Tell Me Where You Are

by Moira Forsyth

  ‘It’s fine. All I need is a bed.’ Frances turned to face her sister. ‘How are you anyway? I’ve hardly spoken to you for weeks.’

  ‘Busy of course, the usual thing. You know where the bathroom is – I’ll leave you to it.’

  Even at seven, the restaurant was full with theatre suppers, and Frances and Gillian had a table squeezed into a corner.

  ‘This is wonderful,’ Frances sighed. ‘I feel as if I’ve escaped, but any minute someone might come and drag me away to make me cook dinner for ten.’

  ‘Time you taught your sons to cook.’

  ‘They can cook when they have to. They’re working though. It’s Kate who’s at home but she shows no interest. No interest in anything really.’

  ‘She’s well enough though?’ No way out of asking now.

  ‘Getting bigger by the day and very lazy. She’s been much better since Jack got home.’

  ‘What was wrong?’

  ‘She cried.’

  ‘Cried? What about?’ Me too, Gillian was thinking, it seems you can’t win.

  ‘God knows. Everything. Cried and cried. It was exhausting – for all of us.’ Frances poured more wine. ‘We might need another of these. I hardly ever get the chance to drink and not care if it makes me tipsy.’

  ‘I do like your hair. Your whole image is different, or maybe I just never see you in smart suits. You look younger too.’

  ‘Wish I felt younger.’ But Frances looked pleased.

  The waiter came with their pasta.

  ‘When is Kate actually due?’ Gillian asked, as they began to eat. She was amused to see how Frances relished the wine and food, her eyes sparkling in candlelight. At the back of the restaurant, with its red walls, the light was dim and romantic. Outside, it was still sunny, a bright August evening.

  ‘They’re saying twentieth September, but you never know with first babies, they’re unpredictable.’ Frances put her fork down. ‘There’s something I want to ask you.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘No, it’ll keep. Tell me about Paul, what’s happening. Mum was full of curiosity. She’s hoping for wedding bells.’

  Gillian laughed. ‘She’ll be disappointed.’

  ‘It’s not serious then?’ It was the old Frances again, quizzical, sharp.

  ‘Oh, it’s early days. Who knows? He’s a nice guy.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But nothing. Like I said, it’s early days.’

  ‘He’s not married,’ Frances pointed out. ‘No possible obstacle that I can see.’

  ‘Me,’ Gillian said. ‘I’m the obstacle.’

  Frances waited a moment, but Gillian concentrated on eating.

  Outside in the fresh air it was a surprise to find daylight but Frances, rallying from the heavy meal and too much wine, said brightly, ‘Look, night’s still young. Could we walk a bit? Maybe go up to the Royal Mile?’

  There was a band playing in Princes Street Gardens and couples were dancing on a wooden stage. A lilting waltz followed them as they walked through the holiday makers and Festival-goers thronging the pavements.

  The area round St Giles’s Church was packed.

  ‘Look – jugglers!’

  ‘You want to stop for a minute?’ Gillian asked. She was too used to the open air performances, to musicians from Peru, jugglers and snake charmers from India and elsewhere, to take much notice now. They stood at the edge of the audience circling the jugglers with their coloured balls and sticks, their fire torches and unicycles. Frances said,

  ‘Jack’s learning to juggle, but not with flaming torches, I’m thankful to say.’

  ‘Does he dress up for it?’

  Frances laughed. ‘Not so far – I can’t see him in that!’ The performers were in patchwork pantaloons and satin shirts in jewel bright colours. They wore straw hats they threw from one to the other, till the one at the end had them all, and tossed them expertly above his head, making a spinning wheel of hats, catching them lightly as they fell, flinging them one by one back to their owners.

  Gillian, having seen this kind of thing before, too many times, was half-turned away, looking across the crowd. Suddenly she gripped Frances’s arm so hard her sister cried out.

