by RL McKinney
He led her to the single open cafe. They took a small table upstairs beside the window, ordered bacon rolls and a pot of tea, and sat quietly as the sky darkened and rain began to fleck onto the glass. Cat looked down and watched people scurrying for cover. Opposite her, Calum was impossible to read: he might have been thinking about Finn or about his mother, or thinking about making love to Julie or about something less tangible than that. Or he might not be thinking about anything at all.
His meaty silences had been unsettling at first. Two nights ago, after a long stretch without speaking, she had asked if he was angry with her.
He had seemed surprised. ‘No. Should I be?’
‘You haven’t said anything to me for an hour.’
‘Do you leave the tap running when you don’t need water?’ he had asked in return.
So words, like water, were not to be wasted. This was a new thing to consider. Uni was all about words, the incessant blether of students and the intellectual pomposities of the academics. Now she found these interjections of silence liberating. He had told her what she needed to know about Finn, and the rest would come later.
There was music playing, just audible over the other customers, a fiddle sweeping and wheeling like a swallow over the water.
‘That sounds like you,’ she said.
‘Good call.’
‘Honestly? You’re like … some kind of West Highland pop star or something.’
He laughed. ‘Aye, you know you’ve reached the heady heights when you’re going out to the tourists in Arisaig. Haven’t you noticed the paparazzi at my back?’
‘How can you be so good at something and be so dismissive of it?’
‘It’s only music. I’ve made a mess of everything that matters.’
This surprised her. As far as she had seen, he was good at everything he did and he knew it. ‘Like what?’
He paused before answering, a dark half-smile on his face. ‘Like being a dad. I’ve made kind of a cock up of that, haven’t I?’
If she had been in the mood for a fight, she might have agreed, but all she felt at this moment was the need for him to accept her. To wrap his arms around her and be her shield, to be an old-fashioned father who would threaten any encroaching man with a shotgun. She’d never felt this way with Mum; Mum had always just been there at her back, telling her how to be and reminding her of what she wasn’t. Poor Mum didn’t deserve her resentment, but she could only admit this from a distance.
‘You never hit me or molested me, so you can’t have been that bad.’
‘Surely you could set the bar a bit higher than that.’
She shrugged. ‘My experience of men hasn’t been exactly wonderful up till now, if you want to know the truth.’
One of his eyebrows arched. ‘Catriona, has somebody hurt you?’
Catriona sat very still, her fingers tucked under her thighs, and she felt like a droplet of rain quivering on a metal railing. One touch, one breath even, and she would burst, ooze down into the collective pool on the ground and be lost.
‘A little bit. A guy I went out with at the end of term didn’t turn out to be very nice. I’ll get over it.’
‘What did he do?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Cat, it won’t hurt as much to say it as you think it will, I promise.’
‘Fuck’s sake, you want me to respect your privacy. Let’s just say he’s somebody I never want to see again.’
‘What happens when you go back to uni?’
‘I don’t know if I want to go back.’
‘You can’t drop out of university because of some guy.’
‘Would you go mad if I did?’
‘No, but I think your mother would. She’s worked bloody hard to help you get there.’
‘I know, but … ’ She took a deep breath and blurted, ‘It just seems completely pointless. It’s just a game someone says you have to play, and I don’t want to anymore. Maybe you’d let me stay here … until I figure some stuff out.’
‘Do unto others, eh, Cat?’
‘What?’
He smiled and looked at his hands on the table. ‘We’ve been here before, only the tables are turned.’
‘I know, Dad … I’m sorry.’
Calum sighed and she could see the dilemma playing itself out in his mind. Their tea and rolls arrived and she nibbled hers, feeling sick, realising she’d put him into an impossible situation. He wanted her to leave but couldn’t say it. He wouldn’t lower himself to that.
‘I’m not asking you to apologise for anything,’ he said.
‘I feel like you want me to. I know what you think but … I like it here.’
‘But you’re not exactly going to learn anything here, are you?’
‘I could work for you. I could be like your apprentice or something. You could teach me how to build stuff.’
He looked dubious. ‘Is that what you really want to do?’
‘Aye, why not? Or … if you don’t want me to stay, maybe I’ll go travelling for a while. I met this woman from Denmark and she said I could come stay with her anytime I wanted.’
He sipped his tea and offered no response to this, most likely trying to hide his disappointment in her. At least he tried. Mum would just come out and say it for the whole cafe to hear. The photo of Finn throwing the stone into the water came into her mind. There were times in her teens when she went down to the beach alone, brimming with things that nobody would want to hear about even if she knew the right words for them. Sometimes she would stay there for two or three hours, skimming stones or just throwing them as hard as she could into the waves. She would imagine each stone was something bad that had happened to her: nasty words from Rachel Merrick who bullied her at school, an argument with her mum, another one of Calum’s broken promises. She would throw and throw until she could barely lift her arm. Then she would go home and for a little while would feel better. Now she understood why the relief never lasted: because you could never throw away the bad stuff. You became it.
CRUX
‘It’s looking good, what do you think?’
