‘Are you Ok? It’s a bummer about San Francisco.’
‘I’m fine. I didn’t really expect it to come off.’ Gillian realised as she said it, that this was true.
‘You’ve seemed a bit spaced lately.’
‘Tired, that’s all.’
They switched off computers, photo-copier and lights, and went out. In his office beside the reception area, Richie was on the telephone leaning back in his chair, long legs stretched out, waving his free hand in the air. ‘Yeah,’ he was saying. ‘You’re so right. Absolutely.’ Rosie was out, but then she usually was.
Alec was working long hours too. The English schools had broken up a week earlier and the Bistro was full of teenagers during the day, gathering to show each other the clothes and music they had bought, and to spend tiny amounts of money, from Alec’s point of view, on cokes and coffees. He saw Kate in the leggy girls and missed her, feeling guilty. He should go and see her, he should bring her home. What was home, now? The silent house gathering dust, the empty wine bottles, the stale smell in the kitchen he could not track down?
He felt disillusioned not just by the dreariness of his home life but by work too. He and Graham bickered, disagreeing about changes of menu, buying equipment and where and whether to advertise. They got nowhere, abandoning discussions in mid-air because they had no will to follow them through. The idea began to creep into both their minds that they needed to get away from each other, and thus of course, from their partnership. Graham was temperamental, like all chefs, Alec thought, but that was not the problem. The problem, as he saw it, was that he was weary of living like this, and of fretting about profit margins or the lack of them. With no Susan to make him long to get to work and be a success somewhere, the restaurant became as much a prison as his marriage had been.
There was Lizzie, of course, who was still warm and accommodating, most of the time. Lizzie had worked in the business herself so she never reproached him for working over the weekend. What she objected to was the secrecy of their meetings. Susan had been gone for three months and yet she was not gone. He was not free and never would be, as far as Lizzie could see. After a while a woman wants a little more than bed, she told Alec, kindly enough. She wants to tell her friends, show off her fella, say this is my partner, take him to the staff get-togethers on a Friday night. She wants to wear the necklace he’s given her and tell everybody where she got it.
‘I can’t do anything about it,’ Alec said. ‘I’m married, don’t forget.’ And Lizzie, raising her beautifully made-up eyes to Heaven, assured him she had not forgotten.
Alec, in limbo, drifted.
The train north was packed, as Frances had predicted. Even in first class Gillian felt crowded. She was surrounded by early season American tourists who ate steadily throughout the journey: sandwiches, bananas, oranges, chocolate. The air was pungent. Just as well I’m not still pregnant, Gillian thought, I’d be throwing up all over the place. She had a window seat and turned resolutely towards the landscape. Through Drumochter Pass there was snow on the fields and trees beside the railway track; elsewhere it kept to the high ground. One or two deer watched from an unafraid distance, Gillian on her way to Inverness.
What she felt was relief. Relief was what had overtaken her when she got home from the clinic. The whole experience had been utterly humiliating, and made her angry. It was unfair; men did not have to endure such indignity for their mistakes. They stood back and got away with it, or worse, did not even know they’d been set free. She had a twinge of longing now and then to tell Steve. Why shouldn’t he have at least an attack of conscience, why shouldn’t he feel terrible too? He would never have to pay for sex like that. An inch long, but so much to go through to get rid of it.
Gillian’s face grew hot, remembering. She closed her eyes, shutting out snow-capped pine trees, thick alongside the line, so many they darkened the view. When she looked again, the landscape had opened out and she was gazing along a broad cleft between hills, a river winding through it, glinting like metal as the sun appeared, while on either side the hills were black and bare, scattered with scraps of snow.
The Americans discussed Fort William, Ben Nevis, Loch Ness, the familiar names sounding foreign in their unaccustomed accents. How exotic Scotland is, Gillian thought, how beautiful. Tears welled again, sentimental and foolish, because that was how she was just now. The least thing could set her off. She hoped the farm at Finnerty would not have started lambing yet, since she could not bear to look at lambs. But she was not full of regrets; she was not sorry. This was just her hormones playing up. She had done the right thing.
