My brain flares with sudden recall. I remove Michael’s diary from my suitcase, flipping the pages to one of his early, unfinished works.
Black in a coloured space
Darkness, eternal, unending
Darkness, eternal night
Soaks into my already wet heavy saturated skin
Soaks out of my saturated skin
puddles beneath spreading misery
A spectre across the sky.
Drowning light,
submerging shadow
engulfing/gorging on colour?? Murderer of light? Am I the murderer of light?
I begin to write.
The darkness is everywhere, shadows merging into shadows. It spreads across the room, out of the door into the fields, into the water and across the sky, drowning light, murdering calm, engulfing the colour all around me. It is a huge, hungry monster gorging itself on colour and light, never satisfied, always hungry.
The sound of a screeching gull catches my attention, and the moment is lost. I stare at the words in front of me. Part Michael’s, part my own, they seem to have transformed into something different, something new. I feel at once sad and elated. Michael is with me in ways I never could have imagined.
Just before seven, I decide to wander down to the loch. The old boathouse, now a comfortable meeting space, is decorated with brightly coloured bunting. Nearby, a rustic wooden jetty stretches twenty metres into the water. I wander along it over the loch, breathing in the beauty that surrounds me.
The sound of cheerful voices brings my attention back to the boathouse. As much as I want to be alone, I know that mixing in is integral to my plan to go unnoticed and gain Desra’s trust. I exhale deeply and make my way back along the jetty towards civilisation. It’s a warm evening and the doors are wide open. Inside is a study space with tables and, closer to the front, a communal meeting area with settees and cushioned benches laid out in a wide U shape, facing the loch. On the grass, a long table has been set up, covered by a large awning and with softly glowing chimineas at each end. A procession of citronella candles stand guard around the dining area in a futile attempt to keep the midges at bay. Nearby, the chef is busy stoking the barbecue and next to him a table is laden with salads, cold meats, and bread of every description. The smell of burning charcoal fills the air. I find a quiet spot, open my notebook and stare at the large, blank space in front of me.
‘I looked for you in the common room.’ Sally takes a seat beside me on the wooden bench.
‘I was struggling a bit, you know, feeling tired and—’
‘I wrote loads,’ she says, displaying three pages of work, most of which look suspiciously like completed poems. ‘Desra’s just so inspirational, isn’t she?’
I reply with a polite smile and then give a huge sigh of relief when I see Marie-Claire and Julia approaching.
‘We weren’t sure if you preferred red or white,’ says Julia, handing me a glass.
‘Wet is all that is required,’ I reply, taking a long, grateful sip.
We fill our plates with salad, homemade bread, and choose from a platter of grilled fish, chicken, and beef, before joining the rest of the group at the long table. There are a few snippets of conversation, praising the food, the fine weather, but mostly we eat. Becky, Malcolm, and another Student Ambassador, Nikki, a local beauty who is attending Lennoxton on a golfing scholarship, are on hand to ensure everything runs smoothly. Turner, we are told, has been given the night off to go to dinner with a visiting aunt.
Finally, when we have had our fill of freshly made cranachan and the meal is over, we make our way into the boathouse. To the left of the seating area a fire blazes in the open hearth. Any remaining bottles of wine and beer have been placed in a large plastic tub filled with ice. A smiling, red-cheeked Malcolm greets us.
‘Hello again,’ he says, taking a sip from a bottle of cider at his side. ‘I hope you have all had a pleasant first day at Lennoxton Summer School.’ There are general hums of approval. ‘Normally your tutor would lead an informal get-to-know-you session, but unfortunately Dr McKinley is in Edinburgh this evening at a poetry reading.’
‘How nice for her,’ mutters Julia. I turn to her in surprise. ‘Well come on,’ she whispers. ‘She’s being paid for this isn’t she? The least she could do is be here on the first night.’
I nod in agreement but say nothing. Evidently, I am not the only person who feels distinctly underwhelmed by Dr Desra McKinley.
