by Laura Legge
He knocked on the door of the chalet. Carson answered. Aram could see Aileen in the background, well pressed in a linen dress, her hair in four plaits. Aram handed the cooler to Carson. I hear you like fish, he said.
You heard right, Carson said. As Carson turned to put the fish in the refrigerator, Aram looked around. In the next room was a charming, four-poster wood bed, a spoon collection mounted on the walls, a violin in an open case. From the doorway to that room came an intimate light, as if from a bedside lamp, and Aram was envious of the two of them. Your timing is perfect, Carson said, coming back to where Aram was standing. We’ve just heard some exciting news.
Carson took Aram’s rucksack and invited him to sit at the dining table. He did, at the head. Aileen opened a package of oatcakes and set them out on a platter, then she and Carson sat down across from one another. She just phoned, Aileen said. For the first time.
Who did? Aram asked.
Oh, come on, you bampot, Aileen said.
Carson looked over at his wife in surprise, as if he wasn’t accustomed to her using curse words. To Aram they were a natural part of her, as vital as her red hair. Maybe she had been showing her husband a separate character.
Aram did not want to seem expectant. Nor did he want to seem, at least to Aileen, controlled by his desire. He asked, attempting reticence, Euna?
Carson winked at Aram. Heard you had a bit of a thing with her, he said.
Aileen swatted at her husband across the table. She was calling from a hospital, she said. It was sad, really. She collapsed while she was out on tour.
This made Aram’s nose prickle. He choked down an oatcake so he would have something else to focus on. He wondered if, in taking the oatcake into his shaking hand, in hacking as it went down his throat, he had shown them his discomfort. He would have been better off checking that instinct, linking his hands in his lap.
Aileen faltered. She looked over at Carson, who nodded in his warm way. She’s not up to taking care of her boy, Lachlan Iain, she said. So he’s coming here.
Her boy. So Carson must not have known. This did not surprise Aram. But it did make the light from their bedside lamp, sublime a minute before, look strained, metallic. When we spoke yesterday you mentioned a roadie, he said to Aileen. Surely she could take care of Euna’s boy.
Yes, she could, Aileen said. But she doesn’t want the boy to feel adrift, moving from place to place in a tour bus. So she’s bringing him here for a while. You’ll like her – she’s a dear friend of mine.
Well, shite. It sounded as if Euna would not be coming, only the roadie, Muireall. How many times could he weed out this dumb, hardy hope of his? It was a sprawl of knotgrass and he could not quite find the roots to pull. I’m sure I would like her, he said. But I was just heading south to find work.
Aram, Aileen said, you should stay with us until they come. My father would be glad to feed you in the meantime, and he’s always looking for fresh voices to help him deliver his sermons.
Carson put his hand on his wife’s. My wee turnip, he said, there’s not a lick of work here, and it sounds like he has plans.
Aileen flushed pink. Of course, she said. Forgive me. That was a strange thing to offer. Aram, I hope you have good luck down south.
Would your father really feed me? Aram asked. I could sleep in the church basement. More comfortable than the hut I’ve been living in.
Now Carson took an oatcake and ate it meticulously, starting with the edges, while Aileen got up to make a pot of pekoe and pour a round of water glasses. Aram wished he could take back what he had said. This was why he kept quiet about all but the starkest things: it is dark today, it is cold outside, I am looking for work. When he moved outside of this scheme it was only to give compliments to people he knew wanted them, people who would not question what he said or, in response, mete out silence. He kept records. He did not tell stories. He watched the days move past. He did not score them with a tender soundtrack.
Carson wiped the crumbs from either corner of his mouth with a napkin. He said, Okay, I think it’s time we all came clean.
What do you mean, my dearest?
Carson’s mouth was neat, but he kept dabbing with the napkin. What I mean, he said, is that I’m a very lucky man to be married to you, m’ usgair. And I’m not one to run away from good fortune. So, if there is anything you would like to tell me, knowing that I am your husband, knowing that I will be your husband until we are side by side in the boneyard, now would be an ideal time.
