Scabby Queen

by Kirstin Innes

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Ach, what harm, Uncle Donald? I look pretty today. Let people see me.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Anyway, will I let you get back to it? Back to Danny’s lovely sister?’

  ‘Cliodhna. She’s a child. Listen, lass. Your mother. Are you going to talk to her before she goes?’

  ‘Not if she’s just going to nitpick—’

  ‘She won’t. I promise you. And she’s come all this way.’

  ‘OK, OK. But only for you.’

  Back in the dining room, Eileen was, as Clio had promised, prinking and even giggling under Mansfield’s determined attention. His own dinner companion was locked into conversation with whoever was at her right, and, relieved, he settled down to eat his soup. Clio was out of the room for a long time, and for a while he thought he was the only one who had noticed. The new groom finally cast a glance round, patted his mother-in-law gently on the wrist and excused himself. Mother Mansfield picked up the conversation, which Donald couldn’t quite make out, but Eileen’s face closed right down again, her mouth tight and tiny, choking out monosyllables. He suddenly felt exhausted, by all of them. The happy couple returned to the room, her arms fidgeting around his shoulders, his hand on her waist, steering her back into her seat. She was giggling; he was neutral. Donald looked down and tried to concentrate on his beef. For all its fanciness, the food was tasty enough, he’d give it that.

  A chinking of teaspoon on glass and they all hushed, looking to the centre obediently, except Eileen, who was jerking her head round to see what had happened. Mansfield rose up out of his seat, jacket off, sleeves rolled and a wine-flush across his cheeks.

  ‘Hello. You all know me – I’m a man of few words.’

  No one around the table reacted as though this was in any way true. The brother actually sniggered.

  ‘So I’m going to keep this short and sweet. Speaking for myself and my beautiful wife, I’m delighted that you’ve all managed to come here today, whether you travelled half an hour up the road or have made it an overnight stay.’ Here he bowed, quickly, to both Donald and Eileen. ‘It’s wonderful to be surrounded by so much love on this, our very special day.’

  The whole thing had been rehearsed and memorized, even just for a performance in front of family, Donald realized, as Danny choked slightly over that odd ‘very’. It was a speech written for a much larger audience.

  ‘I’d also just like to say a huge thank you to the other most special woman in my life, my little mum, who has organized a beautiful and intimate wedding for us at record speed.’ Polite applause.

  ‘On that note – I’m aware that a lot of you were, ah, rather surprised at how quickly this has all happened. It’s true that Clio and I haven’t been a couple for long. And I just want to take this opportunity to reassure all of you right now that there’s no baby on the way –’ Clio began to raise her glass ‘– yet!’ The Mansfields round the table brayed and cheered. Eileen was looking at Clio, who had put her glass back down and resumed her vague stare up at her husband.

  ‘But when it’s right, it’s right. You just know. And I’ve known since the first time I heard this woman sing. I thought – Danny, pal. That’s the girl for you. You need to move fast and lock this one down. And not just as a tour promoter!’

  He paused, and they applauded.

  ‘Now, I believe we’ve got a wedding cake to cut?’

  Mrs Mansfield was making furious arm gestures at someone just outside the door; two blushing waitresses quickly wheeled in an enormous white tiered cake, a splat of black musical notes creeping up from the base to sit on a stave, wobbling, two bars sticking it into the littlest cake on top. The Mansfields whistled, the one at Donald’s side calling out, ‘That is some cake, Mum!’

  Danny and Clio bumbled out of their seats until they were standing beside the thing. It completely dwarfed Clio – like the speech, it was a cake in search of a bigger wedding. He wrapped his arms round her as the waitress handed him a huge carving knife, and he folded both their hands over it. They tried to smile as three pocket cameras pointed at them across the table at once, as the knife sank in and the stave teetered and pitched off the top, as Danny’s mother lunged forward into the shot to save it.

  Danny pulled everything back with a professional chortle.

  ‘The best-laid plans, eh? Anyway, if I could invite you all to join us for a cocktail on the lovely terrace space upstairs, which I think we’ve got reserved for ourselves for the next couple of hours, I’m sure that cake will be along to help us digest this wonderful meal shortly.’

