Love, Revenge & Buttered Scones

by Bobbie Darbyshire

  ‘Thank fuck for that!’

  Yes, Barcelona. Catalonia. A different kind of Spain. She would get a job there, make new friends, write letters to Henry if he would allow it. And perhaps, in time, she would forget Mikhail.

  The front door banged below. Another, inside the house, was slammed also, by William, she supposed.

  There was the murmur of American voices. ‘What was all that about?’ ‘What’s the big deal?’ ‘Some language that guy was using.’

  ‘I do apologise.’ Owen guided them towards the stone archway. ‘There’s no excuse for it, the belligerence of youth, storm in a teacup, nothing to worry about, another drink for anyone?’

  For a short while, the hall was empty. Then James Urquhart, wearing leather slippers and a red silk dressing-gown and whistling softly, slipped down the stairs below and across the flagstones towards the kitchen.

  Elena sighed, feeling her aloneness in this house of strangers. Those she knew best were gone, pursuing Urquhart. Again she wondered at the change in herself. She tried to imagine Urquhart, outgunned, defeated, running up his mountain, tried to find pleasure in it. Why did it mean nothing to her? Where was her anger, her obsession with el malo?

  I didnae ken that they would kill the bairns.

  His words were singing in her head.

  Thou art so like, ma heart breaks even now.

  She could see his blue eyes pleading, full of tears, telling her – maldita sea! – how Carlos killed her grandmother.

  He threw ma sweet Teresa down. She was his wife.

  Peter was right. Urquhart was a poet.

  He would have killed me too.

  Elena shook her head. Poetry was nothing; it did not buy lives, it did not earn forgiveness. She had carried her life’s shame to Inverness to give to Urquhart. She had told him, he had understood. And then his tears had spilled. She had watched them follow his wrinkles into his beard, all his arrogance gone.

  It was over. She gazed down into the empty hall and understood her dispassion.

  The anger was over. And the shame also.

  She had not passed it to Angus Urquhart. Her shame had touched his romance, and both had disappeared.

  Peter

  They were going so slowly. ‘Come on! Come on!’

  Gavin, hogging torch and dragging feet. ‘Like William says, what’s the fuss?’

  Searchlight finding it, the mountain path. Break into run.

  Gavin alongside, light beam bouncing. ‘You’re mad. There’s bugger all point to this. I’ve only come out to keep you from breaking your neck.’

  Teresa fell from a mountain path.

  ‘The old boy pulls this trick all the time.’

  They threw her off. She screamed his name. Which name?

  ‘So here we go, chasing after him. Exactly what he wants.’

  Angus, she would have cried. Angus.

  ‘Pesky old bugger.’

  Or Calum? Was Calum the name she screamed? His private nom de guerre? BARD’S IDENTITY DIES WITH HIS LOVER.

  Gavin badgering. ‘Are you going to speak to me, or what?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Stumble off track into squelching bog. Fuck it, where were those steps?

  ‘So speak to me then, okay?’

  ‘About what, for fuck’s sake?’

  ‘About why we’re out here. Why you’re here at all.’

  Real nobody, this Gavin. ‘I came to find Calum – ’

  ‘Your father – ’

  ‘No, Calum. And she’s killed him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear her, dumbo? Didn’t you see him? She said it was all romance.’

  ‘Big deal. So what?’

  Hit of liquid ice in left sock and, fuck it, the right.

  ‘Are we lost? Pathetic mountain guide, you are.’

  ‘Hold your water, it’s this way.’

  The steps at last. Tombstone ladder, weeping black rain. Gavin blocking his path. ‘For fuck’s sake, get a move on.’ Push past and climb, with legs like pistons, eclipsing light beam, outrunning it. Fall forward onto hands, find next step, and next. ‘Come on, you great lump of haggis, keep up with that torch.’

  Light beam gaining. Race it, heart pounding, brain emptying, legs complaining, hands reaching, sweat breaking again. Cagoule hot, rip it off, knot sleeves round waist, up and up, head over heels, feet over light, mind over fucking mountain, up, up, up.

  ‘Slow down! It’s dangerous ahead.’

  Steps gone, hands groping in void, shuffling forward.

  ‘Stop! Wait for me!’

  Skyful of lightning, illuminating sheer drop to valley and black mass of sentinel rock. CRASH! BOOM! Push on through air pulsating with thunder.

