Ghost Moon

by Ron Butlin

  ‘It looks pretty busy in there, Michael.’ She glanced across at the Callanders standing side by side only a few yards away. ‘Let’s go to our bench at the harbour instead. We’ll get the bread later on.’ She pulled at his arm to steer him back the way they’d come.

  ‘Carrying these bags? No chance.’ Michael laughed. ‘A few minutes’ queuing won’t matter. We can get ourselves a couple of doughnuts to have on the bench – my treat!’ He tapped his way past the Callanders and went into the baker’s. Maggie followed.

  When they came out a few minutes later, the Callanders were nowhere to be seen.

  Michael turned to her: ‘Thought you said it was busy?’

  ‘I just wanted to go and sit in the sun with you.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘And now we’ve doughnuts to share as well!’

  That evening she came downstairs to find Michael already seated at the kitchen table. There was no sign of Mrs Stewart. To her surprise, one of the place settings had been removed. Was the older woman, in her most encouraging way, leaving the two of them to enjoy an intimate dinner by themselves?

  Before sitting down, she went round to him. As always, his gaze was fixed unwaveringly on nothing.

  ‘Hello, Michael.’ She raised her hand and was about to read his face in greeting before kissing him, when she became aware of his hand fumbling to take hers.

  ‘Maggie?’

  He grasped her fingers and began stroking them. ‘Mother met a Clachtarvie woman today in the street.’

  ‘Your mother met – who?’

  He remained staring straight at her, sightlessly. ‘Oh Maggie. I’m so – so sorry.’

  Then she understood. The Callanders.

  For several seconds they remained hand in hand, without speaking. ‘Everybody knows everybody here, Maggie. And knows everything about everybody. We’ll need to — ’

  ‘We don’t provide dinner for guests, Miss Davies.’ Mrs Stewart was standing in the doorway. ‘There’s nothing for you here.’

  ‘Mother? Maggie and I are — ’

  ‘This is my house, as well you know, and I’m the one who runs it – as well you know, too.’ The older woman advanced into the kitchen. ‘You’re not welcome, Miss Davies – and I doubt you’ll be welcome anywhere on the island, not any more. Coming here, abusing our trust.’

  ‘Mrs Stewart, I never meant to — ’

  ‘Bringing your sinfulness into our house, bringing your shame.’

  ‘How dare you, I — ’

  ‘But I know my Christian duty. The next ferry is tomorrow morning. Keep to your room till then. We’ll be well rid of you, and cheap at the price.’ Mrs Stewart turned away to see to a pot on the stove. ‘Michael? If you’re ready for your soup . . .’

  Michael got to his feet and came round from behind the table to stand beside Maggie, his hand on her shoulder. ‘No, mother. Maggie and I are — ’

  ‘Not a word, Michael. Nothing’s changed. Nothing that I can see. Our life might not be easy but we manage, you and I. We don’t need the likes of — ’ She switched to Gaelic. Not singsong Gaelic.

  ‘But, Mrs Stewart. Michael and I — ’

  The Gaelic continued.

  ‘Please, Mrs Stewart — ’

  ‘Your room, Miss Davies.’ The older woman had taken a step towards her, soup ladle in one hand. ‘You’ll be getting your bill and I expect it paid in full before you leave.’ Then the Gaelic was resumed.

  ‘But Mrs — ’

  ‘Your room, I said.’

  ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like — ’

  ‘This is my house and I will speak in any way I choose.’

  Then Gaelic, Gaelic, Gaelic.

  Ten minutes later, leaving mother and son to rage at each other, Maggie went upstairs. She stood at the window, staring out at the harbour where the early evening sun hung above the slow-lapping water. The argument down in the kitchen continued for over an hour. Lying on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, she listened to it all, to every last incomprehensible word.

  Then came silence. Then the rattle of pans, the rush of tap water.

  At one point during the evening an envelope was pushed under her door. Her bill.

  It was shortly after midnight when Maggie became aware of someone outside her room. She heard the handle being turned and the door softly opening. Then being closed.

  Footsteps were approaching the side of her bed –

  ‘Maggie?’

  Michael was leaning over her. She could feel his breath warm on her cheek.

  ‘Maggie?’

