‘Night, night, Ror.’ She kissed his cheek, close to his mouth. He appeared to sway a little and she laid a hand on his arm to steady him. ‘Sleep tight.’
‘Don’t let the bed bugs bite.’ His smile was strained and turned into a yawn.
Flora lay awake under the coarse blankets, watching the dying embers of her fire. The coals shifted, then collapsed and one toppled into the hearth. She got out of bed, replaced it with the tongs and rearranged the fireguard carefully. She stood for a moment staring into the fire, then went to the open door and listened. Rory had shut his door, so there was nothing to hear apart from a rattling window-frame and the wind in the trees outside. She padded over to his door, remembering to avoid a loose floorboard that creaked. She listened for a few moments but could hear nothing.
She wondered if he were dead. Had he brought pills with him, intending to overdose? Is that why he he’d wanted to sleep alone? Or was he hanging from the open window? Flora grasped the door handle then told herself Rory was simply tired out, sleeping soundly. She shouldn’t disturb him. Raising her arms, she placed her palms on the door and pressed her body against the wooden panels, turning her cheek and flattening her ear against the chipped paintwork.
She breathed his name but there was no answer.
Unpeeling herself from the door, she shuffled back to her own room. She tugged a couple of blankets off the bed and dragged them across the hall. Turning the door-handle slowly, almost silently, she pushed open the whining door, took a moment to get her bearings, then headed towards the uncurtained window above Rory’s bed. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness now and she could see his pale face, waxen in the moonlight, expressionless, like an effigy on a tomb. His hair, silvered by the moon, had fallen across his forehead. Flora thought he looked young again. Almost a boy. As she stood by the bed, the blankets bunched in her arms, watching him, he opened his eyes and blinked.
‘That you, Flor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was that you crying?’
‘Crying?’
‘Outside the door.’
Had she cried? She didn’t remember crying. Maybe she had.
‘Suppose so. Sorry. Did I wake you?’
‘I think I was awake anyway.’ He rubbed his eyes.
She bent and stroked his hair back from his forehead. ‘Go back to sleep.’ She dropped the blankets on to the floor and started to arrange them on the bedside rug.
‘Are you staying?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh…’ He rolled over in his sleeping bag and was asleep.
Flora wound herself in the blankets and lay down on the rug. She listened to Rory’s steady breathing, synchronised hers with his and was asleep.
When I woke, stiff and cold, Rory was gone. I went back to my bedroom and pulled on a jumper over my pyjamas and pushed my feet into some shoes. I knew where he would be but I went to the kitchen first, filled the kettle and switched it on, then grabbed a coat and went outside.
He was standing down by the water’s edge, his back towards me, his hands in his pockets, staring out to sea. He didn’t turn as I picked my way across the rocks and pebbles, so I stood behind him, slipped my arms under his and round his waist, linking my hands. I lay my head in the hollow between his shoulder-blades and listened to his heart.
Eventually he said, so softly that I didn’t hear, I only felt it. ‘You missed the seal show.’
‘Seen it before. Did they sing to you?’
‘No, I sang to them.’
‘Were you good?’
‘I was rubbish.’
‘Well, that’s modern music for you. Have you had breakfast?’
‘Not hungry.’
‘There’s bacon and eggs. Or I can make you some porridge. The kettle’s on - shall we have some tea?’
‘In a while, maybe.’
‘Did you sleep?’
‘Some… It never really gets dark here, does it? You forget the northern summer. The nights are never black, just grey… Dusk for hour after hour. And then it’s dawn. A different grey.’ He paused. ‘Then it starts all over again.’
‘What does?’
‘The day. Bloody life.’
I felt the hard ridge of his ribcage rise and fall as he sighed. I squeezed him round the waist and said, ‘It’s all right now - you’ve got me. We’ve got each other. The nights won’t be so bad for you. Not now.’
As he turned in my arms I let go and stepped back. I saw the tense set of his head, slightly bowed; the taut tendons in his neck that I longed to touch; the hollow at the base of his throat that I wanted to kiss.
