The Last Stand Down
Page 9
"Insipid!" said Sam, finishing her sentence. "Let me just say, Mary, that when - not if - you come to work here, you'll have a lot of pleasant surprises," he said, looking meaningfully at her.
"Yes, right," said Mary, unsure if the surprises would be business or personal ones. "Let me take my mini-sabbatical and I'll call you as soon as I'm back on balance and ready to commit."
"Look, Mary, I have to be honest," said Sam, sitting forward again. "I really do want you to work with me ... with us ... and if you accepted now, we can start paying you from tomorrow. Take whatever time you need and you can slip right in when you're ready." He stood up and extended his hand. The interview was obviously over and Mary found herself heading for his door with his guiding arm round her shoulders. "Just give me the phone number where you'll be and we can stay in contact." Mary gave him her mobile number and walked off down the corridor wondering why she had done that. Through the fog of her bewilderment, she fancied she had seen the suited man with the slicked-back, black hair, greying around the edges, who exited the lift as she alighted, somewhere before. She wasn't sure. She looked at the man quickly, with a glint of recognition that was quickly spun from her mind by the other swirling thoughts there. They looked at each other, smiled, and were gone in their separate directions in an instant.
As she walked away from the interview and reviewed it from the nearby café, she was left with the faint impression that Sam could be interested in her for more than her professional ability. She felt tingly inside, anticipating the possibilities. He had made her a firm offer of employment - an attractive offer of employment - but she was determined to make her decision in the clear light of day, so to speak, away from the rush and stress of London. Her desire to go to Scotland waned but she knew she had to make the trip - to reconnect, to restore and to refocus on what she wanted her life to look like. Her parents were pleased, in their dour Scottish way, to hear she was coming home and she felt like a princess all over again.
Homecoming
Wednesday 21st June, 2010, 4.30 p.m.
Out of the office, out of her work clothes, out of London and on the train to her Scottish home, she felt the excitement rising, unexpectedly. Her mind conjured up all sorts of warm family things - cosy chats, funny moments and happy tears - and she was feeling childlike anticipation as she stepped off the train onto the familiar, grimy station. The weather was surprisingly warm and she just knew that this was going to be an especially happy time of her life ... till she saw her mother, hunched shoulders, waiting unsmilingly at the far end of the platform. Of course! She forgot that the child must run to the parent. No great shows of enthusiasm or affection.
"Hmph! Hello lass," said her mother, stepping back from Mary's impending embrace. "So, ye be liking that English food, then?" she asked. Her mother stepped back and eyed Mary's girth with obvious distaste and Mary immediately regretted her trip home.
At a loss for an effective reply, Mary muttered something incoherent and they walked in silence to the bus stop. Neither was inclined to utter more words on the ten-minute bus trip and Mary followed her mother into the house feeling both familiar and strange. Nothing had changed - the frayed rug, the stained and peeling ceiling, the chipped table - and every memory of her childhood flooded back at once. Her mother reacted to her tears by throwing a tea towel at her while telling her to go and clean herself up. Mary escaped to the bathroom, sat on the shaky toilet and gave vent to the mixture of feelings that rose together. Despite her mother's grim proximity - or perhaps because of it - she howled as she'd never done before. Poignant and happy memories mixed themselves with frustration about resistance to her youthful ideas, anger at her father's abuse and her remembered dreams of freedom. The brick in her stomach made her feel physically sick.
Despite the fantasy she had built up about her home town, from distant London, and despite her desire to reconnect with her roots, she realised she just did not belong in this place. She'd been away too long to fit back in comfortably. She even wondered if she had ever loved her parents. Feelings of love and affection certainly did not make their appearance as she rocked and sobbed on that ancient toilet - a good place to let it all go. Eventually she regained some composure and told herself to be strong as she entered the old kitchen for the customary cup of tea and a piece of shortbread.
