Requiem

by Clare Francis

  Even then she thought it safer not to face him as they had coffee, and she sat next to him on the sofa while he talked with the captain and the agent. Yet in that moment of laughter in the engine room, something had overturned, had shifted inside her, and she found herself unable to keep from watching him, watching that wonderfully mobile mouth as it went through the motions of looking serious, of contemplating a question, of smiling suddenly, and noticing how these smiles were not always reflected in his eyes. Noticing, too, how beautiful his hands were, and how restless; seeing the way his hair curled on his neck and even, for a moment, seeming to catch the scent of him, woody and warm.

  These were signs that even an idiot could read, these were warnings a mile high, and choosing to read them well, needing time to absorb the implications of this sudden bolt of feeling, she unlocked her gaze, leant over on the sofa arm, and paid studious attention to the captain.

  Leaving the saloon, the sales agent smoothed his way through some last well-practised selling points, and then they made their way back down to the ground.

  ‘Well?’ Nick asked, as they walked towards the car.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘What did you think of it?’

  ‘Ah. Well … I think it’s – um’ – she made a show of trying to find the right word – ‘I think it’s unbelievable.’

  He cast her a sidelong glance, trying to gauge her meaning. ‘I thought I might take off for a year,’ he explained seriously. ‘You know, get away. Sail somewhere nice. Explore.’

  ‘Explore? It won’t exactly make it up the Amazon.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of – ’ He made a face. ‘You’re very hard on me,’ he commented without rancour. ‘You really didn’t like it?’

  ‘I thought it was dreadful!’ she laughed. ‘Really. I mean, that’s one seriously vulgar object, Nick.’

  They got into the car. The driver sped round to his seat and they started off.

  ‘The owner went bankrupt in the middle of the refit,’ Nick said. ‘And now if the yard don’t manage to sell it, it could bankrupt them too, put people out of work.’

  ‘But the yard’s already broke, isn’t it?’ she cried, waving a hand. ‘I mean, the docks are empty. You can’t buy a horror like that just to bail out a boatyard, Nick.’

  ‘But it’s something to take into account – ’

  ‘Not if they’re going down the chute anyway.’

  ‘And I thought you were the idealist, Daisy.’

  He had spoken in a bantering tone, but there was a dart of seriousness underneath. ‘Ouch!’ she said, with feeling. ‘But what I do – that’s different, that’s – ’ She creased her face into a grimace. ‘Okay, well, maybe it isn’t entirely different,’ she conceded. ‘But that doesn’t change the fact that the boat’s a stinker, Nick. It’s for flash-merchants, the sort who drive gold Rollers and wear shades in the dark – retired arms dealers and property developers and men with shiny suits. The kind who buy their friends like they buy their clothes. You’re not that loud, really you’re not.’

  It was out before she could stop it. ‘I mean – ’

  But he was already saying solemnly: ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘I mean’ – she felt the laughter simmering between them again – ‘you’re better than that.’

  ‘Well, thank you.’

  The irony came through in his voice, and seeing that she had made him smile again, she looked out of the window at the rows of gloomy houses in a state of sudden and quite unjustified happiness.

  The pilot said he’d stay in the aircraft and have a sandwich there. It occurred to Nick that he was being diplomatic, that he thought the expedition had been organized for some romantic purpose. Realizing, Nick almost asked him to join them, but thought better of it. He and Daisy did, after all, have things to discuss, though they would be very far from what the pilot had in mind.

  Taking the cool-boxes, Nick led the way across the springy turf towards a small rise. Carrying the rugs, Daisy strode along beside him, all energy and life, her chin set, her face tilted towards the sky, her eyes half closed as if to absorb the light.

  Breasting the rise, a vast panorama opened out before them: to the left the hills of Islay, so close that they looked like a continuation of the land they were standing on; far to the right the long craggy outline of Mull, and, ahead, lying dark and low in a sparkling grey sea, the islands of Colonsay and Oronsay, conjoined in a single elongated reef. Beyond them, there was nothing but sea, the vast sprawl of the western ocean, stretching towards an invisible horizon.

