“Eumovate,” said Stig. “My eczema’s going to be a riot unless I get some soon.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “It’s really nothing. It’s just embarrassing.”
I took the pad of paper full of his notes, pulled off the written on sheets and slowly ripped them into pieces, staring hard at him.
“No!” he said. “Don’t. Most of that was absolutely true.”
“I’ve copied the biographical details into a notebook of my own,” I told him. “Now you speak and I’ll write down the new version.”
“Like I said,” he began, “it’s embarrassing. We’d been cooking these sausages on the campfire and pretty much as soon as we settled down to sleep for the night my guts started acting up, so I went to the bog.”
“Back at the school?”
“We didn’t use the bogs in the school,” he said. “Well, we did—or the girls did—for peeing in. The boys peed on the compost. Miss Naismith rigged up—what were they called?—big woven fence things.”
“Willow screens?”
“Could be. She was nuts about all that stuff. Green materials and reclaimed materials, years before anyone else gave a stuff about it. The wood to mend the footbridge was so full of nails it took twice as long to get them out as the whole rest of the job put together.”
“Tell me!”
“Anyway, when it wasn’t a pee we went outside to these dry toilets, not as disgusting as they sound. There was a bucket of sawdust and a wee shovel and you”—he mimed sprinkling as if he was feeding a goldfish. “The girls hated them, even Cloud, Sun, and Rain, and it was their dad who’d come down to build them and show us how they worked. But twelve-year-old boys? Well, you know.”
I thought of Nicky when he was ten, his eyes huge and scared when the spasms started, his arms waving wildly, and how I cried when I had to hold out a rod for him to grip instead of his mummy’s hand. But the rictus was so severe by then that if he took hold and froze, I was stuck, knuckles grinding, trying to weep quietly. And then there was that one time he’d really got me in a hold and the ends of my fingers were turning purple and Rod, one of the nurses, found us and took hold of Nicky above the elbow and whacked his hand so hard against the bed frame that he let go. The sound of his cry will never leave my ears as long as I live.
“I know, darling, I know, I’m sorry. Oh you wee sweetheart,” Rod had said, cradling Nicky and shushing him, but then over the top of his head, he said to me very calmly, “You caused that, Gloria. You have got to start offering the grip until we get the relaxants recalculated for him.”
That was why I couldn’t stand to use a robot-voice in the car. The first time I heard it, I felt bile rise in my throat. Recalculating! said that disembodied stranger and I was back in all those case meetings, all those times they had tried to persuade me to go for it. Full sedation, Gloria. Even kindly Donna was against me towards the end.
“You poor dear soul, with the heart of a mother,” she’d said. “I know how precious these times are when it’s balanced and he’s given back to you. But he’s a growing boy and the seizures are getting worse, and that’s two different factors pulling two different ways. How long did it take us to get a balance last time, Gloria my love, and how long before we were recalculating again?”
“I’m not ready to lose him,” I’d said. “I was reading to him this afternoon and he was laughing.”
“Right,” said Mr. Wishart, the consultant. “Recalculating for Nicholas Morrison. But this might be the last time, so you must prepare yourself. Nicky’s distress weighs more with me than yours.”
“So you went to the toilet,” I said to Stig.
“Big time,” he said. “I was in there for hours. Thought I was going to die. I mean I’d had Delhi belly before—from buying juice off a pomegranate stand at the roadside in Saudi—and there was a pretty wild night after some steak tartare in Brussels about five years ago, but that night in the woods is the only time I’ve really believed I was dying. I just sat there, bare-arsed, crying for my mammy until I fell asleep.”
“And woke up covered in dewdrops,” I said.
“Like I said. Then I had to deal with what had happened.” I cocked my head at him. “God Gloria! Do I have to spell it out? Dry lavvies are meant for healthy hippies that live on lentils and kale, not for wee boys who eat cheap sausages half-raw. It was more than a bucket of sawdust could cope with.”
“Sorry.”
