The Angel in the Stone

by RL McKinney

  Or Kyle’s arms. They’d been snakelike around her that night in the shower, gripping her hard enough to bruise. She closed her eyes and tried to trace each detail of what had happened at that party. She remembered a dining room as big as her mum’s whole downstairs, and a seething crowd of posh, loud people. She remembered repeatedly filling her glass with whatever came to hand. At some point, somebody brought out a bag of hash. The details after that point became hazy. She had wriggled a bit when he lifted her off the couch, but she had also laughed at him. He laughed too, she remembered that. She had turned her face into his chest and let him carry her. And she remembered thinking, he’s mine. She remembered hoping the girls he’d been messing about with earlier were watching.

  She emptied the glass and stood up. The floor rushed up to meet her, like when you jump in an ascending lift. Her knees buckled and she sat down hard. Too much vodka too fast, too late at night. It was more than a double. Maybe a treble. Or a quadruple. Did they even measure it like that? She leaned her back against the cupboard door.

  ‘Oh for the love of God, Cat.’

  Catriona opened her eyes. Still on the kitchen floor, she pushed herself upright. Blood pulsed around in her head.

  Jenny squatted beside her, her face frozen, suspended between sympathy and rage. She was capable of either but less capable of controlling which came out first. Catriona’s eyes found the vodka bottle, still standing where she’d left it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ Tears were very close to overflowing and she let them.

  Jenny’s rigid shoulders fell a little. She put her hand on Cat’s cheek. ‘Fit ye daein, quine?’ Jenny’s Doric was purposefully reassuring. She never spoke like that except in those rare moments when she wanted to make herself softer and more maternal than she was by nature.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Catriona gathered her knees in and wrapped her arms around them. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I thought it would just help me get back to sleep. I’m sorry.’

  Jenny grasped her hands and pulled her to her feet. ‘Come on, up you get. Can you manage tea?’

  Catriona settled herself at the kitchen table and nodded, then turned her eyes into her hands to block out the bright morning light. ‘I’m sorry, all right? It won’t happen again.’

  Jenny switched on the kettle and dropped three tea bags into the pot. ‘It’s all right, Catriona, stop apologising.’

  ‘I thought you’d be raging. You get so angry all the time.’

  Jenny looked out the window for a moment. Sun fell on the creases at the corners of her eyes and she sighed deeply. ‘I’m trying not to. All right? Please just … tell me what’s going on. I’m worried about you. ’

  ‘I know. I’m fine, Mum. I will be fine, I’m just … getting over someone.’

  Jenny took this in. ‘A boy?’

  ‘Aye, a boy. Do you really think I’m into girls, Mum?’

  ‘Sometimes I don’t know, Cat. You never seem that bothered about anyone, to be honest.’

  ‘Well I was bothered about him.’

  ‘I’m sorry, love.’ Jenny made the tea and brought out mugs and milk. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know … the usual story. I met this guy and it was like … intense for a few weeks, and then we went to this party and he messed around with these other girls. And then he … ’ Her voice trailed into silence and she reached for her mug.

  ‘And then he what?’

  ‘Well he just … screwed me over. That’s all. I need to get over it. I’m being an idiot. I thought he was somebody special and he turned out to be a bastard, like they always do.’

  ‘Not all men are bastards. You’ll find a good one someday.’

  ‘If you honestly believe that, how come you never did?’

  Jenny lifted her mug to her lips, sipped and swallowed. ‘I thought I had.’

  ‘My dad? Jesus, Mum, get over him already.’

  ‘Well, after him it felt like more trouble than it was worth. Listen to me, love. Don’t waste another minute of your life on this guy, okay? If he’s stupid enough to drop you for someone at a party, he doesn’t deserve you. Don’t ruin your summer over him.’

  Catriona stared at her hands. She could feel Kyle’s fingers around her wrists. ‘Mum … ’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She snatched her mug and tea sloshed onto her fingers. ‘Never mind. You’re right.’

