A Pinch of Salt

by Eileen Ramsay

  The introductions were so fast that she assimilated very little. Anne was out of the same drawer as Ruaridh but, like him, warm and friendly. Gairn was like his name, rough and strong, a woolly bear. She wished she could stay but she was outside and they were already deeply involved in one another.

  She hurried across Princes Street to her bus stop and then the miracle happened. He was running after her, yelling, ‘Where do you live?’ as the bus pulled away and she was yelling back and inside her stomach butterflies were exploding and she felt she would never, ever again feel so happy as she waved to him as he stood, oblivious of traffic, in the middle of the street.

  Had there ever been a more beautiful spring? Not in Holly’s memory. Almost every Saturday Gairn’s solid old Citroën drew up outside her residence and she squeezed in beside Ruaridh and Anne and sometimes even one or two others and off they went to the nearby Pentland Hills to walk.

  Here, near Edinburgh, Holly experienced the same joys in walking that her grandmother had enjoyed almost fifty years before; she revelled in the health of her strong young body which allowed her to keep pace with Ruaridh’s long strides and to throw herself down – not in the least out of breath – on the moors beside him while they waited for Anne.

  ‘It’s exhilarating,’ she said.

  ‘Have the decency to pech a little!’ teased Gairn when he and Anne finally caught up with them. Gairn was indestructible and could easily have beaten even Ruaridh to the summit, but it was always Gairn who waited for any stragglers and Anne was always a straggler.

  ‘I fail to see what pleasure you get out of these walks, Ruaridh,’ Anne complained petulantly. ‘You walk too fast to see anything.’

  Ruaridh merely smiled at her and went on chewing grass and Holly saw the smile and decided that it was the most beautiful smile she had ever seen.

  Then Ruaridh took his flute out of his knapsack and he played while Anne and Holly and any other girl who was with them prepared their picnic. Sometimes, as she lay on the warm grass listening to the mellow tones of the flute, the happiness welled up inside her and she felt that she could not possibly be any more content. This was life; this was living.

  ‘He should become a professional,’ she murmured to Gairn who lay beside her.

  ‘A Granville, my dear!’ drawled Gairn in a poor imitation of Ruaridh’s polished tones. ‘Big brother wouldn’t even let him be in the British Youth Orchestra.’

  ‘Big brother?’ He of the expensive, dark-green car.

  ‘Ask Ruaridh if you want to know anything but his brother brought him up and he holds the purse strings and Ruaridh does exactly what he’s told.’

  A cloud went over the sun and they were reminded that it was still quite early in the year and time for them to go.

  Ruaridh never mentioned his brother; they had never been alone together after that one time in The Chocolate House. Holly’s friends from the hostel teased her about her gorgeous boyfriend but that was hardly the case. He was male and he was a friend. Ergo he was a boyfriend but not in the way the girls meant. They were all friends; Anne and Gairn and Ruaridh and now Holly and others who were not so involved in the triumverate.

  Yes, that’s what it is, Holly thought despondently, a triumverate, and I’m a fourth, allowed so far into the sacred, inner circle but no farther.

  Gairn was like her, not like them, Anne and Ruaridh, and he was admitted and so would she be and why not? She started going to the Friday night concerts at the Usher Hall, cheapest seats, but everybody was poor and sat in the gods, and some nights Anne was engaged elsewhere and Holly sat with the prince of the fairytales on one side and the practical, dependable farmer’s son on the other and fell in love with Sibelius.

  It was the done thing, of course. Alexander Gibson, newly arrived from the Royal Ballet, loved Sibelius and so everyone in that magic circle breathed and ate Sibelius too. Holly would be glad later. Because of Ruaridh, she, who had never heard classical music, who had never, ever been near a concert hall, began a life-long affair with great music. Slavishly she listened to Ruaridh and she was lucky for he had had excellent training and had superb taste. ‘Brahms will be played in Heaven,’ he said and Holly was only too ready to agree with him.

