by Allan Watson
Like a true mechanical martyr, the car wore a crown of thorns in the shape of a roof rack holding three suitcases crammed with enough clothes to hold a modest jumble sale. In a gesture of consolation I patted the old Citroen’s rear flank - an unspoken promise of as much fuel as it could drink at the first petro-chemical oasis we passed on the road. I felt a bond of kinship with the Citroen. I too carried a burden. A burden which couldn’t so easily be measured in kilos and grams. The poundage of guilt is never such a quantifiable beast. The weight doesn’t exist in one large mass. It’s a fragmented thing. A collage of smaller, self-reproaching baggage. Each separate weight attached with a rusty barb to the muscle wall of my heart by Teri’s own hand. She had pinned them there with wildness and passion in her red rimmed eyes the night she had confronted me about Rita. It’s not something you forget so easily.
The first barb was blunt and dulled, designed only to draw a little blood - to be made aware of the attack.
‘What was she like Matt?’
The second was brighter, more acerbic, as she got a taste for it.
‘Is she the slutty type of little man-eater who goes to aerobics every lunch time?’
My humiliated silence had spurred her to greater efforts. The barbs became sharper, hotter things. As each one found its target she had given it a spiteful little twist.
‘I guess it made a change not having to look at stretch marks, huh?’
‘I’ll bet her tits don’t sag like mine.’
‘Did you love her, Matt?’
Then there were tears. Rivers of them. Each drop of salt water adding its own weight as it stung and cauterised the wounds she’d opened. I tried to find the fire of anger to shape my hollow justifications, but I had none. In punishing me Teri only castigated herself for the crime of having a body of a thirty five year old woman who had borne two children.
That’s where the real weight of the guilt springs from. Not from having slept with someone else. Not for betraying my wife’s trust. The weight came from making someone you love aware that they’re getting older, making them feel ashamed and inadequate. So I had taken the blows as passively and stoically as the luggage laden car.
I pushed my hands into my pockets and looked up at the sky. Greyish off-white clouds nudged and pushed against each other as if being herded by an unseen hand. Not the best of days for setting out on holiday. A woman from four doors away nodded to me as she passed the driveway, and I could tell from the way she surreptitiously glanced back that I’d been the main item on the coffee morning agenda for the past six weeks. I pulled my cigarettes from my pocket and lit one up. Prior to that night when Teri finished with her hook hanging and politely asked me to find new lodgings, I had been off them for three years.
I turned and found Denise watching me from the open door. In every way she was a smaller version of Teri. She had the same blonde hair and blue eyes, the same soft features. It was a vulnerable face, as delicate and pale as moonstone. I can remember people constantly remarking upon her likeness to Teri when she was little, and how I would get inwardly annoyed. It was as if they were insinuating that my own contribution to Denise’s birth was negligible. Alice, on the other hand had been moulded from my own image; dark hair and brown eyes, with strong, angular features. I suppose I should have felt a stronger parental bond with Alice, but it didn’t work that way. Fathers are never meant to have favourites where their daughters are concerned. It’s a subject almost as taboo as incest, and while I can’t put my hand on my heart and say that I actually loved Denise more than Alice, I have to admit that she always seemed that tiny bit more special to me. Perhaps it was because she was the first-born that I had lost my heart so unconditionally to her.
Denise’s expression was grave and stern as if Teri had patiently coached her in the uses of such a poignant mask. I could only gaze silently at her, not knowing what to say. For the first time in our lives there was a sense of distance between us. Somewhere behind the house a magpie screeched like a rusty ratchet and the spell was broken. Dropping the cigarette to the ground, I crushed it under my shoe and held my arms open as I spoke her name. It was all it took. Denise leapt off the door step and ran at me with such force that she almost bowled me over. I lowered myself to one knee so she could bury her face in the hollow of my shoulder and neck. Her tears were warm as they trickled inside my shirt and dried on my skin. I could do nothing else but hold her while the storm raged. I breathed her in and she smelled of apple blossom shampoo and talcum powder. Eventually she pulled away and kissed me on the cheek. ‘I’ve missed you, Dad,’ she said.