  ‘For Pete’s sake, Peter, stop!’ Relief of Gavin’s hand on arm. ‘Take this bit slowly. One slip and you’re a goner.’

  Blind on high wire, edging forward, feet in oval pool of light, mind dizzy with fear of tumbling arse over tip.

  ‘That’s it. We’ve made it. Here’s the rock. Find it with your hands. The path is to the right of it.’

  Palms flat on granite, feet following, up and round, up and round, into smell, sound, taste of rushing water.

  FIZZ!! CRACK!! Sky tearing, light pouring in. Strobe-lit view of croft and river. Fiona, Henry, dog, halfway there, turning, startled.

  Gavin yelling. ‘Stop, you two! Wait for us!’

  WHAM!!! Heavens split again, welded to sentinel rock.

  BANG!!! Brain seared, hands clutching at ears, mouth opening to scream. ‘Calum! No!!’

  Vision of old man up to his kilt in tugging water, eyes black and blank.

  Screaming his name through the darkness. Screaming like Teresa. ‘Calum! Calum!’ Screaming to the others. ‘He’s here! Not there!’

  No poetry left. Screaming the clichés. ‘Calum, don’t do it! Don’t jump!’

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Peter

  Eyeless in Gaza. Dumb as well. Screams going nowhere, Gavin waving flashlight aimlessly. Seize it. Henry did Morse in the scouts. Flash it at Henry. Short short short. Long. Long. Long. Short short short.

  Too late? Swing beam out across river. No! God no! Nothing but water, water – No! vomit rising in throat. But yes, choke it back down, there he was. Calum, shaking head, dismissing world with hand, but still alive thank God, knees braced against the current, holding to a rock. Beside the rock nothing, a steady, sucking, black abyss.

  Plunge into river, bellowing through din, ‘CALUM! COME BACK!’

  Throttled by sweater-neck, arms pinioned, wrestled to shore by Gavin. ‘Don’t even think about it, idiot. The current’s lethal. If he’s going, he’s gone – there’s nothing we can do.’

  Jeans like freezing clingwrap in the wind. Impact of wet dog, barking, thrashing tail.

  ZIP!!! SMASH!!! Firmament splitting again. Fiona arriving, face in torment, holding Henry’s hand. ‘What’s wrong, Peter?’

  ‘Look! There! Calum! You have to stop him!’

  Pointing with head, arms still in Gavin’s grip, flashlight on ground, but more lightning to see Calum by. ‘Let go of me, you bastard!’

  Thunder rolling down hanging valley like a giant bowling ball.

  ‘Not until you promise to stay put. Most likely, he’s just winding us up.’

  ‘Fuck you, you Gavin creature, are you terminally thick! He’s lost everything! His poetry! She said it didn’t count!’

  ‘Father!’ Fiona shrieking through tumult. ‘Father, come back!’

  ‘It does count! It has to count!’ Struggling to escape armlock. ‘Let go of me!’

  ‘Father! Come back! WE LOVE YOU!’

  ‘Of course!’ Henry scooping up flashlight, then dropping it again. ‘Of course, it’s so obvious!’ Henry yelling as though in exclusive possession of the truth. Henry unzipping and dropping his trousers.

  Henry

  He had suddenly understood two things.

  The first was why Scotsmen wore kilts. He thrust his socks into a
trouser pocket and dumped the lot into Fiona’s startled hands. He pushed his feet back into his shoes, snatched up the flashlight again and began to edge out into the icy current. Jesus, it burned!

  Hannah was barking, Gavin was shouting and swearing, but he ignored them. He swung the flashlight to his own face. ‘W – ai – t.’ He gave the word a big, silent mouth, hoping the old man could see, could lip-read. ‘Wait. Please. I’ve something to say.’

  For he must tell Urquhart the second thing he had so suddenly understood. He didn’t yet have words for it, but he knew words would come and would show the old man he need not jump. He shone the light across the rushing stream, low so as not to dazzle him.

  The current was deadly, ice-cold and strong, and deeper with each step. He struggled to stay upright on the shifting, slippery stones. His shinbones were throbbing in a way that dragged at his stomach, and he couldn’t feel his knees. He ploughed upstream, away from the sucking mouth of the falls, steering a curving path towards Urquhart.

  He found a rock that cleared the surface, and clung to it. He mustn’t die. He refused to die.

