by Valpy, Fiona
‘You’ll have to get rid of it,’ he says, the heat of his rage turning to a cold, hard anger as he turns away to pour himself a large Scotch.
For a moment I’m confused and think he’s talking about the lesion. But then I’m dumbstruck with horror as I realise he means the baby. Abortion’s been legal for ten years now, but I haven’t even considered it as an option. I feel a connection to this child already, at once fiercely protective and lovingly tender.
He takes a gulp of whisky and goes on, ‘Get rid of it and then if you need an operation on your throat they can sort that out. You don’t want to lose this role.’
My head fills with white noise and I can’t think straight. And then, through the confusion and the fear, I hear a thread of my mother’s voice, singing the words of songs of love and loss in the kitchen at Keeper’s Cottage:
‘Will ye gang love and leave me noo?
Will ye forsake your ain love true?’
I know the answer to that question: there’s no doubt what Piers is going to do. He has already left this relationship.
And then the noise in my head clears and there is no doubt in my mind, either. I’m going to have this baby and I’m going to raise it on my own. Perhaps my voice will mend in time. The voice coach said there was a chance it would, as long as the damage I’ve done to it isn’t too bad. I’ll need to see a specialist to know. But now that will have to wait a few months. I have some savings set aside which, at a pinch, I can live off until the baby is born and then I can get my career going again. It isn’t over, just on hold. After all, other singers have combined children and a career. Why shouldn’t I?
The Scotch has loosened Piers’s tongue by now and when I tell him to leave he lets fly a stream of invective so bitter it makes me frightened for what he might do to our baby. He tells me he wants nothing to do with me ever again, that I am selfish to make this decision, that I’m just as self-centred as every other actress he’s ever met. ‘It’s probably not even my child.’ He pulls on his jacket and as he wrenches open the door, he flings back at me, ‘It’s not surprising they gave you that role – they clearly know a whore when they see one.’
I shut the door on his hateful words with a thud. The finality of the sound echoes off the walls. And then I collapse to the ground and lie curled on the grimy tiles of the hall floor, my knees drawn up to protect the flicker of new life in my belly as I sob into my hands. I feel completely alone.
But one thing’s for sure, my life is in London now. There’s no way I’m going back to Scotland.
Lexie, 1978
Thankfully Daisy’s slept, strapped into her car seat, ever since we passed Inverness. I know that means it won’t be easy getting her off to bed tonight, but I’d rather have the peace for the final miles. I turn off the cassette player, having grown heartily sick of our combined collection of nursery rhymes and West End show tunes over the two days that we’ve been in the car. The radio reception up here is non-existent, so I’m left with the humming of the engine and my own thoughts as the twisting road draws us north-westwards.
A sense of dread lodges itself in the pit of my stomach as we begin to approach the coast. I haven’t been back once since I left Keeper’s Cottage more than a dozen years ago. Of course, Mum came to see me several times during my career and from the way she went on about it, you’d have thought the journey down on the sleeper was the big event rather than watching her only child perform in Oklahoma! and Carousel. I suppose I always took it for granted that she’d be here, in the little stone croft house on the shores of Loch Ewe, if I ever wanted to come back. But coming back was something I definitely never wanted to do. I didn’t even have the strength to arrange a funeral service in the kirk when Mum died in the hospital in Inverness. It was easier – and far more practical – to have a simple service at the crematorium in the city. I could sense the disappointment and disapproval among the small band of villagers who made the journey to say their final farewells to Flora Gordon even as they shook my hand and muttered their condolences on that awful, empty day.
So now I am returning, at last, reluctantly, having run out of options. And it’s too late. Mum has gone. I still can’t really absorb the finality of those words. How can I carry on without her? The two of us were a team. As long as we had each other, we never needed anyone else. She was the one who gave me the confidence to leave, encouraging me to apply to the stage school and helping me pack my suitcase when the time came. I always knew that even though we were so many miles apart, she was always right there with me in spirit when I stepped on to the stage to sing. But now I’m on my own, with my baby, whom I know will be referred to behind my back as a fatherless bairn. There are worse insults, of course, and I’ve no doubt those will be put to good use, too. There will be the whisper of gossip in the lane, and the tutting of tongues at the kirk gate. And they will say that history has a funny way of repeating itself, and what would you expect from a girl who was born out of wedlock herself and went gallivanting off to the theatres of the big city? She had the voice for it, though, they’ll admit; but then they’ll shake their heads and say for all the good that’s done her.