Mary followed him through the dried out, freshly plastered and painted rooms of her flat, head quaking as though she’d just come upon the scene of a crime. Having eventually found her insurance documents in an envelope under her mattress (along with her passport, National Insurance card and will), Calum had been able to bring men in to fix the place. The damaged wiring had been repaired, the carpets replaced and the kitchen entirely reconstructed. Everything was bare, clean and ready for reoccupation, but her face was a projection of dismay.
‘There’s a bad smell.’
‘Aye, it’ll take a while for that to go.’
‘I don’t like this flat. It’s cold and there’s a bad smell. I couldn’t imagine wanting to live here.’
‘But you do. It’s your flat.’
‘No it isn’t. My flat is … ’ she stopped, looked around, ‘ … I have things. I have Mum’s old desk, and … where is everything? Jack’s armchair? What have you done with my things?’
Calum breathed in. She was right about the smell. An ominous hangover: melted plastic, overheated chemicals, burnt hair. You never realised how sinister the aftertaste of a house fire was until you experienced it.
He tried to keep his voice even. ‘Your furniture’s in storage. The kitchen table and chairs were burnt, and I suspect you’ll probably need a new suite for the living room because it’ll hang onto that smell forever. Mattresses and pillows too. This is why we’ve been washing all your clothes and towels, and the rest. Remember?’
Stupid question.
The headshaking started again, a gesture of confusion that was threatening to become a palsy. ‘I still don’t understand how the fire started. Did they properly investigate it? Was it something to do with those voices on the telephone? They were putting things inside my walls. I don’t know who they were.’
‘How many times do I have to explain this?’ It was
out through gritted teeth before he could stop it. ‘You started the fire. You did it. Nobody was ever in your flat, don’t you understand that?’
‘I was frightened.’ She took a step back from him and her eyes filled with tears, her head still quivering side to side. In Gaelic, she said, ‘I don’t understand why you’re so angry, Calum.’
‘I’m angry because you can’t remember,’ he said in English. It was like having to haul her back into the present. It felt like it hurt her, but he didn’t have the words in Gaelic.
Her brows drew together. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days. I’m out of sorts. I feel cloudy. I’m sorry I make you angry. I’m sorry you’re lumbered with me; I know you’d rather you weren’t.’
‘I’m trying as hard as I can, Mum. You’re angry with me all the time. I think you can’t stand me. I am trying to help you and all you can ever do is insult me.’
‘No, I don’t. You don’t like helping me, Calum, you never have. You left home at the first possible chance. I told you people were coming into my flat. I told you I was frightened that something bad was going to happen, and I was right. There’s such a terrible smell here.’
She was turning into a goldfish and he was only making it worse.
He always panicked at the crux: terror, sweats, the Elvis shakes.
All you could do was breathe.
He closed his eyes, pressed his fingertips into his eyelids, spoke into his hand. ‘Mum, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. You have Alzheimer’s. Do you remember that much? Do you remember what it is?’
She snapped. ‘I know what Alzheimer’s is, Calum, I’m not ignorant. I don’t have it. I don’t know where you’re getting that from.’
‘You do. I wish you didn’t. I can’t lie to you and pretend it’s not happening. You’ve been covering it up, probably without even realising it, for a long time. That’s why your memory is cloudy. I shouldn’t have sworn at you. I’m … finding this very hard. I want to help you, but I can’t give up all my work and be with you full-time.’
She turned away from him and walked to the window, looking down over the street, processing this devastating news with her back towards him. Maybe within the day, or within the hour, she’d have forgotten it again and would just go back to being cloudy without knowing why.
‘What will happen when I get worse?’ Right now, at least, she understood.
‘I don’t know. I suppose we’ll have to talk about that.’
‘Jack made me promise that I wouldn’t let him die in hospital.’
‘I know.’
‘I kept that promise, but it was terrible. I was exhausted. He was exhausted. All I could do for him was tell him it was okay to let go.’
‘I know, I remember.’
‘You weren’t there.’
‘I was. Of course I was there. Can’t you remember that I was there? Finn and I both.’
She only shook her head. ‘I don’t want you to nurse me.’
Was she trying to save him from that burden, or was it because she didn’t trust him? Probably the latter, but at least it offered him a window through which to escape, dragging the guilt of obligation behind him like a shackle.
He stepped up beside her but didn’t touch her. Lately, she seemed to find even the gentlest touch a threat. ‘Look, it might be a long time before you need someone to nurse you. You’ll probably be all right here for a while longer. Once everything is back in, it’ll feel more like home. We can get a carer in to help you with bits and pieces.’
‘Calum, I don’t want to stay here.’
‘You don’t have to,’ he said, trying to keep his voice steady while everything inside him was threatening to crumple inwards. He had no idea what alternatives were available in the area. ‘So what do we do? You want to stay in Glendarach?’
‘Maybe … for a little while longer. We could find someone else to help. A nice young lady who doesn’t have rings in her lip.’
Who did she think Catriona was, a live-in care assistant?
‘And when the time comes … ’ she shrugged, ‘I don’t suppose I’ll know the difference.’
Planning for her future was as unsettling as sinking a drilling rig into the Pacific seabed, where at any time, an earthquake could change the shape of the earth beneath you. ‘Mum, can I tell you what scares me?’