  Then she let go and was off, pushing through the mass of people between her and the other side of the street, beginning to run. Frances, astonished, started after her. Gillian had begun to run downhill and Frances, bumping into people, apologising as she tried to follow, called after her. But her voice vanished, lost in the noise of the jugglers’ drums, the rise and fall of the music of an accordion player on the corner by a pub. About twenty yards away Gillian had come to a halt, and was leaning on a shop window. Frances, slowing now that Gillian had stopped, finally reached her.

  Gillian was white-faced. ‘I thought I saw Susan.’

  They were both breathing hard and for a moment Frances didn’t answer, she was so giddy with running. She put a hand on the shop window to steady herself.

  ‘Are you sure? Where did she go?’

  ‘I don’t know. One minute she was there on the other side of the road, walking away quite fast. By the time I got through that crowd she was a long way ahead. Then – I don’t know – I thought she turned down there, into the close but when I looked, it was empty. She must have gone through a door. I was so puffed, I had to stop.’

  ‘What was she wearing?’

  ‘She had a white shirt with the collar turned up and dark trousers, navy maybe. I followed the white of the shirt. Am I going crazy or what?’

  ‘You really thought it was Susan?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? Your imagination plays tricks and after all these weird phone calls – ’

  ‘What phone calls?’ Frances looked round. ‘This is no good, we need to sit down and talk. What about a pub – over there?’

  ‘It’ll be crammed.’

  It was. The noise meant they could only mouth at each other and there was going to be a long wait before they got near enough to the bar to order drinks.

  ‘Home,’ Frances decided, ‘to your flat. We might even get a taxi.’

  Going down the Mound, they did, and were back at Gillian’s flat in ten minutes.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Frances asked as Gillian put her key in the door. ‘You’re terribly pale.’

  ‘Let’s get a drink, I need one.’

  Frances took over, making coffee, then pouring them a whisky each. She set them on the low table by the sofa, tidying glossy magazines into a pile to clear a space.

  ‘Now, about these phone calls?’

  ‘You know I went ex-directory? That’s why.’ She gulped some of the whisky and topped up her glass. ‘The other thing is, I spoke to Alec, I wanted to ask him about these calls. I’ve had a feeling for ages that he knows more about where Susan is than he lets on.’ She put down her glass. ‘I think he knows she’s never coming back.’

  Frances sank back on the sofa cushions and briefly closed her eyes.

  ‘It’s his manner,’ Gillian said. ‘I could be wrong.’

  ‘I don’t think you are. When was the last silent call?’

  ‘I went to the police, at least I rang them up, and then the phone company and that was – a couple of weeks ago? Maybe three.’

  ‘Have you told Paul?’

  ‘Just that I was getting crank calls. You think I’ve been imagining things, don’t you?’

  ‘I think it would be good if a man answered now and again. So if it is a crank – ’

  ‘Oh, it’s a crank all right, but one who happens to be our bloody sister!’

  ‘You can’t know that.’

  ‘I know what you think,’ Gillian snapped. ‘You think I’ve gone crackers because I had an abortion and it’s unbalanced me.’

  ‘Of course not. I do think you’re stressed.’

  ‘And you’re not, I suppose? With a pregnant niece and an ex-husband who’s angling to get back to you now he’s lost his second wife?’

  Frances put her cup dow
n. ‘This is all out of proportion. Whatever I’ve done to upset you, I’m sorry. Of course I’m stressed but Alec has absolutely no desire to move back, certainly not with me. It’s the last thing he’d want.’

  ‘Ask him why he’s selling his house then? He told me he wanted to be nearer Kate, and he’s going to look for somewhere in Dingwall.’

  ‘He told you that?’

  ‘Not in so many words, but it was clear enough.’

  ‘It’s for Kate, it has nothing to do with being near me.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want him back?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Does he know that?’

  ‘Stop it. I don’t even want to discuss him. Drop this. Please.’

  ‘Here,’ Gillian said, ‘have some more whisky. Bloody Susan – it’s all her fault. Why can’t she just come home?’

  Frances gave a shaky laugh. ‘Yes, nothing changes.’

