Sewing the Shadows Together

by Alison Baillie

  Tom was trying to decipher the information on his card when Patsy appeared at his elbow. ‘I chose the menu for you because you signed up so late. Hope that’s OK. Anyway, come along. I’ve put you at the same table as Rory for the first course.’

  The seating was traditional – alternate men and women. Tom found his place between two well-preserved women, whose neatly-styled hair showed they’d been at the hairdresser that day. They introduced themselves briefly, explaining they were primary school heads, and then continued a conversation across him about children growing up too quickly these days. Tom tried to place them but their names meant nothing to him.

  Rory leant over one of them. ‘Tom, so great to see you. What’s life like in South Africa? Went there once, to Cape Town, loved it. Where do you live?’

  ‘A place called Plettenberg Bay.’

  ‘Is that near Cape Town?’

  ‘Not very. It’s a small town on the south coast, on the Garden Route.’

  Rory shrugged to indicate that he’d never heard of it. A man across the table asked what it was like meeting all those beautiful women and Rory turned towards him. ‘It’s great. I’ve got them knocking at my door all the time – but I never let them out!’ Tom watched as a burst of laughter erupted from the table at this lame joke. Everyone wanted to be part of Rory’s magic circle.

  Tom finished his lukewarm carrot and coriander soup and sat back as they joked amongst themselves. Most of the men looked their age, with thickening waists or balding heads, but Rory still had the large dark eyes and sculpted cheek-bones that had made him so popular with the girls when they were young.

  Tom’s light trousers and his pale blue cotton shirt seemed exotically casual compared to the dark suits and white shirts of the others. He didn’t fit in. In South Africa he was always recognised as Scots, but here he felt colonial, his accent and identity worn away by the years in Plettenberg Bay. His skin was tanned, his hair thinner and bleached colourless by the years of sun and salt. He adjusted his long legs to fit under the table and tried to smile and nod as conversations flowed around him.

  After what seemed like a very long time, Patsy tapped her glass with a spoon. ‘Time to move again. Hurry up, and no changing the seating plan, or else!’

  Rory winked as he moved to his next table. ‘Catch you later, Tommy boy.’

  ‘Now, Tom,’ said Patsy as they settled down to their Waldorf salad. ‘I especially put you next to me for this course because I want to hear all about you. Are you married?’

  ‘Haven’t met the right girl yet.’ Tom cringed as he came out with the clichéd answer.

  Patsy pressed on, undeterred. ‘So, what do you do?’

  Tom felt her attention wander as he told her about his aimless career of odd jobs and messing about on boats. He started to tell her about the sculptures he made out of driftwood, but she turned away to a stocky man on her other side, who started joking with her, fixing his eyes on her cleavage.

  Tom stabbed at a walnut; even the narrow single bed and the rose-covered wallpaper of the Regent Guesthouse were beginning to seem attractive.

  He looked up from his half-eaten salad and round the room. At the next table he saw Rory Dunbar’s wife looking in his direction. Her eye caught his. She smiled and he felt a slight twinge of recognition. Had she been in his class? He couldn’t really place her, but the smile touched him.

  When Patsy stood up again and gave the order to move, Tom was relieved to see Rory’s wife waving in his direction. ‘You’re over here, Tom, next to me.’

  He slid into the chair next to her.

  ‘Do you remember me? Sarah, Sarah Campbell, Shona’s friend.’

  Tom caught his breath. Beneath her graceful figure, he did recognise her. Sarah Campbell, the gangling thirteen-year-old with long dark hair who’d always been at Shona’s side. Images came flooding back: Shona and Sarah, one so blonde and the other dark, giggling in their new school uniforms, setting off arm in arm for their first day at secondary school, playing on the beach, dancing to Radio Forth in her bedroom. They were inseparable.

  Tom realised there’d been a long silence. Looking at Sarah, an image of Shona as an adult formed in his mind. It was a shock. When he thought of his sister, he’d always seen her as a little girl. But she’d be an adult now, perhaps a wife and mother. His voice cracked, ‘Sorry, it’s been a bit strange coming back. And you’re the first person who’s mentioned Shona’s name.’

