by EJ Lamprey
‘No problem,’ she returned coolly. ‘I didn’t realize you had intended to do it. Next time I’ll leave you to it.’
‘There won’t be a next time. The situation was a little unusual.’ He nodded to her, picked up his tray and retreated to the far end of the conservatory with, she suddenly realized, a hint of a flounce. What her mother would have called a bit of a nancy boy, then. The thought made her smirk to herself, and as she remembered the tirades she’d heard Major Horace deliver on homosexuals, the smirk widened.
~~~
Vivian was awake but looking tired and drawn when she went up to see her in Frail Care and to assure her that she was looking forward to having Buster for a few days.
‘Oh Edge, thank you so much.’ Vivian’s eyes filled with tears and she dashed them away impatiently. ‘Ignore me, I’m just so tired, what a terrible night. And I really did think I’d finished with my annual bout.’ A paroxysm of coughing shook her violently and she sank back against her pillows and sipped at water when it finally released her. ‘Bloody bronchitis. And bloody smoking. If I could go back forty years and smack that first cigarette out of my foolish fingers, honestly. What’s the gossip downstairs? Everyone talking about the snow?’
‘Wouldn’t know.’ Edge shrugged. ‘I ate in the conservatory. Had it almost to myself, but I’ve got one snippet, Mose’s apartment has been taken, have you ever heard of a Donald MacDonald?’
‘Not the choreographer? Really? Well, that will add a touch of glamour to the Lawns, although the Major will have a heart-attack, isn’t he a bit of a poofter?’
‘The Major a poofter? Or are you talking about me, which isn’t very kind or very true.’ The deep fruity interruption came from the entrance and Edge flinched back as she took in the vision framed by the doorway. She knew William Robertson by reputation more than by sight, although his enormous figure and striking resemblance to the Holbein portrait of Henry the Eighth made him instantly identifiable, and for the last couple of weeks he had been joining the morning workout class in a very subdued fashion. Nothing had prepared her for the sight of him in striped magenta pyjamas and for one dazzled moment she felt as once, long ago, the Tudor king’s last wife or two must have felt at the sight of that immense bulk in their bedroom doorway.
‘Henry the Eighth in jammies,’ she put an exaggerated hand to her heart. ‘Or William Robertson?’
‘In the flesh,’ he flashed her a charming smile, ‘well, under the PJs. But available for inspection on request. Vivian and I have already been making friends, and you’re Edge Cameron, and only a few people think I’m a poofter. I’ll leave you to your blethering, but I thought it important to set the record straight.’
Vivian said, straight-faced, ‘William is currently going through a womanizing phase. I’ve only been here two hours and he’s already propositioned me, so you’d better watch yourself.’
‘Oh, I shall.’ Edge was still fascinated by the acreage of vivid pyjamas, but gathered her thoughts hastily. ‘And the poofter—you may know him—we were talking about is Donald MacDonald.’
‘It’s true there are only one or two of them in Scotland,’ William said gravely ‘but as it happens I do. Anyone who keeps the kind of company I do can’t always avoid them, but I’ve never been entirely sure about him. Why did the subject come up, are you working on a musical? He’s a top choreographer, but I thought he did more set design these days.’
‘He’s just moved into Mose’s place.’ Edge explained and William surged forward into the room and sank onto a visitor chair, which creaked in protest.
‘Has he indeed. Well, well. That cleaner Helen would love that. All sorts of scandal for her to get hold of. But I gather she’s done a runner?’
‘She’s gone to Spain, we heard.’ Vivian shot Edge a quick glance and raised her brows at William. ‘Scandal?’
‘Dinna waggle yer brows at me, woman,’ he settled himself comfortably. ‘That Helen was a blackmailing besom, so she was. Tried it on me. Me! I’ve never hidden anything, my life is an open book. And she forced poor auld Josie into the open, but I’ve wondered before now if some people paid up to keep her silent. Not that Donald would, he doesn’t care what people think either. Now, look what I’ve gone and done. Sat meself down without my sticks to get me up.’
‘I was actually impressed to see you getting around without them,’ Edge commented, and rose to her feet. ‘Where are they, can I get them for you?’
