The woman had broken into a run. Something about her – the way she moved, her helplessness against the weather – reminded him of his mother.
‘Why, it must be Marjorie, dear,’ his mother said. ‘Don’t you think so?’
He stopped and stared. Smart, attractive, in her early thirties, the woman was dressed in unseasonable clothes. She was racing against time as well as cold. Two minutes to seven, she was running towards the library. Towards the workshop.
Yes, his mother was right. This was no Inverness housewife. This was Marjorie!
His woman! His destiny! He was seeing her at last!
Peter
Saoil an robh oidhche na b’fhuaire na seo riamh ann?
Was ever night colder than this?
Fada fada na b’fhuaire. Sin mar a bha.
Far far colder. That is how it was.
Blue ink on worn A4. Stanza one hundred and thirteen of the mystery manuscript. Still too early for rendezvous with wee Scottish prankster, and they wanted this room for some amateur scribbling group at seven – but meanwhile he had to be somewhere out of the blizzard that had blown up from nowhere bang on cue to make his life a misery. The delights of the Deep Pan Pizza Company’s selection of laminated menus had exhausted his budget if not his appetite, and the comforts of the bus station were proving so far less than irresistible. So where better to take shelter from the storm than a library, home to tramps and poets the wide world o’er? Plus this one, Nazi sepulchre without and chunky pine and yellow paint within, was hame from hame indeed, offering as it did and should a passable pile of tomes on Gaelic literature, including The Complete Works of Calum Calum. Or so the poor buggers thought, for he knew better, yes; so here he’d come and on he’d travel like Sir Henry Morton Stanley, following the trail that soon would prove him right.
Doctor Livingstone, I presume?
Yes! He felt his fluency return. Racing through the Gaelic, gulping it like equatorial rain. Calum this was, and genius. Wonderful stuff. A poet’s heart pulsing in his hands. Love and loss, pain and passion, crafted from old gold, lost hope in a lost language, lament for honour carelessly mislaid in the battle of life, cruel with lack of self-absolution –
But shit! Hang on. Head jerking in alarm. Please return it, soon and in person. Miss Fiona McSquirt was wanting this back apparently, which wouldn’t do. He couldn’t part with it, he needed proof. Plus it was too marvellous, what was he playing at? Straight into the trap. Talk about curiosity killing the king of the jungle. What in hell was FU’s game? And here it was, close on seven, and he’d nearly fallen for it. Vamoose, quick!
Precious manuscript stuffed back in Jiffybag, stuffed deep into the personal jungle of his rucksack, and he careering out of Reference Room at top speed. Only to collide in corridor with advancing gaggle of chest-high Scottish geese, with identikit grey perms, clutching secretarial notebooks, sharpened pencils, thermoses, tray of sandwiches. And help! behind came goose-girl, five foot nothing, with smiling, bright, all-seeing eyes, heading fast this way. And yes, ‘Good evening, Fiona,’ the chorus rising from the geese. But devil be praised, she let him past without a murmur, let him through into the empty corridor. And bang through door into reception, past sign to PHOTOCOPIER. And bang again through alarmed gate that registered no alarm. And bang right, bang left and he was out into the swirling, blinding snow, skidding slap bang into some woman – ‘Ay!’ ‘Sorry!’ ‘De nada’ – sense of déjà vu, and fast across into bus-station bog, where Sandy loves me was the most dependable thing he’d seen all day.
Chapter Six
Elena
A soft blanket of yellow library warmth curled itself around her. The pelting cold was behind her, and the brief shock of colliding again with the young man from the train, the one with the fierce blue eyes. A man who was angry when she was angry, fearful when she was fearful. An embodiment of the turmoil in her head.
She paused inside the door, letting the yellow warmth seep into her, muffling the echo of her mother’s cries, calming her shudders. How careless she had been to lose her coat. She must guard her strength.
Through the warmth a smile was beaming. A small woman, about her own age, stood behind a heaped and businesslike librarian’s table. Her eyes were strong like the young man’s eyes, yet neither angry nor afraid. She appeared like an angel in the radiant yellow, with strong eyes, kind smile, calm brow, asking, ‘May I help you?’
