Frances guffawed.
Diana smiled at Malcolm indulgently. ‘Our full name was “The Feminist Philosophical Photographic Society”. We were inspired by a book by Louise du Pont called A Feminist Philosophy of Photography and most of us have adopted her ethic of independence, real independence, I mean, not this nationalistic nonsense we’ve had thrust upon us…’
‘Some of us voted “Yes”, Di, you’d better watch what you say!’ Frances knocked on the table as if to make a point of order.
‘Oh please, can we agree not to discuss the referendum?’ Callis said. ‘Not today. We’ll only argue and it’ll get nasty. It’s over. Carry on about du Pont.’
‘All right. Where was I? Oh yes, the kind of independence that du Pont advocated and which we all agree about…’ – she made a sweeping, inclusive gesture towards Frances – ‘is eschewing relationships with men on the basis that they’re exploitative and demeaning to women.’
She stopped and looked at Frances, who nodded. Then she turned to Malcolm and smiled. ‘Not that we have anything against men per se, many of you are perfectly delicious. But relationships, marriage, all that crap, it’s a recipe for humiliation. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I was elected Chair of Fe-Phi-Pho the year Callis and Frances joined, and I, well, I took her under my wing, didn’t I?’ She tapped Callis twice on the hand, as if in warning, while still looking at Malcolm. ‘And then Callis and I worked together, ooh, six years back now?’
‘Six and a half. I started in October, straight after uni.’
‘I taught her to split hairs,’ she said. ‘Literally and metaphorically, as you can tell.’
‘You can talk! Ms Pedantic,’ Callis said.
‘Literally?’ Malcolm asked.
‘We worked in a lab analysing chemical contamination in animals from persistent pollutants like PCBs, dioxins, stuff like that. We had to do masses of tests on animal hairs, checking them out under an electron microscope. Fiddly stuff, repetitive, very boring. Only a total nitpicker can survive. Callis was born to the job.’
‘Thanks, Di!’
‘So is that what you do in Norway?’ Malcolm asked Callis.
‘Kind of. I’ve been doing a lot of counting pollen grains from archaeological soil samples recently, working out how ecosystems have changed over time. So, different questions, but I still spend a stupid amount of time craned over a microscope or a computer screen.’
‘No rude remarks about pains in the neck then?’ Diana grinned.
‘No thanks!’
‘My dad says I do this job because it’s the only kind of wildlife I get to see since I can’t sit still. He used to take me to the woods near home at night to watch badgers come out of their sets, but I would fidget too much. Fidget, wriggle, scuffle, scuffle. The badgers wouldn’t come. They must have run out of a back door or maybe they just stayed in, wondering what this big gallumphing thing was scratching around outside. Anyway, like I said, Dad says this is why I just get to look down a microscope – whatever’s on the slide is oblivious to how much shuffling I’m doing.’
Everyone laughed along at her outpouring, then after a pause, Malcolm turned to Diana. ‘So do you work in a lab as well?’
‘No, no. Admin, admin and more admin, nothing worthwhile I’m afraid,’ said Diana.
‘Keeping the health service running doesn’t count as worthwhile?’ Frances said.
‘OK. It might be worthy but it’s not exactly interesting unless you happen to be into spreadsheets, which of course I am: I love my spreadsheets, they are magnificent spreadsheets.’ She made a theatrical flourish with her arms to emphasise their ironic magnificence, winning a laugh from her audience. ‘But I appreciate not everyone shares my passion. If you want real excitement, Stig’s the one.’
They all looked expectantly at the man in question, Frances’ brother Steven, known to everyone for as long as they could remember as Stig. Callis recalled the times when he and Frances had visited during university holidays and how he used to gravitate to the kitchen, spending hours chatting with her mother while she and Frances hung out together in her bedroom. Stig and Frances had lost their own mother when they were in their teens, and for a while Flora had filled the gap for Stig. Now, he was stroking his goatee beard watching Jack and Marjory giggling together in the corner. Diana dug him in the ribs.
‘He’s at the Scottish Land Institute. Tell them what you do.’
‘I’m a research scientist.’