Daisy wakes up, startled from her sleep as the car rattles over a cattle grid with a clatter. She wails in dismay at finding herself still strapped into her car seat, and squirms, straining to get out, building up to a really good tantrum.
‘Okay, sweetheart,’ I say. ‘We’re nearly there. We just need to stop at the shop for a few things.’
It’s sorely tempting to drive on through the village, past the old gateposts that mark the entrance to the long-deserted Ardtuath Estate, going straight to Keeper’s Cottage so that I can hang on to the precious, final shreds of anonymity for a few more hours. But I’m dying for a cup of tea – and something stronger, too. And I’ll be needing food for supper. There’ll be nothing edible in the house, which has been empty for months.
If I’m being totally honest, the thought of unlocking the door and stepping over the threshold into the chilly, darkening silence of rooms that were always so full of life and light terrifies me. Stopping to do some shopping will delay the moment when I have to confront the bare truth of the things I’ve been trying so hard to ignore for so long. Loss. And guilt. And grief.
I pull up in front of the shop and groan, catching a whiff of a decidedly less-than-fresh Daisy, who’s now screaming at the top of her lungs. ‘Sorry, precious girl, you’ll just have to wait a few more minutes till we get to the house.’
I balance her on my hip, sending up a quick prayer that the shop will be deserted. I push the door open and the bell pings, although it’s drowned out by Daisy who is doing a much better job of announcing our entrance. My prayer has obviously gone unheard, as they mostly do. Several heads turn.
‘Och, Lexie Gordon, it’s yourself. Come home to Ardtuath at long last!’
Daisy’s wails have ceased for a moment as she takes a gulp of air and so the greeting is loud in the sudden silence that has fallen, reminding me that Alexandra Gordon, star of the musical stage, whose name was once printed on West End show bills, is long gone: here, I am – and always will be – Lexie.
‘We were just saying that we couldn’t recognise the car, thinking it must be some incomer. And look at this bonny wee lass, the pride and joy of her granny – may her dear, departed soul rest in peace.’ Bridie Macdonald bustles towards us, her flow of words washing over me like a wave. When she finally pauses to draw breath, she recoils slightly, nostrils aquiver, as the rich smell that has escaped from Daisy’s nappy reaches her.
‘Hello, Bridie.’ I nod a vague greeting towards the others, too, a blur of faces assembled by the till, too harassed to be able to single out individuals among the group. I juggle Daisy on to my shoulder, reach for a basket and begin to trawl the cramped aisles of the shop for what I need. Bridie follows close on my heels, asking a stream of questions and clucking distractions at Daisy who’s started screaming again.
I answer as civilly as I can m
anage. ‘Yes, I’m back. Yes, it has been far too long. Yes, I’m afraid she’s not very presentable after a day in the car. I’ve just stopped in to pick up these few bits and pieces, and then I’ll get her up to the cottage and sort her out.’
I chuck in some tea and biscuits, my progress hampered by Daisy’s squirming, Bridie’s questions and a cluster of shrimping nets on bamboo poles that I knock over as I try to manoeuvre past them to reach for a pint of milk.
‘No, I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying. No, I’ve no particular plans at the moment. No, I’m still not singing again. Yes, I’ll need to do some clearing out of Mum’s things. That’s a very kind offer, but I’ll probably be able to manage on my own, thank you. No, I’ve no particular plans to sell Keeper’s Cottage just yet.’
Bordering on desperation now, I throw a few more items into my basket – four shrivelled carrots and a tattered leek, and then a bottle of tonic water. I search for a lemon but there are none, save the ones made of bright yellow squeezy plastic. There are no potatoes left either, so I grab a packet of Smash and, because I am already beyond cooking anything from scratch, a tinned steak and kidney pie.