Aileen sat up and squared her shoulders to his. Do you mean that? she asked.
Of course, he said. You may think you are saving me from some kind of corruption. I would rather just know. It’s me, Carson, two boiled eggs every morning, two pieces of rye, two violin scales, Carson. I’m not too keen on the unknown.
She pressed her eyes closed, as Aram always had on the farm when preparing to step into the cold water. Aram and I slept together when I was eighteen, she said.
Carson shifted in his seat. Okay, he said. Thank you for telling me. I’ll take some time with that later.
Aram looked over at Aileen, hoping to inspire her to tell the truth about Lachlan Iain’s origin. He trusted that Carson would respond evenly, and that, when the boy came, he would treat him with more care, knowing Aileen had given life to him. But her eyes were still closed, and she could not see Aram looking. She said, No, nothing else right now.
Her husband was a smart man. Or, more precisely, a perceptive one. Hey there, pet, he said, I can tell you’re holding something.
She started to breathe very quickly. Carson stood and walked over to her side of the table, then pulled her chair out so he could kneel beside it. He took both of her hands into his and whispered something mild and inaudible. Aram felt the urge to turn away, to give them some privacy, but then, that had always been his problem. A man could certainly overdose on discretion. So he stayed watching. Her breath at last slowed down and she stopped worming around, working her heels up and down. I’m sorry, she said to her husband. You’re such a good man.
No more talk of goodness, Carson said. We’re just here, okay. We’re just two people and we’re here.
Aileen’s freckles were fantastically bright. She opened her eyes. Lachlan Iain is ours, she said, pointing first to herself and then to Aram.
Carson nodded calmly. He shook Aram’s hand and kissed Aileen on the crown of her head. It was very brave of you to tell me, he said to her, his lips still on her scalp. He lingered there for one more beat, inhaling, maybe searching her hair for a familiar perfume. He poured a mug of tea from the pot and went into the next room. He closed and locked the door behind him. A few minutes later, Aram heard him playing a minor scale on the violin.
Aileen was looking, shell-shocked, into the middle distance. Her stare was set tightly to the fridge. Aram had to leave. He could not just stay there while Aileen’s body looked over at the magnets and mementoes of her life with Carson. Scraps of notecard, photographs, dried asters from Kershader, it was tragic. Music rarely made Aram feel one way or another, but the slow notes coming from the bedroom, up and down the scale, over and over, needled into the back of his neck. Each hair on his arms went erect.
Do you want me to go? he asked Aileen.
Yes, she said. And then, No.
That’s about what I expected, he said. He laughed. She stayed as she was.
Aram went to pour Aileen a cup, then set it before her on the most ordinary coaster he could find. He avoided the ones embroidered with horses, or with field thistle and flaxcomb. Those seemed so domestic. Surely they were tied to particular days and feelings. Surely this couple had used them after a particular sermon or ceremony, or on the occasion of their engagement, Aileen’s ardent return to Pullhair, and so embroidered them with more than ponies and plants.
He lifted the cup to her mouth and tipped it so a thin stream of tea dribbled down her chin. This woke her from her wool-gathering. She took the cup from him and put it on the table be
side the coaster.
It’ll leave a ring, Aram said.
If it does, she said, I’ll iron it out.
Awright.
The violin scales had stopped. From the bedroom came a new sound, of carving, perhaps, or sanding. In any event, of wood being worn down. This seemed to comfort Aileen. Clearly it meant something more to her than it did to Aram, who did not know Carson’s habits, who had never shared rooms with him.
Good, she said. That is good.
Aram asked, gently, How’s that?
He’s working on a bookshelf for me, she said. When something’s on his mind, even something small, he works on that shelf. It’s his way of processing.
This language was new to Aram. It came across as secondhand, as if it had been implanted in her by a professional. And that’s good? he asked.
Oh yes, Aileen said. Carson has all these ways of working things out, you know, materially.