‘While our lovely Becky did volunteer to facilitate the session,’ Malcolm gives an impish grin, ‘I suggested to her that you are all quite capable of doing so on your own. If agreeable, I would like to suggest that you spend the next hour or so introducing yourselves, enjoying another glass or two of wine, and helping yourselves to coffee and tea.’ He indicates towards a small kitchen area at the back of the boathouse. ‘Becky, Nikki and I will be in the room just next door preparing for tomorrow’s outdoor session. Even though the path from here to the boarding house is well lit, I would ask that none of you venture back on your own, at least until you’re more familiar with the grounds. As you can see we are close to the loch and I wouldn’t want any of you to lose your bearings and possibly end up going for a moonlight dip.’ There are a few giggles; someone, possibly Sally, yells out something about skinny dipping which Malcolm ignores. ‘We’ll be back at ten to escort you to your rooms, but should any of you wish to return earlier, please just pop your head in next door and we’ll be happy to take you back whenever you wish. Relax, get to know each other and I shall be back in an hour or so.’ He raises his bottle to the group and declares, ‘Mìle fàilte, which to the uninitiated means a thousand welcomes in Gaelic.’
I, and the rest of the group, raise our glasses in response.
‘Mìle fàilte!’
It doesn’t take long for the twelve aspiring poets to get settled. I find myself seated on a large settee next to Dave.
‘More wine?’ he asks.
I nod and watch as he tops up my glass, the ruby liquid shimmering in the firelight. I recline, rest my head on the back of the settee, and close my eyes. This is not at all how I expected it would be. I had planned to be detached, even methodical in my dealings with the other students. They are simply a means to an end; no need to be friendly. What I hadn’t anticipated though, was how nice they would be, and even after just a few hours together, how much I would like them. The maternal Marie-Claire and puckish Julia have been warm and friendly, already offering to host me at their flat in St Andrews after the course. Dave has demonstrated a wise benevolence to balance the highly competitive natures of some of the other students.
‘Not all of us are published,’ he had said quietly at dinner to four twenty-somethings who had broken off into an elite group and were debating whether to have a private meeting in the common room instead of attending the evening session. ‘Sharing your experience with the rest of the group could be very beneficial.’ With a tone of wry humour, he added, ‘And we may even teach you a thing or two.’
Even Sally kept the table laughing with tales of her recent and short-lived foray into the world of golf.
‘God forbid you try and bag a table by the window,’ she says, regaling us with the complexities of club house etiquette. ‘They’re only for the established members. You can imagine their faces when I told them to stuff it and walked out, never to return.’
I find my cheeks aching from laughter, something I haven’t experienced in years. I feel the settee next to me give, and opening my eyes, am surprised to see Caleb sitting down beside me.
His voice is deep, hesitant. ‘You don’t mind?’
‘Of course not.’ He smells of fresh air and sandalwood and I find myself discreetly studying his profile. He must be in his early thirties; fair-haired and with eyelashes so pale they are nearly invisible. Though quiet, he has an intense, almost anguished air about him. He catches my eye and I recognise something in his uncertain, yet open, expression. He looks nothing at all like Mi
chael, yet … I shake my head clear. I have made a deliberate decision not to impose my experiences and the pain they have caused me on others. Caleb may just be shy, or even uninterested. It isn’t for me to decide.
‘There’s a note here,’ says Sally, reading from a laminated card on the table, ‘that suggests we go around the room and say a little bit about ourselves and what we hope to get out of the week.’ She looks around the room. ‘Is that okay with everyone?’ There are a dozen nods of assent. ‘Well, if we’re all happy to go, I guess I’ll start. As you know my name is Sally. I’m an accountant. Well … I was an accountant. I wasn’t very happy in my job or my marriage, and after my two sons left home, I decided to leave my suburban bungalow with its fading wallpaper and infidelities – his not mine – and try something new. That something new involved going into partnership in an organic restaurant in Gosforth which just recently has been bought out by a national chain.’ She raises her shoulders in a who would have ever believed that gesture. ‘So, what do I do now?’ she concludes. ‘Well, I go on a fabulous residential poetry retreat!’ There are low cheers from everyone around the table. ‘As for what I want from the week, well … really I just want to improve my technique and maybe get a good sense of how to prepare for publication.’ She turns to Marie-Claire who is rolling a cigarette. ‘Are you okay to go next?’
