The Curious Heart of Ailsa Rae (ARC)

by Stephanie Butland

  I’ve spoken to Gemma and she agrees that it is important that I come to see you. In case you are wondering, you have never been a secret from her.

  Guildford to Edinburgh is something of a journey (six hours by train, with two changes!) but I am happy to do it. Our diaries are quite complicated, with the boys’ activities and Gemma being in an am-dram group. I play golf too, though Gemma says it’s just me making an excuse to get some peace! If you can let me know when is a good time for you I will try to get myself organised. It’s probably best if you send me two or three options.

  With my very best wishes,

  David (Twelvetrees)

  www.myblueblueheart.blogspot.co.uk

  10 July, 2018

  What Now?

  Tomorrow, I’m going to tango. And I love tango, for so many reasons. I love the music, which has more of a pulse than a beat, because in tango music there is no drum. I love that all I have to do is put one foot in front of the other and listen to see what my partner is telling me with the way he or she moves their body. I love the concentration of it: there’s no room for anything else to crowd my brain. So it’s a sort of rest. And I love that Apple and I started learning at the same time. It feels as though we’re equal. I feel like one person when I’m dancing.

  And I don’t often feel like one person.

  This is what my head is (mostly like) – it’s like there’s a conversation going on in there, every damn minute, between IA (Inspirational Ailsa) and EA (Everyday Ailsa).

  IA: Hey! Let’s do a thing! Let’s do a cool thing!

  EA: I’m tired. I want some chocolate.

  IA: You’re not tired! You don’t want chocolate! Let’s make today worth something!

  EA: OK, what shall we do?

  IA: I don’t know! But just think of all the medical research and effort that went into keeping you alive! All the people who helped!

  EA: That makes me feel as if nothing I could do today is good enough.

  IA: You have a dead person’s heart!

  EA: That doesn’t help, either.

  Apple: Yeah. That was really tactless, actually.

  I have no idea whether this is normal. I think it probably is. I know I ought to go and talk to someone about it, but, well, I haven’t, because I also know what the answer is. Because, somewhere in the mix is SA (Sensible Ailsa) and she says: Keep going. It’s early days. It’s going to take a while for everything to shake down. You were some sort of ill for most of twenty-eight years. Plus, your personal life has got a bit complicated. Give yourself a chance to get used to some sort of well. Be as gentle with yourself as you were when you only had three quarters of a heart. You’re making progress, but you just can’t see it.

  So, right now, Ailsa and The Other Ailsas are going dancing. They need to get some practice in, because they’re going to be taking part in a show. Oh yes they are.

  Poll for today: what’s the best way to spend time with someone – someone who might be important in your life – when you’re meeting them for the first time, and you’re not sure how you’ll get on?

  I’m giving you a week.

  GO FOR A WALK: It will disguise any awkward silences and you don’t have to look at each other.

  HAVE A MEAL: At least you’ll know for sure if you never want to see them again.

  BRING A FRIEND: It will diffuse things and you can see each other in a setting where it’s easier to be relaxed.

  ASK THEM OVER: You’ll feel more confident on your own territory and you can ask them to leave if it doesn’t go well.

  7 shares

  39 comments

  Results:

  WALK

  60%

  MEAL

  22%

  FRIEND

  18%

  HOME

  0%

  Part Eight

  July 2018

  An Ill-Divining Soul

  11 July 2018

  The actors form a clutch of leaning-in attention on Roz in one corner of the room. Her bright blonde hair is shining under one of the spotlights in the ceiling, her hands working, making circles in the air, then pointing up, making an encircling gesture. Finally, she raises her voice to say something not quite audible to Ailsa, the actors all laugh, and the group breaks apart, standing and stretching, hoisting bags onto their shoulders, checking phones.

  Today has been the first day of the acting company working with Edie and Eliza. Ailsa tries to see how it’s gone, but she can’t tell: the Tango Sisters are always smiling, and she can’t imagine they’d ever slump, round their shoulders, no matter how many two-left-footed actors they had to train.

  ‘Edie says they’re invited to stay,’ Venetia says, ‘and about half of them said that they will.’