Mary tried to give her mother enthusiastic and colourful glimpses her life "way down" in London but she knew she was describing something too alien for her mother to comprehend, had her mother wanted to comprehend it. Mary then listened to her mother's dour description of all the people who had died - and the gossip surrounding those deaths - over the past five years. Gosh, had it only been five years since she had last visited? Something drastic had obviously changed in that time and it hadn't been here in Dunfermline. She realised how badly she fitted into this landscape now and wondered if she ever had, really. She listened intently and looked fascinated by her mother's sordid tales of change, while her mind plotted an early escape.
While the smells of the one dinner she ever remembered here filled the kitchen, her father and brother sauntered in, dropped their lunch boxes on the bench and wandered into the lounge with a beer each to watch television. They'd each mumbled their "hellos" and "how yer been, Mary?" as they passed and were gone from the room before she could reply. She wondered if they realised she was back or if she'd even been away at all. She felt small and then the anger exploded. She strode into the room, turned off the TV and stood in front of it, defiantly. You could have heard the carpet sneeze.
"Aw, come on Da, Angus. I come all the way up here to see ya and ye can't even give me the time of day," she said, glaring at them.
"Ouch, Mary, I'm sorry. I just ..." Angus started saying.
"Turn that damned television on!" roared her father, butting in.
"No!" said Mary, starting to regret her outburst and wondering what to do next.
"I said turn that damned television on, woman," shouted her father, sitting forward, ready to pounce, "or I'll clock ye one."
"I'm not your wife, Da. I'm your daughter," said Mary, her anger rising above her indecision.
"Turn that bloody television on, you stroppy wench!"
Never being one to back down, especially when she knew she was right, Mary was tempted to stand her ground. But the memories returned, memories of her mother beaten and sobbing and nothing ever being resolved and the simmering hatred and the inability to be honest and and and ... the whole frustrating futility of it, the powerlessness and the inability to be heard, to be acknowledged, all came flooding back and she was a scared little girl again. She ran as she always had from this home - not to her mother's embrace for that could be cold and threatening too - outside, down the street to sit under the street lamp beside the old bakery.
James Fordyce was the kindest person she had ever known and many a time he'd wiped a tear, listened to her story and given her a healing doughnut. The simplest things touch the deepest and this spot was a magnet when the world threatened - a still and quiet spot where listening always happened. The bakery had closed long ago and Mr and Mrs Fordyce had moved somewhere else. This Mary knew but the sacredness of this listening spot drew her in with its safe and loving arms. Under that old street lamp her sobs subsided and she found a little peace, a little quietness, a little acknowledgement in the darkness. No one was there to listen but the image of the Fordyces, those many years ago, reached out with safe arms, enfolding her and dissolving the wretched pain.
She sat with her back to the street lamp, hugging her knees, looking into what was that old bakery shop and wished with all her aching heart that Mr Fordyce would come out the door, slowly smile and invite her in through that leadlight door, over the wide and uneven floorboards and he'd lift her onto a stool and ask, "So, Mary lass, your sadness comes again. What's it feeling like, young lady?" And she'd tell him. And he'd listen. She'd just talk and it would feel like she couldn't stop as the thousands of words crowding in her head were crazily pus
hing at each other to get out of her mouth and into Mr Fordyce's ears. He'd continue to listen and nod and listen and, eventually, all the words were out and her head was empty of them. She'd feel lighter because the words had been heavy in her brain and she'd smile a little at the relief.
"So what can we do about all that, then?" he'd ask.
By then all thoughts of running away, of burning her house down, of killing her father, of beating her mother were gone and all she wanted to do was to hug her parents and pray for peace.
As she sat there on those wet stones with tears drying on her cheeks, she wished with all her heart to have Mr Fordyce's quiet strength with her now.
"Ye're not only wise, young lass, but you're very strong ... very strong indeed," he'd have said, or words to that effect, and then given her a choice of delicious, doughy, sweet treats ... 'Oh my God!' she thought, 'maybe that's the reason for my weight problems!' She'd been inoculating herself against the pain with delicious, doughy, sweet treats. Then she laughed, realising that stressed spelt backwards was desserts - one was the antidote for the other! As she chuckled to herself, she heard a scuffle behind her.
