Love, Revenge & Buttered Scones

by Bobbie Darbyshire

  A hut housed a seat above a pit. He emptied his bladder, then lingered, gathering himself against Urquhart’s gibes. Old age was no excuse for bad manners, he always thought, though everyone conspired to pretend it was. He was glad this was Elena’s enemy, he felt mild enmity himself.

  ‘Constipation, laddie?’ Urquhart said brightly as he let himself back in. ‘Or haemorrhoids, have ye?’

  ‘No.’ He was bolder now, more equal to this game. ‘Do you suffer from them yourself, sir?’

  Urquhart played deaf, but Fiona smiled. It was okay to do battle. Henry retrieved his mug of tea and withdrew to the stool by the table, near the paraffin stove, keeping his distance from both of them.

  ‘Sae, Fiona. Who else hast thou brought to bother me?’

  She hadn’t told him then. She’d waited for his return.

  ‘Two people, Father. A lady from Brussels. Her name’s Elena. She came to the library yesterday, looking for you. She’s read about you on the Internet. She wants to hear about your time in the SAS, for a book she’s writing.’

  ‘Och aye?’ The old man sat straighter and his blue eyes focused.

  ‘She’s been unwell today. Fainting. She should be recovered later, but it will be much better if you come down, Father, rather than she up.’ Fiona scrutinised the room. ‘And you’ve run out of proper food again. Father, please don’t worry me like this. You must take more care of yourself. When were you last down?’

  ‘Nag, nag, nag. Tis all thou’rt guid for. There are plenty of tins below here.’ The old man pointed under the bed between his knees. ‘And who’s the other body?’

  Henry paid attention. Fiona’s lie about his brother. Would it now be explained?

  Yes. Fiona seemed tense and very small. She glanced up at Henry on his stool, then back to her father. ‘Henry’s brother. Peter.’

  The old man waved a dismissive hand. ‘Och well. Henry’s brother. And what would Henry’s brother be wanting with me?’

  Fiona leant to touch her father. ‘I sent him your poem.’

  He sprang from the bed. ‘Thou didst what?’ He seemed beside himself with anger.

  Fiona had risen with him. He was tall, she was small – her head level with his chest – yet she spoke carefully, as though to a child. ‘He’s reading it, Father. He’s Henry’s brother. This is Henry Jennings. His brother’s name is Peter. Forgive me, but I thought it might make you happy.’ She stopped speaking.

  Henry felt compelled to rise to his feet too. For a long, disconcerting moment, Urquhart stared at him, before erupting into incoherent sound. Spluttering, looking from Fiona to Henry to Fiona, fighting to find breath for words. Fiona held his hands and soothed him. ‘You’ll like him, Father.’ Hannah pushed her nose between the pair of them, trying to join in. ‘He recognised the poetry. He wants to meet the man who wrote it.’

  She seemed about to cry, and the old man was moaning wordlessly. Henry was embarrassed. This was none of his business. He headed towards the door to the yard.

  ‘No. Please. Henry. Stay.’ Her cry halted him awkwardly by the sink, where he put his empty mug. She turned back to her father, pleading with him. ‘He loves the poem, Father. He says it’s miraculous, the best you ever wrote. He knew who wrote it without my saying a thing. “Calum,” he said, and how could I deny it? But that’s all I’ve told him.’

  All this fuss about a poem. Tears glistened on the old man’s face. Fiona had whipped out a hanky and was wiping them away. ‘It’s all right, Father. I’m sure it will be all right.’

  Peter

  ‘We will forget this. We do not like each other.’

  Fastest turnaround in history, Señorita icing up again. Though maybe not, who knew? Not unknown for harsh words and violent kisses to keep on flowing from one mouth.

  But now was not the time, not now. For flowing from this mountain mouth, harsh rock and violent cataract, was poetry!

  Path of stones, patter of rain on cagoule hood, nearer to Calum with each step. Valley of stones, croft a mere incidence of stones, poetry a mere incidence of words. Heart battering like genius to be out; cruel, alien spawn fighting, biting its way out, hammering to join its Gaelic fellow. No fun for human host, but here he was and had no option; here he must carry his genius to meet its muse.

