by RL McKinney
‘How do you feel?’ Calum asked.
‘Better.’
He stared straight ahead, smiling at something he saw through the trees of the square.
‘Dad, maybe we should get out of here now.’
He came back from wherever he was and took his keys out of his pocket. ‘I think that would be a good idea.’
They got back on the road north. Around Stirling, as they turned off the motorway and headed toward Callander, she started to cry. Huge shuddering sobs that came up from somewhere deep inside. She pressed her cheek against the window, her tears forming a film of moisture on the glass. Snot ran from her nose and she wiped it with the back of her hand.
Calum pulled an old red bandana out of the glove box and handed it to her. ‘Sorry, it’s not the cleanest.’
‘It’s okay.’ She pressed it over her nose. It smelled of oil and pine resin.
FLOWN
The question came back to her just before bed one evening, like a lost thing that turned up when you’d stopped looking for it. With the question itself, Mary remembered how afraid she had always been to ask it. She wasn’t afraid anymore; she just needed to know.
‘Did Finlay mean to take his own life?’
Calum’s eyes opened wide, his face reflecting the horror of the question. ‘What did you say, Mum?’
Finally, she had his attention. He’d been ignoring her all evening, nose down in a book. As if those pages were more important than his living family. He’d always been that way, single-minded, silent except when it suited him to speak. At last he looked up. When did he start wearing glasses? Mary had never noticed him wearing them before. He was middle-aged. He looked tired, like he wasn’t taking care of himself. Mary didn’t look that old when she was his age. He’d let himself go so grey, he was starting to look like an old Labrador. He hadn’t shaved for several days.
He looked just like Jack, but Jack shaved every day. He was proud of his strong features. Women turned their heads to look at him.
Calum was older now than Jack was when he died. Was he ill? He probably wouldn’t tell her if he was. He never told her anything. He was too preoccupied with that lassie of his.
She looked ill as well. All that make-up around her eyes made her look like a corpse. Or a whore. She should be back at school by now, but showed no sign of it. All she wanted to do was sleep, and he let her. She’d come to no good; Mary could see that a mile off. She’d take drugs, or she’d end up pregnant. It would serve him right. It would be of his own making.
‘Did Finlay commit suicide? Did he let go of that rock on purpose?’
‘Why are you asking that, Mum?’
‘Because I think maybe he did.’
‘You know it was an accident.’
He was pretending to be shocked, and so was Catriona. Mary didn’t know why they should be. She wondered why people could never see what was right in front of them.
‘It’s a terrible sin, to take your own life.’
‘Could you really have blamed him if he had?’
‘It’s a cowardly act.’
‘He didn’t do that, I promise you.’
‘Then you let him fall.’
‘No, I didn’t. He didn’t use the safety equipment properly, Mum. I’ve told you this until I’ve run out of breath. Climbing is dangerous. People make mistakes. Finn made a mistake.’
‘Then you should have made sure he didn’t. You were the responsible one. You were meant to look after him.’
‘Mum, I tried my best. You have to believe that.’
Mary couldn’t stop herself. The words were alive now. They couldn’t be swallowed.
‘You didn’t, Calum. You didn’t keep him safe. You didn’t do what your father asked you to do. Remember? He told you to look after your brother. One thing he asked you to do, and you couldn’t even do that. You betrayed both of them.’
‘Oh come on, Gran,’ Catriona said. ‘You’re being cruel.’
Mary shot a look at the poor stunned girl. Who was she in all of this? She didn’t even look like part of the family. ‘You should keep your nose out of other people’s business, young lady.’
‘And you should give my dad more respect. You treat him like a piece of dirt.’
‘Cat,’ he said sharply. They looked at each other like they were hiding something. ‘She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Let it go.’
‘Don’t tell her to let it go, Calum. I know perfectly well what I’m saying! Yes, I do treat him like dirt. Because that’s what he is to me. That’s what he’s been to me, ever since Finlay died. I hate him.’