  Cliodhna was just looking at him, silent and faintly amused.

  Up on the terrace, Eileen stuck herself to Donald like glue, muttering to him without really moving her mouth.

  ‘I’m going to have to catch my train soon. Do you think – is it going to look rude? What will they think of me?’

  ‘I think you need to talk to Cliodhna is what, Eileen.’

  ‘Och, there’s not time now. I’ll send her a card or something.’

  Gently, but with intent, he pulled Eileen across to the corner of the balcony, where Cliodhna was leaning back into the late-afternoon air, her elbows looped under the banister, nodding sweetly at one of the sisters with her eyes half-closed.

  ‘I’m so sorry – Susie, was it? Would you mind if we had a little family time? Thanks so much.’

  Mother and daughter faced each other, both standing silently. He wanted to bump their heads together.

  ‘Well, this is a bit silly of you both,’ Donald said, being sure to speak quietly and keep his face pleasant, so they couldn’t be intercepted. ‘I have no idea what it was the two of you fought about, but it was almost ten years ago now. Today seems like a pretty good day for some peace. Cliodhna, your mother will have to go and catch her train soon.’

  Cliodhna breathed in and out a couple of times, her eyes never leaving Eileen’s face. Then she blinked, her body suddenly unclenching.

  ‘You’re right, Uncle Donald. I’m really touched that you came, Mum.’

  Eileen was still staring her out, flicking her glance up and down from the dress to the hair.

  ‘Eileen?’ Donald said, putting a hand on her arm.

  ‘It was a lovely wedding. Beautiful.’ She mumbled the last syllable into her fingers as though she’d given too much away.

  Cliodhna laughed. ‘Oh, that was all Danny and his mum. All I did was find a dress in a second-hand shop, and turn up!’

  Eileen looked for a second as though she was about to faint, steeled herself.

  ‘It’s a very unusual dress. Very – individual.’

  Cliodhna’s arms wrapped round herself, covering up.

  ‘You look very – nice today. Yes. And that’s a good man you’ve got there.’

  ‘Yes, Danny’s a good man.’

  ‘He’s a hard worker, isn’t he? You can tell.’

  ‘Oh yeah. He’s always got a few pots on the bubble, does Danny.’

  ‘Well, that’s the best way. That’s the way it should be. Busy man, brings the wages in regularly, doesn’t drink them all. Aye, lass. You’ve done well. You picked better than me, at least. The first time.’

  Cliodhna seemed to absorb the slight with her whole body, just for a split second. Then she pulled back up, nodded it past.

  ‘Yes, and how is Alec? Please give him my—’

  Eileen shook her head quickly. Cliodhna finished her sentence in a cough.

  ‘Alec’s as well as can be. He’s doing a lot of volunteering now. With the youth groups and the Labour Club. Keeping busy. Keeping busy.’

  ‘That’s good. Good to know.’

  ‘And you’re a singer now. We saw you. On the telly.’

  ‘You did? Yes, yes. A wee while ago, that was. Still, hoping to have a new album out. Working on new material. That sort of thing.’

  ‘You want to make sure you’re not a drain on that man of yours. You know I’ve always said a woman should be able to bring in a
wage too. You know I’ve always said that.’

  ‘I know. You have. And it’s your birthday coming up soon, Mum. Any plans?’

  ‘Och, just the usual. Wee night down the Labour Club with Alec. Some pals. Wee vodka.’

  ‘Nice. Nice. Maybe – maybe Danny and I could get in the car and pop through?’

  Donald looked up at Clio’s tone. She was leaning forward to her mother. He wanted to wrap her up in his coat, right there.

  Eileen’s granite-locked war-face had descended.

  ‘No, no, that’s— No. It’s a— it’s too far for you to come. No no. Don’t do that. It wouldn’t be a good idea.’

  Clio flopped, her shoulders sank, as though she’d been slapped. For the second time that day, Eileen reached out a hand towards her then thought the better of it.

  ‘I mean, we could maybe meet somewhere else. Just you and me and Danny. Maybe I could hop on the train to Ayr or something. Glasgow, even. Meet you there. Wee day trip.’