  ‘Get yourself out today. Kate and Eilidh will be desperate to see you. I’ll give you a little money. Go buy yourself some new clothes and cheer yourself up.’

  ‘I guess. I need a new SIM for my phone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to change my number so he can’t call me.’

  ‘He’s not stalking you, is he?’

  ‘No! Well … no, he’s not, but … ’

  ‘But what? Is that why you’re afraid to leave the house?’

  Catriona closed her eyes and tried to compose herself. ‘No. I just don’t want to have to talk to him, all right? Don’t get your knickers in a twist.’

  ‘Fine.’ Jenny shrugged and shook her head. ‘If you say so. Listen, I have leave booked for the end of the month. Why don’t we go away somewhere? We could get a late deal, something cheap and cheerful in the sun.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Cat said, even though baring herself on the beach was the last thing in the world she wanted to do. ‘I was thinking about going to see Dad.’

  ‘Oh aye.’ Jenny took a couple of seconds to realise she wasn’t joking. ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Okay … that’s a new one. Have you spoken to him recently?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Jenny murmured again, and the beginning of a huff was audible. ‘Well. It’s up to you.’ She turned away and dumped the remainder of her tea in the sink. ‘I have to get ready. Go out and do something today, Catriona. I’m fed up seeing you lying about.’

  ‘Do you really give a shit?’

  Jenny paused on her way out of the kitchen. ‘If I say I do, you won’t believe me. So think what you like, all right?’

  POSITION STATEMENTS

  Julie rolled away from him, got out of bed and stood naked by the window. Calum turned onto his side and watched the late evening sun cast a soft copper glow through the hairs on her forearms. She clasped her fingers behind her neck and stretched her hands over her head, her little breasts stretched almost flat across her chest.

  He lay down again and extended his legs beneath the quilt. ‘I thought we weren’t going to do this anymore.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘You weren’t complaining five minutes ago.’

  ‘I’m not complaining now, I’m just reminding you what we said last time.’

  ‘Remind me why.’ She lifted her jumper from the heap of clothes on the floor and pulled it over her head.

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  The phone rang. Calum saw his mother’s number flash onto the screen and groaned, ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’

  ‘It’s ten o’clock at night.’ The phone rang seven times and stopped.

  ‘She could be ill. She could have fallen.’

  ‘She has an emergency alarm button. If it’s a genuine problem, she can use that and they’ll call me.’

  ‘Calum … ’

  ‘Julie, you have no idea what this is like.’

  The phone rang again. Julie sighed, picked it up and handed it to him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he muttered. ‘Hi Mum, are you all right?’

  ‘Where were you?’ Mary demanded. ‘Why didn’t you answer?’

  ‘I’m in my bed. You know what time it is?’

  ‘You never go to bed at this hour. It’s still light.’

  ‘It’s midsummer. I’ve been working all day, I’m tired. What’s up?’

  ‘I think someone’s been into the flat again.’

  He draped his forearm across his eyes. ‘Have you heard someone?’

  ‘No, of course not.
They come when I’m out. Jack’s pipes are missing, and a box of photographs I had.’

  ‘Dad’s pipes? I haven’t seen them for years. They must be somewhere.’

  ‘I’m telling you, they’re not here. I’ve looked everywhere.’

  ‘Mum, has your door been forced?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘And you haven’t left a window open?’

  ‘You know I never do.’

  ‘We’ll have a look, all right? You’ll have put them away and forgotten. When was the last time you had a look in your loft?’

  ‘I can’t even get up that ladder anymore. I won’t have put them up there.’

  ‘You sure you haven’t done something daft like give them to a charity shop in one of your cleaning frenzies?’

  ‘Calum, they were your grandfather’s during the war and they’re precious. I’m telling you, someone’s been in here. I get a bit frightened. Will you come round?’

  ‘Mum … I’m sorry, I can’t. It’s too late. Honestly, I’m shattered. Please just … lock the door and go to bed. You remember your alarm, right? You know how to use it.’

  ‘I won’t be able to sleep.’