‘Or you can help me up and I can have a quick grope while you do?’ William leered at her so comically that she laughed aloud and slipped easily past his huge hand as she went in search of the sticks. His matched pair of sturdy ebony walking sticks were as much a part of his public appearance as the Tudorish fringe of beard, his sheer bulk and his trademark stride. She was pleased not only to meet him but to know Vivian had entertaining company. William Robertson was a critically-acclaimed Sci-Fi writer with degrees in astronomy, physics, bio-engineering and at least two other related subjects, better known for his television appearances as a resident expert than for his books—she’d tried to read one, when she realized he lived at the Lawns, and found it bewilderingly technical. It had made her a little shy of getting to know him but it was now apparent that the man behind the expertise was relaxed and funny. Vivian was laughing and coughing in equal parts when she got back and William struggled remorsefully to his feet in a flurry of sticks and apologized for making her cough.
She flapped her hand at him and pointed helplessly at Edge, who translated; ‘she doesn’t mind, she’s sorry for coughing, and she hopes you’ll visit again.’
‘Of that you may be sure,’ William adjusted his grip on his sticks. ‘I’m delighted to have company, and such lively company too, I’m sure when you can get out more than half a sentence at a time we’ll never stop talking. I’ve been in Hell up here up to now—that evil woman has me on a diet and exercise regime likely to kill me.’
‘That evil woman indeed!’ The little Matron, who’d entered the room in time to hear this flattering description, glared up at him indignantly. ‘You’ve lost three stone under my care, there’d have been no gallivanting around without your sticks two months ago, you ungrateful old bugger. As it is, if you keep up this progress you’ll be able to complete the main workout class in a week or two, and once you’re doing that you can go back to your bungalow. Unless you put back so much as a single pound, if you do I’ll have you back under lock and key here.’
~~~
Edge left as Matron doled out medications and shooed William back towards his room to let Vivian doze for a while after her bad night, and made her way down the stairs to collect Buster and give him a walk and his sausage. The snow had quickened and Buster made his ablutions quickly, turning obediently for the warmth of home with none of his usual reluctance.
It was rather nice to have his rumbling snores in the background as she settled at her desk for a few hours’ work and what was left of the morning flashed by as she added her daily target of one thousand words to her current script. This was always the easy part, plotting in the general storyline, before the more wearisome checking of references and research, and she was soon totally absorbed. By the time she stopped for a late lunch and looked out the window, the snow was batting against the window and had spread itself several inches deep across the gardens.
Fortunately she’d stocked up well the day before and had plenty of choice for her meal, settling finally on pita and salad with chopped cooked chicken and mayonnaise. Not, she thought with a smile, something poor William would be allowed for a while. She wondered fleetingly whether Donald MacDonald had stocked up on food but had no intention of going to find out. If he hadn’t, he could take all his meals at the house until the next time the minibus was able to get out the grounds.
Buster looked wistfully at the chicken and she checked he had enough dog biscuits in his bowl—Harriet had helpfully sent across his barely-opened bag of biscuits, so he was fine for several days at least, and she
knew Vivian always had a back-up supply. She was more likely to run out of baggies, because at this rate he, like every other dog, would be stuck with using the covered drying area outside the laundry and there would be a lot of picking up to do. At worst—and the snow was only supposed to last four or five days—she’d be able to get more at the store on the campsite.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Monday – Snowed in
Harriet had amended the cleaner schedules after all; when the familiar knock came at the door it wasn’t Marjorie but a sallow round-shouldered man in his forties with, Edge soon found, an inability to look her in the eye. As she was briefing him on her few particular preferences he looked at her shoulder, the ground and out the window, and she finally gave up the mild challenge of forcing eye-contact on him and picked up her handbag and Buster’s lead, ready to go to breakfast.
‘Oh;’ she suddenly remembered, ‘I did want to speak to you about Helen?’
‘Helen?’ he stiffened and shot the curtains a hunted glance and Edge, on a sudden hunch, changed what she’d intended to say.
‘There was something she said—’
‘S’not true!’ Parker said violently. ‘Her was a liar and all. And a bad yin into the bargain! Whatever she told you, mum, s’not true.’
