‘You’ll come too, won’t you?’ Andrea patted her arm.
‘I might be at Marion’s. But it’s nice of you to ask me.’
‘Just turn up if you feel like it – no need to let me know. About eight.’
‘I don’t have to go to Auntie Marion’s, do I?’ Claire persisted, as they drove down the lane.
‘No, it’s all right. You can go to Sarah’s.’
‘You come, too – her mum wants you to. So do I. Why can’t you come?’
‘I might.’ An uneasy silence.
‘I know you don’t like Hogmanay. I’ll stay at home, Mum, if you want me to.’
Ashamed, Eleanor said, much more warmly, ‘I’ll be fine. I might come – it doesn’t matter. You can stay with Sarah.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
She could not face a party, of course. In a little bottle in a drawer, tucked under knickers and tights, she had two sleeping tablets left. This was what she had done, every Hogmanay since Ian’s death: taken a sleeping tablet, and gone to bed. In the morning, it was next year, and the bleakest night was over. Claire had been too young to care about staying up. Last year, Fergus and Marion had had people round, and she and Claire had gone there. It had been, just, bearable, but she had still wanted to be home before midnight, so she left Claire with Eilidh, and drove back to her cottage, to the bottle of tablets, and sleep. She did not have a drink before or after. She had drunk no more than one glass of wine, or one whisky, on any occasion, for five years. David, of course, had taken the other option, and drunk more as each year passed. Both of them still sought oblivion, a way of not thinking.
This year, she said to Marion, ‘I might go along to Andrea’s party.’ To herself she said, I’ll go to bed. In the end, she did not even drive Claire to the party: another mother was taking her daughter, and they called at the cottage on their way. Claire hesitated by the door with her sleeping bag and rucksack.
‘Are you coming later? Michelle’s mum and dad are.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Are you going to Auntie Marion’s then? You’re not going to be by yourself?’
‘No, no I won’t. You have a lovely time – ring me tomorrow if you want to be collected.’
‘It’ll be late. We’re going to stay up for hours.’ She leaned forward, kissing Eleanor quickly. ‘Happy New Year, Mum.’
Eleanor held her for a moment, tasting the sweetness of hair and skin, then Claire was gone, the car disappearing down the lane.
Jim and Edie’s house was dark, the Christmas tree lights off. They had gone to Jim’s sister in Aviemore, and would be back in a couple of days. Eleanor was ‘keeping an eye’ for them. Outside the end cottage the old Saab was sitting, and there was a light on in the front window. The ginger-haired man, abandoned by his wife, must be spending Hogmanay on his own. For a moment, Eleanor was curious, then did not care. She turned indoors.
The evening was long, and the book she had been saving to read, a disappointment. In the end, she thought she would walk up the lane, as far as the farm gate and back. She stood at her open front door, trying to make up her mind whether to do this. It was a clear, starry night with a three-quarters moon, bright and full. In front of the end cottage, the blue Saab had its lights on. Was he going out then? He wouldn’t be on his own after all – he had a party to go to, friends or family to be with. Then, stepping outside, she saw the car was empty, and the cottage door closed. He must have gone out and come back, leaving his lights on by mistake. Eleanor put on her jacket, and went out.
She paused at the end cottage. If he meant to see the New Year in, as she did, alone, he would not go out till late in the morning, and his battery would have run down by then. Eleanor put her hand on the gate, pushed it open, and went up the path. From inside the cottage came music, but no voices. She rapped the knocker three times. After a moment, the man with the ginger hair opened the door.
‘Hi!’ he said. ‘Come in.’ He stepped back, inviting her.
‘No, sorry – I just came to say you’ve left your car lights on.’
He peered out. ‘So I did. Thanks.’ He came past her down the path, and opening the car door, switched off the headlights. He’s local, Eleanor thought, or he’s lived here a while – the car wasn’t locked. He was Scots, but she could not guess where he came from.
‘Can I give you a drink? Or are you on your way out?’
‘No. I was just going for a walk.’
‘A walk?’
‘It’s a lovely night,’ she said, defensive.