I returned her kiss, aiming for her brow but getting her nose instead and tasting tears. ‘I’ve missed you too, sweetheart. I’m so sorry for all of this. I really am.’
Denise held me with those bewitching blue eyes and asked the question I had known she would eventually ask, but was still hopelessly unprepared for.
‘Why did you go away?’
What could I possibly give as an answer? Last summer Teri had sat Denise down and very matter-of-factly ran through the basic mechanics of where babies come from. I had stood blushing like a beetroot as Denise absorbed this knowledge calmly, with little fuss. No doubt she had heard worse in the school playground - but now, as we stood facing each other in the driveway, I wondered if I should explain another fact of life that hadn’t been included in Teri’s rehearsed biology speech.
It’s like this Denise, you remember what we told you about Mummies and Daddies giving each other that special cuddle that produces babies? You know the one where Daddy puts his penis into Mummy’s vagina? Well, here’s a new one to tell your friends behind the bike shed. Sometimes Daddy gets the urge to put his penis into a vagina that doesn’t belong to Mummy, and instead of babies you make something completely different. It’s called a broken home. Understand, sweetheart? Good girl.
I took hold of Denise’s hands and squeezed them tightly. ‘When you’re older I’ll sit down and explain all of this properly. For now all I can say is sorry. I’m sorry I’ve hurt you and Alice and your mum. Believe me, if I could turn back the clock, I would.’
She blinked her eyes and gave me a look that said she knew I was fobbing her off but would leave it be for the moment. ‘Mum says you’re coming on holiday with us.’
I nodded and smiled, thinking I was on less treacherous ground, not seeing her trap. ‘Yeah, that’s right. We’re going to have a great time. All four of us.’
‘Does that mean you’ll coming back home with us to stay?’
My heart fell a thousand feet. I couldn’t make promises that weren’t mine to give. I remembered Teri’s warning over using the girls affections to worm my way back in. I had to be careful what I said. The last thing I wanted to do was to paint Teri as the wicked witch who was keeping poor Daddy away from his darling daughters. All I could offer was, ‘I’ll do my best. You can bet on that.’
I pulled Denise to me and hugged her again. Then I remembered her drawing of the symmetrical flower garden that had spooked me so much. I wanted to ask her where it was meant to be, hoping in turn it would jog my own memory, but before I could ask, someone squealed loudly and Denise was pulled unceremoniously from my arms. Before I could draw a breath, I was being smothered in wet kisses. Alice the Polter-child had found me. Laughing, I scooped her up and swung her around in a wide arc, her feet narrowly missing the tail end of the car.
I put Alice back down and took a good look at her. With her impish, mischievous face, it would have been difficult for anyone not to have liked Alice. She was one of those children who ran and skipped everywhere. Simple walking was an art she had never mastered. It seemed Denise and Alice were opposite polarities in both looks and personality. Denise had always been a quiet, thoughtful child whose every decision was carefully considered, while Alice charged through life, a mini tornado of childish energy and glee.
For the first time I noticed she was slipping into that awkward, ugly duckling phase that all small girls are destine
d to suffer. It wasn’t helped by the gaps in her mouth where her baby teeth had recently been. I noticed that another two teeth had dropped out while I had been away. ‘What’s this Alice,’ I said pointing to her missing teeth. ‘Been kissing the boys again I see.’
‘Yes, lots!’ she yelled back at me. ‘And you’ve been kissing all the girls.’
I felt my face redden. ‘Who told you that, Alice?’
Alice danced from one foot to another as she replied, ‘Tina Henderson said her mummy told her. She said you were a bad man who kissed lots of women and that’s why you couldn’t stay with us any more.’
I was so flustered I didn’t even think of denying this charge, that task was left to Denise.
‘Tina Henderson is a stupid little liar!’ she snarled with such venom, that I guessed she knew more about my sins than she had let on. Most likely she had listened to Teri on the phone and worked the whole thing out for herself.
Alice turned on her sister and shouted back. ‘Isn’t!’
‘Is!’
‘Isn’t!’
