Scabby Queen

by Kirstin Innes

  DONALD

  1974–84

  Donald had shoved his friend’s hungover limbs into the van and settled in for the drive to Ayrshire, Malcolm snoring in the passenger seat. Eileen’s village, with its grey bricks and bluster, not a colour about the place, did not welcome their arrival. The primary school was poured concrete, all steep drops and hard corners for soft little bodies to catch themselves. They sat outside it, perched on the bonnet of the van, looking uncomfortably suspicious – but these were Eileen’s instructions, delivered down the phone to Donald: ‘You’ll need to pick her up from the school yourselves, and drop her to the house afterwards. I’m not for seeing him.’

  ‘She surely doesn’t mean us to get arrested?’ Donald muttered, as the flood of parents filed past, eyeing the two strangers and their van. Malcolm merely laughed again, from behind a pair of dark glasses. After twenty minutes and no sign of her, Donald pushed him into the building. They were met halfway across the playground by a hawk of a woman, the sort Donald could imagine thumping out the hymns on the piano; clearly they had been watched.

  ‘Can I help you.’ Not a question.

  ‘Malcolm,’ Donald muttered. Malcolm woke up, turned on the lights.

  ‘Hello, Mrs—? McGrouther? Mrs McGrouther. I’m here to collect my daughter, Cliodhna. She’s in the first –’ he stopped and checked with Donald, who rolled his eyes ‘– the second class. Her mother told us to pick her up from school. It’s her birthday treat, you see.’

  The woman was too close, could probably smell yesterday’s whisky leaching out of him.

  ‘We have no pupils with that name here. I suggest you leave the premises immediately.’

  ‘Sorry, what? Look here, woman, my ex-wife told me she was here. This is an arrangement. I am here to get my daughter and take her away for her birthday. I’ve come all the way from Skye and I’m not going to have you stop me, you h—’

  ‘Mrs McGrouther,’ said Donald, stepping in. ‘Cliodhna Campbell it is we’re looking for. Her middle name is Jean. Do you have a Jean Campbell here, who hasn’t been picked up yet? And she might be registered under her mother’s maiden name, Johnstone? Her mother is Eileen Campbell, Eileen Johnstone that was. Her father and her Uncle Donald are here. She’ll know us, don’t worry.’

  It was not usual for Donald to be the one to spin the charm spell, to make things happen. Small Jean Johnstone was brought out to the front door, and asked if she recognized these men, but she was already flinging herself happily at her father’s knees. Their reunion set the tone for the next three birthdays: a van ride to Girvan, the wee wriggling body squashed in between them in the front seat talking non-stop about school, dropping names of other children, giving them high-pitched renditions of all the dreary Presbyterian hymns Mrs McGrouther apparently did thump out. And if it was Donald who would chase her down the beach more often, roaring and pretending to be a monster as she squealed in delight; if Malcolm swayed and stumbled while they walked on the sand, or had a funny smell on his breath, his daughter didn’t notice. She would stare admiringly as he made the waitresses in the ice-cream parlour giggle and blush. Every time she’d run straight for Malcolm’s legs, the hair rising in a fuzzy orange halo no matter how short Eileen clipped it, screaming, ‘My daddy! My daddy!’

  That first time, after the last of the fish and chips had been eaten and a second round of ice cream bought even though they were all full to bursting, as the sun began to go down and Donald nudged them back towards the van, something that had been bubbling up in Malcolm burst open.

  ‘Cliodhna. Why has your mother got them calling you Jean at the school?’

  She looked at him for a little while, trying to remember.

  ‘Mum saaaaid – that nobody would be able to say it proper. She said it was too silly for school and for here. It’s a bit confusing trying to remember it’s me when they say Jean!’

  ‘But your name is Cliodhna. Not Jean.’

  ‘Jean’s my second name. Cliodhna Jean. Jean’s my name for when I’m with Mummy and Cliodhna for when I’m with Da— with you. It’s my secret name. Nobody else has got a secret name.’

