Rory looked up again, a blank expression in his eyes. ‘What are you complaining about now?’ he asked quietly.
‘I think your mother was looking for a bit more than “Aye”, that’s all. She’s been really excited about this bridesmaid thing, you could’ve dredged up something better for her sake, surely?’
‘I know my mother better than you do and she knows me. Is it not,’ he said in his slow way, ‘that you were hoping for more yourself?’
‘No, it’s not! Christ! I’ve never met a man more full of himself!’
‘Because,’ Rory continued evenly, ‘you’ve already looked in the mirror more than once and you know perfectly well what you look like, so why would my opinion matter more than your own?’
‘Your opinion doesnae matter as much as my own!’ Kathy seethed. ‘I was thinking of your mother!’
‘Aye,’ Rory muttered, not even glancing up from what he was doing. ‘You said.’
‘Do you get on this well with everybody you meet?’ Kathy demanded sarcastically.
‘I get on pretty much with everybody I meet,’ Rory replied absently, holding the fly up against the light of the window and squinting at it.
‘Well you don’t get on with me!’
‘Well, maybe,’ he said, picking up a pair of pliers and adjusting the hook, ‘that has something to do with you. As they say in some parts, YP.’
‘YP?’
‘Aye,’ he smiled happily at the completed fly before looking up at her solemnly. ‘YP. Your problem.’
Kirsty and Kenny’s wedding lasted at the hotel from Friday afternoon till Sunday evening, with different bands taking over when one fell exhausted and the guests attending in shifts. Angus was the only man Kathy knew who wore the kilt every day, but it was trotted out on special occasions like weddings in a way that offended Angus. It reduced the garb to fancy dress, he said, when so many men who didn’t normally wear it did so at social functions, and you could always tell them too, because they wore it so badly. But the sight of so many unusually bare male legs made an increasing impression on the women as the time wore on and the drink flowed freely. At the reception, Mavis, the mother of the bride, was sitting at a table with Kathy, Seona, and a group of women who worked in the tourist office beside the monument. She was a small, plump, dark-haired woman with brown eyes that were permanently screwed up to protect them from her own cigarette smoke; Kathy, and everyone else who knew Mavis, had never seen her without a lit cigarette in her hand, though she rarely seemed to smoke them, she was always too busy ordering people about. That night, with her daughter safely married, Mavis was feeling merry. Her screwed-up eyes fell upon the hapless and specially bekilted form of the local carpenter, Lachie Stuart, who just happened to be coming through the door at that moment.
‘Lachie Stuart,’ she called out. ‘Are you a real Scotsman?’
Lachie Stuart’s hands flew down to his kilt. ‘Of course I’m Scottish!’ he laughed.
‘You know bloody well what I mean!’ Mavis said, advancing on him somewhat unsteadily.
‘As I’m in a good mood I’ll give you another chance. Are you, Lachie Stuart, a real Scotsman?’
The other women had by now followed Mavis and were forming a circle around Lachie and, before it was completed, he tried to make a dash for freedom through the remaining gap, only to be felled by the mother-of-the-bride’s rugby tackle.
‘Now, Lachie,’ she said reasonably, lying at full stretch on the floor and hanging on to the unfortunate Lachie’s legs and her habitual cigarette with equal determination, ‘we think you’re telling fibs. You’ve left us with no alternative, we’ll have to check!’
Lachie gave a scream as he disappeared under a pile of struggling, giggling women. Eventually an arm emerged from the scrum, proudly waving a pair of tartan Y-fronts and a loud cheer erupted as Lachie’s knickers were thrown aloft to land on the ceiling fan, where they lazily began to spin round for all the world to see. Lachie, knowing when he was beaten, shrugged his shoulders and took off at speed towards the bar. The women resumed their seats until the next man entered wearing a kilt, to be greeted by the challenge, ‘Are you a true Scotsman?’ and then assaulted. By the end of the third night the overhead fan was spinning slowly, its progress hampered slightly by dozens of pairs of knickers in every colour and design that had been forcibly removed from ‘false’ Scotsmen. At one point Rory Macdonald walked in. ‘Why,’ demanded Mavis, ‘are you not wearing the garb?’
‘Why?’ Rory asked. ‘Because I know what Highland women are like when they’ve had a few, that’s why!’
