by Isla Dewar
She headed for the bedroom, but Carol stopped her.
‘I moved your things. They’re in the spare room.’
Nell sneaked a swift peek into the main bedroom as she passed. It was different, and much sexier than before. There was a new eiderdown on the bed, sheets Nell hadn’t seen before and matching lamps either side of the bed. ‘Didn’t take you long to make your mark,’ she said.
Carol shrugged. ‘Didn’t like it before. It reminded me of you.’
‘Thanks for that,’ said Nell.
Carol was embarrassed. ‘I didn’t mean that I didn’t like it. Just I don’t want to be thinking of you when I’m in bed.’
‘With Alistair?’
Carol didn’t answer that.
Nell gathered her clothes from the wardrobe in the small bedroom at the back of the flat. She shoved them into her suitcase and headed for the front door.
‘Won’t you stay and talk?’ said Carol. ‘Have a cup of coffee.’
‘Why? Have you got new cups you want to show off?’
Carol shook her head. ‘I just think we ought to talk.’
‘What about? Are you going to give me handy hints on seducing other women’s husbands?’
Carol said there was no need to be like that.
‘Isn’t there? said Nell. ‘Isn’t this what always happens? You’ve always copied me. You’ve always wanted what I had. You lost your own husband so you took mine.’
‘It wasn’t planned. It just happened. We didn’t mean to hurt you.’
‘And that excuses you both? Nell sniffed, held her head high and said she hadn’t been hurt. ‘Anyway, I’m grateful. You’ve set me free to go my own way and … start a new life somewhere else if I want.’
‘Where?’ Carol scoffed.
Nell said the first place that came into her head. ‘London,’ It was as much a surprise to her as it was to Carol. It had only this moment popped into her head. ‘There’s lots going on there. The Beatles live there. There are all sorts of fascinating shops and galleries. I’ll find my way, get a job and when I’m on my feet I’ll get a flat. So don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’ll let you know how I’m getting on so when you inevitably copy me and go off to London on your own, you’ll be aware of any pitfalls.’ She picked up her suitcase and stomped out of the door. And not a tear fell till she was round the corner and out of sight.
At home that night, she sat wrapped in blankets. She lacked the energy to light a fire. She cursed her luck. She’d lost everything. Her life had crumbled to nothing while she wasn’t looking. How could this have happened?
She’d been pursuing an opportunity. Who wouldn’t have done the same? She might have been manager of a restaurant in town. She’d have had smart clothes and an office of her own. She’d have been making good money – if May had paid her.
May had once told her never to regret anything. ‘Life’s too short. What you’ve done, you’ve done. Don’t regret, don’t apologise and don’t complain. Just move on.’
Nell, however, was awash with regret. She should have listened to her mother. Don’t go to the Locarno. Well, she’d been right there. If I’d never gone to the Locarno, I wouldn’t have met Alistair or any Rutherford and this wouldn’t have happened to me, Nell thought. I’d have married someone else and I’d be happy.
She didn’t regret meeting Annie, but wished she’d taken more interest in her at the time. The woman seemed interesting and astute. Nell cringed to think of herself wafting about the restaurant, showing people to their seats, laughing at their feeble jokes and bringing them bottles of wine. ‘Margaux is an excellent choice, sir. It’s bold and full bodied. Just the thing to go with your steak au poivre.’ Yet she’d never drunk the stuff herself, and wouldn’t be able to distinguish it from a glass of Vimto. Pretentious cow, she derided herself.
She couldn’t bear to think about her mother and father. Bringing them to mind was like touching an open wound, checking if it still hurt. ‘Oh,’ she cried out every time. She had an unfinished relationship with her parents. All the things she should have said and done to show her love for them remained unsaid and undone. She should have been kinder. It was guilt she’d have to live with.
