Pine

by Francine Toon

  ‘Yeah,’ Niall says, ‘they take the mick about who is dancing with who and that. She gets hung up on it.’ If only that was all of it.

  ‘Well,’ Sandy says, ‘look at this lot. We’ve been up and down Caithness and across Sutherland and had a smashing time. Some of the stories I could tell you. After this night, we’re taking a wee break. But surely she’ll be glad of knowing the dances some day, eh?’

  The old man interrupts as he turns to Niall: ‘That reminds me. I met’ – Niall can tell he is stopping himself from saying Christine’s mum – ‘Lillith, a few times she was over, way back. I was sorry to hear when she, you know. Last year. I was sorry. I hope you’re keeping well.’

  Niall shrugs. The funeral had reminded him what an old bitch she had been. ‘Aye. I’m no bad. Thank you.’ He picks up his guitar as the band begins to reassemble and guests drift back to the dance floor. One man passes close to the stage with a toothbrush in his sock instead of the traditional sgian-dubh, a hunting knife, looking for a good time. The crowd are in high spirits, especially for the most well-known dances.

  He catches a glimpse of someone, a woman sitting at the back of the hall, with the same hair colour as Christine. He can’t quite see her face. When he is drunk, thoughts have a habit of intruding like this. As he plays, he pictures Christine, the first time she arrived in town from Edinburgh. He saw her buying a box of oats at the local grocer’s with a west coast accent. The summer was cool and bright, and she was hardy enough to wear a green spaghetti-strap vest. His attention was caught by a Celtic band tattooed at the top of her pale arm. He was freshly tattooed himself: an intricate cross on his left shoulder blade. Her dark-blonde hair was dyed with henna and in a complicated braid. Later, she liked to wear it in two plaits. He used to call her Minnie the Minx because it annoyed her.

  Niall keeps drinking for most of the night and before the final dance, Orcadian Strip the Willow, he staggers up to the back of the hall, but can’t find the woman among the seats. Feeling sheepish, he makes his way along a winding corridor to the posh guest toilets to piss and swig the last of the whisky from his hip flask.

  Leaning against an empty cubicle, he remembers that when he met Christine in the grocer’s in Strath Horne, she was wearing a long black skirt and her necklace with the purple stone, but these details could easily be inventions of his imagination. He said hello quietly to her as she was leaving. When she turned towards him he saw how truly beautiful she was and how she was some years younger. Eighteen. She looked at him suspiciously, her head only reaching his shoulder. He noticed he was standing too close to her and stepped away. In the castle bathroom he shakes his head and washes his hands.

  When he finds his way back, he cranes his neck again, towards the seats, but they are empty. The one hundred or so guests have formed a single line of men and women facing each other. He still feels a dizzying strangeness but jumps back on stage to play with the rest of the band. As the crowd begins to turn and weave, a headache makes its way up his skull like a web. He looks around the room. Some people have become sloppy in their dancing, nearly spinning over and falling into each other, leaning too close, their heads back, misjudging their steps. His stomach lurches. He sees the younger group standing at the beginning of the line, whooping exaggeratedly as if the whole night is a joke. A young man with curly hair is keeping his partner close, trying to hold her gaze. She looks over her shoulder and slips out of his arms, as the dance demands, to spin with another man before returning to him. Niall’s arms feel heavy. He notices a figure again, at the back of the room. Someone is sitting in a chair by the door, watching, but he can’t make her out properly in the crowd. Sweat grows cold at the nape of Niall’s neck and he concentrates on playing as best he can, but still his stomach roils as his arms and hands work without thinking.

  Another memory drifts back to him. A strange one, this time. A bath awash with blood. Bloodstains in the sink. Teeth. He tries to recall if he was in a fight at some point. Concussion. His nausea grows. He remembers washing someone’s hair in the bath. A woman’s long hair, dark with the water, flipped forward over her face. Blood in the bath. Teeth in the sink.

