‘I understand you play golf,’ said Joe to her father.
‘Badly, I regret. What about you?’
‘Love it.’
Lorna nearly spluttered into her glass then, in mounting surprise, listened to Joe explaining that he had been a schoolboy golf champion, then the captain of his university team. ‘I’m a bit rusty now, of course,’ he added with a winning smile.
‘You should have mentioned that Joe plays golf,’ said her dad in mild rebuke, now clearly approving fully of his daughter’s boyfriend. Lorna smiled back thinly, wondering what else she didn’t know.
Then dinner was ready and they sat in the window alcove looking down into the street. The Porsche was parked under a streetlight opposite. ‘Now,’ said her mum, once they were all seated, ‘let’s say grace and then we can eat.’
‘Please,’ said Joe, ‘let me say grace.’
‘Lorna!’ said her mother. ‘It’s no laughing matter.’
* * *
Joe was witty and said the right things. He didn’t offer her dad any wine, but didn’t make it obvious. He listened intently to her father’s opinions about the government’s economic policies, told solemnly by the failed accounts clerk, and laughed along with her mum when she recounted baking disasters. He was so successful that after supper her father abducted Joe to the pub to show him off to his friends.
‘Suzie sends love, by the way,’ Lorna said to her mum once the men had departed for the Auld Hoose.
‘Sexy Sue? That’s nice, dear.’
Her mother didn’t seem to be listening, nervously twirling her wedding ring. She heard Joe laughing in the street below. ‘He seems a nice boy,’ her mum said. Suzie Bryce wasn’t uppermost in her mind. ‘Is it serious?’
Lorna shook her head, then nodded. ‘I don’t know, Mum. I haven’t asked him.’
‘But do you like him?’ she persisted.
Again, she nodded.
‘He’s a bit like that boy you went out with. Austin somebody-or-other. Bird, that’s it. They’re quite similar, you know.’
Lorna was looking at a framed photograph on the mantelpiece. In the background was a riverboat. In the foreground were her parents, their hands on their children’s shoulders. Everyone was smiling. She couldn’t remember who her dad had roped in to take the photograph. Beside the photograph was the vase that the Bryces had brought with them. ‘I suppose they are a bit,’ said Lorna. ‘Yes, Mum, I like him lots and lots.’
The men came back from the pub. Joe smelled of beer. Her father didn’t smell of anything and, according to Joe, had only drunk two soft drinks.
It was time to go.
Her dad kissed her on both cheeks and shook Joe’s hand with genuine enthusiasm. ‘Next time, bring some clubs,’ he said. ‘We’ll play a round together.’ He was rubbing his hands together, already relishing the challenge.
‘Wait, I’ve got you something,’ said her mother.
There was a small box on the hallway table on which sat their telephone. Inside the box was a golden butterfly brooch. ‘I saw it in Henry’s. You know, the jewellers. It made me think of you.’
Her mum fixed the brooch to her blouse and gave it a rub with her sleeve. ‘All grown up, and flown the nest,’ she said. ‘This is to remind you to fly back sometimes.’
* * *
On the way to North Berwick, the Porsche had growled. Lorna had wanted to get there quickly, or as quickly as she dared, and get the evening over with. On the way back to Edinburgh, the engine purred. She wasn’t in a hurry. One hand fingered her mother’s brooch. ‘Do you really play golf, Joe?’
‘Of course. Wouldn’t lie about something like that. Seems a nice guy, your dad. Maybe I’ll take him up on his offer.’
‘Well, they both seemed to like you,’ she conceded, accelerating past the town petrol station and onto the open road, ‘although I don’t remember ever having told you about my mother’s cooking. She’s not that good, Joe.’ She couldn’t see whether or not his eyes were closed.
‘All women like to think they’re good cooks,’ he said. ‘I read somewhere that it’s something to do with their nurturing spirit. Anyway, I thought a bit of flattery wouldn’t be a bad thing,’ he added, turning towards her and giving Lorna a smile.
‘Nor,’ she went on, warming to her subject, ‘did you tell me anything about job interviews.’ She knew she was sounding unreasonable. She didn’t want to be angry with him. ‘I just don’t know what to think, Joe.’
