by Wayne Price
So. When is it ye’re off now? He turned away to hawk and spit.
Sunday.
Angus nodded. Law, he said portentously.
I looked away across the street. The steel shutters were down over the windows of the shop and with each gust of wind they rattled faintly.
You’ll be one o’ the enemy, man. Enemy o’ the underworld, ken? The wind dislodged a clump of hair again and this time Angus let it hang there a while, shielding him, before dragging it back.
I laughed, turning to face him.
There was something new in his voice, I remember, an air of superiority, or contempt now that he was out of his shop apron and had the night at his back.
It didn’t matter. I was leaving soon, for good, and the thought filled me again with a sudden surge of immense satisfaction. I stared past Angus and out over the sea wall. Black waves streaked with foam were rolling in fast out of the night. One after another they boomed dully into the sea wall and shattered with a boiling hiss. I remember imagining the great chains of the northern currents, deep and cold, stretching all the vast way to Greenland, Newfoundland, America. We stared out at the waves together a while and then without a word or sign to Angus I left him and crossed the empty road, hurrying.
For a long time after, or at least for what seemed like a long time then, in my twenties, I kept the occasional letters that Jessie sent, though I never responded. In all fairness, they never invited reply. Like her dark, cramped paintings they were only masks. Their meaning was in their effect and even at their most fevered – and some were startlingly erotic – they were always impersonal, always opaque.
Eventually, on a bored whim, some fifteen years ago, maybe more, I carried them all in to work and fed them to the office shredder. I changed addresses often in those days and no new letters ever found me to replace them.
It often seems to me that there’s something principled in the most hardened of my clients – those who can never confess, even to themselves. True criminals are the best of Idealists: they remember only on their own terms, and know that the whole world changes with each gratification. And why shouldn’t they come to think that way? Criminals are the courts’ apprentices.
Outside my window the late afternoon sky is blank, not promising brightness or rain. When I stand I can see the commuters, a dark quiet river, flowing homewards along the street below. Behind them, more travellers, an endless stream, spill out of Earl’s Court underground, almost all of them as they emerge glancing up at the colourless, unreadable sky, frowning an instant as if confused, or wary. How many thousands of times have I done the same thing myself? All trespassers. All following one another until they vanish, one by one, into cars and buses and buildings on the way to being alone again.
FIVE NIGHT STAY
Hamilton picked her out easily despite the August festival crowds swirling about the station concourse. Something about her – maybe her stillness in so much swarming movement, or her awkward, gangly tallness, striking in a girl so young – seemed to deflect like a magic circle the bustle and press all around her.
He was already late but paused anyway on the narrow iron walkway overlooking the crowds. She was staring towards the Waverley café and bar. Now that she was here, finally, he was hesitant. At the thought of greeting her, of having to find the right words, a heavy reluctance, like drowsiness, seemed to soak through his brain and limbs. If he could slip away now, without consequences, he would turn back, he confessed to himself. She was so tall and awkward and alone, there with her mother’s bulging white suitcase at her feet.
But he had fought her mother for exactly this: a longer time with his own daughter, and there was no backing out now. Whatever you think of me, I’ve got a natural right, he’d insisted the last time they quarrelled, a father’s right to get to know his kid. Look at her, he’d hissed, gesturing towards his car where she was sitting, out of earshot but watching them through the glass; look at her, for Christ’s sakes. She won’t be a kid much longer the way she’s going.
It was only a month since he’d made that last trip south to Leatherhead, but now, watching her unseen from above, he suddenly felt as if years had passed and he realised he was gripping hard on the walkway rail, his hands slippery with sweat. She was still facing the café, her long, bare arms hanging limp at her sides. He freed his fingers and made his way down to her. As his feet clanked on the walkway’s iron steps he looked up at the high, dirty glass panes roofing the platforms, and through them to the tops of buildings at street level where the hot, dusty city thundered and roared. Marian, let’s get out of here, he almost shouted when he reached her from behind, and she jumped a little, startled.