  ‘Stop!’ The old man was yelling at him across the last few feet of water. ‘Stop there, or I’m away.’

  ‘All right. I’ve stopped.’ He hurled his voice into the uproar of the falls. ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘Aye. What have ye to say?’

  ‘Just this, sir.’ It seemed like nonsense. There was no power in it. But there was nothing else to say. He bellowed across the racing water. ‘No one can live without romance, sir.’

  Was it so banal? He didn’t think so. He gathered courage. ‘If they can . . .’ He was gasping, pulling in gulps of freezing rain. He shouldn’t have drunk all that brandy. ‘. . . they must be very dull . . . they might just as well . . . jump off mountains.’

  The water rushed between them. He dared to touch the old man’s face with torchlight. There was no smile or frown.

  ‘The thing is, sir,’ his lungs were seizing up; he pushed the words out, ‘to find the right amount . . . of romance . . . illusion . . . of hope, damn it . . .’

  It was useless. Urquhart was turning his head away, towards the sucking edge. Henry found his second wind, enough to shout hoarsely, ‘No, sir. Come back, sir, please. We need your romance. Peter needs it. Fiona needs it. Fiona loves you.’

  He collapsed onto his rock, exhausted by the effort, fearful of the numbness creeping up his body. With shaking hands he managed to aim the flashlight again. The old man’s mouth was moving.

  ‘What, sir?’ Henry forced more words past his rigid jaw. ‘Please, what did you say?’

  Urquhart let go of his rock and raised his face to heaven. ‘I said I’m finished with it. There’s nothing left to do.’ He swayed in the current, his arms outstretched.

  Henry had no more strength to speak or arguments to offer.

  But yes! He did!

  ‘Elena!’ A strangled shriek, powered by fury, half-lifted him from the water. ‘Listen to me, you selfish old bugger! You cannot do this to Elena! Is that what you want, you miserable, self-pitying bastard, to give her new reason to hate herself?’

  Urquhart stood swaying on the edge of nowhere. It was all said. It was all done. Henry was spent and shuddering.

  BANG!!! Lightning and thunder exploded simultaneously. The flashlight was gone, out of his hands. He lurched after it as it swept away, still shining through the water. For a moment it paused, held by a stone against the drag. Then it was lost.

  The darkness was terrible. The racket of the falls was all around, and the heavy pull of the current. He groaned in panic, pushing against the flow, desperate not to lose his footing, until, with a gasp of relief, he collided with his anchor rock.

  He felt it shift on the riverbed, threatening to capsize. He was sobbing with cold and terror, trying not to lean on the unsteady rock, staring about him into blackness and nothing.

  There was no sign of Urquhart.

  Elena

  The lights of the hotel dimmed, then were bright again. Elena yawned – sleep was what she most desired. She turned from the stairs towards the room of roses.

  In the corridor were Georgie and Mabel. The child held the old dog by the collar and was trying to mount her, like a peasant with a donkey. ‘Hello, Lena.’

  ‘Hola.’

  Mabel ceased pulling and lay flat with her head between her paws. She blinked with much sadness. Georgie hugged her tightly. Then he sat up and said with pride, ‘I should be in bed.’

  Elena yawned again, so that it was difficult to speak. ‘Yes. I also.’

  ‘But I’m not.’

  ‘No.’ She bent to pat the dog, who gazed at her with intensity.

  ‘I have a new uncle. His name is Uncle Peter. He will give me lots of presents.’

  She laughed. ‘It is possible. Perhaps.’ It was agreeable to laugh.

  ‘I have lots of uncles. And one aunt. And two daddies. And cousins. And two dogs.’

  ‘Caramba! You are fortunate.’

  ‘You can be my aunt, if you like. You can give me presents.’

  ‘Thank you. But tomorrow I leave here. I not return.’

  Georgie looked at her. He had the Urquhart eyes. ‘Why do you hate my grandpa?’

  The question startled her. How terrible! What had this child seen and heard today? How could he understand?

  I didnae ken that they would kill the bairns.

  ‘I not hate your grandfather.’ She stopped. As with Henry, it was important to speak truth. ‘Georgie, I hate him before. Before I come here. But now he explain . . .’

  What was her feeling for Urquhart? She struggled to know it. The child was waiting. The dog was watching. ‘Still I do not much like your grandfather,’ she decided.