‘Of course,’ she replies, licking the cigarette paper and sealing it tight. ‘My name is Marie-Claire and I’m originally from Montreal. I studied Urban Design at McGill where I fell in love with a poet.’ She takes a sip of her wine and continues. ‘The relationship didn’t last, but my love of poetry did. I was completing my masters at the University of Toronto when I met my lovely Julia, who was doing her PhD in Global Health Studies.’ She takes Julia’s hand. ‘It was love at first sight, so here I am in Scotland planning our wedding.’ There is a round of applause and cries of congratulations.
Julia, it turns out, is a lecturer at the University of St Andrews School of Medicine, and is slightly ambivalent about writing poetry, but as both she and Marie-Claire have decided to write their own wedding vows, thought the summer school was a good idea.
‘Hi, everyone,’ says Dave, continuing the round-robin introductions. ‘I’m a retired solicitor from Durham who has always enjoyed dabbling in a bit of poetry.’ He clears his throat and seems troubled. ‘I was due to attend the course last summer as a sixty-fifth birthday present from my daughters,’ he adds, smiling, ‘but unfortunately my wife Alice was diagnosed with dementia a few months before, so, well, you can imagine.’ The room is silent. ‘Alas, her condition has deteriorated to the stage where she now requires residential care.’ His sad eyes glisten in the flickering firelight. ‘And my children, they, er, insisted I have a break and do something for me. So here I am.’ He gazes around the room, seemingly surprised by his fellow students’ reaction. ‘Oh now, come on everyone, don’t look so glum. I’ve had a great life, a great marriage and I’m really looking forward to a week I hope will be challenging, invigorating, and life-affirming.’ He reaches for his glass and raises it high. ‘Mìle fàilte!’
Everyone responds in kind and the boathouse echoes with affection and good wishes.
Now it’s my turn.
‘I’m Kate,’ I begin, and then my well-planned monologue evaporates like rain on hot pavement. I had planned to be dignified yet warm, open yet guarded, and I have constructed an elaborate backstory so impenetrable that no one would dare ask me any personal questions. I feel all eyes on me, and a sense of awkward yet intense expectation. There is only one thing to do. ‘My marriage has very recently ended,’ I continue. ‘In fact, I left my husband only a few days ago.’
There is a gaping silence. I experience that familiar gut-clenching reaction, one that seems to make my body rebel and my brain stop functioning. I can easily handle a compound fracture or open head wound; I can dab away unselfconsciously at leaking cerebrospinal fluid; but ask me to manage emotional honesty, confrontation or conflict, and well, that’s the challenge I’ve spent most of my life avoiding. Even now, as I feel the silence harden around me, all I can think of is escape. The bulge of car keys in my back pocket presses furiously into my sacrum.
Leave quietly, no apologies.
Bag is packed and ready, always ready.
Don’t forget the diary.
Call Grace.
‘Well good for you pet!’ says Sally with a hearty chuckle, and suddenly the room erupts in riotous, supportive laughter.
I look around in wonder at the bright, smiling faces that surround me. Strangers, all of them, yet somehow new friends.
‘So,’ I fix my gaze on a small chip on the lip of my wine glass. ‘I’ve been experimenting with poetry as a way of … sort of … dealing with it, the breakdown of my marriage and all that. I have absolutely no idea if I’m any good at it and to be honest I don’t really care.’ I can feel the warmth of Caleb’s arm against mine and I am having trouble concentrating.
More silence. Now I feel embarrassed; foolish for exposing myself so openly. I look up, hoping, praying that the group’s attention is already focused elsewhere. Instead I find myself looking into a circle of smiling faces. Some part of my brain reminds me to breathe; and then it is over. I sit back and drain my glass.
Caleb speaks eloquently of his recent expulsion from the Jehovah’s Witnesses. ‘Wine, women and song,’ he explains, but I know just by looking at him that the reasons are probably far more complex and far more painful. He speaks of isolation, of being disfellowshipped by his congregation, meaning that some of his former friends and even family members won’t speak to, or even acknowledge, him. I long to touch his hand and whisper I know, but instead I simply nod and say, ‘well done,’ when he is finished.
