Bright Stars

by Sophie Duffy

  ‘I’m forty-six.’

  ‘Whatever. I’m thirty-eight so we need to do this now.’

  ‘I don’t like being pushed into a corner.’

  And then she said it.

  ‘You would do this if you loved me.’

  ‘I do love you.’

  ‘Love’s not just about words. It’s about actions.’

  ‘I fail to see how this will show you I love you. This has nothing to do with my love for you.’

  ‘What are you frightened of, Cameron?’

  ‘I’m frightened of a lot of things.’

  ‘Are you frightened of being happy? Is that it?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  I was empty, she said. I had nothing to give her, she said. Not even a baby, she said.

  And then she left, slamming the front door and heading off to work in a fury of Amanda-ness. I almost felt like calling in sick but I knew I couldn’t because there were already two of the tour guides off with impetigo. *

  So I got myself ready and went to work.

  It was a busy day. A group of school kids. A group of Americans. Various families. Courting couples who used the dark vaults for the odd grope and stolen touch. Charlene, our Kiwi, was busy. She loved it. The groups loved her. She is pretty with a huge sense of fun. But tiny-boned like a bird. When it came to the last tour of the day, I had a bad feeling. I suspect I should have listened to my feelings but then what could I have done? That’s all folks! The tour’s off! That wouldn’t have gone down too well. I thought it best to get on with it. They weren’t drunk, just loud and excitable. I gave the health and safety drill.

  No wandering off. No lagging behind. You do not want to be lost in the vaults.

  Mind your heids. Mind your step. The ceilings are low, the floor uneven.

  Inform me if you get panicky at any point and I’ll radio up for assistance.

  Et cetera.

  I didn’t tell Fiona McCabe and Daniel Cooper this version of events, which is the full, uncut version. It is none of their business what goes on in my home life. This is a work matter. And yes, I was tired and annoyed and wound up and that might have impacted on my decision-making that day underground. But believe me when I say I still don’t know what else I could have done.

  _________________________

  *A nasty contagious skin infection that made them look too much like pustule-inflicted plague victims.

  Edinburgh to London, Friday

  Train

  Waverley station. The 10.30 to London Kings Cross. A window seat next to some fat English suit with The Times. I will ignore him and read my Scotsman. I will ignore him and be normal, a normal passenger going on a normal trip to London. I will suspend myself in time, for a while, leaving the past in the past. Because that’s where the past is supposed to be. In the past. Only it’s not, is it? It’s always with you, like a persistent terrier. Like a barking, fat dachshund. But sometimes I want to take that barking, fat dachshund by the scruff of the neck and throttle it. Or put the electric collar up on full blast.

  The fat man reads The Times.

  I read The Scotsman.

  I am on the perilous journey to the buffet car when my phone starts to ring. I make it to the end of the carriage and answer outside the toilet.

  ‘Cameron?’ A woman’s voice.

  I was hoping for Amanda.

  I was hoping for Bex.

  I get Fiona McCabe and the news that I no longer have a job.

  ‘It was only ten minutes,’ I say. But it makes no difference.

  I have lost my home.

  I have lost my wife.

  I have lost my job.

  And why have I lost my job? Ten seconds can seem like ten minutes, Fiona McCabe said. Ten minutes can feel endless, Fiona McCabe said. When you are shut away in the dark, the cold, frightened, abandoned and, for all you know, left for dead, Fiona McCabe said.

  I dash in the toilet. Sit down on the seat. Think back. Was it so wrong, what I did?

  When we got to the underground room where the most paranormal activity goes on, I told them the story of a little boy called Samuel Macbeth. A little orphan boy who was all alone when he was left to die of the plague. I got the group to imagine what it must have been like and the man, Mr Sanderson, made a stupid comment. He said he’d like to shut his wife in there when she’s in one of her moods. Stop her going out and spending on his Platinum credit card.