‘Married in January’s hoar and rime, widowed you’ll be before your time,’ her mother had warned. And Nell had mocked her. Well, Nancy had been full of such sayings. Rhymes about sneezing: One’s a wish, two’s a kiss, three’s a disappointment, four’s a letter, five’s something better and six is a appointment. There were rhymes about haircuts: Best never enjoyed if Sunday shorn. And likewise leave out Monday. Cut Thursday and you’ll never grow rich, likewise on a Saturday. But live long if shorn on a Tuesday, and best of all is Friday. And rhymes about thunder, how did it go again: Sunday was an omen of death of a learned man, judge or writer. Monday was the death of a woman. Tuesday was the sign of plenty of grain. Wednesday was the death of harlots or news of bloodshed. Thursday plenty of sheep, cattle and corn. Friday the death of some great man or battle. Saturday forebode pestilence or illness. There were so many of them; Nell wondered where her mother had learned them all. At her own mother’s knee most likely. These verses probably went back through the generations to the beginnings of her family. Nell knew it was her duty to hand them on to her children, should she ever have any.
Well, the one about the winter bride seemed to be true. Not that she was widowed, but she might as well be. Most likely the rhyme appeared in the dark times before divorce. Marry when January cruel winds doth send, and your husband will sleep with your best friend. There was a new one to add to the list. She’d definitely teach her children that.
Where would she be when they came along? She didn’t know, but she’d told Carol on the spur on the moment that she was going to London to start a new life and now the idea had taken root. Going away, suitcase in hand, to a new place, to breathe new air and mix with new faces seemed like the thing to do. Only, all she had to her name was thirty pounds. It wasn’t much to cover her expenses.
Two days later, the parcel came. Nell opened it and read the note: A little something to make amends. It wasn’t signed but Nell recognised May’s dreadful scrawl. Nell remembered thinking when she first saw it that a good pen with a broad nib might help.
She dug into the parcel, pulled out something tightly wrapped in newspaper. It was a gold-rimmed crystal glass. The box contained five others – May’s treasures. Nell laid them out on the kitchen table. ‘Glasses, I don’t want glasses. I don’t even like them. What good are they to me?’ She picked one up and threw it at the wall. ‘Go to hell, May.’
When she’d calmed down, she took the remaining five to the pawnbroker. He held one glass to the light, pinged it with his finger, swore it wasn’t real crystal and offered her fifteen pounds for the lot. Nell refused. They must be worth more than that. Why would May have treated them with such reverence if they weren’t?
In the antique shop – antiquities bought and sold, it boasted in the window – the man behind the counter looked bored when Nell walked in carrrying her box. However, she noticed the glee that flickered momentarily across his face when he lifted out a glass. He turned it over in his hands. ‘Georgian,’ he said. ‘Very nice. Lovely, in fact.’ He held it out to Nell. ‘Beautiful vermicular collar and conical foot. Do you have the full set?’
She told him no, she only had five.
‘Pity, I could offer you a lot more if you had six. Still, I’ll give you eighty pounds for what you have.’
Nell smiled. She knew that pawnbroker had been trying to cheat her. I’m a lot smarter these days, she told herself. Not so trusting. She told the dealer she’d take his money.
‘Good girl. I knew you were sharp. I could see you wouldn’t take any kind of nonsense offer.’ He opened his till, withdrew eight ten-pound notes and handed them to Nell. He wished her a good day and watched her leave the shop. Then he unpacked all the glasses. ‘Oh my God, you beauties. You lovely, lovely things.’ They were perfect. No chips, no scratches
. They had been loved. He could easily sell them separately for over a hundred pounds each or, perhaps, eight hundred for the lot. ‘Nice,’ he said.
At home, Nell laid out her money on the kitchen table. She had just over a hundred pounds. She searched the house for more. She dug into pockets, emptied her mother’s handbag, peered into drawers and came up with a further five pounds. She had a tidy little running-away fund. She’d go tomorrow.
She couldn’t sleep that night. Fear plagued her. London was a huge and worrisome place. Where would she sleep tomorrow night? A small hotel, she decided. Then she’d find a job, possibly in a shop or a bar. After that she’d find a bedsit. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. It helped to speak out loud. She almost convinced herself.
