Bone Deep

by Sandra Ireland

  Jane has had to go through all of the shitty stuff you get left with in a situation like this. She’s had to be there for Reuben’s sister, Laura, who is struggling to cope alone with all those kids until her husband can get back from some distant oilfield. She’s had to deal with the insurance company, and the garage people; the car is a write-off. Writing something off seems to take a huge amount of time and energy and all I’ve been able to do is hang around and make tea and offer the right words in the right places.

  The cop informs us that the accident happened on the b333, near Fettermore. Jane peers at me for some kind of clarification, but my mouth has gone so dry my tongue won’t work.

  ‘Just down the road from here,’ the female cop fills in helpfully. Her gaze is swinging round the room. She’s already observed the damp wood and my ripped-knee jeans. She doesn’t rate me much as a hostess, or a sister.

  ‘Was he going to Dundee then?’ Jane scrunches up her nose, managing to look like a distressed Reese Witherspoon, rather than Miss Piggy, as I would.

  ‘Erm, possibly, although . . .’ The female cop looks at the male. ‘It’s slightly off the main road. Perhaps he had to detour into the village for something.’

  ‘And the crash site . . . it is slightly out of the village,’ says the male cop, ‘and the car was facing due east which means he . . .’

  I break in with a cheery, ‘Anyone like some tea? Cake?’

  I have a whole plastic tub of blueberry muffins, courtesy of Arthur. The male cop pats his super-fit stomach and declines with a smile. They eventually get up to go, promising to keep in touch. I hurry them through the back door and lean against it when they’re gone, struggling to breathe.

  When I get back to Jane, I can tell she’s been thinking this through. She’s sitting bolt upright, stroking the arm of the couch in a most unfriendly manner.

  ‘So . . . where was he going? Had he popped in to see you?’

  ‘Um . . . Did he even know I was here? I’ve been working a lot, up at the house, so I may have missed him if he did drop by.’ My heart is rattling in my ribcage. I have an urgent need to pee.

  Jane picks up the cushion again and hugs it to her chest. ‘I did mention to him where you were, but . . .’

  ‘Oh, well that’s it, then. Maybe he decided to drop by in passing. You know, if he was working in Dundee.’

  ‘He never said he was working in Dundee.’

  She’s picking away at some loose threads on the cushion. I want to grab hold of her hand, arrest her. Never pick at loose threads.

  ‘They do lots of maintenance work in Dundee, on the rigs. They tow them into the harbour.’ I’m gabbling now. ‘You should see them at night – Mac says they’re all lit up like Christmas trees.’

  ‘Maybe that’s it.’ Jane doesn’t sound convinced. ‘It’s just . . . Och, never mind.’ She subsides, cuddling the cushion closer.

  ‘What?’

  There’s something she’s not saying. I can feel it.

  ‘It’s just that Reuben has been acting a bit strange. Oh, look – I don’t want to talk about it now, when he’s so ill . . .’ Her voice breaks up a bit. My voice is stuck. What? I scream it on the inside. What?

  She’s shaking her head, shaking away some groundless notion. ‘He’s just been really distant, not always answering my texts. Oh, it’s nothing, but . . .’

  ‘But?’ I sink down beside the hearth again, reach for my glass and take a big gulp of wine.

  She looks up at a space above the fire, to the right of the clock. Her eyes are too sparkly. ‘If I didn’t know Reuben better . . . I’d say he’s been seeing someone else.’

  Mac

  Their father is a giant of a man. He sleeps late into the day and goes out at night, coming home splattered with mud and smelling of horse sweat and other men’s cattle. Sometimes, when they cannot sleep, the sisters creep down to the hall and crouch in the shadows and listen to their father carousing with his men. The men drink wine the colour of blood, and whisky, and there is an air of triumph about them. Sometimes, their father spies his daughters and summons them over to sit on his knee, or on the arms of his chair, and calls upon his war band to drink a toast to them, and the dogs growl mightily if any man lurches too close. Once, Elspeth wrinkled her nose and told her father that he smelled of a perfume that wasn’t her mother’s and that had provoked laughter in him as loud as thunder.

  My pencil pauses. I become aware of two things: I’ve been staring at the page for ages, and someone is staring at me.

