Help. He needed help.
It would have to be Fiona. He sat on the bed, picked up the phone and the scrap of paper she’d left beside it, and tapped in the number.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Henry
She was with him in two minutes, small and businesslike in her no-nonsense jeans and sweater, bearing a plate of salmon sandwiches. From her wrist she unhooked a carrier bag that clinked. ‘I don’t expect we’ll be having a family meal, what with one thing and another.’ She sounded furious, though not with him.
‘No.’ He managed a smile. ‘Thank you. You’re very thoughtful.’
He was ravenous he realised as he wolfed the food. He’d had only a chocolate digestive and a scone since the steak he’d been too traumatised to touch.
He was still sitting on the bed. Fiona briskly closed the curtains, shutting out the darkness and the mountain, then dragged a chair across the room. She yanked a bottle of malt whisky and a tumbler from the carrier bag. ‘This is my tipple. Though you’re not drinking, I see.’
Her anger was making him want to change his mind. He’d put the brandy on the dressing-table, out of reach. ‘No. Yes. I thought I would, but then I decided against. It seems important to face this sober.’
She frowned at the whisky, then threw it on the bed. ‘Okay. I’ll join you.’ She produced mineral water. ‘Though I must say it’s tempting to hit the bottle. William’s carrying on as if this is entirely my fault. Maybe he’s right. I should have let things be.’
‘No!’ said Henry.
She looked at him.
‘No,’ he repeated more quietly. ‘You should not have let things be.’
His words seemed to calm her. She poured the water and smiled at him. ‘Flat, not fizzy. Cheers.’
They clinked and swallowed. She sat at last, knee to knee with him, blue denim to green moleskin.
‘So,’ he began, then paused to clear the emotion from his throat. ‘So. He confided in you, your father, about Peter?’
‘Yes. He did.’
‘And asked you not to tell anyone?’
‘Yes. Not even Owen.’ Her eyes, grey not blue, were unsettlingly like Peter’s. ‘He was in a dreadful state. It was Hogmanay. He’d been low since before Christmas, but refusing to speak about it. Shaking his head, shutting himself away up the mountain, unwilling to come down. He had us afraid for him. I climbed up that night, and I was glad I did, for I’d never seen him so bad. Maudlin drunk, despairing, weeping over his new poem. And I was in a state myself, about,’ she shook her head, ‘about something. I was needing to talk. It was why I’d come. So I joined him in the drink.’
She lowered her eyes and stared into her glass. ‘And we spoke about such things, you know? Shared them. He was distraught at first, with talk of putting an end to himself. He’d been too long alive, he told me. He’d done terrible things, worse than I knew. What things, I asked. I wouldn’t think of judging him. And then it spilled out. He was telling me about your mother, how she had his child, how much he loved her.’ She broke off and looked past Henry at the wall.
‘I loved her too,’ he whispered.
She was speaking again. ‘But then he was vowing me to silence. “Don’t tell,” he made me promise.’
‘He didn’t want you to contact Peter?’
Her disturbing gaze came back. ‘I don’t think it occurred to him. He’d given me nothing, not even a name. But when he said this son of his wrote poetry, had studied his poems, well, I had a hunch. I remembered the thesis on his shelf. I don’t know how he’d come by it. Maybe your mother gave it to him. Most likely he’d forgotten that I’d read it. Anyway, there it was still. It’s unfinished – really a very sketchy piece of work. But he’d told me once how much he liked it, because . . . well, what he’d said was . . . in the way it was written, it seemed to know . . . to know he hadn’t died, only stopped writing. But now I realised, no, there’s more to why he likes and keeps this thesis.’
She sighed and took a sip of water. ‘I rang the university, spinning a line about our library archive. And then it was easy. The dates fitted. The facts fitted. I had no doubt this was my father’s secret son. A boat in Surbiton, they told me, called “The Styx”!’ She grinned. ‘I couldn’t leave it there, could I? I had to know, I had to meet him. After all, he is,’ she paused, ‘my brother.’
‘Yes.’ Henry absorbed the bizarre fact all over again. It could prove to be a relief, he thought, to share this dubious privilege.
