The Anvil

by Ken McClure

  On the bank, the woman was left feeling more alone that she had ever thought possible. Both her daughter and the stranger had disappeared. It was as if they had never been there. Even the wind had dropped away to nothing. Broken ice and black water was all that there was to see. Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone…

  MacLean’s body erupted from the opening in the ice. In his hands he clutched the body of the little girl in the red raincoat. He couldn’t speak; the agonising cold had all but paralysed him. He waded and stumbled his way to the bank and handed over the bundle before collapsing on to the frosty grass. He could feel the water on him turning to ice.

  The woman was in a state of panic. She had the lifeless body of her child on the ground in front of her and was trying to coax the water out of her lungs.

  ‘No!’ croaked MacLean. ‘She needs air… Breathe into her…Water later… ‘

  The woman’s eyes sought reassurance from MacLean.

  ‘Do it!’ he ordered. He tried to reach the child himself but exhaustion and the numbing cold had robbed him of all energy. The woman started to give the child mouth to mouth resuscitation.

  ‘Yes,’ said MacLean in a voice that was barely a whisper. ‘Keep on. Don’t stop.’

  Icicles were forming on MacLean’s face, stabbing at his eyes and ears. He tried to clear his vision with the back of his hand but only succeeded in adding grit to the problem. He cursed and tried again before crawling towards the pair. At that moment the child spluttered and coughed. Her mother cried out in elation, ‘She’s alive! She’s alive!’

  ‘Now the water!’ croaked MacLean.

  ‘The water?’ repeated the woman.

  ‘Get the water out of her lungs now,’ insisted MacLean, angry at having to repeat himself when every syllable caused him such pain.

  The woman rolled the little girl on to her front and put her head to the side, She started to pump the water out of her lungs. There was a lot more spluttering and coughing but it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

  The girl was now sitting up. The woman turned her attention to MacLean and said, ‘Are you all right?’

  MacLean nodded.

  ‘We just live up there. Can you make it?’

  MacLean nodded again.

  The trio made their way up along a mud path to a pretty white bungalow, partly hidden by pine trees and rhododendron bushes. The woman opened the door and carried the child inside. MacLean followed but as soon as the warm air hit him he felt consciousness slip away and slumped to the floor.

  When he came round he found he was in bed. Turning over slowly, he looked about him to discover that he was in a small bedroom with pink flowery wallpaper. How long had it been since he’d been in a bedroom with pink, flowery wallpaper? he wondered. A different world. Hotels and motels and rented apartments always went for neutrality, like banks and building societies. The linen sheets were clean and crisp on his bare shoulder and when he looked under the covers, he saw that he was naked. He stretched out his legs and recoiled slightly as his foot came into contact with something warm. He tried again and found that it was a hot-water bottle. A smile found its way to his lips despite his cheek muscles trying to prevent it. ‘Ye gods,’ he thought. ‘I’m in Gingerbread cottage in the heart of the woods.’

  Flickering shadows appeared on the wall and drew his attention to the window. It had started to snow outside and large flakes were drifting silently past. For the first time he realised that his hands were bandaged. The thought of frostbite alarmed him into trying to move all of his fingers and toes in turn. They all worked. His feet were free of pain but there was quite a bit of discomfort from his hands. That would be from bruising caused by the ice.

  The woman must have dressed his hands, MacLean thought as he examined the white gauze bindings, conceding that she’d done a good job. He tried to attract attention by coughing. The door opened and the woman came in.

  ‘Hello, how are you?’ The voice was warm and friendly, a controlled, gentle voice now free of the earlier fear.

  ‘I’m fine,’ replied MacLean. ‘I must apologise for… ‘

  MacLean was interrupted by the most beautiful laugh he had ever heard. ‘You must nothing of the sort,’ she said and then more gently she added, ‘I owe you my daughter’s life.’

  MacLean did not know what to say. He looked away.

  The woman looked behind her and said, ‘You can come in now.’