  Anita comes over to see if I need another coffee. I hadn’t been sure about decamping to the cafe to write, but the house seems suddenly very empty, with Lucie spending time up at the hospital with Jane. I’ve got used to her grumpy presence, the way she swears at the dogs, the murderous glint in her eye when I ask her to do the ironing. I suppose the sad fact is that she is a presence. Sometimes, you only know you’re lonely when you find yourself with company.

  The bonus of working in the cafe means that Anita is on hand to provide me with a constant supply of hot beverages, and it’s warm, too. March has come in like the proverbial lion, all teeth and claws, and up at the house, the draughts can’t be contained. I’ve taken to shuffling around with a woolly tartan rug around my shoulders. Arthur says I look like a bag lady without the bags.

  ‘How do you know if someone is cheating on you?’ I chew the rubber at the end of the pencil and look up at Anita. ‘I’ve used the old perfume cliché here, but I fear that’s just what it is – a cliché.’

  Anita frowns. She pretends to think about it, standing there with my dirty coffee mug in her hand, but really I know she’s just thinking how bonkers I am. She’s never really ‘got’ me, and yet in many ways she is my staunchest ally. All that time, when Arthur was going through the break-up with Nancy, Anita was my spy in the camp, my eyes and ears. I had thought that perhaps she and Arthur might . . . but rumour has it that Anita is betrothed to a distant cousin back in India. Does she ever wonder what the distant cousin is up to in distant climes? Probably not. When not clearing tables she immerses herself in her coursework – something to do with forensics, I believe. She had her textbooks in here one day – human identification through bones and so on. It all seemed quite macabre for a young girl. I know her tutor, a round, unimaginative chap, who inhabits a very different world to mine. We once had quite a frank discussion about science versus the arts, and he had the nerve to warn me that my foray into fiction writing would put paid to my credibility as an academic. ‘You’ll be destroyed by your own imagination!’ he’d chuckled.

  Eventually, Anita speaks in her soft, measured way. ‘In a recent Australian study, researchers found that men can recognise women who cheat by merely looking at facial photographs. It would seem that men have evolved to detect the possibility of an unfaithful female in order to make sure any offspring are genetically theirs. My own opinion is that one should never dwell on the possibility of infidelity. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. More coffee? You should eat – it’s nearly lunchtime.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ I am distracted. A self-fulfilling prophecy? That isn’t right, and I want to tell her so. ‘I’ll have the soup. That’s all fine and dandy for the men, but what about the women. How do women know their man is being unfaithful?’

  ‘Soup it is.’

  She glides away. From somewhere beyond the bead curtain that divides the shop from the kitchen, I can hear Arthur singing along to the radio. No, that self-fulfilling prophecy idea is preposterous. I never dwelt on the possibility of Jim leading a double life. I was too busy to dwell on anything. Something dark and sleepy stirs in my belly, and when Anita brings the soup – pea and broccoli – I wonder whether I’ll be able to digest it.

  I’m not sure why these old feelings have suddenly decided to surface now. I seem to be spending an awful lot of time pondering recent events. I heard sirens on the morning of the accident. A surprising collision on a little-used back road. Lucie’s unexpected visitor. I must a
dmit I’m a little disconcerted by the way all these pieces are coming together. Arthur’s words keep coming back to me. Still waters run deep. As deep as the millpond. That other story too is tormenting me, asking to be written, to be recorded. Things need to come to light. That phrase over and over in my head. I woke up this morning mumbling those words. The voice I heard was Bella’s.

  The door bursts open and suddenly Lucie is standing there, all windswept and sulky-mouthed. Her gaze tumbles over me and finds Arthur, who’s just emerging from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a tea towel. Anita catches my eye.

  ‘Did you leave cakes on my door again last night?’ Lucie demands. She can be terribly blunt. I see Arthur recoil a tad, slap the towel on the counter with more force than is strictly necessary. The two church types in the corner raise their heads.

  ‘I left a box of chocolate and date brownies, to be exact,’ he says warily. ‘I thought you and your sister might –’

  Lucie throws up both hands, despairingly. ‘Why didn’t you knock?’

  ‘Because I don’t generally get a great reception!’ Arthur raises his voice, just a little. The old ladies lean in and whisper, and Anita suddenly finds a job for herself behind the counter. I’m unsure about this tension between them. It feels dangerous, out of control.