An oystercatcher flew overhead, squealing, and Rory looked up, a sudden darting movement, like an animal startled. He looked back at me and his wide mouth stretched, his face creased into deep pleats, but his eyes stared, uncomforted. He looked away again, out to sea.
‘You never realised, did you, Flor? You didn’t know till you kissed me. In the bathroom. At Orchard Farm.’
‘No. I didn’t. Not consciously. I knew I loved you, but I didn’t realise how much. I didn’t know I wanted you. Not till I… I saw you then. It was like looking at a different person. Not my brother at all, just… a man. In all your maleness. You didn’t seem like the other half of me any more. You seemed… complete. Completely yourself. Then I realised I loved you in every way it’s possible to love somebody. I think it was the most terrible moment of my life… And the most wonderful.’
He nodded, then placed his left palm under my right. He twisted his hand, lacing his fingers with mine so you could hardly tell which were his and which were mine. He opened his mouth to speak but words wouldn’t come. Staring at his face, stark with pain, with longing, I wanted to hold him, to trace the contours of his face and body with my hands, my mouth, to prove he was there, he existed, that he was mine, he was me.
But instead I said, ‘When did you realise?’
‘Know for sure, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
Not looking at me, his eyes far away, he lifted his other hand, the dead hand. With a long, crooked forefinger he felt the golden stubble on his upper lip. ‘You touched my mouth. When I was cutting your hair. We were sixteen.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t remember.’
His voice was faint. ‘I do.’
Twining his fingers with mine he smiled at me then, a luminous, blinding smile. Our fingers still locked, he raised his hand and pressed them to his lips, his eyelids closing slowly. His eyes remained shut and I watched as his lashes darkened and the pale skin in the hollows under his eyes became wet.
‘Ror… How can loving someone be wrong?’
His eyelids flickered, then opened. ‘It’s not the love that’s wrong.’ He smiled again. ‘It’s what love makes us do.’
Tugging at my hand, he pulled me up the beach, towards the house. He pushed the door open, slammed it behind us, then led me upstairs to the chilly bedroom. There we undressed each other, crying, laughing, like children unwrapping presents on Christmas morning.
1987
Hugh loaned Grace a clean handkerchief and escorted her to the gate. She stood on tip-toe to kiss his cheek, then got into her car and drove away. He returned to the garden bench and sat for some time, his head bowed, his hands clasped, as if praying. Eventually he stood, straightened his shoulders and set off towards the house.
He found Dora in the music room, sitting in front of the open French windows, her eyes closed, her mouth sagging open. A light breeze lifted silky white curls from her forehead but otherwise she sat motionless. There was something about the awkward way in which she sat slumped in her chair that made Hugh’s heart miss a beat. Was Dora to be spared?… He bent and gently touched her mottled hand, the joints grotesquely swollen.
She woke with a start, her wasted limbs jolting like a marionette’s. Composing herself neatly in her chair, she smiled up at him. ‘Ah, Hugh! I was just having one of my catnaps. I had another bad night… Pull up a chair and tell me what’s new in the
garden. I haven’t been out yet today.’
‘Grace just called in. She sent her love. She had to rush off for an appointment. But she had some news.’
‘Did she? Not good news by the sound of it.’ Dora paused, fixing Hugh with her sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. ‘Let me guess - Rory?’
‘Yes. She says he’s left her.’
‘Left her?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
‘For somebody else?’
‘She doesn’t know. He’s just disappeared.’
‘Good grief! That wretched boy. Do you know, sometimes I think that family would be better off without him. He spreads misery like a disease. I’m sure Lottie comes here just to avoid her father.’
‘There’s more to it than that,’ Hugh said carefully.
‘Oh?’ Dora looked at him, her head on one side, her eyes bird-bright. ‘Don’t be mysterious, Hugh. What’s up?’
‘Grace had some other news. Happier news.’
‘Really? Well, you don’t look too happy about it!’
‘I’m still rather surprised. It’s all come as a bit of a shock.’
‘Come on, spill the beans. You know I hate surprises.’
