The Treacle Well

by Moira Forsyth

  It was always like this. Marriage was full of unspoken irritations and all you could do was make sure they mostly stayed unspoken. She had decided that, over and over, and yet the resentment rose, unquelled by rational thought. We stayed the course, anyway, she thought, despite – well, despite everything. Her mind, now, sheered away from the bad times, when Kirsty was such a difficult teenager and Jack had hardly been at home, his job consuming everything, his closest friends at work, not home. Then every summer, when Braeside was full and she hadn’t a minute to herself, he went off hill walking, all through his summer holiday. He made her angry and no wonder. Sometimes she wondered if she had been right to see it through.

  For now, though, they stood as if on the pinnacle of the world, the bare and beautiful landscape unpeopled, entirely their own.

  They drove back by way of Ullapool.

  ‘We should call on Caroline,’ Esther said as they packed up the car.

  Jack threw in their boots on top of the box of unused kitchen supplies. ‘Who?’

  Esther retrieved the boots and found a plastic carrier bag for them. ‘Honestly, Jack, these are still muddy – ’

  ‘Och, you do it, you pack the bloody car. You just undo everything I’ve done anyway.’

  She sighed. ‘You’re so impatient these days.’

  He turned and looked at her and their eyes caught, held.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Fear leapt up, burning for a few painful seconds. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘We can just go straight home.’

  He went into the cottage to bring out the last of their belongings for her to stow away. Even with the back seats down, the car seemed very full, as if they were taking home more than they had brought.

  ‘Remind me – where’s this place of Caroline’s?’

  This was as near as she would get to an apology, so she accepted it as such. ‘Very near Ullapool, I think. Braes? I’ve never been there, but we can ask in the village.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Caroline lived up a steep hill behind Ullapool. They went slowly past several houses, checking names on gates and pillars, but hers was beyond them by a mile. It was a renovated croft house set back from the road, so they had to open its five bar gate and go slowly up the unmade drive, bumping over potholes, Jack cursing about the car’s suspension.

  To the left of the open front door, obscuring the living room window, sat a taxi, its engine humming, but empty, driverless. As Jack pulled into the space on the other side of the house, a man came to the door, carrying a suitcase. He opened the boot of the taxi and stowed it away.

  ‘Bad timing,’ Jack said. ‘Looks as if she’s going away.’

  ‘Maybe a visitor’s leaving,’ Esther said.

  Jack shook his head with a smile. ‘So she has visitors now?’

  By the time they got out of their own car, the taxi driver was in his seat and Caroline had appeared. She was formally dressed, like someone going to a meeting, Esther thought. Surely she had retired, years ago?

  ‘Hi,’ Esther said. ‘We’re on our way home – we’ve been in Lochinver, so I thought we’d just call in – but – ’

  Caroline shut her door firmly behind her. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I’m leaving – and I can’t wait. I’ve a train to catch.’ She bent to the open passenger window of the taxi. ‘Two minutes, Roddy, ok?’

  She came round the taxi and held Esther by the shoulders. Esther almost did not move her head in time for the kiss on either cheek. When did she start doing that? she thought.

  ‘It is lovely to see you – I’m sorry I can’t stay.’ She turned to Jack. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Hill walking again?’

  He grinned. ‘Hillocks. She won’t even let me near a Corbett.’ He and Caroline hugged briefly. ‘You look fit – are you ticking off the West Sutherland hills yourself?’

  She smiled. ‘I go out with some friends here. Now and again.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. We’d better let you get on.’

  ‘Help yourself if you want to make coffee or anything. It’s not locked.’

  ‘No,’ Esther said, ‘we’ll just head home.’

  Caroline opened the passenger door of the taxi. ‘Is everyone ok? Give them my love.’

  When the taxi had gone slowly down the drive and they heard it on the road, fainter and fainter, Jack turned their car and followed. When Esther got in after closing Caroline’s gate she said, ‘She does look well.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Nine years older than me, so – help, sixty-seven or -eight, I suppose.’