Finally, I reach the till. The assembled group there has been in no hurry to move on, happy to let Bridie ask her questions and to listen with interest to my answers. Their judgement hovers above my head like a sparrowhawk intent on its prey. I set the basket down and adjust my grip on my soggy, smelly daughter, thankful that she’s fallen quiet at last. When I glance over my shoulder I realise that her silence is a result of the chocolate buttons Bridie is feeding her, which Daisy is dribbling down the back of my suede jacket. I bought this jacket in another lifetime, when I had money and a lifestyle that went with such luxurious garb. Now I wear it because I can’t afford to buy anything more practical. I’m aware how it must look, though. Like its owner, this jacket doesn’t belong here.
I smile at Morag behind the till. The group of women watch, assessing each item as Morag rings it up and then packs it into a cardboard box, emblazoned with a logo, which reminds me . . . ‘Oh, and a bottle of gin, too, please.’
She reaches one down from the shelf behind her and I carefully avoid catching the eye of any of the other women. Their unspoken judgement hangs even more heavily in the air. I pay and then look up at last with a defiant smile at the assembled company.
‘Hello, Lexie,’ says a blonde-haired young woman with a pushchair, from which an immaculately dressed toddler, just a little older than Daisy, watches the scene with wide blue eyes. It takes me a second to recognise her.
‘Elspeth? Hi. It’s good to see you. And you have a wee one too now?’
We were friends at school, but lost touch when I moved south.
She nods. But makes no further attempt at conversation.
Awkwardly, I bend to gather up the cardboard box of groceries, balancing the weight of Daisy in my other arm. She smiles beatifically at Bridie, Morag, Elspeth and the other womenfolk, her cheeks flushed, her eyelashes spiky with her recent tears.
‘Here,’ says Bridie, ‘let me give you a hand with that.’
She tries to take the box of groceries from me, but I shake my head. If she sees that my car is packed to the roof with my worldly belongings it’ll be a dead giveaway: as well as clearly doing a very poor job of raising my fatherless child, she’ll know that I have slunk back to Ardtuath, homeless, my tail between my legs, my career in tatters, several months too late to care for my poor abandoned mother in the last days of her life.
‘Don’t worry, I can manage. If you could maybe just open the door for me? Thanks.’
As I balance the box on the bonnet of the car and dig in my bag for my keys, the tinned pie topples and clatters on to the tarmac. Behind the window of the shop, several faces turn in our direction.
I open the door and bundle Daisy into her car seat. Not surprisingly, she makes her thoughts on this outrage known at the top of her lungs. I wrestle the straps over her flailing arms without a word because if I open my mouth I’m not sure I’ll be able to restrain myself either from swearing loud and long or bursting into tears.
I turn to pick up the pie from the road. But Elspeth stands there, her big-eyed baby gazing up at me inscrutably from her pushchair.
‘Here,’ she says, holding out the dented tin.
‘Thanks. Not much of a supper, but it’ll have to do for tonight.’ My embarrassment and shame make me babble nervously.
Elspeth nods, glancing through the windows of the car, taking in the box of kitchen stuff and the desk lamp that are wedged against the glass. She looks as if she’s about to say something, then thinks better of it and turns her pushchair around. ‘Be seeing you.’
‘Yeah.’ I stand there lamely for a moment, watching as she wheels her fragrant, neatly dressed baby back along the road, turning in at the gate of one of the houses that overlook the harbour before manoeuvring the pushchair through its yellow-painted front door.
Then I ease my stiff limbs back into the driver’s seat and take a deep breath before turning the key in the ignition. ‘Right then, Daisy,’ I say, as cheerfully as I can, hoping she doesn’t hear the wobble in my voice, ‘Keeper’s Cottage, here we come.’
The sound of knocking awakens me the next morning. After being up into the small hours, the pair of us had at long last collapsed and fallen into a deep, deep sleep before the dawn began to suffuse the sky beyond the hills.