  Her spring term results were hardly better than her winter ones. Again, Kate made no comment, but Holly sat in her room and studied and, in the summer term, she worked. They all did. Books replaced the flute, and study sessions replaced the Friday-night concerts. They sat in the Chaplaincy Centre at the university and Holly, Gairn and Anne studied while Ruaridh changed the records on the old machine. Mozart’s flute and harp concerto became Holly’s favourite piece of classical music.

  What are you doing during the hols? That was the most-asked question. Holly wanted to work. It never occurred to her to ask Kate for a job at the bakery which had not yet been sold.

  The choices boiled down to hotel work or looking after children. Holly knew less than nothing about children. Could she possibly convince prospective employers that she would adore their horrible brats? To try to do so seemed the lesser of two evils. She bought The Lady and read the wanted ads. Some sounded quite good.

  ‘Look at this one,’ she told her friends as they lounged at lunchtime in the Students’ Union, listening to records and drinking coffee. ‘  “Delightful country cottage in exchange for occasional care of three delightful children. Professional parents in town weekdays. You would be in complete charge. Other help kept.” ’

  ‘Three children; they may all be toddlers,’ said Anne.

  ‘Or worse, they could be teenagers,’ suggested Ruaridh.

  ‘But I’d have my own “delightful country cottage” . . .’ began Holly.

  ‘A hovel . . . that leaks . . . woodworm, rising damp and little you would be in sole charge of the brats while Mama and Papa swan around London all week?’ This from Gairn.

  ‘There would be other help.’

  ‘You must be joking. What do you think, Ruaridh? You’re the only one of us with experience of nannies and all that.’

  ‘Don’t apply. I was a holy terror and there was only one of me. When Charles went away I gave the help a terrible time.’

  ‘But I really feel I need to work. Work is good for the soul.’

  ‘Come and spend the summer with me,’ smiled Ruaridh, ‘if you don’t mind an all-male household . . .’ He sat up, suddenly alert. ‘You could marry Charles. I’ve been trying to marry him off for years.’

  The words, uttered in jest, shot through Holly like a physical pain. Marry Charles. Suddenly, painfully, sweetly, she knew whom she wanted to marry. She managed to recover. ‘Well, thank you I’m sure, but I want to work. I want to gain all kinds of experience. There was a nanny wanted with an army family in Germany; I would love to go abroad.’

  ‘Then go to France and pick grapes,’ said Gairn. ‘I was going to work on a farm there but my dad thinks it will be better if I work with him; sensible and cheaper, not so much fun. I’ll bring you all the information, Holly. It’s an international students’ organization that arranges jobs in vineyards, farms, on digs . . . you name it, they can organize it.’

  ‘What about your grandparents, Holly,’ asked Anne. ‘Won’t they miss you?’

  ‘They’re practically newlyweds; I’m a bit in the way. I shall go to La Belle France and make glorious wine.’

  And so Holly went to France and looked for traces of French heroes she had met in books in a vineyard in the south of France. D. K. Broster had introduced her to doomed but heroic lace-clad aristos and she looked for them in vain in the faces of the French farmers.

  And in Auchenbeath her grandmother relaxed in her love for Ian Robertson but watched the post for occasional cards from her grand-daughter.

  ‘She didn’t want to come home, Ian,’ she sighed, ‘not even for a little while.’

  ‘Neither did I when I was at medical school, Kate,’ lied Ian. ‘Young people want to travel, to meet others, to find what they cal
l life. They go home when they need a hot bath; when they run out of money.’

  ‘Holly won’t . . . run out of money, I mean. She’s very careful. Two more years and she’ll graduate and I’ll lose her completely. I’ve failed again. First with my children and now with my grand-daughter.’

  ‘Holly needs you, Kate. I think she even loves you. She may not know it yet. Deep down she is aware that you are there and one day she’ll need you and come running home.’

  Kate allowed herself to be soothed. Was he right? Would Holly ever need her?

  ‘I think I’ll sell the bakery. If Holly comes home at Christmas we could look forward to buying a new house together.’

  ‘Or building one. I like the idea of building something brand new out of the ashes of the past. It could be our retirement project, Mrs Robertson.’

  Kate looked at him in surprise. Retire? She had never really considered age but, of course, the time had come to hand over to younger people.

