by Jenni Ogden
“I’m glad,” is all Mum said as she gently closed the album.
IT WAS A BRAW BRICHT DAY, AS MAGNUS COMMENTED, when we packed Mum’s egg and bacon pie and Magnus’s slabs of flapjack and flask of whisky-spiked coffee, and set off for Hermaness National Nature Reserve at the top of Unst, home to Shetland’s largest gannet colony. It took us an hour to walk from the car park to the cliff edge, Mum breathing easily and striding along like a fifty-year-old. It was from these dramatic cliffs that the rocky outcrop called Muckle Flugga with its iconic lighthouse could be seen, appearing so close that a brave giant could leap the swirling gap. We picked our way along the cliff face, peering down fissures to the boiling sea thundering far below, Mum and I with hearts in our throats as Magnus stepped delicately along slippery, shit-coated ledges to examine a wildflower he had spotted twenty feet down the cliff face.
The acrid smell of guano transported me back to Turtle Island as I gazed at the countless thousands of screaming gannets crammed onto every stack and into every crack in the glistening rock. They turned the sky white, lemon heads shining in the sun as they soared on their slender wings nearly two meters across from one blue-black tip to the other, diving and dancing like skaters on a crowded Boston lake. Aggressive, dive-bombing great skuas added to the ear-shattering noise, and Magnus pointed out other seabirds almost lost in the gathering—fulmars, guillemots, and gulls. Many of the twenty-five thousand puffins that returned to the same mate and the same nest site every summer had already fledged their chicks and left, but there were still hundreds of late breeders nesting precariously in nooks and crannies on the sheer rock faces. Never had I been so charmed by a bird as they entertained us with their clown-like masks and quaint waddling gaits while we ate our lunch in the sun. Oh, magnificent day!
We made our way back across the grassy cliff tops, skirting water holes caught in boggy patches and admiring the fluffy heads of bog cotton bobbing in the sun. Magnus lagged behind, his binoculars often clamped to his eyes as he stood motionless, some new bird caught in his sights.
“Tell me about Tom,” Mum said.
So I did, almost everything, avoiding too much information, of course. I told her about Morrie, and Tom’s father, and Tom’s reluctance to be tested for the gene. I told her that he didn’t want me to stay. I even told her he was ten years younger than me.
“Can you imagine life without him?” she asked, stopping and forcing me to look at her.
“I don’t want to, but what choice do I have?”
“Tell him. Make sure he knows how deeply you love him.”
“But what if he doesn’t love me? He’s never said it.” My heart was knocking on my ribs.
Mum grasped my arms firmly. “This is not a research grant you’re losing or a career you’re giving up on, it’s your chance to be whole. Don’t let pride, or embarrassment, or that low self-esteem you used to have stand in the way.”
“It’s not fair to put him in that situation. He’s only forty, Mum, with his life ahead of him. What good will it do him to be tied to someone as old as me?” The words slid out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Mum laughed and looked back at Magnus, crouching down over a patch of blue flowers. “Try another excuse.”
“Sorry. You two have shown me it can work, but Magnus doesn’t have Huntington’s hanging over him.”
“All I ask, Anna, is that you tell him what you want and how strongly you feel. You can’t make his decisions for him and you shouldn’t. If it’s not to be, at least you’ll not live the rest of your life wondering if more honesty on your part might have made the difference.”
I HAD BOOKED MY FLIGHTS BACK TO AUSTRALIA, AT AN exorbitant cost, in the old-fashioned way—through a travel agent on the other end of the phone. Mum had called Aunt Jane and asked if I could stay for the two nights I was spending in London before my flight. I was looking forward to it, now I knew Jane’s love story. She was living with her partner of twenty years, a girl she had met in high school. After ten years of an on-off relationship, they had lost touch, but met again at a feminist convention in Paris many years later. Both had recently lost their lovers, and in their mid-fifties had fallen in love all over again. My memories of Aunt Jane, the haughty sophisticate, were overdue for updating.
Before we left for Lerwick, I posted a letter to Tom, although it was unlikely to reach him before I did. I didn’t say much, just that I was coming back, and that I loved him. Then I put my future away and focused on my last week on Shetland, in the delightful company of my mother and her Magnus. Magnus was a walking encyclopedia on the history of Shetland, and his quiet way of telling the old and not-so-old stories was compelling.