‘My father had given me a fair copy of the poem. It doesn’t identify your mother, not at all. So I don’t know, I thought I’d send it – see what Peter made of it. As a Gaelic scholar. It was a way in, do you understand?’
He nodded.
‘It felt unreal. I didn’t want to tell lies, but I needed to meet him before I knew how much of the truth to give him. So I wrote an enigmatic note, trying to tempt him to Scotland. I didn’t think it would work. I never dreamed he would identify the poet – the world is convinced that Calum’s dead. But I thought, maybe he’d ring – or, more likely, after a while, I’d go to Surbiton myself, knock on the door – does his boat have a door? – and take it from there.’
‘It has a door,’ said Henry.
‘Even if he came, I didn’t think I’d tell him. I didn’t expect to bring him this far, to Loch Craggan. But then, last night, when I saw how passionate he was about the poem and how . . . how . . .’ She waved a hand.
‘How what?’
‘How jangled he is. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I thought it isn’t fair, this secret. He needs to know. It isn’t fair that he doesn’t know.’
Exactly.
‘Exactly,’ Henry said. ‘It isn’t fair.’
‘So I thought, if I were to bring him and Father face to face . . .’
‘That things would happen?’
‘Yes. But then Elena was pestering, could she come too? I tried to say no. I knew she would distract my father and complicate everything. But she was so pressing, she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Then, dear me, this morning, you appeared. You must have thought me very rude, staring at you with my mouth open. While I was thinking, oh my God, Peter’s brother?’
‘This madman – ’
‘No.’ She put her hand on his. ‘Not mad. I never thought you mad.’
‘Pretty damned eccentric.’
‘Not even that. No, really. What I thought was . . . No, forgive me.’
‘Please. I won’t be offended.’
‘Well, “jangled” is maybe a word that fits you too. Or something like it. Not the same way Peter is, not at all, but . . . I’m sorry, how presumptuous of me.’
‘It’s all right. I know exactly what you mean.’
‘And I’d ratted on you. Told Peter about you.’
‘That hardly matters – ’
‘But what a tangle I was in. I’d followed a thread, playing a game, thinking I could meet this unknown brother and see what I made of him. I thought I was doing no one any harm. And then it was happening, lots of harm, faster than I could keep up, and – God, that’s another thing. Poor Peter, he’s been trying to kiss me. What a mess I’ve made!’ She sat back in her chair, hand over mouth.
Henry lurched forward. ‘You didn’t make the mess. Your father made it. My mother made it. Not by doing what they did, but by not telling. Not telling is what’s unfair. You have put it right.’
‘It is better, isn’t it?’ She didn’t sound too sure. ‘To know rather than not to know?’
‘Yes.’ He wasn’t too sure either.
‘It hurts,’ she said. ‘It’s difficult.’
But yes, he was sure! ‘It is better,’ he insisted. ‘To know who you are. To know where you’ve come from.’ God, he was livid with his mother.
Fiona stared into her empty tumbler. It wasn’t only her eyes. Her mouth too. How uncannily she resembled Peter, now he knew. He gathered himself, fighting the urge to reach for the b
randy. ‘You said you would tell me everything.’
She looked up. With Peter’s eyes.
His chest clenched with rage and pain. ‘Please tell me all you know that happened between your father and my mother. It hurts more than you would guess or imagine. It’s hugely difficult for me, but I need to hear it.’
Peter
‘The poem, this poem you wrote last year. It’s about my mother, isn’t it?’
Long silence. Collapse of ashes in grate. Old man’s gaze blue water, far away. His father.
‘I met her thirty years ago. In nineteen-seventy.’ Calum, his father, finding words. Gathering energy with each one. Starting to smile. ‘She was debating in the bar with two other English lassies after the show. I listened a while before I spoke. Then, “Maggie has it right,” I said. “The first was rubbish. The second was better.” ’
Struggle to hear through drumbeat in head. His father, father, father. ‘The second what?’
‘The second poet.’
Fight to understand. ‘And this was where?’
‘The Festival.’
‘The Festival?’ Light dawning. ‘Edinburgh?’
‘Aye, I go each year, for the new voices.’
‘You do?’ Ah heaven, could it be? ‘Do you go still?’
