She took to sitting on our little balcony, apparently listening to the birds. Sometimes she would turn her face up to the summer sun. At her request Garth fixed up a bird-table and I bought some seed and hanging feeders. She asked particularly for some dried mealworms. I thought she’d taken leave of her senses. I hadn’t the faintest idea where to look for such a thing, nor had she, but as usual, Garth came to the rescue. He looked them up on the internet and found you could buy them in garden centres.
Marianne would sit on the balcony, perfectly still, her arm extended and resting on a small wrought-iron table, her flat hand offering a small pile of mealworms. She sat patiently waiting for birds to come and feed. Eventually, after she’d sat like this for over an hour, one did. I happened to be looking out through the open French windows, keeping an eye on her, when I saw a robin descend and inspect the trail of worms she’d scattered on the table near her hand. Marianne’s head was cocked on one side, just like the bird’s. It looked as if they were listening to each other. I watched the robin eat up the scattered worms, then fly away. Marianne didn’t move. The robin returned almost immediately, inspected the table for more worms and then her hand. He turned his head this way and that, then pecked briefly at the worms in her palm and flew away again.
Marianne had her back to me, so I couldn’t see her face. I was uncertain whether to approach her or not. I thought she might be waiting for the robin to return again. Then I saw her shoulders start to shake. They were moving up and down, heaving, as she sobbed silently.
She didn’t know I was there and I decided – I don’t know why, call it instinct or sisterly feeling – that I wouldn’t make my presence known to her, I would just stand guard while she finally gave vent to her grief. But as I stood there, witness to her pain, I heard a sort of clicking sound. I thought it might be the bird returned for more food. I took one careful, silent step towards the open window.
The noise came from Marianne. She was saying his name, or trying to, over and over again, in between convulsive, almost silent sobs: ‘K-Keir … K-K-Keir … ’ I clapped my hand to my mouth and, making no noise, fled before my grief could intrude on hers.
* * * * *
Marianne
Keir had taken my arm and led me out into the garden. ‘I thought we’d try to get the robin to eat from your hand. Would you like that?’
‘Oh, yes! Do you think he will?’
‘Aye, he might. But a certain amount of subterfuge will be necessary. The bench is behind you. Sit down in the corner, by the armrest. Now hold out your hand.’ He took my hand and sprinkled something into my palm.
‘Is that bird seed?’
‘Och, I was hoping you wouldn’t ask. I’m afraid it’s dried mealworms. But they’re very dead. And robins love them. Close your hand up now. I’m going to sit beside you and put my arm round you like this… I’m going to extend my arm along the bench and I’ll put yours on top… like that. Relax. Lean on me. We’re trying to look like one person. Comfortable? We could have a long wait, but it’s a fine day for it. Now open your hand carefully. Keep it flat and sit very still.’
There was a sudden turbulent whistle at my ear and I jumped. ‘Is that him already?’ I whispered, barely moving my lips.
‘No, that was me. Telling him lunch is served.’ Keir’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Here he comes. He’s checking us out. He knows something’s up. Wheesht, now…’
And Keir was silent. I sat quite still, feeling the slight rise and fall of his ribs at my back, otherwise he didn’t move a muscle. After a minute or so he whispered into my ear, ‘He’s on my fingers… Looking at yours… Don’t flinch when he lands.’
I felt a touch, no weight at all, just a pricking that jumped across my fingers, then my palm was tapped repeatedly by something sharp. The pecking wasn’t painful, just unfamiliar. Instinctively I wanted to recoil, but steeled myself not to move. The robin fed from my hand for perhaps half a minute (in which I doubt I breathed), then he took off in a flurry of feathers. I felt a faint current of air move over my hand, disturbing the remaining mealworms.
After the robin had gone I sat leaning against Keir, my arm still resting on his, ensconced in my human armchair. It was several moments before I could speak. Eventually I said, ‘He weighed nothing!’
‘About eighteen grammes. The skeleton is very light. Has to be, to fly. Have you never held a bird before?’
