She was embarrassed. ‘It’s nothing. Only the music. How stupid of me.’
But no. There was something he was being stupid about. Half-remembered words nagged in his head. Something she said yesterday.
I was in a state myself. Needing to talk.
Something Urquhart said too.
Thou’st had misfortune enough.
Yes, and at breakfast, Owen’s words. An unfortunate affair of the heart?
He had paid no attention. He’d been too busy mourning his ghosts. Dear God, had he learned nothing? Record number three was playing, some bit of Elgar. He took hold of Fiona’s hand. Hannah was pushing between them, but he took no notice.
Fiona’s eyes were large, and grey, and serious. Her face was completely still. His head was full of words he might speak.
Say no, I can take it. But I have to ask. You are lovely, Fiona. How could I have missed it? I haven’t been paying attention. And if, amazingly, it’s true . . . true that you’re not . . . that there isn’t someone. Then, what would you say? What I mean is . . .
He looked at her mouth. It was quite, quite still. Yes, he had learned this much. He knew for a fact that words were not wanted, that the only right and possible course of action was simply to kiss this mouth.
As he gathered his courage, it moved. It broadened into a smile, an absolutely beautiful smile.
It was the smile he’d seen on Friday as he blundered into the library out of the blizzard.
It wasn’t Marjorie Macpherson’s smile, or his mother’s, or Elena’s.
It was Fiona’s own smile, and it couldn’t be bettered.
He bent his head and kissed Fiona’s smile.
Chapter Forty-two
Elena
The plane rose, and banked, and steadied, and began to head south. Elena surveyed great stretches of green and grey hills, searching among them for Loch Craggan, or the way to Loch Craggan, but recognising nothing.
Mikhail’s grip on her hand relaxed. She turned to find him deeply asleep. He was so full of relief, he had said – that they would be together, that she had agreed to come with him to Madrid.
‘What is the job?’ she had asked him.
‘It is only computers until I have Spanish. Que ya aprendo bien.’
It was true what he had said. I take this job for you.
She could scarcely comprehend how she was blessed. Already the clouds had swallowed the Scottish Highlands, where the miracle had happened. Glancing down at herself, she saw the black suit and black-stockinged knees. She wriggled her feet, eager to be in Brussels and then Spain, impatient to begin the future with Mikhail. She smiled as her toes found the sheepskin boots that Henry helped her to buy.
The steward was here with a trolley of drinks. She put a finger to her lips. ‘Let him sleep.’ She leant back, stretching, directing her smile to the luggage compartment above her head. Inside it, too big for her suitcase, was her new sheepskin coat for the winter cold of Madrid, and also, in a carrier-bag, a pink towelling bathrobe.
‘Janet, you are truly an angel,’ she had cried. ‘This carries all my good memory of what has happened here.’
All had gathered on the gravel to say their goodbyes. Beyond them the taxi waited and Mikhail held out his hand. She climbed into the taxi, repeating, ‘Thank you, thank you, everyone.’
It was then that Urquhart had reached through the taxi window. He did not speak or smile, just dropped a piece of folded paper into her lap. It was in her handbag, with the broken mobile phone. She must read it again.
Gently she moved Mikhail’s hand to his own knee. Such big, solid hands he had, keeping her warm and safe. She opened her bag, unfolded the paper and read once more.
To Elena Martínez
with shame and deep-felt gratitude.
You released me from romance.
A.U.
Peter
‘So?’
‘So?’
‘So what next?’
Elena was gone, big send-off on gravel. Henry and Fi, surprisingly chummy, had also vamoosed, rattling back to Inverness in her two CV. Bye, Fiona. Bye, Hannah.
Kim was leaving. Lingering at the open front door, letting the cold in, nonchalantly swinging her bag. ‘I mean, do you expect you’ll be staying up here a while?’
Vision of mouldering houseboat, weighed down by rent arrears, plus office bristling with unstuffed envelopes and suits demanding tea –
No contest. ‘Definitely. Why would I leave? Loch Craggan: home to the Urquharts. Doctor, chef, builder, mountain guide, rediscovered poet, undiscovered poet – ’
‘While me, you know, I’m kinda persona non grata, dumping Gavin an’ all.’ She was sighing and pulling a face.
Push hands into pockets and shrug. ‘Guess that’s right. Guess that’s so.’
She was pulling out car keys and turning away, her golden mane floating and shining. ‘Plus I gotta go to work tomorrow.’