  He has stopped playing the guitar. Sandy is looking at him, most of the men are. He tries to carry on and keep his balance. As the last song nears an end, he makes his way off stage again. He snakes around the edge of the dancers to the nearby staff toilet. He looks back, squinting, and sees it is Catriona sitting at the back of the hall. He has not noticed her dancing all night. He pushes himself into the stinking cubicle and hurls up vomit. He takes a mouthful of water from the grubby sink and spits, then wipes his face with his sleeve. He pushes his way out again, taking one last look around the main hall. The final chord has just rung out and the dancers are breathless. He makes for the back door and sharp air. The stars are clean, hard chunks of light and he starts to feel better. A heavy hand smacks his shoulder. Malcolm.

  ‘You all right there, our man of the hour?’

  ‘Aye, I’m fine.’

  ‘Fantastic music this evening. Angela and I had a whale of a time, really fantastic.’

  Niall nods. ‘Glad to hear it!’

  ‘Did Lauren let you know? She’s over at ours. Best place for her, really.’

  ‘Oh, right, no. She didn’t tell me.’ His mouth is tight. His head has cleared. It’s the last time he’s asking Ann-Marie to babysit. He takes out his phone for the first time that evening and tries to hide his embarrassment with a laugh. ‘I tell a lie. She’s just starting to use this mobile I gave her.’ Malcolm is not getting the better of him.

  ‘Well, makes sense for us to get you home then. We can pick up your car in the morning.’ They walk back into the hall.

  ‘No, I’m fine actually.’

  ‘We’d really rather …’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  Malcolm moves his hand back from Niall’s shoulder as if he has touched a stove. The guests are dispersing and the castle staff are clearing glasses and stacking the velvet-backed chairs around them. Aileen snuffs out the white candles in the alcoves.

  ‘Well. Niall. It’s nearly two o’clock; I have to insist. Angela’s taking one for the team, as they say, staying away from the strong stuff, being the chauffeur tonight. Now, there’s a man who looks like he owes you something.’

  Sandy is gesturing to him by the stage and Niall goes over. He has almost forgotten he needs to be paid. It comes in a white envelope, a tiny £60 scribbled in the corner.

  ‘Now,’ says Sandy, ‘I can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘Cheers,’ says Niall, ‘appreciate it.’ It is less than he was expecting.

  ‘You all right there?’ asks Sandy.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You had to make a quick exit?’

  ‘Yeah, I dunno, I wasn’t feeling too great.’

  ‘No bother. Make sure you do something nice with Lauren, eh?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Niall swings his guitar on his back.

  ‘Lauren deserves something nice—’

  ‘She’s only ten.’

  ‘Aye, sure. I took my niece to Waltzing Waters the other month. She loved it.’

  ‘Oh right. Waltzing Waters. Uh-huh. I have bills to pay for her, you know.’

  ‘Just a thought, pal. Do whatever you want.’ He looks at the hip flask sticking out of Niall’s shirt pocket.

  Niall puts his hand on Sandy’s shoulder and looks unblinkingly into his grey eyes. ‘No, you’re right. I’m no the best father.’

  Sandy grins up to the ceiling. ‘I wasn’t saying that, Niall.’

  Niall turns, shaking him off. A woman winds out of his way. Too late, he realizes it was Catriona. ‘Well. I’m not. Don’t—’

  Sandy pulls him back, yanking his arm hard, to speak in his ear. ‘Dinna gie us that. I know you’ve bills, Niall.’

  The sound of his own name is irritating. ‘Get aff me, man.’ He is relieved that Catriona and any other young women in the room have disappeared.

 
Sandy’s voice is heavy with self-importance. ‘Thanks for doing me a favour. Now, you going to be OK getting back? I’m putting you in the car with Malcolm Walker.’

  In the nursery, Lauren hears a low sound that crawls into her sleep: heavy tyres on gravel. Then there’s Angela’s soft voice downstairs and her father, louder and less controlled. Malcolm’s voice rises in a question. Her father answers against the groan of the stairs. The nursery door opens and he lifts her in his arms. ‘Stay sleeping,’ he says, his voice heavy with alcohol. ‘Stay sleeping.’ He carries her downstairs on unsteady feet, through the back door, the air changing from old furniture to the burnt wood, to night air. He whispers to another person, ‘Don’t worry about it. No, no.’ But they get into a car that smells of carpet cleaner. It moves smoothly. She half opens her eyes and sees lights. The car stops and they are outside again, with a thud of the door. Her father whispers something harshly. Angela’s voice is too low to make out. Lauren feels Niall’s waterproof coat as he carries her into the house and up the stairs. The smell of her old blankets. A sense of disappointment. She hears her father slam the door to go back outside. The air is faintly fetid. She goes to the window to open it and sees him sitting on the low wall in the bitter cold, a bright ember from his cigarette falling into ash.