‘I wouldnae worry,’ Kathy said sourly. ‘I wouldnae think many women would want to remove your drawers.’
‘So you’ve obviously given the matter some thought, then, to come to that considered opinion,’ Rory remarked as he passed, and all the women laughed.
Another highlight was the seeming non-appearance of the bride’s cousin, a noted Irish dancer who was appearing in a show in Edinburgh, though it was hoped that she would arrive before the three-day event was over. In the meantime several of the men were only too happy to fill in, performing with commendable gusto, if impaired balance, their very own, very unique version of an Irish jig. Legs were flying in every direction, arms held strictly to their sides, which was just as well, given that they had recently been initiated as ‘true’ Scotsmen, and there was almost a touch of regret in the air when the diva herself arrived in full costume, ready to delight the audience. Unfortunately, as she kicked out in the very precise manner of the true professional that she was, she accidentally kicked someone in the front row on the chin. Watching from the sidelines were the earlier dancers, who had only reluctantly vacated the floor and had been indulging in a few discreet catcalls, feeling slightly resentful that the efforts of the latecomer were, till that moment, receiving more appreciation than their own flawless and artistic performance had drawn. As her kick felled the guest one said loudly, ‘Look at that! Was that not awful? Now, we didnae do that, did we?’
As ever with weddings, the talk among the women turned to who was next. They were all feeling no pain, though Kathy, ultra-cautious because of Old Con, had never tried anything more powerful than Babycham.
‘Hands up,’ said Mavis, ‘them that think the next one will be Kathy!’
A roar of approval went up, though they were in that merry state where the announcement of an imminent tidal wave would’ve been cheered just as enthusiastically.
‘It won’t be me!’ she said with feeling.
‘Och, we all said that!’ a slightly tipsy Seona laughed. ‘When I couldnae have Rory Macdonald there, I said I’d never marry, but I did. It comes to us all.’
‘With taste like yours I’m just surprised you ended up with a normal human being,’ Kathy retorted.
‘I’d take him now!’ Seona announced, in that peculiarly over-precise manner that the slightly tipsy always think will convince the world that they are not. All the women around the table laughed. ‘I’m telling you!’ she protested. ‘If that Rory Macdonald tipped me the wink my drawers would be up on the ceiling as well!’
Mavis stood up and shouted. ‘Rory! Rory Macdonald! Where is he?’ and from the crowd Rory appeared. ‘My sister,’ Mavis announced very carefully, ‘would have carnal knowledge of you forthwith! How about it?’
Rory shook his head. ‘Highland women and booze,’ he said.
‘Aye, I know,’ Kathy said icily. ‘I’ve just been saying the same thing myself. Doesnae just rob them of their inhibitions, but their normal good taste as well!’
Later, lying in her bed, her head slightly muzzy, she went over the conversation. Marry? Forget it! Jamie Crawford had inoculated her against men for life. She remembered the times she had slept with him, though slept was wrong, their couplings having consisted of taking the chance when either of their houses might be empty, while she hoped each time they wouldn’t be. She had hated it. The awkwardness, the embarrassed, silent fumbling; it turned her stomach just to
think of it. Even that first time, when it hurt and she bled, he had said nothing, it was women’s business. He would lie on top of her, sweating slightly with excitement, his eyes closed as he worked away, and she hated him for that. She would lie there watching him, desperately hoping it would end that second, her mind full of furious anger thinking, ‘He doesnae even know it’s me!’ Then, within a couple of minutes it was blessedly over. And she hated cleaning herself up afterwards too, the whole messy, smelly, stickiness of it. At least it never lasted long, though too long for her, but even so, she always wondered what he could’ve got out of such a brief encounter. Physical release? Well, any tension was entirely one-sided, so she would have to pass on that one. Was the status of having done it the most important thing, she wondered? Was it a means of putting his brand on her, so that he could look at her at any time and think ‘Ah’ve had her’? And they never talked; was it perverted to think there should be a few words of polite conversation? Before-hand there was the rush to do it, on his part at least, then the brief, joyless act, followed by more silence. It was as though nothing had happened, they might as well have shared a dual sneeze. He didn’t ever ask if she had enjoyed it, it hadn’t even entered his head that she should. He didn’t ask if she was all right or, more