The Bass Rock

by Evie Wyld

  The Sow

  I

  Mum has invited our great-aunt and -uncle Pauline and John for dinner – they are in London running some tests on John as Mum puts it, as though he were a faulty dishwasher. Pauline and her loud husband Alistair lived in Edinburgh and used to take sugar mice to Dad and Christopher when they were at school. Dad blamed them for his addiction to sweets – he liked the cola bottles and the fizzy dummies. He laughed when the chemotherapy meant they burnt his tongue, but his laugh felt like seeing a dog kicked.

  In return for the sugar mice, Mum insisted on having them over whenever they were in London, to repay the kindness.

  ‘Not having a husband to look after is quite the most intelligent thing your sister has ever done,’ she says of me, to Katherine. ‘And quite the most exciting thing you’ve done for yourself in a very long time.’

  We both stand in silence waiting for the subject to be done with. Sometimes she can sound a little relieved to be widowed.

  ‘I want you to look upon this move with enthusiasm, Katherine. And also, I want you to be here when Alistair and Pauline and John come over, because otherwise I’ll have to talk to them.’ She points a chopstick at my sister. ‘Quite the most intelligent thing you did, within the highly stupid marriage thing, was choose a man with no extended family. Good work, sweetheart.’

  My sister winces. ‘Mum, do you mind if I sit this one out? I don’t really want to talk to anyone about it.’

  ‘My darling, John and Pauline barely noticed you got married in the first place. Dom’s Canadian – it doesn’t count to them.’ She bends down to rifle through a cupboard.

  Katherine closes her eyes for longer than a blink. ‘It’s not what I feel like doing. Why is it so important that I’m here?’

  ‘They’re old, they’re bored, John’s not well, and they’re in London. And it’s good manners, darling, to keep in touch with people from one’s past.’

  Our mother passes Katherine a vase that she has filled with cheese straws.

  ‘You put those on the table, then I’ll make us martinis, and before you know it you’ll be a bit drunk and everything will be better.’ She sticks her head into the fridge to get the olives, looks up to see Katherine still standing there with the vase. ‘Darling, get through the starter with us, and if you still feel wretched, you can slink away.’

  It is Mum’s way of helping, we both know that. Her way of dealing with the weeks after Dad’s death had been to keep busy, to fill the house with people and then to leave to walk the dog, sometimes up to four times a day, to avoid a bosomy embrace from some perfumed relative. She seemed to find it easier to become invisible among a large group of people, to provide them with food and drink and the reassurance that she was doing fine.

  Katherine stomps into the dining room with her mouth a line and puts the cheese straws down heavily on the table. I watch her from the kitchen and she catches my eye. I give her a small shrug. In our forties we are still our mother’s children. She goes into the front room and sits on the sofa with the dog, kisses the dog’s ears. The dog stretches out her long legs and spreads her toes, groans with the weariness of a saint. It is strange to see Katherine like this – I am the one who sulks. It makes me anxious – she usually has Dad’s ability to quietly make people feel at ease, to ask the right questions so that the conversation flows. He used to do it to me when I was a child, and being from hell. Like he knew everything about me and understood completely my reasons for not coming out of my tree, and even agreed with me that that was where I truly ought to be. His job was to make everyone understood, and everything understandable. He made sure people felt loved, he thought that was important. He remembered the sugar mice.

  Katherine’s face is turned towards the window, but I can see from the bones at her temple that she is clenching and unclenching her jaw, and her leg is doing that jiggling thing like she’s being electrocuted.

  When the three of them arrive, we sit around the dining table and Mum disappears almost immediately into the kitchen. Pauline wears a necklace of transparent crystal, cut into slithers through which you can see the undulations and shadows of her neck skin. My mother wears a black shift dress and biker boots. I’ve made an effort, never a good thing, and have on a light blue A-line dress.

  ‘The waist’s too high on that dress, isn’t it?’ says my mother, not intending to insult me, just to let me know.