  They pulled up outside the pebbledash terrace Eileen had directed him to, a change of address in the last few months. A quick check that Cliodhna had got all her things – schoolbag, jumper, the wooden xylophone her father had been prompted to buy her during a stop-off in Ayr before they arrived – and there were hugs. A big sweep-up into the air and giggly descent for Uncle Donald, a tight kneeling hold from her father. As Malcolm released her, Donald saw his eyes were wet.

  ‘Cliodhna, I’d like you to ask your mother to come out here, please.’

  ‘Come on, Malcolm,’ said Donald. ‘You know the terms. She doesn’t wa—’

  ‘Your mother, Cliodhna. Now, you sleep well tonight, m’ghaol. And always remember you’ve got a daddy who loves you.’

  Cliodhna skipped down the path and let herself into the house. It was beginning to get cold, so they got back into the car to wait for Eileen. Malcolm was silent, fuming, and Donald knew better than to risk him.

  After about ten minutes, he reached over Donald and held his fist down on the horn.

  ‘Malcolm.’

  ‘I’ll speak to my wife, Donald Bain, and thank you to keep out of it.’

  Nothing. He hit the horn again, this time making two, three, four blasts. A couple of lights went on in the nearby houses – it was a small, close street. A man appeared in the doorway Cliodhna had disappeared into. Malcolm was out of the van straight away, Donald following close behind.

  ‘Might have known. Might. Have. Known.’

  ‘What do you want?’ He was big, this one, some ten or fifteen years older than Donald and Malcolm, hard from a lifetime of it.

  ‘And who the hell are you?’

  ‘I could ask you the same question, sunshine. What you doing making a noise outside my house?’

  ‘Oh, you know who I am. Your house? Ah, she’s good. Isn’t she good, Donald? Anyway, I’d very much like to speak with my wife, please. Eileen Campbell, as she still is called and always will be.’

  ‘She’s not interested, pal. She’s not coming out.’

  ‘I have an important matter that I need to discuss with her relating to the education of my child, Cliodhna Jean Campbell, as it says on her birth certificate. I don’t see what business this is of yours.’

  The man bristled like one of those muscly dogs preparing to fight. Donald was not sure they’d make it, even two on one.

  ‘Let me teach you right now what business it is of mine.’

  As he began advancing, though, the door flew open, and Eileen was standing there, thinner still, fully made up as ever.

  ‘Leave him, Alec. Let me deal with him.’

  She wove her tiny body in between them, catching her man by the face, stroking his cheek. He stopped still, breathed out through his nostrils. Then he turned to Donald.

  ‘All right. You tell this alky joker that if I catch him anywhere near my house again I’ll kill him outright and won’t mind the sentence. And you get him to sign those divorce papers. OK, boy?’

  The front door slammed. Malcolm and Eileen were staring each other down, more engaged now, in their hatred, than they’d ever been when living together.

  ‘Why the hell have you decided to change her name?’

  She hissed out a noise to silence him.

  ‘You’ll do this quietly, Malcolm Campbell, or I’ll bring Alec back out and I won’t stand in his way again. Maybe I’ll even let the girl watch.’

  He snarled at her, but he dropped to an exaggerated whisper.

  ‘Our daughter has a name, Eileen. She has a name, and that name is now the one thing tying her to me and to my family history and language, and traditions. I’ll thank you to inform the school that she is to be called by it.’

  ‘Your traditions. It’s an Irish name. It’s not from the islands. I can’t have her going to school with an Irish name. Do you know what people are lik
e round here? Do you know how deep it all runs? Don’t be stupid. Besides, nobody could bloody well spell it.’

  ‘And the Johnstone? You are still a married woman, are you not, and it distinctly says on her birth certificate Campbell. Campbell!’

  ‘Johnstone is the same name as her cousins. It makes her part of the family. It means the school know who she is and where she comes from.’

  ‘I’m going to be phoning that school. I’m going to be writing them letters to insist that her name is changed back on all official records. You want me to sign the divorce papers, these are my conditions. And you. You are to call her by her proper, given name.’

  ‘You are no one to tell me what I do or don’t call my own daughter. You are no one. Do you understand that?’

  Malcolm fizzed, bent double, flailed with his hand outstretched. For one second, Donald thought he might be having a fit.

  ‘You’re trying to erase me, Eileen! You’re trying to rub me out of my – our child’s life!’