‘About what, for Christ’s sake?’
‘About you! About us, for God’s sake! First I find myself going out with an Aussie bloke. Then I introduce him to my parents, knowing that sometime he’s going to go back home. Then I find out he might not be going home after all. And, worst of all, I find out he plays golf! All that, Joe, I had to find out this evening.’ He was looking ahead, his eyes on the road. Lorna let out a deep breath, then fished in her handbag for cigarettes. ‘We just never talk, that’s the problem.’
‘We talk all the time.’
‘Not about things that matter.’
‘OK,’ said Joe eventually. ‘I should have told you about the interviews. But I haven’t seen you all week, have I? Honest, I was going to tell you this evening. It was going to be a kind of surprise.’ He opened his window to let out cigarette smoke. ‘Anyway, you’ve not exactly been totally open with me.’
Lorna didn’t know what he was talking about.
‘You didn’t tell me your father was a wizard,’ said Joe.
* * *
Back in Edinburgh, the car safely parked, Lorna poured a large glass of white wine. She still didn’t know what to feel. Suzie was out somewhere and was due back in London the following morning. Joe had gone to the toilet and she wanted to go to bed. She wanted to be held tight, to feel his passion, to feel wanted. She had planned to wake early, to savour the early morning, to feel Joe solidly beside her, before going to college and then to the HappyMart. The pulse of her existence had returned to normal, but with a real degree and a real job on the horizon. His mobile phone was beeping. He’d left it on the living room table and, remembering Heraklion airport, she picked it up and pressed the green button.
Joe came back from the toilet and looked at her quizzically.
‘Joe, can I ask you a question?’
He shrugged. ‘Of course.’
‘Who the fuck is Sarah-Ann?’ Lorna waved his mobile phone at him, taunting him to tell the truth.
‘She’s my flatmate.’ His words were without inflection, but his eyes were more eloquent. Lorna could see confidence drain through his shoes.
‘I know that. But she’s more than that, Joe.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ He didn’t know whether to be angry or to laugh, but colour had left his cheeks.
Lorna hurled the mobile phone at his face. With a blurred movement of one hand, he irritatingly caught it. ‘I swear, Lorna ... there’s nothing’s going on.’
‘She called you darling, Joe. She asked if you were coming home tonight.’
‘She shouldn’t have said that.’
‘But she did.’
‘That doesn’t prove anything,’ he persisted. Except she wasn’t listening to his words; she was watching his face, and the way he couldn’t look at her.
‘I don’t have to prove anything,’ said Lorna, determined not to cry. ‘Why, Joe?’
He sat down heavily, looking down. ‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ he finally admitted.
Joe, her great redeemer, had built her up only to knock her into pieces. In that eviscerating moment, her blood had turned to ice. Her wings, long folded to her back, wanted to beat at his face. Joe, immobile on his chair, could only mumble.
‘Just get out,’ she told him.
‘Lorna, please let me explain.’
‘No!’
‘Please, I can explain...’
‘There’s nothing to explain.’
‘Please!’
‘I don’t want your bloody explanations, Joe!
I just want you to get the fuck out of here!’
He left, recognising a volcano about to explode, leaving her feeling stupid and abused, and then she did cry, wet tears for what might have been. Suzie came back later but, by then, Lorna had gone to bed, lying in the dark, and didn’t want to talk about it. Joe had betrayed her and it now all seemed such a waste. All those emotions invested ... and for what? For nothing. She thought about all the nights she’d lain awake, worrying about Joe, what he felt about her, about when she’d have to wave him off at the airport – or, just maybe, walking hand-in-hand through an airport departures gate. Instead, she had been taken in by him, won over by his smile and the lock of hair that fell over one eye, and now she felt worthless and foolish, and couldn’t stop crying.
Gannets
Everyone was sympathetic, saying how sorry they were, how she’d get over it soon, not to worry, babe, because you’re strong. Suzie was all for finding some of their more dubious friends from North Berwick to go round to Joe’s place and kick the shit out of him. It was a tempting thought, but Lorna said no. She went down to North Berwick to tell her parents that Joe wouldn’t be coming down to play golf, and they too fussed around her, telling her everything would be for the best, just you see. Her father looked better than he had done in years and her mother had dyed her hair to cover the grey and looked a decade younger.
