Love, Revenge & Buttered Scones

by Bobbie Darbyshire

  What the hell, misery made him reckless. He launched himself into her path. ‘Hello there.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Forgive me, did I startle you? It’s just, you look so very cold. I wonder, may I lend you my coat?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ The woman’s face crumpled. She was crying suddenly, shivering and unable to speak.

  Henry’s anger evaporated. ‘Please. Let me. It has a padded lining.’ He whipped off his Barbour and helped her into it. He replaced the blanket round her shoulders, then found her frozen hands and pushed them into the Barbour’s warm pockets. ‘A drink. A brandy? May I buy you a brandy?’

  ‘No. Truly.’

  She didn’t mean no, he could tell. She needed a drink. And kindness, she needed kindness. ‘Look, please, don’t be alarmed or embarrassed. I’m more than a bit beset myself. I could do with the company.’

  She was finding her voice, her earthy, foreign, can’t-possibly-be-Marjorie voice. ‘I am so sorry. In the library, I was unkind. Discourteous.’

  He managed a smile. ‘No, really, I was making a complete spectacle of myself. So please. But I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. Henry Jennings.’

  ‘Elena Martínez.’

  ‘So please, Elena Martínez. Won’t you share a brandy with me?’

  She was nodding uncertainly. He was steering her away from the station, in the direction she had been going. With luck, and it was high time he had some of the stuff, they would find a pub before she changed her mind.

  Peter

  Mile-long suspension bridge bouncing like a trampoline from kids up ahead, leaping and whooping, zipping snowballs past each other’s ears into the river. Feet aslide, grab frozen rail, cold spreading like a slow burn through palm and fingers. Warm himself with vision of bossy wee Fiona, leading him on, Good Witch of the North.

  ‘My house.’ Her finger outstretched over moon-splashed water, acres wide. ‘We’ll soon be there.’

  ‘It’s good of you to take me in. Mad axeman for all you know. Or have we met before?’

  Pink cheeks, a glimpse of smile. Answer reaching him in puffs of icy mist. ‘No, not at all. Though in a way. We’re not altogether strangers.’ Speaking in riddles.

  ‘How? How do you know me?’ Panting to keep abreast, to keep those eyes in view.

  ‘My father. He told me about you.’

  Punch air with joy. ‘He knows me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he’s Calum Calum?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Melodious sound, this woman’s ‘yes’. Her father, Calum Calum, knowing, knowing. Struggle to catch her up. ‘And so, your dad says to you, “Fiona, daughter mine, send Peter Jennings my poem. Bring him to me.” ’

  ‘No.’ Halting, turning, showing him those eyes. Sad eyes. At centre-bridge, face to face, strung out on steel cables over rushing water, kids yelling and jumping, iced footpath bucking like a boat-deck.

  ‘Which bit no?’

  ‘He didn’t ask me to send it.’

  ‘But he didn’t stop you?’

  ‘I didn’t tell him. He would have forbidden me. He would have taken it back.’

  Holy moly! Twenty-two pages safe in rucksack, one in her bag. Kids away now, bridge silent, only the sound of water. Fiona staring out across the racing current.

  ‘So you sent it without telling him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Silence. Not answering.

  ‘To save it?’

  ‘Yes, perhaps. In a way.’

  ‘Because you want the poem to be read?’

  ‘Yes. But more.’ Eyes averted, moving on across the bridge, tugging at the collar of her sheepskin.

  Hurry, overtake her, block her path. ‘What sort of more?’

  Stalling. ‘It’s hard to say.’

  ‘And why send it to me?’

  ‘Because I wanted you to read it.’

  ‘Me especially?’

  ‘Yes, you especially.’ Lifting those melancholy eyes. ‘And I wanted to meet you.’

  Excitement numbing the brain. What piece was missing here? ‘Calum Calum is my muse. My thesis is about him.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘My father has your thesis.’

  Oh joy! ‘But it’s unpublished, not even finished.’ Fiona nodding. ‘So how did he come by it?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘And my poems? Has he read them too?’

  ‘I think so. Some of them.’

  Warm rush of glory, stifle whoop of triumph, swoop instead to scrunch a snowball, send it flying into Moon River.

  Fiona watching, grave eyes bright and clear. ‘My father’s poem, Peter. Have you read it?’