  ‘It’s not a joking matter,’ I said. I know I sounded school-teachery, but he shouldn’t have been making light of such a tragedy. He had no idea what it was like to be shut away. And then there were the two girls who’d joined the group at the last minute. The students. Mr Sanderson said he’d like to be locked away with the two of them.

  It was at this point that I had to intervene. The atmosphere was menacing, threatening, and I was worried for the safety of the group, particularly the two young women who suddenly seemed vulnerable. I maybe should’ve radioed up for help but there was only Charlene available and Mr Sanderson could have caused all kinds of trouble. So I pretended to carry on as normal, shepherding them out to the next vault, where there was a slideshow projected onto a wall. I turned the soundtrack up high. As they assembled themselves onto benches to watch it, I beckoned him. I thought he’d ignore me, but he came over and I whispered to him. Not one of his friends saw, I made sure of that. Then I walked back the few steps we had just come. He followed me, expectantly, a little unsteady on his feet. And then I took my chance. I pushed him inside Samuel Macbeth’s room. I shut the door and I locked him in. I locked him up. The arrogant, preening, sexist, racist and most probably homophobic prick of an Englishman.

  And you know the most gratifying thing? Not one of his friends noticed.

  Back in my seat, a can and a packet of crisps, living up to my Scottish heritage, wedged up against the window, I have to put up with the fat suit and his phone calls. Ten minutes can feel endless when you are imprisoned. I have another three hours to go. Back in the day, I had to endure three months. But I was shaped more and learnt more in those three months inside than I would’ve been and done during three years of university.

  How were you shaped? What did you learn? Questions Jeremy has asked me. Questions I have asked myself.

  Answer: It toughened me. It made me focus. It made me think.

  Think you can drink and drive? Think again. This was the advertising campaign that was targeting students, that was partly responsible for landing me in jail.

  But you can’t always blame other people, Jeremy says. You made a choice. And it could have been far worse. Christie was badly injured. She lost a leg. Her family could’ve got involved, tried for compensation.

  As if I had never considered this.

  Her family kept right out of it. They took Christie back to Canada never to be heard of again. Until now.

  And now I’m going to see her again. And Bex. And Tommo.

  Are you sure this is a good idea? Jeremy asks.

  I watch the spectre of my reflection in the window. Can’t believe I’m that same boy who went to Lancaster and made such friends. The boy in the kilt. The young man who went to prison and came out the other side with money. Saw his dad all right. Helped out his brothers. Paid off that bad debt. Paid the price for love.

  But I don’t know what happened to that leg.

  Still an hour and a half to go. I could get off and catch the return train, the sleeper. I have lost my job and my wife and I need to do something about it. Not be going to a stupid, self-destructing reunion with people I am never supposed to see again. Why did they agree to this? Why did I agree to this? Why the hell did Christie invite us?

  An hour and a half and I’ll have to do battle with the Underground and find my way to the Ritz. Christie’s paying for the room. I graciously accepted. A good night’s sleep will help me face my past. I don’t know what to expect. I might have paid for that accident with my freedom but Christie doesn’t know that, does she? She doesn’t kn
ow that I took Tommo’s place. I’ve read the interview in the Observer, she says she can’t remember. She says she was surprised it was me driving. She says she was surprised that I was over the limit as I wasn’t much of a drinker.

  I only agreed to say I was driving because Tommo’s father said it would be fine. His calm authority, his voice, his words that sounded so different to my own father’s. I was reassured on a night when everything was unsure. I wanted it all to go away. I had a cold. I felt rough, bewildered, shaken up. My head ached, my ribs hurt, my lungs burned and I wanted it all over. So I said, Yes, aye, I’d do it. And in return I’d save the day for everyone I loved.

  I was compensated, fobbed off with even more money once I was breathalysed, because obviously they didn’t want me changing my statement. But it was me, Cameron Spark, who took the blame, who went to court, who bore the brunt of a guilty verdict that should have gone to another man. It was me who went to prison and did the time that belonged to someone else. And Ptolemy Dulac walked away, out of my life, taking the woman I loved with him and injuring the other one, leaving a trail of hurt, deception and blood money.