  In the small hours, Lauren is restless in the dark. She hears the beating of wings close to her bedroom window. She winds the corner of her woollen blanket tightly around her fist. The worry dolls are asleep now, under the pillow. Each one knows a secret question. She thinks of the girls in the cloakroom and the way they know something too. The dog with the leg. Whose leg? A man up in the woods. She imagines the girls’ mothers knowing her mother in a way she does not. She is trying to grasp at something she doesn’t even know the shape of. Did her mother fall out with her father? Did she run away because she didn’t like him and his music and his drinking? Sometimes, when she is lonely, part of her wishes her mother had taken her with her, to somewhere exciting. She imagines her in a vintage sports car or drinking cocktails at a party held in her honour, somewhere in a city.

  She hears the loud fluttering again, by the window, but when she looks out there is nothing but the night sky. The moon is as big and white as an empty dinner plate. Outside in the garden she sees large birds perched on the fence posts. The silhouettes of buzzards, a white barn owl, rooks. There are shapes moving on the lawn, little animals, pine martens and stoats chasing each other in circles by the herb garden. She looks over to her left and sees a fox, its ears facing forward. Another appears and Lauren is rooted by the window, watching.

  Sometimes another feeling creeps up her spine like fingers. She has seen the looks children give her at school, the way some keep a wide berth. She hears about birthday parties the day after they happen. She can feel the rumours invisible around her in the playground, like text messages travelling from one kid to another. Once someone asked if it was true that her house was haunted. Another asked her if her dad had spent time in prison.

  When Niall wakes he spends a few moments trying to remember where he is. The room feels damp. It is November dark. He can see a white beam shine over the patterned fabric of the curtains. The sound of a giant vehicle. A snow plough perhaps, or a long-distance lorry. It’s colder than usual this year. There is a softer glow coming from the streetlamp in the road and the luminous green of his alarm clock. He turns and sees the outline of a body next to him. A hump in the duvet like a small range of mountains. Above, on the pillow next to his, he makes out the curve of an arm, lying still in the deep grey. He squints at a river of hair on the pillow. A faint, calm smell, a familiar smell. Honeysuckle. Long, long hair he wants to touch. He reaches out but his hand feels the cotton of the pillowslip. He sits up and pats around in the dark, touching nothing but bedding. He stretches his leg out to the empty mattress.

  He feels a kiss on his neck. Two cool hands of another person over his eyes, arms reaching from behind. Slim, soft fingers. The chill of a ring next to his eyelid. Another kiss, warm breath, hair brushing his neck. The back of his T-shirt creeps up and a cold draught touches his bare skin. He stays very still. More kisses on his rigid back, now slick with sweat. She is kissing his tattoos. A hand on the hollowed middle of his spine.

  He tries to turn around but hands push him down lightly on to the bed. The faint shape of long hair is hanging over him. He can smell her. He knows.

  Her breath tickles the crook of his neck and shoulder as he turns on to his side. There is the sensation of her unclothed body against his. Then the body shifts away. He turns violently and kicks the duvet to the floor. He smooths his hands over the sheet. He kneels. He presses his head against the mattress. He begins to weep. Another light in the road passes.

  10

  When Niall arrives at Catriona’s that morning, he lifts a corner of the old flagstone along the side of the garden wall and cannot find the spare key. He flips over the whole stone, which has now rounded at the edges with time. The wet soil underneath is bare, except for two pink earthworms and a cluster of ants. He walks back over the grass, noticing it has been left to grow untended. He rings the doorbell.

  After a few minutes he decides to text Catriona, but she opens the door as he is tapping out a message.

