her uniform: black leggings, black lace-up boots, and a navy-blue sweater that came to mid-thigh, all topped off with a Burberry and a black beret. She wrapped Olivia in several blankets and packed a bag with a bottle and nappies.
Ewan opened the back door, and they stepped out into the blustery day. Instantly Mollie’s face was wet with rain. She struggled to hold on to her beret with one hand and shield Olivia with the other. “Good grief,” said Ewan. “You’d never know it was April.”
They hurried to the car. He climbed into the back seat and did up his seat belt; she passed him Olivia. Then she got into the driver’s seat, fastened her own seat belt, put the car in neutral, and turned the key. The engine spluttered. She pumped the accelerator and tried again. A fainter splutter. “It’s the rain,” she said. “I should’ve put the damn thing in the garage last night.”
“Not to worry. Wait a minute and have another go.” He started to hum “Waltzing Matilda.” Mollie rubbed periodically at the windscreen, which was steaming up already. “Third time lucky,” she offered.
The same subdued coughing greeted her efforts. “I’m not sure it’s going to start in this downpour,” she said in a small voice, not daring to glance at Ewan. She kept her eyes fixed on the mileage gauge: 53,496, she said to herself, 53,496. Ewan was right, there was something comforting about numbers, their firm, unchanging completeness.
“Not to worry,” he repeated, in such even tones that she could not stop herself from turning around. At the sight of him sitting there, holding Olivia, his briefcase beside him, she realised to her amazement that Ewan was genuinely calm. Probably he’d read some time-and-motion study proving that anger was inefficient. In his place she would have been, however uselessly, enraged. “Let’s go inside to strategise,” he said. “It’s stupid to sit out here in the cold.”
Back in the kitchen, he handed Olivia to Mollie and wiped his glasses. “I’m freezing,” he said, and went to stand beside the stove.
“Me too. I hope Ol—” she caught herself—“the baby is okay.”
She unwrapped Olivia’s blankets and put her down in the chair. Then she took off her own coat and beret. “I feel such an idiot,” she said. “All winter I’ve been keeping the car in the garage, and now, the one time we need it, I forget.”
“Let’s phone the AA. Or your local garage? They’ll have a tow service.”
“No point. This has happened before, and there’s nothing to be done. The mechanic told me it’s a common problem with Fiats. All you can do is wait for the engine to dry
out.”
“Don’t be upset,” Ewan said. “Who knew the rain would keep up?” He paused to take off his glasses and polish them a second time. “Do you think between us we’d be able to push the car inside?”
“I’m sure we can. But let’s get warm first?” She allowed her teeth to chatter a couple of times.
“Of course. Come and stand by the stove.”
He made room for her, and they stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Now what? wondered Mollie. And quickly thought, Act feeble. Be frail. It’s your best chance. The warmth of the stove was like a large hot hand against her back, yet she kept shivering for as long as possible. Beside her, Ewan again was humming “Waltzing Matilda.” Beneath the table, Sadie whined in her sleep.
“I’d never really noticed what a sad song that is,” said Ewan. “There must be some alternative. Could we borrow the Youngs’ car for a couple of hours?”
“No,” Mollie burst out, then embellished truthfully: “Last year Chae asked them for a loan of their car to pick up Daniel—ours was being serviced—and they got awfully stroppy. Mr. Young made a long speech about neither a borrower nor a lender be.”
“How ridiculous. What did they think you were going to do—take it drag racing? Well, let’s hire a car. There are a couple of places in the town, aren’t there? I’ll go and phone to see what’s available.”
He was already stepping away from the stove. “Ewan,” she called.
He stopped to look at her, and she buried her face in her hands. “I can’t fucking drive,” she sobbed. “I can’t. The birds will get us.”
At once he was beside her, patting her awkwardly. “Mollie, don’t cry. There’s nothing to cry about. Hush, hush.”
She felt him move away. Then he was back with a box of Kleenex and a glass of water. “Drink this,” he said.