  Time in prison wasn’t what I had in mind when I agreed to the plan. I really believed I’d only had two drinks, that I was fine to drive. But it turned out I’d had more. I can’t remember it. What I can remember is Tommo calling me a poof. Tommo up and down to the bar. Bex morose with the old collie by the fire. Dave and Hyper and Carl quiet and sullen. Christie impatient and snappy, looking over her shoulder at that lecturer.

  What I remember is Tommo going up yet again to the bar and ordering a round. I remember going to the loo, coming back and drinking my orange juice. I remember smarting at its bitterness, though I had a cold and everything tasted bad so I drank it all, thinking the vitamin C would do me good. But most clearly of all, I remember Tommo watching me and winking, his dark eyes mischievous. I wondered briefly what Tommo was up to but was too tired to really care. I just wanted the whole sorry day to be over and done with.

  But I didn’t know then that it would never be over and done with. The night would go on and on. It continues now, away through Scotland, across the border, southwards, southwards, through cities and fields, all the way down to London.

  All I have left is my past. That is mine alone and no one can take that away from me. No court, no judge or jury, no Tory government, no assistant directors, no HR managers. No Tommo.

  But they can take away my job. They can take away my wife. They can take away my freedom.

  One Step Forward for Womankind.

  Christie Armstrong is CEO of one of Canada’s biggest wine producers, the Armstrong King Estates in the fertile Niagara region of Ontario. She is also the Founder and Honorary President of Happy Walk, a charity for children who have lost limbs – a cause that she knows about first hand after an accident led to her losing a leg nearly 30 years ago. Here, in this exclusive first interview, she talks about her life as one of Canada’s most promising business-women, and the accident that nearly stopped all that from happening.

  Interview by Hattie Woodman

  Photographs by Nestor Williams

  The Guardian

  Christie Armstrong is on the phone. It’s clamped to her ear as she beckons me into her suite at the Ritz and points towards a sofa opposite where she’s sitting. She finishes the call and immediately apologises profusely, telling me that it was a ‘really important call with a buyer from a UK supermarket whose demographic perfectly fits the market I’m trying to reach for with our Icewine. Man, it would be great if we can get it on their shelves.’

  When she starts to explain to this non-connoisseur what Icewine is, she quickly realises that talk of optimum harvest temperature, sugars and vine management is falling on deaf ears and laughs, saying, ‘I’ll quit the hard sell, just taste it.’ The secret to Icewine is apparently the few seconds when the drinker moves the liquid around their mouth before swallowing, allowing waves of flavour. And she’s right, the taste is absolutely exquisite. I can see why it’s known as ‘Niagara liquid gold’.

  ‘Why have I never tasted anything like this before?’ I ask her. She laughs even louder. ‘Because until now, it’s been Canada’s little secret. We keep it for ourselves! But that’s all going to change after our product launch the day after tomorrow and with luck, the British market will like it as much as you.’

  I suggest it must all seem a long way from the last time she was in the UK, some 28 years ago as a ‘Junior Year Abroad’ student at Lancaster University studying for a Marketing degree.

  ‘Yeah, I was really keen to travel and though I looked at California and New York, I wound up in rainy Lancashire as a JYA and until the accident, I loved every single minute of it.’

  She tells me that she doesn’t think about the car crash very often. Her memories are still extremely hazy from that time. Amnesia from the trauma. She’s never been able to piece together the events of that night back in 1986 when she lost a leg. All she can clutch at are flashes of scenes. A trip back from London with her student friends. A convoy. A van and a car. A stop-off at a village. A log fire in the pub. Her friend stroking a dog’s ears. Another friend buying drinks at the bar. A cold, dark night.

  She can’t even remember getting in the car that she was later cut out of.

  She returned home, just two weeks later to recover and convalesce and was shocked when she heard which of her student friends was the driver. Blown away when she later found out about the drink-drive conviction that landed him in prison. Stunned that she’d lost half a leg and broken half her bones. And knowing that her friend – who she’d thought of as the solid and dependable member of their group – was responsible, did not help at all.