More stories, in song and dance, got the feet tapping and the whisky flowing at the Blues Festival, where Magnus and his band were clearly longtime favorites. I discovered that the fiddle wasn’t his only instrument as he took up the banjo and guitar at some of the jam sessions we went to every night. Mum didn’t come to them all, but her stamina was impressive nevertheless. On our last night, in a crowded snug above a cozy bar, Magnus beckoned Mum into the center of the circle, and after a single note on the fiddle, they sang, unaccompanied, a haunting love song. The words were Gaelic, but I didn’t need to understand them to know what they meant. And I hadn’t even known she could sing.
ON A BLUSTERY DAY, INKY STORM CLOUDS HANGING LOW over a slate sea, after four wonderful days exploring Mainland, I flew away from Shetland, turning back just before I entered the aircraft to wave to my gang on this other island. They were standing close, Magnus’s arm in place around the woman he loved. I couldn’t see Mum’s tears but I knew they were there—I could feel them on my own cheeks. They waved back and I breathed in one last lungful of Shetlandic air, certain now that I would return.
TWENTY - FIVE
My flight arrived the day before Jack’s regular fortnightly trip to Turtle Island, and he greeted me with a hug when the taxi dropped me, my luggage, and three boxes of food on the wharf.
“Where did you spring from?” Jack grinned. “Reckoned you’d have a hard time staying away.”
I hugged him again and high-fived Nick, who appeared from the boat shed.
“It’s so good to be home.” I wanted to dance with the very joy of it. The sun was hot and the sky was blue and the breeze was balmy.
“Pat will be over the moon to see you. She’s been moping about like a chook with no feathers,” Jack said.
“Or a bird with no hair,” Nick added.
“You’re both terrible.” The laugh spluttered out of me. “Bloody Aussies, you’re all the same.”
“Hairless, the lot of us. I see yours has grown a bit. I’ll get the shears.” Nick made a V with his hands and clapped them together above my head.
“Get off. I like it like this.” I looked around. “Am I the only passenger, or is my watch fast?”
“You’re it, by the look of it,” Jack said. “Hey Nick, perhaps we should cancel the trip. We won’t make much dosh if Anna’s the only taker.” He winked at me. “How would you like two weeks’ holiday here in Gladstone, and we’ll put you on the next boat?”
“Stop teasing. What about all these food boxes?” The wharf was stacked high with them.
“Oh, well, I suppose we’d better go. Get yourself on board, woman, and put the kettle on.”
My bubble of happiness was punctured about halfway to the island when Jack joined me on the deck and handed me a sandwich. “Did you hear about Tom?”
“No, what?” I stopped breathing.
“He had to go back to Sydney. His father’s real sick. Tom wanted to get to him before it was too late.”
“Oh, no. Poor Tom. When will he be back? When did he leave?”
“He came over to the mainland with us two weeks ago. That’s all I know.”
My hard-won resolve to make Tom understand how much I loved him and somehow convince him we could be happy together curled up inside me. I stood at the railing, the wind blowing through me.
How could I even be thinking of my own needs while Tom was watching his father die? No wonder he didn’t want me to stay with him. He knew me better than I knew myself.
I realized Pat wouldn’t have received my postcard telling her when I was coming back, but as we docked I spotted her familiar shape walking along the beach. Leaving my bags and boxes for Nick to deliver to my cabin, I ran towards her, skidding to a stop as she threw open her arms, her smile wide.
“Anna, I don’t believe it. Why didn’t you tell me?”
I clung to her like a child, feeling the flatness where her breast used to be, my tears pooling in my eyes. She pulled back and looked at me.
“It’s not that bad to be back, is it?”
I blinked hard. “It’s wonderful. I’ve missed you so much.” I touched her new gray curls.
“So these are tears of joy, then.”
“Jack told me about Tom; that his father’s dying.”
Pat nodded, her smile gone. “We haven’t heard anything, so I don’t know when he’ll be back. If his father does die, it might be a while. His mother will need him there to help with all that stuff that has to be done.”