“I cleaned myself up and went back to where the rest of them were camping and lay down and tried not to go to sleep, in case I got caught short again. But I must have zoned out because I never noticed Van until he shook me.”
“So it doesn’t actually make any difference where you were?”
“It could have. If Miss Naismith had really come out to check on us, she’d have known that one of us was missing.”
“And she didn’t know?”
“The kids blew it. When there was all the argy bargy the next morning, Van shouted at her something like: ‘Oh yeah? Well, if you were there taking care of us so perfectly, how comes Stig spent the night sitting on the kludge with his arse in tatters?’”
“What happened to her?” I said. “After Eden.” Stig shrugged. “You didn’t overhear anything from your mum or dad while they were shutting down the school?”
He went very still. Only his chest moved. The grey plain of sweatshirt that was stretched over his front rose and fell gently for several minutes, then rose hugely as he took a deep breath to start talking again. “Yeah, that was stupid of me to keep that quiet,” he said. “It’s not as if you couldn’t have found out if you asked someone.”
“Why did you?”
“I dunno. I didn’t get it, I suppose. I never understood what that was about, starting a school. It wasn’t a business thing, like the station-yard development or the hotel. It never really made any sense. And then Moped dying at my dad’s school made it seem like I was responsible.”
“That makes no sense whatsoever,” I said. “You were twelve.”
“But, it was like I should have—I don’t know—taken the lead or stopped it or remembered a bloody torch. Or at least made sure the sausages were cooked so I was there when Moped left.”
“Is that when you vowed to become a chef ?” I said.
Stig turned to face me, and I was sure I saw tears in his eyes. “Go on and laugh,” he said. His voice was rough and angry, but I could hear the break in it too.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I didn’t mean to touch a nerve.”
“Hit the nail on the head, more like. The next morning we were all just milling about in the hall in the big house. You know where I mean? In that bit under the gallery that’s like a room?”
I did. It was one of my favourite places in the house, because it was the only place they still lit a fire. The health and safety regulations were tight and getting tighter all the time, and Mr. Lawson, one of the long-term residents, had terrible bronchitis as well as his Alzheimer’s so it wouldn’t have been fair to have wood smoke in the lounge or dining room. But since there was a front door and a back door out of there and it was open to the top landing, sometimes in the winter Mrs. McTurk, the housekeeping manager, would light a fire. And if it was Christmastime with a tree at the bend in the stairs, you could almost imagine what Milharay House was like in its pomp, full of servants and guests and music.
Even Miss Drumm would get misty-eyed then, smelling the spruce resin and wood smoke. Then she’d sniff harder and turn her blank, accusing eyes on the nearest nurse.
“Cherry!” she’d said. “Cherry wood. Did you buy that in or has another venerable old tree been left to die of neglect in the orchard? My great-grandmother planted those trees and generations of Drumms were taught their table manners with stones from those fruit.”
“The orchard is fine, Miss Drumm,
” said Donna. She winked at me, which I always wish people wouldn’t do. “The birds get as many as anyone these days, for there’s few wants to be climbing ladders for fruit now we’ve got Tesco.”
Miss Drumm sighed and slumped down in her wheelchair. “Lot of ninnies,” she said. “If the Germans decided to make it a hat trick, we’d be done for.”
“Miss Drumm, what has your cherry orchard got to do with a World War?” I asked. “With either of them!”
She sat up again. “Half of Corsock never tasted a bit of fresh fruit from ’39 to ’45 unless it came from our walled garden,” she said stoutly. “Cherries, pears, plums, apples. Peaches from the glasshouse. And we made War Jam. I don’t mean Victory Jam, Gloria. I mean War Jam. Left all the stones in, didn’t use any sugar, and sent it to Hitler.” She had tired herself out by this time and shook her head, laughing at herself. “I don’t suppose the cook actually sent it to Hitler, but it was the best use of diseased fruit I can think of—letting two little girls believe they were going to choke the man who was shooting at their daddy.”
Stig was staring at me.