Gradually she let her sobs die down. She drank some water and blew her nose. “I can’t drive,” she repeated.
“No, of course not. No one’s asking you to. I just wasn’t thinking.” He was gazing at her ruefully. “It seems daft that I never learned. I even took driving lessons for a while.”
“You did?” Mollie exclaimed. “I always thought you had no interest. Chae said it was your sole ecological virtue, that you couldn’t tell one end of a car from the other.”
“I’m afraid it’s nothing so laudable. On my third lesson, this elderly woman stepped into a zebra crossing in the Caledonian Road. I came within a hand’s breadth of knocking her down. She had the most beautiful white hair. I can still see the fear on her face. She reminded me of Miss Gibson, the French teacher at school. After that I never wanted to drive again.” He adjusted his cuffs. “No ecology involved, I’m afraid.”
“But Ewan, everybody has narrow escapes. I think of myself as a fairly careful driver, and I’ve nearly hit a football stadium’s worth of pedestrians by now.”
“Other people say that too, but I’m just not up to it. I’ll do my harm in other ways.”
Mollie was still pondering these revelations when Ewan suggested a taxi. Isn’t he ever going to give up? she thought. She blew her nose again and said that taxis for Perth had to be booked at least twenty-four hours in advance. Without waiting to see the effect of this fabrication, she carried the kettle to the sink, filled it, and brought it back to the stove.
She stared at the hot plate. If she didn’t move, if she didn’t speak, he would capitulate. She was so engrossed in her side of the bargain that her brother’s words, when he at last uttered them, came to her wrapped in a warm, dark fog. Something about the best solution. Something about Monday. Abandoned. Won’t be a bother. Make no difference.
Then the fog thinned and lightened. What was this? Oh, this was silence. Mollie realised he was expecting an answer. She let out her breath in a long, slow sigh. Don’t show jubilation. Sound a bit put upon. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “Fortunately I bought food for the whole weekend. And enough nappies.”
“Jolly good. Let’s get the car under cover so we can settle in.”
Mollie put the soup on the stove for lunch and made sure Olivia was wedged safely in the chair. Taking the reluctant Sadie with them, they went out to push the car. Though the wind had picked up, Mollie no longer felt the cold. She wound down the driver’s window and let off the hand brake. Then she joined Ewan to heave and strain against the back bumper. “One, two, three,” he commanded. Slowly the car rolled forward through the mud.
The three of them spent the afternoon in the kitchen. Ewan took over the table and spread out the contents of his briefcase in neat piles. Olivia waved her arms and daydreamed. Mollie watched her and pretended to reread Pride and Prejudice, the safest book she could think of, but even Austen’s felicitous wit could not hold her attention. What she wanted to do was talk to Olivia aloud. She had already spent too much time listening to her own voice inside her head; she needed to hear her words take shape in the air, travel towards another person. If she could have spoken, she would have told Olivia about the remarkable coincidence she had just become aware of, namely that they were both foundlings. Well, not quite a foundling in Mollie’s case, no lavatory floors and police stations for her, but close enough. After Bridget was born, her mother had suffered a series of miscarriages and in despair had turned to adoption, only to find herself, a year later, carrying Ewan to term. Mollie thought about this so seldom that she had lived with Chae for three years before mentioning it to him; now, given Olivia’s advent, it seemed hugely significant. We must bide our time, she murmured, and imagined the words floating into Olivia’s sweetly coiled brain.
At four o’clock she made tea. When she carried a mug to Ewan, he roused himself from his papers and wandered to the window. “I think it’s clearing up,” he said. “Would you like to go for a walk?”
As soon as he spoke, he cut her one of his nervous glances—remembering, she guessed, her earlier outburst. She was tempted to tell him that his mere presence would keep the birds away. Instead she said, “Good idea. We could use some fresh air.”
When they’d finished their tea, Mollie loaned Ewan Chae’s gardening boots. His feet were so small that he had to borrow a second pair of socks. She herself went out to the scullery to fetch her jacket and returned to tuck Olivia inside. “Oh, you’re bringing her,” Ewan remarked, sounding surprised.
Mollie stared. “What did you think we’d do with her?”
“I thought if Sadie was coming, she’d be fine on her own for a few minutes. I mean, it’s not like she can set the house on fire.” He smiled. “Don’t listen to me. I don’t know the first thing about babies. I just keep forgetting about her.”
“As long as one of us remembers,” said Mollie, and smiled back.
Sadie circled them excitedly. Without discussion, they took the path that led to St. David’s Well. It zigzagged in wide bends up the hill behind the house, through the beech woods and rhododendrons. By the time they reached the well, half a mile away, Olivia was sound asleep. The small pool of water emerged, cold and clear, out of the rocks at the foot of a steep crag.
“Why is it called a well, again?” Ewan asked, and Mollie explained that according to local legend the pool was fed by an underground river from a lake far up in the hills. “The lake is the home of the old king’s daughters, and if you throw in a coin and make a wish, they’ll do their best to grant it. Last summer Daniel and Rebecca spent an afternoon here with a fishing net. They got about two quid, I think.”
She held Olivia close with one arm and felt in her pocket for change, but before she could find any, Ewan handed her a fifty-pence piece. “We’d better take advantage of this,” he said. “I need all the help I can get.”
Silently, they threw. The coins slipped with two small splashes into the water and disappeared in the leafy bottom. Mollie was too preoccupied with her own wishes to wonder what sort of help her brother might need. Later she recalled what she had failed to notice at the time: the earnest expression on his face and the utter seriousness with wh
ich he spoke.
They were nearly back at the house when Sadie, who had raced ahead, pranced up with something in her mouth. “What have you got?” said Ewan. “Here, drop it. Good dog.”
At their feet Sadie let fall a limp mass of brown feathers.
Mollie was about to burst into her customary exhortations. Then she looked more closely. “Oh my God. It’s Richard Tiger.”
Clutching Olivia, she walked, almost running, across the grass to the duck pond, and there, scattered along the bank, lay the other three ducks. She stepped from bird to bird, bending down beside each one. “I left them out last night,” she managed to say. “A fox must have got them.”
Chapter 5
Although not given to optimism in any guise, Ewan had been cautiously pleased with the way his visit was unfolding. This highly inconvenient trip north seemed to be paying off. Mollie was fragile but not in the extreme state of wretchedness he had feared from her garbled letter, and even that letter was more understandable now that he’d witnessed her isolation and the odd jerky flight of the rooks and jackdaws swooping by the house. During the afternoon he had managed to draft a report, which gave him the illusion life at the office was somewhat under control, at least until Vanessa crossed his mind. Still, all of that was five hundred miles away. More immediately troubling was the business of the baby. There was, he knew, something wrong with what they were doing. They should’ve handed her over at once to the authorities, but given Mollie’s condition and the various other constraints, he saw no way to accomplish this. That morning, when he tried to tell the Glaswegian sergeant about the baby, he had not been able to get past “I want to report a …” Then every letter he attempted reared up high as the deer fences behind Mill of Fortune. “Is this your idea of a joke, sonny?” the sergeant had demanded into his choked silence, and put down the phone.
Ewan had stood holding the empty receiver, instantly returned to the many humiliations of his childhood. Back then his stutter had plagued him to such an extent that his parents had given him extra money for the bus because he sometimes ended up paying more for the first stop his tongue would fit around. Now he stuttered only occasionally, and what he tended to lose was not bus stops but the vocabulary of his trade, for which he had a practised list of alternatives: “yearly” for “annual,” “rate” for “percentage.” On the phone, however, he had drawn a total blank on synonyms for “baby.” Small person? he thought, after he hung up. Very young human? When the car failed to start, he had considered phoning back, only to feel himself grow mute at the mere memory of the sergeant’s contempt. Surely, he repeated silently, another day’s delay could not make much difference. And there was no doubt that the baby was helping his sister.
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