‘David’s getting it from Asda – he’s taken Kirsty there.’
Ross was bored, and for once Eilidh and Claire did not seem to want to spend every minute in each other’s company. Marion and Eleanor ignored this as best they could, giving the children jobs to do (which they did not want, preferring to be bored), and allowing them to watch endless television.
David, coming back with Kirsty and a small Christmas tree, was stopped in the hall by Eleanor.
‘Has anyone been to see Ruby? When was she in?’
‘Oh, I forgot to tell you. She’s had flu. Dad hasn’t had her here for over a week.’
‘For goodness sake. Someone might have told us. I’ll go and see her,’ she said to Marion. ‘As long as one of us does. She might want to come tomorrow, do you think?’
‘She’s sure to be invited somewhere else,’ Marion said, ‘if she’s well enough. But Dad always gives her a bottle of sherry and chocolates. Ask him if he’s been along yet.’
Eleanor found her father in the garden in front of the house, far down the drive, being made to cut holly by Claire.
‘Look, all this stuff with berries,’ Claire called to her mother. ‘I saw it on the way in yesterday. Grandpa didn’t even notice.’
‘You’ll be wanting ivy to go with it next,’ he grumbled, throwing another branch into the wheelbarrow. Claire looked at him blankly.
‘Oh,’ she said at last. ‘The holly and the ivy.’
‘They sound like two elderly spinsters, I always think,’ Eleanor said, pulling on her gloves. It was cold out here. ‘Anyway, I’m going down to see Ruby. Have you given her her Christmas yet?’
John folded the small set of steps he had been using and tucked them under his arm. Claire picked up the wheelbarrow handles, ready to go.
‘Now, that’s well minded. There’s a bottle of sherry for her, in the pantry. And maybe you’d buy some sweeties – the shop’ll be open the day, surely.’
‘Right. Anyone coming with me?’
Claire was setting off with the wheelbarrow. ‘I’m helping Grandpa put up the holly. You could ask Ross,’ she added. ‘He’s only watching TV.’
In the kitchen, there seemed to be a lot going on. Eilidh was helping her mother wrap tiny sausages in strips of bacon. The turkey was ready: it too was spread with bacon slices and flattened lumps of butter and stood in a roasting tin on a shelf in the pantry. Eleanor tried not to look at it as she picked up the bottle of sherry.
‘Should I wrap this up? Have you any paper?’
‘Somewhere.’ Marion had a smear of suet on her cheek and she was flushed.
Fergus put his head round the door. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’
‘What are you doing?’ she asked him.
‘Watching TV with Ross. Anything you need?’ He came in and filled the kettle. ‘You sit down in a minute, you hear me? I’ll make the tea.’ He tapped Eilidh on the shoulder. ‘Don’t let your mother get too tired. It’s not even Christmas Day yet.’
‘I know.’ Eleanor halted with the bottle of Bristol Cream. This is awful – the whole idea was that we’d do everything. Marion’s supposed to rest.’
‘Aye well, fat chance of that,’ Fergus sighed, giving Marion a hug with one arm, then turning to get mugs from the cupboard behind him.
‘I was going down to see Ruby,’ Eleanor explained. ‘David says she’s had flu.’
‘Well, let me get Marion in a chair with her feet up and a cup of tea,’ Fergus offered, ‘and then I’ll come with you.’
‘Oh good. Ruby will love that. You’re her favourite – she can tell you about her bad leg.’
‘God, on second thoughts …’ But he grinned, not meaning it.
It was dark by the time Fergus drove them down the lane to the main road and the Post Office and shop, where Eleanor stood dithering between Quality Street and Dairy Box, and wished she could have bought something more interesting for Ruby this year.
Ruby had been dozing by her fire. She looked flushed and flustered when she came to the door, but she was delighted to see them.
‘Come awa in – oh, and the doctor. My, you’re lookin well. How’s the family?’ She stopped by the entrance to her tiny living room, and coughed harshly, banging her chest with a fist, as if this might help. ‘Ach, fit a dose of the flu I’ve had. Terrible. My legs wis awa tae jelly, ye’ve nae idea. Come in, come in. Sit yersels doon.’