‘Never. Not even a budgie. Our mother didn’t approve of pets. She thought they were unhygienic.’
‘Och, he’s back! And giving you the eye. Sit still now.’
I sat still, so very still, and time congealed, solidified into a moment I will never forget. If I’d been turned to stone then, I wouldn’t have minded – frozen for ever in that instant, with Keir’s breath in my ear, his scent in my nostrils, his limbs lying along the length of mine, and a robin dancing in the palm of my hand.
When we’d said goodbye in Edinburgh, on the doorstep where we first met, he said, ‘Do you know the Gaelic blessing?’
‘No, I don’t think I do. Something about a road, I think?’
‘Aye.’ He took my hand and recited:
‘May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face, the rains fall soft upon your fields,
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.’
I felt the press of his lips on my palm, then he was gone.
The results of the amniocentesis came through the day after Keir died. It appeared that, as far as anyone could tell, I was going to give birth to a normal baby. My navel was fast disappearing, as was my waist. Bending had become difficult and I now felt most comfortable standing or walking. It was no longer possible for me to ignore my pregnancy, nor the baby himself. He made his presence felt by prodding me whenever I was horizontal.
I felt physically well and strong. Mentally and emotionally, I was in pieces.
At the end of a broken night, disturbed by vivid dreams of the Piper Alpha explosion and making love with Keir, I rose early, wrecked but resolved. In my hours of wakefulness I’d come to a decision, perhaps the most foolish yet, but I felt as certain as if a judgement had been handed to me on tablets of stone. (Perhaps I should say in letters of fire.) Nothing – but nothing – was going to dissuade me now and it would have been a brave man or woman who tried.
Fortunately, Louisa was a complete pushover.
‘Lou, are you busy? Can I disturb you for a moment?’
‘Please do. I’m just staring at the screen. Come in and sit down. How are you feeling?’
‘I’ve been thinking about my future. And the baby’s. And I’ve come to a decision. One which entails a drastic change of plan.’
‘Oh?’ Her voice quailed with hope but she said nothing more and waited for me to continue.
I sat in the armchair beside her desk and launched into the speech I’d prepared. ‘I’ve decided to keep the baby. If by any chance you’ve changed your mind about your generous offer of support, I’m perfectly happy to go it alone. I realise Garth has become something of a fixture now and we’ve all moved on. But you needn’t worry, I’ve thought it all through. I’ll manage. I’d have to move, of course, but you can buy me out of the flat and I can rent or buy something small with the proceeds. And if you cared to spend some of your surplus film money on your nephew, hiring a part-time nanny for him would certainly make life easier for me. But I just wanted you to know… that I’ve had a change of heart. Nothing and no one is going to part me from this child. Not now.’
I paused for breath and heard the sound of tissues being snatched by the handful from a box on the desk. There were spluttering sounds, then Louisa finally managed to speak. ‘Marianne, I don’t know what to say! I’m… I’m overjoyed! And I won’t hear of you going it alone! We’re in this together. Let’s get out of this pokey old flat and… and spread our wings!’
She
laughed and, perching on the arm of the chair, flung her arms round me. I let her hold me for a moment then, my voice surprisingly steady, I said, ‘There’s a gap in my life where Harvey should have been. And now there’s a gap in my life where Keir should have been. I’m damned if there’s going to be a gap in my life where a child should have been. So I’m keeping him. I’m going to keep Keir’s son.’
‘Good for you, darling!’
‘I’m going to call him James. James Stewart.’
‘Wonderful! James Stuart… After the Kings?’
‘No, after the actor. James Stewart played the man who saw a six-foot rabbit called Harvey. Keir bought you the DVD – don’t you remember?’
‘Oh! Jimmy Stewart! Yes, of course! Even better! And will he be James Stewart Fraser? Or James Stewart Harvey? Both sound equally splendid.’
‘Harvey. I’d like him to have one of his father’s names. But I can’t bear to give him both.’