  Without speaking, she reached up to stroke his face in greeting. They kissed . . . and in the darkness Michael’s blinded country became hers.

  Maggie got up early. Very, very early. She dried her eyes, washed her face and dressed as quickly as she could. After she’d finished packing, she put on her coat. Then, suitcase in one hand and shoes in the other, she left her room.

  Having tiptoed along the corridor to the top of the stairs, she paused for a moment. Listened.

  Quite certain at last that the rest of the house was still asleep, she went downstairs.

  On the hall table she left two single pound notes under her key, two pounds that she couldn’t really afford. Then checked herself in the mirror, dabbed her eyes again. Took a deep breath.

  Once outside on the doorstep she wanted to slam the front door behind her, slam it full-force – but managed to stop herself. Then, having pulled it shut, she wanted to thump her fists against its hardwood panels, and to kick and kick and kick.

  Again she stopped herself.

  She had to leave. She knew she had to leave. End of story.

  In tears again, she made her way along the silent street to the ferry terminal. An hour later she was on board and heading back to the mainland.

  SUNDAY

  HIGH-BACKED ARMCHAIRS LINED up against the dayroom walls. Meals, meds, bath, bed. The bay window keeping everything else out – the front lawn, the bush, the small tree, the big tree, the red yellow blue flowers, the visitors’ car park, the visitors’ cars. The main street, the people, the traffic, shop-windows, tenement windows. The sky that’s no longer yours. The TV that’s always on.

  The first time the man you think of as Tom’s friend brought you here for a look round the place, you heard someone say it felt like a waiting room. Waiting for what? you joked. A joke you always remember when you come through after breakfast to find every single minute and every long hour of the day ahead already gathered here, waiting for you. The dayroom – the very name makes you shiver every time you take your seat.

  Thursday? Monday? Saturday? Different names for the one same day that slides backwards and forwards along the one same week that never comes to an end, but keeps starting over keeps starting over keeps starting over . . .

  You’ll be safe now, Maggie. By day you have your own seat two places down from the Murray sisters, and at night you have your own bed. Here the corridors are all one day long. The same day.

  Were the Murrays twins from the start? Seated side by side, feet splayed out flat on the floor, hands crossed on their laps, coat-hanger shoulders, silver-thread hair. Staring, staring into space – rabbits caught in a set of headlights that no one else can see. Dorothy seated in the corner calling out Wait for me, Mother. Wait for me. mother? mother? Wait for me . . . all day long. The Murrays, Dorothy. No one speaks by name to any of the other women lined up in their chairs, and the women never speak back. Not sleeping, not waking – but dreaming. Yes, you hope they’re dreaming.

  And the man of your dreams? You know that when he appears in the doorway, he’s going to ask one of you to dance. In the end, that’s why you’re all here.

  Fred Astaire top hat, bow-tie and tails like he’s stepped out of a black-and-white film, he’ll pause for a moment as if taking a good look round – searching, proba
bly, for the next Ginger Rogers. Scouting out the talent, it used to be called at Fairley’s Ballroom and the other dance halls on Leith Walk and along Princes Street. Sweeping his hat from his head, he gives the entire room a boulevardier bow of such well-practised elegance that you can imagine the intake of breath on all sides. As he drifts round the edge of the floor, his black patent leather shoes drip with the sunlight that’s pooled here and there on the polished lino. Like he’s wading through the lushness of strings coming from an unseen orchestra. Lingering before each one of you in turn, a tilt of the head, a knowing smile here, a few softly spoken words there – who will he choose to be his partner for this special once-in-a-lifetime dance?

  One day, of course, he’ll stop when he reaches you. And it’ll be Michael. Yes, you know it will be him. You’ll know by the touch of his fingertips upon your face, their gentleness, his sightless eyes brimming with —

  ‘Med time, Mrs Stewart.’

  While murmuring your name he’ll draw you up into his arms. Shut your eyes, Maggie, and then you’ll feel him close, so very close. Keep them shut – his hand’s resting lightly on your waist as he birls you across the room and back, up and down the floor until all the rag-tag, long-ago years whirl round and round the pair of you in a swirling blur of —

  ‘Mrs Stewart.’