‘Yes, but tell them about your project.’
‘I’m running a lynx reintroduction study.’
Callis put the pint down on the table without taking a swig. ‘Are you really?’
‘Aye.’ He gave her a shy grin, but she could see he was proud.
They were interrupted by a perfumed flourish. ‘Can I get any of you young folks a drink fae the bar?’ Aunt Marjory gave Callis a squeeze on her shoulder, reaching her other arm out, with a sweep of velvet, to touch Diana on the lower arm. Her scarlet-painted nails stroked the black-lace cuff of Diana’s dress-jacket. ‘Divine as ever, Diana.’
With heads and hand gestures, they all indicated enough in their glasses. ‘I think we’re fine, thanks,’ said Callis.
‘You’re looking fantastic yourself, Marj.’ Diana’s eyes twinkled.
‘And this is Frances? Aye. And you’re still hanging out with your brother. Have you no got yourself a man, quine? Don’t tell me you’re like Callis.’
‘I’m independent and proud of it.’ Frances tossed her hair.
‘It’s all your doing, Diana. You’re a bad influence. What these skinny lassies need is a bit of action on the love front, that’s what I think.’
Diana threw her head back laughing. ‘You know my motto, Marj. Love’s a noose…’
Callis and Frances chimed in, ‘…for a goose.’
The madame raised her eyes to the ceiling, then stepped to stand behind Malcolm, who turned his head and gave her a baffled smile. ‘Good luck, son,’ she said. ‘They’ve hearts of stone, these three.’
Marjory swept off and Callis turned to Stig. ‘You heard about the bears in Norway?’
‘Aye, terrible.’
‘What?’ asked Frances.
‘They’re shooting all the bears,’ Callis said.
‘You what?’
‘The morning I left, there was this awful thing on the news. A farmer from the Lierne region hunted down one of the few female bears denning in Norway, maybe even the last one, then captured her cub and brought it to Trondheim and shot it in the centre of town as some kind of idiotic protest.’
‘That’s dreadful,’ said Frances.
‘Bloody farmers. Don’t get me started,’ Callis said. She didn’t say anything about her sighting in the snow, as if speaking about it might tarnish the memory.
‘How do they know it was the last one?’ asked Malcolm.
‘They’re all radio tagged, or were,’ said Stig.
‘Yes, but surely there are plenty more of them lurking in the mountains.’
‘Don’t think so,’ said Stig. ‘The monitoring has been pretty serious these past few years. Of course individuals wander over the border from Sweden, but they’ve watched the numbers actually denning in Norway drop steadily year by year. They eventually put a hunting ban in place but there are still people who want to kill them. Farmers mostly, poisoning them, shooting them. And pseudorabies took a lot, once the population got too small to be viable.’
‘There should be an outcry,’ said Frances.
‘Are you involved with animals as well?’ Malcolm asked her.
‘No, sadly, I’m in marketing, for a publishing house. But I am about to learn the art of making teddy bears. Does that count?’ Laughs all round. ‘Actually, Cally, you should come along. It’s a weekend course at a big house in Moray, this weekend, it looks lovely. I think I’ve persuaded Diana and if you came too it’d be a real reunion of the sisterhood.’
Callis looked at Diana, who gave a shrug of encouragement. ‘The
house looks fantastic. The soft toy bit’s just an excuse for a weekend living in style in the country. I thought I might get some interesting photo opportunities. Plus hot tub and mansion rather appeals!’
Frances touched Callis on the sleeve. ‘No need to make your mind up straight away, I’ll call you.’ She turned back to Malcolm. ‘And you? What’s your line of work?’
‘I’m a farmer,’ he said, looking Callis straight in the eye.
Malcolm had to be back for milking and headed off early from the funeral lunch, but before he went he had secured a date with Callis. She was intrigued enough to want to see him on his own patch. Two nights later, he was waiting for her on the train platform at Nairn. He led her out to the station car park, touched a button on his key and a sleek black Jaguar winked in recognition. She couldn’t fail to notice his swagger as he approached the car. The wee boy from St Peter’s Primary was clearly making good.