  ‘It was a long time ago and maybe people don’t want to rake up painful memories.’ Sarah hesitated. ‘But I think of her all the time. I turned fifty last month and it does make you look back over the years. My most vivid memories are of the time with Shona.’ She paused as Tom didn’t reply. ‘I’m sorry. Should we talk about something else?’

  ‘No, please talk about Shona. I haven’t even said her name for years. My mother avoided the subject – it was just too painful at the beginning and then it became taboo. Nobody else in South Africa had ever met her. I used to pretend I was an only child – it was just easier that way.’

  Sarah raised her wide grey eyes and looked at him. ‘Shona was such a lovely girl – the only real friend I ever had. I miss her so much.’ Her lip trembled. ‘Things were always so much fun with her. I was such a wimp back then and she was so daring! Nothing scared her, she’d talk to anyone, do the maddest things. It was always an adventure being with her.’

  Tom felt a part of himself that had dried up through lack of use quivering into life; here was someone he could talk to, someone who had known Shona. Listening to Sarah, he could see his sister again in his mind’s eye; so bright, so beautiful and so wild. In fact, he’d sometimes worried about her, because nothing seemed to scare her.

  ‘Yes, she was always getting into scrapes – but she usually managed to put the blame on me.’ Tom laughed as he remembered; Shona could get away with anything, but he often ended up with a slap round the head from his father. ‘She could twist everyone round her little finger, especially my dad.’

  Their eyes met. Sarah flushed slightly and lowered her eyes. Tom wanted to say much more, but not here. These were things too precious to be shouted above the superficial chatter in the room around them.

  Sarah seemed to sense this and changed the subject. ‘How are your mum and dad?’

  Tom cleared his throat. ‘Both gone. My father didn’t last long after we went to South Africa. Never really settled… and he had a few problems.’ He swallowed as he remembered how his father, who’d always liked a drink, had descended into full-blown alcoholism after they arrived in Plett. ‘Mum died two months ago.’

  He looked up. ‘That’s why I’m here, actually. In the hospice my Mum made me promise to scatter her ashes in Eriskay, the island where she was born. Do you remember Shona and I used to go back to the Outer Hebrides every summer?’ He smiled, remembering those long sunny summers of freedom. ‘I’m going up on Monday.’

  ‘So you’re going on Monday…’ Sarah took a sip from her wine glass. ‘Are you doing anything tomorrow? There’s an open day at the school to celebrate the centenary. Would you like to come?’

  ‘There are some things I should do tomorrow.’ As he said this Tom wondered what they were. Sitting in the guesthouse or mooching around the shops? Looking at Sarah he realised he’d have the chance to talk to her again, and see more of Rory, too. He glanced round and saw him talking to Jennie from Singapore, who was dabbing her eyes with the corner of her table napkin.

  Sarah leant forward. ‘Please come. I’ve got to go because the group has bought a present for the sixth-form common room and Patsy has persuaded Rory to make some kind of dedication. They’ve built a new school on Duffy Park, but our old school on the prom is still used as an annexe, so you could see our old classrooms too.’

  Before he could answer they were interrupted by Patsy’s voice. ‘Now don’t all get too comfortable, because it’s time for dessert. Last person seated has to pay for the drinks.’

  There was a sudden good-n
atured rush of musical chairs and Tom found himself next to Jennie. Beneath the facelift he recognised her. Jennie Howie… An old schoolboy chant echoed in his memory. ‘Jennie Howie – any way you likie.’ She was famous at school – lots of his pals had their first experience with her. He shuddered, remembering the last time they’d met, on that most terrible day.

  ‘So you’re Tom,’ Jennie leaned forward, her eyes glistening. To his relief, Tom saw absolutely no hint of recognition in them. She held out her glass and indicated that he should fill it.

  ‘You’ve come all the way from South Africa, have you? Are you by yourself?’ Jennie’s Scottish vowels were modulated by a mid-Atlantic twang. She brought her face close to his; Tom drew back from her stretched tanned skin and the high fly-away eyebrows and nodded.

  ‘So am I. My so-called husband had to stay in Singapore.’ Her head flopped forward and she put a bejewelled hand on his forearm. ‘There’s a woman. Half his age. She’s only interested in his money. These Chinese girls may look very sweet, but they’re crafty.’