  ‘Pretty good for that.’

  ‘Where on earth can she be off to, all dressed up as if she’s going to a meeting?’

  ‘You should have asked her.’

  Esther did not answer. After a moment she scrabbled in her handbag for a tissue and blew her nose.

  ‘Esther?’ She could not speak. ‘What is it? Are you all right?’ He drew the car into a passing place and cutting the engine, swung round to look at her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘What’s this about? Caroline was fine, she was leaving for a train, what on earth are you crying for?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, still crying, searching for another tissue. Her father, she thought with a spurt of angry loss, would have shaken out his big white handkerchief and given it to her. Jack just sat there, accusing.

  He leaned over and pulled her close, patting her back, stroking her hair. Her face pressed against his woollen jersey, the tears soaking in. She breathed him in with a hiccup and a sigh.

  ‘It’s all right, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘It’s all right.’

  Though what was all right, neither of them could have said.

  Louise’s visit

  2012

  Esther had sometimes been surprised to see Jack next to her when she woke, surprised to find them still married, together and companionable. After all their difficulties, here he still was. Here was his familiar beaky profile, head flung back on the pillow, a tiny snore escaping, and his hand warm and present, clasping her thigh. We’re still married, he’s here. She had what she wanted then: she was a married woman with children.

  After she was widowed she woke with dismay, suffering all over again that hollow falling away of loss, but she was never surprised, as people are said to be, remembering that someone has died. It was as if she had always expected it. He was bound, one way or another, to vanish from their life. Though she knew it must be endured, she could not resign herself to being alone, probably for ever. Perhaps if the children had still been at home it would have seemed more normal and the pattern of everyday habits would have been re-established, to comfort her. Quite soon after the funeral the children had gone back to their grown-up separate lives, the lives of course she wanted them to have. Full of grief, yes, they suffered too, but they had more to take them forward, while she seemed only to have memories and habits that pulled her back.

  On a grey Monday morning in February, standing at the kitchen sink washing up one plate and one mug, she was thinking how terrible it must be when the person who has died was young. That must seem as if a cliff edge has broken off at your feet and tumbled into the sea, far below. This dramatic image had come to her because she had heard on the radio news at eight and nine and ten o’clock the report of the mysterious death of a teenage girl in the South of England, missing for days, her body discovered on a lonely beach. At the same moment, she was gripped by a new emotion – more thrilling than nostalgia or loss – which took her thoughts with a rush of blood to Daniel. Recently, it seemed she had almost caught sight of him, his shadowed figure, the turn of his head, as if he stood in the room beside her. This had happened several times since Jack’s death and she was sure it had some meaning.

  What had it been like for Caroline? Daniel had no wife or lover, but he had Caroline and she had him. Then she had not.

  They had been close in a way that was beyond Esther’s
experience of being with Louise or Margaret, or the ordinary togetherness of her own children. Fifty years later she could remember the fusion of understanding between them that excluded everyone else. She had been almost jealous of it. It was what she thought, on the verge of her wedding, marriage would bring: a bond no one else could breach.

  For a while, perhaps. Then again, after Kirsty went to Edinburgh as a student. Oh dear, she mustn’t worry. Kirsty would be all right, of course she would.

  Outside, rain had evaporated to dampness and a mist had crept in, making it impossible to see as far as the old steading, now a garage and storerooms. The mist condensed on the tiny clustered leaves of the cotoneaster that touched the edge of the kitchen window and dripped down the glass. On an afternoon like this, out of season and with no possibility of gardening, she was thrown on her own too slender resources.

  She could sort the photographs; she could make a start. There was going to come a time – soon probably – when there would be everything in her mother’s house to deal with. So far, this was too grim to contemplate, but she could tackle the photographs.

  They were in a box in the long space under the eaves at the west gable end of the house, on the top floor. She knew exactly where to find it, having stored it there carefully after she had taken it from her mother’s house, with a promise to put them in albums.

