The door hammered again and she jumped. ‘Deeedreee! Open dis door!’ the old woman demanded.
Deidre grabbed George’s briefcase at the side of the desk and stepped up to the door, bracing herself. She would have to break through the small throng on the other side. Just keep moving, she said to herself, just push past them. Taking a deep breath, she unlocked the door, sweeping it wide to the surprised faces crowding the doorway. She held the briefcase in both arms, close to her chest, a shield.
‘My God! Look at da state o’ye!’ Mavis cried, aghast. ‘Where’ve ye been? Yer covered in muck!’ The old woman reached out, pinching her jacket sleeve. ‘Yer wet!’ She looked into Deidre’s face scrutinising her through her big framed glasses, her bony hand gripping her arm. ‘Ye’ve got da curse,’ she stated solemnly, filled with gravitas.
‘Mavis please, just leave me alone,’ Deidre replied, pushing past the small congregation.
‘Eewwww,’ Gregory groaned in disgust as she brushed past him and he stepped out of her way in a hurry.
‘I knew dis wid happen. I warned ye, but ye wouldnae listen,’ Mavis cried behind her. ‘Ye tought I wis jist a crazy auld woman!’
‘I canny wait t’get t’school t’tell dem aboot dis,’ she head Gregory say as she headed for the stairs.
Stuart stood at the bottom, one foot on the first step ready to make his way up. He stopped, their eyes meeting for a brief moment before Deidre, looking away from the dismay on his face, continued down, eyes on the stairs.
‘Stop her Stuart!’ Mavis cawed at him from the landing. ‘She’s got da madness! Don’t let her oot,’ she cried.
Stuart stepped aside allowing her passage as she met him at the bottom of the stairs. She stopped and looked at him.
‘I’m okay, Stuart. I’m not mad. I know what I’m doing.’
A faint smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, a slight nod of his woolly head. ‘Take care, lassie. Be careful.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ she said, heading for the door.
‘Somebody get Dylan,’ Mavis continued. ‘Call da police Stuart.’
‘Ye canny call da police Aunty Mavis because somebody wants to walk aboot in mucky claeths,’ Stuart said as Deidre closed the door behind her.
A sudden sodden downpour had fallen as she drove around the bay towards Walters and Son, stopping as suddenly as it had started, grey watery light now breaking through the morning clouds, reflecting in the wet bitumen.
Deidre pulled into the gravel bay in front of the store and parked, taking note of a Jeep lugging a small horse carrier parked across from her, the heads of two Shetland ponies protruding from the back end. Two figures were visible through the glass door of the shop and she decided to wait until the Jeep driver had taken his leave.
The red phone box sat outside the front door of the shop, mocking her. Dylan had kissed her outside that phone box when they’d come down for a walk one day. Someone had come out of the shop and caught them and they’d giggled like school kids.
Anxiety burned at the thought of him. Stress. Pressure. She wouldn’t lose him. She wouldn’t allow that to happen. She knew what she had to do.
The smell of fresh baked bread filtered in through the car vents, waking her stomach, her skin itching, her nails dragging through a layer of scum, still moist under her layers of damp cloths. The Jeep driver was making an exit and she turned the ignition off, the heat dying with it.
The bell jangled above her head as she stepped through the door, the smell of the doughy aroma causing her dry mouth to flood with saliva. Three long aisles of overcrowded shelves took up most of the floor space, a large glass fridge against the wall opposite containing milk and various soft drinks and juices. She knew behind the closed door at the side of the fridge contained the Aladdin’s cave of alcohol but due to the hour of the day, it remained closed.
Jenkins sat behind the counter overcrowded with a vast array of small items, lighters, lollies, fishing hooks, key rings, maps, postcards and sundry souvenir items, a tall swivel rack of sunglasses standing in the corner like a forgotten customer. Jenkins regarded her with an expression she’d been seeing much of this morning, his thick liver lips turned down in a pronounced upside down smile. He folded his paper and placed it on the counter, standing, examining Deidre over the top of his bifocals.
‘Hello,’ she said, breaking the silence.
‘Hallo.’ There was no G’day mate this morning she noted.