  ‘Look—’ he broke off, sat up, ran his fingers through his hair. Julie had gone into the bathroom and he could hear water pattering in the shower. ‘If you’re feeling that worried about being on your own there, maybe we should talk about finding you somewhere else to stay.’

  ‘You mean a nursing home? You want to put me in a nursing home?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘That would make your life easier. I know I’m a burden.’

  He could feel his pulse at his temples. ‘It’s not about me. I want you to feel safe.’

  ‘I suppose you’ll do what you have to, Calum. If you think that’s for the best, I’ll just have to … ’

  ‘Mum, I’m not going to make you do anything against your will. I’ll come see you in the morning. We can talk then, all right?’

  ‘What time are you coming?’

  ‘Let’s say eleven. Why don’t you write yourself a wee note so you remember?’

  ‘Of course I’ll remember.’

  He took a deep breath. As often as not, she was out when he arrived, dotting around Fort William picking up bits of shopping or having a cup of tea. She was still agile enough, and determined to maintain her independence. She didn’t like him waiting in the flat on his own and would accuse him of snooping, or worse. Alzheimer’s twisted her lack of trust in all the wrong directions. Now it was only his word against hers. ‘Right, I’ll call you before I leave here and let you know I’m on my way.’

  He lay for a minute longer after hanging up, wishing Julie hadn’t conveniently removed herself from the room. It was a deliberate removal; she didn’t want to know the gory details of Mary’s decline or its implications for him. He and Julie were birds of a feather: solitary creatures who came together for one purpose only. They had agreed that they were not partners, only grown-up friends. In bed, it worked. Out of bed, it was either not enough or too much, depending on his mood or hers.

  He pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, went downstairs and poured two glasses of cabernet. While he was waiting for Julie, he sat with the laptop and checked e-mails. There were four gig invitations: a ceilidh, a wedding and two Yes campaign events. There were also e-mails about a kitchen installation, a loft conversion and a rant in Gaelic from the mother of one of his fiddle students. He put on his reading glasses and tried to fathom it. He could still understand Gaelic well enough when he heard it, but reading it gave him a headache. Vaguely, he gathered that Morag had to be nagged to practise even ten minutes a day and spent all her time in her room listening to pop music. Poor kid, he thought. At the age of twelve, finally rebelling against the most overbearing parents Calum had ever met: pop-up Highlanders, who had moved their sustainable architecture business from Edinburgh, learned Gaelic and home-schooled their children.

  He thought momentarily of Finn standing out on the headland playing ‘Another Brick in the Wall’ on the Highland pipes and Mary listening from the front door, arms crossed over her chest, asking, ‘Pink Who?’

  He wrote back in English, ‘Why don’t we try guitar lessons?’

  Then he flicked onto Facebook and brought up Catriona’s profile. It was a painful, necessary daily exercise, one which sometimes choked him with all the words that went unspoken. This voyeuristic little portal was the only contact they had with each other. He didn’t know if she looked at his profile. If she did, she would see photographs of otters and eagles, his kayak grounded on various beaches, occasional links to articles from the Guardian and even more occasional photographs of himself at a gig somewhere. It was his life and it wasn’t. It was a surface-skim, a position statement that represented where he wanted to be more than where he was.

  From her own profile, he knew that she’d spent her first year in Edinburgh drinking, clubbing, partying, maybe occasionally studying. There was chat about boys and bands, all reassuringly predictable teenage stuff. Selfies with pouty faces, dim light, backdrops of dance floors and laughing students. Sometimes he clicked ‘like’ just to let her know he was paying attention. He never commented and she never acknowledged his presence. Her silent message was clear enough: a Facebook friendship was all he deserved. It was better than nothing.

  But it was gone now. Most of it, anyway. At first he thought there was some fault with Facebook, but as he clicked through her profile he realised that she’d taken down as many of the pictures as she could and removed all of the personal information about herself: school, university, home town, relationships. Her most recent post, from several days ago, said, Cat is Gone. Fuck Edinburgh, Fuck Uni, Fuck You.