  Woman trudging alongside, silent. Cast a glance: face white, eyes staring, fixed on cottage door. Grab another kiss for luck. No resistance, lips tasting of rain, parting to receive his tongue and letting him grope this time through cagoule and sheepskin, shirt and bra, to billow of breasts, heart pumping away like his. Gasping, ‘Enough. Not now.’

  Catch that? Later then, more to be had, words never mere incident.

  Gripping his wrist, white-knuckled. ‘Because now we meet Urquhart.’

  Urquhart. Calum. Yes. Uptight Señorita a hit in the sack, no doubt about it. Hard-on had violent homing instinct. Heart and hard-on tearing him limb from limb, yet Calum’s pull was stronger.

  Path of stones. Door to his destiny. Bleached wood with iron knocker. Raise it and let go.

  Rush of ecstatic Hannah. Fiona’s face, wet as Señorita’s, puffy-eyed. ‘Peter?’

  Quick, step back, act gallant. ‘Sorry Fi, but couldn’t let Elena come alone.’

  Peer past her into shadows. Henry. Other dog. And yes! Calum, for it must be he! Tall, and wiry, etched with time, fan of white hair and beard, and pale-blue orbs as wide as wide, fixed on him in startled cognisance, and the clamour of their two hearts silencing the world. Push past women, dive to take his hand. ‘I’m Peter Jennings. And you, you’re – ’

  ‘Calum. Aye. That’s who I am.’

  Yes! Known from the poem, but always known. Never believed this man a goner. Heard the verdict spoken, read it between learned covers, knew it wasn’t so. Believed dead, never believed, not once.

  No one speaking. Only he and this man, standing heart to pounding heart, aching with grief of genius lost and found.

  No words, no easy incidence of words to speak, with here, on shelves beside them, Calum’s hard-won couplets leather-bound, plus files of papers and – REJOICE, REJOICE! – his own draft thesis! circa 1996, red cardboard folder with Calum Calum: Man Or Legend? inscribed in his own hand!

  Elena

  There he stood! The old man from the photograph, blue-eyed in his kilt of Urquhart tartan, his withered cheeks disguised with a white beard, his fear concealed behind a smile.

  El malo.

  His fear was not of her. Not yet. He did not see her, only Peter.

  She had no pity for him. She had feared she would feel pity.

  She was in no hurry to be seen. The room was loud with people and excited dogs. Their breath made clouds despite the smell of burning paraffin. The old man was holding Peter’s hand.

  ‘Are you all right, Elena?’ Henry’s question startled her. So good a man was Henry, so unlike his brother. She glanced down, straightening the yellow anorak. There was a taste of Peter in her mouth, a tremble of desire still in her throat.

  ‘Thank you, Henry. Yes, I am.’

  ‘Father.’ It began to happen. Fiona was steering the old man past Peter’s hungry stare. ‘Father, you must say hello to Elena. You remember, I mentioned. The lady from Brussels who wants to hear about the SAS?’

  Yes, he was crossing the room to give her his hand. Yes, she was taking the hand and meeting his lying smile. His bones under the loose skin were as fragile as Aunt Marisa’s. If she chose, she could snap them in pieces. She squeezed hard, too hard, until he pulled away.

  He was examining her face. ‘Is it Spanish ye are?’

  Did he begin to be afraid of her? She could not tell. ‘Yes. I am Spanish.’

  ‘Así. Hola, Elena.’

  ‘Buenas tardes, Mr Urquhart.’

  ‘Nae, pretty lass, dinnae be fussing with all that. I’ll be Angus to ye.’

  No, he had no fear. Beneath the white brows, his eyes grew bold. El malo was flirting with her! How much she hated him. ‘Angus then,’ she said.

/>   ‘And if ye insist, I’ll tell ye ma stories of France.’

  She was strong and unafraid. She smiled into his lascivious eyes. ‘I read how you save a village. It please me to hear you recount this.’

  ‘But not now, Father,’ said Fiona. ‘It’s getting dark and there’s no food here. Come with us. For a hot dinner and a warm bed.’

  Still his odious face pressed close. ‘Aye. Thou’st persuaded me. I will.’

  The shiver ran from Elena’s throat to her knees, then spread in ripples along every nerve. Her mouth tasted of Peter. Her body still quivered at the thought of Peter’s greedy hands, the urgent press of him against her. Yet this feeling was more than desire, more than disgust at the old man’s smile. It was the thrill, scarcely to be believed, that soon she would shame el malo and be free.