A yellow-eyed cat slunk off the sofa and disappeared. Ruby lived alone now, her son grown up and gone, her husband dead for many years. The room was crowded with furniture and every surface covered with crocheted mats, china dogs and horses, framed photographs. The fire blazed, so the room was stifling. Eleanor took off her jacket at once, and tried to sit away from the fire.
‘Now then, you’ll be for a fly cup? I’ve a lovely bit of Christmas cake. Susan Mackie, well, her that was Susan Mackie, I forget her married name, she was in yesterday, and brought me a bit of cake. Marks and Spencer, very nice.’
There was no getting out of the tea and cake. Fergus looked at Eleanor and winked.
It was soon ready: china cups and saucers decorated with forget-me-nots on a tray covered with an embroidered cloth; the bought Christmas cake and shortbread.
‘I never bake now,’ Ruby told them as she poured tea. ‘Nae worth bothering, just for mysel. But now and again, I maks a scone. Your dad likes that.’
Eleanor saw how her hand trembled as she handed out the cups and saucers, realised the wiry grey hair was thin at the front, and that illness had made Ruby look smaller and almost frail. She is old, Eleanor thought. She can’t keep taking care of Pitcairn, and Dad.
They asked after everyone they could think of: the Mackies, retired now to Ellon, and Eileen living in Glasgow with her family; Ruby’s son and his wife, in New Zealand with their children; the people who used to have the Post Office, but who had also retired. Eleanor felt sleepy and comfortable, and the cat crept back to make a nest of her lap.
‘Ach, pit him doon,’ Ruby said. ‘He’s an affa cratur. I used to keep him ootside, but he’s getting auld, like me.’
‘He likes the fireside.’
Ruby handed round the cake again, but this time they said no, it was lovely, but they would have to stir themselves.
‘Now then,’ Ruby went on, not wanting to let them go just yet, ‘how’s that brother of yours? He’s back again, I see.’
‘He’s fine. He’s actually going to be working in Edinburgh.’
‘Ye ken, I aye thocht he was on anither planet, that loon. You and Marion were that weel-mannered, nice behaved quines, but Davy – he had the licht o mischief in his een – like a wee devil wis lookin through him.’ She shook her head, remembering. ‘You’ll min on that Stanley Robertson he was sae pally wi?’
‘Oh yes, Stanley. What happened to him?’
‘I can tell ye that. He was a’ set to follow his Dad – apprentice joiner.’
‘Oh yes.’ Eleanor was remembering now.
‘Jimmy was a terrible man for the drink. He lost a good bit a business that wey. An affa pity – a’body said fit a good workman. But. Well, well, Stanley couldna manage the business himsel, when his da was yon wey. And his mother dead when Stanley was – fit? Nine? A man canna be father and mother baith. Well, Jimmy Robertson couldna.’ She shook her head.
‘But – what happened to Stanley? Did he not get married, really young?’
‘Oh, Irene Walker. A richt wee—’ Ruby checked herself. ‘Stanley, he went for a soldier, when his da got so he wisna workin ava. Irene liked that fine at first – the uniform, ken, and a steady wage. Then he was posted to Germany, and she wouldna ging wi’ him. Too far frae her mother.’
‘Great support to him, then?’ Eleanor put in, sarcastic. She did remember a blonde girl with a skirling laugh and black eye make-up, shoving a push-chair with a pasty baby slumped in it. Was that Stanley’s baby?
‘So where’s Stanley now?’
There was some bother in Germany, I dinna
ken aboot that. But he came oot of the Army.’
‘Maybe he missed Irene and the baby.’
Ruby snorted. ‘Oh, by that time she had another man. Bidin in Aberdeen wi him. He was in the fish, as I recall.’
A step down, then, Eleanor thought, knowing how Ruby’s social ladder went.
‘But poor Stanley,’ Ruby went on, ‘he was a changed lad – intae the drink like his father. He was fechtin in a bar in Aberdeen, and another lad wis hurt bad.’ She paused for the climax of her story, and looked from Eleanor to Fergus and back again. ‘He’s in the jail.’
‘Jail!’
‘Craiginches, three years. I read it in the P&J, but it was Doreen at the Post Office telt me first.’
As they left, Ruby thanked them for the sherry and chocolates.
‘You know,’ Fergus said as they drove away, ‘I have an awful feeling there’s about twenty bottles of Harvey’s Bristol Cream in her sideboard.’