It’s just gone ten when all the introductions and conversations are finished. Malcolm arrives to escort us back to the boarding house.
‘Breakfast is at eight,’ he says, leading us along the path, ‘and then back to the Glasshouse – that’s what we call the Ishutin Building – for a ten-a.m. start. Lunch will be at one, and then of course there’s a canoeing lesson at two.’
I feel my heart sink. I had forgotten all about the canoeing lesson. I’m going to have to find some way of getting out of it. There is absolutely no way I am getting into the water.
I am just preparing for bed when I hear a soft tapping on my door.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s only us.’ The door eases open and I can see Marie-Claire and Julia’s smiling faces, as well as the fact that they have managed to commandeer a couple of bottles of wine from the barbecue. ‘Fancy a nightcap?’
30
I wake early, surprisingly clear-headed and hangover-free. ‘Must be the adrenaline,’ I whisper to myself as I push open the bedroom window. There is a steady breeze which cools my cheeks. Brightly coloured sailboats dot the loch.
I feel a sudden tightening in my throat. Marie-Clare, Julia, Sally and I had sat in the common room until the early hours, chatting, exchanging stories, and laughing until we cried. They had also convinced me to take part in the canoeing lesson, suggesting it would be an excellent way to challenge my fear of the water. I had smiled and acquiesced, feeling as if I was part of the group and yet separate, all at once. My life of obedience, first as a Brethren, and then as a wife, has robbed me of so many opportunities: so much joy. At least I’d had Michael.
I remind myself once again that I’m not here to be happy or to make friends; I’m here for the truth, no matter the beautiful surroundings or the people I meet.
I have never felt so alone.
I shower and make my way down to breakfast, desperately relieved to see Julia and Marie-Claire beckoning me to join them. A moment later, Sally and Dave join our group, delighting us with their tales of trying to negotiate the ‘high-security’ keypad system.
‘Really,’ rants Sally. ‘Could they not think of a better passcode than 1-2-3-4?’ As she takes a seat beside me, I catch the scent of hairspray,
deodorant, and Chanel Number 5, and I feel an inexplicable urge to reach out and hug her. I’ve always hated sitting alone; seminar tables, dinner parties, hotel bars, I still find negotiating the unspoken rules of who to sit next to an excruciating task. Even though I went to a C of E primary school, I was still forbidden from sitting with non-Brethren children during lunchtime. The Doctrine of Separation dictates that Brethren can only eat or drink with fellow Brethren and not outsiders. A small table was set aside for me and the few other Brethren children in the village. I remember gazing across at the other tables, in awe and envy at the girls with their colourful hair bobbles and pierced ears.
‘You just missed Caleb,’ says Julia, buttering her toast. ‘He was actually quite chatty this morning.’
‘Where’s Desra?’ I say. ‘Isn’t she joining us for breakfast?’
‘From what I gather, Dr McKinley isn’t the mixing type,’ says Julia coolly. All eyes turn to her. ‘I’m told she was forced to take over the summer school from Maire Donaldson at short notice and wasn’t too happy about it.’ She takes a sip of tea. ‘But I gather Lennoxton gives her a lot of leeway to do her poetry along with all her sports stuff, so when the headmaster insisted …’
‘How do you know all this?’ I say, my eyes wide.
‘I was chatting to one of the cleaners this morning.’
The table erupts in laughter.
‘Maybe you should consider writing detective fiction instead of poetry,’ Marie-Claire says, leaning over and giving her fiancée a peck on the cheek.
The morning begins with a feedback session on yesterday’s efforts, in which McKinley slates just about every effort by announcing it to be contrived, derivative or cliché. All I can think of is her horrendous poem about feeding the wolf that she displayed to us the day before. While I reluctantly agree with McKinley that Marvin and Roz’s contribution about their two cats is somewhat underwhelming, I am adamant that her criticism of Caleb’s stream of consciousness piece about growing up as a Jehovah’s Witness is completely off the mark.
The Lake Page 20