‘That’s enough,’ I said loudly enough for my words to be taken as a gentle admonishment, but not ferocious enough to be considered a real telling off. The last thing I wanted that morning was to quarrel with my daughters. ‘Come on girls, we’re going on holiday. Arguments aren’t allowed. Why don’t you go and see if your mum is ready to leave.’
Both of them nodded and Denise turned to go back inside the house, but I distinctly heard Alice hiss, ‘Is….’ under her breath. As Denise reached the side door, Teri popped her head out and asked, ‘Is everything all right? I heard shouting.’
‘Just a minor disagreement between Denise and Alice. It’s all fixed out now,’ I said, hoping she wouldn’t ask what it was about.
Alice however piped up, ‘Tina Henderson said.....’
As fast as I could I reached down and tickled Alice hard in the ribs, making her squeal with laughter. Teri’s expression changed to one of disapproval and at first I assumed she was angry at the horseplay. Instead she pointed a finger at the cigarette butt in the driveway. The one I had dropped when Denise had come out.
‘Don’t tell me you’re back on the coffin nails again, Matt?’ Her tone was both condescending and weary. I didn’t blame her for sounding annoyed, Teri had probably suffered as much as me when I was struggling to kick the weed. Alice trod on my toe and shouted. ‘You’ve not to smoke, Daddy. You’ll catch cancer and die. Everyone knows that.’
I pulled my half empty pack from my shirt pocket and threw them to Teri. ‘Go on, bin them. Just some temporary back-sliding, that’s all.’
Making a one handed catch, Teri raised her eyebrows in approval before she crushed the cardboard in her hand and dropped it into the rubbish bin beside the door.
‘Five minutes and then we’re off,’ she said, and vanished back inside the house.
CHAPTER 2
The journey to St Andrew’s was a much less tense affair than I’d anticipated. In the back seat the girls chatted excitedly about all the things they planned to do on holiday. From the way they talked I gathered their misguided impression of St Andrew’s was a cross between Alton Towers and Benidorm. I hadn’t the heart to tell them otherwise. The journey at the beginning of any holiday holds its own powerful magic, like Christmas Eve or Halloween or the night before a birthday. Anticipation versus Actual. Even I wasn’t immune to it. And neither, it seemed, was Teri.
From the moment we left the Glasgow city boundary behind, Teri’s cold demeanour began to thaw. It was like watching a snake shed its skin. With the passing of each mile, a little of the old Teri emerged from the cloak of indifference she had spun around herself. It was visible in her posture as her neck and shoulder muscles gradually relaxed, and in the way the hard set of her mouth softened. I imagined I could hear the tightly coiled springs inside her loosen off one by one. It may just have been that our daughters’ excitement was contagious and I thanked them silently for their gift.
I had originally planned to drive over the Forth Road Bridge, but as Teri’s ‘Snow Queen’ facade melted, I chose the alternative route via the Kincardine Bridge, hoping the scenic detour would add to the holiday mood. I had the car radio on and the girls sang along to dreadful pop songs that I wouldn’t normally suffer at such close proximity. As we crossed the new bridge at Kincardine, the sun emerged from behind the heavy cloud bank and reflected against the tall, gleaming burners of Grangemouth oil refinery, making it look like a futuristic metal cathedral. At that moment Teri looked across at me and smiled. I thought everything was going to be all right. I was never so wrong about anything in my entire life.
By the time we had passed through Burntisland and Kinghorn, Teri and I were actually having a conversation. Great care was taken to steer clear of anything that could bring our troubles into the open. It was clear that at some future point, we were due a heart to heart discussion, but that could wait until the ground was firmer underfoot and able to take the strain. There was nothing to be gained by stamping our feet while the terrain was still fragile and treacherous. The only mistake was when I asked how her father was keeping. A shadow crept across Teri’s eyes and a sheath of frost covered her words as she told me he had suffered another stroke and was now bedridden. Although she didn’t elaborate, it was plain my affair with Rita and the ensuing separation were being considered as contributing factors to his condition.