‘No, of course not. Very understandable.’ She squeezed me again and said, ‘I’m so thrilled, you cannot possibly imagine! You know, I’d already been looking at larger properties, in a halfhearted sort of way. I thought it might be nice for us to have a big garden. After all, you get so much pleasure from trees and birds. Now we have the perfect excuse to go house-hunting! When you feel up to it,’ she added hurriedly. ‘I know it’s much too soon to be thinking about things like that. But when you feel ready, we’ll make a start. Oh, I can’t wait to tell Garth! He’ll be so thrilled! You can count on him being a doting surrogate uncle.’
‘I’ll be counting on you both. I’m so pleased the baby will have someone other than me to welcome him into the world.’
‘Oh, you wait – we’ll be quite the happy family! It will be just like an episode of The Waltons. Nauseating.’
‘Lou, you are a dear. I’m so grateful. It won’t be easy, I know, but I’m determined to make it work.’
‘I’m sure you will, darling. Sheer bloody-mindedness can move mountains. And I’ve no doubt you’ll be a wonderful mother.’
I got to my feet and rubbed my aching back. ‘Being blind does have some advantages. I’ll never have to see a resemblance between father and son.’
‘No. You’ll be spared that… I suppose you might hear it one day.’
‘Not for many years. Possibly never. My son won’t grow up on Skye, so he’ll never have his father’s accent.’
‘Would you have liked him to grow up on Skye?’
‘I hadn’t ever thought about it… It’s what Keir would have wanted, I suppose. He was always trying to think of a way he could go back there, for good. I think his heart never left the island, even when the rest of him did. He said he felt homesick as soon as he got to the other side of the bridge. Perhaps that’s where he is now. In spirit. On Skye. At least, I like to think so… ’
* * * * *
‘I’m taking you somewhere special now. Well, special to me. Can you guess where you are?’
‘We’ve moved out of the wind… and it’s suddenly much warmer.’
‘Aye.’
‘The smells are different too. It reminds me of something… Something quite familiar. A fuggy sort of smell. Earthy… Oh, it’s the glasshouses at the Botanics!’
There’s a sudden gust of wind, followed by the flap and slap of plastic. Keir says, ‘That was a big clue. And here’s another.’ He takes her hand and directs her fingertips.
‘Oh!… A forest of seedlings… No, they’re too sturdy. And too tall. These are saplings, aren’t they?’
‘Aye.’
‘So this is your tree nursery… Inside a polythene tunnel… And the tunnel is open at both ends, I suspect. I didn’t hear you open a door and I can feel a through-draught. It’s wafting smells to me from outside… the sea… and wood smoke from the house. Am I right?’
‘Och, you don’t need seeing eyes, they’d be totally redundant! You have perfectly good eyes, they’re just not in your sockets.’
‘What are you growing here?’
‘Native trees. Hazel. Birch. Holly. Oak.’
‘How many?’
‘Hundreds. A thousand maybe. At various stages of development. Outside I have stratified seed – under netting to protect them from mice. In here I’ve got seedlings and two year old saplings in pots, ready to go into the ground.’
‘What happens when you’re away? Don’t they dry out?’
‘I’m not usually away for more than a couple of weeks at a time and in here, out of the wind, they can fend for themselves for a while. There’s a primitive self-watering system for the summer. The pots and trays stand on absorbent matting and there are wicks leading rainwater from reservoirs into the mats. It’s a bit of a Heath Robinson set-up, but it works. I don’t lose many. I lose more after they’ve gone into the ground and they get eaten. Deer love birch and holly saplings.’
‘Whereabouts are you planting?’
‘I’m filling in gaps and extending the woodland. And I give them away to anyone who wants them. We have remnants of old woodland round here but it needs regenerating. Hazel’s not long-lived – only about sixty years. And oak propagation is a chancy, wasteful business. For every ten thousand acorns, only one will make it to a mature oak. So I’m trying to give nature a leg-up.’