"So, Mary lass, yer sadness comes again. What's it feeling like, young lady?" asked Mr Fordyce.
Before she knew it she was in his arms, hugging him with a lifetime's deep gratitude.
"Och aye, lass, not so hard on an old man," he said, chuckling.
"Oh, oh, sorry!" said Mary, loosening her grip on him but unable to let go completely.
"So ye've come back to the old shop for another doughnut, then?" he asked, standing back with his hands on her shoulders.
"Oh I know it's silly, really," she said. "I know the old shop's shut up and no one's here but it just seems so safe here. So calming."
"Well, we weren't here till a month ago when the house next door came up for rent and so we've moved back," he said, looking into her eyes steadily. "I do miss the shop and I do miss our chats. But life goes on, doesn't it?"
"Yes, I suppose it does," said Mary with a smile. "But why do the good things change and the bad things stay the same?"
"Do ye think it's time for a doughnut, Mary lass?" he asked, wiping his hand over his bald head.
"Oh, Mr Fordyce, no doughnuts but a cup of tea would be lovely!" she said, hugging his broad frame again.
"What! No doughnuts?" he said, chuckling. "But they fix everything!"
"No they don't," said Mary. "You do."
"Och aye lass, ye're too kind," he said. "Let's get ye inside and have a chat about that big London town and everything else - see if we can fix the world tonight!"
As she entered the small cottage, the smell of wet wool and home baking welcomed her with its familiar homeliness. The worn patterned carpet, the ugly china ornaments, the traditional embroidery and doyleys all smiled back at her with the welcome of an old friend. In the kitchen, where all good chats and cups of tea were held, she smiled to see Mrs Fordyce had not changed - this short, round, bright-eyed lady with the white curly hair, the red and white checked apron and the soft smile. The quiet, warm love of these two people eked out of the walls and the furniture and filled Mary to overflowing. Her tears started again.
"Och lass, come here," said Mrs Fordyce, taking her hand and looking into her eyes. "It's all a bit bloomin' much, sometimes, isn't it?"
"Oh Mrs Fordyce ..." said Mary, "why couldn't you have been my parents? It's all so unfair."
"Aye, it seems to be an upside down world and, for all we know, it probably is," said Mrs Fordyce smiling while her husband put cups, teapot, milk and cakes on the table. "Take a seat and tell of yer upside down world, lass."
Mary sat, wiped her tears with the back of her hand and smiled. "Actually, I feel like a lost zygote ..."
"Lost what?" asked Mr Fordyce.
"Lost zygote," said Mary. "You know, it's like God or one of his angels was flying over with the seed of me to plant in this household, your family, and they got the wrong address or got bumped or confused or lost or something and that seed ended up in the wrong family. I got the wrong parents!"
The Fordyces laughed at the picture she had painted and Mr Fordyce patted her hand. "Yes, it all seems so wrong at times but there's nothing we can't learn from everyone, lass."
Mary chuckled at his confusing double negative, trying to unravel it.
"Oh, Mr Fordyce, I don't want to learn anything. I just want nice people I can love," she said. "Just some simplicity, some compassion. It shouldn't be so hard ..."
"Now, Mary lass, yer a grown woman so there'll be nae more Mr Fordyce and Mrs Fordyce - it's James and Isobel, ye ken?"
"Uh, yes," said Mary, pleased to be welcomed into the world of adults, while a little saddened to have left her childhood somewhere.
"And, t'other thing I ken is that, aye, the world does seem so unfair at times," said James. "But I ken this to be true and I dinna' ken how I know - it's that God does not make an unfair world, we do. The unfairness, as we see it, is because we choose to look at it that way."
