The breeze has dropped and the view back to the farm is all green grass, blue sky and the red mass of the new barn and the old farm buildings huddled on the horizon. I can hear a distant tractor and rooks calling in the stand of trees to the east. The outcrop surfaces in three or four places, exposing wide expanses of lichened grey rock, carved with a startling array of rings and spirals and the scooped dishes of the cup marks. I sit down on a natural shelf and lean to trace the whirls and dips with my fingers. It’s rather impressive and pleasing. No one knows what they mean, these markings, but they must have taken some effort – they’re not just the scrawl of a moment.
* * *
At work the following day I browse Local History and ask Edward if I can scan some lovely line drawings of the rock art.
‘Have the book,’ he says, looking up to see what I’m doing.
‘It says it’s a tenner,’ I object.
He waves his hand. ‘Whatever. You can have it. There are lots of inscribed rocks round here. Have you seen any?’
‘I went to Drumtroddan yesterday.’
‘Oh yes, those are the best-known ones. There are some at Hollinshaw,’ he adds. ‘In the park.’
‘Are there?’
‘Mm. I could show you on a map, hang on. If you’re interested?’
‘That would be great.’
He comes round from behind the desk and begins to look through the maps in the Cartographic section. We have dozens of pink Ordnance Survey Landranger sheet maps for all over the country, various editions, and orange Explorers. He wrestles with number 83 and then leans to pore over it. ‘Here,’ he says, jabbing with his finger. ‘This is your house–’
‘I’ll never get tired of seeing my actual house on a map.’
‘And this is the Drive, see the old castle was here–’
‘Was there a castle? Gosh.’
‘At Hollinshaw? Yeah. There are ruins in the woods, not much left now. They – we – lived there until the beginning of the seventeenth century. Then we built on the site where the house is now, but you can’t see much of the original building. Anyway, if you skirt the edge of the woods here, the inscribed rocks are just off the track. There’s an outcrop here, but you need to look for the flat bit to the left of that. Not as impressive as Drumtroddan, but you can see it all quite clearly. There’s a cairn west of there and a standing stone too. I think it’s on the map, yes, there you go. On the higher ground above the river.’
‘Wow, nice. I shall have to have a look. Your brother said I could go anywhere on the estate.’ I glance sidelong at him to see how he’ll react to this.
‘Did he?’
‘Yes, so at least I won’t feel like I’m trespassing.’
‘We don’t have trespassing here anyway.’ He shakes his head at me.
‘I know, but it seems odd and I couldn’t just wander about willy-nilly; I’d feel guilty.’
He laughs. ‘Well, you can rest easy if Charles says it’s okay.’
‘Yes. Thank you, I’ll get my maps out when I get home. And can I really have this?’ I wave the book at him.
‘Sure. Are you going to read up about it?’
I nod. ‘I like to learn things. It’s all very different from Sussex – I want to make the most of it. Otherwise when I go back, I’ll be sorry.’
He looks at me for a moment, his expression hard to read. ‘You’re not going back immediately, though?’
‘Oh God, no. No, I’ll stay until September, at least.’
‘Good,’ he says, and goes back to what he was doing.
* * *
Today it’s my birthday. I’m forty-four. Cards arrive at the Lodge from Xanthe and Angela and my cousin Sarah and my parents. They’re in Shanghai. They’ve sent something, but my mother doesn’t know when it will get here. There’s also a card from two of the women I used to work with. When I get somewhere with a signal, there will be Facebook messages, I expect. I’ve had nothing from Chris. I tell myself I didn’t expect anything. I open my cards and put them on the mantelpiece. Last year we were away for my birthday. I don’t think about that. And it’s no good complaining you’ve got no cards if you never mention your birthday. No one up here knows, and I’m not planning on telling anyone. It’s just a day like any other.
Maybe I’ll buy myself a steak, or drive to Newton Stewart and have dinner in a pub. A strange pub by oneself isn’t much more enticing than cooking one’s own dinner though. I don’t mind, really; I’d rather be by myself than pretending to have fun somewhere. I wonder what I’ll be doing on my birthday next year. Perhaps I should plan something. Plenty of time for that.