In the taxi she handed him a letter out of the front pocket of her suitcase.
From your mother? he asked, and she nodded, reticent as always. He opened the unmarked envelope. The list inside seemed to have been scrawled in a hurry. One instruction was blotted out very thoroughly, and only his daughter’s gaze stopped him holding the paper up to the light from the cab window.
Arrange horses. No horses=ponies
History/castles etc=fine. Scottish history=upsetting?
No swimming.
Growing pains at night=normal. Bone cancer=what she thinks.
Periods=heavy. Plenty red meat.
No conversations God – angels – death – afterlife etc.
If raining=shopping? Sometimes=upsetting.
He folded the sheet into an inside jacket pocket. The taxi had been crawling through traffic and now it stopped dead behind a line of open-topped buses. So, he said, meeting her stare, how about this weather?
As if in answer, she turned to gaze out at the sweltering tourists and shoppers jostling alongside the cab. I expected Scotland might be a bit cooler, she admitted, and plucked the cotton of her fitted vest away from her flat, damp chest.
It will be in the highlands, he said, and she nodded, frowning faintly at someone or something in the crowd. We’ll be high up, he added, then cleared his throat and waited for the cab to lurch forward again.
That evening he ordered pizza to the flat and presented Marian with a heavy, oatmeal coloured, cavalry twill riding jacket as a thirteenth birthday present. That’s why you only got a card last week, he said. I wanted to give you your real present myself.
Oh, she said, thank you. She held it up in front of her for a moment, then worked her arms into the stiff sleeves.
Surprise, he said, and she smiled.
The jacket was short in the arms but fitted well enough on the body, he thought. She lifted her arms out from her sides then lowered them again.
It’s really good material. Very expensive. The best. That’s why it’s a wee bit stiff to get into. But that’s good if you ever take a fall.
She nodded agreement.
The sleeves can be let out. I checked that, he added. I told them it might need that. It’s bespoke, he said.
She nodded again, seeming pleased with it, Hamilton judged, in her own undemonstrative way. She thanked him a second time, hugged him woodenly, then removed and set the jacket back on its varnished hanger before sitting down to eat.
Hamilton waited a while, then glanced up at her. You want to take it with us to the hotel? I’ve booked some pony-trekking for you.
She blinked and stopped chewing, then shook her head.
No? Why not?
Colouring, she stared hard at the slice of pizza in her fingers. It’s not the kind of thing they’d wear, she said at last. The pony-trekking crowd.
Oh, he said, and laughed as she gave a pained smile back. Okay. I didn’t think of that.
She shifted in her seat.
You’ll wear it once you’re back home, though? For your serious riding?
Of course.
That’s fine then, he said, and watched her finish her food.
* * *
They left mid-morning for the drive north. Without telling Hamilton why, Marian took a brief but intense interest in Fettes School as they
passed by. Then she settled back, eyes closed, sealed off from him by the ear buds of her iPod.
The weather held fine through Perthshire but by noon a grey, level bank of clouds seemed to wait on the northern horizon for them, barely moving but shielding more and more of the blue sky as the road climbed from bright birch woods to the snow gates before Drumochter. Just after two, Hamilton found the small hotel, tucked at the back of its village. A light rain was drifting in the air, speckling the windscreen. The clouds he had been driving towards plated the sky completely now. Marian was sleeping, and he was hungry and stiff and irrationally vexed that she wasn’t awake to share his discomfort. He stopped the engine, got out onto the pebbled parking space at the end of the drive and left the car door ajar while he went in to the Reception.
The proprietor, a small, neat, energetic-seeming woman, was busy with paperwork behind the desk. Her hair was completely grey but her face was smooth and almost youthful. She took a moment to sign something, then smiled up at him. Mr Hamilton, she said decisively.
That’s right.
