Frances went on fretting about Kate as they drove down the road. ‘She’s very young,’ she said to Jack. ‘I keep forgetting how much younger she is than either of you.’
‘Come on, Mum – you’ll be home tomorrow. Can we have some music?’ He put on one of his tapes, more or less obliterating thought, so Frances turned her attention to her parents. After a while, in a break while Jack sorted out what he wanted to listen to next, she said,
‘It’s odd we haven’t heard from Gillian since Christmas.’
‘Is she still at Granny’s?’
‘She’s been back in Edinburgh for ages. But she’s so caught up in her social life down there I suppose she forgets she hasn’t been in touch.’ She glanced sideways at him. ‘Like you. Try and phone now and again, Jack.’
He grinned. ‘Don’t worry.’
They had lunch with Frances’s parents in their unused dining room, with the electric fire smelling of scorched dust and the second best china.
‘A bowl of soup would have done us fine,’ Frances said, watching her mother tip a pan of potatoes into a serving dish. Jack sat talking to his grandfather, waiting to be served.
‘We’ll just have soup and a sandwich at night.’ Grace put pork chops on plates, the largest allocated to the men. ‘I thought Jack would like a proper meal. I’m sure the food where he is doesn’t amount to much. He’s awful thin, Frances, does he eat enough?’
‘Constantly and enormously,’ Frances reassured.
‘Oh well.’ Her mother lifted the men’s plates. ‘Bring the veg Frances. He’ll have a good meal at our table, at any rate.’
Jack was in favour. He looked respectable because Frances had washed and ironed all his clothes, and he ate everything put in front of him, following rhubarb tart with a wedge of cheese and a heap of crackers.
‘Now then,’ his grandmother beamed, ‘that’s what I like to see.’
Behind her back Jack grinned at Frances and signed to indicate that he was about to burst.
Frances suspected her parents were keeping their questions about Alec until the evening, when Jack would not be there. She wished she had said she would go home the same day. The niggle of anxiety about Andrew and Kate started up again.
She planned to shop in the town centre once she had settled Jack in Halls. ‘Do you want me to get you anything?’ she asked her mother. Grace was in her arm chair with spectacles and newspaper, the dishes cleared and the dining room swept of crumbs, abandoned until the next time she had visitors who merited more than a sandwich in the kitchen. She looked over her glasses at Frances. ‘No, dear, I’m fine.’
Her father was in what he called his ‘business room’, where he had once employed himself with work taken home from the office. On the walls there were drawings and photographs of some of the buildings he had designed or been involved with. The place retained the impersonal air of a working space but all Jim was doing was making up the golf fixtures for the Spring season at his club.
‘I’m taking Jack back to Halls,’ she told him.
He put down his pen. ‘Has he kept in touch?’ He meant Alec.
‘He’s phoned a couple of times.’
At lunch they had talked briefly about Kate. It was weighing on her conscience that they still knew nothing about Susan.
‘I was wondering if you’d heard from Gill,’
‘She telephoned to say she’d got home safely, as I recall. But nothing since, now that you mention it. No call on New Year’s Day.’ He frowned. ‘That’s remiss. Your mother likes to hear.’
‘She’ll be back at work now. You know how busy she gets.’
‘Ah well. Your own lives to lead, I suppose.’ But he did not sound as if he thought this much of an excuse.
Jack was pleased to be back in his small hot room in the Hall of Residence. Students and their parents were unloading cars all round them, carrying in CD players and computers, refurnishing the rooms which had had been stripped before Christmas. Frances hugged him quickly before any of his friends appeared. Already he was separated from her, and from home.
‘Phone me,’ she reminded him. ‘Now and again.’
‘Yeah, yeah. See you Mum.’
In town the shops were crowded, the sales in full swing. Frances fought her way through department stores still glittering with Christmas decorations. She tried on clothes in cramped fitting rooms and eventually bought a jacket which seemed a bargain because it had started life with a terrifying price tag and was still expensive. Exhausted, she went for tea in John Lewis. Coming out again onto the down escalator, she glanced across at the one going up, every step with shoppers on it. A red coat caught her eye, then a dark blonde head, so that she went swiftly from admiration of the coat to a sickening lurch of recognition. So shocked was she, it was several seconds before she managed to call, her voice hoarse, ‘Susan!’