As well as filling the air with their delicious scent, the breads and rolls took up a large section along the wall nearest the door, the shelves opposite filled with homemade jams, relishes, chutneys and marmalades. Deidre stepped over to the small bakery section and reached out to grab a roll, her hands particularly grubby in this light, her fingernails outlined with black crud. Tongs hung off the edge of a wire rack and she picked them up, plucking a paper bag from a wad hanging from a string. She stuffed a roll in the bag and headed over to the counter where Jenkins had remained standing, observing her.
‘Did ye hiv a faw hen?’
Dijahivafauxhen. Deidre looked at him, processing the words he’d just said, unable to decipher their meaning. She’d been able to grasp and understand the everyday vernacular of an ancient civilisation but she couldn’t comprehend what this man had just said.
She shook her head. ‘Sorry?’
‘Did ye hiv a faw? Did ye faw doon in a bog?’
Did she fall down in a bog? Yes. Yes she did.
‘Yes, I did,’ she replied, and graced him with a lame laugh.
She caught sight of herself in a small square mirror attached to the sunglass rack standing at her side. Her hair laminated her skull, decorated with clumps of moss and decaying grasses. She’d washed her face in the burn earlier but it hadn’t done much to eradicate the black lines embedded in the crevices at the side of her nose, under her eyes, the crust around her hairline. She peered at the small, egg shaped bump protruding from the middle of her forehead.
The doorbell jangled and an elderly woman stepped through dressed in a voluminous green woollen cloak and black wellingtons. Deidre had seen her face around. The woman stopped in her tracks, her eyes assessing Deidre as they travelled up and down her length.
‘Mornin’ Mrs Jamieson,’ Jenkins said and Mrs Jamieson nodded in his direction before heading down the bakery aisle out of sight.
Deidre and Jenkin’s eyes met across the counter again.
‘Is dat aw ye’d be wantin’ den?’ he asked, indicating the bag in her hand. ‘Uur were ye efter anodder boddle o’wine? Ye look as doe ye kid dae wi wan.’
He was a laugh riot. ‘No. I need to buy a shovel or a spade and I was wondering if you would have any metal detectors in stock,’ she asked quietly, bending towards Jenkins over the counter, aware of Mrs Jamieson lurking out of sight.
‘A whit?’
‘A metal detector. You know, one of those things you look for metal hidden under the ground with.’
He shook his head, his facial features screwing up and converging to the middle of his face as though he was trying really hard to swallow something distasteful. ‘Naw. Whit wid ah be wantin’ t’stock wan a’dem fir?’
‘Do you know where I could get one?’
‘Naw.’
The doorbell jangled again. Another woman stepped in, much younger than Mrs Jamieson, dressed in a bright pink puffy parker and tight jeans. She looked clean and bright, fresh washed. Just showered. Pretty. She didn’t get the chance to notice Deidre before a ‘Pssst!’ hissed at her from behind the aisle attracting her attention and she disappeared out of sight.
‘Jimmy Macgregor used t’hiv wan,’ Jenkins continued, ‘but I don’t know if he’d still hiv it.’
Deidre could hear the women whispering loudly behind the aisle. She could hear her name being mentioned, Dylan’s as well.
‘Could you call him and ask if I could buy it?’
‘Buy it?!’ Jenkins questioned, doubtful. ‘He’d probably lend it tae ye.’
‘Could you ask?’
Jenkins leaned his hands against the counter and considered her for a moment, licking his thick liver lips before turning to the phone sitting on a small desk wedged into the corner behind him. He sat down on his stool, pulled a phone book out from the drawer, searched the alphabet and ran his finger down the list, dialled the number. He focused on Deidre while he waited for an answer. She could hear the phone ring on the other end.
Movement at the corner of her eye caused her to look around, catching the two women lingering near the end of the bread aisle evaluating her.
A voice answered on the other end of the line. ‘Hallo.’
‘Jimmy, how ye doin? It’s Derek. Listen, d’ye still hiv dat metal detecter ye used t’hiv?’
‘Metal detector?’ A pause. ‘Aye, its aroon somewhere. How? D’ye want t’use it?’
‘Naw, no me,’ Jenkins said, his eyes fixed on Deidre. ‘Da Hart lassie.’
‘Dat Australian lassie?’
‘Aye.’
‘Whits she gonna dae wi it?’
Jenkins held the phone away from his mouth, spoke to Deidre. ‘He wants to know whit yer gonna dae wi it.’