  He was gone; the door swung open. He was leading the way through the failing light, with Peter, Fiona and the two dogs close behind. She hurried after them, leaving Henry to follow and close the door.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Henry

  He had lost track of what was happening here. No one cared a damn for him. All he could do was stumble down this hill after the others, like one more foolish Labrador hoping to be thrown a stick to fetch.

  He should go home. What the hell, he had to be home by Monday anyway, for Trevor’s leg. He could ring for a taxi and leave at once, take the first train south and spend a good part of tomorrow in the pub, calming himself and putting all this humiliation behind him.

  Definitely a good plan. Yet something prevented him. Was he a masochist? He hoped not. It felt more like curiosity, some mystery eluding him.

  Everyone was lying: this was the truth he’d briefly grasped at lunch, before the balloon went up. And it was how he would get a grip on things, he decided. He would go through the lies, one by one, get them itemised like a list of dicey investments and watch for movements in the market.

  He would start with Fiona. She looked straightforward, but she confused him most. He observed her, marching down the mountain path ahead of Elena in her Christopher Robin get-up. He still believed her honourable. Faced with her lie, she hadn’t denied or attacked or confessed. She’d commanded, ‘Come with me.’ Spoken of a secret, belonging to her father. And then – had he imagined it? – she’d seemed to want him as witness. Why?

  No use, he could get no further with it, he’d have to await developments. He shifted his thoughts to Peter, way ahead, racing hell for leather after the fleet-footed old man. Peter’s were lies of omission. Colluding in Fiona’s fib that they were friends. Not explaining his eagerness to meet her father. All because of that poem, apparently.

  He recognised it, Father, said it was marvellous, knew it was yours.

  No mystery. It was obvious. Urquhart was just some versifier his brother hero-worshipped. Hadn’t it been written on his face as he rushed in declaiming, ‘Yes, I’m Peter Jennings’, then stood there like some dumb chump in love?

  Bulls-eye! Henry grinned. Damn it, he wasn’t the only idiot in the family who fell in love sight unseen. This snide old goat was his brother’s Marjorie Macpherson! Good thinking, he must remember that the next time the knives were out.

  And maybe this was Fiona’s secret too; had Peter been pestering her father? Upsetting him somehow? Had she brought him here to teach him a lesson?

  Excellent. Market analysis was paying off.

  His attention came round to Elena, a few steps below him on the mountain path. He already knew her secret of course, though he’d almost lost sight of it. And what a secret. She was going to confront this vain old bastard with his original sin. All his medals and poems wouldn’t tip the scales. His account didn’t balance. She was here to declare him morally bankrupt, to nail his lies for good.

  Brilliant. And of course, no question, he must stay here for Elena; he had pledged her his support. Plus there would be the bonus of watching his brother’s fantasy brought down, as his own had been. Problem solved. Henry straightened his back and found a new spring in his step.

  He began to watch Elena’s hair. He liked the way it bounced, sleek and dark above the yellow windcheater. Close behind her on this stairway cut into the rock, he could see into the parting, where the hairs sprang from her scalp like bristles on a soft brush.

  No good. He was feeling troubled again, almost as badly as before. But why? What had he missed? What hadn’t he faced up to? It must have to do with Elena. He was watching her left ear, as she negotiated a steep bend. He remembered admiring it in the library, imagining it to be Marjorie’s. How small and white it was. He feared for Elena: that was his unease.

  But no, not true. She had recovered from her fainting. She was surefooted on this path. And the Urquharts were benign enough, all told. There was no reason to be afraid for her, nothing to harm her here but her own obsessions. Yes, but wasn’t that equally true of him? He must face whatever this was and deal with it.

  Suddenly he understood and blushed for shame. Again it was his own lie that was eluding him. The truth was he still had hopes; his anxiety was for his chances with Elena.

  Damn it, the habit of fantasy died hard. He tried to stand outside himself, to face and name and understand his feelings for this woman. What did he know of her actually? He could not say he loved her or even be certain that he would love her. He was on the rebound from a ghost, and he hoped . . . yes, he hoped to love her.