  Faster and faster you go, your feet no longer touching the ground —

  ‘Med time, Mrs Stewart.’

  Like you’re dancing on air, on sunlight itself —

  ‘med time. mrs stewart.’

  No music, no Michael, no being swept round in his —

  ‘Not for me. I’m Davies. Maggie Davies. How many times do I have to tell you?’

  ‘Maggie, then. Meds. Drink now, Maggie. One . . . two . . . Drink. Today Sunday. Today Mr Magic come.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Magic he called – yes? He come for you today. You, Maggie, you stay sit and he come. Like he say he come. No worries.’

  ‘Mr Magic?’

  ‘All the Sundays. When you first here he say he come all the Sundays and today Sunday.’

  ‘It’s a mix-up calling me Mrs Stewart, you know. Real ­mixter-maxter. Names really matter, Donna. Can’t be too careful with meds. If you give me Mrs Stewart’s meds, then what about her? What’s poor Mrs Stewart getting?’

  Whenever you ask them to point Mrs Stewart out to you, they roll their eyes and shake their heads.

  The only man here is called Slow Peter. They’ve told you another name, but you know that name’s not right. So you keep to Slow Peter. You know Slow Peter. They’ve told you he’ll fix leaks and come when your bedroom window’s jammed or a light bulb’s gone. You know his real name even if no one else does. You know all their names – Slow Peter, Donna, Mrs Saunders, Beryl . . . When you tell them, trying to help keep them right, they just smile and say Suit yourself, Maggie. So you do.

  ‘Hello, Mum.’

  Someone’s bent down to kiss your forehead, leaning too close for you to see their face. Calling you his mother, like he’s lost his own.

  You’d like to call him ‘Michael’, to say the name to someone, to hear it spoken out loud.

  He’s taken your hand like he wants to keep good hold while he talks.

  So let him.

  Talk and talk and talk. And sometimes you talk back at him. About the Murrays and Dorothy, about Slow Peter and Mrs Saunders, about Donna and Beryl, about the things on TV —

  ‘Yes, Mum, when I’m on TV I’m called Mr Magic, remember. Been going a lot longer than The X Factor! You’ve seen me sometimes — ’

  You manage to keep looking over his shoulder. ‘That letter’s made her cry. Look!’ Pointing to what’s happening on the screen: ‘Look at that poor woman – imagine someone writing to her so as to make her cry. Like they were really wanting to make her cry.’

  ‘Mum — ’ He’s started to stroke your arm. ‘Mum, please. It’s only something on TV, like when you see me make things disappear, playing cards and flowers and even people sometimes. ­Remember me telling you how I created that illusion about the — ’

  ‘Heartless it is. A disgrace. A real disgrace.’

  ‘Don’t get upset. It’s nothing. Would you like me to — ?’

  ‘The poor woman. But Jean’s got a cake all ready and waiting, never fear. A slice of that would cheer her up and take her mind off things. They’ll be bringing it soon. Cream and jam, layers and layers of cream and jam. Real cream too, mind – all the ration coupons she could get hold of. Had to be good if we were to — ’ You peer over his shoulder again, half-afraid at what you might see. ‘Will you look at that poor woman! Look. Look at her. look at her!’

  Tears have started running down your cheeks. Tears you make no move to wipe away.

  Instead —

  Struggling to get to your feet, pointing your finger at the screen: ‘That poor, poor woman. can’t somebody do something? can’t somebody help her? help her help her help her help her!’

  Next moment it’s all turned to horse-racing and a red-faced man talking into a microphone. Which is nothing much, so you sit down again.

  They’re closing your curtains. But it’s not the woman you call Donna, who’s grown up into a well-meaning lassie and always has time to stop for a word or two. It’s Boss Beryl – you’d know her vicious tug-and-swish anywhere.

  ‘Leave them, please. It’s too soon. He’s away making us a pot of tea. Nice man – for a man. Brought me some biscuits, too, my favourites — ’

  ‘And flowers, Maggie. Brought you flowers, too. Must have put them in a vase for you, too. See?’

  ‘Flowers?’

  Then like out of nowhere, it seems, there’s suddenly a vase of flowers on the chest of drawers. You can feel the glow spreading across your face, beaming into a smile. A real grin. ‘Michael? Michael’s really come?’