  ‘Hi, Niall,’ Catriona says, her voice thick. She is wearing a grey waffle robe and her hair is swept back under a wide band of cloth. ‘I’m not feeling well today.’ She hugs herself in the draught of the doorway and turns back towards the stairs.

  ‘Heavy night at the ceilidh?’ he mutters.

  ‘What’s that? I’m all stuffed up.’

  ‘I was just wondering,’ he says, ‘are you wanting a cup of tea or something?’

  ‘No, no, thanks, I’m fine.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you’re awful peely-wally,’ he says gently. He hopes this will sound charming, caring. She looks in need of something hot, the peppermint she likes. ‘Are you sure?’

  She pinches the bridge of her nose and nods. Her eyes are swollen and her lips cracked, but she’s still beautiful. He remembers the way she was watching the band and that maybe she doesn’t think so badly of him after all. He hopes he didn’t look too strange, stumbling off stage.

  As she creaks up the stairs, Niall is left on his own in the kitchen. He stands for a moment among the clean white walls and polished chrome. The guilt from his last visit is making his stomach ache. He needs to explain somehow. He’s been thinking it over. He carefully fills the enamel kettle with water and finds the right cupboard for the mugs, which he sets down as quietly as he can on the shining counter.

  Carrying one mug, he calls her name from the hallway. The walls are still bare and new. He wonders what she might hang on them, old photographs or maps he thinks, rather than paintings. Spending time decorating people’s houses has given him some idea of these things. Sunlight shines through a stained-glass door panel. It is an unusual piece of glasswork that apparently dates back to 1905, when the farmhouse was built.

  The second time he calls Catriona’s name, he hears nothing, so he takes the stairs, slowly, listening. The landing is sunnier than the hallway. He stops at the five doors in front of him and listens again. There is a low murmur behind one and he knocks and opens a bedroom door gently. The sun is dimly shining through a yellow curtain.

  Catriona is fast asleep, her mouth slightly open. Niall looks down at his heavy work boots, grey with dust and paint, on the oatmeal carpet. He moves quietly over to one side of the copper-framed bed and places the peppermint tea in its new white mug on the bedside table, next to yellow tulips. A slim phone lies on the double bed’s empty pillow like a surrogate partner. There is a MacBook at the end of the puffy bedspread, playing an American drama. Catriona’s frame looks small and childlike as she lies in a foetal position under the bedclothes. He stands watching her chest rise up and down. She isn’t wearing a bra under her pyjama T-shirt. An acoustic guitar is propped in the corner, surprising him, and a pair of shiny heels have bee
n kicked off by the large mirrored wardrobe. He can’t remember if she was wearing them last night.

  He hears a rustle as Catriona turns her head towards him and her face changes into fear and panic. ‘Niall …’

  ‘No, no, don’t worry at all,’ he whispers, starting to walk out of the door. ‘I just wanted to say sorry. The thing is …’

  She takes a deep breath.

  ‘The thing is …’

  ‘Please. Please leave me alone.’ Her voice is distant and rough. They stare at each other for a moment.

  ‘Hope you like the tea,’ he mutters under his breath as he leaves.

  11

  The next day, when Niall is driving home from Catriona’s, he remembers his conversation with Sandy. Of course he knows that Lauren deserves something good. Especially now he knows things aren’t right at school. ‘Slick bastard,’ he says to himself. He didn’t even know Sandy had a niece, but he imagines them now, on their happy family trip out. His thoughts are interrupted by the drama of the landscape that surrounds him at this particular part of the road. He can’t help but marvel at the tawny expanse of forest and hill, rising on either side for miles. He reaches the top of the hill near their village and slows the pickup, looking out at the mossy green patchwork of the land, the silver loop of the burn, the red herd of grazing deer and the burnt-orange bracken. In these rare moments he feels godly.

  As he makes his way down the hill, the feeling channels out of him and he becomes an ordinary man, who has a daughter. He doesn’t often appreciate how lucky he really is to have a daughter. He doesn’t like to think it, but one day she’ll leave him. He wants to make her something special. A homemade pie. The kind of pie Desperate Dan might eat, with two horns sticking out of the pastry.