‘Theo and Charlotte are engaged. It would appear they are… in love.’
Dora said nothing, her face a blank. Eventually, shrinking back into her chair, she said, ‘Theo and Lottie? Good God, are you sure?’
‘Yes. It’s come as a surprise to everyone, I think. Even Grace had no idea. I knew they were very fond of each other of course, but I thought it was more of a brother-sister relationship—’ Hugh heard himself and looked away quickly, into the garden. ‘I mean, I had no idea they felt that way about each other.’
‘And they’re engaged, you say? Well, well, well… They’ve caught us on the hop, haven’t they?’ She smiled, but Hugh could see it cost her an effort. ‘Well, I suppose they’re old enough to know their own minds.’
‘Theo’s twenty-one. Lottie must be… eighteen?’ Dora nodded. ‘Flora was only nineteen when I proposed to her.’
‘Yes, but I’m not sure it could be said that Flora knew her own mind.’
‘Or even that I did,’ Hugh murmured.
They sat in silence for a while until Dora announced, ‘They could change their minds. They’re still very young. Are they sleeping together?’
Hugh was surprised by the frankness of the question. ‘I’ve no idea! I wouldn’t know what Theo gets up to over in the annexe. Once he turned eighteen I thought it best to turn a blind eye. But Lottie can’t have been staying overnight. Grace would know.’
‘Did Rory know about Lottie and Theo?’
‘No. He’s been gone a week and Lottie only told Grace yesterday. I think she was trying to cheer her up.’
‘Bless the child! She has such a kind heart. So Rory doesn’t know… Does Flora?’
‘No.’
‘Will you tell her?’
‘I can’t. Nobody actually knows where she is. She’s left Colin apparently.’
Dora’s fingers clutched at the arm of her chair as she struggled for words. ‘She’s left him?’
‘Yes, according to Lottie. She rang Colin to tell him her news and he said Flora was no longer living with him. He doesn’t know where she’s gone. It’s all rather worrying.’
Dora leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. For a moment her lined face was contorted with pain, or perhaps anger, then in a thin voice like crackling parchment, she said, ‘Flora will be with Rory.’
Hugh didn’t reply. Instead he studied the intricate pattern of the faded carpet beneath his feet. Dora opened her eyes and regarded him. ‘You know, don’t you, Hugh? About my children?’
He lifted his head and said, ‘Do you?’
‘Oh, yes. I’m their mother after all.’
Hugh was silent for a long time, then said, ‘How long have you known?’
‘Oh, I suspect I knew before they did,’ Dora said, her voice matter-of-fact. ‘I always knew something wasn’t right. But they were both such strange children… And being twins, one made allowances for their closeness. It’s not as if I had any other children with whom I could make comparisons. But I can’t say I ever actually knew because I never had any proof, but I always felt as if I knew in my heart… what they felt for each other. I watched them both make unhappy marriages as a substitute for being together. Oh, I was hugely relieved at first! I thought music would bind Grace and Rory together, music and… a physical relationship. But in that respect I underestimated Rory. And the depth of his feelings.’ She shook her head and smiled. ‘I wonder - in what respect did I not underestimate Rory?’
‘Did Archie know too?’
‘Oh, no, I don’t think so! Well, if he did, he never said anything. Archie knew a great deal about sexual propagation in plants, but human beings were pretty much a closed book to him. Thank goodness,’ she added. ‘I’d hoped you’d be the salvation of my daughter, Hugh - you and babies. But I was wrong there as well. Flora didn’t love Theo and I could see only one reason for that. Rory avoided the boy too. They both shunned him, didn’t they, when he was small? It used to make me so angry. It still does… I did my best to compensate. I know you did too. But I was never sure whether that was because you were just a wonderful, natural father or because you knew… Knew Theo might not be yours. Is Theo your son?’
‘No.’
‘He’s Rory’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see.’ Dora folded her hands in her lap, then said, ‘I’m very sorry to hear it, for your sake, Hugh, but my respect for you - as a father, as a man - is possibly even greater now. Have you always known about Theo?’