The red coat had gone. Now she was not so sure and besides, she had not seen her sister for thirteen years. But you always know your own sister. She got off at the next floor and went round to the up escalator. Susan must be in the shop somewhere. Surely she would find her; the red coat was like a flag.
As the escalator rose with infuriating slowness (and too crowded to push past the people in front), she began to think she had been mistaken. At the top she hesitated, blocking the way, apologising, moving aside. In the crowd on the floor spread out in front of her, amongst the sparkle of crystal and china, there was no red coat. She glanced at her watch. After five already. Now she really did feel exhausted, as if she didn’t even have the energy to get herself back to the car park and drive to her parents’ house in the West End.
‘You idiot,’ she scolded herself, going out into the wintry streets where thin flakes of snow had begun to fall. And yet, there had been something so like Susan in the tilt of the head, the movement of the body.
‘She’s put on weight,’ Alec had said.
‘Oh we all have.’ She had tossed this aside, not really listening, not wanting to be able to picture Susan.
‘A lot more than you,’ he had added, pointedly, it now seemed.
Susan unbalanced, going off on her own, Susan taking anti-depressants, Susan overweight. It was as if Alec was feeling something that could only be interpreted as regret. A tiny flame of triumph licked up for a moment, female and selfish. Frances turned her collar up and set off for the car park. She had begun to think about Alec differently; she had begun to pity him.
As she turned the car into her parents’ street, she thought of Gill again, who had not phoned on New Year’s Day. I will call her tomorrow, she decided, I’ll make sure she’s all right.
In Ross-shire, there was no more snow. A clear moonlit night saw Andrew and Kate get into a car full of boys and head off to Maryburgh. The two of them had dined on pizza taken from the freezer, since this seemed the easiest thing to cook, with fewest dishes. They had eaten it together in the kitchen, talking about school. Andrew thought Kate’s school sounded weird.
‘Why would anybody pay money to go to school? Who wasn’t a toff, I mean. Not Eton or anything.’
‘You haven’t seen the other schools where I live. The ones you don’t pay for.’
‘So, have you all got to wear uniform?’
‘Shirt and blazer, tie, the works.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s all right, I suppose. Leaves you all your gear for the weekend, going out.’
‘Mum said you were skiving off. Bit of a problem there, if you wear a uniform?’
Kate smiled, looking smug. ‘Got a friend lives near the school. We leave our stuff at her house, go in for registration, then head back there and get changed.’
‘Cunning plan, right.’
‘Her mother goes off to work early, so it’s fine.’ She cut another wedge of pizza. ‘What about you?’
‘No, it’s only the divvies skive like that. Regularly.’
‘Divvies?’
‘You know – they’re all going to leave school at Christmas and work in the fish factory.’
<
br /> ‘Everybody does it at my school. Nearly.’ Kate got up and tipped the remains of her pizza into the kitchen bin. ‘I’m going in the shower.’
Andrew put their plates in the dishwasher, conscious of remembering all his mother’s instructions.
When Kate came down he was taken aback by the scantiness and transparency of her top and the visibility of the black lace bra underneath. Her make-up was more thickly coated than usual, her eyes black-lashed and lined. She might be anyone, under such a mask. The trouble was, she wasn’t anyone, she was his cousin and associated with him tonight. But there was nothing he could do about it. Her expressionless gaze unnerved him.
At the party she did not hang around as he had feared she might, clinging to his side. Very quickly, after brief introductions, she vanished. He was taken aback to find her some time later wrapped round a sixth year boy he knew by reputation, but he had had a few beers by then and shrugged off the responsibility, only kicking her on the ankle as he went past, and saying, so that Roddy Macallister would at least register it, ‘I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on you, remember?’ Her face being well chewed by Roddy, did not emerge, but she flapped a blue nailed hand at him, dismissively.