It’s just you and a coach party of Japanese arriving today, she said, as if to explain her certainty. Maybe one more late tonight, but only if they make it cross-country, she added doubtfully. She spoke with a firm Yorkshire accent. It sounded much stronger in person than it had over the phone, Hamilton thought. She seemed to study his face for a moment, then looked out of a side window onto the drive. With a tiny, brisk dip of the head she acknowledged his solitary parked car, dark and heavy on the shingle drive. You’re with your daughter, it says in my book. Just you and your daughter?
Just the two of us.
Well, she said, and passed him a form to sign. I’ll take you to your rooms myself. The girls are off for the afternoon. She turned to take two keys from brass hooks on the wall behind her, and Hamilton looked around him and peered up the broad hall towards the shadowy staircase as if noting the girls’ absence, whoever they were.
Their rooms were part of a long, low converted stable running at right angles to the main building. At their back was a small courtyard unbounded on its other two sides. A dead fountain, crusted with lichen, was its only feature and just beyond the yard’s boundary, where the cobbles gave onto a rough, uncultivated field, stood three small caravans. They were axle-deep in grass and thistles but obviously inhabited: a full washing line was strung up close by them and a shadow of movement flickered behind one of the windows. The rain had cleared from the air now and a cool breeze had sprung up. The blouses and underclothes on the line swung out in the gusts.
Here we are, the manager said, and Hamilton halted behind her while she unlocked a door and led them both inside. Your own door is the next one along, she said, turning to Marian and handing her a key, but we can go through to it from here – the rooms are connected. She moved to the narrow connecting door and opened it to show them. It bolts from both sides, she said and slid a small bolt back and forth. There’s a mini-bar in this room but not in yours, I’m afraid, she said to Marian again, smiling briefly. She went through to the adjoining room and Marian followed after her with her case. Hamilton yawned and sat heavily on the nearest of his twin beds. Through the net skirt covering the glass panel in his door he could make out the white of the caravans. The room’s main window was in the opposite wall, looking out onto the drive. It was small and set deep into the bulky, crude stone blocks of the old building. From where Hamilton sat on the bed all that could be seen through it was the solid grey of the sky. He stretched forward and with the tips of his fingers eased open the door of the mini-bar.
We count them up at the end of your stay and add what you’ve used to the bill, the manager said, surprising him. They were both back through in his room now, behind him. If you need it re-stocked just let me know.
Right, he said, faintly embarrassed. He flicked it shut.
I’ll leave you to settle in, then. Unless there’s anything else?
Are you hungry? Hamilton asked Marian.
She shook her head.
No? he said, disbelieving.
Chef’s not coming up from the village until four, the manager broke in, but I can get you crisps or peanuts from the bar. Or you could try one of the cafés on the High Street.
We’ll maybe do that, he said, concealing his irritation. A walk’s probably what we need after that drive.
I’m fine, Marian said. I’ll just stay here.
The manager looked from Hamilton to Marian, then back at Hamilton again. Well, let me know if you need me, she said, and beamed at them before leaving.
Only one café was open in the village and the best Hamilton could get in the way of hot food was a rubbery bacon roll. He bolted it, swilling down the last stale mouthful with the dregs of his coffee, then hurried back up the road to the hotel. A vague feeling of unease had followed him ever since he had left his room and he felt oppressed by the thick clouds cloaking the village. The last of the climb was steep and his skin felt clammy under his clothes when he arrived finally at his door. He glanced across the courtyard while he fumbled for his keys. There seemed to be no movement in the caravans opposite now, and no light in any of their windows. The washing on their line hung perfectly still though the smell of damp grass seemed to carry somehow from the overgrown field to him, filling his nostrils. Quietly, he let himself in.
Marian was sleeping, curled tightly under the coverlet. Hamilton had half-expected the connecting door to be bolted, and when it had opened, its bottom edge sighing over the carpet and giving onto the private gloom of her curtained room, he felt strangely moved and comforted. For a while he watched her, then went through to his own bed and set his alarm to wake him for dinner.
