by Iain Banks
A muffled voice, then Grandma Win saying, ‘Of course, dear. Would you? Oh, just a little bit of everything. And a refill, if you would. Graeme; come and sit here. Where’s Kennard? Fabiole, dear, see if you can find Kennard, would you? Lauren, you’re an absolute dear, but would you sit over there? I’d like to talk to Kennard, and you know he does talk so softly, and that is my good side. Thank you; bless you, dear.’
He knows he really ought to wait here and see if he hears anything about Sophie, but he doesn’t know that he dares. If he’s discovered, they’re bound to blame him. If he goes now he might get an odd look or two, but he should be okay because they’ve all only just sat down. If he waits, then it’s going to be obvious even though he was here first that he chose to stay to listen to what people are saying. And sooner or later his mum and dad are going to wonder where he is and start looking for him, maybe calling for him. That’ll just be too awkward.
He had worried about being treated like some sort of freak or leper because of what had happened with Sophie, but so far everything seems normal. Well, as normal as these family get-togethers ever got. He’d had nightmares about entering a room like this in front of everybody and the whole place going silent as they all looked at him, appalled - he’d assumed - that he’d had the nerve to turn up after the disgraceful under-age deflowering of his cousin. Then he’d look down and realise they were staring at him because he was completely naked. Then he’d wake up.
In the end, though - back in boring reality - nobody seemed to be reacting any differently towards him apart from James and Clara. Maybe it had all been hushed up, like the government did with awkward stuff. He supposed, being honest with himself, that suited all of them, including him.
Anyway, he needs a pee; too much lemonade.
He sort of nudges his behind backwards, against the top of the chair-back through the curtain.
‘Oh! Who’s that?’ Grandma Win says. ‘There’s somebody there!’ he hears her say to the others.
He steps round the curtain. ‘Hi, Grandma.’ He feels himself going red.
‘Alban!’ Grandma Win says cheerfully, putting out her hand to him. She is dressed in dark lilac and wears a wide hat the same colour. There’s a group of family ranged around her, all nodding, saying hello. ‘And what were you doing there, young man?’ Grandma Win says, smiling up at him and taking hold of his hand, ‘Trying to escape? Eh? Planning a getaway?’
‘No, I was just—’
‘And how are you, young man? You’re looking very well. What a lovely suit. And are you sticking in at school? I hear very good reports, academically.’
‘I’m fine,’ he says, not sure what to answer, or even whether.
‘I’m very glad to hear it, Alban,’ Grandma Win says, patting the hand she is holding with her free hand. ‘Oh, I can see you’re going to break a few hearts before you’re done! Isn’t he, Lauren?’
‘Bound to,’ Aunt Lauren agrees, lighting up a cigarette.
‘Oh, Lauren, please,’ Grandma Win says, with a sorrowful smile.
‘I’m sorry,’ Aunt Lauren says. ‘Forgot.’ She stubs the cigarette out in a little round ashtray she keeps in her handbag.
‘Now, Alban,’ Grandma Win says, ‘I hope you’ll have a dance with your old gran this evening. Will you? That won’t be too terrible for you, will it?’
A dance? Is she mad? ‘Of course, Grandma,’ he says.
‘Good lad. I can see you’re going to be a very nice young man. Now, I’d better let you go, or people will talk, don’t you think?’ She giggles like a girl and lets go of his hand. He smiles awkwardly and turns to go. ‘Oh, Alban?’ she says.
He turns back. ‘Yes, Grandma?’
‘Fabiole seems to have disappeared. Would you be a darling and bring me a glass of champagne?’
‘Of course, Grandma.’
‘You are so sweet! And - please - do call me Win.’
‘Okay, Win.’
‘You’re an absolute darling.’
Even in their heels, he realises, he is taller than most of the female relatives he has to dance with after dinner.
Grandma Win insists on her dance. She has changed, wearing a gauzy red dress now. She smells of lilies. Her eyes are about level with his chin.
‘And how are you really, Alban?’ she asks him.
‘Really, Win?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I am,’ he begins. ‘I’m fine.’
‘So, you’re over your little pash, are you?’