  ‘That his name, was it? He’s long gone.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Beryl. There’s the flowers. How else would they have got here? Making us some tea. Back in a jiffy, he said.’

  ‘Went home ages ago, Maggie.’

  ‘HobNobs, my favourites. But you can have one, if you like.’

  ‘An hour and more’s drive back up to Edinburgh. He had to go. It’s late now, Maggie. I’ve brought you your hot drink.’

  ‘He was right here only a moment ago, Beryl. Right here. We were talking about . . . something. He’s always talking. He’s along the corridor making us both a cup of tea . . .’

  ‘That was this afternoon, Maggie. It’s nearly night now.’

  ‘Afternoon? Night? How can it — ?’

  ‘You’ve had your first Sunday here and he says he’ll come every Sunday afternoon just to see that you’re — ’

  ‘I’m not stupid, Beryl. I’m not one of the Murrays. I’m not Dorothy. Sunday afternoon. I know Sunday afternoon. I understand afternoon. I understand Sunday.’

  ‘Goodnight now, Maggie. It’s your sleep time. Here’s your — ’

  ‘I know Sunday. I want Sunday! Sunday! sunday!’

  ‘You need to rest and —

  ‘sunday! sunday! sunday!’

  2

  DIRTY YELLOWISH SMOKE hung over the tracks and platforms of Waverley Station, and once again Maggie found herself walking through cloud – a cloud of steam this time, of soot and perpetual twilight. Her eyes smarted and she could taste the coal dust coating her tongue. Someone jostled her, making her stumble against the bottom step of the driver’s cab. Close to, a furnace-heat roar came from the engine. She breathed in the smell of hot metal and burnt oil. Steam hissed out from between the massive wheels.

  ‘And the same to you!’ she hissed back at them.

  Gripping her suitcase, she pushed her way towards the ticket barrier. To her right a guard’s whistle blew – another train was leaving. From all sides came the cla
sh and grind of metal on metal, the rumble of porters’ wagons, the slamming of carriage doors, and passengers shouting at each other to be heard above the din. Here was no windswept, treeless desolation – but real-life noise and bustle welcoming her back to her home city.

  Having handed over her ticket, she stepped into the crowd of friends and family come to greet the new arrivals. No one would be waiting for her, but she couldn’t help glancing across whenever there was a sudden cry and someone rushed forward into the open arms of someone else – wife/husband, girlfriend/boyfriend, brother/sister, friends. She’d turn away, but wasn’t always quick enough to shut out the sight of other people’s happiness. At the same time, she wanted to see it, to enjoy their pleasure at being together once more – and to snatch that glimpse of an embrace, a kiss . . . of a separation healed.

  Michael had asked for her photograph to keep and, even though he couldn’t see, he said he could always ‘read’ it. At that very moment he and his mother would probably be finishing their lunch. Maggie toiled up the steep slope that led out of the station, her suitcase getting heavier at every step – they’d be sitting facing each other at the kitchen table, with its two settings. A blind man? Could she really have coped with a newborn baby, and being married to a blind man, and all the while trying to settle down to a life as Mrs Stewart number two in that house – for her mother-in-law would certainly have been number one? Should she have stood her ground? Should she have stayed and — ?

  In time she’d surely have learned how to —

  Forget it. Taking her suitcase in both hands, she marched herself up the slope as best she could – Forget it . . . Forget it . . . Forget it – marched herself towards the street ahead – Forget it . . . Forget it . . . Forget it – past the never-ending line of taxis crawling down to drop off their passengers, their wheels thumping the cobbles, sounding their horns and belching out exhaust. As she strode along, she promised herself that when she reached the top of the slope she’d be stepping into the brightness of the very sky itself. Ahead, she could see the roof of the National Gallery outlined against a cloudless blue, then the sweeping curve of the Mound with the Bank of Scotland building so grand at the top and, beyond, the Castle itself with its upward tumble of walls and battlements shimmering in the haze. Edinburgh seemed shaped by the sky and the sky itself by the city, and, for a moment, everything seemed possible and the future hers. She was so very, very glad to be back.