  ‘Where are we? Where are we?’ Daisy gasped. Then in the next breath: ‘No, no, don’t tell me!’

  He saw a perfect picnic place a short way below, an area of close-cropped grass within a circle of heather, and carried the cool-boxes down. He took the rugs from Daisy and shook them out. Opening a box, he offered her a drink.

  She seemed dazed, only half listening. ‘What?’ she said, tearing herself away from the view. ‘I’ll have wine, thanks.’

  He opened a bottle and poured her a glass.

  She sat down on the rug with a long sigh. ‘This place …’ She exhaled, then shook her head, as if words could never adequately describe it. ‘Is it an island?’ she asked suddenly.

  He nodded. ‘A large one.’

  ‘Don’t tell me the name! Don’t tell me anything about it! I don’t want to know. I never want to know.’ She stretched her arms lazily towards the sea as if to embrace it and gave a low almost sensual chuckle.

  He recorked the wine bottle and poured himself a mineral water. He was aware that she had turned and was watching him.

  ‘Not quite like when we last met,’ he said, going carefully. ‘How did I behave? I mean, was it bad, or just plain embarrassing?’

  ‘You behaved immaculately,’ she declared. ‘You gave me all that money.’

  He gave her a look to show that hadn’t been what he meant.

  ‘No, you were fine,’ she said, with that quick open smile of hers. ‘I mean – considering …’

  ‘Not, I hope, loud?’

  ‘Ha, ha.’ She grinned. ‘Not loud.’

  They looked out over the sea, which from this height seemed hard and flat, like steel. Eventually Daisy said: ‘You know, you look at all this and you can’t believe there’s anything wrong with the world – you know what I mean? Everything seems so strong here – so incorruptible. It seems unbelievable that we can screw it up so effectively.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I see,’ he said, loading his bread high with salmon. ‘I see the sea.’

  There was a pause while she thought about that. ‘You think I’m bullshitting,’ she said, her voice coming alive with the possibilities of a friendly argument.

  ‘No.’ He took a mouthful. The salmon was tender as butter. ‘But I think you worry too much.’

  She gave a short sigh. ‘You’re right, of course you’re right.’

  This sunny, reasonable, languid Daisy – was it an act? Even as Nick considered it, he thought it unlikely. She was too spontaneous, too transparent for that. She was like a guard dog whose ferocious exterior hides something quite different beneath.

  She sipped her wine and, leaning back on one elbow, arched her neck until her head lay back against her shoulder. She had a long neck, he noticed, long and smooth.

  ‘An island,’ she murmured, her voice soft and low. ‘Cut off from everything.’ She half turned to him: ‘Ever fancied an island? I mean, having one all to yourself.’

  ‘I’ve got one,’ he said. ‘In the Seychelles.’

  She propped herself up on one hand and stared at him. ‘God, you’ve done it all!’ she accused. Then, in further horror: ‘It must be awful to have done it all!’

  He thought about that for a moment. ‘Not in my work, I haven’t. I’ve still got a long way to go there.’

  She accepted that. It satisfied her work ethic. But she didn’t let him forget the island, not for a while anyway. She kept looking at him and
sucking in her breath gently and shaking her head.

  When they had finished eating they went for a walk, striking off parallel to the sea across the hilly moorland country. Daisy was well equipped in Doc Martens, he less so in trainers. They walked between dense patches of gorse and thistle, through knee-high heather, over wind-scrubbed slopes spotted with the occasional black-faced sheep. It was a while before they hit anything that resembled a path, and then Daisy was all for leaving it and making across rugged terrain towards a hill.

  ‘You forget – I’m unfit,’ he panted, hearing the wheezing of his lungs.

  But she wasn’t having excuses and urged him up the hill at a great rate. Twenty minutes later they reached the summit, he gasping, she triumphant. She would have led him down the following valley and up the next hill if he hadn’t insisted on returning to check with the pilot.

