A Superior Spectre

by Angela Meyer

  Our silences go well together.

  But when I scream at night in terror or shame or pain, what will she do? It just erupts, a foaming spray.

  Bethea is back from the kiosk and munching inelegantly, staring out at the water. Her pale face is scrubbed and unreadable. She wears layers of wool, pilled and old.

  Maybe her face is not inscrutable; maybe I have never been a good reader of women’s faces.

  I can’t think about the fact she knows I’m dying. The fact she is letting me do it in front of her. Her compassion is too much to bear. Did her husband die horribly, or quickly? Either way, she’s done this before or she’s playing out what she wished she’d been able to do. That gives me some use. Maybe I am supposed to do one good (however skewed and strange) thing before dying.

  She munches and I think I’ll be fine but then we hit the open water and the sea rises up on one side and then the other. My head feels fuzzy and my stomach complains with a belch. There must be somewhere outdoors I can sit.

  ‘I’m going for a walk.’

  She nods.

  I find the stairs and walk slowly and carefully up, blocking a fit couple in their sixties in full waterproof gear.

  On deck the air is thick and salty and a relief. The only seats are facing backwards. Nonetheless, I sit and watch the mainland recede while my hair ferals about my head. It is not raining, at least.

  ‘Whisky or wildlife?’ asks another loner, with an American accent, binoculars around his throat. I don’t want to make conversation, mate, I just want to sit and control my breathing.

  I say the first thing I think of. ‘Seals.’

  ‘You’re Australian?’

  ‘Good pick. Whereabouts in the States are you from?’

  ‘Toronto.’

  ‘Shit, sorry.’

  He waves it away. Happens all the time. I feel bad. But maybe now he’ll leave me alone.

  ‘I’m going for the birds of prey,’ he says, ‘eagles mainly. And a bit of the whisky too.’ He whites me with his smile.

  ‘Well, enjoy,’ I say, and stand up before another question can come. I stumble, embarrassingly, and bile rises. I cling to the ferry’s edge and make my way around the side, where there is, thankfully, no one. But no seats, either. I place both hands on a rail behind me, and lean back into the wall. And watch the islands coming into view.

  I can’t see much in the grey spray. The isle probably looks as it did, if not in Leonora’s time, at least a hundred years ago. The permanence is comforting. There are still green remote places like this, producing spirits that taste like salt and smoke, that transport you through time – via sensation. They’ve been doing this a long time, but I guess we get bored of all that is good and have to invent new forms of technology to turn experience up a notch. Go beyond Proust’s momentary madeleine effect and make it into something clear that can also be captured, pinned down. Nothing is allowed to stay unexplainable, at the tip of the tongue – What does that remind me of? A banana lolly, my first kiss at the carnival?

  Maybe if life were all sensation. Wait, no, that’s what I have been denying myself my whole life. Because sensation is not always equal on either side. The other party might be consumed, like a dram of whisky.

  I go downstairs as we come into the dock. Bethea holds out her arm for me to take. I hate that I need to. But the stairs are steep down to the car hold. We take them very slowly. I vomit just outside the passenger door – it smells of cured meats – and a few people avert their eyes. I get in the car, leaving the puddle. Bethea says nothing but hands me a half-full bottle of water. I watch the door of the ferry open. The land bobs and swings in my vision. Soon it settles as the ferry is secured enough for us to drive out.

  ‘’S’not far,’ says Bethea.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I say.

  She drives like all the Scots seem to, fast and hogging the road but then gliding to the edge when someone has to pass. Fast but friendly. A little toot on the horn here and there in thanks. All the colours of green on this island, farm to bog to forest. Coloured wildness all over the peat. Large tracts cut out and black. Disparate guesthouses, farmhouses, white brick distilleries with their distinct pagodas. Small curved beaches with black driftwood, starred with pebbles. Highland cattle in their long burnt-orange coats and a man shaking out the grain for them, smiling at my gaping tourist mouth. Black sheep, and white sheep with black faces. A hen harrier guarding a junction on a pole.