  ‘Well, the dog’s eaten them. There was paper all over the outside this morning. I only stopped in to tell you because –’

  I grip the table ‘Which dog? Chocolate is poisonous to dogs!’

  Lucie flounces around. ‘Exactly! That’s why I came in! I don’t have time for this.’ She half turns, and through the window I see her sister’s car. The sister is staring at the shop door, fists clenched on the wheel.

  ‘It’ll be Floss . . .’

  ‘Probably Floss . . .’

  Arthur and I both speak together. Lucie grips the door handle and makes to go. She seems softer, suddenly.

  ‘It probably was Floss. I thought I’d better tell you. I wouldn’t like anything to happen to her, and I don’t have time to . . . I have to go.’

  She opens the door, slowly.

  Arthur steps forward. ‘Is everything okay?’

  She looks at him for moment. Something passes between them. I’m just feet away but it passes over me. I experience a moment of disquiet.

  Her voice is little more than a whisper. ‘I don’t know. The hospital called. Reuben is awake.’

  Lucie

  Reuben is awake.

  I’m standing at the foot of your bed, Reuben. I’ve deliberately put acres of white sheet between us, because you shouldn’t be looking at me. Jane’s place is up there beside you, stroking your face, holding your hand. I can’t hear that first, precious exchange of words, but it seems intimate, meaningful, and I am bereft.

  Jane helps you sip water from a cloudy plastic glass. She wipes your mouth with a fresh tissue.

  ‘Come on, Lucie!’ Like a traffic cop, she beckons me over. ‘Come and say hi!’

  Reluctantly, I tiptoe into your line of vision. Under the stubble I used to find so sexy, there’s a sudden edge to your face; your eyes have grown carefully neutral. Nothing wrong with your memory, then. You try out a smile, and when you speak, your voice is low and hoarse with disuse.

  ‘Lucie, this is all your fault.’

  I go cold, like someone’s drenched me from above with icy water. Is this the way it’s to be? Are you going to reveal all here, when you’re in no fit state to take any blame? Did you have a light-bulb moment when your lights were out? Beside me, Jane giggles, not quite getting the joke. Her gaze drifts between your face and mine. I’m afraid to speak.

  ‘Remember you asked your mother for those books?’ Your eyes look kind of desperate. I have no choice but to play along.

  I nod. ‘Oh, yes . . . the books.’

  ‘I thought I’d drop them in to you, in passing, seeing as I was going to Dundee. But you were out.’

  ‘Yes, I must have been out.’ My jaw tightens. How long have you been lying there, Reuben, dreaming up lies? Thinking up ways to avoid the truth in your white-sheet prison?

  The truth. I think we’re edging closer to it, aren’t we? It’s swimming there, just under the surface, like a big fat trout. I could almost touch it, if I wasn’t so afraid of the water.

  ‘Do you know what?’ I flash them both my brightest smile. ‘I’m going to head off now, leave you two lovebirds together.’

  ‘But how will you get home?’ Jane says.

  ‘Bus. There are loads of buses. Then you can stay as long as you want.’

  I edge out, her half-hearted objections ringing in my ears. You say nothing. You’re still holding her hand. I brush past a nurse, turn and run down the corridor. Without Arthur’s patient directions, I get lost, but eventually I end up at the cafeteria. I need to sit down, take a few minutes. I order a latte and an almond croissant. They are pretty good.

  The bus stops at the bottom of the road that leads up to the mill. I’d already noted, as we juddered to a halt, that the cafe is still open, the front window a square of warm fuzzy amber in a dismal day. I pretend to dither, but actually my legs are already taking me across the road. Through the foggy plate glass, I can see the waitress sweeping under the tables. I open the door slowly. Mac is standing at the counter with her back to me. She is in full flow.

  ‘And I said to him, no you are not doing my garden again. After last year? Good heavens, the silly man chopped down an apple tree full of fruit and then tried to hide all the apples. Who chops down a fruit tree? I asked him to prune the lilac. He doesn’t know his arse from his elbow. I said to him, I said . . .’

  ‘The apples weren’t wasted, to be fair.’ Arthur comes into view from the depths of the kitchen. He looks tired. ‘We had apple crumble, apple turnovers, apple jelly, spiced apple chutney – Oh, Lucie . . .’