  ‘How silly I’ve been, Ian. Why I have hung on to this place . . .? Habit, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ll talk to my partners tomorrow; lots of new people around looking for practices.’

  ‘And I’ll put this place on the market.’

  The decision was made. She would not change her mind. The years that were left; and surely they could not be many, would be devoted to Ian . . . and Holly, if she’ll let me.

  29

  I’M A DIFFERENT person returning to university, Holly told herself on the ferry to Dover. Holly Inglis has worked in a foreign country, has learned a foreign language, well, more or less, has ‘done’ Paris, and has even flirted with other men. She had been surprised at how easy that had been. The camps had been full of eager young men from other countries, Holly had even joined a mixed party of students who had gone together to Paris. There she had wondered at the magnificent buildings, filled her heart and mind with the paintings in the Louvre, drunk wonderful, cheap wine at pavement cafes and listened with tolerance, and some amusement, to at least three protestations of undying love.

  How could one possibly fall in love with someone in less than a month? Had the new, sophisticated Holly Inglis forgotten how long it had taken her to fall in love with Ruaridh? She had fallen in love with him that first day in the library and stayed in love with someone she had no reason to feel she would ever see again. That was different, she told herself.

  She laughed to herself, a warm low chuckle that made two elderly gentlemen walking the deck look at her and smile at her rosy cheeks and bright eyes and wish they were forty years younger. As if she could read their thoughts, Holly smiled at them, a smile that said that she was young and healthy and in love with life.

  They helped her off the ferry with her suitcases and her parcels with gifts for everyone. She had a blue silk scarf, the most expensive of the presents she had bought, for her grandmother and a bottle of wine for Ian. For Grace there was the most expensive bra she could find; a delicious confection of lace and fake pearls which, she had decided, she could give her only when they were alone. For Grace’s father she had French cheese and for Mrs Patterson a scarf with the Eiffel Tower emblazoned on it.

  It was a lovely home-coming. They loved their gifts. Dear Grace laughed about the bra.

  ‘I’ll never be able to wear it, Holly. Can you imagine hanging anything so decadent out on the line?’

  ‘Yes I can, but it’d be pinched and we’d have great fun trying to work out which pillar of the kirk was wearing it.’

  ‘Or which wee holy Roman.’

  ‘Mrs Wilson.’

  They collapsed with laughter at the thought of such a formidable bosom inside that scrap of lace and were called to order by Grace’s mother. ‘Will you two ever grow up?’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Grace’s father.

  Holly had not giggled and laughed over her presents to her grandparent. They had met her at the station, Ian wisely standing back to allow Kate to greet her grand-daughter alone.

  ‘You look different, Holly,’ she said truthfully. There was a glow about the girl.

  ‘I’m a traveller, Granny Kate. Travel changes people.’

  So does love, thought Kate, and she asked Holly if she had met anyone nice in France. Holly rattled off the names and nationalities of a dozen people who were nice, but it was obvious that she was not in love with any one of them.

  The glow became almost a light when Holly spoke with pleasure of returning to the university.

  ‘It’ll be so different this year. I’m not afraid of the big city or of the lecturers. I sent cards to all my friends; I can hardly wait to see them.’

  Kate watched her face. Oh, Holly, my dear, she thought. You’re so transparent. It’s a him you’re thinking of, not them, and I hope and pray he feels the same way about you.

  ‘Will we see you at mid-term, Holly? It would be fun to look for a new house together.’ She saw the shadow of doubt on Holly’s face and babbled, ‘Or we could come to Edinburgh and do some touring from there. Let us know what you would like.’

  ‘I’m not sure, Gran. Things come up . . .’ She stopped.

  ‘We’re here, Holly,’ said Kate. ‘We’ll always be here. Bring your friends . . . whatever.’ She could say no more. She could only hope that Holly understood.

  Holly could hardly wait until it was time to return to Edinburgh. She went as far as Thornill on the bus with Grace, who was going on to Dumfries to start work at the Royal Infirmary.

  ‘I’ll come up to Edinburgh my first weekend off,’ Grace promised, ‘and see how wonderful Scotia’s capital is – or maybe it’s the men in Edinburgh who make it such a fab place.’