‘No. I believed him to be my son for the first eight years of his life. Then Flora told me he wasn’t and eventually, because I pressed her, she told me whose child he was. It didn’t make any difference to how I felt about him. It never has. I think of Theo as my own son. I think even Rory sees Theo as my son.’
‘Does Rory know Flora told you?’
‘Oh, yes. My relationship with Rory is… Well, let’s say it’s on a very frank footing. I don’t think we have any secrets. We’re friends of sorts. Despite everything. And if he has to hear this news about his children, I think it best he hears it from me. That’s why I have to find him. He has to tell Theo.’
‘You could tell him yourself.’
‘I don’t think I have the right. I’d rather it came from Rory.’
‘It would be kinder to Theo to hear it from you.’
‘You’re probably right, but I’d still want Rory’s permission. Or Flora’s.’
‘She wouldn’t give it. I doubt she could bear the shame.’
‘Then I have to find Rory.’
‘Yes, I suppose you do.’
‘And you think he’ll be with Flora?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
‘Do you have any idea where they might have gone?’
Dora turned towards a side table and, lifting a heavy hand, reached for a black-and-white photograph in a silver frame. The Dunbar twins - kilted, blond, almost identical - stood side by side on a front door step, their arms linked. The head of one twin was turned towards the other and appeared to be speaking. The other twin, head thrown back, was laughing.
Dora stared at the photograph, her eyes moist. ‘If I know my children - and I’m very much afraid I do - I think you’ll find them both in Wester Ross. At Tigh na Mara. The house by the sea…’
There was no telephone at Tigh na Mara and never had been. Hugh decided against sending a letter because he didn’t even know if Rory was there and time was of the essence. In view of Rory’s possibly fragile mental state, Hugh thought it best to break the news personally but his journey to the north of Scotland had to be postponed for a couple of days to allow Theo and Charlotte to throw a family party to celebrate their engagement. Grace, still tearful, looked proud and happy and flirted outrageously with Theo. Charlotte hugged Hugh repeatedly. Dora sipped sherry, he
r smile fixed, her hands shaking slightly. Colin sent his apologies.
Hugh asked Theo to mind the nursery for a few days while he went to visit an elderly colleague who had been taken ill and was unlikely to recover. He was vague about when he might return.
Dora insisted on paying for a first-class sleeper and so Hugh travelled in relative comfort. ‘Sleeper’ was something of a misnomer, however. At no point on the long journey north was Hugh able to sleep.
As the taxi dropped him outside Tigh na Mara, Hugh recognised Rory’s car. It wasn’t until then that he realised he’d been praying Dora was wrong, that Rory and Flora would not be here, that they wouldn’t be together.
The taxi driver helped Hugh with his case and wondered privately why an elderly man should be coming to such a god-forsaken spot to stay in a house that was thought locally to be little more than a ruin. It was on the tip of his tongue to recommend his sister’s comfortable guest-house in Gairloch, but he thought better of it. The old gentleman seemed distracted and struggled to find the correct change.
Hugh stood in front of the house and listened as the taxi drove away. When he could no longer hear its engine he registered other sounds: the wind hissing in the pine trees; the cheerful slap of waves on the shore behind the house; the bubbling song of a curlew. An earthly paradise. Hugh raised his eyes to Heaven and was astonished to see a pair of heron flying overhead, their ungainly legs dangling like streamers on kites. He hoped it was a sign, a good sign.
He knocked on the door and waited, then turned the handle. Walking into the hallway, he cleared his throat of some obstruction and called Rory’s name. There was no answer. He set down his case. They couldn’t be far away, not without the car.
Perhaps they were upstairs.
Hugh felt an urgent need to announce his presence, to let them know they were no longer alone. He called out again, then, his heart beating too fast, he mounted the stairs.
He knew what he would find. During his sleepless night on the train he’d tried to prepare himself, to put away judgement, anger, sadness, even envy. He was here as a harbinger of bad news, not Flora’s husband or Rory’s would-be lover. Even so, it came as a shock and he grasped the banister for support as he reached the landing.
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