  Georgie turned away from her. He hugged the dog again. She must say more. What was the English expression? ‘But I desire him no harm.’

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Henry

  He could scarcely breathe; his chest had clamped itself against the unbearable cold. His strength was vanishing. He must leave this rock, he told himself. He must find the way.

  With the first step, he nearly fell. His legs were dead. The current seemed to double its force. He blundered against it, unsteady on the loose stones.

  The water was deeper here! He froze in terror, unable to move or think. This was it. This was the end. He would slide under and be swept away.

  A leaf above a storm drain. The image came back. Safe in Palaeontology, he’d had the nerve to think he had problems.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised to whomever might be listening.

  And then he saw it. A tiny twinkling light, no brighter than a star. The toy torch! Fiona still had it! One numb foot at a time, he began to edge forward, powered by the craving to be somewhere warm. Hell would do.

  ‘Henry Jennings.’

  The voice came first, then the hand on his shoulder. They did not startle him, he was beyond surprise.

  Urquhart linked an arm through his. They pushed side by side in silence towards Fiona’s light.

  ‘Henry Jennings,’ Urquhart said again.

  ‘What?’ he managed.

  ‘Thy mother was right, Henry. Thou’rt a guid mun.’

  Peter

  Please God, please God, no.

  Brother and father lost. It mustn’t be.

  Chewing blood from finger, straining to see through the pitch dark, to hear through the murderous racket of the falls. Fiona weeping and pleading, waving her useless needle of light. Hannah whining, Gavin saying fuck all. And where in hell was the lightning when they needed it?

  Then it was over. Fi’s light found their faces. Henry and Calum, alive, arm in arm together, wading to shore.

  Gavin, ‘Thank heaven!’ Hannah beside herself with ecstasy. Fiona blubbing as though a baby had been born.

  No one lost. Nothing lost. Everything still possible.

  Stretch hands to help them. One for each. Father and brother. Calum and Henr
y. Neptune and good old Hippocampus.

  Neptune’s frozen hand in his, stepping from the tide. ‘Dinnae be making such a fuss, lass. Allow a mun to change his mind.’

  Henry’s cold paw. Squeeze it hard. Resist the urge to hug the bastard. Henry hissing through clamped teeth. ‘My trousers, quickly, please.’

  ‘Just how cold are you?’ Gavin taking charge. ‘Is it to be down the hill, or do you need to warm up in the croft?’

  ‘Down, please. Most definitely, down.’ Henry wild-eyed. Zipping up fly, pulling on socks.

  ‘Aye, doon it is. I’ve been colder far than this.’

  ‘I lost the flashlight.’

  ‘No problem, Henry. You come with Fiona and me. Father, you guide Peter. Hey, look!’ Pointing skywards. Storm clouds parting, exposing last night’s moon. ‘That’s better. OK, don’t rush it. The path is treacherous, right? So off we go.’

  Gavin leading Henry, bent and shaking, then Fiona with the dog. All visible by moonlight. He and Calum bringing up the rear. Rounding the sentinel rock. Negotiating cliff-edge path.

  He and Calum! Calum saved! His father! Burst of joy. Wanting to yell with it. ‘You didn’t jump!’

  ‘Nae, lad. There’s more to do, I see. Some other day perhaps.’

  ‘She’s wrong, you know. What she said is wrong. Your life, your poetry, it’s not romance. It’s worth much more.’

  ‘Maybe thou’rt right. In any case, there’s more to do. Thy brother made me see it.’

  ‘More poetry?’

  ‘Nae, lad. More life.’

  Elena

  It was too soon to sleep. She would sleep later. First, she must know they were safe. She stood at the window of the room of roses and saw them emerge from the darkness. They looked tired but content, cold yet easy with each other. Except Henry, her dear friend Henry, limping and stumbling as though alone. Tears sprang in her eyes for him; he had offered his heart to her with such humility.

  The faces of the others were lifted towards the hotel. Fiona, Peter, and Urquhart himself, striding towards her with his kilt swinging. A man who had looked despair in the face many times and survived it. A man who could be defeated, yet rise again.

  They did not see her in the dark window; their eyes were on the bright salon below. She had no part in their world; this she had told herself, defeated and in despair, preparing to run from this place, as she ran from every place. From her village, from Spain, from Mikhail, and now again, from Scotland and from Brussels. Always she believed she ran to find a better place, but always – now she understood the truth – she ran from herself.