  Down a long dirt driveway we turn, with greenery overgrown and flattened by wind encroaching upon it. Small birds swarm like bugs. Bethea’s house is large and brown, like a jutting cliff. She often has it rented out all summer, she tells me. Mainly whisky tourists. But the biting wind on the island means it isn’t so popular in the colder months.

  I lean against the car as Bethea unpacks everything. Once the bags are out – including William neatly folded in his box – she reaches in and pulls out a knobbly old shillelagh, and hands it to me. ‘Was me Da’s,’ she says.

  I take it and give it a go, leaning into it. I’m surprised by how well the walking stick fits me, or suits my temperament. The illness has aged me about forty years, it seems.

  ‘All I need now is a pipe, maybe some tweed,’ I say.

  She laughs, her eyes crinkling. ‘Tha’ can be arranged! There’s a woollen mill up the road that’s been here longer than yer colony.’ Her smile fades quickly. ‘Right, then,’ she says, picking up one bag and heading for the door, her sturdy arse wobbling with the weight of it.

  Iwake up and for a moment I think I am the bug I saw on the wall in my vision. I think I cannot turn over because my back has become a hard, round shell and my many tiny legs are sticking up in the air.

  But then I see my own hand reaching, and the panic slowly ebbs, like dissipating smoke. I stay lying in bed, where I am confined. Ailie would not let me leave the house, and still isn’t letting me. She is displaying rage through her tight lips, disappointment through lowered eyes.

  So I am confined, until she decides what to do with me. I am also ill. My body aches, and I have brought up meals. My clothing is loosening again. I will be back to my old physique, though not due to trudging across moors in fine air. By the time William arrives, I wonder?

  Edith brings in porridge. Through the sheets the bowl warms my belly. ‘Could you refresh my hot water bottle?’ I ask her.

  She smiles sweetly, but there is an edge of something beneath it. Perhaps because a maid would not have the luxury of getting sick like this, or going mad.

  The porridge is made with butter and salt. It is rich and gets stuck in my throat. The few drops of laudanum left in the bottle call to me, but I know I must save them because there might be spies, now, if I try to venture out again for more.

  I close my eyes and there is an image of a mother and her daughter standing in the doorway. I snap my eyes open. They are from that story with the bug. How do I know it is a story? It is within me like a memory, because of the emotions it draws forth. The mother cannot look at me.

  Here is a real memory now: sipping milk and water from a bowl, my mother with her arms around my shoulders. I can’t see her face, ever.

  I can only feel the weight of her arm, her presence, her eyes on me. If I try to remember her face it blurs further, and slips away to the side of my vision.

  I jump when the door opens again. Ailie stands halfway in, one large hand resting above her bosom. She clears her throat. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asks.

  Alone. It takes a moment for me to summon my voice. ‘Perhaps getting better.’

  She nods. She stays where she is, as though I will jump at her, like an unleashed dog. ‘It’s very important that the laird is making time for you, you know.’

  I just cannot wait to smell the Highlands on him, to be brought closer to home. ‘I know, Aunt.’

  She wants to ask if I’ll behave. Her frown shows her worry.

  ‘He knows me, Aunt. It will be all right.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of c
ourse.’ She has talked to me about suitable behaviours, and public decorum, but never addressed the issue directly, just gathered worry in her eyes like bunched cloth.

  She will be coming with me to see William at the inn where he’ll be staying. We will no doubt ask about his wife; I will ask about his dog, I will ask about Chapeltown, I will ask about my father. It will all break my heart.

  William suits the opulent room on the top floor of the hotel with a view of the castle and the mound. His blond hair is as clean and glossy as the gold brocade that hugs the curtains and hangs from the bed canopy, which can be glimpsed in the far room. We are in the sitting area – Ailie, myself and the laird – with a young maid flitting in and out topping up tea. A tray of sweets sits on a low table in front of us, and I accidentally choose a large, hard piece, which diminishes my ability to talk. I am overwhelmed, anyway, and Ailie is doing enough talking for the both of us. She was delighted, when we arrived, to see the laird be so familiar with me, though I knew he hid the full extent of his affection. I was glad to see it still in his eyes. As Ailie talks and I wrestle with this rock in my mouth, his eyes move often to me.