I’m parking in my usual spot outside the town hall when my phone rings. I don’t know the number, but when I answer I recognize Chris’s voice. I wonder if there’ll ever be a time when I don’t. This is the first time we’ve spoken since I came up here – we communicate via email usually, and that’s rare enough.
‘Happy birthday,’ he says. ‘Thought I’d ring. I’ve failed to send you a card.’
‘That’s okay.’ I watch the swallows swooping over the town hall and try to distance myself from the conversation.
‘Failed everyone’s birthdays,’ he adds.
‘Oh, Chris, really? They’re all on the calendar.’
‘I know.’
‘Well, you’ll have to make an effort. You didn’t miss your dad’s, did you?’ That was last week, six days before mine. I didn’t send him a card, rather childishly.
‘No, we – I went round there.’
I try not to think about this. Did they all go, I wonder, Susanna’s kids as well? I can’t picture it. Probably for the best. ‘Oh, well. Good. Just you should look at the calendar at the beginning of the month. There are cards in the sideboard.’
‘Oh, is that where they are? I thought there must be some. But anyway, yeah, happy birthday, Thea. Are you doing anything?’
I get out of the car and close the door. There’s a sharp breeze and I shiver. ‘No, nothing planned.’ I nearly tell him I’ve no one to do anything with, but that seems pathetic, so I don’t.
‘Well, okay. Have a good day. Er…’
I can tell he doesn’t know what else to say. It makes me sad, that we’ve nothing to say to each other. ‘I’d better go,’ I tell him, ‘I’m just going to buy cake.’
‘Oh, for work?’
‘Yeah.’ Not that I’ve told Edward it’s my birthday, and I’m not going to. But if Chris wants to think of a jolly office birthday, let him.
‘All right then. Take care.’
‘Yes, and you.’
He says goodbye and we hang up. I lean against the car for a moment and bite my lip hard. I think I’d have preferred a card, or nothing. It’s easier when I don’t have to speak to him. Such a tiny, meaningless conversation. I push open the door to the baker’s and consider the cake selection. Buns, I think.
* * *
When I get home, there are flowers in a box on the doorstep. For a wild moment, I think they might be from Chris, but of course they’re not; they’re from Xanthe and Rob. Which is fine. I let myself in and take the flowers to the kitchen, digging through the cupboard under the sink for something to put them in. Hot pink and yellow gerberas; they look very modern in the old-fashioned pressed glass vase, but I like them, and I leave them on the kitchen table so I can look at them while I eat my birthday steak.
I haven’t had a bad day, actually; the sun was shining and we sold quite a lot of books, which put Edward in a good mood. All in all, it could have been a lot worse.
I try to fill my evening by phoning Xanthe and watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail. At this time of year, it doesn’t get dark until nearly midnight up here, and on my way to bed I sit on the windowsill in my bedroom and look out at the garden for ages, watching the blue twilight grow deeper. I feel strange and nostalgic, not necessarily for all the birthdays of my marriage, but for the years before that, my teens and early twenties when I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted.
There’s a certain feeling in the air this time of year that always reminds me of revising for my GCSEs. Not that those evenings were as long and light as they are up here, but even at home it doesn’t get dark until gone nine, and we spent a lot of time in the park near the school, in the gathering dusk, drinking illegally obtained cider and smoking.
Something about the quality of the light triggers memories, and for all the Junes since then, it’s that one that feels strongest in my memory, or perhaps the run of five or so when ‘summer’ meant ‘revising’ or attempting to revise. I think of evenings spent at Mark Woodley’s, the first year of my A Levels, his parents out or away, and the things we found to do instead of revision. It seems unimaginable that it’s twenty-seven years since I lost my virginity. What would seventeen-year-old me say if she could see me sitting here, my arm cold against the glass, wearing a pair of pyjamas that belonged to Uncle Andrew, with no real plans or dreams for the future?