Later still, two people were sick (one of them in the bathroom) and someone fell out of a first floor window, but landing on the coal bunker slid off into snow, and was found to be unharmed. Mark, whose party it was, had a fit of conscience at one o’clock, and got the vacuum cleaner out, banging it into ankles and calves as he manoeuvred it round the living-room. The noise competed with the stereo. Andrew lost track of Kate.
In Old Finnerty Farmhouse, the telephone began ringing again, as it had done from time to time all evening. Finally, whoever was calling decided to leave a message and Alec’s voice, surprising the tabby curled in a chair by the phone, said, ‘Call me, Frances, please. As soon as you can.’
Shortly after half past three, a taxi crawled up the frosted track and stopped at the house. Andrew got out, followed more clumsily by Kate. She staggered after him on high heels, squealing as she skidded on ice, wildly waving her arms to right herself. Andrew was sober, having eaten a lot of food in the kitchen at two o’clock when someone decided to make toasted sandwiches. Kate was very drunk, her eyes unfocused, and it took her quite a while to get her upstairs, holding on to the banister with both hands, Andrew patiently following behind in case she tipped back and came crashing down,
At least his mother wasn’t home. He saw Kate into her room, where she fell onto the bed and lay without moving. With some difficulty, he tugged a good part of the duvet out from under her, and wrapped her in it. She lay with her eyes shut, breathing noisily with her mouth open.
‘Are you Ok?’ he asked. In answer, one blue tipped hand emerged from the duvet and waved tremulously. He left her and went to bed.
While it was still dark he was disturbed by noises coming from the bathroom, and realised she was being sick. He waited, listening. The lavatory flushed, there was running water, then Kate made her way back to bed. Andrew lay cocooned in his own warmth, one cat over his feet and the other behind his knees, making it difficult to move. He went back to sleep.
When he woke again it was daylight, but the light behind his curtains did not have the brightness of the clear frosty days they’d had all week. He was cold now, the cats gone and the duvet slipped sideways. He lay listening to silence, until the pressure on his bladder forced him to get up. He saw Kate’s door was closed.
Downstairs in jeans and sweatshirt, he stood by the kitchen window watching the snow, great fat flakes falling straight through windless air. The ground was already covered. He thought he might have breakfast. It was a meal he rarely had much interest in, but he felt hollow and it was, he realised, after twelve.
He took his toasted roll and glass of milk to the living-room, so that he could lie on the sofa and watch television. Going through the hall, he saw a light was flashing on the answerphone. He put his plate and glass down for a moment and pressed the ‘play’ button. Six calls, and three of them had left messages. The three were all from Alec, asking Frances, with increasing urgency, to call him. ‘I’m not ringing him,’ muttered Andrew. ‘Mum can do it.’ He picked up his plate and glass and headed for the television. As he did so, the telephone began to ring again.
9
In Edinburgh, Gillian had already been back at work for three days. Once the flurry of Christmas and Hogmanay was over, the parties at an end, the foray to the Sales successfully made, what was the point of the holiday? If she stayed off work she would only lie in bed in the morning; drink too much coffee and get light-headed; watch television and despise herself for it; open a bottle of wine well before supper-time. No, better to be at work where it was still quiet, her email box unusually empty and the plants in need of watering.
She had brought her filing up to date, made notes for her next project and tried to phone people who were all still on holiday, or if they were not, behaved as if they were, going for long lunches and leaving at four o’clock. Gillian felt virtuous: she had at least made a start on her New Year workload.
She did not want to acknowledge any other reason for going back to work, but of course it was there. She was not having a good time just now. For all the boldness of her declaration to Frances that she was going to change her life for the better, she was miserable when she thought of having to do it on her own. Into the open sea again, and it harder to swim year by year. How many New Years had she greeted like this, joining the party in the flat downstairs (if you can’t be with the one person you want to be with, what does it matter where you are?) singing Auld Lang Syne and kissing people she hardly knew. How many more? She did not want to think about that.