  Ailsa nods. She knew this – the first bit, anyway, via a text from Seb earlier – but she doesn’t say so. ‘We need to start getting used to each other,’ she says.

  ‘We haven’t got a lot of time to train them up, for sure,’ Venetia says, with a wink, and Ailsa laughs at the thought that she might know more than – well, anyone – about tango. She recalls Seb’s suggestion that the two of them dance at the end of the read-through: it seems as ludicrous now as it did a month ago, even if she has had four more classes and been to two milongas in the meantime.

  Seb puts his arm around the shoulder of a stocky older man (Capulet? The Friar? Though some of them are doubling, so he could well be both) and says something that provokes a rumbling chortle. The older man slaps his palm against Seb’s chest before disengaging and walking towards the exit; Ailsa finds herself wincing at the slap, her shoulders coming forward, and feels as though Apple moves backwards, towards her spine. A chest is a fragile place, still.

  Seb speaks to Roz and then to Meredith, who is almost as tall as him, and has a sort of gangliness that doesn’t come across in photographs, or maybe is converted to ‘willowy’ by camera angle and clothes that aren’t leggings and a T-shirt. Her face is serious, concentrated, and so is Seb’s as he speaks to her. Then the two of them are walking towards the top of the stairs down to the bar, and Ailsa ducks her head as they pass, because she’s not sure what to do.

  Jesus, Ailsa. Get a grip. She stands up just after they pass. ‘Seb,’ she says, ‘welcome back.’

  He turns, and Meredith with him; he smiles, kiss-kiss, a tiny rub of stubble. ‘Hello you.’

  ‘Hello.’ He does what he always does in person – he is so himself that there’s nothing to do but to trust him, and to be herself in return.

  He holds her by the shoulders for a heartbeat/blink, and then, ‘Meredith, this is Ailsa. She’s my favourite blue-hearted bus fan.’

  ‘Hello,’ Meredith says with a smile, as though this is a normal way to introduce someone, or as though she wasn’t listening. Ailsa, at work, is starting to perfect the art of communication that slides over her instead of going in – conversations about the rain, the tourists, sport – so she doesn’t mind.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, ‘it’s good to meet you.’

  Meredith nods, and turns back to Seb. ‘I need to go.’

  ‘I’ll walk you out,’ Seb says. And then, to Ailsa, ‘Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back to take a good hard look at your ochos.’

  myblueblueheart.blogspot.co.uk

  12 July, 2018

  A Question of Country

  Hello, hello, my friends.

  Oh, it’s good to come to a blog post and say, sorry, this is a bit late, but I’ve been busy. Rather than sorry, this is a bit late, but I’ve been too ill to keep my eyes open for more than three seconds at a time.

  I’m taking a very small part in an Edinburgh show this year, and it’s having quite an impact on me. I’ll be honest, for a while I was in two minds about taking part at all, because I thought I might not be good enough, and because I’ve never really put myself Out There on a stage before, and been myself, with people looking at me. (Doctors on ward rounds having a look at your scar doesn’t count.) But – I’m doing it, and I’m not sure
when or how I definitely decided, I just got a bit swept into it. Which, I suppose, is a normal life thing. And it’s absolutely fantastic.

  I’ve been practising my dancing. I’ve been going to rehearsals where I learn to shout. (Yes, there is a special way to do it, so you don’t strain your voice.) And I’ve been part of a team for the first time in my life, I think. When I was ill I had a big team of people looking after me, but that’s not the same. I like working towards something, with other people, and being just the tiniest part of a bigger thing. I like having things in common with others that are more than illness and the misery that comes with it. And anyway, being ill is lonely, even if someone else is being ill beside you.

  So: life’s good, and busy, and I think I might be feeling a bit – normal, but in a good way.

  Apart from working, and dancing, I’m thinking seriously about my next career move (another nice, normal activity). And it’s based on two things:

  1. When you are ill, people protect you. They don’t always tell you everything about things, because they don’t want you to worry. They simplify the truth, because they want you to sleep at night. I’ve been finding out what the world is really like, now I am eligible for the full picture. Now that I’m not struggling, I can see the way that others have struggled.