  It was dusty from lying a long time in the box room at Harrowden Place, and now here. She blew off the remaining dust, triggering a sneeze, then took it up in her arms with some difficulty, the cardboard splitting at the corner, an awkward weight. On the landing she rested it on the banister for a moment, shifting the balance, conscious of silence and the large empty house around her. It seemed to be waiting to be filled again, perhaps by all the people about to be released from the box she carried down to the kitchen, the box that was full of the past.

  She would get them all in order and docket them for the new albums she had bought. Her idea was that she could then go through them with Janet. It was difficult to know what to talk about these days, the conversation so often caught in a surreal loop, the same thing repeated over and over. Perhaps her mother would remember better with photographs to talk about. It was warmer here in the kitchen, the gentle heat of the Rayburn keeping from it the chill that lay over the rest of the house on this bleak winter day. She began to spread out the yellow Kodak envelopes on the kitchen table. She would sort the loose photographs later, since it was easier to date the packs, related as they were to some occasion or holiday, or at any rate defined periods in their family life. There was one last envelope, a large brown one, tucked down the side of the box.

  She slid the single photograph out and saw Daniel for the first time for many years. This was not the Daniel of the portraits on the sideboard in Harrowden Place. Here he was in his twenties she guessed, still a medical student. Behind him, half concealed, stepping out from the shadows of an unknown doorway, was Caroline.

  He was such a beautiful young man, slender and dark, with that half fringe falling almost over one eye, the humorous twist of his mouth and the easy grace of the way he stood. She held it up to the weak February light, not sure now he was as young as all that. In a flash, she saw something different. This was not Aberdeen, it was not when he and Caroline were students. She looked again. This was after he came back. This was the time they knew nothing about, that Caroline said lasted only a few days, when he had first contacted her and she said to everyone, after he died, we were about to tell you all, I had just seen him again. And yet, here they were in front of a strange doorway coming out as if they belonged there. There was something familiar about it. She saw enough of the sandstone frontage to recognise a building like the one Ross had stayed in when he was a student. It was Glasgow. It was a tenement building in Glasgow.

  How long had he been living there before Caroline told them he was back? How long had Caroline known? Even more mysterious, how had the photograph come to be in this box?

  Esther traced her finger lightly across the face, the shoulders, of the long dead boy, and he went on gazing at her, sharing the truth, relieved she knew at last, yet conspiratorial.

  The telephone rang, making her jump. She rushed into the hall since it cut to the answer machine too quickly. Her foot caught on the matting in the passage. Righting herself she snatched up the receiver with a gasp – ’Hello?’

  ‘Esther?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me – Lou?’

  On a breath, two syllables, you know each other’s voices, know even how the other is, the mood, whether something has happened. Louise sounded fine, breezy as usual.

  ‘Yeah – are you ok?’

  ‘Fine, tripped on the rug – where are you?’ Since Louise might be anywhere. This time there was an echo and much noise in the background.

  ‘Here. Back. I mean Scotland, I’m at Waverley.’

  ‘What – I can’t hear you very well – Waverley?’

  ‘I’m getting on a train – can you meet me?’

  ‘Inverness?’

  ‘Of course Inverness – I think it’s – ’ more hissing, Louise saying something Esther guessed to be ‘I’ll text you’ and the line went dead.

  Esther straightened the rug and went back to the kitchen. She swept up the Kodak packets and thrust them into the box. The past had lost its appeal, Louise bringing a blast of the contemporary world, its language and ideas. You had to wake up to cope with that. She dreaded being seen as a pathetic widow, however kindly, and however loved. She would get rid of these for now, put them in a cupboard for the next low day (which was bound to come, about a week after Louise’s departure). She had done that, washed her hands and made coffee, before she realised the faded picture of Daniel and Caroline had fallen onto the seat of a rush-bottomed chair and was still here in the kitchen.