“Should I go to Sydney, do you think?”
“Would he want you there?” Pat’s voice was gentle.
“I don’t know. Probably not. Watching Huntington’s patients die is not something families find easy to share.”
“I’m sure he’ll let us know soon how things are. He promised to e-mail Basil if he had any news.” Pat looped her arm through mine as we walked back towards the boat.
“Did you know his father had Huntington’s?’ I asked, suddenly aware that I might have broken a confidence.
“He told me just before he left. I didn’t know before. What a terrible thing it is.”
After I unpacked and checked the campground, which looked as if it hadn’t seen any campers for a while, I wandered over to Basil’s. I found him on his deck engrossed in a newspaper, his fortnightly indulgence on boat arrival days.
“Hi Anna. Nick said you were back. How’s your mother?”
“She’s fine, thanks. She didn’t have to have an operation after all, so we had a lovely holiday together.”
“That’s good news. You’ll be happy to be back though, I bet. The road home is always the best one.”
I smiled at him. “Yes, it does feel like home. But I’m worried about Tom. Has he e-mailed you?”
“Not yet, although I haven’t checked today. Come on in, and we’ll have a look now. Make us some coffee while I fire up the computer.”
It seemed to take forever, and the coffee was perking when I heard him call from the room next door.
“There is one here from him. Sad news, I’m afraid.”
I was already beside him reading Tom’s message.
Hi Basil, Dad died yesterday, and the funeral is on Monday at 2 p.m. I’m not sure when I’ll be back but not for a couple of weeks at least. Can you tell Pat and Bill please? It was a relief in the end. He had a rough time and so did Mum. She’s exhausted and I’m afraid the funeral will probably be quite a big one as my folks have lived here a long time. I’ll stay for a bit to make sure Mum’s all right. Say gidday to everyone, Tom.
Tom’s father had been dying within kilometers of me as I waited for hours at Sydney airport for my plane to Gladstone.
“Poor blighter,” I heard Basil saying. “His dad’s been sick for a long time, but it’s still hard.”
I looked at the e-mail address. It began “GwenScarlett@” so I supposed it was his mother’s. “We should write a reply.”
“I’ll keep it simple, in case his mum looks at it,” said Basil, banging with one finger at the keyboard.
Hi Tom, Sorry to hear about your father. Everyone here is thinking of you and your family. I hope the funeral goes well. Anna came back today and sends her love.
Best wishes, Basil and Anna.
He looked up at me. “Is that okay?”
“Yes, it’s fine. I wish I could talk to him though. Do you know his mother’s phone number?”
“Nope. I’ll ask him. You could phone him then through Skype.” He added a PS to his e-mail and clicked send.
Hopefully by tonight Tom would have e-mailed back with a phone number and I could call him. I had no idea where his mother lived or where the funeral was to be. Neither Pat nor Bill had any contact details for him either, although Bill was pretty sure their family home was in North Sydney.
By five o’clock I had made up my mind to go to the funeral. I was still suffering from jet lag and it took some sorting out, but using Tom’s Internet connection I managed to book a flight from Gladstone on Sunday—tomorrow—leaving at half past two. I had to go via Brisbane and wouldn’t get into Sydney until seven thirty in the evening. I booked a hotel in Crows Nest, in North Sydney, hoping it would be somewhere near where the funeral was to be. Once there, I would just have to phone every Scarlett in the phone book until I found Tom, or perhaps there would be a funeral notice in the Sydney newspaper. Tom hadn’t replied to Basil’s e-mail and I had little hope that he would. He would be far too distracted.
Poor Jack had planned to stay over on the island on Sunday night and go back Monday, but he didn’t hesitate when I told him I needed him to leave at the crack of dawn the next day to make sure we got to Gladstone in time for my flight. “The boat trip’s on me,” he said. “You can take all our good wishes with you. Tom’s a good man.”
IT ALL WORKED OUT, AND BY SUNDAY NIGHT I WAS SITTING in my hotel room, rifling through the Sydney papers. Luckily the woman on the desk had a copy of the Saturday Sydney Morning Herald, because that’s where I found it.