‘Find something.’
‘Fine someting,’ Jenkins repeated into the mouthpiece.
A brief silence followed. ‘I’ll bring it doon da next time I’m passing by.’
Another silence, Jenkins regarding Deidre across the counter. ‘I’m tinking she disnae want t’be waiting dat long.’
‘Whit ye sayin’? She wants it da noo?’
Jenkins ran his eyes up and down the top half of Deidre’s bog coated form. ‘Aye, I’m tinkin’ she wants it right noo.’
‘Aw right den, I’ll bring it doon t’da shop.’
‘Aw right den Jimmy, I’ll see ya soon den.’ Jenkins placed the phone back into its cradle. ‘He’s bringin’ it doon t’da shop.’
‘Thank you Mr Jenkins,’ Deidre said, glancing over to the two women still standing by the bread section, seemingly fascinated by her presence. She turned back to Jenkins. ‘Do you have any scissors?’ she asked.
‘Aye, doon da back, second aisle. Shuvels ur doon da back corner, tird aisle.’
Deidre turned around, her eyes sliding over the two women staring at her as she headed down the second isle. They all think I’m mad, she thought, the way they were watching her, wary. In her maddened state she was liable to do anything and she felt awash with liberation, cleansed of civilised expectations. Free.
A chaos of coloured plastic greeted her at the end of the middle aisle; bowls, plates, cups, containers. She found the scissors and took a pair, continued around to the back corner cluttered with an array of tools and hardware, nuts, bolts, screwdrivers, hammers, and spades. She took one and carried her items to the counter and paid for them along with her bread roll. She also grabbed a black fizzy drink thinking she could do with the sugar hit, unwrapped the scissors from their plastic bubble, pulled the loose strands of her hair together and cut through it with a hacking sea sawing motion near the nape of her neck.
‘Oh my Lord,’ she heard the old woman mutter.
Deidre held out the sodden, tangled clump of rat’s tails to Jenkins. ‘Do you have a bin anywhere?’ she asked.
Mutely, his thick lips forming a slack O, Jenkins bent under the counter, pulled out a plastic lined bin and held it out to her and Deidre deposited the hair into the empty receptacle. It hit the bottom with a mild thump. ‘You can have these back,’ she said, sliding the scissors across the counter to him. ‘I’ll wait in the car for Mr Macgregor,’ she said, picking up the spade, the paper bag and can of drink from the counter before heading for the door.
Mrs Jamieson stepped out from the isle clasping her arthritic hands together halting Deidre’s progress to the door. Short white hair, age spots around her temples, her faded blue eyes peered into Deidre’s.
‘I knew George Hart,’ Mrs Jamieson began. ‘He stole ma Granda’s boat. Den he dug a great big hole in Muddow’s Field an’ a wee baby lamb fell in an broke its neck. Diggin’ holes aw oer da place he wis. Ye hid t’be careful where ye walked.’ She cooly regarded the spade in Deidre’s hand. ‘I wis der da day dey hauled him up oer da cliff face an’ took him away t’da loony bin. D’ye want dat t’happen t’ye as well lassie?’
Loony Bin. Did she want to go to the Loony Bin? No, she didn’t. She wanted to do what had to be done and then retrieve the shreds of her relationship with Dylan and if she could, weave it back together again.
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Aw da young wans, da curse is jist a story t’dem, but I saw whit it did t’George Hart. It sent him mad.’ Her old milky eyes stared into Deidre’s. ‘Leave here lassie. Don’t let it ruin yer life. Get yerself cleaned up an’ get back t’dat lad ye’ve been hingin’ aboot wi.’
Deidre nodded. ‘I will.’
And she would. Later.
The bell jangled behind her as she exited the shop.
Her head felt light, free of the cumbersome weight of her wet, bog ridden hair. She shook it as she walked to the car, releasing it from its tight grip against her skull, placed the bag and drink on the car roof, threw the spade into the back seat and scratched her scalp with both hands. Scratched and scratched and scratched, luxuriating in the sensation, in desperate need to be cleansed. Hunger growled and she pulled the roll from the bag and consumed it in three bites, gulping down the drink. She should have bought more. She looked back at the shop; they were watching her through the door.
