by Ron Butlin
But you have tried. Making that album for her, hoping she’ll talk you through the photos. Would be nice to learn more about her life and about your dad, more than that he was blind and got knocked down by an Edinburgh tram when you were very young. Talking about the past makes her sad, she says.
Which leaves that snap she gave you, the one of the little girl standing next to a big old-fashioned pram, holding somebody’s baby in her arms. A neighbour? A girl in the village? No idea. Might as well go in, too.
And so – pour on the paraffin, toss on the lighted match. Whoosh! Cremation of a sort.
They’re gone in seconds.
Time for a final walk through the cleared-out cottage. No curtains, no lampshades, empty grates; kitchen shelves and windowsills stripped bare. Without furniture, the walls look grimy, the woodwork’s badly scuffed, the paintwork chipped. No retro charm here, the buyer’ll start by ripping out that monstrosity of a pre-war fireplace. Ghosts are already haunting the place: the pale after-images on the walls where your mother’s pictures hung, the outlines of her kitchen cabinet and dresser, her wardrobe. The lino’s scarred where you dragged out the cooker, the fridge and washing machine – three veterans fit only for recycling at the Council dump. Easy to imagine hearing your mother’s voice here – from the time when she still knew who you were, of course. Maybe her footsteps will echo in the empty rooms? Yours, too?
No . . . not a sound in the place. Your long-ago childhood home. Empty. Hollowed-out. You lock the door behind you.
The bonfire can be left to burn itself out.
8
THE NEXT FORTNIGHT passed very quickly, and happily. Maggie explained to Sheila that she’d had a big row with her mother about turning up like that and wanting to take Tom away for the weekend. If everything worked out, she’d asked, could he now stay at Glengyle Terrace?
‘Let’s see how we get on,’ had been her landlady’s response.
Luckily they got on very well. For a little extra on the rent Sheila agreed to look after Tom during the day, which allowed Maggie to continue working at Blair & Blair’s. On her part, Maggie was available evenings and weekends, if required, to look after both boys. They’d soon settled into a routine.
It would have been too much of a coincidence if Michael had turned up completely cured on the very same day she brought her baby home, so it was decided that he should remain at the bakery for a little longer. Maggie visited him as often as possible, Jean taking Tom out in the pram to give them privacy.
‘My husband’s really starting to respond,’ Maggie told Sheila one morning. ‘The doctors say we might soon have him home.’
Everything seemed to be working out. For the first few days Maggie had jumped to her feet in alarm whenever she heard the doorbell – perhaps in her haste at Woodstock House she’d overlooked something that could be used to trace her? Again and again she went over in her mind the paperwork she’d found in Tom’s file. His birth certificate, her signed contract, various letters. That would be everything, surely? But were there duplicates somewhere?
After a week, however, she began to relax. The week then became a fortnight.
On the first Saturday in June, nearly a year to the day she’d stepped off the ferry at Stornoway and been directed to Mrs Stewart’s lodging house, Maggie hesitated outside the street door in Glengyle Terrace. Michael was beside her. Never had she felt so nervous.
‘It’s blue,’ she said. ‘A shiny blue door, with a brass handle and a letter box.’ She wanted to say how wonderful it was to have him here at last, how this was the beginning of their life together. ‘Here’s our key, I’ll let us in.’
She went in and Michael followed. Once inside, she couldn’t seem to stop.
‘There’s a long hall with a table for letters and things. Mrs McCann’s put some welcome flowers on it for you. Sun-yellow, pink and white. Ones you can smell. Freesias, I think.’ She brought him up to the vase. ‘As I said, Mrs McCann’s really nice. She’s taken Tom and her wee boy Douglas to visit her sister, to let us get settled.’
Michael leant forward and breathed in. ‘They’re lovely. Really kind of her.’
She guided him across the corridor. ‘This is us, here. Right opposite the table. The door’s white.’ She opened it. ‘Our room.’