  The walk seemed to exhilarate her. As they retraced their steps she talked easily and rapidly, asking him about his childhood, his early life, listening with concentration, offering occasional comments. Her remarks were perceptive in an oblique off-beat way; they were also kind. The word echoed in his mind: kind, and he was aware of feeling a new trust in her. Even when she touched on dangerous territory – Alusha’s illness, the inquest – he was able to answer with something like ease.

  Back at the picnic site he left her sitting on the rug and went to find the pilot, who said it was all right to stay another half hour. When Nick returned, Daisy had dozed off. The way she lay – head tucked on one arm, mouth slightly open – and the suddenness with which she’d fallen asleep, reminded him of a child.

  He sat close by, smoking steadily – too much, as always – watching a hawk hovering head-down over the heather, seeing the way the ocean glittered under the path of the sun.

  When he next glanced down at Daisy she was awake, peering up at him through half-closed eyes. She smiled softly at him, and he smiled back.

  She sat up and stretched. He said reminiscently: ‘That day, the day of the accident. There was a plane. I only remembered it when I was in Arizona. I had a dream one night, and it was there – in the dream. And when I woke up I could see it. A light plane. I don’t remember anything special about it, no spraying gear, nothing like that, but then I only saw it for an instant. The plane was coming down Loch Fyne, heading straight for Ashard.’

  ‘The plane that dumped its load on Adrian Bell, he saw it clearly,’ she said. ‘He said it had a red diagonal stripe on one wing.’

  ‘I don’t remember a stripe.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed quickly as if she hadn’t expected him to.

  She sat up on her haunches and pushed a hand through her hair. Her brightness had gone. ‘One of the reasons I’m up this weekend is to try to find a way of stopping the local authority from taking Adrian into care.’

  ‘Why would they want to take him into care?’

  ‘To give him “essential” treatment – essential psychiatric treatment, that is.’

  ‘Christ … Can they do that?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She explained it to him. Her voice was flat and cool.

  He remembered Alusha and the enforced swimming and the nameless drugs. ‘Well … if I can help at all … Can I?’

  ‘Ah.’ She gave a nervous chuckle. ‘You already have. I took some money out of the project – I didn’t think you’d mind, it’s not very much.’ She looked up to him for approval. ‘To pay their solicitor.’

  He said he didn’t mind.

  Far below, the sea had softened under a mackerel sky. The breeze had strengthened. Turning to face it, she said in a neutral voice: ‘They okayed Silveron for general use this week. MAFF – the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food – they think the stuff’s okay to be sprayed on food.’ She allowed herself a small snort of disgust. ‘Morton-Kreiger must have pulled some wires to get away with that one. They probably nobbled that twit Driscoll.’

  Driscoll. He thought immediately of Susan, saw her walking through the rooms of the Kensington house, redecorating them with a curl of her hands, and moved the conversation onto different ground. ‘What about the project – our project?’ he asked. ‘No results?’

  ‘Not yet. And I’m afraid there won’t be any, not for a while.’ She sat up on her heels, eyes round and bright, head alert. The guard dog back on duty. ‘Maybe months.’

  Here was the bad news then, the news she’d been preparing to tell him all day. He began to pack the bottles back into the cool-boxes.

  ‘It’s been a combination of things,’ she said, forcing some of the lightness back into her voice. ‘Unforeseen expenses – we’re running over budget, I’m afraid. But also there’s a problem with a licence. We’ve got to have this licence to get started, and there’s been a delay. I’d almost believe it was intentional, except …’ She trailed off, and the worries of the world came across her forehead in a sharp frown.

  He stood up. ‘So?’ He knew what was coming, but he thought he’d ask anyway.

  She clambered to her feet. As she rose, he reached down and picked up the rugs.

  ‘The delay – it’s going to cost a great deal. And we were running tight on the budget anyway.’ In her discomfort she couldn’t quite meet his eye. ‘There were so many unforeseen problems, things we couldn’t budget for. Everyone’s been great – the staff, trying so hard, working all hours, getting everything set up … But without that piece of paper it’s useless – we can’t even begin.’