‘What is it?’
‘We can talk about it now, and maybe we can make a plan that you’re happy with, and then … when it comes to it, you’ll have forgotten that we ever had the conversation and you’ll think that I’ve coerced you into something you don’t want. I’m afraid you’ll blame me.’
‘Why would I blame you?’
‘Because you have before.’
She looked at him, her brows beetling towards each other, and began shaking her head again. ‘Calum, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Aberdeen, November 1993
‘Oh, please don’t tell me you’ve just got out of your bed. It’s past noon.’
‘I’ve just got out of my bed.’ Calum shuffled to one side to let Mary in. She left two bags of shopping on his kitchen table and sniffed around his flat like a terrier, nostrils flared, lip curled into a grimace. He followed slowly, bleary and hot in his dressing gown. After five months and three operations, his leg could finally take his weight and he could hobble stiffly around the flat. He was still using the crutches when he went out, but the three flights of stairs were a monumental prospect and he wasn’t yet fit to return to work, so it didn’t happen often.
‘This place is worse than a piggery.’
‘I’d have cleaned up if I’d known you were coming.’
‘You shouldn’t be living like this. If you can’t manage, get someone to help you.’
He chose not to respond to this. ‘D’you want tea?’
‘Is there a cup that won’t give me a disease?’ She lifted a dirty mug from the table and peered inside.
‘Feel free to wash one.’ Calum lowered himself onto a chair, holding his left leg in front of him and letting the right take the burden. In his physio sessions, he could now bend his knee to ninety degrees, more or less the angle required to sit comfortably on one of his kitchen chairs, but not without a torrent of expletives.
‘I’ll not bother just now,’ she decided, and began rolling up her sleeves. ‘I’ll get this kitchen cleaned up before I make us some lunch. Maybe you’d put those messages away, Calum, if it’s not beyond your capabilities.’
He didn’t get up. ‘I will in a minute.’
She ignored him, filling the basin with soapy water and dumping dirty dishes into it. Several minutes passed and he hadn’t moved from the chair, so she turned on him. ‘What is the matter with you?’
‘I’m just tired.’ And he was. The pain was tiring. The energy his body required for healing was tiring. The extra effort he had to put into basic living was tiring. The repetition of Finn’s fall, running in a continuous loop around his mind, was crushing.
She pointed the sponge at him, foam splatting onto the floor as she punched the air. ‘When you’ve spent more than a decade caring for your dying spouse and your sick child and you’ve them both buried, then you can speak to me about being tired.’
Mary the Widowed Bereaved Mother. She had made these things into a cloak, wrapped it around herself and refused to take it off. He was tired of this too. ‘You say that like I haven’t been through all of this with you.’
Mary gave a breath of joyless laughter, the colour draining from her lips as she drew them into a hard frown. She seemed too disgusted with him to speak.
Calum continued. ‘You know how much time I spent with Finn. He practically lived here most of last year. He trashed the place. He chain-smoked, he drank himself stupid and puked in his bed. He brought his nut-job associates back here to get hammered the whole time I was offshore. I bought a new guitar last spring and guess what? It walked. He gave it to his dealer. Just like he did with all your jewellery.’
‘He did. I know he was ill, Mum, but he did that stuff. I didn’t tell you about the guitar because I knew you needed a break. I tried to help him. I went through his pockets when he was sleeping and tried to keep him off the hard stuff. I fed him, I bought him everything he needed. I took him climbing just about every week I was off work.’
‘And I wish to God he’d never gone with you.’ Her eyes fluttered as tears rose. ‘Just once in your life I wish you could have listened to me. It was madness, teaching him to climb mountains. You were as bad as he was, in your way. Just as self-obsessed, just as unable to heed anyone except yourself. One might have thought you actually wanted him to come to grief. Or were you so arrogant you couldn’t see what was bound to happen?’
If he could have stood up easily and stormed away, he would have. As a theatrical alternative, he let his head thump against the wall behind him. Her eyes shot blame at him and it cut him in half.
‘You can’t answer that, can you?’
He didn’t try. Silently he wondered what kind of a mess a case of spontaneous human combustion would make right here in this kitchen.
‘God didn’t make the mountains for us to climb. He made them to remind us of our frailty.’
‘Well then, consider me fucking reminded!’
‘Calum!’
‘That is bullshit, Mum. You never saw him climb. He had a gift, all right? If you want to believe God had anything to do with it, believe that. Climbing gave him a reason to keep living.’
‘Until it killed him.’
‘Aye. But better that than an overdose or stabbed in some junkie’s flat.’
She closed her eyes, bit her lip, gripped the edge of the work surface so hard her knuckles paled. ‘He might have got better. He might have found a better treatment eventually.’
‘Or he might not.’
‘Is that why you didn’t take better care with the ropes, then?’
Now he did get up, straight off the chair and into lounge. Rosy late-autumn sunlight was pouring in through the bay window and people were laughing on the street below. It was the first time the sun had come out in weeks. Or maybe he just hadn’t been looking. Maybe rage brought the clarity he’d been missing for a while. It was time to get out.