Step between her and the door. ‘Oh yeah. Doing what?’
Her eyes deadly serious. ‘Trainee solicitor.’
‘You’re kidding. You don’t look the type.’
‘Do I not, you contemptible sexist!’
‘No offence. I suppose you wear different kit, different hair.’
She was frowning and taming the mane with her hands, tugging it from her face. ‘You should see me in my suit.’
Touch her, pull her towards him. ‘I should like to, a lot.’
‘Would you indeed?’ She was smiling again.
‘With black stockings? I can hardly wait.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes, that’s so.’
‘Pity you’ll be stuck out here then, isn’t it?’
‘So what can we do about that?
‘What do you suggest?’
‘How about your place?’
‘If you’re sure you can tear yourself away from the Urquharts.’
‘Course I can. Give me the address, I’ll be there.’
Woman fishing out business card, laughing and pleased. Card safe in condom pocket. Wave her goodbye. Lady Godiva in jeans and a silver VW.
But Calum – his father – came first. Turn, and there he was, waiting. Calum Calum, a wonder of white-hair and old bones in the empty stone archway. ‘There’s more thou’lt be wanting to know from me, lad.’
Too right. Follow him in, fair exploding with questions, of which first and most vital –
‘First thou’lt be wanting to know what I make of thy poetry.’
Oh God, face to face in aquarium, dwarfed by the mountain and by Calum’s whole life – the climax, the moment of truth. Watching his mouth move, and guessing the answer.
PETER’S POETRY NO FUCKING GOOD.
‘Tis nae bad. There’s much promise. There are moments of glory. I feel sure it will come.’
Take the words from his mouth. ‘But I haven’t lived long enough? Haven’t gone deep enough?’
Old man smiling, relieved. ‘Thou’rt young. It will come.’
Henry
‘Goodbye. Safe journey.’
They were at the barrier. The train was about to leave.
Fiona lifted her face, and he kissed her. Her lips were so friendly. She didn’t mean goodbye.
He kissed her again, hard like a romantic hero would. Then held her at arm’s length. ‘I’ll ring when I get there.’
She flashed her amazing smile. ‘Please do. It doesn’t matter how late it is.’
‘Are you coming, mister,’ said the guard.
He snatched one more kiss, patted Hannah, then ran for the train. He made it into the rear carriage, and the door immediately shut itself behind him. He wrestled unsuccessfully with the window. Slowly the train was pulling out, leaving Fiona, Inverness and all these crazy happenings behind.
The whole thing seemed suddenly absurd. Unreal. He made his way to a first-class compartment, sat down and tried to steady himself.
He was going home. Home to Guildford. Trevor’s leg, the pub, the garden. Home, where soon
Fiona would visit him. Home, from where soon he would visit Fiona.
His heart was dancing in his chest. He was grinning like a ventriloquist’s dummy. Did he never learn? His mother had broken his heart, then Ingrid, then Marjorie, and then, so nearly, if he’d allowed it to happen, Elena. The ghost of experience whispered urgently in his ear. ‘Watch out, it will be exactly the same. Romance will turn its cold hose on you.’
There were no ghosts. He would listen to no more ghosts. He concentrated hard on the farms flashing by.
He wanted so little. To meet a woman’s eyes in a smile. To smile at the thought of her. Such small human comforts.
The train was picking up speed. Highland wilderness rolled past the window, giving him no clue. His ghosts were dead. He had to find the answer by himself.
How dangerous it felt to believe in Fiona. He had vowed to stick fast to reality, and he was swimming in romance again. Solitude waited for him in Guildford, if he wanted it. Pottering to the pub, chatting with Trevor, watching the flowers grow – a good life that many might envy.
Plus he knew how to do it. It was safe.
Fiona.
Her smile. Her face uplifted for his kiss. Too wonderful, that was the problem. He couldn’t let himself believe it. He got up and paced the compartment.
What had he told the old man? That the trick was to have the right amount of romance? Yes, it was true. But how much was right?
Fiona.
She wasn’t a ghost, he felt sure of it. He hadn’t invented her. If she would have him, he knew he would love her for the rest of his life. Not a doubt.
But supposing she wouldn’t? His innards contracted with fear. Because that was the romance: to imagine Fiona would love him, when, in reality, tonight, or tomorrow, or next week, or in a year’s time, she might say, ‘I’m sorry, Henry. I made a mistake.’
Like Ingrid did.
But she might not.
Fiona.