It takes him a moment to realise what she’s talking about. A little pash? He feels like stepping on one of the old cow’s feet. He hesitates, not sure what to say. He’s worried that he might break down and start crying if he talks about Sophie, especially to Grandma Win.
‘Alban, dear,’ Win says quietly as they dance, ‘you have to realise that I always try to do what’s best for the family. I don’t do things for myself, or even for Bert. It’s all for this family. That’s been my role. It might seem old-fashioned nowadays, but it’s what I believe in. I know you must blame me for what happened at Lydcombe, but - oh dear, there really is no other way of saying this - it is for your own good. Can you see that? Are you mature enough to understand that?’ They look into each other’s eyes at that point. She seems small and frail, but he feels like he’s dancing with a flick knife wrapped in a lace hanky. He wants to shiver. ‘No, you must hate me for that too, I dare say,’ she says, looking over his shoulder again. ‘But never mind. I know I hated being told that sort of thing. Everybody does. And of course it’s even more annoying when it’s true and it honestly is for your own good. Sometimes you just have no choice but to trust your elders.’ They dance on a little further. He prays for the tune to end. ‘So, are you all right, Alban?’
Of course he’s not all right. How can he ever be all right without Sophie, without even knowing where she is? ‘I’ll be fine, Win,’ he says.
‘And are you over it?’ Her voice is quite soft.
‘I will be fine, please believe me,’ he tells her. He means, I’ll be fine when I can get back in touch with Sophie, and even more fine when we’re together again, for ever this time. He is not going to say more, he is not going to deny Sophie, deny his love for her, or say anything that is actually a lie.
‘Good,’ Win says. ‘Well, please believe me, I do hope that you are and you will be.’ She stops dancing and takes her hands from his hand and his shoulder. ‘And now you’d best see me back to my seat, I think. If you’d be so kind.’
He remembers to thank her for the dance.
He dances with Tessa the bride. She’s nineteen; only three years older than he is. She’s petite, curvy and blonde and, frankly, he fancies her. He gets an erection when he dances with her, but keeps it out of the way so that she doesn’t notice. She’s dancing with everybody, and just glows and smiles and seems to be having a great time.
He has to dance with Leah, too, who is tipsy and giggles a lot. It’s just embarrassing.
There are some very pretty girls and at least one stunning brides-maid from Tessa’s side of the family he wouldn’t mind dancing with. There’s supposed to be a disco later, with proper records rather than this rubbish band; he’ll wait till then to start asking girls to dance. He’s had two glasses of wine - Andy knows about one, Leah about the other - but he’s not really affected much at all. He feels a little merry, if that’s the right word, but nothing special. He thinks he’ll try for another glass at the bar in a minute.
He’s sitting at a table, taking a rest - his shoes are new and not all that comfortable, so it’s worth saving his feet for the disco later - when Aunt Lauren comes to sit with him, asking him how he is and if he’s enjoying himself. Aunt Lauren is about Andy’s age; a round, cuddly-looking woman with fuzzy brown hair and - usually - a taste for alarmingly stripy tights. This evening she’s more conventionally attired in a floaty peachy thing.
‘Darling,’ she says quietly, briefly touching his arm, ‘I did hear something ab
out you and young Sophie.’ She smiles tremulously.
She did? Who told her?
He says, ‘Oh?’
‘It must have been difficult for you, Alban. These things always are when you’re very young.’
‘D’you mind if I ask how did you find out, Aunt Lauren?’
‘Don’t worry.’ Aunt Lauren winks at him. ‘Nobody else knows.’ She leans in closer. ‘And not everybody knows that I know.’ She smells of cigarettes and perfume. ‘But I thought you should.’
‘Right.’
‘Were you very serious, the two of you?’
‘Yes,’ he tells her. He can’t help feeling she’s going to slap him in a minute, or burst out laughing, but she seems to be serious so he treats her the same way. ‘Yes, we were.’
‘Was it terribly romantic? Was it?’