Interesting, Aram said. He wasn’t interested, though, not really. The conversation had taken a turn toward the undefined, the rù-rà he avoided by only speaking concretely, on a surface level. Working things out was different from I am looking for work. He was comfortable with the latter and not at all with the former.
She said, Yes, it’s interesting. He’s so evolved.
I’m sure he is, Aram said. Now listen, Aileen. If you still want me to stay until Lachlan Iain comes, could you introduce me to your father? You can tell him I’m a believer and I came to you looking for refuge. He’s a man of good faith. He’ll have to house me.
Aileen paused. Carson’s sanding had taken on a steady cadence. I’d be glad to do that, she said. But we’ll ruin our names if we go on telling everyone about our bad choices. So let’s keep those between the three of us.
Aram didn’t want the minister to know their trespasses any more than Aileen wanted her father to. He said, Lead on, pet.
Don’t call me those names any more, she said. She stood and put on a red velvet coat, knotting it at the neck, and a pair of riding boots. Aram had not removed his shoes when he came inside – he was used to floors muddier than the moors – so all he needed was to pick up his rucksack.
They left Carson in the bedroom to work on the bookshelf and went outside, where a horde of crossbills was pecking at fallen pinecones. Odd for so many crossbills to congregate in one place, and then to eat as slowly as they were, with what seemed to be etiquette. He was so rapt by this oddness it took a moment to notice, in the forcing house, a young woman he’d never expected to see in the real world. If Pullhair could indeed be called that.
*
The young woman he had seen, Lili, was not alone in the forcing house. By her side was the minister’s wife, a slight, comely woman in her mid-fifties. As far as Aram knew, she did not have a name other than Mrs Macbay. She and Lili were holding opposite handles of a bow creel, the kind fishwives used to carry around Glenfinnan when Aram was a very young boy. In those baskets they used to make the men’s weekly catch look handsome, then flank it with a knife and a slate, should anyone want the fish cleaned for an extra coin when the wives came to their home. Aram was so young then his memory could not be trusted, but he had often seen lampreys hiding inside the creels, sometimes even miniature whales, so small they would have fit in the palm of his infant hand. He had seen an ocarina, a tyre, a walrus tusk, the essence of blue, and once an iridescent speech bubble – ’s fhearr teicheadh math na droch-fhuireach, it had said in its typescript, or, better a good escape than a bad stay.
Aileen turned to lead him into the blackhouse, where, presumably, her father was resting. Aram stopped her as gently as he could, with a hand on her shoulder. Do you mind if we say hello to your mam first?
I’d rather we stick to the plan, she said. Anyway, she has company.
I know the young woman she’s with. I’d like to say hello.
Aileen sighed. Do what you must, she said. I’ll go see my boban. Come knock on the door of the house when you’re all done.
Thank you, he said. She sulked for a tick, then slunk across the dry land toward her father’s door. The sky above her, plague dark, seemed to swarm. She stepped over some earthwork that went round the house, then knocked in a practised pattern and was welcomed inside.
Aram turned back toward the glass. He could see from where he stood that Mrs Macbay was offering Lili an assortment of tropical fruits, pineapples, papayas, finger limes, green mangoes. Lili looked at each with her dream-eyes, beaming, turning the fruit to take in each smiling colour, so rare in this half of the year. When she had inspected one thoroughly, she would put it in the creel, then move to the next piece on offer. Mrs Macbay chatted with her all the while, their dynamic seeming light and amiable.
Aram came into the heat of the forcing house. Please excuse me, he said. It looks like you folks are having a great time. I’m sorry to interrupt.
Aram! Lili said. She tried to run toward him but realized, still holding the creel handle, she could not go far. Instead she waved with the passion fruit in her hand. This is the best day of my life!
Mrs Macbay looked at Aram with a kindness that came from far within. In contrast to her daughter’s wild red, her hair was gelled and well defined, a little helmet of ringlets. This made her look put-together, and so reliable. If she could take such good care of her appearance, she could take equal care of a conversation. You’re not interrupting at all, she said. You’re most welcome here. Did I see you at fellowship yesterday?