Mary glared at Calum. She wanted him to hate her back. She wanted him to leave her house. She couldn’t make him go. He just stayed and stayed. She hated him so much she could hurt him. She picked up the cup with an inch of lukewarm tea in it and threw it at him. He blocked it with his hands and the tea splattered across his face and shirt.
Catriona shrieked. ‘You horrible old bitch!’
Calum swiped at the tea. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’
Mary clamped her hands over her ears and rocked forward. ‘Don’t use that language!’
Calum stood up. ‘Catriona, could you go upstairs, please? Just for a few minutes, please?’
Catriona stumped out of the room. Mary felt panicky. She tried to get off the sofa but her feet slid out from under her. Why was he sending Catriona away? What didn’t he want her to see? What was he going to do? He got onto his knees in front of her, trying to pull her hands away from her ears. She rocked away from him. He pulled harder and said, ‘Mum, calm down.’
‘Get off me!’ She slapped his face as hard as she could.
He let go and sat down on his bottom. He didn’t say anything. He just sat there on the floor. She could see her finger marks across his cheek, reddening. Did she do that? Did she just hit her son? She’d never hit either of them when they were children. Never. She didn’t believe in hitting children. The other teachers thought she was soft, but that wasn’t her way. She’d lost her way.
She was so angry she’d just slapped her own son on the face. He must have done something to make her so angry. She should apologise. She didn’t want to apologise. She didn’t feel sorry.
A silence stretched out between them. They might never have anything worth saying to each other again.
‘Finn flew away, Mum,’ he said. He was rubbing his jaw and his face was wet. He was crying. Or maybe it was the tea. He couldn’t be crying, surely she couldn’t have hit him that hard. She was old; her hands had lost their strength. A man his age should have more control of himself.
‘Don’t you remember how he told you about his guardian angel? She caught him. She took him. She … reached out her hand just as he slipped off, and she caught his fingers. And they flew away. I saw them.’
‘I saw his body, Calum.’ He was lying again.
‘That was only his body, you know that. She caught him. He’s with her now. He’s fine. All that … stuff he had in his head. It’s gone. He’s with her. Just, remember that. If you forget everything else, try to remember that.’
What did he mean, if you forget everything else? She didn’t understand why he said that. Why would she forget?
‘You saw Finn’s angel? You really saw her?’
‘Aye, I did.’ He sounded so weary, as if this truth had cost him a great deal. ‘I want to show you something. Stay there.’ He went upstairs, came back down with a heavy object cradled in his arms like a baby. He stood it upright on the coffee table. ‘This is them. Finn and his angel.’
Mary leaned close and stared at the frozen image: two beautiful faces, one set of fingers reaching down, another reaching up. She touched the stone Finn’s face.
‘Where did this come from?’
‘Julie made it.’
‘Who’s Julie?’
He sighed. ‘Julie, who lives next door. The sculptor. She’s a good friend. I told her what happened to Finn and she made this for me. And you.’
; ‘It’s a beautiful thing,’ she said. The anger that had come from nowhere had now pulled back like a spring tide and she was exhausted. Her hands were shaky. She clutched them together, knitted her fingers, seeking the reassurance of her own warm skin. ‘Mìorbhaileach,’ she whispered. Miraculous.
‘Will we bring it to his grave, Mum?’
She thought about this. It might be a comfort to see it each week, but it wouldn’t mean anything in that place. It would be a folly sitting there in the weeds. At last she said, ‘It should go to the place where he died. Tell me the name of the place again.’
‘Coire an t-Sneachda.’
‘The Corrie of the Snow. Was there snow, Calum?’
‘No, it was summer. It was a warm day.’
‘Take it there. Leave it, for others to remember that a miracle happened there.’
He was silent for a long time.
‘You don’t want to do that?’
‘I’ve never wanted to go back there.’
‘Well, it’s up to you.’
‘Okay. I will. I’ll take it. But I don’t think you’d manage the walk in.’
‘I don’t have to go.’
‘You wouldn’t get to see it.’
‘You can take a photo, can’t you?’