The car boot was full of food. Jack carried the bags into the house and Frances began unpacking.
‘I can remember when everything was closed on Good Friday,’ Frances said.
‘Was it?’ he asked. ‘Why was that?’
Frances looked at him in despair. ‘Because of the day. Good Friday.’ He looked blank. ‘Didn’t you get any religious education at school?’
‘Hinduism. Festivals. That sort of stuff.’
Frances’s conscience pricked her sometimes about church and Sunday School: when she went back to full-time work she could not spare her precious Sunday mornings any more, and all that part of life lapsed for her and the boys. ‘Good Friday is the day Christ was crucified. What you might call a day of great significance in the Christian calendar.’
‘Where do you want me to put the rest of these vegetables? The basket’s full.’
Frances gave up religious instruction. ‘Och … just dump the bag in the porch for now. I’ll sort it out later.’
‘Who’s coming?’
‘Granny and Grandpa and Gillian.’
‘He’s not coming then.’
‘No.’
‘Thought he might come and get Kate.’
‘It’s not that long since his last visit.’
‘Is she staying here for good?’
‘Certainly not.’ She amended this. ‘Maybe for a while yet.’
‘So she’s going back to the Academy after the holidays?’
‘Probably. Don’t go on about it.’
He backed off. ‘Sorry. I don’t mind, I’m not even here.’
Frances had begun washing fruit at the sink. She paused and raised her hands from the cold water. ‘Has Andrew said something?’
‘What about?’
‘Kate, of course. He seems to get on all right with her but you can’t really tell. Is there something I don’t know?’
‘Like what?’
‘Jack, pay attention. Has Andrew said anything to you about wanting Kate to go home?’
Jack busied himself with tins of cat food which he had taken out to the porch to stack on shelves. He came back and leaned on the doorjamb, digging his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans.
‘One or two people have been winding him up. Because she’s his cousin.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s hanging out with a desperate crowd, right?’
Frances’s heart thudded. Not this, she could do without this. Kate was to be safe here. ‘She’s not in trouble? Is she skipping school like she did in Newcastle?’
‘Not as far as I know. Andy’s never said.’
‘What then? How do you mean, desperate? The girls she goes around with aren’t really our sort, I know that, but they seem harmless enough.’
‘Mum, they’re brain dead.’
Boys were callous; she should be used to it. She remembered Andrew and Jack laughing uproariously because one of their friends had a poisoned toe, and someone trod on it at school.
‘You’re no help,’ she said. ‘Is there something to be worried about or not? Drugs, drink, that sort of stuff.’
He shrugged. ‘You’d better ask Andy.’
‘I will.’
Driving slowly and causing considerable annoyance to other road users, Jim concentrated on the A96, acknowledging the soft murmur of his wife’s voice with an occasional grunt. His own comments w
ere all on other drivers. ‘Bloody idiot! Did you see that, overtaking there? Absolute menace. And what’s that maniac up to? Is he coming out of there or not? For God’s sake, bicycles! Shouldn’t be allowed on main roads.’
Sometimes Grace agreed with him; sometimes she went on talking about completely different things. He wasn’t really listening but neither was she.
‘Cup of coffee at Baxters?’ he suggested, veering into the centre of the road well before the white lines indicating the right turn, and braking. A van coming towards them seemed to rock slightly, then it was past. ‘Hogging the middle of the road – can’t abide that.’ Jim turned into Baxter’s car park and stopped in a Disabled Parking space, to which, as a perfectly able-bodied pensioner, he considered himself entitled. As he switched off the engine, Grace let out a breath of relief. Jim got so upset these days, driving, but he refused to take the train.
‘Put Frances out,’ he objected. ‘Coming all that way into Inverness to meet us. Working girl. And there’s the plants you’ve brought her. Where would we put all of those on the train?’
They queued for coffee and scones. It was late in the morning, and there was already a meaty smell of game soup.