Having brought him in, she paused without meaning to . . . was she expecting to hear him offer a polite remark about how nice it looked? A split-second later, she added, ‘I know we’ll be very happy here.’
‘Thank you, Maggie. It feels fresh and inviting and . . .’
She closed the door behind them. ‘We’re home, Michael.’
They embraced and kissed. As he held her, she could feel the handle of his stick press into her back.
She turned him towards the window. ‘We’ve a really big bay window. The park’s just opposite. Grass that slopes all the way up to Bruntsfield, there’s paths for folk walking with their kids. Lots of trees, too, really big some of them. Elms, I think. Our curtains come down to the floor, they’ve got a flower pattern on them, red and purple roses.’ She guided him a couple of steps. ‘Here’s your armchair . . . and here’s mine. They’re light brown, high-backed and a bit old-fashioned looking, but comfy enough. We’ll sit in front of a gas fire with a fine-looking wooden mantelpiece. It’ll be cosy in the evenings while Tom plays on the rug.’ She took his hand again and led him past the chairs and a small table. ‘This . . . this is our bed.’
Maggie had prepared a picnic for them to take across to the park.
As she shook out the tartan blanket to let it settle flat on the grass, she heard her mother’s voice: You’ve made your bed, now you can lie on it.
She shrugged and smiled to herself as she unpacked the sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper – spam, mashed egg – the thermos of tea, the cups and plates, some milk in a brown medicine bottle, salt and pepper in little twists of paper. Laid out invitingly, the picnic meal looked good enough to be photographed for a magazine as a ‘Family Day in the Park’. Yes, that’s what it was, and what they were at last – a family. Maybe she’d write to her mother to let her know how well she was getting on, how happy she was. Maybe.
From then on, when she came up the front steps back from work, she’d see Michael standing at the window waiting for her. And every time, without thinking, she’d wave to him. Inside their room, she’d be greeted by his placing his hands on her face. That was the moment when she knew she was really home – the first of the perfect moments in the rest of her day. Next was Tom’s excitement when she collected him from Mrs McCann. The third perfect moment happened several times: whenever she paused during the evening and allowed herself to feel their togetherness. The last was when she switched off the light and entered Michael’s darkness.
A real family, yes – but they couldn’t get married. Not yet – to do that would mean putting up banns in the name of Mr Stewart and Miss Davies, and the danger of making everything public. She felt like Mrs Stewart, she was known as Mrs Stewart. To everyone, apart from at Blair & Blair’s, she was Mrs Stewart.
Tom had his first birthday: they shared their first Christmas together: then came Hogmanay – but not at Jean’s. This time the New Year was seen in with Sheila and Gordon.
One freezing-cold day towards the end of January, Maggie was putting her key in the front door when —
‘Oh, Miss Davies! Miss Davies! It’s you, it’s really you!’
Maggie turned to see the familiar tangle of blonde curls and smiling face. It was Donna.
SUNDAY AFTERNOON
PULL INTO THE Rosehaven car park.
Taking your usual five in the contour leather to log on, to update.
Mandy.
Your agent.
Mandy again. Reliable girl.
GR8 CU@8 Tx
Two voice messages.
No hang-ups. Hang-ups are a message in them
selves – if you’re not there to answer, then you’re not needed. Like you’re a hang-up nearer to being dead.
But not you. Three texts. Two messages. Mr Magic lives!
Tweet the cottage get-out. Tweet another Sunday, another Mum visit.
Hoping it’s a good day.
Psyched up, ready to rock’n’roll.
Once again you’re standing on the yellow cross, your smile in place, flowers in one hand and the other raised in greeting for the CCTV. That’s you on the screen – not looking so great. The loving son come to visit his elderly mother who’s now seriously confused.
Yes, she’s totally losing the place. She’s like a book whose pages have fallen out of sequence – but who’s going to put them back into their right order? There’s no other copy to refer to.
