‘Where is Hannah? Has something happened, Henry?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Something has.’ He filled her glass. ‘Or perhaps not quite yet. They had a way to go.’
She did not understand him. She inhaled the cognac fumes and took a gulp. It made her shudder. ‘What do you mean?’
He poured one for himself, then stared past her, through the window, speaking as if to the mountain. ‘Michael McCoy and James Urquhart. I found them at it in the back sitting-room.’
‘The writer . . . and the chef?’ She struggled to comprehend.
Henry’s gaze dropped from the window to examine his cognac. ‘Yes. You know. At it. Having sex.’ He drank it in one swallow, then lifted his eyes to meet hers. ‘They weren’t bothered by my passing through. Hospitable, one might say. But I explained I had a prior engagement, and they let me go, no fuss.’
She did not know what to say.
He pulled a face. ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps this offends you?’
‘No. No, not at all. I . . . It confuses me.’
‘To say the least. But then again,’ he paused, ‘it settles so much.’
Elena giggled. The giggle surprised her. ‘But I should not laugh.’
‘Yes, you should, I think,’ he said gravely. ‘And so should I.’ He poured himself more cognac and turned to face her. ‘So. What d’you know?’ He raised his glass.
‘What do I know?’
‘Sorry. It’s an Englishism. It means “funny old world.” ’
She clinked his glass. ‘What do I know?’
He was grinning suddenly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s “What d’you know.” ’
She tried again. ‘What do you know?’
He began to laugh. He took a giant swallow of cognac. ‘Nar-thing,’ he said in a strangely altered voice. ‘I know nar-thing. I’m from Barcelona.’
Peter
‘Night-night, Uncle Peter.’
Fiona off to fetch last page, Georgie on hip. Great arse his sister had, oh fuck. But hang on, multiple choice, sister with great arse, sister with sad arse, not so tricky, and there were shoals more fish in the aquarium. Elena, do not forget Elena. Teresa resurrected in seminal snog. And here swam another. Doable Kim, property of brother Gavin, drifting under arch towards him. Great hair, great legs. ‘Hi, Kim.’
‘Hi, Peter.’ Landing beside him, abounce in her pink boob-tube, face flushed and eager. ‘Boy, wasn’t that something else? More excitement than we’re used to round here. Houseful of casualties. Are you dead or only wounded?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. More than fine, I’m blown away. High as a space station, not sure which way is up.’
‘Because Angus is your father?’
‘Yes! Would you believe it!’ Lift pages and kiss them.
‘What’s that?’
‘An incredible new poem of his. An epic lament for his life. Spain, France, my Ma, the lot.’
‘Gosh, really? May I see?’ Hair ablaze, back-lit by lamp. Folding long legs beside him. Shiny stockings.
‘It’s in Gaelic. I’m translating.’
‘How exciting. I could help.’
‘Do you know Gaelic?’
‘No, but I’m an ace at synonyms.’ Her smile was wicked.
Lean in closer. ‘Won’t Gavin chew my balls off?’
‘More than he wants to already, you mean?’
Here came Fi with Calum’s last page. Quick, unpack dictionary from rucksack, get stuck in.
‘Can you read Gaelic, Fiona?’
Good question Kim and, ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I can.’
Unbelievable. His sister, Fiona. Leaning over sofa-back, hand on his shoulder, scanning final stanzas.
His father, Calum Calum’s blue Quink trail. Brain not in gear, swallow pride. ‘I don’t get it. Who’s he talking to here?’
‘Himself.’
‘It can’t be, it’s two people.’
‘Himself as poet and as man. Look. Mar bhàrd agus mar dhuine.’ Perfect pitch, her accent musical.
Kim’s thigh pressing. Savour female heat of it. ‘So what’s he telling himself?’
Fiona answering. ‘Se bàird a tha annaibh le chéile. You are poets both of you.’
‘Of course! As poet and as man!’
His sister’s weight on his neck, her breath in his ear, his sister’s finger tracing Calum’s thread of blue. ‘Bha fìor dheagh bhàrdachd anns na h-òrain sin. There was fine poetry in those songs.’
‘Yes!’
‘Is anns na sgeulachdan cuideachd. And in the stories too.’