‘So it is.’ He stood on the path beside her, and they looked up at the sky. Think I’ll come with you, if that’s all right.’ He unhooked a jacket from the row of pegs in the hall. His house, a copy of hers, looked bright, with a crimson hall and stair carpet, and rows of small pictures on the walls. ‘You don’t mind?’
‘No, of course not.’ But she was taken aback, and felt shy.
He pulled his door shut and they began to walk up the lane side by side. ‘I’m Gavin Soutar,’ he said. ‘You’re Eleanor, aren’t you? Edie calls you Eleanor.’
Something flew close above her head, so close she stopped and cried out. ‘What was that?’
His hand held her arm. ‘Wait – it was a bat, I think. Probably be some more.’ So she waited with him, and two or three tiny bats flew out of the trees and wheeled above them. Then they were gone.
‘You’re not frightened?’
‘Oh no. I was just taken by surprise, that’s all.’ She thought of the bats in the loft at Pitcairn, and David yelling when one skimmed his hair.
‘How long have you lived here?’ he asked, as they went on down the lane.
‘More than four and a half years. I came up from Berkshire.’
‘What made you choose the Highlands – is it home?’
‘Now it is. My sister lives here, so it seemed the best place to come with Claire, my daughter. She was only nine then, and Eilidh, her cousin, was the same age.’
‘Claire’s the long-legged blonde?’
‘Yes.’
‘The other long-legged blonde.’
Was he flirting with her? Eleanor was not sure. They had reached the farm gate, and had it been daylight, would have been looking over the firth. In the clear moonlight, Eleanor could just make out the gleam of water.
‘Do you want to go on?’ he asked.
‘I was just thinking I could see the firth. But maybe not. This is my favourite walk, up here, and along this path—’ She indicated the way the track took, away from the farm, along the ridge of the hill. ‘The view is wonderful, and you can go all the way along to the Neil Gunn Viewpoint.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘You’re right – it is lovely.’ They stood for a moment in silence, gazing at the hidden view. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘it’s freezing out here. Come back with me and share my bottle of wine.’
‘Well …’
‘I could do with some company.’ He was looking at her, she could feel that he was, but she did not look up to meet his eyes, beginning instead to walk back down the track to the cottages. ‘Maybe you could too,’ he went on, keeping pace with her. ‘Or were you going out later? Where’s the lovely Claire?’
‘At a party. A friend’s house.’
‘The worst night of the year, this,’ he suggested, ‘or the best. Depends where you are at the time, or who you’re with.’
Eleanor did not reply, unable to say anything that would not be an admission of some kind. She followed him into his house. In the living room, the same size and shape as hers, but quite, quite different, she stopped on the threshold. The room was full of quivering light, flickering shadows, cast by a dozen or more candles set out on the mantelpiece, on the bureau, the bookcases, and round the edges of the floor, between rug and skirting board.
‘You left all these candles burning!’
‘You think I was stupid – it’s dangerous?’
‘What if one had fallen over onto the flo
orboards?’
‘You’re quite right,’ He looked crestfallen.
‘They’re beautiful – it’s just – but so many of them … What made you think of it?’
‘Oh,’ he shrugged, ‘you know. Defying the dark.’ He picked up a bottle half-full of red wine, that had been standing near the fire. ‘Let’s sit down, eh?’
In the firelight, candlelight, face to face, she looked at him properly for the first time. He was thin and fit-looking, taller than she was by a head. He brought her a glass of wine.
‘Now then, let’s see this terrible year out, drink its dregs.’ He sat on the floor cross-legged, near the fire, raising his glass.
‘Has it been a bad year then?’
‘Well, the last few weeks haven’t been so …’ He shrugged again, grinning, not seeming to care, so that after swallowing some of the dark buttery wine, she managed to say, ‘You’re on your own now? Has your wife – is she away?’
‘Oh come on,’ he laughed. ‘I’m sure Edie’s told you. I was abandoned. Kate’s gone – flown the coop.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK. Everyone should be on their own at Hogmanay at least once, don’t you think? Just for the experience.’ He topped up her glass.
‘No, it’s all right. I don’t really drink at all now.’
‘Except, of course,’ he said, ignoring this, ‘I won’t be alone after all. You’re not rushing off, are you? You’ll see the New Year in with me?’