‘Aye lad, thou’st guessed it right.’ Eyes full of tears. His father’s eyes. ‘I heard thee there in ninety-eight. Nae bad at all. I was right proud of thee.’
Nae bad at all. Not rubbish then. Tears spilling from his own eyes – let them spill. Too much to take in; fantasy made flesh. Urquhart, Calum, kaleidoscopic strange old man, somewhere in the Edinburgh crowd, applauding his son’s poetry. Nae bad at all. His father, father, father.
Old man sighing. ‘But oh, thou shouldst have seen thy mother then.’
What? But yes, of course, his mother. Calum and his mother, making him! Rewind to nineteen-seventy.
‘They’d come up from England, these three lassies, seeking adventure, though they didnae care to admit it in case it didnae appear.’
Listen. Listen to Calum. His father, father, father.
‘Maggie was thirty-nine, but she had a look on her like a new bird that is nae sure how to fly. Wild-eyed with unused freedom, envying the youngsters their miniskirts, thinking she might wear one. She had bonny enough pins, thy mother.’ His old voice full of yearning.
‘And you were her adventure?’
‘Aye, that same night.’ Sighing. Sorrowful.
‘So, that’s how it was? I was conceived in Edinburgh?’
Nodding. ‘Aye, thou mayst well have been, lad, though I followed Maggie south.’
‘You did?’
‘I was fifty-four years old. With five bairns. The littlest just five years old.’
‘Fiona.’
‘Aye.’ Grunting with grief. ‘Ma bonny wee lass. And four braw lads. But things were nae too guid with ma wife just then.’
‘And so you followed Ma.’
‘Aye. I didnae mean to. I battled with ma-self. But she had a look on her that tugged ma heart. It put me in mind,’ old fingers tightening on his, ‘in mind of ma youth, lad. Of times I’d thought were lost. I couldnae help myself. And so I begged sweet Maggie, “Come away with me.” ’
His father begging his mother. Come away from Pa. ‘But she wouldn’t come?’
‘Wouldnae, couldnae. She was afeard. I told her, “Maggie, leave him. There’s nothing here for thee.” I waited nearby a while.’
Vision of Calum pacing avenues of Wimbledon, head full of Ma, kiltful of lust for her, kipping in foxhole or up tree on Common, fingering pistol, praying for jeep on silken parachutes.
‘Did he know about you?’
‘Och aye, she told him. She wanted him to throw her out, I think. I prayed for him to throw her out, but he wouldnae.’
New vision of Ma and Pa, facing off across clock-ticking hall. Pa in his Marks & Sparks cardigan, and Calum in the wings.
‘Where did you stay?’
‘A room in Clapham. Maggie made white curtains for ma window. She bought a bedspread woven in India. She wore her miniskirts. I read her ma poetry. She learned it by heart.’
His Gaelic lullabies! That damned Scots drivel.‘How long did you stay?’
‘Six weeks perhaps. It got to be winter, too cold for miniskirts. Ma bairns were missing me. Ma wife was forgiving me. And poor wee Maggie said, “Go home.” ’
Woman lost in unrelenting cold. ‘And so you went?’
‘Aye.’ Old man staring into ashes. ‘What else was I to do?’
‘But . . .’
‘But what, lad?’
His father, Calum, abandoning him to Pa. ‘What about me? Didn’t you know about me?’
‘I told her, “Maggie, thou’lt be pregnant,” but she didnae care. “Let the dice fall,” she said. Maybe she knew already. Her wee boy was away at school. She wanted another bairn, I think.’
Condemning him to Pa. Leap up and pace the room. Spin to face him. ‘But didn’t you want me?’
Nodding. Anxious. ‘Aye, lad. I hungered after both of ye. We wrote letters. Through the post office. Box number thirty-two.’
‘She told you when I was born?’
‘Aye, lad, she did. And sent a photograph each year on thy birthday.’ Full, blue beam of paternal pride.
Huge swell of rage. ‘But that was it? That was all? You never once thought how much I might have needed you?’