He levelled the cable knit of his sweater. He was sweating already, and he smelled of salmon scales; he hoped the plum blooms would overpower that odour. Yes, I popped by briefly. I had some fish to bring to Aileen and Carson.
That was very kind of you. Are you a fisherman?
Lili said, He’s a big shot at the Salmon Company! My friend Euna picked up fish from him once. You should have seen her coming back from getting it, her face all full of moon.
Was it really? Aram asked. That hardy hope of his. Its roots were reaching wider and wider, and he was powerless to stop the spread. I can’t really imagine that, he said, trying to come across as cool, unmoved. But anyway, that reminds me, how are you here?
The thrill that had been running visibly through Lili now dulled, disappeared. She put down the passion fruit, not in the basket, but in the shade of its parent tree. Grace really wanted fruit today, she said. She was so low on sugar and sad in her bed. I knew they had it here because a lady came to our door a few months ago to invite us to church. She had a sack of oranges.
Good girl. Does Muireall know you’ve come?
She finds a way to know everything. But I sneaked out this morning without her seeing me, if that’s what you’re wondering.
I’ve never met Muireall, Mrs Macbay said to Aram. Nor Grace, for that matter, though we have tried several times to include them in our congregation.
Aram said, They keep to themselves, mostly.
Lili rattled her handle toward Mrs Macbay, so the woman would hold the creel alone. Lili, relieved of that fruit weight, sat in the dirt. She bunched her hands into fists and rested her chin on them. I was having such a good day before you asked me that, she told Aram.
He sat in the same position as she did, cross-legged, hands bunched into fists. Though he angled himself in front of her, she would not look at him. I shouldn’t have asked that, he said. I was too curious. Can you forgive me?
Okay, Lili said. She pegged upright, suddenly vibrant. It was astonishing how quickly the girl moved from one emotion to the next, not like Carson, sanding a whole bookshelf, or Aileen, still processing anger entrenched over years. Lili was now grinning, drawing a cross-section of an eight-storey house in the dirt around her feet. Aram and Mrs Macbay watched as she decked the interior with chandeliers, televisions, turned-on taps, brimming fridges. Inside were all kinds of beasts – winged horses, giant hares, hairless cats – but not a single person.
Mrs Macbay did not seem impressed by Lili’s flitting from feeling to feeling. Actually,
she seemed quite concerned. Her forehead, smooth before, was now deeply creased. Is someone at home intimidating you? she asked Lili.
Lili played with the hem of her linen shirt. A strand of its herringbone had started to come loose. No one has ever asked me that, she said. She pulled the thread until it was as long as her ring finger.
You’re my daughter’s age. If anyone did anything to hurt her, I would stuff their mouth with nettles.
Aram looked up to see if Mrs Macbay was laughing, but she appeared to be quite serious. He needed to dead-end that particular road. Nettles seemed like a nasty lunch. He said, Lili, we want what’s best for you. If you tell us the truth, we will go to great lengths to protect you. You have our word on that.
Lili, very quickly, started talking. Muireall had started to bring round men from the Salmon Company, grimy ones who carried lice and bugs and fleas into the house, making the women’s beds itchy. Muireall didn’t like men, but she kissed them with tongue in the library, sometimes when Lili was in there trying to read or play sgàilich. Almost nightly, Muireall would call Grace fat, too stout to float in saltwater. Just a few weeks before, Grace had made a noose with a belt that no longer fitted her and tried to hang herself from the rafters of the goat barn.
Right after Euna left, Lili explained, Grace had turned horrible, too. She said very mean things to Lili. Now she was on bed rest, Lili cooked breakfast and supper for her and brought it up on a tray, and Grace rarely showed gratitude. In fact, she would often take the chilli marmalade or walnut biscuits and throw them at Lili. Sometimes she even made Lili swallow the tincture Muireall had prescribed to make Grace less morbid, with its essences of gorse, larch, and mustard. The tincture inevitably got Lili sick; her stomach was sensitive to acid. But she forgave Grace because the woman was so wretched inside, and it was making her act like a twat.