A light drizzle started and she got into the car and turned the heater on, waiting for Jimmy Macgregor to turn up with his metal detector, her eyes landing on the bench sitting at the side of the red phone box. She’d spent many hours sitting on that bench with Dylan during his lunchbreaks from the croft, walking along the bay from Stayne to here, holding hands. The day they’d bought a bottle of red wine and had spent the rest of the afternoon sitting down by the water drinking from plastic cups. It had been one of those rare warm and windless summer days. They’d gone back to Walters later and bought ice-creams and sat on the bench for another hour in the sun staring out to the bay, talking and laughing together. She couldn’t remember what they’d talked about, just that it had been a perfect day. Now the bench sat empty in the grey morning light, cold and alone and her stomach rolled again at the thought of Dylan, of the risk she was taking.
He said he was leaving on Thursday.
‘I can still fix this,’ she said to empty car. ‘I can.’ She felt positive, sure of herself, as ebullient as a drunk early on in the bender.
An old land rover rumbled past her across the gravelly bay and parked on the other side. A thin grey haired man stepped out, moved to the back passenger door and pulled out a long metallic stick with a steering wheel shaped head at one end. This would Jimmy Macgregor with the metal detector, she guessed as the shop door opened spilling out its contents, Jenkins, Mrs Jamieson and the young woman heading across the gravel towards Macgregor. Deidre went across to meet them.
Macgregor stood with his back to her as she approached, showing the others his equipment.
‘Whit’s she gonna dae wi it?’ Macgregor was asking, the sound of her boots on the gravel causing him to turn around. The sight of her caused him to hold the apparatus closer to his short wiry body.
Jenkins introduced them. ‘Jimmy dis is Deedree. Deedree dis is Jimmy.’ They nodded to each other.
‘Yer no gonna break it on me are ye?’ Jimmy asked.
‘I’ll be very careful and I’ll pay for any damage if it happens.’
‘Any damage if it happens?!’ Jimmy repeated in alarm, his grip tightening possessively on the long thin shaft of the detector.
‘I’ll be careful, I won’t damage it,’ Deidre replied hastily.
Jimmy exchanged a look with Jenkins who offered a useless, almost imperceptible shrug. Jimmy turned back to Deidre. ‘D’ye know how t’use wan?’
Deidre shook her head regarding
the metal detector, a series of knobs attached to the spine and an arm grip at the end.
‘No.’
In demonstration, Macgregor placed his bicep into the arm holder and switched the machine on, swinging it around experimentally until it expelled noises not unlike an out of tune violin as it detected bottle caps buried in the gravel from summers gone by. ‘It’s an Excalibur II,’ Jimmy remarked, stepping closer to her. ‘It’ getting a wee bit auld noo but it wis da top o’da range at its time. It picks up yer different metals, yer golds an yer silvers. I’ve broat some samples t’show ye.’
He extracted two rings from his pocket, silver and gold and threw them onto the ground, waved the machine over them. It sang.
‘D’ye hear dat?’ Jimmy asked cupping a hand over his ear. ‘Can ye hear da difference?’ He waved the detector over the two differing metals again, moving further afield to pick another sound up. There was a slight difference, but she couldn’t really tell.
Jimmy went on to explain the knobs down the length of the pole. ‘Ye can adjust the sensitivity wi dis knob here, and dis is fur yer discrimination.’ Deidre listened, nodding appropriately. She just wanted to grab it, take it and go, she had things to do. But she knew she had to be polite. This nice man was allowing her to use his Minelab Excalibur II and she was extremely appreciative.
Jimmy Macgregor held the apparatus out to her with grim acquiescence.
‘I promise I’ll be very careful with it,’ she said, slipping her arm into the arm grip, the detector much lighter than she had anticipated and she accidently knocked it against the back end of Jimmy’s land rover.
She heard the young woman grunt, suppressing a laugh.
‘Okay, I think I’ve got it.’
‘Jist clean it up afore ye gi it back t’me,’ Jimmy requested.
Deidre nodded. ‘I will. I promise. Thank you so much Mr Macgregor,’ she said, her tone imbued with sincerity. ‘Really, thank you.’ She held out her hand. Macgregor looked down at it, her hand black and grimy, her nails small round moons of white shining through the dirt.
The Stone Dweller's Curse: A Story of Curses, Madness, Obsession and Love Page 23