  ‘Is it?’ I look down. I do resemble a clothes-peg doll. The sand shoes that I found whimsical when I tried them on now make me look like someone on the run from a mental institution.

  ‘A little. It’s OK – you look like a nurse.’ She hands me a bottle of wine in a cooler. ‘Go and administer this to the patients.’

  Katherine has tried very hard not to make an effort, but is still the most elegant-looking person at the table.

  I pour wine while Pauline’s husband Alistair talks about the route he has taken to get here, and how he’d once got a ticket for driving the wrong way up a one-way street. Everyone waits for him to finish.

  ‘How’s that ghastly old house then, Viviane? I understand from Christopher you’re the caretaker there now,’ Pauline says and laughs loudly. Her hearing aid squeals. I’m not entirely sure which part she is laughing at – it is possibly the idea of me looking after anything.

  ‘It’s fine, it’s good,’ I say, a little defensively.

  ‘Never could understand why Ruth didn’t sell up and live somewhere less ridiculous.’

  ‘Well, there were other people living there too,’ my mother says, putting bread and vinaigrette on the table, but she exits again before Pauline can reply to her.

  ‘The thing about that woman was she was so stuck-up. And a terrible alcoholic with it too. She never could live up to Peter’s first wife, you see, to our sister. But then who could?’ She says it a little like it was a generous thing to say, and even raises her glass as though giving a toast. There is a long silence and everyone picks up their glasses and drinks to fill it. Alistair sits in the seat Dad would have been in. He liked to be close to the kitchen, he always did the clearing. He thought doing the washing-up was the best part of a dinner party, because he liked to listen to people talk without having to join in.

  ‘I took Elinor to Clarke’s on Sunday,’ John, Pauline’s brother, says out of nowhere, like he’s already been in conversation about Elinor or about Clarke’s and has everyone’s ear on the subject.

  ‘Did you,’ says Pauline, in a manner that is a statement, rather than a question.

  ‘Rather pricey, but very good – and Elinor eats very slowly. Anyway, we had a very good lobster salad, which I finished first, then Elinor had partridge breast, even though it’s not quite the season, and I worried it would be tough, anyway, she said not at all so that was fine.’ I catch Katherine’s eye. We share a flicker. ‘And I had some sort of fish if I remember, I think it was bass – samphire was a little over the top. Fish very good though. We both had the chocolate pot for pudding.’

  Pauline has long since turned her attention to her handbag, and when she finds what she is looking for – a light green handkerchief – she decides, on closer inspection, it is not fit for public use, and she puts it back and quickly dabs her nose with her napkin instead.

  Alistair, who is a little deaf, had started talking over John at about the beginning of the description of Elinor’s main course. Now he is saying loudly, ‘We’re human beings, for God’s sake, not robots. Nobody minds a pinch on the bottom really, they just like getting their knickers in a twist.’ And so it falls to me to behave as if I am the one being addressed by John. Our mother has absented herself, having deliberately planned the menu so that things have to be tended to as much as possible, flapping either of us away if we try to help.

  ‘So all in all,’ says John, ‘I’d say it was a success. Yup.’

  ‘Good,’ I say. ‘It sounds very good.’

  Ordinarily my sister would, at this point, steer the conversation in a more universal di
rection. I look to her. But I’m surprised to see she is holding her head in her hands. When she glances up, her eyes are rimmed red. She stands and leaves the room quickly. If the extended Hamiltons have noticed, they hide it well by making no concession. Mum places a large earthenware bowl of artichokes on the table. She sees Katherine leave and sits down.

  ‘Bernadette,’ says Pauline, drawing out the syllables, ‘do explain to me how on earth you cook artichoke – I never have been able to do it in a satisfactory way.’

  ‘Oh,’ says my mother, distracted, ‘I just steam them.’

  ‘Steam! That’s where I go wrong, you see – I’ve always boiled. No wonder. And how long do you steam for?’ My mother is looking at the empty doorway through which Katherine passed, her fingertips spiders on the table. She turns back to Pauline, manufactures a smile.