  Cliodhna’s face was all gratitude. Eileen began fumbling in her handbag.

  ‘Here. Here. I brought you a wee thing. Just a wee thing. I didn’t know what to get youse for a wedding present, see.’

  She held out a little box.

  ‘It was my mother’s. I always felt bad she’d never really got the chance to know you, when you were little. I mean, it’s no much, but I thought it would be nice for you to have it.’

  Cliodhna was blinking back tears as she lifted the sparkling brooch up to the fading light.

  ‘And I’d thought you could’ve maybe worn it as your something old but, ach, it’s too late for that now.’

  Eileen looked away. Her daughter’s voice was very controlled as she responded.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll take good care of it. Don’t you worry.’

  ‘Well. It’s not worth anything, probably. Tin and paste. But, you know. Nice to have.’

  Across the terrace, Donald noticed Mrs Mansfield with her arm around one of her daughters, laughing and stroking back hair from her face. Finally, Eileen reached out a hand, delivered a tiny pat on Cliodhna’s arm.

  ‘So I’ll see you then, Cliodhna Jean.’

  ‘Aye, Mum. Aye.’

  On their way down the stairs, Donald and Eileen had to flatten themselves against the wall as the young waitress puffed up carrying a massive plate laden with carved-up black and white cake.

  ‘I’ll walk you to the station?’ he asked when they finally got out of there, handing her one of the two cigarettes he’d just lit.

  ‘Och no, Donald Bain. You get back in there and enjoy the party. She ought to have someone there for her, eh now.’

  ‘Aye. Here, that was a nice thing you did up there, Eileen. It meant a lot to her, I could tell. A lovely wee gift to start her married life with.’

  ‘Well. We’ll see. We’ll see how long all that lasts, shall we. She’s marrying up and no mistake there.’

  ‘Now. Cliodhna’s a good lassie.’

  ‘Oh, she’s bonny enough to get a catch like him, I’ll give you that. But keeping him – well, that’s a horse of a different colour. She’s messy, that girl. Chaotic. She’ll do something to muck all this up, you mark my words, Donald Bain.’

  ‘I think you’re too hard on the lass, Eileen, but we’ll agree to leave it there, eh.’

  They puffed in silence for a second.

  ‘So. Alec didn’t fancy the trip today?’

  ‘Alec doesn’t know I’m here. He wouldn’t approve.’

  ‘Of you going to your own daughter’s wedding?’

  ‘Aye. And he’s got his reasons that I don’t need to go into with you, thank you.’

  ‘You don’t, that’s true.’

  ‘I almost didn’t come myself.’

  ‘But you did, though.’

  ‘I did.’

  He watched her huff her tiny bulk up the Royal Mile, a bright pink streak against the workaday suits, and wondered whether that would be the last time he’d see her.

  MALCOLM

  Edinburgh, 2003

  She wasn’t coming.

  Eight minutes past.

  Twelve minutes past.

  She wasn’t coming.

  He’d spent the journey down reading. He’d bought three newspapers from a pile in the supermarket in Inverness, but he realized he didn’t know how to fold the damn things, and one of them was full of tits. But he persevered, scared of the places his head could go on a long bus trip – on this long bus trip – with only the scenery for company. The tiny lettering was making him feel a bit sick, so he ended up poring over the one large-print, stapled TV guide that had come with one of them, reading every listing in depth, his lips moving, challenging himself to memorize them.

  Sitting here, now, in the restaurant, having thrown a bundle of paper in the bin at the bus station, he was finding it much harder to block those thoughts out.

  The waiter refilled his water again – deliberately, he thought, to make him feel uncomfortable – and he scratched at his beard under the neck of Donald’s one good shirt, that Morna had pinned on him. The music was too damn loud in here, too damn loud and shouty, twanging cockney accents yelling nothing. He’d wanted to just take her to that pub, one of the ones he knew and where people might know him, where musicians gathered, had even dared a stupid dream that the two of them might jam together. Donald had talked him out of that, suggested somewhere more neutral first, somewhere they might not be interrupted.