  A flurry of wind caught her hair and lifted it across her face. She pushed it impatiently away. ‘I’ve tried to find a way round it – God, I even thought of moving the whole thing abroad – but there’d be just as many problems.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘So near and yet so far isn’t in it.’ She gave a ragged laugh. ‘You know I’ve never cared about anything as much as I’ve cared about this. It’s not just Adrian, it’s not just all the other people, it’s the bloody injustice of it all. It makes me totally wild!’ She glared at him, daring him to disagree. ‘I know you think I’m totally obsessed – well, I am, I admit I am – but why not – why not? If this isn’t worth doing, then what is?’

  The old Daisy, fiery as ever. She must have caught the look in his eye because she pulled back visibly. ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,’ she said with sudden gravity. ‘I wouldn’t even ask.’

  He didn’t reply immediately. Giving her the rugs to carry, he picked up the cool-boxes and started up the rise, using the time to go through the motions of conducting a brief debate with himself, although he already had a strong suspicion of what the outcome would be. His brain was quite rightly shouting caution: any fool could have told him it was crazy to let Daisy suck him deeper into what was fast looking like a doomed situation, complete with financial and organizational catastrophes. His brain shouted, but his mind wasn’t listening. It was tuned to his instincts, and they were saying: To hell with it. It was partly stubbornness but it was also a fascination with Daisy’s uncomplicated view of justice, a need to believe that life could be reduced to basic moral issues. He rather liked the idea of an anarchic one-woman campaign against the world. Daisy and Goliath.

  Then of course there was the plane, the plane that prowled around the edges of his memory. The plane heading in over the loch.

  He was nearing the top of the rise. He could hear Daisy’s footsteps coming up behind. He turned suddenly.

  ‘How much?’

  She stared at him. He noticed her eyes, which were flecked with gold. ‘Three hundred thousand. Well – ’ she grimaced. ‘That is – I think.’

  He put down the cool-boxes and looked back at the sea for a long moment. ‘All right.’

  Searching his face for confirmation, she gave a low gasp and, dropping the rugs, threw her arms round his neck and pulled him into a large and very tight hug. Her body was small and warm against his. Slowly, not quite sure what he was feeling, he put his arms lightly round her, then just as gently withdrew them and pulled away.

  Picking up the cool-boxes
, he started off again. The Bell came into view over the ridge. Daisy caught up with him again.

  ‘This licence,’ he asked her, ‘it’ll come through all right, will it?’

  ‘What?’ Her face was radiant, her eyes shining. ‘Oh yes,’ she panted. ‘We’ve checked. Should be quite soon.’

  ‘What is it, this licence, anyway?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a permit really, it’s – ’ She seemed to hesitate. ‘Well, we’re not allowed to start work without it.’

  ‘Why? What’s it for?’

  ‘It’s – to ensure that things get done properly.’ That suggestion of evasion again. ‘To make sure one follows the rules.’

  A thought came to him, a thought so appalling and so obvious that he knew it must be true. ‘What rules?’

  ‘For the tests.’

  Grinding to a halt he looked down into her upturned face. ‘What kind of tests?’

  ‘Well … the mandatory tests. The ones that have to be done for all pesticides – ’

  He felt cold, the buffeting wind seemed to pass straight through him. ‘Like?’ he asked sharply.

  She was pale, she knew what was coming. ‘Like the LD50 test – ’

  ‘What’s that?’

  She tried to pass it off lightly. ‘It’s to see what dosage is needed to kill fifty per cent of the sample. Though you don’t actually kill fifty per cent, you can work it out statistically without that – ’

  ‘Sample? You mean, animals?’

  ‘Rats. Or mice. Usually rats.’

  He stared at her, dumbfounded. ‘Animals?’

  ‘Look, we wouldn’t choose to use any animals, not in a thousand years, but we’re forced to. That’s the system.’

  ‘The system?’

  ‘Yes! Animal tests are the only kind they recognize – ’

  He still couldn’t take it in. ‘Jesus,’ he kept saying. ‘Jesus.’

  She began to rally. ‘Look, every pesticide used on every vegetable has been tested that way. Every time you buy a carrot or a potato or an orange, anything that’s not organic, you’re condoning the system – ’