  A small whiff, I catch, of grass and dog, but the fire is also going and he is freshly washed, so the smell of the Highlands has not permeated the room. Probably just as well, as it may have made me faint with want. It is really even too much to see him sitting here, so formally, nodding at my aunt, as she tells him about the improvements to sanitation and plumbing in the city, and drops the names of famous architects, and then scientists and artists and authors, whom she has met.

  ‘My dear old Charlie, he was rather a good friend of the poet Thomas Aird when Aird was editor of the Herald. And Aird was a friend of De Quincey, you know. Charlie’s poems sadly were ahead of their time, misunderstood …’

  ‘That’s fascinating, Mrs Kemp. Please, have another biscuit.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly, but you are so kind. Leonora will have another one, though – won’t you, dear?’

  I nod and lean forward to take a chocolate-coated digestive, even though I have no appetite. I feel William’s eyes on my wrist, my hand.

  I’ve got you under my skin, sings a voice in my head, rich as the chocolate. I shake my head to clear it, and Ailie gives me an alarmed look.

  Take me back home, William.

  Ailie draws a breath but I cut in. ‘How is Aignish?’

  William looks relieved to be able to address me. ‘It is fine, dear Miss Duncan, your father and Mrs Duncan continue to care for it well.’ He smiles warmly. I actually do not want to hear that. I want to hear that they need me. ‘Winter took a while to come this year, so we are thinking it will last long, too. Remember the year when everyone had to bring the new lambs indoors because of the late snow?’

  How could I forget? Their small bodies navigating the furniture; Duff whimpering and confused. They’d been inside for only a few days but I’d wished it were forever. Bring the outside in and the inside out. An animal in my bed; sleeping under the stars.

  I say as much. Ailie cocks her head again. Oh, Aunt! Anger rises within me. She cannot possibly understand.

  ‘Perhaps we should be going,’ she says abruptly.

  ‘Oh no, no, you just arrived,’ says William.

  ‘We must not overstay our welcome,’ she says.

  ‘Take more tea,’ he says to her, and the maid is instantly at her elbow, filling her cup. The fragrance is lightly floral.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ she says. A small silence follows. ‘Leonora is getting on just fine,’ Ailie says, then sips delicately. ‘Very well indeed.’

  William seems to detect something in her tone. He looks at me sideways as she sips again.

  ‘Aren’t you, dear?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say, and clear my throat. ‘It’s very different, you know, from home. The air … I’ve been a little ill.’

  I imagine Ailie will be reproaching me with her eyes but when I glance over I see another familiar look on her face, and I lean across to rescue the cup of tea before she spills it on herself. Her eyes droop; she falls gently back onto the cushions.

  William looks startled.

  I can’t help but giggle. ‘It happens often.’

  ‘Oh!’ he says. ‘Well …’

  ‘It’s really so nice to see you,’ I say.

  ‘And you, Leonora.’ He remains with his eyes on Ailie.

  ‘She won’t wake for a while.’

  ‘We may speak a bit more freely, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, my heart swelling. ‘Oh, how I miss home.’

  ‘It can’t be so bad.’

  ‘It is just not my place, here.’

  ‘Have you made friends?’

  ‘I’ve tried.’

  ‘Friends like me?’

  I don’t answer. My lips tremble. Here I am presented with another opportunity. Here, finally, might be the person with whom I can share this burden.

  ‘I …’ The tears come in a rush.

  William stands quickly and comes over to me, touches my hair gently.

  ‘Leonora, Leonora, it can’t be that bad.’

  ‘It’s not just Edinburgh. It’s …’

  The maid enters and William springs back. She seems to assess the situation, and leaves again. I hear a door slide across.

  ‘Tell me.’

  His voice is so soothing. But my words are mad. How can I tell anyone? But if I don’t, it feels as if my well will fill up and overflow, and I don’t know what form that will take.

  ‘It is madness,’ I say.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘I …’ I look up into his eyes. ‘I am haunted.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He frowns.