  Tom nodded, not knowing how to reply. Jennie gave a skeletal smile. ‘So, Tom, we’re both in Scotland on our own. We should spend some time together.’

  Tom recoiled from the look of desperate need in Jennie’s face. It reminded him of the weekday widows in Plett, the ones whose husbands flew up to Johannesburg to work during the week. Sometimes one would ask him to do some ‘odd jobs’ around the house, but when he arrived he realised this was just a pretext. He knew he was just another diversion when golf, bridge and lunch became tedious, but he usually just went along with it – it seemed easier that way. But there was no way he was going to say yes to Jennie.

  Patsy’s voice cut across his thoughts. ‘Now, I told you I had a treat for you… and here it is.’ She turned round with a flourish. ‘It’s our surprise guest and after-dinner speaker, HJ Kidd, or, as you probably know him better, Captain Kidd! You’ll remember him, as I do, as the most inspirational English teacher, but he’s also a published poet and he’s come along to talk to us tonight.’

  There was a ripple of applause and a tall distinguished-looking man in a black polo-neck and corduroy jacket moved over to Patsy’s table and smiled round the room. An older-looking woman with short grey hair and a comfortable soft face stood behind him. The room fell silent.

  ‘I’ve been invited to a lot of school reunions over the years, but I’ve always resisted up to now. However, I’ve made an exception this evening for several reasons. Firstly, I have just retired and it does make one feel a little nostalgic and sentimental about the passing years. Looking back, I remember my early years of teaching, and your class was among my first. Also, my dear wife Hannah, who’s here with me tonight, says she’s tired of my sitting around the house. Finally – and this is the clincher – Patricia is very persuasive. There’s no saying no to this lady.’

  After a burst of laughter, HJ gave a witty speech, recalling some of the characters who had taught at the school in the seventies, the dragon of a head of English, who had treated him like a naughty schoolboy, the staffroom gossip. He then moved on to describe his retirement project, a poetry workshop to encourage aspiring young writers.

  ‘Now, having a captive audience, I cannot resist the opportunity to read one of my poems from my latest slim volume, Fragments. It’s called The Seagull.’ He cleared his throat and held the book up to the light.

  Above me

  A lone seagull

  Battling against the wind.

  A single screech, primeval scream

  Rips out my heart.

  He is memory:

  A flying fossil, harbinger of the past

  Of our guilt and fears.

  What lies buried in our collective consciousness?

  Kidd finished with a dramatic pause. There was silence, followed by a smattering of puzzled applause. Tom felt a shiver run through him – the single screech, the primeval scream of memory and guilt. It touched something deep inside him. Looking over to Sarah he saw her sitting motionless, staring straight ahead. She felt it too.

  Patsy’s breezy voice brought him back to the present. ‘Come on, now it’s time to dance. I want to see everyone getting up, mind.’ The lights dimmed and coloured strobe lights began to circle the ceiling. The Stones’ ‘I Can’t Get No Satisfaction’ creaked out from the speakers at the back of the room. A few couples stood up; Rory took Jennie’s hand and led her to the dance floor.

  Tom wished he could feel a little drunker. Around the room there was a kaleidoscope of images in the swirling lights: laughing groups, beer glasses raised, couples with their heads together, reliving memories. He made his way to the bar, looking around for Sarah on the way. When he saw her sitting by herself at a table in a dark corner, he fought his way through the scrum at the bar and asked her what she was drinking.

  When he came back with her glass of white wine, Sarah was staring into the centre of the room. He followed her eyes and saw Rory supporting Jennie in the semblance of a dance. Sarah smiled. ‘School reunions, eh? Don’t you love ’em?’ Her lip trembled. Turning to Tom, she asked, ‘So where are you staying exactly?’

  ‘In a guesthouse in Regent Street – absolute vintage boarding house kitsch. Do you still live in Portobello?’

  ‘We’ve got a flat on Great King Street. We’ve been there since we got married, and I love it. It’s near the centre so we can walk up to Princes Street and there are good local shops down in Stockbridge.’

  Tom remembered that Great King Street was in the centre of Georgian New Town Edinburgh. ‘I thought it was all lawyers’ offices there.’