‘Meaning his life is poetry!’ Rush of adrenaline. Race to decode last verse in bliss of sibling rivalry.
Fiona too fast for him, one beat ahead, reeling the meaning out. ‘Each kiss now cold. From cold, through cold, to cold.’
Skim eye ahead to last line. Mar sin leibh. Too easy, fuck it, but better than nothing. Point to the words. Hold steady. Fiona unspooling line before. ‘All done, all gone. No more to do or write. No more to know.’
Jump in. Declaim. ‘Farewell!’ Meet Kim’s bright eyes, triumphant. Turn to Fi. ‘What is it, Fi? What’s wrong?’
Her face transfixed, alarmed, staring at poem. Mar sin leibh. Angus Urquhart 1999. Unsteady signature.
‘Where is he?’ Fiona upright, staring through archway, starting to run. ‘Father! Who’s with father? Father, where are you?’ Feet clattering on flags, voice ringing echoes. ‘Can anyone hear me? Does anyone know where Angus is?’
Chapter Thirty-four
Elena
Henry had stopped laughing and swallowing cognac. His face was serious again and close to hers. The time had come to answer him.
She put down her empty glass and took a breath. Then she faced him squarely and touched his hand. ‘You are kind and good, Henry. The question you ask me before. I am flattered, truly, but I must say no.’
He retreated from her touch. The light left his face. ‘Of course you must,’ he said. ‘It’s quite all right.’ Already he had found the door and was turning the handle to escape. His wretchedness was hard to watch. His hurt was hurting her.
‘Henry, I do not mean to distress you. Permit me please to explain?’
He let go of the handle and stood, with eyes downcast, like a kicked dog waiting for the door to open.
She had prepared her words. She thought they would be easy to say. But they seemed impossible, and wrong. ‘I should have said. In Brussels I have . . . I had . . . a friend.’
‘Of course,’ he repeated. He glared at the pink roses. ‘Of course you have. Attractive woman like you, presumptuous of me.’
‘No, Henry. Not presumptuous, not at all. I had a friend, but it is finished. He is gone away.’ To say the words aloud made them true. Gone away. She felt the tears rising and swallowed them. To cry would be unfair to Henry. ‘But he, my friend . . . Please understand, it is too soon.’
Henry made a tortured sound. She was explaining this so clumsily.
‘I am truly sorry, Henry. It is not you. I am to blame. There is much wrong in me.’
He blinked and lifted his eyes. ‘There is nothing wrong with you, Elena.’
His kindness swelled her tears. She almost yielded to them. But no, she would remain strong, for Henry’s sake. ‘There is much wrong.’ She found that to confess this increased her strength. ‘I am injured by my past life, as . . . as you are also, Henry. So you are not right for me, I am not right for you.’
Mikhail was uninjured. She had not understood this before, and now it was too late. She swallowed the sharp lump of grief. She went to the window and stared into the pool of light below. Gone away. She struggled to comprehend. She must return alone to Brussels. She must find her way without Mikhail.
Henry had followed her to the window. He stood by her side, staring into the night. ‘I’m changing,’ he said. ‘I think I’m recovering. It’s early to say. Not completely of course, I won’t ever recover completely. But maybe, perhaps, do you think, rather than be alone, we might be stronger,
you know, together?’
She looked at him. He looked at her. He was right. She had not answered him with truth. ‘But I do not think I can love you, Henry.’
He closed his eyes and opened them again. ‘You’re sure?
She barely nodded. He turned his face to the window. She moved so her shoulder touched his. He did not move away; he leant against her. They stood a moment, feeling the contact. He cleared his throat. ‘So what will you do?’ His voice was sad. He did not hate her.
What would she do? But of course, the decision was made. ‘I will go to live in Spain.’
‘Father! Father!’ Fiona was calling in the corridor. ‘Father, where are you?’
‘What’s the matter?’ Henry ran to open the door.
‘I can’t find him anywhere.’ Fiona’s eyes were searching the corridor as she panted words. ‘He was with Owen, with Janet. But then, the guests . . . he told them he was fine. He told them he would be with me . . . with Peter.’