Eleanor laughed. ‘Oh dear, you could be right. But, Fergus, fancy poor Stanley in prison. I wonder if David knows.’
‘It’s no good, Eleanor, your father’s going to have to find someone else to look after the house.’
‘I know.’
‘How old’s Ruby? His age, anyway.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And going by the state of Pitcairn any time we come here – she doesn’t do much these days.’
‘No. I know.’ She felt curiously irritated by Fergus saying what she believed herself. He did not remember Ruby as she did, could not see her in the kitchen with Faith, or turning out the living room on a fine spring day, the windows wide open, the furniture moved back, the rugs beaten over the washing line. And Stanley. Fergus did not care about Stanley. She could hardly wait to tell David and Marion, who would care.
All this went out of her head as soon as they got back to the house. Putting the step-ladder away, her father had slipped going into the shed and sprained his ankle. He was in an armchair in the living room, his trouser leg rolled up, the foot turning black and blue and swelling up.
‘Oh thank goodness – you’ve been hours down there,’ Marion greeted them. ‘Dad’s fallen and done something to his ankle. It’s just a sprain, I think. Come and look at it, Fergus.’
Fergus thought it was a bad sprain, but he would never make a decision about someone else’s patient. So there was nothing else for it but to go into the Royal Infirmary in Aberdeen to get it X-rayed.
‘Oh God,’ Marion sighed, ‘on Christmas Eve. The traffic. We’ll have our tea first, Dad, and Fergus will bandage it up for now.’
‘Ach, I’m fine. I’ve nae need to go to the hospital.’
‘David could take him,’ Fergus said, putting his father-in-law’s foot down gently and standing up. ‘He’s not doing anything else.’
‘No, but,’ Marion pulled Fergus aside, ‘he’s been drinking all afternoon, since he came back with Kirsty. He couldn’t take a car.’
‘What?’ Eleanor had heard this.
‘Well, it’s Christmas. I’m sure he doesn’t drink in the afternoon usually.’ Marion looked harassed. ‘But, no, I wouldn’t want him driving Dad anywhere.’
In the end, John refused to go. If his ankle got worse, he said, David would take him into the infirmary on Boxing Day. It would be quiet on the roads, an easy journey. Fergus gave in, and did his best with an elastic bandage.
There had been, intermittently throughout the day, an ongoing discussion amongst the children about where the presents should be left. Kirsty still wanted to believe in Santa Glaus, and her family kept up the fiction because she was the youngest, and allowed to go on believing as long as she liked, because they had been able to. The compromise they had reached by tea-time was that Santa came only for children, and everyone else got presents from Mum and Dad. ‘It’s daft,’ Eilidh said to Claire, ‘because she knows perfectly well, really.’ They decided that all the adults’ and family presents were to be put under the tree, while Kirsty’s offering from Father Christmas, and everyone else’s filled stockings, would appear miraculously at the end of the beds, as usual. Eleanor and David volunteered to stay up late and sort all this out.
By midnight, the house was silent and everyone else in bed. Eleanor and David sat on in the living room, feeding the fire a little, and David drank the wine that was left from their evening meal. Eleanor could tell by the way his eyes were slightly unfocused when he looked at her, and by the easy expansive way he talked, that he was very drunk. But he was perfectly lucid. It was the first time Eleanor had had a chance to tell him about the visit to Ruby.
‘I nearly forgot. Remember that boy you played with – Stanley?’
David poked a log further into the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. He looked up, flushed. ‘Aye, I remember Stanley. Of course I do. My old mate.’
‘He’s in prison. Ruby told us.’
David stared. ‘You’re kidding?’
‘No, Ruby told us the whole story.’
‘My God. Well, I suppose one of us was bound to end up there.’
‘I was really shocked.’
‘You would be. Doesn’t take much to shock Eleanor.’
‘Don’t be rude. You’re out of your head. Poor Stanley.’
‘What did he do? Bust a bank?’
‘A fight in a pub. Assault and battery or something.’
‘Jesus.’
‘He never seemed in the least aggressive to me.’ Eleanor could see the skinny child with cropped fair hair, the boy who was David’s shadow, his follower. It was David who led, wasn’t it, David who organised. She remembered the last time Stanley had come to Pitcairn, standing awkwardly at the back door, asking to see their mother, more than twenty years ago.