Scarlett, Thomas Lloyd. On September 11th. Loved husband of Gwen, son of Isobel, father of Tom and Hilary, and granddad of Beth and Zac. A service on Monday, September 14th at 2 p.m. will be held at St Peter’s Presbyterian Church, Blues Point Road, North Sydney, followed by a private graveside service at Waverley Cemetery. No flowers please. Donations in memory to Huntington’s Disease Association.
I had e-mailed Tom from Turtle Island to say I was coming, giving him the name and phone number of my hotel, but the phone in my room didn’t ring. I pushed away my disappointment, knowing that checking his e-mail would be the last thing on his mind. As far as he knew I was still in Shetland. I looked up Scarlett in the phone directory but thought better of ringing every Scarlett in North Sydney and asking if a Tom—no, not the Tom who just died—was there.
It hadn’t occurred to me that the funeral service would be in an actual church. Tom was a dedicated atheist. It was stuffy in my room, and I cracked the window open and looked out at the cars and people below, plenty of them even on a Sunday night. The air was still warm at nine o’clock, and all I had packed as options to wear to the funeral were the black trousers and blue shirt I had worn when I first arrived on Turtle Island, and never since, not even on chilly nights in Shetland, and a sleeveless summer dress, dark blue with dramatic white flowers that I had bought in an exclusive London boutique, with Tom in mind. Even with the short-sleeved blue jacket that was part of the look, there was no way I could wear it to this funeral. And I would suffer heat stroke in the ugly trousers.
I could see plenty of shops out my window, so it was to be an early start for me tomorrow. I’d have to find something suitably somber hidden amongst the bright new summer fashions. My nerves were already beating me up and it wasn’t even tomorrow yet. Why oh why had I come?
IN THE MORNING MY NAUSEA WAS WORSE AS I SLIPPED ON my blue sleeveless dress, and after a coffee and nothing else, went shopping. My self-esteem always hit rock bottom in fashion shops. Telling myself that I made more money and had more university degrees than any saleswoman made no difference. But I sallied forth, credit card trembling in my handbag, past caring about cost. It was someone else who thought twice before spending more than $50 on any single item of clothing.
Perhaps Aussie saleswomen were not as snooty as the Boston and London variety, or perhaps I struck i
t lucky on this quiet Monday morning. The older woman—about my age, probably—who asked if she could help as I flipped desperately through racks of sexy dresses sounded like Pat.
“That’s a beautiful old church,” she said when I told her I needed a complete outfit to wear to a funeral there in less than four hours. By the time she had zipped my credit card through her machine, I knew exactly what Pretty Woman felt like. Not that she’d had to dress for the funeral of a man she’d never met and whose grieving family had never heard of her.
Back in the hotel I forced down a sandwich and gulped another cup of coffee before showering and dressing, this time for real, in my funereal outfit. I couldn’t imagine when I’d ever wear it again. By one o’clock I was as ready as I would ever be, and I took one last look in the long mirror on the wardrobe door. My dress was dull black with a small, pearly gray pattern. It had an elegantly draped skirt—cut on the bias, according to my saleswoman—that swirled about my knees when I spun around, and a fitted top with three-quarter-length tight sleeves decorated with pearl-gray buttons. A soft V neckline showed off my entwined dolphins, resurrected for the occasion. The silver dolphin earrings I had discovered in Shetland dangled from my ears, having been forced with some difficulty and a few spots of blood through the almost closed holes that had been pierced in my earlobes in my first year at university. They did look rather good with my new hair, and I silently thanked Aunt Jane for insisting I have it shaped and styled by her London hairdresser. It had grown back thick and glossy in the three months since the shaving, but I hadn’t thought it possible to cut such short hair and have any left. Fortunately I was proven wrong, and its four-centimeter length now swept to one side, exposing my high forehead and barely feathering the tops of my ears. I thought I might not bother growing it ever again.
My sheer black pantyhose felt strange, but not as strange as my new black shoes with their five-centimeter heels—not that high as high goes, but higher than any heels I’d ever worn. So far they felt surprisingly comfortable, but I suspected I’d be hobbling before the day was out. I smiled at myself to make sure I had no lipstick on my teeth, picked up my new Italian leather black and gray clutch bag, took a deep breath and then another one, and walked unsteadily to the lift.