‘Nice car,’ she said.
‘This? It’s just my runaround.’ He looked at her sideways and grinned.
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Not really. My real car’s a Citroen Flying 15.’
Callis hoped she didn’t look as blank as she was. ‘I take it I should be impressed by that. This one’s swanky enough, I assure you.’
‘Nah but the Citroen’s a beauty. It’s a bit of a hobby of mine, fixing vintage cars. I make a pound on the side, doing up Daimlers, people love them for weddings and that. I wouldn’t drive one myself, but it funds me to tinker with the real classics.’
He drove her to a country inn three miles out of town. As the oak door swung to behind them, a tall bald barman nodded to Malcolm, ‘Evening, Sir. Usual?’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Driving juice.’ Turning to Callis. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘G & T, please.’
‘Are you eating tonight, Sir?’ the barman asked, adding fancily-cut lemon to a glass.
‘Aye.’
‘I’ll put them on your tab, then.’
They took their drinks to a corner seat, and when the proprietor came to take them to their table in the restaurant he shook hands deferentially with Malcolm and positioned a chair for Callis as if she were a visiting dignitary.
She took the leather-bound tome offered to her and, once he was out of earshot, said, ‘Are they like this to everyone, or are you top dog around here?’ She glanced through the menu. The set meal price was high enough to raise expectations.
‘It’s my local,’ Malcolm smiled, ‘and I work for the man who owns it.’
‘Who pays well, clearly.’
‘Oh, I’ve got pretty low overheads – I get a house with the job – so most of what I earn can go on toys and treats. This is my treat, by the way.’
‘No way, we’ll go Dutch. I get a Norwegian salary, remember. And I’m an independent woman.’
He shrugged. ‘If you insist.’
‘I insist.’
The food fulfilled the promise of the menu. Ornate edifices of shitake mushrooms with sculptured garnishes were followed by a grapefruit sorbet before they tucked into venison cooked to perfection with side dishes of herby mashed root vegetables. It was all served up in an atmosphere of calm prowess. The wine glasses were huge and Callis found herself talking too much, heading off down a conversational highway – government agriculture subsidies – that was bound to go nowhere constructive, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself acting as if a political discussion was all that she wanted from the evening.
As they shared the fruit-and-cheese board, Callis missed the last train and wasn’t sorry. They went back to Malcolm’s house. It was the end cottage in a terrace of four, with a big garage on the side, where he played with his cars. It was just a field away from the farm. He could go out of the gate at the bottom of the garden and walk with the cows across to the dairy, he said, uncorking a bottle from a French chateau Callis had never heard of.
She sank into the huge leather sofa and wondered if she would be able to raise herself from it ever again. She was astounded at the neatness of the place. An impressive hi-fi filled one corner, like an altar. Malcolm waved a remote control at it until it produced something bluesy and American.
He watched her taking in the decor. ‘I do like it tidy,’ he said. They talked domestic habits for a while. He always washed up after each meal, he said. It was a habit he had picked up on his gap year in Australia, living in a farm cabin infested with cockroaches. The only way to keep their numbers down was to leave them no food.
Callis thought of her house back in Trondheim: the scatter of books and magazines in the lounge; the way clothes tended towards heaps in the bedroom; the bathroom, well, she did clean it from time to time, blitzing it really thoroughly until everything gleamed, but normally, there were better things to do than housework. She didn’t want to think what cockroaches might do in her kitchen.
He admitted to employing a cleaner. ‘I love coming in from work when it’s been cleaned, like the wee beeswax fairies have been.’
She giggled at the idea and he beamed. In the warm glow of wine, the idea of tidiness seemed almost spiritual, but the thought of employing someone to bring it about struck her as impossibly decadent.
‘How do you afford it, but?’ she asked.
‘Lydia’s dirt-cheap. Her husband Dima works on the farm and she’s desperate for a bit more cash. They’ll put up with a pittance, the Russians.’ He emptied his glass and the conversation worked its way back to European food subsidies, less coherently than before. After wine, the age-old rules of drinking demanded nothing less than whisky. Malcolm had several malts.