  ‘I see visions; I hear voices.’ After the words come out, I am hit by a wave of fear instead of relief. ‘I have strange melodies in my head that I’ve never heard before.’

  William drops his hand from my hair. ‘When did this begin?’ He sits back down, away from me.

  ‘At first it wasn’t much – I just felt this … presence. But now, at times, it overtakes me. They are like the memories and thoughts of someone else, inside my own head.’

  ‘This is indeed madness,’ he says, looking at me with pity.

  ‘No, well … I don’t know. I thought, could it be something of the spirit world? But then, I have never believed in that, either.’

  He says nothing.

  ‘I have nae told anyone. I didn’t think I could. But it’s been such a burden.’ The thickness of the word burden in my accent.

  ‘Why tell me?’

  ‘You know me.’ I look into his eyes. He looks away. It is too much for him to contend with. I have made a mistake.

  ‘It will be all right, Leonora. These things are understood much better now. There is a whole science devoted to the mind.’ He points to his own head.

  ‘Oh, it’s so hard to explain. I’m sure that’s what any lunatic would say, but it feels truly to be something external invading me. I mean, some of these visions are of a world that does not exist, one I couldnae possibly have invented!’ I am exasperated now. And only making it worse. William remains looking away, at the gold brocade. These are ravings. I am not unintelligent; he is not unkind. ‘Look, William, I am glad I have told ye, to get it off my chest, but you do not need to take it on. Please, you can forget it. I will be all right, as you say.’

  He remains frowning. ‘You were always different,’ he says.

  As though I have let this in.

  He glances suddenly at Ailie, who is rousing. I quickly wipe my cheek. William picks up his teacup.

  ‘No thanks,’ my aunt says sleepily, smacking her lips a little, ‘but Leonora will have another biscuit.’

  Isleep on the top floor under the sloping roof, because it’s what I got used to on my small island. Away from the ground that is waiting to swallow me whole. These stairs are an ordeal, but with each painful step I remind myself that that’s why I’m still here, to feel this. A plate with a lonely s
ausage and an overcooked fried egg sits on the kitchen table.

  It is warm in here with the Rayburn on. Bethea is in the sitting room, tsking at the way the pages of her paperback curl in the damp. Her large underpants hang on a sagging line in front of the stove, with its hotplate covers thrown back like blown skirts. The drip-drip-drip onto the stone floor. I know I should wash my own clothes. It has been some time. I am turning wild. My hair is a wet sandbank pushed back in a heap from my forehead. It’s too matted to even finger-comb. Bethea says nothing about the smell. I’ve never been a naturally smelly person, but I nonetheless used to sluice any hint of dirt from my skin, showering for two minutes twice a day, in the morning and after exercise.

  Faye would tease me about how anxious I’d become if it’d been too long since I’d showered. I’d try to subtly sniff my underarms when she wasn’t looking. I washed all my clothes after one wear. Except a jacket or two. Faye would wear one long vintage cashmere wool coat every winter, all winter, like a dressing-gown. By the end of the season that dried-out sweat smell – reminiscent of a teenage boy – would become apparent. Though I was obsessed with keeping myself clean I never minded this with her. She was thrifty and so she avoided the drycleaners and just gave the coat a wool wash once the weather warmed up, leaving it to dry flat and stinking like an animal in the bathroom for days, before putting it away for next winter.

  Before sitting to eat, I duck around the clothes to sit a heavy kettle on the Rayburn’s stovetop. The fire is freshly stoked and the plate is nice and hot. When it steams I make strong tea, no sugar or milk. The egg and sausage turn out to be, unsurprisingly, rubbery and tasteless.

  So Leonora has told someone about me. But I am no longer telling anyone about her. I’m no longer speaking aloud to William with Bethea around. Instead, I’m writing in a curled-edge notebook. But who will ever read it? Her story is not really even mine to tell.

  Once the pot is boiled I take my tea into the lounge room, hobbling and falling into the other armchair across from Bethea.

  ‘She liked those, my wife,’ I say, nodding at the thriller she is reading.