‘Nae lad, dinnae be vexed. Of course I thought it, but what could I do when Maggie told me nae. And once I did see thee.’ A tremble in his voice. ‘When thou wast small and ma wife went into the hospital for her hysterectomy. I wrote to Maggie, wanting her to come. And so she did. She came, she brought thee here.’
‘Here? I was here?’
‘Aye, thou wast but four years old. Same as wee Georgie. The pair of ye near broke ma heart.’
Found and lost again, the poem said. Blue eyes astray past Peter’s shoulder to remembered image of Ma. Wham! Déjà vu in hall explained. Dark stairway, carved oak chair, those same eyes lifting from his to his mother’s, awash with tears. All these years he’d known his father. Always known him.
‘And that was it? You never met again?’
‘Aye, we did, but it was hard to do. There was nae joy in it. The last was a few years ago, after thy father died. We met in Edinburgh again. I was near on eighty, she was sixty-four. It was done with. But the old bugger had left the pair of ye nothing, and thou wouldst take nothing from thy brother, and should she tell thee who thou wast? She couldnae decide.’
‘And you said no?’ Rage exploding. ‘How could you do it? Didn’t you want me ever to know the truth?’
Old man clutching his hands and pleading. ‘Aye, lad. I’m sorry, lad. Twas for the best I thought, but I see I was a coward. This is best. I am your father. This is best.’
Elena
Trust me, Carlos. Urquhart.
She slid the postcard into the pocket of her shirt. Then she leant over the banister and listened to the noises of the house below. The laughter of the American guests floated through the stone archway and up the stairs, mixing with the evening aromas of wood-smoke, whisky and roasting meat, which masked the shuttered smell of Spain. The laughter of strangers was painful, but also calming. Always the world continued, indifferent to suffering and so making it less.
Others were suffering also. Somewhere in the house, William, the angry brother, was shouting. She could hear no words, only crescendos of indignation. She understood. He had a new brother. He had brothers enough; he wanted no more. Suffering came in different forms.
Her cheeks stretched tight where the tears had dried on them. She touched them with her fingers, almost expecting to find a mask.
A door was opening nearby. She straightened and turned. A hotel guest was stepping into the corridor and locking his room. She pulled her key from her pocket and started towards him. He wore a suit and a dark-pink bow tie. His bald head reflected the ceiling lights. Ah yes, she
recognised him – the man from the library who wrote as a woman, the cause of Henry’s suffering.
He smiled at her. ‘Good evening.’
She nodded as he passed. Michael McCoy, that was his name.
Poor Henry. His lover was imaginary, his wife gone away, his mother dead. And now his brother was stolen by these Urquharts, who swallowed everything like a rolling ball of ice.
Hearing the man’s footsteps begin to descend the stairs, Elena leant again to watch him go, his hand lightly following the rail. In the hall, Hannah snorted and came to greet him. He paused to speak to her, ‘Hello there. Good dog,’ then turned right beneath the stone archway into a murmur of American greetings, polite remarks about the scenery and the weather. The waiter sailed across the hall, carrying stomach and nose as high as his tray of drinks. The world proceeded calmly as though nothing ever were or would be wrong.
‘Hannah,’ Elena whispered from her landing.
The dog lifted its head and saw her, but did not bark or wag its tail. Why would even a dog care for her?
A door slammed below, and more footsteps echoed, accompanied by the sound of whistling and clicked fingers. Another bald head, shaven not shiny, crossed the hall. James, the brother with the spikes. He reached the stone archway and swept the air with his white chef’s sleeve. ‘Mr McCoy. I’m charmed. You will dine here tonight, I hope? With what delicacies may I tempt you?’
The same door slammed again. William’s shout erupted in one of the passages below. ‘They’ve had their bloody half an hour, and more. It’s our turn. And the old bastard had better not mess us about!’
The old bastard. Yes. The moment had come to confront him. This time he would not escape. Elena stretched her back and smoothed her hair. She took the postcard from the pocket of her shirt. She drew a deep, steady breath and started down the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Peter
Dambust of Urquharts through door. Will the builder, shouting odds. ‘Come on now, break it up!’ Muppets multiplying. God help him, his relations! ‘Get an eyeful of this, Gavin. Straight in and bonded like shit to a blanket.’
Love, Revenge & Buttered Scones Page 17