  This was what was holding him here. He had lost Marjorie Macpherson. He had turned his back on ghosts. But he needed a woman. He craved the love of a real woman. And the shiny roots of Elena’s bouncing hair were real as real could be.

  Peter

  Words multiplying like stones underfoot, all questions, why, why, why? Keep close at Calum’s elbow. Hellish difficult – old man galloping downhill like mountain goat, kilt bouncing, white hair flying, arms winging, outrunning the pack. Watch how he does it, eyes intent, each foot placed square, movement smooth as thought. Follow in his footsteps, page to Good King Wenceslas. Written pages would surely follow, spondees and dactyls square, images freewheeling. Getting the hang, left, right, that stone, that rock, flexing knees, gaining on Good King – ‘Calum! Slow down and tell me why?’

  Old man bounding onwards, eyes afire. ‘Why what, lad?’

  Hard to speak, words jolting staccato, panting, nearly falling. ‘Why disappear?’

  ‘Ma poems dried. Twas they that disappeared.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now what?’ Pausing. Turning. Frowning.

  ‘Your poems. They’re back?’

  ‘Nae laddie, just the one.’ Hurtling down again.

  ‘The one Fiona sent me?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘But it’s brilliant. You must write more.’

  ‘Nae. It is ma last.’

  ‘Your greatest!’

  ‘Aye. Ma last and greatest, aye.’

  Fragments of Gaelic rattling in brain. ‘About lost love? Lost honour?’

  ‘Aye. What else is there to lose?’

  Off path onto gravel. Whoops! Elena’s smashed phone. Bad move, giant obstacle to leg-over, she’d have his balls. Or then again, good move – some foreign git in competition. Quick, scoop it up and stuff in cagoule pocket.

  Glance back. Elena way behind with dogs, and plodding Henry, and fair Fi who brought him here, but why?

  ‘You have my thesis. Man or Legend.’

  ‘Aye, I have.’

  ‘And do you like it?’

  ‘Tis nae bad.’

  Glow of glory! Under porch, through iron studded door to hall. Calum whirling to face him, kilt spinning.

  Sudden hit of déjà vu. Those eyes, Fiona’s eyes, this place, dark stairway, carved oak chair. Mind grasping at thin air, struggling to remember . . . what?

  ‘Aye, Peter lad, and thy verse too, nae bad at all, though thou’st a way in life to go.’

  Hang on! His verse? Nae bad? Panic rising in throat. Frantic for relief. ‘It’s no good? Is that what you
mean to say?’

  No answer. Calum’s eyes soft, and fixed beyond his shoulder. Spin round to look – nothing but place remembered from a dream. Spin back, find Calum striding into shadows, head bent and hand to brow. Follow him. Nothing to do but follow Calum through cobweb of memory. Remembered voices out of reach, but whispering, you know, Peter, yes, you know, there’s something, something, nothing you don’t know. But what?

  Elena

  The path was difficult, but she went with scarcely a glance at her feet. Her eyes followed the old man, careering ahead with Peter in pursuit. The pair of them were off the mountain and across the gravel, Peter stumbling briefly, hand to ground. When they disappeared into the house she tried to go faster. So did Fiona, and Henry also. They all moved more rapidly.

  The light had died. The night had swallowed the outline of the house, black against the black mountain, leaving its windows like a golden mosaic, with the glass wall of the salon the biggest and brightest piece. As they came near, Elena looked for Urquhart inside, but saw only the Americans and a corpulent waiter dispensing drinks from a tray. The Americans nearest the window waved, like passengers from an ocean ship.

  ‘Where is your father, Fiona?’

  Fiona hurried ahead of them between the parked Land-Rovers. She threw words over her shoulder. ‘Our sitting-room’s at the back. The evening staff have come on duty. The family will be having tea. The dogs need feeding.’

  They were at the door. They were inside. The hall still smelled of Elena’s shuttered childhood, but she refused the memory, she had no time for it. She concentrated on staying close to Fiona, across the stone floor, beneath the stairway and into an unlit passage, with Henry behind and the dogs panting.

  Suddenly Fiona stopped and turned. Elena nearly collided with her. ‘I’m sorry, Henry. Your bag’s still in the hall. You don’t have a room yet.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Later will be fine.’