“Have you ever been tested for narcolepsy, Glo?” he said. “Because you don’t half drift off a lot.”
“I wasn’t asleep,” I said. But his words had stung me. Too many people had said similar things. Earth to Gloria! Anybody home? And my mother chipping in with Maybe you need some iron pills, Gloria. Or a plate of liver.
“I do … zone out,” I said to Stig. “I think it comes from spending so much time with Nicky. You know? I don’t really want to dwell on what’s actually happening so I just”—I twirled my hands in the air, higher and higher—“go somewhere nicer.”
“So you usually spend more time with Nicky? You’re short-changing him because of me?”
I knew that my face was blank and my eyes wide. I pride myself on honesty, but he had caught me out in a bare-faced lie.
“Glo?” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It used to be true,” I said. “I used to spend hours there every day. After tea till bedtime every work day and all day every day that I was free. I’d take sandwiches and just … But lately … So I suppose it wasn’t fair of me to use him as an excuse. The truth is I spend too much time on my own.” I plumped down into one of the chairs. They were still drawn up beside the Rayburn, and Stig had added a little side table between them.
“You’re awful hard on yourself,” he said, joining me.
“What were you saying? Something about the morning after Moped died?”
“We were milling about,” he began again. “Frozen and damp. Hungry. And then my mum and dad turned up and Angie had brought Rise & Shine. Remember that stuff ? Powdered orange juice? And Pop-Tarts. Twelve frightened kids looking for comfort and my mother brings foil packets. That’s her all over. I left with Nod and Ned because my parents wanted me out of the way while they dealt with the shitstorm, I suppose, and we stopped off at Littlewoods in Dumfries for their Five-Star breakfast—eggs, sausage, bacon, beans, hash browns, fried bread, mushrooms, grilled toms, and tea with three sugars. I decided to be a chef that day.”
“That wasn’t the Five-Star,” I said. “That was the Big-8.”
“Get out of town!” he said. “Another fan of the Littlewoods breakfast buffet?” Stig shouted with laughter. The happiest noise he had made in the two days he had been there.
It was a shame to take it away again.
“I can’t believe you ate more sausages after the night on the toilet,” I said. And it really did give me a twinge to see his face fall and his eyes grow dull again.
“Twelve-year-old boys, Glo,” he said. And then my face must have fallen too.
Fifteen
My work computer was singing to me from across the valley. In it I would find the addresses of any of the Eden kids who’d married, had children, or (God forbid) died in Scotland. There would be far too many John Jamesons and even more Alan Bests, but the Scarlets—McFarlane and McInnes—with a rough year of birth too? That was a possibility. And those Irving girls—Cloud, Rain, and Sunshine—must be waiting in there to be found. Unless they had changed their names when they reached eighteen, like Zowie Bowie, poor lamb.
I remembered Duggie and me poring over the baby books when Nicky was born. I liked Robert and Thomas; Duggie liked Gareth and Ben.
“Oh not Ben,” I had said. “Every Tom, Dick, and Harry’s called Ben.” He hadn’t laughed. He didn’t even realise I was joking. But Nicholas Morrison rolled off the tongue and we agreed.
“Nicholas Morrison breaking away for Scotland!” Duggie shouted, in his commentator’s voice, holding the swaddled baby like a rugby ball, ducking and feinting along the length of the living room as if the furniture was defenders. I tried not to wince, just bit my lip down on all my cries (“Be careful!”), laughed, and clapped at Funny Daddy having a joke with his boy. But my heart didn’t slow down until Nicky had decided he didn’t like being a rugby ball, started crying, and was handed back to me.
But I couldn’t go into work and fire up the computer on a day when our little office was closed. There was probably a way for someone at Central to tell that the machine had been on and besides the electronic record there was the whole of Main Street, Dalry, behind their curtains, watching. So, frustrating as it might be, I would have to wait until tomorrow. Do it the old-fashioned way today.