‘Oh dear,’ Edge put her bag down again and perched on the arm of the chair. ‘You too? She caused such a lot of trouble.’
‘Cost me my job, she did,’ Parker muttered, ‘said she was going to, unless ah gave her money every week. So ah sez, that’s right hen, you go tell your lies, you won’t get any money outta me. Then ah left and got a job cleaning offices in Falkirk. But if she told her lies anyway, how’s ah got this job back?’
‘She didn’t say anything to anyone else,’ Edge said soothingly. ‘and as you say, she turned out to be a criminal herself. Just hard on you, of course, you’ve now got to be ten times more careful because she threw a shadow on your good name.’
‘Aye, she did that.’ The glare Parker had been giving the TV wasn’t remotely friendly, but the rather ghastly smile that spread over his pinched features as he focused on Edge’s top button wasn’t an improvement. ‘Ah hope you’ll keep it to yourself, mum, unless of course ah don’t give satisfaction?’
‘I think we’ll be just fine,’ Edge smiled back and whistled for Buster, who had shot off to the covered area after greeting the cleaner. Clipping him on his lead, she half waved to Parker, who was standing in the doorway looking faintly resentful, and went briskly on her way, fairly sure she had now protected any bits and bobs she might have forgotten to put away. Although Parker was unappealing, Buster, a good judge of character in Vivian’s opinion, had greeted him cordially and he did have the huge advantage of not being the ubiquitous Marjorie!
Twenty four hours of uninterrupted snow meant it was now heaping itself against every obstacle and drifting across the walkways, a whispering crunch under her deeply-treaded ankle boots. Buster was reproachful at again being left in a house run while she went in to breakfast. Today the only other occupant was a hostile burly bulldog cross, new to the Lawns, which greeted him with thunderous barking and a frantic rattling of the fence of its run. He shot Edge a last sorrowful glance, pressed himself to the far side of his own run away from the other dog, and heaved a huge sigh as he dragged himself into the heated and well-padded kennel at the back. Talking to Parker, and the detour to the runs, had made her late again, and because of the weather there were more residents eating than usual. The breakfast room was full and even the conservatory was filling up, with empty places but no empty tables. As she hesitated in the doorway with her tray, her name was bellowed and she saw William waving to her.
With an inward sigh at the prospect of a sociable breakfast she made her way carefully to the spare seat at his table, only realizing as she sat down that on his other side, concealed by his impressive bulk, was Donald MacDonald, who nodded at her unsmilingly.
‘Does Matron know you’ve escaped?’ she asked lightly, and William gestured at the toast on his plate with a grin.
‘Bread and water, no more,’ he teased.
‘Just as well you’ve already eaten the baked beans and black pudding.’ Donald said drily.
‘Pah. Breakfast is the main meal of the day. Matron accepts that and anyway there aren’t enough staff to carry up all the trays I need for my breakfast. Why, even you had sausages and scrambled eggs and look at Edge’s plate, wee slip of a lass and there’s enough there to feed a farmer.’
‘There is not!’ Edge said indignantly, then bit her lip and confessed that the pork sausages were being smuggled out for the dog.
‘Seen the accident on the motorway?’ William asked conversationally, then answered his own question. ‘Well, even upstairs in Frail Care you can’t see the actual accident but the motorway’s a parking lot. A jack-knifed truck, I heard on the traffic report. Between that and this snow, cars lined up as far as you can see. There was one yellow sports job I noticed when I got up and when I’d showered, dressed and was brushing my hair it was still there. Probably hadn’t moved more than ten feet.’
‘I used to hate that in my commuting days.’ Edge paused reminiscently in the mopping of fried egg with her forkful of toast. ‘I had a short cut, a farm road that was unploughed and ungritted all winter, I’d take my life in my hands slipping and sliding to work rather than be trapped on the M9. Between the snow shovel, blankets, thermos and the food I crammed into the car in case I did go off the road, there was barely room for my briefcase.’
‘I thought you wrote TV scripts?’ Donald asked, adding honey to his oat cake with a lavish hand. ‘According to William, I mean. I should know by now, never listen to a Sci-Fi writer.’ He glanced across with a glint of humour and Edge found herself warming to him.