  The little girl entered the room, staring resolutely at her feet and with her left thumb hovering near her mouth. She raised her eyes briefly to meet MacLean’s but then dropped them again.

  ‘Well, say it,’ whispered her mother.

  The child smiled shyly then said, ‘I was a very silly girl. I’m very sorry and thank you very much for getting me out the water.’ She turned to her mother and clung to her skirt.

  MacLean said, ‘I’m very glad you’re all right Carol.’

  ‘Carrie!’ corrected the girl. ‘It’s Carrie!’

  ‘Carol when I’m angry,’ smiled her mother, ‘I’m Tansy Nielsen by the way.’

  ‘MacLean. Sean MacLean.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you Mr MacLean,’ said Tansy. It sounded ridiculous and they both knew it and laughed.

  ‘How about a nice hot bath?’ asked Tansy. ‘Your clothes should be just about dry by the time you’ve finished.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said MacLean.

  Tansy went off to run the bath. When she returned she removed the temporary dressing from his hands and screwed up her face. She said, ‘They must be awfully sore.’

  MacLean looked at his raw, damaged knuckles. The bruising had not had time to develop fully but a purple tinge was already in evidence. ‘There’s nothing broken,’ he said. ‘They’ll be right as rain in a few days.’

  ‘Mr MacLean… ‘ Tansy began. She wanted to express her thanks for what he had done but words failed her and she ended up by simply saying, ‘Your bath’s ready.’

  The bathroom was ringed with Carrie’s toys. One of them, a bright yellow plastic duck, fell into the water and bobbed about in the suds. MacLean left it where it was and looked up at the window to see that it was still snowing. The grey light suggested that there was still a lot to come. Tansy had the radio on next door or maybe it was a record playing. He could hear the sounds of Fur Elise and he lay back and closed his eyes. When the music ended he would start thinking about returning to the outside world but for the moment his mind was about as active as his yellow plastic companion.

  The doorbell rang and startled MacLean out of his reverie. He cursed himself for having relaxed so completely. Who was at the door? Had the woman called the police? God! It must be the police! He sat bolt upright, his pulse racing as he looked about him. He remembered the gun! It must have been the gun that did it! The woman must have found it in his coat pocket when she undressed him! She had called the police!

  MacLean looked to the window as a possible means of escape then felt foolish as he remembered he had no clothes. They were being dried. He was trapped. Any moment now the bathroom door would leave its hinges as uniformed bodies crashed through to arrest him. He could do nothing. He lay paralysed as he heard the front door open. A deep male voice was saying something but he could not make out the words. The door closed again and he heard Tansy call out, ‘Carrie! Dr Miller’s here to see you.’

  Was it a ruse? he wondered. This was the way he’d learned to think over the past two years. He could not accept that it was really the family doctor calling until he had heard Carrie speak. There hadn’t been time to prime the child for a role in any play. The water had grown cold but MacLean lay back again and let out his breath slowly. He had been wrong but all the same, Tansy Nielsen knew about the gun.

  MacLean heard the doctor leave and shortly afterwards Tansy’s voice outside the door said, ‘I’m leaving your clothes outside the door Mr MacLean. All right?’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied MacLean as matter of factly as he could. He got out of the b
ath and dried himself quickly before opening the door slightly and snatching his clothes in to search anxiously through the pockets. As he feared, the gun wasn’t there. He supposed there was an outside chance that it could have fallen into the canal when he was under the ice but it was much more likely that Tansy had found and removed it.

  Tansy smiled as MacLean entered the room. ‘Feel better?’ she asked.

  ‘Much.’

  ‘Our doctor was here to see Carrie. You probably heard him?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed MacLean.

  ‘I considered asking him to have a look at you while he was here but then I changed my mind.’

  MacLean read in Tansy’s eyes that she had indeed found the gun. ‘No, I’m fine,’ he said.

  ‘Will you join us for supper, Mr MacLean?’ asked Tansy.

  MacLean shook his head and said, ‘I think I’d better be going.’

  ‘Where?’