‘You could stay over for the night,’ her mother said. ‘Your bed’s still made up.’
‘Sorry, but I’ve got a Christmas party to go to.’
‘Christmas party, dear? But it’s not Christmas.’
‘It is where I work,’ said Lorna.
Rather than go straight back to Edinburgh, she took a detour to the beach and sat on rocks on the east sands staring out to sea. Waves broke at her feet and sucked at the sand. Looking out at the Bass Rock made her think of her mother; memories of paddling in the sea, sloshing through water, watching waves roll in and fold on the beach. Her mother never went near the sea. She’d watch Lorna from further up the beach, her fingers knotted together. Except once, because she once took Lorna on a boat trip to the Bass Rock.
The water had been effervescent, coursing in bubbles from the bow of the boat, which rose and fell in small thuds, sending up shards of water that splashed back. The water was mud-brown and Lorna could hear its hiss over the putt-putt of the boat’s small engine. The boatman stood in the stern, his hand on the wooden tiller, staring out to sea, his face creased. He had an unshaven face, his stubble grey, and wore a thick grey jumper. The sky was blue with sharp white clouds. Her mother sat in the centre of the boat, her hands gripped to the wooden slatted bench. Above their heads was a canvas awning that intermittently blocked out the sun as the boat rocked forward.
Lorna trailed her fingers in the water, feeling its weight, feeling her hand being tugged backwards and numbed by the cold push of the sea. She took her hand out of the water and licked one finger, tasting salt. A larger set of waves, perhaps the wake of a passing oil tanker, slapped loudly on the hull, making the small boat buck and jerk. The boatman shifted the tiller, turning the boat into the waves; more threads of water plunging over the stern, pricking Lorna’s face.
She’d never been to the Bass Rock before and this was a special treat. They were the only passengers in the boat, although it was evident that her mother wasn’t enjoying the experience. She’d said nothing since leaving North Berwick, sitting rock-still in the centre of the boat, hands gripped on the wooden seat beneath her, her face set in an expression of stoic resignation. She was wearing a headscarf and dark glasses hid her eyes.
They moored at a jetty, the boatman threading heavy ropes into big metal rings. The jetty was white with bird droppings, and slippery. He helped Lorna (wearing a stupid life jacket) from the boat onto the island. Her mother shook her head and smiled bravely. Above Lorna was the vast whiteness of the Bass Rock, and a cacophony of gannets; they filled the sky, screeching and wheeling and diving to the water. She climbed a little way from the landing-place; there were the remains of a castle and a more modern lighthouse. Below was the surge and splash of water.
She climbed higher from the small jetty, further into noise. There were shadows everywhere; the swoop and whirl of gannets. Out to sea, the birds were falling to the water, wings folded, like missiles. There was an iron railing to which she held fast; the ground was wet, and the drop alarming. From up there, the water looked blue-grey, a shifting patina of dark colours: tensile and strong. North Berwick seemed far away. She looked down, amazed at how small their boat had become. The boatman was standing on the jetty. Little puffs of smoke dribbled from his lips. Her mother hadn’t moved; but Lorna knew she was watching her.
She had overcome her fear because she had to: Lorna couldn’t have gone alone on the trip. So her mother sat at the very centre of the boat, saying nothing, every sinew taut, for the simple reason that Lorna had always wanted to set foot on the Bass Rock and she hadn’t wanted to disappoint her daughter. That’s what love is, thought Lorna: unconditional, selfless.
Now, on the beach, she remembered the screech and smell of the place, the dizzying height of the sheer white cliffs and, far below, the ebb and surge of dark water.