‘Yes, all right.’ How could she leave him? He might not be as cheerful as he pretended, might be miserable left on his own. He seemed anxious for her to stay. So perhaps she could do it after all, get through these last bleak hours conscious, watching them go by. She tried to relax, and leaned back on the sofa cushions.
‘It’s very nice wine,’ she said.
‘My father likes a good Burgundy.’
‘Your father?’
‘It’s what he gives me every Christmas. Case of wine.’
‘Wow. A case.’
‘He knows it’ll be appreciated.’ He leaned over. ‘Have some more.’
‘No, really, I’ve hardly touched—’
‘Went to my old dad’s for the festive dinner,’ he said. ‘What about you?’
‘I went to my father’s house too,’ she told him. ‘We all did – my sister, her family, my aunts, Claire, me, and my brother.’
‘Quite a party.’
‘It was. Was yours—’
‘Just Dad and me.’
‘Is your mother—’
‘Left years ago. Tired of his shenanigans. She’s married to someone else now.’
Eleanor was not sure what to make of this. It seemed an odd way to speak about your parents.
‘I suppose all families are different,’ she said. ‘So your wife – she …’
‘We’re not married.’
‘Sorry, I thought …’
‘Nope. We never got that far. In fact, we’ve only actually lived together for a year.’
‘I’ve got a brother like you,’ Eleanor scoffed. ‘David. He drifts along, won’t commit himself to anything. Anyone.’
‘Modern male disease, is that what you think?’
‘Oh well, not my business. You and … Kate. You must have loved her though,’ she went on, growing warm with good wine, not thinking how big the glasses were he had poured it into, not noticing that he was topping hers up again.
‘Oh yes. For a while.’ He emptied the wine bottle, dividing the small amount that was left between their glasses. ‘But what about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Your life, your loves, your grief. Come on, it’s Hogmanay. Talk about the past, then throw it off. That’s what I mean to do.’
‘Do you?’ She thought about this, or tried to. Everything seemed to be growing distant and free, as if the world had loosened at the edges. ‘Yes, right, I’ll get rid of the past too.’
‘Good. We’ve got—’ here he glanced at his watch – an hour or so to do it.’
Eleanor stopped worrying about time, about drinking or not drinking; it was too much effort. Surely here, nothing could happen, no harm would come of a couple of glasses of wine. So they grew warm in front of his fire, and she listened to him talking, taking most of it in, laughing when he amused her. Then it was almost midnight, and she stirred a little, conscious of the hour, the moment.
‘We have to go outside,’ he said, getting up. He took her hand, to raise her from the sofa, and steadied her as she swayed a little, feeling the effect of the wine.
They stood on the little path in the garden, still holding their glasses, waiting for the last few minutes to tick away.
‘We might hear the bells,’ Eleanor said, growing cooler and clearer in the icy air. ‘We’ll hear the bells in Dingwall, it’s so still tonight.’ Then they heard them, faint on the breathless air, and he bent and kissed her, first on her cold cheek, then, tilting up her chin with one finger, on her mouth, his mouth still warm, tasting of wine, soft and slow, till she broke away, and said loudly, her voice thin and high, ‘That’s it then – Happy New Year!’
Indoors again, he said, ‘Right – I’ll open the first bottle of the year, now.’
‘I’ll have to go home.’ She hovered, uncertain.
‘You’re joking? Night’s young. Don’t leave me yet. I’ll get morose, and start thinking about Kate.’
‘Well, all right – but just for a little while.’
This time, he sat next to her on the sofa. Some of the candles had burned right down and gone out. The rest flickered faintly, but most of the light came from the fire, as he banked it up with dry logs.
‘There’s a reason, isn’t there,’ he said, refilling her glass. ‘I mean, a particular reason, you don’t like tonight?’
‘Oh well.’ She could not answer, or even think.
‘Relax,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever kissed such a tense woman in my life.’
‘I’m not – I – ’ His eyes were hazel; fine lines made them seem humorous, quizzical. His face seemed very near and very kind. I’ll say it, she thought, not caring.