  The directness of the question took MacLean aback. ‘Nowhere,’ he confessed.

  Carrie defused the embarrassment. She said, ‘Please stay. You can mend my train.’

  MacLean looked at her and smiled. ‘I could certainly take a look at it.’ Looking at Tansy he added, ‘Thank you, I’d be happy to stay for supper.’

  Tansy went off to the kitchen and Carrie disappeared to fetch her broken train. MacLean felt uneasy; the situation was unreal. The bungalow was warm and cosy and he was surrounded by signs of domesticity and a kind of life he had almost entirely forgotten. He was annoyed at fate for reminding him at a time like this. He looked to the window and the fading light. Outside was where he belonged, in the cold grey reality of a world which was dependably hostile, not here in Tansy and Carrie’s world in a house that was clearly a home. It had a life of its own. It almost seemed to breathe.

  MacLean had almost decided to get up to leave quietly when Carrie returned carrying her train.

  ‘The wheel,’ she said by way of explanation. She held a wooden locomotive in one hand and one of its wheels in the other.

  ‘I think I see the problem,’ said MacLean. He took the train from her and sat down again. The pin securing the wheel to the hub had been lost. He looked about him and saw a little dish by the hearth, which contained odds and ends. Among the predominant drawing pins he saw a few paper clips and selected one to thread it through the hole in the axle. He broke off the excess by bending the wire backwards and forwards until metal fatigue did it for him. The wheel was now safely retained.

  ‘There,’ he said to Carrie. ‘Good as new.’

  Carrie tried out the train on the rug and seemed well pleased with the result. She grinned and said, ‘Thank-you so much.’

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ said MacLean.

  Carrie stopped playing with the train and said, ‘I like you… you didn’t say girls don’t play with trains.’

  Now that Carrie had overcome her shyness, she chirped and chattered her way through the meal. MacLean was grateful because it relieved him of having to make any social contribution other than the occasional exchange of smiles with her mother. He constantly reminded himself that he was an interloper. He had made his decision; he must not let himself be distracted. The sirens of warmth and happiness were there but he would tie himself to the mast. This was all a momentary aberration. It would soon be over.

  Despite his resolve MacLean could not help but notice the strong physical resemblance between Carrie and her mother. They had the same auburn hair, the same wide, generous mouth that could change to smiling so easily and the same dark eyes. Where was Carrie’s father? he wondered. He was annoyed at himself for even thinking about it. It was none of his business and it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

  Carrie went up to bed and Tansy accompanied her with an armful of toys, which she had collected from the floor. MacLean sat alone by the fire, looking at the flames and hearing Tansy and Carrie exchange muted bedtime banter. A final giggle from Carrie and a last exhortation from her mother that she get to sleep quickly and Tansy returned. Without asking, she filled two glasses with brandy and brought them over, handing one to MacLean as she sat down to face him. MacLean started to feel uneasy again. Until now, Tansy had been Carrie’s mother but now she was a beautiful woman who was clearly appraising him. He felt her gaze probe his defences and prepared to defend himself with banality.

  ‘Well, Mr MacLean,’ said Tansy softly. ‘When and how are you planning to do it?’

  ‘Do what?’ said MacLean but the question had cut him deeply. Tansy knew it.

  ‘Kill yourself,’ she said without taking her eyes off him.

  MacLean took a breath to protest but capitulated immediately. ‘Soon,’ he said quietly. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Your eyes,’ said Tansy. ‘I read it in your eyes on the canal bank. I’ve seen that look before. Keith, my husband, Carrie’s father, took his own life.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said MacLean.

  Tansy smiled wistfully and said, ‘So am I. He was a lovely man but things just got a bit too much for him. Our son died of leukaemia when he was seven. He was the apple of his father’s eye; he was everything that Keith ever wanted; the pair of them were inseparable. All Keith’s dreams for the future were tied up in Paul and then quite suddenly he wasn’t there any more. Keith was never the same again. I got over it but he didn’t. Then when the business started to fail, Keith started to drift further and further away from me. It was as if he was in a small boat drifting out to sea. I stood on the shore and watched him. He was out of reach before I even realised that… ‘

  ‘He was drowning not waving.’