* * *
Her colleagues at the HappyMart had also seemed genuinely distressed for her. Maggie, having guessed that something was wrong, cajoled Joe’s treachery from Lorna, and for a few moments Lorna wondered if this was where she really belonged, surrounded by a surrogate family of Poles and misfits, rather than in some stuffy law firm with its bulldog spirit and stiff upper lips. Even Mike looked concerned for her, although she did also detect a renewed optimism, as he placed a hand on her shoulder, telling her how sorry he was, and leaving a damp patch on her polo shirt. But their concern made her realise how unsocial she’d been with them, turning down their regular invitations to the pub after work, and not wanting to spend precious money socialising with co-workers who would soon be ex-family. This was why Lorna was now on her way to the HappyMart Christmas party and, despite everything, quite looking forward to it. Their sales figures for the quarter had exceeded forecasts (which had prompted an excruciating email from HQ in Bradford, telling them how simply wonderful all the staff were at HappyMart, Edinburgh (Central & South) and how proud management was to have such a loyal and hard-working family). It did, however, mean that they were entitled to a less-than-generous bonus. By happy coincidence, during a period of freezing weather, pipes above the false ceiling had burst, cascading water into the shop, ruining some stock, and forcing them to close for a couple of days while repairs were made and new roof tiles installed. It was, therefore, the perfect time to spend their Christmas bonuses on a party.
Lorna joined them in a pub beside the King’s Theatre, having driven back from North Berwick, parked the car, and walked down. She was wearing a baggy sweater that had seen better days, and her jeans were stained with seawater. There was sand in her hair and, as she kissed everyone hello, she was painfully aware of grains of it falling into people’s drinks. To her embarrassment everyone else had made an effort to dress up for the occasion. Mike had replaced his HappyMart shirt with a blue shirt (correct size) and silver tie (correctly knotted), while Maggie and Gosia were almost identical in black dresses, although Maggie’s was several dozen sizes larger. Mad Steph was wearing black jeans and a cream polo shirt, the two tied together with a silver belt, and Lorna had to look twice at her. In the shop, Steph always appeared nervous and plain, happy to potter in the background; now she had emerged from a chrysalis and, Lorna saw, was really rather beautiful. She noticed how Mike kept looking at her, presumably having reached the same conclusion and perhaps planning how to engineer Steph a second star. Nobody had yet managed to tell Lorna why they thought Steph was mad. Vlad, dressed in a grey suit with an open-neck white shirt, was holding Gosia’s hand.
Mike thrust a bottle into her hand. ‘Here, get this down you.’
Lorna looked at the label, which didn’t immediately make any
sense.
‘It is Polish beer,’ said Vlad gravely, extracting his free hand from Gosia to point at the few words of English on the label. ‘It is very good beer. It is coming from Warsaw, where I is also coming from.’
Lorna was used to having semi-English conversations with Vlad. ‘Well, happy Christmas, everyone!’ she said, raising her bottle. Maggie, Gosia and Steph had gone to the trouble of blusher, eyeshadow and lipstick and Lorna was again aware that grains of sand, like bad dandruff, had gathered on her shoulders.
* * *
After a few more Polish beers (Lorna, Gosia and Vlad), several pints Mike) and more than a few gins and tonic (Mad Steph and Maggie) they walked a little erratically across the road to an Indian restaurant. It wasn’t the kind of food that Lorna would have chosen, but the evening had all been planned out by Maggie, seconded by Mike, and agreed by the others, who all seemed pleased that for the first time Lorna had condescended to go out with them. Once again she felt slightly remorseful for having declined their other invitations.
‘Here,’ Mike was saying to her. ‘I’ve got a great name for a curry house.’ He held out one large hand to point at the sign above the restaurant. ‘I’d call it CRAP. Stands for curry, rice and popadums.’ Lorna did her best to laugh politely.
To her relief, she was placed at the girlie end of the table with Steph and Maggie, with Gosia providing a protective barrier against Mike who had launched into a lengthy dissertation on the tribulations of Scottish football, while Vlad did his best to look interested. Down the other end of the small table, Steph had announced, out of the blue, that she probably wouldn’t be staying on for too much longer at the HappyMart. She said this softly, with one hand to her mouth, trying to shield her words from Mike, who was still in full flow about striking centre-forwards, whatever they were, and 4-4-2 formations. Maggie, for whom the HappyMart was the pinnacle of her career, looked shocked. Gosia merely nodded in a mid-European, fatalistic way.
‘Whatever for?’ asked Maggie, also in a stage whisper. ‘Think of the discounts, girl.’
The Things We Learn When We're Dead Page 35