  She propped it up on the dresser, lodged between an Indian Tree plate and a pewter mug, both legacies from her grandparents’ life. Seeing it again, she decided she couldn’t really be sure. It might be anywhere. It told you nothing, this brief moment in a dark doorway, the amused look on his face, Caroline stepping out as if to protect him, or perhaps to keep him from saying the one thing he had really better not say.

  Louise brought with her a sharper air, like a clean breeze through leaves that have hung in damp mist for too long. The real mist had cleared and they could see the River Dee, gleaming in fitful sunshine, as they drove out past Drumoak towards Braeside. Louise was dressed casually in jeans and a fleece, but her silver earrings were pretty, her hair cut sleeker and shorter than usual, the grey more noticeable among the black. She had a carpet bag (when had anyone last seen one of those, Esther wondered?) and a large suitcase on wheels.

  ‘How long are you planning to stay?’ Esther had asked as she heaved them into the boot (she was stronger than Louise, gardening requiring better muscle than writing). ‘Are you moving in on me?’

  ‘I’m having a rest,’ Louise said. ‘We do have to talk about Mum, don’t we, but can I stay for a bit longer? I won’t overdo it, you won’t get sick of me. Or no sicker than usual.’ She grinned.

  What Esther felt now was relief. Someone else. She wouldn’t be alone any longer. Louise would be no help in any practical sense. She would leave used coffee cups all over the house, feel the cold and need the stove on all day and heating in her bedroom, and hang about getting in Esther’s way while she cooked, washed up, fed the hens, worked in the house. She would repaint her nails in an appalling stink of acetone, complain about her figure, drink wine and be indiscreet about famous people. At the thought of all this disruption, Esther’s spirits rose mile after mile of the road. She would be company.

  By the time she left, Esther would have had more than enough and be longing for peace and the house to herself. Or, this time, maybe not. In the meantime, there would be someone else to make the days more real and give her purpose, someone who would make her laugh and not feel guilty for laughing.

  Louise strewed her room with unpacked clo
thes then went to run a bath. She sang out of tune, filled the bathroom with steam and used all the hot water. Esther did not care.

  By seven o’clock they were in the kitchen. Soothed by the familiar tasks of preparing and cooking food, Esther made their meal while Louise drank a large glass from one of the bottles of wine bought when they had stopped at Sainsbury in the city to stock up.

  ‘You’ll be so proud of me,’ she said. ‘I still drink buckets, but I’ve stopped smoking.’

  ‘Well, thank God for that. About time.’

  ‘Not that you ever let me smoke here anyway – even though I’ve got a stake in the place too . . .’

  ‘You? You’re a wandering minstrel. You don’t have a house. Only your current flat. Not one you really care about.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Louise mocked. ‘I might have a wee cottage tucked away, or an apartment in Paris.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘No. But . . . some other people have had them. Quite nice places. Quite nice people too.’

  ‘Not home though.’

  ‘No. This is home.’

  Esther did not believe her: Louise would have sickened – again – of home in a week or so. She never stayed long.

  ‘Have more wine,’ Louise said, topping up Esther’s glass from which she had taken two or three quick gulps, enough to put the careful cooking of the risotto at risk. She took a small sip and went on stirring, seasoning.

  ‘Tell me then.’ Louise leaned back in the basket chair that was usually occupied by the cat. Her jeans would be covered in ginger and white hairs. Warmed by alcohol, Esther did not mention this. ‘How is everybody? My favourite niece?’

  ‘You mustn’t say that.’

  ‘Why not? She is. My wee sparkler – just wait – she’s the one who’ll be famous.’

  ‘As if I care about that! She’ll be fine if she gets rid of – oh well, never mind.’ Too much wine – somehow the glass was almost empty. Shut up, Esther.

  Louise was shrewder, always, than you remembered. ‘She’ll come to her senses, don’t you fret about her.’ She poured more wine into her own glass. ‘And the boys? And Laura? They’re all so grown up now.’