Alan Best came from Castle Douglas, and his parents probably still lived there. They were the generation to keep their landline and never take their names out of the book.
“But give me something to do before you go,” Stig said. “How can you live with that Internet connection? It’s like the fifteenth century.”
“Have a bath,” I told him. “And try About a Boy.” How could anyone be bored in this house of books? “I’m going to bring some clothes back with me, so you could put those in the wash if you like.”
“Bring some food,” said Stig. “Get me something fiddly to cook. I’ll make you a raised game pie if you’ve got time for a stop at the butchers.”
“I don’t.”
“Eggs, butter, flour, and sugar then and I’ll get baking,” he said. “Icing sugar too. Have you got a piping bag?”
“Last thing you need if you’re taking no exercise,” I said. It was just a throwaway line, but I saw him suck his stomach in and could have kicked myself.
“Gloria,” he said, “you read. Some people walk their dogs or grow leeks the size of telegraph poles. I cook. Please, bring me something to bloody cook!”
So I promised. And on the way to town again I made a mental list: chocolate, lemon, coconut, vanilla. Because if he really was going to bake, he might as well bake my favourite things. Then I put it out of my head, refused to think of him stuck there going crazy, with his scalp flaking, and thought instead about the four of them. Mitchell Best. Edmund and Nathan McAllister. April Cowan.
Because April’s body had been moved, the police were suspicious. But if April’s death was murder, where did that leave the other three? An accident, two suicides, and a murder made no sense at all.
Three suicides? But what would make a twelve-year-old boy take his own life? And anyway, three suicides and then a murder didn’t make much more sense, really.
If April had been deliberately killed … I stopped, began to bring myself back to plain old reality. Not that Fiscals don’t make mistakes, or pathologists, or even police, but not three times. No way.
Castle Douglas isn’t a big town, and I found Alan Best’s family home without any trouble. It was small, ex-council, mid-terrace and scruffy with it. They hadn’t changed the windows when they bought it and now that the council houses all around had had theirs updated, not to mention that the other bought ones had hardwood and conservatories, the Bests’ place looked like the only wilted flower in a bunch.
The woman who answered the door was in better sh
ape than the house, but just barely. She looked seventy, with faded fair hair, cut short and let dry without styling, and she wore a crew-necked jersey with ribbed cuffs in that flat blue shade that only flatters if you’re peaches and cream. She hadn’t chosen it to flatter. If I’d had to guess, I’d say she chose it to punish herself. The ribbing clutched at the wrinkles on her neck and the cuffs clutched at the wrinkles on her wrists. Below it she wore a pair of brown nylon trousers bagged at the knees and down at the hem on one leg. The sort of trousers you’d have to go looking for these days, when it’s harder to dress badly than it is to go to Primark and dress like everyone.
“Mrs. Best?” I said. To my surprise, she gave me a faint smile.
“And who are you from?” she said. For a minute it puzzled me, but before I could let the chance be lost by starting to explain, a light came on. It’s not the first time it’s happened. Something about me, either my face or my hair or my clothes, makes people hold out their hand for a pamphlet, or tell me they’re Catholics and slam the door.
“The Church of God,” I said, thinking it was bland enough to be likely. “How are you today?”
“I’m … ”
“You’re troubled in your spirits,” I said. It was something Donna at the home had said to me in the early days when I was still expecting Duggie to come round and I hadn’t accepted the road that Nicky was on.
“I am,” said Mrs. Best. “I am that.”
“Can I offer you comfort?” I asked her. “I’m just as happy listening as I am talking, if that would help you.”
“I don’t suppose you’re a mother,” she said.
I beamed at her. “I certainly am,” I told her. “Mother to this little chap.” And I got my wallet out and showed her Nicky’s picture.
She gave a very soft cry, more of wonder than pity, and stepped back from the door.
“Come in,” she said. “And let me put the kettle on. Tell me—What will I call you?”
“Nicola,” I said.
“Tell me, Nicola, how do you keep your faith after a thing like that has happened to you?”
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