But arriving alone in the big city, almost penniless, certainly friendless, was the stuff of big adventures. People did such things. Nell had seen this story often in the movies and it always ended in success – glory, even. Good things happen to people; why shouldn’t they happen to me? It’s my turn, she told herself.
But still when she let her imaginings rip, the streets she walked were dark and strangers lurked; night came and she had nowhere to stay; windows were lit; people in glistening rooms pulled their curtains shutting her out in the cold. Buildings loomed large. And, somehow, she was smaller.
If she listed the things she wanted, it wasn’t money or friends or success that came out top. It was safety. More than anything else, she wanted the pain of recent events to stop. She wanted to stop fearing what would happen next because she couldn’t stand another shock, another thing to add to her aches. She wanted to be safe.
Chapter Thirty
Safe
It was Mrs Lowrie who planted the notion of going on holiday in Nell’s mind. Nell had always been wary of the woman. Mrs Lowrie had always given her the most peculiar of looks, as if she knew something about Nell that Nell didn’t know herself. It had happened again at the funeral when Mrs Lowrie had said everyone would have been happy with sandwiches and fruit cake.
Nell didn’t know that Mrs Lowrie was responsible for her very existence. Without Mrs Lowrie she would not be on the planet. This was the woman who’d set the seeds of guilt in her mum’s heart when she’d mentioned that it was a woman’s duty to let her husband have his way with her, especially during wartime. If Nancy hadn’t taken this seriously, she’d never have submitted to Nell’s dad’s desires on that fateful night when Nell was conceived. Now she was about to have a hand in Nell’s destiny for a second time.
Nell was walking down the path, suitcase in hand. She’d looked round the house and said goodbye to it. She had the keys in her pocket and would hand them in at the council office before going to the station. She was awash with trepidation and joy: the first because she was afraid of what might happen to her; the second because she was saying goodbye to everything. Walking away gave her hope. It was an act of defiance.
She met Mrs Lowrie at the gate and they exchanged good mornings.
Mrs Lowrie noticed the suitcase. ‘Going on holiday, Nell? Just what you need after all you’ve been through. A few days to blow away the cobwebs and relax.’
Not wanting to discuss her plans, Nell agreed: she was going on holiday.
‘Where are you off to?’
‘London.’
‘On your own? Oh, I wouldn’t go there on my own. It’s too big. You could get lost and if you do you need someone with you. And what about eating? You can’t go into a café or restaurant on your own.’
‘I’ll manage. There’s lots to do in London, galleries and cinemas. I’ll be fine.’
‘No, you won’t. Trudging through busy streets all alone. Getting jostled, looking out for pickpockets – London’s full of them. That’s not a holiday. You want to go somewhere quiet. Somewhere where you can rest, gather yourself after all your woes, eat and sleep. That’s a holiday.’
Nell said she liked cities. ‘All I need is to get away.’
‘Oh, well, if that’s what you want. London’s not for me. I like quiet. I like peace. And if you ask me peace and quiet are what you need right now. Still, have a lovely time.’
All the way to the council offices, Nell thought about this. She handed over the house keys, paid her rent and walked to the station. A holiday, she thought. I haven’t had a holiday in ages. In fact, she’d only had two holidays in her life. One, when she went on honeymoon with Alistair. The other, when she went to a Highland village, Catto, with her parents when she was little. It had only lasted a week.
Memories of the holiday in the Highlands with her parents swam in her head. Remembering that time soothed her. She had snapshot memories – her father, trousers rolled up, paddling in the sea with her; her mother sitting on a deckchair watching, eating fish and chips at the harbour; breakfasts of porridge and a boiled egg at the B&B where they’d stayed. What was the name of that place?
Nell stopped, put her case down on the pavement and thought. It had been the combination of the names of the husband and wife who owned the house. Nell sat on her case. This bothered her. She would not move till she remembered. Their names were Kelvin and Byrony. Kelby, that was it. They used to put out cakes and chocolate biscuits at breakfast time, she remembered. God, no wonder I thought it a wondrous place. She got up, took her case and headed for the station.