Nine
A Thursday, late June. Edward in his green armchair and me perched on the counter. I don’t have a chair, there’s not room for two, so I climb up a step-stool and sit on the counter when we’re not busy. He says it ‘adds an air of youthful informality’, to which I usually roll my eyes.
We’re eating our sandwiches, bought, by me, from the Old Mill. As I chew, I remember something.
‘Your brother’s invited me to a party,’ I tell him.
‘What?’ I don’t answer, assuming he heard me perfectly well. ‘What sort of party? Jesus.’
‘I don’t know. A cocktail party? I’ve never been to a cocktail party.’
‘Did you get a written invitation?’
‘No, he sent me a text. I admit I was a bit disappointed.’ A vision of a printed invitation with curly writing and gold edges floats in the air before me.
‘A text? Good grief. How vulgar. And how does my brother have your phone number?’ He glowers at me. The disapproval in his voice makes me chuckle.
‘He asked for it, last time I saw him.’
‘When was that? Why did you give it to him?’
‘Last week, he called round. He’s softening me up, I think. To sell him the Lodge.’ At least, I assume that’s what he was doing. He’s been round a couple of times recently. Never for long, always polite chat about generalities. Last week we talked about the barn conversion his team of builders are working on. He did twice ask me about Chris, and I was non-committal. I’m not sure who knows about my ‘situation’. Presumably not Charles; I think he was trying to find out if we were separated. I didn’t tell him though. We sat in the garden and drank tea; it was reasonably pleasant. No need to mention any of this to Edward.
‘I told you. He’s desperate to get his hands on it.’
‘He hasn’t asked directly, not since I first got here. He wanted to know if I’d decided what I was going to do and blah blah. You know what he’s like, terribly charming.’
‘He’s a bastard.’ This is more or less what Edward says whenever Charles is mentioned, although he still hasn’t said why he thinks so, and I’m not going to ask him.
‘Whatever. Anyway, what should I wear for a cocktail party? I can’t help but picture something a bit eighties.’
‘A dress.’
I snort. ‘Yes, thanks, Anna Wintour.’
‘Who else is going? Are you sure it’s a party?’
‘He said it was a party.’ I laugh. ‘You think he’s trying to get me there on my own? Oh lordy. Alastair and Jenny are going. And Richard and Catriona, and the Callows, apparently. I asked him; I don’t like going to things where I don’t know anyone, and being single–’ I stop myself, remembering that Edward doesn’t know I’m single, and I don’t want him to know, either. ‘I mean – being by yourself where everyone else is in a couple is awkward.’
‘Can’t you get Mr Mottram up for the weekend? Is he ever going to visit you?’
I’m annoyed with myself for bringing it up. ‘Too busy,’ I say, ‘work’s a nightmare at the moment.’
‘Well, Charles will be by himself, won’t he?’ He rolls his eyes.
‘Will he? I wasn’t sure. I saw him out riding with a blonde.’ I remember Charles saying ‘we’ when he invited me to go and see the house, although he hasn’t done that again since, I’ve noticed.
‘Oh, Miranda, probably. I don’t think they’re… although they might be.’ Edward shrugs, implying a complete lack of interest.
‘But anyway, he’ll be busy being the host and everything, and even if he wasn’t, you know, I wouldn’t want to spend all evening hanging out with your brother.’
He looks at me for a long moment. ‘Wouldn’t you? Why not?’
‘I don’t think we’ve got much in common, to be honest.’
‘No,’ he agrees, ‘probably not.’
‘Anyway, he said there’d be some single people as well. Before you ask, no, I don’t know who. What sort of dress? Not full length, right?’
‘No, that’s evening dress.’
I sigh. ‘I’m pretty sure I don’t have anything suitable. Unless there’s something in the spare room.’ I keep meaning to go through Aunt Mary’s frocks and take pictures so I can put them on eBay. Vintage extravaganza. ‘There might be some amazing fifties thing I could wear. Although vintage looks a bit sad on someone my age.’