  Tansy nodded and said, ‘Just before he died his eyes had the look that yours did today. Officially he was overcome by exhaust fumes in the garage while he was working on the car but I know different. That morning he came into the kitchen just after breakfast… He kissed me on the cheek and looked at me with such sadness in his eyes that I remember holding my breath and being totally at a loss to understand. I said something silly about getting something different for lunch at the shops and he said that would be nice. When I got back he was lying dead in the garage. He faked it to look like an accident so that there would be no problem over the insurance.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said MacLean. It seemed inadequate.

  Tansy looked at the fire and said, ‘I’ve relived that moment when he kissed me a million times. I should have understood. I should have realised what he intended to do. All the signs had been there for months and yet I failed to see what was going to happen.’

  ‘You can’t blame yourself,’ said MacLean. ‘If his mind was made up he would have done it anyway. Maybe not on that day but on some other.’

  Tansy looked directly at MacLean in a way that made him feel uncomfortable. ‘But you, Mr MacLean are still alive,’ she said. ‘And I am a stranger. Perhaps if you were to talk about it… ‘

  MacLean shook his head and said, ‘No. No more talking, no more running, no more hiding, no more anything. I must be going.’ He got up from the chair.

  ‘Sit down Mr MacLean,’ said Tansy. She said it quietly but something in her voice made MacLean feel compelled to comply. He sank slowly back into the chair.

  ‘How long have you been running?’

  ‘Three years,’ he said. He felt himself start to lose the battle to remain detached. The warmth of the fire and exhaustion from his earlier tussle with the ice were conspiring to give the woman the upper hand.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she said.

  THREE

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said MacLean. He leaned his head on the back of the chair and closed his eyes for a moment.

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ said Tansy softly, ‘Begin at the beginning.’

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ said MacLean.

  Tansy looked at him questioningly. She said, ‘You carry a gun, you smash your way through ice with your bare hands and you’re a doctor?’

  MacLean smiled sadly at her reaction. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he conceded. ‘I use
d to be a doctor. So much can happen in three years.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Tansy.

  ‘I was born and brought up here in Edinburgh,’ said MacLean. ‘I played on the canal banks out there. I fished in the water for tadpoles; I skated on it when it froze over in winter and I fell into it from rope swings in the summer. I went to the local schools with the rest of the kids from round here and then, when I was nineteen, I spread my wings and went south to study medicine in London.’

  ‘I was a good student, a lad o’ pairts, as they say up here and it was what I wanted to do. Don’t get me wrong, I had as much fun as the next student but I never lost sight of the main goal and that was to become a doctor. Six years later I achieved my ambition.’

  ‘Then what?’ asked Tansy.

  ‘After my pre-registration year I was determined to become a surgeon so I set off on that road. In time I decided to specialise in plastic surgery.’

  ‘Nose jobs and face-lifts?’ said Tansy with ill-disguised disdain.

  ‘No,’ replied MacLean evenly. ‘In my last year at medical school my closest friend was burned when some idiot threw paraffin on a barbecue fire. He was badly disfigured and had to give up any idea of being a doctor because of the damage to his hands. I’ve never forgotten how he looked when I went to see him for the first time after the accident. I wasn’t prepared and it must have shown on my face. His eyes told me that he’d seen the revulsion; I can still feel the guilt to this day when I talk about it. Anyway, that was what decided me that I should go into plastic surgery. I thought, if I could make a difference in improving the lot of such patients then it would be a life well spent.’

  ‘And did it work out that way?’ asked Tansy.

  ‘It was frustrating,’ said MacLean. ‘Everyone knows about the dramatic results in cosmetic surgery but repairing accident damage is a completely different story. Patients can go through dozens of operations over many years and still end up looking not much better than they did in the beginning. I wanted to do better for them.’