Marianne fingers the tiny saplings. ‘How long before these are tree-sized?’
‘Those are hazel. They’ll grow to about six metres in ten years.’
‘So you’ll be… fifty-two before they’re mature.’
He places a flower pot in her hands. ‘That’s an oak. When that reaches maturity, I’ll have been dead for about eighty years. At least.’
‘It’s strange to think of doing something like that. Planting a tree, knowing you won’t ever see it fully grown. Knowing it will outlive you.’
‘Isn’t that the point? I’m planting it because it will outlive me. This wee feller is my bid for immortality. Well, five hundred years maybe. That’ll do me… ’
* * * * *
Marianne
To celebrate the results of the amniocentesis, Louisa suggested we go shopping for the baby. At first I said no, then I let her persuade me to leave the flat and go with her. I warned her we wouldn’t be buying much. At twenty weeks I was now unlikely to miscarry but I wasn’t prepared to tempt fate. Instead we did what Louisa referred to as ‘reconnaissance’, a kind and clever circumlocution for window-shopping. We did Mothercare, Marks & Spencers, Boots and Jenners, touching, stroking, exclaiming, Louisa almost squealing with delight and anticipation. She would hand me babygros and sleep-suits to feel, then describe them to me – not the colours, but the style of the garment or the fabric design.
‘Oh, this one is just adorable! It’s got a dear little pixie hood – here, can you feel? – and mittens that fold back on themselves. How clever! And it’s got little teddies all over… Oh, why don’t they make these for adults? I’d wear one in winter, sitting at the PC. It would be so cosy.’
The thought of Louisa sitting at her computer dressed in a giant babygro with a pixie hood brought on a fit of giggles. Struggling to compose myself, I realised I was close to tears, perhaps close to the edge, and so very, very tired. But we carried on, stroking blankets, quilts, terry nappies and cuddly toys. At one point Louisa dropped a tiny pair of bootees into the palm of my hand.
‘They feel like doll’s clothes!’
‘Of course they do. That’s the size the baby will be. Only a lot heavier, of course. Come and smell the bath stuff.’ She led me to another part of the shop, unscrewed the lid of something fragrant and held it under my nose. ‘Isn’t it delicious? That’s baby lotion. We’ll get through gallons of that. And this…’ She offered me something else to smell. ‘That’s bubble bath. Now let me show you this very clever contraption. It fits inside a plastic baby bath. You put the baby in here – there, can you feel? – and it sits up, supported, so your hands are more or less free. You can wash its hair in that position too. If it has any hair. Mostly they do
n’t.’
‘Babies have different coloured hair, don’t they, like adults?’
‘Oh, yes. But they’re all born with blue eyes. The colour sometimes changes later.’
‘Did you ever notice that Keir’s eyes were different colours?’
‘Were they? Did he tell you what colours they were?’
‘He said one was blue and the other was green.’
‘How extraordinary!’ There was a hiatus in which I sensed Louisa’s uneasiness. I worried that I’d spoiled the shopping trip for her, reminding her of what we were both trying hard to put out of our minds, at least temporarily, but she resumed cheerfully enough. ‘The designs are just so clever nowadays. You won’t have any trouble with a bath like this. The baby will be quite secure and once you get the hang of it, you’ll be able to bath him on your own, quite confidently.’
‘You really think so?’
‘Oh, no question! You’re by no means the first blind woman to give birth, darling. Garth and I have been researching online and there’s all sorts of support groups now for parents with different disabilities – a lot of them visually impaired. We didn’t tell you about them because you were so set on adoption, but I wanted to know the facts, know whether we’d be able to manage, if you should happen to change your mind.’
‘You never gave up hoping, did you?’
‘No, I didn’t, because I never really believed you wanted to get rid of it, despite all the things you said.’
‘And you really think we’ll manage?’
She put an arm round what remained of my waist. ‘Darling, we will do more than manage. We are going to have the time of our lives!’
Star Gazing Page 23