  Eileen stepped back to her doorstep, pulled her cardigan around herself.

  ‘Och no, Malcolm. I imagine you’ll do that bit all by yourself.’

  Donald was never told what conversation had occurred between them in the weeks that followed, but somehow, miraculously after his behaviour outside the house, Malcolm was allowed to carry on visiting. Donald would drive him down to make sure he got there, red-eyed and mostly silent, twice or three times a year, watch him sitting douce on his knees on the carpet as she unwrapped his present on Boxing Day, not making eye contact with Eileen or Alec propped stiffly on the sofa with their sherries. He would always buy her musical presents – books of sheet music, a chanter, a tin whistle; on her ninth birthday a tiny fiddle he’d had made for her – but the gifts existed in isolation. He’d never ask how she was getting on with them, never contact Eileen about the girl’s music, never offer to pay for the lessons she’d need. And Cliodhna would take the instruments and smile, and set them gently aside.

  In the van, driving back and forth from the seaside, they would sing, favourite tunes from their own youth and Burns, always Burns. Malcolm created simple harmonies for Cliodhna’s sweet soprano to pull against the more prosaic of Rabbie’s songs she’d learned by rote at school. They taught her Gaelic lullabies, reminded her of the songs they’d sung when she was a baby. It was important work, Donald felt; it was keeping the island part of her alive.

  On their last trip, she was only mouthing the words, her voice barely catching the notes. ‘You need to sing up, Cliodhna,’ Donald said, giving Malcolm a look over her head. Her father picked up on it.

  ‘I want to hear you sing, m’eun bhig, my little bird. I miss your lovely voice when I’m not with you.’

  ‘Nobody else wants to hear it, though,’ the girl muttered, turning herself away to face out the window.

  ‘Who would not want to hear you? Everybody wants to listen to you.’

  ‘Mrs McGrouther said I was singing too loudly and putting the other children off. And Mum told me to stop. She said I was giving her a headache.’

  Three years earlier, this would have driven Malcolm into a frenzy. Now he just sagged, went silent. Donald pulled the van to a stop at the side of the road.

  ‘Hey now. Cliodhna. Look at me.’

  She turned around, sulking. Between them her father stared straight ahead, blank.

  ‘You have got the most beautiful voice, and you must never stop singing, no matter what people say. Do you remember when you lived with your daddy and me, and we were in a band? Do you remember the island we lived on, Skye?’

  She made a half-committal face. Perhaps she didn’t, he thought. Could kids forget their lives of five years earlier?

  ‘Well. We thought you were such a good singer that sometimes we would bring you onstage at the hotel where we played. And your daddy would say into the microphone, “Now for the most special guest of the night,” and you would hold the great big microphone, with long ribbons in your hair, and you’d sing them “Auld Lang Syne”, just like we were doing earlier. And the audience would go wild, really they would. They would cheer and stand up and clap so hard their hands hurt, because that’s how good you were. And I remember thinking right there, even though you were only four, this girl has something special about her so she does. And that’s why it’s important that you sing. I took a photograph and I’ve still got it somewhere, of you on that stage. I’ll mail it to you right away, as soon as we’re back home, I will.’

  He spent four hours trying to find that photograph when they got back, then put it into an envelope and marched straight up to the post office, banging on the door until old Jacksie came to open it, complaining at him. It was urgent, he said. It had to go in the first morning’s post. He was never quite sure why, but it seemed like a very important thing to do.

  When the girl was eleven, Malcolm left for America. He’d fallen in love with a bluegrass singer they’d met at the Kenmore Folk Festival: Anouli was forty, with a fantastic rasping voice; she seemed to love the drink as well as Malcolm did. Donald watched them crashing slowly together over a number of nights, their raucous harmonies at the end of one jam session an almost obscene display. Malcolm seemed alive again, offstage as well as on, that pilot light behind his eyes visible once more, so Donald approved and left them to it, assuming that it would fade away when she went home at the end of the week.

  Two months later he was showing off his plane ticket.

  ‘Jesus, man, anyone would think you were the wife and it was you I was leaving.’