‘I’ve done most things—the TV scripts were fun and I still write a bit, and do some editing. For a while I did some volunteer work as a small-business consultant over in Livingston, so I was driving over the Bathgate hills. Lovely in summer—well, lovely year-round, but heart-stoppingly scary in icy weather. I remember once—’ She stopped, surprised, as a sudden wave of excitement ran through the room. ‘Looked like a snowman—‘ ‘trapped on the motorway—‘ ‘wife in labour—‘ scraps of information were leaping from table to table but the conservatory hushed expectantly as Megan came in, looking about anxiously, then hurried over to their table.
‘Donald! I know this is a silly question but did I hear correctly, that you have a kind of sleigh?’
‘I do,’ he raised his brows, ‘packed in my garage, actually. Why?’
‘We’ve just had a man walk across from the gridlock on the motorway, his car’s stuck and his wife is in the early stages of labour and he’s in a panic. I rang Harriet, she’s stuck out there as well, she was trying to get into Edinburgh but will turn back as soon as she can get off the motorway. She said to get Joey to take Matron to the car on the quad bike but I suddenly thought if your sleigh was available, and could be attached to it, Joey could take Matron and the husband to the car, and even bring back the wife, if that seems the best solution?’
‘Yes of course. I’ll get it for you—it’s light, but very strong.’ He pushed back his chair, then paused. ‘How do I get to the garages from here?’
‘I’ll show you.’ Edge pushed away the remains of her breakfast, scooped the pork sausages into her handbag in a paper napkin, and stood up. ‘There’s a short cut we can take, through the service entrance.’
She led the way through the busy kitchen and out the deliveries entrance, matching him stride for stride as they hurried out onto the service road, and glad that she was wearing sensible shoes. The garages lined the property boundary, out of sight of the public areas but easily accessible, each painted green with double doors secured by a simple drop lock.
‘Number ten’s at the end of the row. But I know mine was in the middle?’ Donald stopped, puzzled, and she shook her head.
‘There isn’t a garage for each ap
artment,’ she explained, ‘you must be paying extra for yours. You don’t remember which one it is?’
‘I think—this one?’ He lifted the plank away from the brackets and tugged vigorously so that both doors swung silently open, crunching over the snow and revealing a tumble of boxes and, half in the shadow, a forlorn single shoe. ‘No. Definately not, I don’t do retro. The Sixties had such hideous shoes, don’t you think? It must be the next—’
‘Good grief, your eyes are good! I can barely see the shoe—just that little gleam where the light caught it—and you can tell all that? Check the next garage, I’ll close this one.’ Edge frowned at the shoe. What was familiar about patent leather shoes with—she narrowed her eyes, yes, the sparkle in the dull morning light was a diamante buckle? She had certainly never seen it before but who had been talking about them just recently? She pulled the doors together and secured them with their plank, then hurried into the next garage to help Donald as he tenderly lifted a few boxes marked VERY FRAGILE from a rather attractive little sleigh.
‘It’s just the job,’ he remarked as he pulled carefully on the shafts and the little sleigh moved obediently forward. ‘The shafts swing together, the driver can just sit on them and the sleigh will follow.’
‘Unless he bounces,’ Edge said drily and Donald snorted, then held up the harness breastplate.
‘We’ll strap this on him,’ he offered, and for a moment they both collapsed in giggles before suddenly remembering the urgency.
In less than twenty minutes the sleigh was firmly, if eccentrically, tethered to the quad bike and Joey had driven a couple of careful circles on the snowy driveway to test the connection. Matron was waiting impatiently with blankets, a thermos and her medical bag, the young husband, still looking pinched with cold despite two hasty cups of coffee, was installed beside her in the sleigh in a borrowed anorak, and they were on the way, watched by a few inquisitive residents on their way back to their apartments. Edge and Donald, both by now well-dusted with snow, stood watching in the driveway until the quad bike turned out onto the road. She tilted her head up, saw Vivian’s face at the Frail Care window, and waved. Vivian waved back and Edge’s elusive memory suddenly popped to the surface. Patent leather shoes! Her jaw dropped involuntarily and as Donald shivered, rubbing his purpling hands together, and turned for the entrance, she caught his arm.