  After a moment Gill said, ‘In the restaurant, you said there was something you wanted to ask me.’

  ‘There is. Even if Alec does move, I’d still want to ask you, not him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said you had some leave to take. Would you come up for a few days when the baby’s born and stay with Kate?’ She saw Gillian’s expression change. ‘No, wait. I’ll be at work, Jack in Aberdeen and Andrew at school. She’ll need someone around for a little while.’

  ‘Why are you asking me? What I know about looking after babies could be written on a second class stamp. Mum’s the one you need.’

  ‘She wouldn’t leave Dad, which would mean him coming too and that makes it more difficult.’ Frances sighed. ‘Och, I thought it might help you as well.’

  ‘You think I might get over having an abortion by having a real baby to look after that’s not my own, and never will be?’

  Frances gave up. ‘Sorry, that makes me sound completely insensitive. I know you’re still upset about it, but the world is full of babies and you could still have your own. Maybe you need to think about that.’

  Gillian did not answer and silence lengthened between them. Then she said, ‘It should be Susan.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Actually, I do want to come and be some use and help Kate, be there right at the beginning, so I can see the baby as soon as it’s born. Why do I want to do that? I must be mad.’

  They leaned back on the sofa cushions in unison, as if something momentous had just happened. Then they found themselves listening to the silence, listening for a phone call, a footstep on the stairs, a light voice calling them. There was nothing, and after a while they began to talk of other things.

  4

  As soon as Frances was back in Dingwall she called Kenny.

  ‘Come to supper tomorrow night.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ He sounded as if he couldn’t believe she had said this. ‘What about the family? I thought you had a houseful.’

  ‘I have. I want you to join us.’

  She did not say, I want you to protect me from Alec in case he tries to insinuate himself back into my life.

  ‘All right then. Do I bring a bottle, or what?’

  ‘Just yourself. In a clean shirt.’

  He laughed. ‘Ach, I knew there was a catch.’

  She said to Kate, ‘Next time Alec phones I want to speak to him.’ To all of them she said, ‘Kenny’s coming over tomorrow night to eat with us.’

  Andrew and Jack looked at her, baffled. Kate, intent on the television again, said ‘What?’

  ‘Go back to your soaps, dopey,’ Andrew told her, and Jack tugged her hair as he went past. ‘Pregnancy makes women deaf.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Kate retorted, but mildly. Even Jack had lost his glamour with proximity. They behaved like siblings, trading insults or ignoring each other.

  ‘What about a walk?’ Frances suggested. ‘It’s a lovely evening. I need it, after that train journey.’

  Jack had disappeared upstairs; Andrew said, ‘you don’t mean me, I hope,’ and sloped off before she could say she did.

  ‘What about you?’ Frances asked, sitting on the arm of Kate’s chair.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Kate, come on, I bet you’ve been in front of that TV all day.’

  ‘No, I haven’t. I hoovered the hall.’

  ‘Well, come on then, get some fresh air.’

  Kate sighed. ‘Do I have to?’ But the programme had ended, so while the signature tune played she pushed her feet into her trainers, grumbling. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Just up the hill a bit.’

  Out of doors the air was balmy, the sky shadowed by veils of grey-white cloud. They began to walk up the lane towards the farm. The grey cat followed them. He jumped in and out of the dry ditch, slipped under the bottom line of barbed wire into the adjoining field, lay low in the long grass for a moment, then raced out to follow them again.

  ‘He’s having his own walk,’ Kate said. ‘How far do you think he’ll come?’

  ‘Just to the farm. When the collie runs out barking he turns back in a hurry.’

  Tail in the air, the cat led the way, pleased with himself. After five minutes Kate stopped for a breather, turning to look back at the slumbering shape of Ben Wyvis, then past the Academy playing fields and the houses spread out on the hillside, to the firth. To Frances it was the dearest landscape she knew; she was surprised and cheered when Kate said, ‘It is nice, isn’t it?’ and added, ‘Just as well you’re here, or I’d eat all the wrong stuff and never get any exercise.’