‘She’s not well,’ Marion had said, not letting him in. ‘What is it?’
‘I thought I better tell Mrs Cairns about Davy.’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘Tell your Ma and Da he’s a’ right.’
Now Marion let him in. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’ll likely be in London e’er now.’
‘London?’ Marion grabbed Stanley’s arm, bone beneath the skin. He winced, trapped.
‘We was hitch-hiking,’ he said. Eleanor saw the dark marks under his eyes, saw how tired he was, tired to death.
‘I’ll get Mum,’ Marion said.
Faith was there in a moment. ‘How are you, Stanley?’ she said. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Sit yourself down.’
‘No, I better nae bide.’ He moved backwards. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cairns, he wanted me to go to London as well. But – I couldna leave my Da.’
‘So you came home then?’ Faith was perfectly calm, the only one of the four people in the kitchen not agitated and upset.
‘Aye. I’ve to go home now, my Da took me up here, he’s waitin in the van.’
‘Where did you leave David?’
‘Somewey about Newcastle. He’d gotten another lift — in a Jaguar. Big car, ken.’
‘Good for him.’ Marion was bitterly angry.
‘Thank you for coming – don’t keep your father waiting.’ White, expressionless, Faith saw him out.
Had they talked outside? Eleanor wondered now. Had their mother questioned him more? All she could remember was Marion going out of the kitchen, banging the door, a thing she had never done in her life before.
She pulled herself back to the present. ‘Davy,’ she began. He was slumped in his chair, not seeing or hearing her. Then he stirred.
‘We had this den,’ he said. ‘Stan and me. Nobody else was allowed in.’
Eleanor sighed. ‘There wasn’t anyone else except Marion and me.’
‘Once, one year, there were those kids – the tinker kids. For a week or so.’
‘I know. The woman came to the door – Mum gave her money, bought stuff.’
‘She told fortunes, didn’t she?’ David interrupted. ‘She said something to Mum about us – Mum said it was rubbish.’
That’s right. I don’t actually remember what s
he said, but Marion might. She got the piece of lace – I fancied it, but Marion took it away. I never saw it again.’
‘Poor bloody Stanley – she never told his fortune, anyway.’
‘No, but she—’
‘Where’s he in clink?’
‘Craiginches, Aberdeen.’
‘Maybe I’ll go and see him, take him a file in a cake or something.’
Eleanor knew he would not go. He seemed suddenly morose, dejected, and stared into the fire.
‘I’m sure Stanley will be all right,’ she said. ‘At least he’s got a trade to go back to. And he’s shot of that awful Irene. It wasn’t a long sentence, and Ruby didn’t say when it happened. He could be out by now.’
David looked up. ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he said.
‘Of course not – how could it be? You hadn’t even seen him for years.’
‘I did see him.’ David drew himself up in his chair, and reached for the bottle to pour himself another dram. ‘Once, when I was in Aberdeen about – what? Five years ago. He was working as a joiner again. Not for his father of course, for some big firm. They did a lot of council work, he said. He seemed OK. We went for a pint.’
‘There you are. It probably wasn’t even his fault, the fight in the pub.’
‘He was easily led, was old Stan.’
‘You were always in trouble, the pair of you.’
‘You don’t know the half of it, Eleanor.’
‘Don’t I?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m not a good person, you know. I never was.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘Guilt,’ he said, swallowing whisky, picking up the bottle again. ‘The fires of hell will consume me in the end, dear sister. A fitting end.’
What did he mean? She had stood with her father in the garden here, talking about the night the Mackies’ barn went on fire. No question. He was home before it started. A cigarette end can smoulder a long time. She looked across at her brother, his heavy-lidded eyes, the twist of self-disgust in his mouth. She did not want to know what might not be true, or even possible.
‘You’re drunk,’ she said. ‘Come on, you’ve had enough of that.’ She stood up, taking the bottle from him. ‘Let’s do the presents. Surely to goodness Kirsty’s asleep by now.’ She glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I’ve missed the watchnight service. I’ve been able to go to that the last few years. Edie’s kept an eye on Claire for me. Next year, who knows, she’ll maybe come with me.’
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