‘It was—’ He feels embarrassed, looks down. ‘It was . . . it was beautiful, Aunt Lauren,’ he tells her, looking up at her, feeling terribly vulnerable, already preparing to be stoical and unflinching if she does now laugh at him, or tell him not to be so stupid, it’s just puppy love, a silly infatuation.
Instead, she catches her breath, puts one hand to her peach-lipsticked mouth. ‘You poor, poor things.’ She shakes her head, her eyes shine and he worries that she’s about to start crying. ‘You loved her,’ she says, nodding.
‘Yes, of course.’ He keeps his voice calm, level.
She gives a trembly smile and reaches out, ruffling his hair. He manages not to flinch. ‘Oh! You’re so young! You poor things! Our own little Romeo and Juliet! You’re just children, but you grow up so fast nowadays.’
‘She’s in Spain now, I think,’ he says, not knowing what else to say.
Aunt Lauren takes her hand out of his hair. That’s a relief. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘Madrid. I know.’
She does, does she? He says, ‘Do you know whereabouts she is? I’d like to write to her but James and Clara won’t forward—’
‘Now, Alban, I’ve had to promise not to tell you where she is, I’m sorry. But she’s fine, I know I can tell you that.’
‘All I want to do is write to her, Aunt Lauren.’
‘I know, dear, I know. But I can’t give you her address. Actually, I don’t know her address. Not properly. I know where she is, but not its address.’ (He makes a mental note of that ‘its’.) She looks thoughtful. ‘I suppose it wouldn’t be difficult to find out. That should be possible. I suppose.’ She bites on the nail of her left small finger.
‘Could you do that?’ he asks.
This could be the way!
‘Well,’ she says, sounding uncertain.
‘Could you maybe forward my letters to her?’ he asks urgently, turning to her and leaning forward, keeping his voice down. There doesn’t seem to be anybody near enough to overhear. Most of them are up dancing. The music is quite loud, drowning out any other conversations and keeping theirs unheard by others. ‘That’s all I need, just to be able to write to her. Could you? Please? Please, Aunt Lauren.’
Aunt Lauren takes a breath and draws herself upright. ‘Yes. I could do that for you, Alban,’ she says. She nods. ‘I would love to do that for you. Yes, I would.’
‘Oh, Aunt—’
‘No, wait. You’d have to promise me you wouldn’t be trying to get her to do something her parents wouldn’t want. I mean like running off together or something equally silly. I couldn’t be party to something like that. You’d have to promise me that.’
‘All I want is to talk to her, to see her again.’
‘Well, that might happen one day, but you have to promise.’
‘I promise I won’t ask her to run off with me.’
‘Well, if you promise, all right.’
‘Thank you, Aunt Lauren. This means a lot to me.’
‘That’s quite all right. Now, you’ve got our address?’
‘Yes.’ He had the addresses of pretty much all the family; Andy and Leah were strict about thank-you letters.
‘Right then. Just send me what you want me to pass on to her. I can’t promise she’ll write back, of course. You do understand that?’
‘Of course, Aunt Lauren. Thank you. Thank you so much.’
‘Oh, you poor, lovely boy,’ she said, and held his face in both hands. He could smell the sweet perfume and cigarette smoke again. ‘Now, will you have one more dance with me?’
‘Aunt, I’d love to,’ he told her. He stood, grinning, and offered her his arm.
Serves Two: boil a kettle (about four cups of water should be enough). Then in a medium-sized bowl or other container big enough, make a double helping of instant mash. Me myself personally I’d always use proper Smash, so you’d pour the wee nuggety bit’s into the bowl first and then add the water, but obviously substitute types of instant are acceptable (usually this means putting the water in first - read the fucken packet). Add lump’s of marge, butter if you have it and use some milk to replace some of the water if desired. You can season the mash before-hand if prefered, salt and pepper before adding the water, so the one mixing with the fork does two jobs. Add Wooster sauce and Tomatoe sauce part way through mixing, again to taste, I like quite a lot.