  ‘There are a lot,’ she smiled again. ‘We’re lucky to have one of the few flats.’

  ‘And your mum and dad?’ Tom remembered Sarah’s father, a huge stern bear of a man, a lay preacher at the Free Presbyterian Church, and his tiny, well-groomed wife. They were an incongruous couple.

  ‘My father died suddenly when I was nineteen, a heart attack. A real shock because he’d always seemed so healthy. Mum’s still going strong, though. In fact, she’s thrown herself into Edinburgh society and has a much more active social life than me. Widowhood really suits her.’ Sarah gave an ironic smile.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about your dad. He terrified me, you know.’

  ‘Me too, actually.’ Sarah laughed, but Tom detected a tremor that made it sound strained.

  Tom wanted to say more when a roar of laughter made them turn round. Rory was now surrounded by a group hanging on his every word. Jennie was slumped over the back of a chair beside him, her eyes fixed on him. ‘Rory seems to have his fan club over there.’

  ‘He just loves being the centre of attention.’

  Tom was just about to reply when Patsy tapped him on the shoulder and dragged him onto the dance floor. Mud’s ‘’Tiger Feet’ blasted out from the tinny speakers while Tom attempted to follow the triangular moves, wondering how quickly he could make his escape. He looked through the dancing couples to where Sarah was sitting. Her chair was empty.

  To his surprise tears pricked the back of his eyes. Being back in Portobello, seeing Sarah, imagining what Shona would be like now… Together with the beer and the music he was transported back to his sixteen-year-old self. And Sarah had gone without saying goodbye.

  The music came to an end and Tom disentangled himself from Patsy. He looked around for Sarah in the shadows cast by the flashing coloured lights, but he couldn’t see her. Without her there was no reason to stay, so he decided to slip quietly away back to the guesthouse.

  He became aware of a presence next to him. Sarah. ‘I’m going now, but I just wanted to remind you to be at the new school at two tomorrow. There’ll be a group of us, and Captain Kidd may be there, too.’

  ‘I’ll be there. It’ll be interesting to see the old place.’ He wanted to see Sarah again, even if it meant having to endure a trip round the school. He raised his hand to stifle a yawn. ‘I’m going to leave now too. Been a long day.’

  ‘I ca
n give you a lift.’

  Tom protested that Regent Street was only a short walk away, but Sarah took his hand and led him to where Patsy was standing with one of the bar-crowd’s arm round her shoulders, his hand wandering close to her cleavage.

  ‘You can’t go yet!’ yelped Patsy. ‘We’ve got a late license until one.’ She looked around the room. ‘And where’s Rory?’

  ‘He’s gone. He had to take Jennie back to her hotel. She was a bit upset.’

  Patsy shot Sarah a doubtful look. ‘Well, don’t be late tomorrow. Remember Rory’s making the speech and I’ve phoned the Evening News. I hope they’ll send a photographer down.’

  Sarah kissed her on the cheek and promised they’d be on time. Tom extricated himself from Patsy’s enthusiastic embrace and followed Sarah into the car park.

  After the embarrassingly short drive to the guesthouse, Tom hesitated. He didn’t want to get out of the car. Putting his hand on the door handle he said, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow – but I haven’t contributed anything to this presentation.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We put in plenty. Apparently the budget doesn’t cover things like a coffee machine and water-cooler – that’s what the students said they wanted. Of course, Rory’s intrigued by the water-cooler effect; hopes they’ll all stand round talking about him.’

  She laughed and turned towards Tom. Their eyes met. Sarah leant forward and her lips brushed his. ‘Goodnight, Tom. See you tomorrow.’

  The softness of her mouth and the touch of her hair made Tom feel almost paralysed. He didn’t want to go, to say goodbye. But he had to. He opened the car door and quickly stepped out. Standing at the edge of the pavement, he watched the lights of her car disappear round the corner into the High Street, his lips tingling with the memory of her kiss.

  Part 2

  The blurred outline of the classroom comes into focus. Mr Kidd stands book in hand, a shaft of pale morning sunlight capturing him in its spotlight, dark hair curling to his shoulders, academic gown slung over his velvet jacket… the very image of a poet.