‘I can, but … ’
‘That’s where it should go.’ With this decree, a heavy weight fell away from her. Something she’d been carrying for such a long time. She began to cry with relief.
‘Are you all right, Mum?’
She wiped tears with the back of her index finger. ‘I’m just being silly.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘We’ve had our hard times, haven’t we, Son?’
‘Aye, we have.’
He placed his hand over hers and squeezed gently. It felt nice. Warm and strong, just like Jack’s. She let him hold her hand for a little while.
Then he stood up. ‘I’m going to bed. Will I put this away?’
‘Leave it here,’ she said. ‘I want to look at it a bit longer.’
COIRE AN T-SNEACHDA
Cairngorms, September 2014
Mary went to bed early the night of the 18th, refusing to say which box she’d ticked on the ballot paper. She scolded when he asked: a person’s vote was a person’s business and if he was going to live with her, he would have to learn to keep his opinions to himself.
Calum stayed up most of the night, watching the results with Julie, Abby, Johnny and Catriona. Johnny got more despondent as the night went on, slouching lower and lower on the sofa, curses subsiding eventually into snores. Abby analysed and predicted Tory vengeance on Scotland. Julie sat Catriona on a stool and cut her hair, sculpting the renewed spikes with relish. Sometimes she said something softly and they both giggled. Later they drank shots of tequila and wandered off somewhere, laughing and forgetting. Calum turned his back on the television and played Guy Clark songs on the guitar, hauled himself upstairs to bed around four and crashed hard. He slept through Cameron’s smug announcements and Salmond’s resignation, and woke up thinking, almost but not quite.
He thought about Mary’s question again. Independent from what? It was a good question. He’d declared his own independence all those years ago, but it had always been a charade. It was time to grow up. Step up and assume his place within the family. Mary was staying in Glendarach. This was her home, as much or more than it was his. He would look after her and his friends would help; he was lucky to have them. There was a good community here, and he was lucky to have that too. It would be okay. He breathed in as much air as his lungs could hold and let it out slowly. If he could learn to be more tolerant, it would be okay.
And Catriona? Right now she was adamant that she was not going back to university. Maybe that would change eventually, but she needed time. There was no telling how much time.
Before any of that, he had his own trip to make: a drive to the Cairngorms, a reunion with English friends and a walk up to the corrie.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come?’ he asked Julie.
She spooned against him, pulled his arm around her and held onto his hand. Her hair tickled his nose. They were in his bed, next door to Mary and down the hall from Catriona. This was a big enough step for her just now. It was as much of a declaration as either of them could make.
‘I’m sure.’
He kissed the top of her head. ‘Okay.’
‘What do they look like?’ Catriona asked. Anxious in her crisp new jacket. It was a good one, scarlet red, the same colour as her hair. He’d bought it for her at Nevisport in Fort William, and not from the sale rack. A random un-birthday present like all the cuddly toys he used to send, except a lot more expensive. This would serve her better. You had to learn to sort the things you needed from those you didn’t. A good jacket to keep out the wind and rain was a thing you needed.
‘I haven’t seen them in a very long time, I can’t quite remember.’
They were in the car park beside the ski centre at Cairn Gorm, waiting for Dougie and Alison. It was a fine afternoon, bright and clear, a breeze sweeping down from the plateau bringing the smell of snow. He laced up his boots and loaded his rucksack with essentials: gloves, hat, sandwiches and chocolate, water. A hip flask of whisky. Julie’s granite angel.
Catriona scuffed her boot over the small stones at the edge of the tarmac. ‘They should be here.’
‘It’s a long drive. Maybe there was traffic. They’ll be here.’ His stomach did a turn. The road across from the west had been quiet for a Saturday morning, as if all of Scotland was nursing a hangover. He stared down the hill, watching cars come and go – mostly tourists heading for the funicular – remembering the last time he’d been here. Finn muttering all the way up the road in the old red Astra, conversing with his reflection or the voice in his head. Dread filling him like water leaking into a diving mask.
You off your meds again?