‘My husband died on Hogmanay. I do hate it, you’re right. I don’t know why I’m sitting here, how I can bear it. I must be … I must be drunk.’
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
‘No. No, I don’t want to think about it ever again.’ Her eyes filled with tears, and he became blurred, he and the firelight a prism of radiant colour, meaningless.
‘You know what I’d like?’
‘No, what?’ She blinked hard, and the tears spilled over, but she could see again, see him against the glow of the fire, dark.
Td like to have sex with you. Now.’
Eleanor said nothing. She seemed unable to have a coherent thought, and could not have uttered any she did have. She gazed back at him, but he seemed to be someone a long way off, perceived through a tunnel. Immobilised, she felt that somewhere at the back of her mind there must be words, a phrase, a way to respond. And in this whirring conscious part, she realised she was very drunk.
‘Sorry,’ Gavin said. ‘I’m being completely crass. Sorry about that.’ As he moved towards her, firelight glinted on his hair, flushed his skin: he shimmered and sparkled for her, ochre and gold. On his throat, where the shirt neck was open, a tiny pulse beat, and there were curling hairs like copper wire. She smelled the red wine on his breath, and the heat of him so strong it seemed as if what she wanned herself on was his skin, and not the fire at all. She closed her eyes, giddy.
When she woke, she was stiff and cold, and the fire had fallen into a heap of grey cinders. Outside it was still dark, and so dark indoors too, she could see through the uncurtained window a spray of stars, a sliver of moon. She moved a little, testing to see whether her legs were still there. Icily, one foot slid against the other. She raised her head.
She was on the sofa, covered by what felt like a travelling rug, hairy and rough, but so light her
breathing shifted it. She was very cold, all the way up to her chin, but her head was burning, her throat parched, and her bladder painfully swollen and hot. Slowly, she eased herself up, trying to think where she was, where the bathroom might be. She had been dreaming about searching along a huge empty hall for a lavatory that worked, with a door that would close. Was she still dreaming? Or was she, this time, really padding along a narrow hallway, in size and shape exactly like her own, but not her own, to a bathroom even chillier than hers, but dark blue instead of pink, with a pile of National Geographic in the corner, dirty towels slung over the bath, and shaving things along the shelf. All this she saw, as she sat down heavily on the pan, and peed copiously, the warm ammonia smell rising like steam. She stood up and pulled up her jeans. Nothing had happened. She must have passed out, and he put her on the sofa.
Sitting down again in the living room, while she tried to work out, in darkness, where her shoes might be, she pondered whether this was a mark for or against him – that he had put her on the sofa, and taken the bed himself. If that’s where he was. I must still be drunk, she thought. Why don’t I put on the light? She paused, listening, heard nothing but an owl hoot. Then one of her feet encountered a shoe. There. And the other one. Jacket. She had a jacket. She could not think where it was.
Giving this up, she let herself out of the front door and made for her own cottage. In front of Jim and Edie’s, she stopped. The owl again, and suddenly a beating of wings. It had flown almost directly above her, but she had not seen it, and now it was gone. Too late, she looked up. How clear the sky was, how many stars. The air was so cold her eyes hurt, and breathing was difficult. She went on standing for another minute, testing the cold, aching but awake. It is next year, she thought. I have got through Hogmanay, I am in next year. It was all right now to go home and be alone. She moved then, and went back to her own house. She pushed open the door she had left on the latch, going to tell Gavin his car lights were on, last year, a long time ago.
In the kitchen she made tea but did not drink much of it; heated a kettle for hot water bottles, filled them and went to bed with paracetamol. How icy the pillow, and her feet and her back burning where she had tucked the bottles. Something of the evening came back to her: the walk in the dark, the candles, the fruity wine. Of all he had said to her, just this one thing: I want to have sex with you. Had he really said that? Not I want to make love/go to bed/sleep with you – all the expressions she knew. Was this what people said now? Well, I wouldn’t know, Eleanor thought. How would I know? Was sex, then, something you had, like dinner, or a night out? Perhaps, after all, she had dreamed it. And yet, a tiny spurt of something that might have been lust was released in her. Not that she would know about that either, after all this time. Ashamed, she turned over, trying to sleep.
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