  ‘The whole thing sucked. My life was ruined – at least I thought so at the time – and his was too.’

  But time passed.

  Her dad never totally got her decision to come to Britain as a student – or now for that matter – but he let her do it. He remained positive all along. Got her straight home to Canada. Found the best doctors, the best hospital, the best of everything to put her back together.

  ‘My Dad was a rock and never, even after the accident, blamed me for getting in a beat-up car with a guy who’d been drinking. I’ve been through therapy, heaps of expensive therapy, to train my brain, to keep positive. I’ve been through my quota of doctors and nurses and chiropractors and pretty much all of the medical profession. I’ve also been through many, many legs, from the ugly ones back in the day to the most recent commissions, crafted by artists rather than engineers, with matched skin tone, hair follicles, perfect nails. One for heels, one for flats, one for skiing, one for sports. I can do whatever a two-legged woman can do.’

  Her ex-husband Pete was cool with it from the outset, she says. ‘I told him about the accident on our second date, even hitched up my skirt to show off the prosthetic. He said it was awesome, asked to touch it. So I let him and things progressed quickly from there.’ She lets out one of those trademark laughs at the memory.

  They got married and had a daughter, Mallory in 2006. But the marriage failed in 2011. ‘Pete couldn’t handle me working such long hours, being away from home so much. He got bored. Found someone else to keep him company.’ She shrugs and you wonder what kind of man would want to leave a woman this sparky and clever.

  ‘And how are you now, after the accident?’ I ask her.

  ‘Sometimes, even after all these years, I can still feel it, my lost leg. It’s like I’m still whole, still complete. In my mind, I can run across prairies, climb up mountains, swim the great lakes, skate like a pro, quick step like Ginger Rogers. All with my own two legs. No pain, no wound, no scar. No stump.

  ‘Sometimes it aches. It itches so I want to scratch it. It gets pins and needles. When I wake up, stiff and tingling, I have to remind myself what happened. And those same flashes of scenes replay themselves, jumbled up and reordered so I can never hold onto what happened that night.

  ‘But,
hey, I’ve done pretty well. I live a full life. Career, husband, child, home. Okay, so the husband thing didn’t work out so good but hell, I tried. I guess I was so grateful that someone wanted me. That someone could look beyond my face and hair and boobs. Someone wanted all of me, even the ghost of my leg. I felt desirable and loved and wanted.’

  When she discovered she was pregnant she was overjoyed, couldn’t believe her luck. She worried all the way through those long months of waiting. She got large. The baby kicked. She told herself again and again, it will be okay. And then her mother got ill. Breast cancer. Spread to her bones. And she was gone just days before Mallory arrived.

  ‘I thought someone had taken an ice pick to my heart, hacking out the part my mom filled. But when I held Mallory in my arms and saw that squished, flaky-skinned face, I knew I had something to fight for that was really worth it.

  ‘Besides, when you’ve been lying under a heap of mangled metal, blood leaking from your crushed body, barely able to take a breath in or to push a breath out, when you’ve lain all alone on a cold, frosty night, in a field in the middle of nowhere, in a country far from home, thinking your time has come, when you lay there and no longer care what happens except that this pain of living is too much and you want it taken away… when you survive that, you know you can survive anything. But I miss my mom everyday.’

  As for the husband, he faded, blurred into the background. She didn’t even overly care when she discovered the affair ‘with a freaking cheerleader’. With two perfect legs.

  ‘I don’t want people feeling sorry for me, thinking, Poor Christie, she’ll never get another man. I don’t need another man. I have my daughter. I have my dear old dad. I have the winery, signed over to me on my fortieth birthday. And I am damn well going to make it the best winery in Canada, up there with the estates of Bordeaux, Champagne, Napa Valley, Marlborough Bay and Stellenbosch.’

  And she has the jewel. The Icewine.

  ‘The wine choice in England sucked back in the 80s. And though it’s much improved now, they don’t have Canadian wine. I’m going to change all that.’