Peter
Up, up, haring up the creaking spiral, seeking Calum, house below echoing with voices. ‘Father!’ ‘Angus!’ ‘Mr Urquhart!’ Only he in search of Calum. Hugging rucksack to chest; poem safe, but Calum lost – no, let it not be!
High landing, abandoned passage off. Line of low doors, each locked or opening into cell of nothing. No heat, no furniture, no Calum. Race to stairwell, climb and climb again. No use, he knew where Calum was.
Rewind. Replay. Mars slain by a word at Venus’s feet. Only he heard that word’s killing power. Only he saw Mars stagger and begin to die. How had he abandoned him?
Drive himself upward, heart bursting, knees aching, spiral narrowing to turret door and elements beyond. Push, hard, shoulder to oak, patter of rust shards from complaining hinges, burst through into whirling Highland space.
Lightning flickering across the sky. And there he was, the old man on the mountain! Mars shrunk to Lilliputian, scaling Gulliver’s side. Petulant growl rumbling down valley, shaking the black waters of the loch. Yell back. ‘Calum! CALUM!!!’
Useless. Words hitting wall of Gulliver’s condensed breath and dropping like Elena’s phone to the gravel.
Turn. Run. Back to wooden corkscrew. Down, round, hurdling steps, stumbling, dizzy, yelling again, ‘He’s on the mountain. He’s climbing the mountain. We must go after him.’
Henry
Peter collapsed against the banister rail, his face streaming with sweat. Fiona cried out, ‘Oh my God! Father! Please!’ and started down the last two flights.
Henry threw Elena a look. She nodded. He went after Fiona. He caught up with her in the hall. She was fighting her way into a yellow windcheater. He fumbled to help her, comprehending dimly that he was drunk.
‘The flashlight. Where have they put it? I need the flashlight.’
But not incapable. He checked his breast pocket. ‘I have my torch.’ He seized a windcheater for himself and managed to get it on.
Urquharts were emerging from the woodwork, though none of them seemed to share Fiona’s alarm. Come to think of it, why was she panicking? Kim arranged herself languidly in the stone archway. James peered with a sleepy smile from the first floor landing. Two children had joined Elena on the one above. William and Gavin stuck their heads around a door, sneering, ‘What’s the fuss?’
‘Father’s on the mountain!’
‘So what?’ ‘What’s new?’
‘He’s in no state to be alone. I’m going after.’
More people were arriving. Peter, still out of breath, plus Owen, Janet and Gordon the waiter. The mayhem was growing. Hannah and Mabel had started up barking and, bugger it, here came the Americans. ‘What’s doing here? Can we help?’
‘No!’ Fiona screamed at them. She heaved the front door open and ran out.
Henry tried to focus. Someone had turned on the hall light. People seemed afflicted with slow motion as though drenched in honey. If he hesitated the honey would engulf him. It was nice and warm here; the old man was probably just toddling off to bed, which was where Henry yearned to be too, horizontal, eyes shut, in a vortex of brandy. But no, damn it, he couldn’t let Fiona go alone.
A tidal wave of drunkenness swamped him as the cold air hit. He made himself survive it. He could barely see her; she had already crossed the pool of light from the glass wall. The scrunch of her feet on the gravel told him she was running. He blundered after her.
‘Henry?’
‘Yes?’
‘Your torch?’
‘It’s here.’ It was out of his pocket. Click, and there was light. A slender beam reaching through the rain, finding the start of the path. And Fiona was off again, calling, ‘Father! Wait for me! I’m coming!’
Behind them, the honey was spilling onto the porch. Voices were calling, the words too faint to hear. Hannah’s barks were growing louder, beginning to catch them up. More people were following perhaps, but there was no time to wait for them.
Chapter Thirty-five
Henry
The brandy glow had evaporated; he was sobering up fast. The wind clawed through the thin waterproof; his jacket was no match for this cold. He tried not to think about his cap, gloves and Barbour, lying useless in the bedroom far below. A couple of minutes was all it would have taken to fetch them.
The night was pitch-black and thick with mist, which numbed his face. The beam of the toy torch, dissipated by tiny droplets, scarcely illuminated their feet. It was impossible to go fast, hard to know where next to tread. They should have taken the time to find the flashlight. Hannah wasn’t helping, bumping against their legs, a guide dog with no eyes.