  2. The world’s not fair and I know I’m supposed to grow up and accept that at some point, but I don’t think I ever will. People who know they are dying, and dying painfully, can’t legally commit suicide (unless they can afford a trip to Switzerland). If you consent to transplant and your next of kin doesn’t agree, your wishes aren’t respected. Those are two things that need to be fair. That’s before we get to sick people who don’t have access to the medication they need, parents who don’t take their responsibilities seriously …

  Apple has given me the chance to look up and around and see the full picture, and I don’t like what I see. I know that many people are good people, with good natures, but that isn’t always enough. So I’m going to do something about it.

  It turns out you can’t get in to Superhero University if you’re on immunosuppressants (too many radioactive superbugs about) so I’m going to take my as-well-as-can-be-expected body and donate it to the law, instead.

  It’s a long road. I have to do a conversion degree, and that’s only the very beginning.

  I’ll be able to take out some loans, and maybe get some grants. I’ll have to support myself, too. I’m not complaining. But realistically, I need to study somewhere close to home. So I have two choices. I could study inperson and do a conversion that fits me to do (or at least learn to do) anything to do with Scottish law. Or I can do an Open University course that fits me for UK law. The question is which? I feel as though I should be able to do good anywhere. I think Scotland is my home. But that might only be because there’s still an umbilical cord tethering me to the hospital, telling me that if I stray too far, then Apple will just switch herself off, or I won’t remember to take my tablets, or – something will happen. Maybe this feeling will wear off, like the beard did. (Well, it was removed. But it doesn’t grow back anymore.) Or maybe I like it here. I think I like it here.

  Help me.

  I’ll give you a week.

  CLAIM YOUR HERITAGE: Be Scottish. Trust your instincts. Study in real life with real people. You’ll always find opportunities. Even if you move somewhere else you can still practise Scottish law. That’s what the Internet is for.

  BE BOLD: Take fresh new steps. Your horizons can be broader now. And if you study with the OU, then you’ve got more flexibility to work and earn. And it’s not like you never meet people in real life anymore.

  2 shares

  11 comments

  Results:

  EDINBURGH

  27%

  OU

  73%

  21st July, 2018

  ‘God, it’s good to be here,’ Seb says. ‘I’ve missed the old place.’

  Ailsa laughs. ‘It must be all of ten days since we were here,’ she says. They’d spent a long evening at the Northbridge Brasserie after that first joint tango night, with Roz and a couple of the local actors.

  ‘Feels like longer,’ Seb says. ‘Theatre is hard. Good, but not like TV. There’s not a lot of time sitting around while someone sets the lighting up. Not much of a buffet.’

  ‘And it’s only your second day off this week,’ Ailsa says. She grins. He grins back. These moments – more and more of them, inconsequential, but not – are like a breath-worth of flying.

  ‘I’m not having a day off,’ Seb says, ‘I’m – reflecting. While the ladies do their mysterious lady acting. What? Why are you pointing your knife at me? That’s rude.’

  ‘In Scotland, it’s a sign of affection. And I feel as though I should pull you up on the mysterious-lady-acting thing,’ Ailsa says, ‘but I haven’t worked out why.’

  ‘Ah well,’ his smile widens to wickedness, ‘while you work it out, I’ll just sit here, reflecting on my part.’

  Ailsa laughs; she can’t help it. ‘You’re terrible.’

  ‘It’s too easy to get a rise out of you.’

  ‘That’s my line,’ she says.

  ‘Ailsa Rae…’ He laughs, and his foot finds her ankle under the table.

  Seb staying at Roz’s hasn’t really worked out. He’s a permanent fixture at Ailsa’s. In public – apart from the dancing – they don’t touch, except under tables, like this. In private it feels impossible not to be in contact. Ailsa isn’t sure when they became a couple, or if she wants them to be one. Or rather, if it’s a real relationship, or for-the-duration. They have an easy way of being, already, and sometimes it’s as though he reads her—

  ‘I like staying with you. Do you feel as though we’ve known each other forever?’