Cue Mr Magic preparing to step onstage once more with his repertoire of well-tested tricks, his cheerful patter. Cue another Sunday. You’ll make it a good one.
You’re buzzed in. Heading straight down the corridor, on course to brighten up her —
Sudden swerve for the usual pit-stop in the visitors’ WC. Dry heave and spit. And spit again. Take a few minutes to get focused, get upbeat.
Better?
You and your feelings back on track, you splash your face. The paper towel’s screwed up and binned. You’re ready to breeze through to the dayroom. You want to cheer her up. Be all sunshine and smiles.
The afternoon sun flooding the bay window with light, freeze-framing the scene: the high backed chairs, the footstools and zimmers, coffee tables, the TV, the Murray twins, sad Dorothy calling and calling . . .
But where’s your mother?
Her chair’s empty. Her zimmer’s stainless steel tubing flashes its accusation: You’re late.
Someone’s taken her to the toilet?
But her zimmer’s here. So how did she manage to — ?
‘Mr Stewart?’ The young Polish girl’s standing beside you. ‘Mr Stewart? Please.’
Mariella? Marietta?
‘You come, please.’ She’s not smiling.
Turning your back on the overheated hours burnt into the dayroom walls, you follow Mariella / Marietta out into the hall. Mariella. Yes, that’s her name.
She’s wearing a green housecoat today, jeans and trainers. When she’s signed up as your assistant you’ll dress her in something special, something sleek, black and Futuristic. Distraction on high heels. It’s the right time to upgrade. Invest in a new generation of high-tech props and —
‘Room. Please, we go Mrs Stewart.’
‘Mariella? Is my mother all right?’
The curtains have been pulled almost shut. A small lamp burns on the side table – its low watt glow washing over the room’s stillness. You see your mother first in the dressing-table mirror and find yourself taking a half-step towards the reflected figure. Then immediately correct yourself.
Mariella’s tilted the lampshade so the light falls more gently across your mother’s face. A kindly girl . . . If she was dressed in sleek and shiny-black . . .
That time you watched her trying to get one of the Murray twins take her meds, you were shocked that the old woman could be so utterly unaware of the girl standing right in front of her, as if the Murray couldn’t even see her. But what do you see now? Your ninety-year-old mother resting in her bed – do you really see her? Or is she becoming a fading memory already – the happiness in her voice whenever you phoned, her excited wave from the window as she saw you coming up the path?
‘I go now.’
Don’t go, Mariella, you want to say. Please.
At this moment you would give anything to be a genuine Mr Magic and make the glow return to her sunken cheeks, the glossy blackness to her hair, redness to her slack lips. No sleight of hand any more, no sleight of heart.
Not any longer.
Your mother’s dying. You see it now. You’re afraid you might burst into tears.
The chair beside her bed creaks as you sit down. It creaks again as you lean forward to take her hand.
Someone’s just come into your room. You’re aware of them sitting down in the chair beside your bed and can feel the warmth of their hand as it squeezes yours, the tenderness in their voice . . .
A farewell? The first of a hundred thousand welcomes?
Listen —
Within an hour of seeing Donna, the three of them had moved out of Glengyle Terrace. There was a family emergency, Maggie explained. Having thanked the McCanns for all their kindness, she promised she’d be in touch as soon as things settled. She didn’t specify what things exactly. Her mother was mentioned. The rent was paid up for another fortnight, but Sheila should feel free to let the room from tomorrow.
One suitcase was all they took with them, and Michael’s ex-army kitbag stuffed with Tom’s clothes and bedding. What they couldn’t carry, they left behind.
‘Family emergency, right enough,’ thought Maggie as she lifted their luggage into the taxi that would take them round to Jean’s bakery. She was really sorry to be leaving Glengyle Terrace, but Mrs Saunders might appear at any moment, perhaps even bringing the police. Blair & Blair’s, in turn, would probably be contacted. Maggie felt ashamed at lying to Sheila, but they couldn’t risk staying even a day longer.