Elena stepped forward, speaking the words she had prepared. ‘The book group, they are meeting here tonight?’
‘They’re just beginning, in the Reference Room.’
‘And Mister – Mister Angus Oor-coo-art?’
‘Er-cut. We pronounce it Er-cut.’
‘Mister Er-cut, he is with them?’
‘No.’
‘No?’ Elena put a hand on the table to steady herself.
The librarian seemed suspicious; her smile had faded. ‘Did you want Mr Urquhart particularly?’
‘Yes.’ She began the lies, forcing herself to hold this woman’s gaze. ‘I research to write a book, about the older people’s memories of war.’ She held out the page from the Internet. ‘I see Mr Urquhart on your website.’
The librarian shook her head. ‘He’s not a member of the group. He only came for that meeting, to talk about Spain.’
‘But I need to find him.’ Elena was swallowing tears. ‘How stupid I am. I travel since yesterday. From Brussels.’ Her voice failed.
The librarian leant forward, still unsmiling. ‘I’m sorry about that. Perhaps we have books to help you on our lending shelves.’
Henry
What the hell was going on?
The wind was tugging at his cap. His nose and ears were numb and so all at once were his feet. A shrinking ache had taken hold of them. Looking down, he found he was ankle-deep in snow, no footprints visible behind or ahead. Alone in a blizzard, twenty yards at most from the glowing honeypot of the Inverness Public Library, into which an astonishingly elegant Marjorie had run, he was in danger of becoming literally frozen to the spot.
But damn it, what was happening here? Marjorie and Peter. Perishing Peter! Colliding and speaking. Then running in opposite directions.
They knew each other. Henry was sure of it. The way she’d spoken to his brother, then turned to watch as he vanished into whiteout. Their look of startled recognition. Were they in cahoots somehow? Preparing to wave his love-letters in his face?
Henry’s stomach was shrinking like his toes. It was a feeling straight from boarding school. The awful knowledge that some trap lay just ahead and, whatever he did, he could not escape. He would stick his head into the honey-pot and be derided for a fool. Or retrace his steps and be scorned as a coward. This was the last moment in which dignity might be grasped, and he had no idea where to look for it.
Six pillars and a portico. A frieze of wreaths. Twelve bright ladders of light. He lifted a foot and took an indecisive step forward. Humiliation? Was that the worst that could come of this? And the best, what would that be?
Marjorie. Her face turning to watch him. With a different expression than the one she had just given Peter. It wouldn’t be here, it wouldn’t be tonight, it would be somewhere else safe and familiar with all the uncertainty resolved. His pub in Guildford, perhaps? Yes! He would be at the bar, ordering a brandy for himself and a . . . a what for Marjorie? And the coarse new barman, all mouth and trousers, would be winking and whispering, ‘Cracking bit o’ stuff you’ve got there, Henry.’ And he wouldn’t mind, no, not one bit. He’d be proud to have the locals gossiping. He’d turn from the bar to glance at Marjorie, to check she was really there, and then he would see it, the expression on her face. He would catch her smiling at him when he wasn’t looking, like his mother used to do. A beatific smile, it wouldn’t fade or falter on being discovered. It would persist, unsurprised, unashamed, and allow him to smile straight back.
He yanked the other foot out of the snow and headed bravely through the door of the Inverness Public
Library.
‘May I help you?’
No one was laughing at him yet. High-ceilinged, bright with light, the reception area gave no sense of impending ambush. To his left a massive, gold-framed portrait of some benefactor presided benignly. To his right stretched a vista of free-standing, modern bookcases. Ahead he saw a desk, a door, a wall-clock. There was no sign of Marjorie – she would be in the Reference Room – but the smile he had imagined was here; it made him bite his lip to see it. A small woman, emerging from among the bookcases, had taken shape around it and was offering to show him the way.
He spoke the name aloud. ‘Marjorie Macpherson? Her workshop?’
The librarian’s smile broadened, generously, as though sharing a joke. ‘Yes, indeed. I remember you telephoned.’ She indicated the door ahead. ‘Through there and to the left. The Reference Room is signed. They’ve only just begun. Do join them.’