  —mind.

  ‘I was just thinking that.’

  ‘It’s funny,’ Seb says, leaning in so that he can touch her knees under the table, run his fingers over the insides of them, ‘I always thought living with someone would be boring, when the novelty wore off. But knowing someone better is – sexy. Don’t you think?’

  Ailsa can’t help but laugh. ‘Like I said. It’s been ten days,’ she says.

  ‘Have you ever lived with anyone for ten days?’

  She pulls her face into pretend-seriousness. ‘Good point.’

  ‘Me neither. You see.’ He smiles and sits back. Her knees feel cold, in the place where his hands were.

  ‘Is it going OK, though,’ she asks, ‘the play?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ He sounds neutral, matter-of-fact; if Ailsa was an actor, she supposes, she’d know what he meant. But she isn’t, and she doesn’t.

  ‘Is that not – should you not know by now?’ Two weeks until opening night. Sometimes she’s so excited about the prospect of it that she can’t stop smiling, but more and more Ailsa feels sick at the thought of it. And not dainty, mild butterfly-sickness, but serious post-operative nausea. Seb seems calm, but his sleep is twitchy, and he tutted at her this morning when she forgot to pick up her phone and had to go back for it.

  ‘Roz says that you never know until you’ve got an audience in front of you, and shame on you if you think anything different.’

  ‘I can imagine her saying that,’ Ailsa says. She can see the sense in it too. The difference between thinking that you can do something and doing it is the size of the mountain she thought, pre-transplant, that she would be climbing by now.

  ‘Have you fixed a date with your father?’ Seb asks.

  ‘Next Monday.’ There’s one of those moments, increasingly frequent, when their feelings for each other make another presence between them, vivid, alive, blotting out everything else.

  He nods. ‘How are you feeling about it? Have you talked to your mother yet?’

  ‘Nervous. Not really.’ She’s not going to get away with that. It’s the equivalent of telling a doctor that you’re fine. She tries harder. ‘I don’t know what to expect from him. And I know exactly wha
t I’ll get from her.’ You’ll get what you deserve, Apple says, and the look in Seb’s eyes agrees. Great. They’re ganging up on her.

  He says, carefully, ‘I can see why she might be upset. I can see why you want to see him, too.’

  ‘Yes.’ Except she doesn’t, not really, but it’s too late to say so, and anyway, the blog. ‘Can we talk about something else? Please?’ She touches her foot to the inside of his ankle, rubs it back and forth, to say, this is not rejection.

  Seb smiles, and then leans forward, and Ailsa finds herself mirroring him. ‘Do you want to know a secret? A good one. From Roz. I’m not supposed to say anything. Promise not to leak it to the press?’

  Ailsa struggles for a straight face. ‘Promise.’

  ‘You know Love’s Labour’s Lost?’

  ‘Not intimately.’ Emily wrote an essay on it, mostly while keeping Ailsa company when she had flu in their second year; there was a lot of sighing and cursing. ‘Not Shakespeare’s most popular play, I’m told.’

  ‘Well, it was all news to me,’ Seb says, ‘not that that’s saying a lot. Apparently, it’s one of those plays that’s – of its time. Would have had Elizabethans rolling in the aisles. Modern audiences need a translator to explain why it’s supposed to be funny. But Roz is directing it at the Wheat Warehouse in London next year. Spring. Six-week season to start with, maybe a tour, depending on how it goes. It’s going to be a big deal. Proper pay. Serious theatre.’

  ‘Why not do something more popular? Are you going to be in it?’

  Seb laughs. ‘The thing with Roz is, she could make toothache popular. And anyway, she’s got a really strong – she’s got this idea that the way we live now is too black and white. You click “like” or you don’t. You vote yes or no. No one is allowed to be undecided. You can only be in public life if you’ve never shagged someone you shouldn’t have, in case the papers find out. And the world’s more complicated. Stuff gets hidden. We have unrealistic expectations. We’re divided. She thinks it’s relevant, and she wants to do a – well, she’s calling it a monochrome production. I don’t know what that means. But she’s excited.’