They were handed menus by a young girl, scarred from a harelip, who intercepted them as they made their way down the hall in search of the dining area. She wore a simple uniform – white blouse and straight black skirt – and spoke broken English with an eastern European accent. Please, she said, smiling shyly, and directed them into a conservatory sitting area which gave onto the dining room proper. Would you like to drink? While you choose? she asked, still smiling, once they had taken the menus from her and settled on the wicker couch.
What would you like? Hamilton asked Marian.
Just water, please.
Just water? You sure?
Just water, she repeated. Please.
A bottle of water? the waitress asked.
Just tap water, Marian said. She was blushing now.
The waitress seemed confused. She looked at Hamilton.
Just a glass – from the tap, Hamilton said, making a turning motion with his hand.
Ah, she said, and laughed a little. Yes, she said.
Gin and tonic for me, he added.
Yes, she said. Gin and tonic. She left, smiling.
Hamilton watched her go. Her dark, glossy hair was tied severely in a bun but let loose would fall down thick and ringletted, he decided. She walked with a quick, light motion, on delicate legs, almost skipping through to the bar.
She’s pretty, Marian said, then leaned forward and picked up a stuffed photograph album from the coffee table in front of them. Hamilton sat back and surveyed the garden outside the conservatory. A long, closely mown lawn, broken only by a court of croquet hoops, stretched to a far wall, low and tumbledown. Beyond that was a field of rape, dull gold under the heavy evening clouds. Dark firs, cypresses and a few Scots pines bordered the entire length of the lawn. A single rabbit, feeding at the edge of a nearby flower border, lifted its head and paused, suddenly wary. Look at the rabbit, he said to Marian, but she was absorbed in the album.
The door to the bar swung open and the waitress approached with a tray. She bent gracefully to settle it on the low coffee table, then handed them their glasses. Were they ready to order? she wanted to know.
We’ll relax a little while here first, if that’s alright, Hamilton said.
Oh, of course, she said, eagerly.
It’s very peaceful, isn’t i
t? And a lovely view. He smiled, meeting her eyes, until she turned away and gathered up the tray.
Marian waited for her to leave and then fished with her fingertips for the slice of lime in her water. Pinching the rind, she shook off most of the wet and then leaned forward for the heavy brass ashtray on the table.
If you don’t want that, drop it in mine, honey, Hamilton intervened. He held out his glass and she plopped it in. He swirled the gin, making the ice faintly chime, and winked at her. What’s in the album?
The family, I think. I recognise the woman, but she’s got a husband and two boys in the photos. It shows how they changed the building into a hotel.
That’s interesting, said Hamilton. The rabbit was feeding again, head bowed, and others had appeared in the open too, now. They crouched, dotted about the lawn, static, as if distilled out of the grey atmosphere. There was something unpleasant about them, about their being there so suddenly, unmoving on the big, evening lawn. He could hardly take his eyes off them, though he knew Marian was watching him, wanting his attention.
What’s a manse?
A manse? he said, and forced himself to turn from the garden. It’s a house for ministers. Church ministers.
This used to be a manse. It says on the front page of the menu.
He opened his own menu and read the brief history of the building. Well, what would you like to eat? he said after finishing, turning the page. She was still staring at the story of the building.
Chicken, if it’s there, she murmured.
You don’t want steak? They do great steak. It’s Aberdeen Angus. Or lamb?
She shuddered. No lamb, she said. Just chicken.
Okay, he said. It’s got garlic in it – that alright?
She nodded, still reading.
A different waitress, a plump, limp-haired blonde with a Scottish accent, took their order and led them to their table. To Hamilton’s relief, Marian ate well and quickly though between each course she slipped away to wash her hands and was gone for several minutes at a time. At the table, whenever either of the waitresses came in to the room she followed their movements with obvious fascination.