Our disrupted night owed a good deal to Daisy’s refusal to go to sleep in the silent and unfamiliar darkness: she’d been used to the background hum of traffic and the glow of a light-polluted city diluting the blackness to the colour of weak orange squash, tucked into her own cot in her own bedroom. By the time I’d changed her and fed her, waiting for the immersion heater to warm the water enough for a shallow bath, and then got her ready for bed, she was wide awake, enjoying the novelty of the tiny cottage filled with my mother’s things. To prevent her from wreaking destruction among the ornaments and photos that cluttered the sitting room, I attempted to remove the lid from the battered pie tin at the same time as juggling Daisy on my hip.
After wrestling for several minutes with the ancient tin opener and the dented metal encasing my supper, and having ripped a gash in my finger that dripped bright blood everywhere, eventually I admitted defeat. Wrapping a wad of loo paper around my wound, I turned off the oven and poured myself a gin and tonic instead. Then I took Daisy through to the bedroom and made up the bed, an awkward job with my injured hand. Someone must have been in, as the mattress had been stripped and the linens laundered and stacked back neatly in the airing cupboard.
I knew there was an old wooden cot in the attic, the one I’d slept in at the foot of this same bed in this same room when I was a baby, but by now I was beyond fetching the ladder from the shed, finding the cot and bringing it down, then assembling it. So I tucked Daisy into a nest made out of blankets and curled up on the bed beside her. But she was having none of it. Clean, cosy and well fed now, she was a new woman and ready for some fun and games after her long and boring day in the car. Even in my exasperation, I couldn’t help laughing as she rolled herself over and over, tangling the bedcovers around us both.
I tried singing softly to her, but the sound of my cracked voice brought the tears to my eyes and so I stopped. I fished her favourite Blue Bunny out of the bag of her toys and found a picture book. But gymnastics were more what she had in mind and so I bounced her on my tummy, her little legs working like pistons, in an attempt to wear her out. After half an hour, my arms were aching almost as much as my head. The gin was a bad idea, I decided, and I scooped up both Daisy and my half-full glass and went back through to the kitchen. I left the glass on the table next to the gin bottle, then wandered through to the sitting room to gaze out of the window.
The old windowpanes had always let in a bit of a draught and so I wrapped Daisy in the shawl Mum had knitted for her when she was born, its pattern of scallop shells as delicate as the finest lace. I stroked her
back, trying to lull her into sleepiness, the white wool soft beneath my fingertips. For a moment, an image of my mum sitting beside the fire, the cobweb-fine skein of this same wool in her lap as her knitting needles flew, threatened to overwhelm me again. I shook my head and blinked back the tears, too tired to cry any more today.
The moon was rising behind the cottage, casting a path across the loch. It was high tide and I could just make out the water lapping softly at the sand beyond the road’s edge. Oblivious to my maudlin weariness, Daisy cooed and chattered, pointing a chubby forefinger at the window and naming each new sight in her own matter-of-fact way. ‘Dat,’ she said, and, ‘Dat.’
The silence of the night was broken occasionally by the cry of a curlew from the shore. As I spoke softly to my baby daughter, kissing her freshly washed hair and rocking her gently on my shoulder, the quiet sound of an engine out on the loch made us both look up. A small fishing boat slipped across the sliver of moonlight, leaving a streamer of stars dancing in its wake where the propeller had stirred up the phosphorescence.
‘Dat,’ said Daisy, with emphasis.
‘I know, it’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ I replied. ‘A boat.’
‘Bat,’ said Daisy, and I laughed.
‘That’s right, clever girl.’
We watched until the lights in the water stopped their dance and all became still once more. ‘Come on, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘It’s bedtime now.’
But Daisy had other ideas.
By two in the morning both of us were reduced to exhausted tears. It was only after she’d sobbed herself to sleep that I dried my own eyes on the hem of the sheet, curled myself around her, pulling the shawl over us both, and sank, at last, into oblivion . . .
The knocking at the door that awakens me is muffled by my dreams at first, and I surface slowly from the depths of sleep, floating towards the surface and the daylight as the noise persists, drawing me upwards.