I stopped the car when we reached Kirkcaldy to let Denise and Alice stretch their legs and go to the toilet. We bought hot dogs from a food van parked on the water front, and sat on a bench watching the black headed gulls swoop over the Firth of Forth. The sun felt warm on my face as it burned away the mid-day clouds, transforming the cold grey waters to an inviting deep blue. I would have been happy to stay there a while longer, letting the salt tang of the sea seep into the wounds I had inflicted upon my family, healing us, making us whole again. Alice, however, was growing bored waving to passing boats and beginning to wander perilously close to the quayside, so it was back to the car.
As we drove further into the Kingdom of Fife, I kept to the coastal road, almost afraid now to actually reach St Andrew’s for fear the developing truce between Teri and I would fall apart upon our arrival. It was as if the sight of the sunlight dancing on the water had a calming effect that kept everything in harmony. I turned the radio up louder and even joined in the with the singing. We lost the sea for a short time between Lower Largo and Ellie and had to reply upon green fields and hedgerows to sustain the healing process. The car meandered on past St Monan’s, Pittenweem, Anstruther, and Kilrenny, before reaching Crail where we had to turn inland again.
Although this route was a good twenty miles longer, it had one pleasant advantage over the others. Its line of approach sprang St Andrew’s upon you like a wonderful surprise. At one point you’re driving along a leafy country road, hemmed in by woods on either side, and then the road dips sharply, the trees vanish, and St Andrew’s is spread below you with the sea pounding off its east shoulder. The twin towers of the ruined Cathedral stand prominent on the cliff edge, giving the town the appearance of an ancient horned beast lapping at the water.
Behind me the girls cheered and yelled. Journey’s end. The car was whining because I had forgotten to take it out of third gear, and I as reached for the gear stick, my hand brushed Teri’s. We shared another smile and the remains of my pessimism concerning the holiday were exorcised like a tattered ghost. I wanted very much to stop the car and hug Teri and my daughters. Instead, I moved up into fourth and coasted the car down the hill towards St Andrew’s. Over the centuries the town has had a glut of martyrs. Their names are enshrined in cold stone for anyone to read. I did not intend to add my own name to the list. I was going to succeed. I was so sure of myself.
I never realised there was an unseen passenger in the car with us.
We had rented a flat in Market Street. From previous visits to the town I remembered a broad market square, the old Mercat C
ross - with a large flower-strewn fountain stuck in the middle of the cobbled road. Our flat was at the top end where the street narrowed dramatically. Due to the one way traffic system, the top of Market Street was blocked with No Entry signs, and I spent ten frustrating minutes driving round in circles before finding an opening in North Street that allowed access. By the time I parked outside the flat, my nerves were frayed and things weren’t helped by Alice constantly shouting that she was needing to pee again.
This end of the street looked even narrower from the inside than it had been looking in from the outside. The entire width couldn’t have been more than fifteen feet across, including the slender Indian-file pavements. The buildings on either side were tall enough to block out most of the sunlight, giving it a gloomy, claustrophobic feel, in stark contrast to the sunny market square fifty yards away. The cobbles here were dark and sun-shy, reminding me of hard shelled insects sleeping on the road. I unloaded the car quickly, knowing I was blocking the street. Once this was complete, I parked the car around the corner in North Street and walked back, still trying to catch my breath from hauling the luggage out.
The house, normally rented by students from the university during term time, had been split into two apartments. Our living space took up the top two floors and we shared the front door with our ground floor neighbour. A lockable door at the head of the first flight of stairs meant we had complete privacy. A little home from home. Teri was busy unpacking the hardware when I returned, and I took a quick look around the flat before carrying the cases upstairs. The first floor of the house was comprised of a small hallway, a living room overlooking the street, a bathroom, and a kitchen. The living room was a decent size with a square, windowed niche in the corner like a tiny cul-de-sac extending off the main square. A small dining table had been squeezed into this space. I could hardly imagine a hearty meal taking place there. If you actually managed to cram yourself past the table, you would never escape once you’d polished off three courses. The walls were decorated with a series of oil paintings depicting hunting scenes. Their cheap frames filled with red jacketed little men astride galloping horses, accompanied by their baying hounds. I hated them immediately.