  ‘Yes!’ Nod wildly, clap hands to kill snowball cold, rejoice in imminent fame and fortune. No use; calm eyes extracting truth. ‘Well, most of it. A good half anyway. The Gaelic was a touch rusty yesterday, but it’s oiled and spinning now.’

  ‘It’s woesome, Peter, don’t you think?’

  Brought up short. Calum’s poem. Far far colder. This was the truth she wanted. ‘Yes, too right it is. A palpable lament. But more than that, it’s great, Fiona. A miraculous poem. The best he ever – ’

  Shaking her head. ‘I found him weeping over it. He told me its story. He said to write again after so long, to confess, helped him.’

  ‘Confess?’ A poet resurrected. Mystery in Peter’s hands like Ariadne’s thread. ‘What story? Tell me.’

  ‘No. I see now. That’s why I wanted you to come. I want him to tell you himself.’

  Elena

  It was impossible to speak in this bar by the river, into which they had come to escape the cold. There were so many shouting red faces. Three bearded men were attacking their guitars and violin with the gusto of Flamenco players.

  Nor was there anywhere to sit. There was barely room to avoid touching this eccentric man, Henry something, who had pushed back through the crowd with two bright globes of cognac.

  Tears sprang again in Elena’s eyes. This was a mistake. She did not want to be here. She needed to prepare herself for tomorrow. She took the cognac, nodding her thanks. The man was speaking.

  ‘Excuse me?’ She leant closer. Saw the pain from the library still in his eyes. Turned an ear to catch his repeated words. There was too much noise.

  ‘Why are you crying?’

  The question unlocked her tears. She was sobbing stupidly. She bent her head, fighting to recover control.

  His breath came hot on her ear. She turned sharply, fearing lechery. But no, his eyes were closed as though he were fighting tears himself. Then they opened. ‘Forgive me,’ he shouted above the music. ‘None of my business. Drink up. We’ll both feel better.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Peter

  Steps up to door, cherry red, framed by pink granite. Glow of light behind closed curtain, cheeky dormers peeking through meringue topping. Fiona’s key turning, releasing bloody great hound, all wag and slobber.

  ‘Hannah likes people.’

  ‘Dogs are funny that way.’

  Pat animal, take in clues. Bicycles in hall. Roar of TV from front room. Football match. Door opening on fat, trousered thighs and lager cans.

  ‘Hi, Hamish. Hi, Greg.’

  ‘Hi, Fiona.’

  ‘This is Peter.’

  ‘Hi, Peter.’

  ‘Hi.’ Who the fuck Hamish and Greg?

  ‘This way.’ Fiona’s sheepskin swinging from newel post, boots abandoned in hall, voice calling him on. ‘Would you like some soup, Peter? Or, sorry,’ coming back, ‘did you want to watch the game?’

  Like hell, bugger football, what did she take him for? Pull full poetic height and follow, pausing only to extract Hannah’s nose from arse. ‘Soup. Whatever. Great.’

  ‘Woof!’ Dog still bustling and barking, must have decided fair Fi lost at sea; while she, busy with pan, hoicking bowls from cupboards, wiping oilcloth table, clattering spoons, sawing bread, w
omen in kitchens never fucking still. ‘Tea? Wine? Whisky? Or maybe Hame and Greg can spare a lager.’

  Sudden thought. ‘Are they your brothers?’

  ‘No, my lodgers. What’ll it be?’

  ‘Whisky, ta.’

  Whirling off again on her woolly, red-socked feet, unscrewing bottle, splashing two fingers, handing it over, stirring soup, rumpling dog’s ears, tossing her head. ‘I need one too.’

  Waft of soup and hit of whisky. Fine Fiona, guardian of holy secrets, priestess to the Muse. Touching her golden glass to his – ‘Cheers, Peter’ – then to her lips. Confronting with those upturned eyes. Daring him . . . to what? To make a pass?

  ‘Cheers, Fiona?’

  Stepping back, lowering her eyes, shaking her head. ‘Peter, this is difficult.’

  Follow close, touch her hand.

  Woof!’

  ‘No, Peter, really. Stop.’

  Try full, blue, abject beam. ‘But why? Why not? You’re gorgeous.’