‘We could have some lunch,’ Grace suggested.
‘Frances has soup and sandwiches for us,’ he insisted.
She sighed, giving up. The journey seemed to take longer these days, and they had been late getting away.
‘Wonder if that racket’s still going on,’ Jim said, as they stopped at an empty table.
Grace took their cups and plates off the tray, gave them a napkin each, and sat down with an ouf of weariness. ‘Och, I’m sure these other people were just visiting. They’ll be gone by the time we get home.’
‘Should have asked Barbara to look in, keep an eye on the place.’
‘Oh, I don’t think. …’ She struggled with the lid of her tiny pot of jam. ‘These things, they’re so stiff nowadays.’
Jim leaned over and took it from her. With his strong old man’s hands, faintly bruised and bluish on the backs, he twisted the lid till it opened with a pop.
‘Here.’
They spread scones in silence, thinking about their house, left shut up but unguarded. Something upsetting had happened just as they were putting their bags in the car.
‘Coffee’s bitter,’ Grace sighed, adding more milk. Very upsetting. She was trying not to think about it.
They lived in a quiet cul de sac. Behind the back gardens were playing fields, noisy only with the shouts of teachers calling children to order, and Saturday football and hockey matches. It was innocent, healthy noise; Jim approved of it. Sometimes he stood at the end of the garden with the shears or a rake in his hands, gardening forgotten, watching the teams of pupils running about the field, giving a shout of ‘well done!’ or ‘bad luck!’ now and again.
There were no wild parties or late-night car doors slamming; no rock music blared from open windows. If an occasional Coke can appeared in the gutter or a crisp packet in someone’s hedge, it was always removed and put into a dustbin. Most of the house-owners were retired people like themselves; their neighbours were childless teachers on one side, and on the other was a widower with a small subdued dog, as overweight and elderly as himself. The house beyond Mr Thompson’s had lain empty for almost a year after Miss Gibson’s death. There was a story about probate, a dispute between her nieces. Then a couple of weeks ago a girl had been seen wheeling a push chair up the path and letting herself in with a key. Mr Thompson, going in at his own gate with the dog, nodded politely but she did not appear to see him. A little later, a van drew up and some boxes were unloaded, and a cot.
The girl and her baby had moved in. No-one knew Miss Gibson’s nieces, but she had been eighty-five, and this girl was much too young to be one of them. The neighbours speculated with pleasurable curiosity. Then, as Jim heaved their suitcase onto the back seat of the car, and Grace put the pots of cuttings she was taking to Frances into the boot, a car roared along the street and screeched to a halt in front of Miss Gibson’s house. It throbbed with bass rhythm. The music stopped abruptly and two young men got out, followed by two girls. They went straight into the house, the girls calling ‘Hiya! Debbie!’ Music erupted again, from the house this time.
‘What the devil’s that?’ Jim looked about him, enraged.
When they left about ten minutes later the music was still going on, and two more cars had joined the first. There were now around a dozen young people in the house. Jim drove off in a fury. Grace had restrained him with difficulty from banging on Miss Gibson’s door, and indeed ringing the police. ‘We’re going away,’ she said. ‘It’ll all be over by the time we get back.’
‘Doors all locked?’ he demanded. ‘Windows secured?’
‘You checked them twice yourself.’
They drove on, negotiating the heavy traffic on the road north out of Aberdeen.
‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ Jim declared. ‘That young woman’s one of those unmarried mothers.’ Grace looked out of the window, not answering, but he went on. ‘No shame. Parties and all the rest of it. How can a lassie her age afford a house like that?’
‘She could be one of the niece’s daughters,’ Grace said, seeing that she must answer eventually. ‘That’s what I think. She could easily have a husband – working offshore maybe. There’s plenty young women on their own while their husbands are away on oil rigs.’ But Jim only grunted. She tried to turn the subject. ‘It’ll be nice to see Kate again.’ She knew it was a mistake as soon as the words were out.