Aye, Finlay’s off his meds and Big Brother thinks Finlay’s mad. Big Brother’s embarrassed. Big Brother wants Finn to take his tablets and stare at a fucking wall. Big Brother is watching … but Big Brother doesn’t understand. Finlay sees the truth. Finlay’s the only one who sees the truth. That means he’s the only one who isn’t mad.
Maybe reading Orwell isn’t a very good idea just now, mate.
Maybe Orwell was as mad as me, eh, Big Brother? Maybe he got it.
All right … fine. Let’s not climb today. Let’s go to the pub and talk about whether Nineteen Eighty-Four has or hasn’t come true.
Oh it has. And we’re climbing today. I’m climbing today. You don’t have to.
Catriona stepped up in front of him, lifted his gaze from the ground, pulled him back into the present. ‘You okay?’
‘Aye.’
‘You sure? We don’t have to do this. Gran won’t know the difference.’
He couldn’t lie to Mary again. Not about this, although he didn’t regret lying to her when she’d slapped him. It had calmed her immediately, like magic. Like the superstitious bullshit it was. The truth or falsehood of it was irrelevant. Her disease would break down any distinction between the two, and one day she would forget all of it. Whatever reminders he might give her, she would eventually forget everything. But right now, she was capable of believing in miracles.
He squinted up toward the corrie, following the line of the new path. ‘I’ll be fine. It’s a walk in the hills, that’s all it is. I have to do this for her.’
‘What about you?’
‘After you faced up to that bastard last week? I’ve got you with me, right? You’re like Wonder Woman.’
‘You can borrow my force field anytime you like.’ She turned as a green Skoda sped up the hill. ‘Is this them?’
‘I think it is.’
The couple in the car were waving and grinning as they swept up beside them, apologising simultaneously as they got out, about temporary lights at Dunkeld and a slow tractor at Blair Athol. Then the apologies stopped and silence fell
as they allowed themselves to observe the effects of almost twenty years. Dougie had lost most of his hair and Alison was stouter, but these things were like thin overlays against a backdrop that stayed fundamentally the same. Calum saw old mountaineers, solid and fathomable, people who changed in geological time.
‘Calum,’ Alison said. She pressed her palm into the corner of her eye and hugged him tightly. ‘Oh bloody hell, I’ve started already. Thank you so much for asking us.’
‘Aye, mate,’ Dougie affirmed, gripping his hand.
‘Better late than never, eh?’
‘These things take a while,’ Alison said.
‘Twenty years might be too long a while, but … you know.’ Calum was grateful for his sunglasses. Poor Cat would die if he started bubbling before they’d even left the car park. ‘This is Catriona. She’s changed a bit since the last time you saw her.’
‘Hi,’ Cat said, holding up one hand. That single embarrassed syllable, like a shield stuck up in front of her.
‘All grown up,’ Alison said, and wrapped her arms around her. ‘You were just a little baby the last time I saw you. Oh God, where’s the time gone?’ She let go and laughed tearfully. ‘Your hair is just fabulous, by the way. Isn’t it, Dougs? I love that red.’
‘Don’t you be having ideas,’ said Dougie, beginning the usual pre-walk routine, pulling off trainers and putting on a second pair of socks. He glanced at the Yes sticker on the back window of Calum’s Land Rover. ‘Condolences on the vote, by the way. We were all ready to swim across the Tweed and claim political asylum.’
A chipper comment offered as a distraction. Until now, Calum hadn’t really thought about how painful this journey might be for Dougie and Alison. They hadn’t heard from him in two decades but had agreed to come as if they’d been waiting for his call all these years.
‘I reckon anyone who’s walked across as much of Scotland as you have must qualify.’ He swung the pack onto his back and shifted the heavy weight into a comfortable position. Angels were supposed to be made of light. ‘We weren’t quite ready to go yet.’ He felt suddenly certain of that, just as he was that the old order of things was irrelevant. Catriona’s generation understood that, even if his own didn’t. ‘But Thursday won’t be the end of it.’