  ‘About twenty-five minutes – depending on the size.’

  ‘I see, I see. You are so clever, and I’ve always said it.’

  My mother’s eyes flick to mine and back to Pauline. John removes the leaves of his artichoke with his little finger high in the air, and his napkin tucked into his collar, as though the artichoke might squirt on him. He dips each leaf once in a ramekin of butter and applies it to his mouth, brings out the leaf again, dipping three times, inspecting each time to make sure he has taken all of the meat off it. The spent leaves he piles up on his side dish, wiping his mouth with his napkin when each leaf is done. I excuse myself. If he were here, Dad would have slipped out unnoticed and he would have sorted the whole thing without me having to get involved at all. I am not a good substitute.

  Katherine is staying in her old bedroom. It has been converted into an office space, but some of her still remains. The lampshade shaped like a hot-air balloon. We shared a hamster that we used to put in the basket and it would jump out onto the bed. The cat sticker on the light switch, the many grease marks on the ceiling from the time we both owned little jellified men that stuck to the walls or tumbled down windowpanes. Katherine is sitting on the floor with her back to the wall, leafing through a magazine.

  ‘You OK?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ll be fine. I just am not in the mood to listen to those people.’

  I have never heard her talk about anyone but me this way.

  ‘They don’t mean anything by anything.’ It’s not a useful thing to say, but it’s something. I feel a little excited, if I’m being honest, that Katherine has made a show of herself, even if no one noticed.

  ‘I just don’t want to try today. I just don’t want to be sitting there saying the right thing. I want to go to sleep, is what I want.’

  I start to get ready to leave once the dishwasher has been filled, and Mum has asked for the third time if I know what’s happened to Katherine.

  ‘She’s left her husband, Mum – she’s sad about it.’

  ‘There’s something else, don’t you think?’ She pours a whisky. ‘Will you have one?’

  ‘I won’t, I should be getting back.’ I feel pious all of a sudden, a picture of sobriety. There’s a discomfort being in the house just the three of us. It loudens Dad’s absence, but it also makes me feel like a child. I’d quite like to lie down with the dog in her bed and stay there, like he used to do. When my parents first got her she was a small mole-like puppy. I used to find him asleep on the sofa, the puppy tucked into his dressing gown.

  ‘Taxi?’

  ‘I’ll let you know when I’m home.’

  ‘Careful.’

  We kiss, and on my way out, I stop and stand for a moment outside Katherine’s room. There is no sound from inside, and no light under the door, so I leave.

  I’m in that half-sleep place, my thoughts meandering stupidly, when I hear it.

  There is a gentle tap tap tap sound and my brain has turned it into someone with a long fingernail tapping against the glass of the garden door.

  I have never texted a man in the middle of the night, have never had the impulse to, have always been fearful of what it says about what you want from them.

  Hey, are you awake?

  I jump a little at the sound of the message being sent. A second later, the security light comes on. I sit up in bed. It is probably just a fox. Of course it’s just a fox, it is always just a fox. It blinks out again. I should have got up and gone to the living room to check out the window while it was still on, just for peace of mind.

  I am! What are you up to?

  I already regret the text message. I don’t want him to know I’m lying in bed wide awake imagining a psychopath at my window.

  I bite my lip. I’m fine. There was a noise downstairs that woke me up and now I can’t get back to sleep.

  What was it?

  Nothing. Just something tapping the glass.

  Have you checked?

  No but it seems to have stopped.

  Want me to come over and check it out?

  I pause, aware that there is no time for pausing, a pause looks like thought and this is not supposed to be a thought-out exchange.

  I can be over in ten minutes. What’s your address?

  I feel for a second caught in a trap. But I’m being mad, of course, he is being kind.

  Honestly, it’s no problem, I’m putting my shoes on now.

  Really no need, everything’s fine.

  I don’t believe you, leaving now, will be there soon.

  Seriously, don’t, I’m fine.

  I’m out the door. Text your address or I’ll just stand outside the cheese shop and scream your name.