‘Why “Kelby”?’ Nell’s mother had asked. They had been in the small dining room at the time.
Bryony, a small woman with long black hair, had laughed and explained. ‘But it is an actual word. It means “place by flowing water” in Gaelic.’
Nell had wished she lived there, in that house with those lovely people. The bedroom had had a sink where she could clean her teeth last thing at night and then jump into bed. One morning, instead of porridge, she’d had cornflakes for the first time in her life. She’d thought them exquisite.
She’d thought that if she’d lived there she could have them every day. She could go to the beach in the mornings on her own. She might have a boat she could row to her own secret island and have adventures.
Struggling down the Waverley steps into the station, Nell realised that even then, all those years ago, she’d been dreaming her life rather than living it. It was time to stop. Time to have a holiday and celebrate the start of a new life and a new Nell.
Chapter Thirty-one
Greek Gods
It was seven o’clock when Nell arrived in the Highland village of Catto. If she’d bought a ticket to London, she’d have been there already. She had no idea the journey was so long – four hours on a train, an hour on a bus, then two hours on a second bus – but then she couldn’t recall coming here before or going home again; she only remembered being here.
All the way, desperate to reach her destination, whooshing sometimes, trundling sometimes, through spectacular countryside, heathered mountains, rambling rivers, she had urged the train and buses on. Catto was where she had to be.
The place hadn’t changed much. At least, she didn’t think it had. The air smelled ozone fresh, though as she walked the main street there were wafts of booze from the pubs. Seagulls floated above the harbour. Windows were lit. Bubbling conversations sparked with laughter drifted from each of them, but there was nobody in the street except her.
A rush of nervy panic swept through her. What was she doing here? She had nowhere to stay. There were several public benches along the opposite side of the street, facing out to the sea. Nell dreaded that she might spend the night on one of them. If this is the new me, she thought, she is even sillier than the old me. Why didn’t I phone in advance and book a room?
Catto’s main street consisted of a long row of houses, mostly painted white and facing the water, a narrow beach, a harbour with three or four fishing boats, an ice cream shop, a fish and chip shop, a general store, a chandler’s and the three pubs. There was also small café; inside was a group of teenagers sipping frothy coffee, and the Beatles blared out ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand’.
Nell stoppe
d and listened. It was a new sound. The sound of a new generation. If the Locarno hadn’t closed down, that’s what the band would be playing. The singer would be ruining it with his eyebrow movements and his BBC newsreader accent. God, she thought, it’s three and a half years since I last went to the Locarno. Three and a half years and I married, left my job, lost my husband, my job, my best friend and my parents. I should have been more careful. She resisted the urge to run into the café to warn the kids in there about the dangers of life. The teenagers inside were all staring back at her as she dithered on the pavement. They were sneering. Ha, she thought, you call that sneering? I can out-sneer the lot of you.
She turned and walked to the corner, the way to the B&B where she’d stayed all those years ago slowly coming back to her. She’d walked this route from Main Street to the house so often with her parents, it was engrained in her memory. Round the corner, up the hill, then along Springfield Street and there was Kelby. It was up a short drive behind a giant monkey puzzle tree. Nell rang the bell.
An older, greyer Byrony opened the door.
Nell coughed and asked if there were any rooms vacant. ‘I know I should have phoned and booked, but it was a spur of the moment thing.’
Byrony stood still, staring at Nell.
‘See,’ said Nell. ‘I stayed here years ago. With my mum and dad. Only they died recently. First Mum, and then Dad. He couldn’t live without her. And I thought it would be wonderful to come here where we were happy. You know, return to where memories were made.’ She wished this woman would say something. The more she kept her mouth shut, the more Nell spoke. ‘I mean what’s the point of staying in that house where we lived. I was alone and thinking of them. I was so sad I could hardly breathe.’
Byrony invited her in. As Nell stepped into the hall, Byrony stepped out and looked down the drive. ‘Are you on your own?’