‘Don’t be absurd.’
‘It does though. It’s not like her fifties stuff was for a middle-aged woman; she was, like twenty, with an eighteen-inch waist probably. Which I don’t have. And didn’t have even when I was twenty.’
‘Buy something?’
‘From where? I can’t be bothered to go to Dumfries.’ I drum my heels against the counter.
‘They sell clothes in Kirkcudbright. And Castle Douglas. Or so I believe.’
‘Boutiques,’ I say. ‘I dunno. I suppose I should look on t’internet. I’ll have to do that today.’
I still don’t have broadband at the Lodge, because it’s not as though I actually live there, even though I sort of do. Perhaps I should get that sorted – it’s quite inconvenient.
‘Edinburgh. Or Glasgow.’
‘I’m not driving to bloody Glasgow, it’s two hours away.’
He shakes his head. ‘Lots of shops though. When’s the party?’
‘Saturday.’ There’s a pause. I finish my sandwich and drink half a pint of water. Holly Hunter stalks in from the hallway, looks at us both and wails at Edward, demanding to be picked up. He settles her on his knee, where she purrs like a chainsaw. She still won’t sit on my lap, no matter how much I try to entice her. I assume the conversation is over, and get my phone out to check for messages.
‘Do you have to go?’ he asks, eventually.
‘To the party? Seems rude not to. And I’d like to see the house. I still haven’t been inside. I’m nosy. I’d like to go to a proper big house as a guest rather than a visitor. See where you grew up.’
‘Huh. It’s not interesting.’
‘Don’t be stupid, it’s fascinating.’
He looks vaguely appalled. ‘Not really.’
‘Pfft. Yeah, you can try, Edward, but you’ll never be normal, because a normal person would know that a giant stately home where someone you know grew up is always going to be interesting.’
* * *
After some anguished shopping, I have a new dress. It’s rather a bold shade of kingfisher blue, and shiny. It looked okay in the shop. Jenny says it looks okay now, but I can’t say I’m totally convinced. It’s a good colour though, and it’s a good shape for me, with a high waist. No sleeves, but I’ve got a little black shrug thing so that’s all right. I arrived with Alastair and Jenny, and now I’m inside the house, at last, being ushered across an echoing hallway that’s all marble and stags’ heads. There are candles, and panelling, and dark paintings of flowers and fruit. Then we’re in a brighter room, with sofas and mirrors and a huge carved fireplace. There are lots of people – more than I was expecting – and a painted ceiling with fat cherubs.
It’s not dark outside, and the two enormous windows look out over the lawns to the front of the house, draped with hugely swagged curtains and pelmets three feet deep. It looks much as I’d pictured it, I suppose, but still very odd. I try to imagine what it would be like to grow up somewhere like this, and fail utterly.
Alastair and Jenny have been swept away from me, but Gavin McPherson, who owns a bathroom supplies company and who I met when I went to look at showers, comes over to say hello, and then introduces me to a horribly attractive woman called Miranda before disappearing again. I try not to feel abandoned, but instead turn my attention to Miranda. I assume she’s the blonde I saw out riding with Charles, since there can’t be that many people called Miranda, surely.
‘Charles says you’re friends with Eddie,’ she says. I sip my Kir royale and try not to feel flustered, although I do feel flustered. Her dress definitely cost more than the fifty quid I spent on mine. I should think her haircut probably cost more than my frock, shoes and jacket combined.
Eddie? Christ.
‘Yes, I work for him,’ I tell her. ‘In the bookshop.’
There’s another equally attractive woman sort of standing with us in that way you do at these things. I think her name is Sophie. She turns to stare at me, wide-eyed and curious. ‘Oh, really? Gosh. Is he a good boss? He’s got a terrible temper.’
‘I just ignore him when he’s cross,’ I tell her, shrugging. I look from one of them to the other. ‘How do you know him?’
The Bookshop of Second Chances Page 7