  Get back in the door!

  ;)

  Fuck.

  How have I managed that? It was the pause. And now he will arrive at 2 a.m. and I will have to let him in, and not only that, he will probably have to stay the night, and what does that mean? Is this a sex thing?

  Tap tap tap.

  I turn on the light. My reflection in the mirror is the image of a woman who has not slept enough. At least I had a shower before bed. In the mirror I catch myself sniffing under an armpit. Christsake. The wound on my leg is itchy – in my sleep I’d scratched it hard and now the blood has dried and organised itself into a gnarled black scab.

  I pull on jeans and a jumper. I brush my teeth and try to make myself look like I am not preparing for company. I put the kettle on and make some coffee, not because I plan on drinking any, but because it seems like the kind of thing a person in charge of their own life does. What would Deborah do? I stack some books that I’ve left on the floor, give the table a wipe down, put the dirty glass and bowl next to the sofa in the sink, wonder how the place smells. I should have taken the bin out before I went to bed. I consider lighting a scented candle, but that might suggest I am trying to make things romantic. I use my foot to shuffle the spider’s dressing gown into the bathroom and close the door on it. I open the door and check in the toilet bowl, put my ancient mooncup away in a drawer, close the door again. In the TV version of this moment, I would be tousle-haired and wearing a slouchy but clean marl-grey tracksuit, my tits would be braless and perky but not over the top. In my Foster’s T-shirt they look like dogs’ noses. I find a relatively clean bra and put it on.

  The security light is on again, and has been for some time, I just haven’t registered it. It’s a cold light, and there’s something stilling about it, like a photograph. I move slowly towards the back door, which looks onto the tiny garden. It has glass panels up and down to let light into the basement. A small fox stands in the spotlight, its nose pressed against the glass so that its teeth show. It licks the window. It would be funny if it was daylight. It’s the kind of thing you see on the Internet. The fox either doesn’t see me or is not bothered by my presence. It carries on licking. I walk slowly to the door, still he doesn’t move, too fixated on what he is licking. I can see a residue, white and gluey. The fox stands over two large damp shoe prints on the decking. The prints are disappearing as I watch, and I look back at the residue on the window, the glassy eyes of the fox and into the dark back wall o
f my garden. I can’t see the wall with the security light on, but I will be lit up and on display. I turn the kitchen light off, and take a large knife out of the block.

  I stand in the hallway by the front door until I hear footsteps outside, and looking through the spyhole see that Vincent has arrived already. I don’t think I could take the sound of the doorbell tonight.

  The fox has gone by the time he comes in, so have the footprints. Vincent looks dubiously at the back door.

  ‘So you’re saying someone jizzed on your window?’

  ‘I don’t know what it was. But there were footprints there too.’

  ‘But a fox ate all of the jizz off your window?’

  I don’t reply.

  ‘I’m sorry, look, that’s obviously really horrible, it’s just also a little bit funny?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ It is possible I’ve imagined it, like those phantom breast lumps you find at 3 a.m. that are gone by the morning.

  ‘Like, not to say that it’s not a horrible thing to think about or anything.’ He looks at the fences on either side of the garden. ‘Be quite an effort to get in, don’t you reckon?’

  ‘I saw the footprints.’ I say it quietly, feeling very stupid.

  ‘Of course, I’m not saying you imagined it. Just – trying to make you feel better. Hey, do you want to call the police?’ He studies the grease mark on the window the fox has left. ‘They might be able to take DNA or something?’

  ‘I’m not sure they do that just for people jizzing on windows. I feel like people jizz in worse places.’ We are silent for a while and then I surprise us both and laugh. As soon as I do everything feels better, Vincent starts too, we laugh until we both have tears in our eyes. It slows into a series of sighs and Vincent rubs at his nose.

  ‘You know that you’re holding a really big knife?’

  I look down, I forgot it was there. I put it on the counter. ‘You want a coffee? I just made some.’

  He leans past me and pours us both a whisky.