  ‘Well you are, in a way. You’re leaving me and Fraser and the band. But that’s not what I’m getting at and you know it. I’m talking about your responsibilities, Malcolm. To that wee girl.’

  ‘Ach, the girl will be fine. She is fine. She’s somebody else’s daughter now, don’t you know. The big man made of meat. And she’ll carry on going to her meaty school, and her mother will get her the right kind of job, and then she’ll get herself hitched to another big meaty miner. That’s what’s going to happen to wee Jeanie Johnstone, Donald. And maybe it’s for the best that I’m not around to see it, as I’ve been able to do bugger all to stop it happening so far.’

  ‘Havers. Cowardice, that’s what that is. You’re cowardly and lazy, Malcolm Campbell, too lazy to make the effort, to be any sort of presence at all in that girl’s life. Too cowardly to be there for her. That’s all you are.’

  Malcolm pulled himself up. The other men in the bar were trying not to look at them.

  ‘I divorced the last person who spoke to me like that. Maybe I should divorce you too, Donald. It seems like it might be time.’

  And he got up and walked out.

  He did sound like Eileen, Donald realized. Well, maybe Eileen had had the measure of Malcolm all along.

  He watched Malcolm leave from the hilltop above the ferry, scooping up his various bags, the only foot passenger that day. And the first thing he thought to do was write to the girl and let her know.

  With Malcolm gone, Eileen didn’t reply to his letters as often. Cliodhna’s birthday was coming up and he suggested organizing the usual seaside trip; no response came until six weeks after the date, that she was sorry, it had been a busy one this year. He saw the girl once more, when she was twelve, when Eileen agreed to let him come down – not take her out for a trip, that wouldn’t be right – but just come and hand over a birthday present, sit there awkwardly in the living room till Eileen said gently that they were going over to Alec’s mum’s for their tea and he’d probably need to be getting back on the road, no? Cliodhna had hugged him tight before he left, but they’d both been aware of the absence he brought in with him, and he reckoned she was probably happier once he’d gone.

  He continued to write to her, though, keeping her updated, at least four times a year. He wanted to make sure there was a regular, steady thing in her life, and he thought as her godfather it was probably his job, now. A picture of his new cottage, on the mainland. A programme
from a music festival he was playing at, a postcard from Orkney or London or wherever his new life as a session musician took him. ‘I play in other people’s bands,’ he wrote to her, trying to explain it. ‘It’s a free life, a good life. There’s always music around.’

  She never replied, over the years, but he thought that was OK. None of the letters had been returned to him, addressee unknown, so he thought they were probably getting through. In a way it began to free him up, to write things he wouldn’t tell anyone face to face.

  I thought I’d never really be able to do it, without your dad. He was always the one who was good at finding us work, as a band. But I seem to be doing just fine. Somebody’s always looking for a fiddler.

  This one on a postcard from Paris, with pretty dancing girls on the front. He’d slipped it in an envelope with a little model of the Eiffel Tower on a key ring. Just in case.

  And time passed, and life was good, and he was forty. He was forty, and he was washing up the dishes at half past eight. He heard the late bus coming down the hill like it always did, was confused when it pulled on its brakes. The headlights streamed through the cottage windows and he went outside to see if Roddy the bus needed a hand. Roddy was helping a woman down off the stair, a woman with high-heeled shoes and lots of hair. He was carrying a big bag for her, and they were coming down the path to Donald’s bothy.

  ‘What’s all this, then, Roddy man?’ he called out, at the same time as Roddy was saying, ‘Here you go, Donald. Brought her safe to you.’ And he realized as she got nearer that she wasn’t really a woman at all, she was a girl, with Malcolm’s huge, mellow eyes under all that make-up, and she was saying, ‘Hello, Uncle Donald.’

  He made her tea and offered her a blanket, because her clothes were thin and the fire hadn’t properly heated the room yet. All she’d said so far was that she wanted to surprise him; he waited till she’d warmed up and calmed down before asking her properly.

  ‘So, now. What’s going on, then? It’s great to see you, obviously, but it’s been five years, lass. People don’t just show up on a whim after five years, Cliodhna. Sorry – Jean, is it now? What’s really going on?’