At this point, if I’m in a proper kitchen rather than out camping, I’ll be adding the tin of baked beans cold, though you can have them heated up first in a wee pan. Anyway, add them now. Just your usual tin-size tin. Mix a bit. Now take a standard size tin of corned beef, dice and add to mixture. There are different schools of thought regarding whether to scrape the fat that you usually get round the top and corners of the beef off of it, but I advise it’s removing. Take care to mash the chunks of corned beef well into the mix with the fork, breaking apart any specially lumpy bits (also, if you happen to spot any bits of vein or artery or whatever those pale chewy bits are you sometimes get, at this point, hoick them out - better than discovering them wedged between your gnashers later. Add more chutney’s, pickle’s and such like to personal taste, always taking into account the proclivities of your fellow diner. For a festive touch, great some cheese over the top, (or just add a few slices if like me some basterts swiped your grater.) Microwave (only in a proper kitchen, obviously, unless they’ve invented camping microwaves I’ve no heard of!!!). Usually a couple of minutes does it.
Serve. One soup or desert spoon each should be all thats required.
Oh, sorry; name of dish: Slurry. So named by your man Alban, taking the pish as per usual.
Enjoy!
In the end he took it down the loch, trussed in a brown paper parcel tied with old, scratchy, hairy string. He’d wrapped it round a big boulder and had intended to let it sink in the deepest part of the loch, but then he’d changed his mind. He undid the package, took the boulder out and dropped it over the side of the boat into the black-brown water, watching its unsteady paleness disappear towards the cold depths within a couple of seconds.
The mountains stood tall on both sides of the long inland loch, greening with the new spring. The eastern peaks shone with the sinking sunlight, the western slopes were dark. A few high clouds spun slow across the sky, wisping pink as the sunset came gradually on. Moderating, gusting, the west wind brought a tang of ocean with it. He was about halfway down the loch, out of sight of the jetty at its head and the windows of the top floor of Garbadale House, out of sight of any habitation or road.
After he’d got rid of the boulder he tied the parcel back up again, then used the petrol out of the boat’s fuel can to soak it, holding the bundle over the side to try and avoid spilling the petrol and oil mixture inside the boat. The tipped boat rocked to and fro beneath him, waves slapping on the hull. Some of the fuel mixture hit the water, spreading almost instantly, producing shimmering rainbow colours across the part-calmed waves in the lee of the boat.
The fuel was cold where it touched his fingers. He washed one hand then the other in the icy waters of the loch, holding the dripping, stinking parcel through a loop of string on the top. Then he threw the package out, lobbing
it a metre or so from the boat. He brought out the container of windproof matches. He lit one and threw. The wind caught it and so it missed, fizzing out in the water just shy of the quarter-submerged package. He tried again, allowing for the wind. The match struck the package and bounced off and at first he thought it hadn’t worked, and so was preparing to strike another match, when he saw the flame on the top of the parcel suddenly show blue, then yellow.
The flames thickened and spread, quickly engulfing the package. The wind was pushing the boat closer to the little island of flame he’d created; he lifted an oar and pushed it further away. A lick of flame was left on the blade of the oar; he stuck it in the water, dousing it. Then he started the outboard, pulling on the starting lanyard a couple of times until the little two-stroke puttered into life. He sat down, put the engine into reverse and steered the boat a few more metres away from the burning package, then let the engine idle, out of gear, while he sat and watched the parcel burn.
It burned well, the paper and string blackening and disappearing, letting the fuel-soaked coat inside unfold itself as its constraining packaging flamed away, like a dark, burning flower. The old waxed coat burned ever better; the boat’s engine fuel starting it, the wax permeating its fibres keeping it going until the whole brown-green skin of it was burning bright and fierce, reflecting off the peaky little waves and warming his face.
He waited until there was almost nothing left, just a few ash-coloured pieces of material, some still licked by tiny feeble tongues of flame, then he gunned the boat’s engine, swung it round and ran right over what was left of the coat that his mother had worn when she killed herself. He didn’t know what ghoulishness or thoughtlessness had driven them to take the coat off her recovered body and keep it - untouched, never to be worn, a ghost in part-human shape, hanging, haunting - in the cloakroom of the house, but it was not something he could bear. He had seen it last year when he’d been here with his parents and could not believe that it was there. He couldn’t believe it was still there when he’d come back by himself this year.