‘What’s Susan up to? Tell me that. There’s more to this than they’re admitting.’
‘Who?’
‘Frances and Gillian. About that fellow. Why on earth would she go off and leave her daughter with him?’
‘Alec’s her step-father, she’s grown up with him. She’s at Frances’s house now, anyway, at least he had the sense to take her there.’
‘One rotten apple,’ he said, ‘that’s all it takes.’
‘What?’
He backed off. ‘The other two never caused us a moment’s trouble. Not Frances, at any rate, and Gillian’s a good girl. All she needs is a husband to steady her. We did too much for Susan. Look at that girl in Myrtle Gibson’s house. Who’s paying her rent I’d like to know.’
Even now he could not get over how Susan had let him down, but his anger had nowhere to go except inward, to fester. He had loved her too much and she hadn’t deserved it.
They were at Huntly before the atmosphere in the car eased. As the miles went by he vented his anger on other motorists instead. Now, in the pine-tabled restaurant, full of Easter holiday families, Grace wished they could talk of something else, anything else. She kept seeing those young people crowding into the house. She thought of the girl, thin in a tiny skirt and denim jacket, bumping the push-chair up the steps to the front door, the baby, peaky in a blue bonnet, looking out with a bleak, unhopeful expression at the world.
‘We didn’t do too much,’ she said suddenly. He looked at her, puzzled.
‘What?’
‘I think we should have been kinder,’ Grace went on. ‘Then she might have stayed with us, instead of going to Frances and Alec and all that terrible trouble might never have happened.’
She had gone over and over it, as if by thinking and worrying she could find the first wrong turning. Then she could say that, that, was the cause. But what good would it do, to find out? They could not change anything now.
She sighed and pushed away her plate, the scone barely touched.
‘Right?’ Jim asked, getting to his feet. ‘Are we off again?’
Soon they would be in Frances’s comfortable house, with their two remaining daughters, their beloved grandsons and Kate, all the family they had now. Grace took heart, and prayed for a quiet road with no tractors.
9
Kate liked Jack being at home. It took the heat off her, somehow. Andrew stopped needling her and even Fra
nces seemed to chill out a bit. Jack was different from Andrew: he had these mad ideas and you never knew if he was serious or kidding. Mostly kidding, she thought.
‘You never lift a finger, either of you,’ Frances complained on the Thursday before Easter, as both boys began to slip away before they could be asked to clear up after the evening meal.
‘We do,’ they chorused, and Kate laughed. Frances smiled at her and for a moment they were in those secret societies: women, men.
‘What do you want us to do?’ Jack asked, but Andrew hovered near the door, still hoping to escape.
‘I shouldn’t have to tell you.’
‘Go on, give us a clue.’ Grinning, Jack picked up a saucepan and gently nudged his mother away from the sink. ‘The trouble with you, Mum, is you think there’s something morally admirable about work.’
‘Well, there is. It’s necessary, anyway.’
‘Yeah, but it’s not necessary for everybody to do it. Look at unemployment: even when it’s high, the world keeps going. There’s this kind of disapproval of unemployed people, as if they’re not doing their bit.’
‘They’re not.’
He rolled up his sleeves and began to tackle the saucepan. Andrew, seeing his chance, slipped out. Kate wiped over the table half-heartedly, sweeping crumbs onto the floor, listening to Jack.
‘Theirs is a useful contribution. They make all the workers feel virtuous. They’re probably necessary to the wellbeing of society.’
‘The trouble is,’ Frances said, struggling to get a few last plates into the dish-washer, ‘some people always leave the hard work to others.’
As she straightened up and clicked the door shut, she realised Andrew had gone and Kate was sitting at the table with a dishcloth in one hand and a blank, tight expression on her face.
‘Well, that’s up to the others, isn’t it?’ Jack countered as he tipped water down the sink.
Frances didn’t bother answering this. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she asked Kate.
‘I feel a bit sick. I always feel when I’ve had something to eat.’
Tell Me Where You Are Page 16