On the Saturday morning when Frances drove Jack back to university, Gillian went to Princes Street for a final hunt round the Sales. She would go to Jenners, where you could sometimes get designer stuff at bargain prices. Gillian spent a lot of money on clothes. As long as she paid her mortgage, she could do as she liked with her money. She had no responsibilities.
She dithered for a long time over a black evening jacket with sequinned flowers. She admired herself in it, pulling in her stomach as she turned. Too much food and drink – back to the gym this afternoon, and twenty lengths of the pool. Regretfully she replaced the jacket on its rack. The party season was over and by next Christmas she would want something new.
Later, she did find some bargains and in higher spirits went off with them to a coffee house. It was a bright windless day and she even enjoyed the climb up the Mound. Edinburgh was graceful and gay in the sunshine and she loved the whole city.
Coming back through Princes Street Gardens she felt the caffeine surge ebb away, her good humour with it. The gym, the pool at the Health Club – then what? Get a video, a bottle of wine. That was a good enough Saturday night. On her own. Coming up the steps out of the gardens, she saw the crowds surging along Lothian Road and decided to head straight home. Ahead, her eye was caught by a red coat. Now that was nice – great swing at the back. She stopped. Then began walking again, trotting to catch up with the red coat, carrier bags bumping against her legs. It couldn’t be, of course, but just in case.
Whoever it was wearing the red coat, she moved faster than Gillian, and now she had vanished, perhaps into a shop or restaurant. At any rate, Gillian couldn’t see her, so she slowed again. She would call Frances tonight, that’s what she’d do, and her parents. They would all be at home on Saturday night. Why then, shouldn’t she be at home too? Frances would say fancy you thinking you saw Susan in Edinburgh. It would be all right, just a mistake. Feeling giddy she hailed a taxi and sank into it, longing to be back in her flat. It’s no good, she thought, it’s no bloody good, the three of us in different places, hardly ever speaking to each other, and Susan never speaking. What did she ever have against me, she never went off with my husband. I didn’t cut her off, the way Dad did. I was just part of the family, and that wasn’t my fault. We were so close,
when we were young.
The flat smelt stale, in need of a good clean and the windows opened. She flung herself onto the blue sofa that had cost so much money and sat there, still in her jacket. I’ll phone Frances in a minute, she thought, I won’t wait. Instead she began to cry silently, heavy tears rolling unchecked over her face.
After a few minutes, she wiped them away with both hands like a child, and got up. What she must do was contact Susan. She did not need permission from her father or Frances. Alec’s reappearance meant, surely, that he at least wanted reconciliation. Perhaps he had even been paving the way for Susan. After all these years of stubborn silence (thirteen unanswered Christmas and birthday cards) she could not do it directly, and by herself. Alec had gone to Frances first of course, but she could call him now.
This tremendous insight had much the same effect as the new clothes, the frothy Cappuccino: she was filled with energy again. Shrugging off her jacket and throwing it on the sofa, she went straight to her address book.
She trembled, though, picking up the receiver, and could not help but taste again the horror of the last time she had called Susan. She didn’t know now why she had thought she could make any difference. But she had always been closer to Susan than Frances. Frances was so much older – almost eight years – and as remote as an adult. But Susan had told her secrets to Gillian, who had hoarded them as she had hoarded the half finished bottles of pink nail polish and the cast-off clothes, crumpled from lying at the bottom of the wardrobe. Susan wearing them looked like a model, and Gillian remembered wondering helplessly why she – tugging them this way and that – never did. She just wasn’t with it, as everyone said then, and Susan was. Later, she realised Susan abandoned clothes simply because they were no longer with it, but abruptly out of date.
At any rate, as Susan’s bearer of secrets, clothes, hidden life (hidden from her parents and Frances), she had gone on believing she could still be the one to reach her. She had left home and moved to Edinburgh in the wake of the row over Susan’s going off with Adam, ten years older than she was, and divorced. Not quite divorced, as it turned out. The repercussions, it seemed to Gillian, had all been hers: Where are you off to, now? What time will you be home? We want to know where you are.
Tell Me Where You Are Page 7