  Julie came into the kitchen and picked up the glass of wine he’d left at the end of the table. ‘I’m down to Glasgow first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘So just have the one.’

  ‘I’m not staying over.’

  ‘It’s up to you, as always.’

  ‘What do you mean by that? Are you saying none of this is your choice?’

  He took off his glasses and looked up at her, determined that her hackles were still up and that retreat was his only option. ‘No, it’s fine Julie. Forget I said that. Here, have a look at this.’ He showed her Cat’s profile. ‘What do you think this means?’

  Her face became pointy and keen. ‘She’s fallen out with someone and she’s gone home. It’s the end of term, right? Maybe she’s finally realised that Edinburgh is full of pretentious tossers.’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘Honestly. What are you looking at her profile for anyway?’

  ‘She’s my daughter.’

  ‘It’s creepy.’

  ‘It’s not. If you put stuff on here, you have to expect folk to look at it. I just wonder why she’s changed her tone so abruptly. Something’s happened. I hope she’s all right, that’s all.’

  ‘Phone her if you’re so worried.’

  ‘She won’t speak to me.’

  ‘What is it about women that makes you so passive aggressive?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  She laughed as she brought her glass to her lips. ‘If you’re concerned about her, phone her. Go see her. Make a move, Calum, don’t just spy on her from your safe little hidey-hole and pretend you give two shites about her.’ The Glasgow in her took over when she gave advice. There was no diplomatic dance around the issue, only heartfelt opinion delivered like a knuckle to the nose.

  She took another sip of wine and put the glass down, then gathered her bag and her keys. ‘I’ll see you in a couple of weeks. Keep an eye on the house for me.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She kissed his cheek and lingered for a couple of seconds, waiting for something else. A hug, a word, an indication that he was capable of feeling anything other than this leaden ambivalence. Sometimes he wasn’t. It wasn’t about her. At least he was honest about that.

  He touched her ar
m. ‘See you, then.’

  ‘Aye. See you.’

  When she was gone, he sat with his guitar and let disconnected riffs and segments tumble out. When he felt in danger of drifting too far, music brought him back. It was one thing he knew he could rely on and he was grateful for it. The guitar’s shape against his belly was a comfort and the faint smells of beer and smoke emanating from the wood helped him recall times of genuine happiness. They were precious as gems, stitched into a cloth that seemed otherwise chaotically woven and easily torn. His clearest memories were supported by music: lyrics and melodies you could hang moments on to keep until you needed them again. A single verse could bring back the best times of his life, and some of the worst.

  Glendarach, 1986

  Mary sang ‘An Eala Ban’, the White Swan, and her face was the colour of porridge. She didn’t cry. Calum had heard her weeping alone in her bedroom every night since his dad died, but she refused to let anyone see her grief. Caring for Jack had taken its toll; it was visible in the shadows around her eyes and the hollows of her cheeks. Still, she was determined to be seen to be unbroken. She was stoic and gracious in the church today, and now, with the house full of relatives, neighbours and friends. As she sang, the people in the room were still, frozen in time. Her voice was high and thin and pure, and nobody made a sound to dilute it. Auntie Helen, his dad’s sister up from Glasgow, had tears streaming from her eyes. They created sludgy mascara tracks but she didn’t wipe them away. She just sat there looking like a demented clown, with her voluminous ginger perm and streaky cheeks.

  It all felt like a play. A big show, a fiction, a joke even. Like Dad would spring through the front door in the middle of his own wake and shout, ‘Surprise!’ It would be the kind of thing he’d do, the ultimate practical joke, trying to catch them all out. He’d have something to say about all of this, for sure. The funeral mass, the churchyard burial, the mourners in black. It wasn’t Red Jack’s style. The priest promising life everlasting. Steaming pile of superstitious shite, he would say. Another myth cooked up to keep us in our place.

  When he stopped trying to convert Mum to atheism, they knew he was really dying. Let her have her way about the funeral, he’d finally told Calum. It’ll make her feel better, and I won’t know the difference anyway.