‘I won’t regret this, will I? I’m a few ahead of you.’
He grinned, pouring amber liquid into tumblers. ‘Don’t worry, I’m catching up fast. Do you remember that time in the school playground when we let you girls play football?’
‘Yeah, I do actually.’
‘You were bloody good.’
‘Was I?’ She couldn’t really recall it. ‘Must have been beginner’s luck.’ She thought of herself with scabby knees and plimsolls, not exactly a seductive image, though school memories turned out to be a good source of laughs.
In a pause, she thought about mentioning bears, but something made her hold back.
He offered coffee, eventually, and went off to the galley kitchen to put it on – real coffee blasted in a Viennese pot on the back ring of the stove. The music chugged along. Tiredness washed over Callis. This place was so extraordinarily tidy, she thought, and the sofa so deep and comfortable. She stifled a yawn as Malcolm came through with two china mugs.
‘You’re tired. Not surprising, the funeral and all that must have been exhausting.’ He put her coffee on a side table and sat back down opposite her in the leather armchair. She let her legs, tucked up under her until then, stretch out across the sofa, not sure if she was disappointed that he had not joined her there. No pass being made, then. Was she going to sleep down here? It was confusing all of a sudden. He had started talking about his father’s funeral, but she was finding it hard to connect the movements of his mouth with words and what it might have to do with her, how she could keep awake to try to understand. She just wanted to sink into the cushions, let herself lie back and find darkness.
She half came to on the staircase.
Her feet banged on the narrow corner as the flight twisted back on itself. She’d been up here to the toilet earlier. Now she was being carried, his arms under her legs, around her shoulders, her head flopping. She stiffened her neck and looked at him. ‘Was appenin?’
‘Time to tuck you up to sleep. You didn’t look comfortable on the settee.’
‘It was very comfy.’
‘I’ve got a very comfy bed, too. Soon have you tucked up.’
She put her arm around his neck and closed her eyes. A turn through a doorway. She was lowered on to a bed. As her head settled on the pillow she looked up into those chocolate eyes, momentarily, then their mouths met, tongues explored, his body h
anging over hers.
‘Waking up now!’ he grinned, shifting over her, pinioning her to the bed with his legs on either side of her body. She wondered if this was what she really wanted to be doing, but then he kissed her again and she did it anyway.
Callis woke with a dry mouth. She was lying at the edge of the bed, both arms above her head as if in surrender. Her hands were freezing, her temples taut with the after-effects of alcohol.
Malcolm lay spreadeagled, his right forearm under her neck, mouth open. His sleep looked untroubled.
Callis prised herself into a half-raised position and slipped out from under the covers. She grabbed the blue-and-red-striped flannel gown off the back of the door and slung it around her shoulders. The handle squeaked as it turned.
‘Stealing ma bathrobe?’
She looked round. He seemed wide awake. ‘It’s Baltic in here,’ she said. ‘I need a pee.’
‘Don’t be long.’ He rubbed his hand through his hair. ‘I’ve got something for you.’
Her head rang, but there was a raw clarity in the tightness behind her eyes. Enough clarity to know that she didn’t want what he had waiting for her.
The bathroom was even colder than the bedroom; the toilet seat was a punishment. She put a towel on the floor to stand on while she splashed water on her face, wondering what to do. She thought about all of the brain cells she had destroyed, all those neurons scorched by alcohol. She had a sudden fear that some of them might store memories of her mother. Even though she knew the brain didn’t work like that, she felt as if a hand was grabbing at her throat. She sat back down on the toilet. Her mum’s face, what was it like? Her hair and her padded coat, she could picture those; but no eyes, no mouth, nothing. She felt her own face begin to dissolve and reached for toilet roll to wipe the tears that rolled down her cheeks and streamed out of her nose, choking her.
Juddering gasps. Spasm. She held the wad of tissue over her mouth, trying to be silent. The feel of her mother’s hand on her head, another spasm. Then misery. Little sobs of pure misery. She hadn’t been able to say goodbye. Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t say goodbye. She swallowed a throatful of sobs.
Bear Witness Page 3