importantly, if she was on the Pill. He assumed she was, because that was women’s business too; they were the ones who could get pregnant, so it was understood that preventing it was their responsibility alone, and it didn’t even occur to him to want to know. The Swinging Sixties had brought universal free love, or so everyone on TV said, the old stigmas and conventions had been swept away, and every female was rampantly sexually active and on the Pill. Yet there they had been at the start of the seventies in the East End of Glasgow, the only place in the world the sixties had somehow swung past without stopping. Following on from that, a natural consequence you might say, had been the horror of what had happened in the Moncur Street bathroom one Saturday night, and the baby she had failed to keep alive. The whole thing made her feel sick, it wasn’t anything she would ever try again, and any man who approached her was, and always would be, given short shrift. She thought again of Kirsty’s wedding reception and the chatter about Seona’s lifelong lust for Rory. OK, they were all tipsy and having a laugh, but even talking about it reminded her of sex with Jamie. She got up from her bed and rushed down the corridor to the bathroom where she was copiously sick. As she made her way back to her room she could hear the distant sounds from across the loch as the next shift arrived at the wedding reception. Rory was standing at the top of the stairs on his way to his own room as she came out of the bathroom. He shook his head as she passed, feeling like death.
‘I see Sassenach women don’t hold their drink any better than Highland women,’ he said mildly.
But Kathy wasn’t in the mood for witty repartee. ‘Oh shutup, you arse!’ she replied, shutting her door. She heard him laughing but she hadn’t the strength to argue just then; she’d get him back for it later, she promised herself, as she fell asleep.
Rory left a week later and life settled down again. She was glad to see the back of him, the man irritated her so much that he actually affected her happiness. She couldn’t find the key to whatever personality he had, that was what bothered her, and the fact that it bothered her bothered her even more. Bunty was becoming gradually frailer, she had never recovered her old vitality after breaking her hip a few years before, and as they both neared eighty Angus was showing signs of slowing down too, in that his obsessions were becoming less physical, though he did fit in a spell of Geology before concentrating on cerebral topics. He would set off with a little hammer and a cloth bag and return after hours spent tramping the hills, carrying various treasures. The house overflowed with different pieces of rock and quartz that he arranged and labelled, but much of it could be done through reading too. His Fair Isle period had, as Bunty had predicted, resulted in various sumptuous garments taking up residence with all the other products of his knowledge-seeking, among all the other items that were ‘just things’. These days, some four years after Kathy’s arrival in Glenfinnan, he was more interested in projects he could work on without moving about too much, and languages fitted the bill. In no time at all he was fluent not only in living languages, but in dead ones as well, though Kathy was never sure which category Esperanto fitted into. He was concentrating on Sanskrit when Rory came home again, announcing quietly that his wandering days were over, this time it was for good. Kathy almost burst into tears of dismay and unhappiness.
‘He can’t!’ she protested to Bunty as they worked together in the kitchen.
Bunty laughed, misunderstanding Kathy’s alarm. ‘Och, I know!’ she said. ‘He loves to travel, I can hardly believe myself that he’s giving it all up. I have this picture in my mind of him when he was much younger, you know the way you do? Then I look at him and I think to mysel’ that he’s nearly forty years old, he’s not a wild laddie any longer, maybe he feels it’s time he settled down.’
Kathy was glumly silent. If he was intent on settling down, couldn’t he do it just as well in darkest Peru?
‘And I think it’ll be good for Angus too, you know, he’s getting on a bit.’
Kathy smiled at the thought of Bunty, who was eternally seventeen inside, conceding that Angus might just be ‘getting on a bit’. But Rory’s imminent arrival bothered her so much that she began for the first time to think of leaving the home she had found. Was there any point, she wondered, in staying around just to be in a constant state of irritation, with all the joy taken out of life in the house?
‘Maybe it’s time for me to go,’ she suggested to Bunty.
Bunty looked shocked, as though someone had hit her. ‘But why?’ she whispered.
‘Well, I came here to help you about the place, and with Rory coming home, maybe you won’t need extra help.’