Her smile could not be doubted. Nor her serious grey eyes.
Be brave, Henry told himself. Be romantic. Have a little faith in yourself.
What were her last words?
It doesn’t matter how late it is.
He grinned with joy.
Postscript
Hello. Yes. It’s me again. Michael.
Sorry.
I wish I could stop there. Pour a brandy, toast Henry’s grin, and type ‘The end’. I wish it were that simple.
I hoped to atone by recording my folly, but if anything I feel even worse.
His photograph is beside my keyboard. Foxgloves and mock-orange. His trusting smile. His candid eyes. I thought I was over him, but – oh dear.
We met face to face for only a few seconds, yet the memories haunt me. His bafflement in the reference room, his shock in the hotel back-parlour. Impossible to explain or to help him: the harm had been done. I’d posted the flier. I’d hosted the workshop. He’d opened the door.
I’d take it back if I could.
It did the trick, more fool me: no more letters, not one. And I haven’t dared write to him. What could I say? I hope he’s been able to forgive.
So, besides remorse, what’s left to tell? The ladies? I still have their names on a bar-snack menu from the Royal Highland Hotel. Margaret Fraser, Annie Duncan, Veronica Mackenzie, Alice Anderson –
They drew cards: the king and jack of hearts, the queen of spades. Two brothers, one older, one younger. A woman of mystery. But soon they were finding real people more interesting. The young man wearing black who barged past them as they arrived and dodged in later to consult a phone book. The Latin-looking woman that Annie spied as she came in and who was there as we left, hovering at the librarian’s elbow. Dear Henry, who appeared in the doorway so briefly. The old guy who reminisced about Malaga at their December meeting. And the stern little librarian – wonderful, they said she was, and sorrowful lately. And me, of course, me. They were so chuffed I’d picked them to come out to.
Meanwhile, my concern was all for Henry. My god, what had I done? What would he think of me? I needed to share the problem. I didn’t tell them I’d actually invited him. I just said, ‘Let’s suppose . . .’
And so it took hold of them. The library and the workshop, the blizzard, the lights failing, our booted trek to the Royal Highland Hotel, the charming young man in reception, the clink of glasses under the tulip chandeliers. It was fun to make themselves part of the picture, like the Escher design of two hands each drawing the other. I took comfort from hearing my predicament explored.
Next day, I pottered around town, taking a few snaps, making notes on locations. Then, come afternoon, I hired a car and went off in search of the hotel the librarian had mentioned. I’d said I fancied something a touch out-of-this-world, and she’d assured me her brothers’ hotel wouldn’t disappoint.
It didn’t – it was quite ludicrously gothic. And on the landing going down to dinner, I met my first ghost. The Latin-looking woman I’d glimpsed in the library, her clothes dishevelled, her eyes puffed from weeping. The hairs rose on my neck. I almost said it – Elena? – before running away.
The reassuring substance of the other guests awaited me below – the amiable dog, the pompous waiter, a fine range of malt whiskies and an excellent Scottish dinner. And later, the very excellent Scottish chef. But then – oh agony! – there was Henry. Walking in exactly as I’ve told you, shocking me out of my skin, drawing crazily polite words from me, then vanishing through the fireplace door.
How was he there? And why? Now I felt well and truly haunted, with a queasy sense – sensation is not too strong a word – of being awake in a dream. I signed off from the chef and left early the next morning, terrified of seeing Henry again. Bolted back to Inverness and the Royal Highland Hotel, pursued by the shame that has never since left me.
Early afternoon, I thought a Sunday paper might calm my nerves. There were none in the hotel lobby, so I headed out to the station to look for a newsagent.
It was then that I saw them.
They were at the barrier. He was carrying his Gladstone bag. She was wrapped in her tartan shawl and had the dog on a lead. The dog from the hotel.
I blinked and rubbed my eyes, but they were still there, solidly and absolutely themselves. Henry and the librarian. Solemnly kissing each other.
I wanted to run away. Or to shout – make them change into two, quite different people. But I couldn’t move a muscle. It was as though I didn’t exist, as though I were merely the ghost of an artist with a pencil in his hand, hovering above that Escher drawing.
Henry caught his train. The librarian waved, then turned and walked her dog towards me. I couldn’t bear to look any longer. I ducked my head, and fled, across the road, into the sun-splashed Victorian arcade, shaking and trying not to cry.
That’s it. Ye have it all.
The end.
Love, Revenge & Buttered Scones Page 24