Following her directions, he found himself in a low-ceilinged corridor with various doors off. Each bore a label. Staff only. Highland Council Archive. He explored left, trying to breathe normally. Glancing down, he discovered how wet he was. The snow he’d carried in was melting onto the floor. He took off and shook his cap and Barbour, then smoothed his hair and wiped his face, which felt glowing and fresh from the blizzard, not quite his own.
Last on the left. Reference Room. Here he stood. All that was left to do was to go in, and there she would be. Marjorie.
His fingers closed around the handle, which turned smoothly.
He eased the door open, held his breath and stepped inside.
Peter
Gnawing on thumb, fast pacing between basin and bog, the one embellished with nicotine, the other by Sandy’s ephemeral mistress, Peter gave this whole business some sensible thought.
The manuscript was his, nine points of the law, deep in rucksack. And why be furtive? Punter in library, incognito, could be anyone. Plus she’d never expect him here so soon.
And library still the more expedient haven. Offering PHOTOCOPIER – good thought – for a duplicate in case the original was confiscated.
Not if he could help it. If she sussed, came over dangerous, he’d up and scarper, bang right, bang left and straight as an arrow through the concealing snow to this municipally-tiled love-nest where she’d never think to look.
So ploughing now through knee-high drifts to library, whirligig of white, Acropolis in paper-weight.
Flash of brilliance! Solved at a stroke! Angus Urquhart, 1999. MISSING POET FOUND IN PHONEBOOK! Cut out the middle-woman – trade in dark night of the soul in bus-shelter-cum-igloo for short blunder through blizzard to snug cottage, stocked with finest malt whisky, and Calum grateful to be discovered as a child in hide-and-seek!
Henry
It took a few moments to focus. This was nothing like the Reference Room he’d fantasised. There were no oak panels or dusty rugs, just stark strip-lights. The ceiling was low where he was, but farther out the room opened up, and high on the wall reared four of the tapering ladder-windows that were beaming light out into the storm.
But here, true to his dream, was a circle of chairs and people.
No one was looking at him. No one had noticed him.
Where was the woman in the smart black suit?
The chairs were royal blue, the people grey and pastel. Grey perms and pastel cardigans. He was looking at a conclave of elderly ladies, plus three younger men. One of these, a bald fellow with a large nose, brandished a piece of string. ‘The first big scene. A quarter or third the way in.’ The man pulled the string taut and indicated a point on it. ‘Something has to happen.’
Henry struggled to see clearly. Chairs. People. A table littered with mugs of tea and sandwiches on paper plates. A scatter of playing-cards. Damn it, it was no use, he could make no sense of this.
‘So what shall we have happen?’ said one of the ladies.
‘What sort of thing should it be?’ said another.
‘Anything we like, Annie,’ said a third. ‘That’s the whole point.’
The pate of the bald man shone under the strip-lights. Looking up, he met Henry’s eyes and smiled. ‘Hello there. We’ve only just begun. Were you wanting to join us?’
Fear paralysed Henry’s tongue. He felt the scrutiny of a dozen neat, wrinkled faces, but worse, the bald man’s smile. First the librarian and now this bloke, offering him Marjorie’s smile without being Marjorie. This was an ambush laid by his brother and he was about to ride straight in.
He shook his head, speechless for fear of springing the trap.
The librarian. He would go back to the librarian.
‘No.’ He shook his head again. ‘No, thank you.’ He reversed into the corridor.
The door to reception was halfway along on the right. He pushed against it and was almost through when – hell! – in the nick of time he spotted Peter coming in from the snow. He dived back into the corridor and looked frantically around. Staff only. Highland Council Archive. But he must go somewhere. Any moment now Peter would step into this corridor and the game would be up.
At the end furthest from the Reference Room was an unlabelled set of double doors. He raced towards them and saw, thank heaven, beyond the glass the wide spaces of the lending library. A glance over his shoulder showed the corridor still empty. And he was out, safe, through the double doors and into the maze of bookcases. Half a step ahead of disaster, quivering with anxiety, his mind blank of everything but the need for cover, he dived from shelf to shelf and into the children’s section at the far end to the left.