  Hyperbole working, Fi smiling, but jumping out of reach. ‘Trust me. Till tomorrow. Finish reading the poem, Peter. Meet my father. It’s the only way.’

  Elena

  She was safe, her body shielded by a robust coat and her brain by a mist of cognac. Her feet in their thin shoes on the trampled snow still remembered the warmth of the bar. After the deafening music, her ears were opening to the stillness, to the chatter of the Ness from its pebbled bed. Beside her, wrapped in the borrowed blanket, a benevolent stranger was walking in silence. Stars glimmered through branches wind-whipped with snow. They were passing a line of glowing guesthouse windows. Her key was in her hand. There was no wind, or sound of gulls, or tears.

  ‘This one is mine.’ It was difficult to recognise. The low-walled garden lay cloaked in snow, the frosted ivy hung heavy as Aunt Marisa’s lace. ‘Will you come in? To be warm before you go?’

  The man retreated a step. He shook his head solemnly. ‘It’s kind of you to offer, but I understand. It’s no problem, really. You’d prefer to be alone.’

  She started to unfasten the coat, to return it to him. Immediately she was trembling, the cold was so intense. In his hand was Urquhart’s tartan.

  ‘No!’ The word burst from her. She did not want to be alone. ‘It is you who are so kind . . . Henry,’ she remembered and spoke his name, ‘and unhappy. Maybe you tell me a little of this? And it will please me also to recount my story. Truly. The bar was loud.’ She led him into the hall. A pink lamp burned on the proprietor’s desk beside the bell. The clock showed nine forty-five. ‘They have more cognac here perhaps?’

  He nodded. She rang the bell. There was the sound of feet approaching from hidden rooms. The proprietor arrived, smiling. ‘Cognac? No problem. Not vintage or nothin, but should ’it the spot. What weather, eh? In your room would you like it, or in ’ere?’ He threw open a door, revealing an empty sitting-room with more pink lamps and a gas fire. ‘Make yourselves at ’ome. Let’s turn it up, eh? You look like you could do with a bit of ’eat.’ He adjusted the fire. ‘Back in a tick.’ He was gone.

  Elena dropped Henry’s coat and sank into an armchair. ‘The Scotch people, they are kind also.’

  He was smiling at her. His face was pink from the cold air. She liked his face. ‘Scottish, they prefer to be called. But that one’s not a Scot. More Thames Estuary, I would say.’

  Henry

  He was attempting to be calm and sensible. He hoped he seemed so. An attractive woman was about to cry on his shoulder.

  She wasn’t Marjorie Macpherson. She wasn’t his mother. She was Spanish, good lord. Elena Martínez, her eyes and voice dark and deep, her English halting. She was quite unlike any woman he knew, or any fantasy he’d ever dared have. Was that the attraction? Frying pans and fires; steady on, Henry.

  Essex man was flapping round them, doling out the cooking brandy and asking, would they like the bottle? Henry proffered a twenty-pound note, which did the trick. ‘I’ll leave you to it then. Don’t ’esitate to ring if you need anything.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Elena said firmly. ‘I am sure we will be okay. Goodnight, señor.’

  How self-possessed she seemed. Henry steadied his nerves with a swallow of brandy before daring to push his luck. ‘So, do you still feel like telling? Why the tears?’

  The ferocity in her brown eyes was unnerving. ‘I tell nobody. I need to tell somebody. Maybe I am mad?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’re not.’ He thought of himself and added, ‘Or else we all are. It’s a mistake to assume anyone is sane, don’t you think?’ She was frowning. He hastened to revise. ‘Forgive me, I mean, you’re not mad, of course you’re not. But maybe I am? Mad, I mean.’ A short silence. ‘Though not dangerously.’

  Her frown gave way to a smile. But he had lost the plot. What had she said? Oh yes.

  ‘I’m sorry. Please. You need to tell somebody. And I am somebody, I suppose, even if, right now, I’m not altogether sure who.’

  The smile was still there. His courage put on a spurt of growth. ‘So, how about it? Shall we give it a try? Will I do?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Peter

  Stomach full and Calum spread on the oilcloth table; one hundred and twenty stanzas down, eighty to go. Hard work under FU’s exacting eye; show proper scholarship, catch wave of fluency, leave lexicon alone.