Mary was silenced by the longest speech she had ever heard from Mr Fordyce ... oh, James. Something resounded in her heart and she knew it was a truth she should savour for a long time.
"Ye see, Mary lass, it's ower likely yer parents, who you struggle with so much, are yer special teachers," he said.
"What?" exclaimed Mary.
"Hear me out, lass," said James, holding his hand up. "It's a possibility that yer learning a grand lesson from yer family - that ye can't win the battle by fighting back."
Mary smiled at the irony of his words and just knew, somehow, that there certainly was something in what he said.
"Well, whatever I'm learning," said Mary with a wry smile, "it's gotta' be about fighting, so you may well be right! But it's all so unfair. Why won't they talk to me, listen to me ... just be reasonable?"
"Ye sound just like a young baker I once knew," said Isobel, patting her hand. Her gentle smile was calming. "Ye see, he was so enthusiastic and wanted to make a splash in the village. Ye ken, do something special, like. So he rushed into making all sorts of fancy delicacies, delicacies that hadn't been seen in those parts before. He was so proud of himself for his original creations and, day after day, there be another batch of something wondrous displayed in his window."
"And the people flocked to see them?" asked Mary.
"Aye lass, they did!" said Isobel smiling at her husband. "But they only came to look. They weren't buying and of this 'foreign muck' as some called it."
"That's ... that's just silly. What's wrong with people! Didn't they want to try the new things?" asked Mary.
"Aye, many did want to try them but they were afraid of what their neighbours would think, buying all this fancy new stuff," said Isobel. "Those in fear or uncertainty are always the noisy ones, the ones others have to listen to."
"So, what happened to the baker?" asked Mary. "Did he have to close his shop?"
"Aye lass, it nearly came to that," said James, smiling at Isobel. "But for the intervention of a sweet young thing who came into his shop one day and insisted on taking him out the back for a chat."
"A chat?" asked Mary.
"Aye lass, a chat about baking, business and the affairs of the world!" said James, chuckling. "I was furious with the world for not buying my wonderful baking ..."
"Aha, so you were the young baker!" said Mary, suddenly getting it.
"Aye, twas I!" said James. "And this young lass sat me down and asked if I wanted to make a success of this bakery and of my life. Silly question! So, between outbursts of indignation from me, she explained that I could only make a living by making what people wanted - not what I wanted to force on them."
"And so that's how you made such a success of your bakery ..." said Mary.
"Ooo, not too fast there lassie!" said Isobel. "Just as James had to give people the opportunity to buy what they wanted, I had to give young James here the opportunity to buy my ideas. It took a little time, I can tell you!"
"So, that's how you two met?" asked Mary.
"Aye, so it was," said Isobel, smiling at the memory.
"And why are we telling ye this?" asked James.
"Oh, I don't know," said Mary.
"The self same lesson, lassie," said James, patting her hand. "Ye can't force folks to accept yer way o' things. If they're not ready for change, ye've got to be the one to change. Fair or not, that's just how the world works."
"So you think I should be nice and sweet and agreeable all the time, just to suit them?" asked Mary grimly.
James opened his mouth to speak when Isobel put her hand gently on Mary's and asked, "How many buns have ye sold since you've been up here this time?"
"How many buns?" asked Mary.
"Yes dear, how many buns have ye sold?" asked Isobel, smiling. "How many moments of true peace and happiness? How many moments of what ye might call a breakthrough, a success, have ye had?"
"Uh, none!" said Mary, grinning sheepishly. "I don't suppose I've sold a single bun!"
"And how many buns would ye like to sell on this trip?" asked Isobel.
"Well, even one sale would be an improvement!" said Mary, sighing. "But why do I have to do all the work, all the bending and compromise?"
"Because ye can, lass," said James. "Because ye can. Ye're blessed with a little willingness to make a difference; they're not. They're happy in their misery and may never change. That's how my customers were ... still are. That's how yer customers - family and everyone else ye meet - are. Some will change, some will be as you'd like them to be but most are happy in their misery."