  Mac swings around, and I’m trapped in the full glare of her attention.

  ‘Well? How did it go?’

  She makes it sound as if I’ve been performing in some kind of drama. I’ve certainly learned to act.

  ‘Let her sit down. Lucie, I’ll get you a hot drink.’ Arthur grabs a clean mug and busies himself at the coffee machine. The waitress pulls out a chair at the nearest table, and I sit down heavily. Her smile, like her eyes, is watchful. Mac comes to sit opposite me. I can’t avoid her questions.

  ‘He’s awake. I’ve left Jane with him. There’s no point in the two of us being there.’ Arthur rests a steaming latte in front of me. ‘It’s Jane he wants to see.’ My tone is light, humorous, even, but Arthur catches my eye for a split second before he moves away.

  ‘Did she ask him where the crash happened?’ Mac insists. ‘Did she find out what caused it? Speed, I imagine.’

  The waitress speaks quickly, softly. ‘That’s such a bad bend, even if you know the roads.’

  ‘Anita . . .’ From the other side of the counter, Arthur is shaking his head the tiniest bit. Anita bites her bottom lip and hurries away to resume sweeping. When I catch his eye, he just smiles and picks up his tongs to load more cakes onto a white plate. I hope they aren’t for me. The hot, steamy atmosphere is making me queasy.

  ‘It’s early days, but they’re saying that Reuben could be out quite soon.’ My tongue lingers secretly, hungrily, on his name. ‘He’ll have to have intense physio, and probably another operation on his leg.’

  ‘That seems positive then. Your sister will nurse him back to health. It’s what you do, isn’t it? In sickness and in health, all that stuff. That’s what you sign up for.’ Mac’s voice has a bitter edge that I hadn’t been expecting. She turns sharply to the counter. ‘Aren’t I getting a coffee? Actually, make it tea. If I have coffee at this late stage I’ll be up in the night, peeing on the carpet like the bloody dogs.’

  Arthur is cleaning the spout of the espresso machine. There’s a bit of bad-tempered banging, and I think I hear him swear beneath his breath. ‘Ma, you’ve been here since this morning. We’re trying to get finished up.’


  Mac widens her eyes at me. ‘Did you hear that? I have been working. I bet J. K. Rowling never had to put up with this abuse at The Elephant House.’ She pushes at her notebook. It’s sitting between us, the pen placed neatly on top. I hadn’t noticed it, but now a faint flush of anticipation perks me up like a caffeine hit.

  ‘Have you been working on your stories?’ I’ve been pestering her for ages to finish that one about the castle, but she’s been procrastinating.

  She inclines her head, as if she has a secret and can’t voice it. I make a grab for the notebook, but she gets there first and sweeps it into her bag. ‘Stories have to play out in their own good time. Now . . .’ She gets slowly to her feet. ‘Since I have outstayed my welcome, I will take myself off and leave you two to chat.’

  She begins muttering about keys, and all the rubbish she carries in her bag – notebooks, pens, cough sweets, a compact umbrella – is hauled out and dumped on the table in front of me. Mac surfaces with the key, a twinkling, elusive fish. ‘Got it! My mother used to pin it to my knickers, and no wonder.’

  Behind the counter, Arthur groans. Anita seems to have disappeared. The thought of being alone with him is scary, but I don’t quite know why.

  Mac

  A sudden squall of rain blows out of nowhere as I trudge up the road. I should have asked Anita to drop me off. She’s always bombing around in that old banger of hers, even though she lives not ten minutes from the village. She’d been talking about going to meet friends, so maybe she was running late. She certainly didn’t linger. One minute she was taking her pinny off and the next she was gone.

  So Arthur has Lucie to chat to. She’s not the easiest of folk, but she seems to unbend a little when he’s around. There’s a gentle spark between them, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. He’s been lonely since Nancy left, but I’m not certain Lucie is the right girl to fill the gap. I zip my anorak up as far as it will go, and bend my head into the squall, letting the rain belt off my waxed hat. It’s been a good writing day, productive. Bella and Elspeth have grown today. A young man has come on the scene; courting the father, before he can pay attention to the daughters. Things are hotting up.