  Holly smiled. ‘Come up to see the sights in all their glory, Grace,’ was all she said. She was still smiling when the Edinburgh bus arrived but never, it seemed, had the bus crawled so slowly up through the hills. She was going back to Edinburgh. Happiness swelled inside her so that she felt it must burst out of her and be obvious to everyone on the bus. She had done it; she had passed her exams . . . the butterflies in her stomach made her giggle. Oh, God, how could she explain her behaviour? Please God, don’t let anyone look at me because I’m so happy and excited that I feel that I could fly to Edinburgh all by myself. She giggled again and got a disparaging look from the matron across the aisle but Holly was unaware of the overt disapproval because . . . Oh, Holly, at least admit it to yourself, it’s Ruaridh. Ruaridh, Ruaridh, this year would be different. Surely their friendship would develop this year; they would be an acknowledged pair, not just part of the group; Anne, Gairn, Ruaridh, and Holly. It would be Holly and Ruaridh, Ruaridh and Holly.

  The bus rolled along in time to the names and at last they were pulling in to St Andrew’s Square. She felt like the heroine going on to the stage for the final act. It was going to be wonderful. Life was wonderful and every day it was going to get better and better.

  There was a card in Anne’s handwriting, waiting; ‘S.N.O. concert, Friday. Then Chocolate House. Luv Us.’ Holly refused to yield to the tiny feeling of disappointment that the card was not from Ruaridh and that there was no talk of meeting for five whole days. It was the beginning of term, of course. Everyone was much too busy. Well she would be busy too.

  And she managed . . . almost. She found herself visiting the central library, not to borrow a book or to do research although she pretended to do both, hoping to bump into Ruaridh.

  Oh, how gutless I am. If he doesn’t want to see me until Friday I shouldn’t chase him.

  But she couldn’t stop. She had no self-respect. She hated herself; she castigated herself; no man was worth this; yet every day she just happened to find herself near the library.

  Thursday night. It was raining, and, as usual, Holly had forgotten to put a hat or scarf in her bag. The rain dripped down her neck, her hair was plastered to the sides of her head and drips of water hung from her ears – not her best feature – and her nose. She had almost forgotten Ruaridh; she needed to get inside
that beautiful building where it was warm and dry.

  She rushed up the steps and bumped into a man who was just coming out.

  ‘Holly. How wonderful.’ He sounded delighted to see her. Surely he couldn’t pretend such evident pleasure. ‘Must you use the library?’ he asked. ‘I was going to the catacombs for a coffee. Come with me. I’m dying to hear all about your holiday.’

  He took it for granted that she would comply and she couldn’t have denied him even if she had wanted to. Clinging tightly to his arm, she skipped along beside him in the rain and suddenly it was true, all that nonsense in the songs about the sun shining even when it was pouring or snowing and being unaware of cold or rain; it was all so gloriously, wonderfully true. He looked down into her shining eyes and, for the first time, he saw that she was beautiful.

  The catacombs was fairly quiet and they were able to find a table where they could sit and talk. How many cups of coffee did they drink? Holly couldn’t remember. They talked about the holiday, the ‘vac’, Ruaridh called it. He didn’t elaborate on his experiences.

  ‘The usual . . . family and all that . . . we do the same things year after year, quite predictable. I would never have dreamed of going off picking grapes.’

  ‘It seemed more exciting and a better use of time than working in a hotel. Perhaps you should have had a job?’

  He flushed slightly. ‘I’ve never done a job of work in my life . . . quite useless, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No point in working if you don’t have to . . . keeps someone out of a job who needs it. Gairn worked for his father, I remember, and Anne . . .?’

  ‘The Mediterranean part of the time. Holly, you look different.’

  ‘It’s my mascara; it must be all over my face.’

  He took out a clean, folded linen handkerchief. Holly noticed that there was a tiny yet flamboyant R embroidered by hand on one corner. He gently wiped the mascara and rain from her face.

  ‘Funny little Holly,’ he said gently. ‘No, it’s not the warpaint. Have you done something absolutely dreadful . . . like grow up?’