‘But Rory will help Angus!’ Bunty protested. ‘You and me, we’re a good team about the house, I couldnae run it without you, Kathy. No, no, this is your home, Angus and me couldnae think of you not being here, and Rory would be so upset too, you know how much he likes you!’
‘Aye, right!’ Kathy thought. ‘Look, we’ll see how it goes then. But if you think I’m getting in the way once he comes back, if you don’t need me as much as you thought you would, just tell me.’
Bunty looked as though she might be about to cry and Kathy, feeling guilty, put her arms around her. ‘I don’t want to go,’ she lied. ‘I’m just thinking ahead, giving you the option.’
‘Well, don’t!’ Bunty chided her. ‘We’ll hear no more about it. Is that understood?’
Rory’s homecoming was as low-key as those before had been. He arrived one afternoon, quietly announced he was home and then put his bags in his room upstairs. She never got over their lack of excitement; it seemed to Kathy that the Macdonalds accorded each other total acceptance, never taking offence no matter the length of absence or silence. They seemed to have an ability to drop into and out of each other’s lives without losing their closeness, and when they next saw each other it was as if they had been apart for only a few hours. And that, Kathy had to admit, was how she felt about Rory’s visits, though she came at the problem from a vastly different angle; however long it had been since he’d gone, his return always came too soon for her. But Bunty was right about him spending more time with Angus, even if the fact of his being there felt like having an itch she could never quite scratch. They went everywhere together, Rory doing the driving, which was a relief to everyone in the area, given Angus’s disregard for the highway code. He bought a boat with an outboard motor for Angus to do his fishing from, so that he wouldn’t have to row himself back and forth, and later the Mini went before it fell to pieces on the road, and a van arrived, with plenty of room in the back for shopping, fishing tackle and whatever Angus needed. Over the months and years the two men worked together about the house. They installed central heating for the first time, oilfired, because there was no way gas wo
uld be brought that far north, even if they were taking it from the North Sea fields on the other side of the country and piping it all the way down to London, which was considerably further away than Glenfinnan. Rory measured all the windows and ordered double-glazed units, an innovation in the Highlands at the time; he replaced doors throughout the house, so that suddenly, with the gaps blocked, they could appreciate how many draughts they had been used to living with up till then. He even laid a proper driveway from the main road, up the hill to the house, one that didn’t wash away in heavy rain, leaving them negotiating something like the surface of the moon. It was a curious sight to see Angus gradually taking the back seat, and more curious still to watch Rory subtly deferring to his father in things he obviously knew more about. Over the years Angus had kept the house from falling down with the odd repair here and there when necessary, but his endless search for knowledge had taken precedence over major work, and that’s what Rory concentrated on once he came home. If she hadn’t hated him so much she might’ve liked him for his gentle treatment of his father.
Then it happened, as it had to. The day had started like any other. Kathy had been down in Glasgow, called there by the first crisis of Old Con’s illness, though she hadn’t told anyone the real reason for her visit to the city, her first in nearly fifteen years. It was business, she had said, something she had to attend to, and she’d be back in a few days, which she was, wrestling with her changed perception of her cousin, Hari the guru, friend of spiders everywhere, and cursing herself for keeping in vague touch with him, but enough for him to find her. It was September, the trees were turning a million shades of green, yellow and orange and the rowan trees were heavy with berries. Rory had taken Angus down to the loch that morning in the van and watched him move across the water to his usual fishing spot. She looked out of the window and smiled, watching Angus propping up his latest language book – Urdu she thought it was – in front of him, casting his line then sitting down. It was good to be home again, even Rory couldn’t spoil that, though it had to be said that they had rubbed along together better these ten years or so than she could ever have imagined. They were both older, of course, maybe they’d mellowed, or maybe it was just a tacit understanding that Bunty and Angus wanted them both there, and neither wanted to upset them. Later that morning she looked out again, and Angus was still there; everything was as it should be in the universe. Bunty was sitting by the fire in the reading room doing a crossword as usual. She felt the cold more these days; even with the central heating on and the house like a furnace, she had to have a fire on too. Well, she was in her eighties now, why not? She deserved a bit of comfort. Rory was by the window, reading, as Kathy brought in a tray with tea and biscuits. He had his binoculars up to his eyes, occasionally scanning the loch as he always did.
Chasing Angels Page 24