  So here he was, in this place upstairs from the bus station, the closest one Morna had been able to find in her guidebook. He’d already checked in to the room she’d booked him, in a hotel next door. A fine trip to Edinburgh indeed, when all he was going to see was three buildings on the one street.

  ‘Remember and get some rest. Just an hour, after the journey. You’ve got time,’ she’d said.

  ‘I’m thinking I should go with you, Malcolm. I’m still not sure,’ Donald had chimed in.

  ‘Stop fussing at me, man! I’ll be fine to get a bus. Nice warm things, buses. You just sit down, have a wee sleep for a few hours and you’re there. Ridden a lot of Greyhounds in my day.’

  Donald had done enough.

  Donald was thinking of it like the old days, the sentimental bastard, when Malcolm had brought him down for visits to Cliodhna in Ayrshire, for a bit of backup. To keep him straight. Well, this was not Uncle Donnie’s time, not now. Malcolm didn’t want him here. Not today.

  Would you admit that, Malcolm Campbell? Would you admit that you’re actually jealous of – no. No he would not.

  Oh, why was he even bothering. Stupid idea. Stupid.

  Eighteen minutes past.

  How long did you wait? This must be like going on a date, he supposed. Being stood up. He was feeling fuzzy, could hear the blood rushing around his ears. He finished his water, poured more from the jug.

  Twenty-two minutes past and there she was. Red and golden in the afternoon sunlight from the window. She was like him; much more than she had been in the pictures he’d seen. His features, slimmer and womanly, but undoubtedly his. His lashes, the curve of his cheek, nothing at all of her mother there.

  He pushed his chair back and stood up, gripped the table to support himself and hide the shake at his knees and wrist. He was embarrassed to realize his eyes were wet.

  ‘Cliodhna.’

  ‘Malcolm.’

  He went to hug her but had forgotten about the table, knocked his glass of water over.

  ‘Oh bugger it. Bugger it.’

  She moved very quickly while he was still taking it all in, dived for the napkins to mop up the spill. He felt ridiculous, standing there staring at the top of her head, her hand’s swift motion over the table.

  ‘There we go,’ she said.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘So. Do you – can I give you a hug, then?’

  He hardly felt her touch on him before she pulled away and sat herself down, so he followed her, and she looked at him. Steady and sure. He couldn’t read her face.


  ‘It was a long trip for you, if you’re staying up with Uncle Donald.’

  ‘It was. Aye. A long trip for you too. London, is it?’

  ‘For years now. Back and forth all over the place, but London’s home.’

  He nodded. He’d never been to London; had nothing to contribute.

  ‘Busy place, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. Not where I live, so much.’

  He could hear the English in her voice, now – a sort of stretching of her o-sound. He’d been conscious of his own accent returning since he’d been home after years around Anouli. Funny things, voices. The way they would adjust themselves without your knowledge in different company.

  ‘Never really took to a city myself. Prefer the open road. Big spaces.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Cliodhna was staring at her fingers. He’d hoped she’d be a chatty one, the sort of woman who could keep a conversation running, but she seemed to want him to do all the work. His foot spasmed out and kicked the box he’d been storing under the table.

  ‘Oh! Here! Here! I have a present for you. Very special. Here!’

  He bent down to pull it out, felt the dizzy pins swishing in his head and had to pause, folded in half like a fool. The box was so big he had to get out of the chair again to hand it to her.

  ‘So. So. I bought these for you years ago. They were supposed to be a twenty-first present – well, better late than never, eh? But I kept them with me all that time. I mean, some of the time they were in your stepmother’s house, but I made sure she handed them over when I left. What do you think?’

  She’d pulled one of them out, was holding it up.

  ‘Cowboy boots?’

  ‘Aye. Well, for women. Cowgirl boots, maybe? But they’re good ones. Handmade – lot of really intricate stitching in there. I had them made specially for you, too. One of the finest craftsmen in Austin. In Texas. While we were playing a festival there. And I thought the purple was sort of unusual. I mean, I didn’t know your size so I just told them to go for a sort of women’s medium. If they don’t fit I – well, I can’t really take them back now, can I?’