Where he huddled until his panting eased. Gradually his chaotic thoughts reduced to only one: the need to get out of this place. Still trembling, he inched back into the main lending-room, and hovered there, peering around a bookshelf to see if the coast was clear.
It was impossible to tell; all the sightlines were blocked by shelves. The label next to his nose said Palaeontology.
Chapter Seven
Peter
Through and in, the door swung shut behind him on the howling wind, bang, and there she was, Fiona he presumed, womanning the desk. Woman indeed, no whimpering, discarded ex of Sandy this one. Small and plain and bossy-looking, lifting her eyes like radar to examine him, seeing right through to the stolen Calvin Kleins.
Get a grip, she didn’t know him from St Michael, yet her eyes unnerved him. And her smile, familiar so as to be uncanny. Surely he knew her; surely she knew him? Have we met somewhere before? The cliché was scarcely worth a sneer, yet here, for this little goose-girl, it was true. Except that it wasn’t sex. Or fear. What was it, was he haunted?
‘May I help you?’
‘The photocopier?’
‘Behind you there, beside the exit, to the left.’
She didn’t know him; it was he knew her, but where and when?
‘How much?’
‘Ten pence a sheet.’
Times twenty-three pages, holy bovine, two-pounds-thirty! Find machine, empty pockets, position paper. Then watch it clunk and glide, swallowing coins like Smarties.
Fuck it, ten pee and one page short. Never mind, back to FU, facing out her disconcerting eyes. Familiarity waning, possibly imagined.
‘A telephone directory?’
‘The Reference Room is closed just now for a meeting, but,’ watch it! she was after conversation, ‘what is it you need? Maybe I can . . .’
Quick, switch into shoplift mode. Don’t pause. Nod and smile, no problem at all, and off away right, away from her, away from Reference Room. Busy himself among the lending shelves.
Henry
Oh God, oh merciful God, there she was! Through a gap in the shelves, he saw her. On a low chair in the centre of the labyrinth. The woman who might be Marjorie.
Her jacket lay folded beside her. Her elegant profile was bent over a book. A ballpoint pen was poised in her fingers. He was barely breathing, barely thinking. He saw sleek, dark hair tapering into the curve of a neck. Strong shoulders beneath a white shir
t. The taut, black edge of a skirt meeting the sheen of knees.
This was no ghost. This was a real woman. But not at all as he’d imagined her – was it she? He crept closer, skirting Medicine, and Crime. Freezing by Biography.
Yes. He’d seen it in the snow, and now again: her vulnerability revealed her. In her writing, in her person, a sense of helplessness beneath the strength. The shadow of his mother that he’d glimpsed outside. This was Marjorie.
Yet still he was confused. Why wasn’t she in the Reference Room? He struggled to account for it. A three-hour workshop, he reminded himself, and Marjorie by nature inventive and elusive. She wouldn’t deliver lectures and trot out answers, one, two three. Maybe she’d given her students a warm-up exercise before withdrawing so as not to cramp their style. Or, better still, she’d left the task on the table for them to find. Discuss this, please, before I join you. Industrious as he knew her to be, was she using the time to research her next book?
The sight of her was quelling his fears. It was paranoia, surely, to imagine this woman would plot against him with his brother? He ventured a quickstep across to Gardening, where he pretended to browse, while secretly admiring her left ear, so close that he could, if only these ghastly preliminaries were over, reach across and touch it.
I’m Henry Jennings. He had to say it. He cleared his throat. Hello, Marjorie. I’m Henry Jennings. The words refused to come.
And Jesus Christ Almighty, here was Peter! Still a few bookcases between them, but sauntering this way, oh help, with the air of insouciance he always wore when he was pulling some scam. Henry hurled himself behind Arts and Crafts, then edged along, ready to vanish around one shelf-end as Peter materialised around the other.
But wait. Thank the Lord, Peter was veering off. He was slipping through the double doors into the corridor to the Reference Room. He was gone.
Love, Revenge & Buttered Scones Page 5