  As they walked on, Frances asked if Alec had said anything about moving to Dingwall.

  ‘He said he’d come when the baby’s born. That’s all right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it is. But he’s not planning a permanent move as far as you know?’

  ‘Oh no. He can’t leave the house in case Mum comes back. I mean, it would be nice for me if he lived here, but it’s not on, is it?’ She brushed her hand along the dry feathery tops of the long grass on the verge. ‘I told him he had to stay there.’

  ‘Gillian must have got it wrong then.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘She seemed to think he was selling the house.’

  ‘No, you can tell her. I made him promise.’

  What’s that worth, Frances thought, remembering the promises he had made in the past. What Kate needed from other people was some reassurance that they had faith in Susan too. But what was Alec up to?

  ‘I’m tired,’ Kate complained. ‘Can we go back?’

  ‘Downhill all the way,’ Frances said, giving in. With a high pitched trill the cat turned and raced past them, disappearing into the belt of trees between Frances’s house and the farm. She and Kate went more slowly, the landscape below dimmer in fading light. Above them a buzzard wheeled then plunged to earth, no more than a black speck in the distance, too far off for them to see what he had seen, and caught.

  Alec’s job was coming to an end, but the house sale had been held up because his buyer’s own sale had fallen through. He swithered between sticking it out with this buyer, and putting the house back on the market, which would mean spending more money on advertising. If nothing happened with the house he might have to look for another short term contract.

  At a loose end on his one evening off work, he stood by his bedroom window looking down into the street and over the allotments which lay between his street and the main road through Gosforth to Newcastle. This road was still busy with early evening traffic. On the allotments old men pottered, digging early potatoes, tying up runner beans, weeding and tidying their plots. It looked peaceful, and Alec wondered idly if he might have been happier in that kind of life, with a regular job and an allotment for weekends. It was Frances who liked gardening; he and Susan had been content with a back yard. Her idea of gardening was to have a cyclamen and a poinsettia in the house at Christmas. By January, she had usually managed to kill them both.

  What should he do with the evening? There were friends he could call,
or join in one of the nearby pubs. There was Lizzie, though they’d met so little recently he suspected she was seeing someone else. He could go to a film or the theatre. Inertia kept him standing there doing nothing till he made himself move, but only to sit on the edge of the bed. After a moment he lay down on top of the covers, his head propped high on the pillows. Opposite him was the empty wardrobe.

  He closed his eyes. Better to think of anything rather than Susan. But he could not stop now, could not prevent another re-run of that last row before she left. He opened his eyes and sat up. Stop, no more. He tried to think of Kate but instead his imagination conjured Frances, Frances in her house. What were they doing there now? Saturday night. The boys would be out or maybe they were all finishing a meal in the bright kitchen. He tried to picture Kate large and slow-moving, but saw only the slender girl he had taken north, full of resentment and misery, last Christmas. Easier to see Frances, her knot of blonde-grey hair slipping a little from its pins. He found he could not visualise his sons.

  He was stuck, that was the trouble. Soon there would be no job here. And no house sale. Sod the Wilsons with their bungalow in Sunderland. No wonder nobody wanted to buy the bloody place – Sunderland. He rubbed his hands over his face. He needed a drink. Best go out, he thought, not drink here on my own. Call Gerry – he was always willing to go for a pint. He reached for the phone then paused, his hand on the receiver.

  Why not go north anyway when the job was finished? Frances could hardly turn him down. For Kate’s sake, she would let him come. A few days, a couple of weeks. Why not. He picked up the receiver, but it was Gerry’s number he dialled. No point in giving them a lot of notice. Frances might put him off if he gave her time to think of a reason. At any rate, he would get out of this place. It was beginning to give him the creeps. If he sat in the silent house long enough he heard things. Footsteps, whispering. He should put the radio on again, the TV, music. That was what he usually did, the minute he came in. Noise, other people, something happening to prove you’re not so fucking alone. Better still, to prove you are.

  Frances was surprised by how talkative Kate became when Kenny was there.