  Recap: love destroyed, honour mislaid, intolerable cold, da-di-dah, something something. Yes, but what story? What confession?

  ‘Three nil.’ Greg or Hamish reporting glumly. ‘Any soup left, Fi?’

  ‘Plenty, Hamish. In the pot.’

  ‘Me too.’ Greg drifting in behind, slumping down, wolfing last slice of bread.

  Snatch up Calum, shake off crumbs, resume later with dictionary under blanket.

  ‘You’re home early.’ Brown hair. Hamish.

  ‘The blizzard, you berk.’ Red beard. Greg.

  ‘Woof!’ Pooch. Hannah.

  Fuck it, who cared? Hugely inconsiderate of brown, clean-shaven Hamish to snaffle ginger, hairy name.

  ‘Yes.’ Fiona passing time of night with oiks. ‘And the lights went out for a while, so I thought it best to close up. I feel bad about it. The weather’s okay now, and the book group weren’t best pleased.’

  ‘Of course! The group!’ Chin excited for some reason. ‘How did they react?’

  ‘Were they shocked and horrified?’ Beard adrip with soup.

  ‘No, they were thrilled.’

  ‘Fancied him, did they?’

  Losing thread here. FU dissolving into giggles. New dimension, not in keeping. She’d better not be shagging one of these losers.

  ‘Maybe they did. He was charming, and they were flattered to be the first to know.’

  What the fuck was she on about?

  ‘So was it you who spilled the beans?’

  ‘Or did he leap out at them, no warning? Surprise, surprise?’

  Chew finger, and exchange long look with Hannah. Not a fucking clue.

  ‘I did it. He said he hoped I wouldn’t mind, he was a wee bit shy. I broke it to them before he went in.’

  ‘Bloody wonderful. And they didn’t laugh?’

  ‘Or lynch him?’

  ‘No. They plied him with sandwiches.’

  ‘Woof!’

  Time to sigh and remark wearily, ‘I suppose there’s zilch chance of your letting me in on this one either?’

  ‘Oh Peter, I’m sorry. The man with the book group tonight. He publishes under a woman’s name. Tonight was his coming out. They thought they were going to meet “Marjorie Macpherson.” ’

  Flash of geese milling around gooseboy. ‘They fancied him all right.’

  ‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they?’ Beard upending soup pan into mouth. ‘Author of their romantic dreams turns into handsome, charming prince.’

  ‘Not handsome.’ Fiona giggling again, pleasingly uncharitable.

  Chip in, quip irresistible, ‘And more queen than prince.’

/>   All eyes on him. Fiona’s serious. ‘Yes. You may be right.’

  ‘Not a doubt in hell. A definite fruit.’

  Frown from Fi, uplifting roar of mirth from chin and beard.

  ‘Your poor ladies.’ Beard oozing malice. ‘One kiss and wallop – Prince Charming is a frog.’

  ‘But still,’ Chin, ‘it’s gotta be an advance on a woman.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Fiona sighing, ‘but it is dangerous, pretending to be what you’re not.’

  Pause.

  ‘Why d’you say that?’ Chin.

  ‘No, I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Shouldn’t what?’ Beard.

  Fiona squirming, about to spill some gossip. More imp than angel, bless his stars.

  ‘Oh, all right. There was this man who arrived late – after I’d told them. Not a member of the group, a fan of Marjorie Macpherson’s. He rang a couple of weeks ago, asking could he come along. I don’t know how he’d heard about it, but, well, of course, I said. And when he arrived, I don’t know why, I assumed he knew. Anyway, it was awful when he realised. And when he saw we’d realised.’

  ‘Realised what?’

  ‘About “Marjorie Macpherson”. Why he’d come. You see, he didn’t know she was a man. I think he’d hoped – ’

  ‘For a bit of sexual intercourse?’

  ‘Well, yes. Romance and – ’

  ‘Fucking hell!’

  ‘Woof! Woof!’ General merriment and barking.

  ‘No. Stop it. All of you. It isn’t funny. The poor man. He was a nice man.’

  Chin, beard, dog, Peter, all shouting her down. Poor man bollocks, it was hilarious as hell.

  Elena

  ‘He promise he will return – one day, or two, no more – with the guns. He leave in darkness. The sun rise and set, rise and set. The village is waiting. Young men, women, children.’