‘Oh Hannah, stop it! Please!’ Fiona seemed on the verge of hysteria.
Henry tried to calm her. ‘Your father, he can’t go fast either. He has no light.’
She moaned. ‘He needs no light. He knows the way blindfold.’ Hurrying along in the dark beside him, she began to sob. ‘It’s all my fault – I should have realised. What upset him so – why he wrote the poem. It wasn’t your mother, it was Spain.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The book group, December, they talked about Homage to Catalonia, and he was there. They wanted his recollections. You’ve seen how stirred up he gets. As if he were back there, living it again.’
‘The bloody book group has a lot to answer for.’
‘Oh no, please no!’
‘What? What’s the matter?’
‘Too long alive,’ she wailed. ‘That’s what he said at Hogmanay. “I’ve been too long alive.” ’
She started to run. Henry battled to keep up, to keep her in sight with the absurd toy torch. ‘We’ll find him,’ he panted. ‘I’m sure we will.’
Lightning flickered around them. For an uncanny instant he could see where the path encountered sheer mountain-side ahead. There was no sign of Urquhart. ‘The steps – they’ll be easier.’
God, he was cold. And here came the thunder, threatening, then fading in a snarl. Hannah whimpered and barked. ‘It’s all right, girl.’ He patted her damp flank.
He found Fiona’s hand and put the torch in it. ‘I’ll go first. You follow with this. I’ll feel my way. I’ll keep saying “I’m here” in case you lose me.’
He stretched through the darkness and found wet stone. He began to clamber. Right hand, left foot. Left hand, right foot. The steps were high and slippery, and his fingers were freezing already. ‘I’m here,’ he yelled. ‘I’m here.’
Right, left. Left, right. Furious with Urquhart. Rotten old devil, still set on upstaging Elena. ‘Elena. Elena,’ he mumbled into the fog. Right, left. Left, right. He remembered her descending these steps ahead of him. Her bouncing hair that smelled of lemons. Her sumptuous, sexy voice. I do not think I can love you, Henry. Oh God. He must put her out of his mind. Right, left. Left, right. As fast as he could manage. ‘I’m here. Take care, Fiona. Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
How many more steps? And then what? A flattish bit, he recalled, cut into
the side of the mountain, with a precipitous drop to the right. They would have to hold hands, hold the dog’s collar and go slowly, before the steep climb up around the huge rock to the hanging valley and a blind grope along to the croft.
He was crazy. Why was he doing this? You are kind and good, Henry. Right, left. Left, right. He wanted to howl at the cold in his hands and the desolation waiting to seize him. ‘I’m here,’ he gasped.
‘I’m right behind you.’ She too was out of breath. ‘Thank you, Henry. Thank you for helping me.’
Elena
‘Let go of me! Fuck off!’
‘Calm yourself. We’re not leaving without the flashlight.’
Elena stood alone on the landing, watching Gavin and Peter wrestle in the hall, two floors below.
‘Stand back! I’m telling you! I’m a mountain guide!’
‘You’re a cretin! There’s no time for this! Hands off!’
Urquhart had run away. Everyone was chasing after him. But still she felt nothing. Where was her anger? She had screamed the truth, seen him defeated by a word. Was it enough?
‘Calm down, laddies. I’ve found it. It was on the – ’
‘Give it here, Owen.’
‘No, give it to me!’
Mikhail was gone away.
‘Hush the pair of you. I think Gavin should have the flashlight and lead the way. Do you have a problem with that, Peter?’
‘No! Just get your fucking fingers out!’
Brussels without Mikhail would be unbearable. She had answered Henry truly; she would go to live in Spain.
‘A cagoule. You must wear a cagoule, Peter.’
‘Okay. All right. Okay.’
She barely knew Spain. She had run from it so young. Such a big country. Beautiful, people said.
‘Are you coming too, Owen? William?’
‘What for? Chasing the old boy up his mountain again? You’re all barking mad.’
She would not return to Andalucia. Not yet. And she would keep away from mountains. A city. She preferred cities. Madrid perhaps, though Madrid had mountains. Barcelona? Henry had mentioned Barcelona. People said it was a marvellous city.
‘Okay. We’re off’
Love, Revenge & Buttered Scones Page 20