And so – no more Blair & Blair’s and, most likely, no more Edinburgh.
What happened next was like a gift from heaven, a once-in-a-lifetime stroke of good luck. The advert in the Scotsman announced: ‘Part-time home help wanted in exchange for rent-free cottage. Rural location. Apply in own handwriting.’
Maggie did, and received a reply by return, with a telephone number to phone. The cottage turned out to be the small gatehouse of an estate in the Borders. Learning that her husband was a veteran who’d been blinded in the war, the laird clearly took pity on them. Maggie said they could come immediately.
There’s the sound of doors opening and closing, the tap of someone’s walking stick on the linoleum out in the corridor, a woman saying she hopes there might be some cake.
Your familiar room. Your wardrobe. Armchair. Wash hand basin and mirror. Tea trolley with playing cards laid out for the game of patience you will probably never finish —
A fortnight after they’d moved in, Maggie was seated at her small work table in the living room, grinning with pleasure as she inserted the first sheet of foolscap into her typewriter.
No wonder she was grinning – on learning that his new help could not only type but knew how to keep basic accounts, the laird had at once offered her the position of part-time secretary to the factor of his estate. And so – no more mops and pails, brushes and carpet beaters, no more dripping, heavy-wet bedsheets needing hung out and then ironed. If she wanted, she was even allowed to take in extra typing work from the village to do in her own time. Michael had soon learned his way about the cottage and within a few days was walking up to the big house and round the grounds all by himself.
Maggie glanced over the top of her typewriter – there had been a real blizzard during the night and now a blue-skied, snow-silenced winter’s day waited for her outside. The fields and hedgerows were white, the telegraph poles and their wires stretched in a line like so many pencil marks pointing out a hidden road to the village. Once she’d finished typing up Rev McKay’s service for the following morning, the three of them would wrap up well and go for a walk down by the river, now surely frozen over.
Winter gave way to spring. Mrs Stewart wrote regularly to Michael, far too regularly. The news and gossip from Stornoway always came heavily larded with complaints and veiled accusations – her bad back made running the lodging house more and more difficult, the struggle to live on her war widow’s pension was getting harder and harder. She missed her son and needed him, needed him desperately.
Michael would listen in grim silence, then apologise to Maggie saying his m
other couldn’t help herself, she was angry, that was all. Give her a while longer to accept things. Once they’d got married, which they’d do in secret, he’d ask if they could come and visit. It would mean waiting until the moment was right, of course . . .
By this time Maggie would have put the hateful letter back in its envelope and stuck it in the drawer with the others. The letters made her furious – the venom in the old woman’s words was really directed at her. Not that she was ever mentioned, or Tom. It was like they didn’t exist. Very soon she began to edit as she read. Maggie always typed the replies which Michael then took to the village post office next time he was doing the shopping.
On a May morning about four months after they’d moved in, there was a rap on the cottage door. Norman the Post. Michael was making a pot of tea. Having been to answer, Maggie returned to the living room:
‘A letter. Don’t know the handwriting.’
Struggling to push aside the duvet – as if you could somehow manage to get young Maggie’s attention. You want to comfort her. You want to grab at the letter she’s about to read, to snatch it out of her hand.
But then what?
You know what’s going to happen. You can’t stop it now, any more than you could have stopped it back then. You can do nothing but watch.
Carefully as always, Michael places a plate of biscuits on the tea-trolley. ‘Postmark?’ he asks.
Postmark. She ought to have checked first, before saying anything. But it’s too late now.
‘Stornoway.’
‘It’s from Lachlan – not heard from him in ages.’
But she knows it’s not from Lachlan. She knows Lachlan’s handwriting – all those letters from Michael she’s kept in her treasure box.
You watch her pick up the letter knife. Watch her slit open the envelope.
Were this a kinder world, Maggie would sense you beside her as she reads out the letter from Mrs Stewart’s neighbour:
