“A beautiful day,” she said. “It’s been a beautiful day.”
“I really love you,” he said quietly.
“I know.” She reached up to kiss his cheek. She felt the hug of his arm on her shoulder, and the way his fingers tensed, relaxing when she moved closer.
“And Jamie. I’m very fond of him.”
“I know that too. You wouldn’t have got through the door otherwise. He’s always talking about you, you know. Actually, you probably don’t. Sometimes I think he’ll give the game away- even though he doesn’t know what’s going on. It’s Doctor John this and Doctor John that. You can’t buy affection like that,” she said, smiling, “not even with a Spitfire, or a book.”
John reached forward and picked up another biscuit.
“Hold on: these digestives are rationed,” said Mhairi. “Don’t you know there’s a war on? You are only allowed a wee halfie,” she said, snapping off a great big bit.
“This is my half,” she said, cramming it into her mouth, the crumbs falling everywhere. Her mouth was so distorted that the next words were hard to make out. “We have to share,” she said, bits of biscuit just jumping out everywhere.
“God, you’re incorrigible. First I get groped, now I’m being spat on. And just look- these are my good trousers, covered in crumbs.” For a moment he looked genuinely distressed.
Her shoulders were still trembling with laughter when she kissed him, a great lingering, biscuity affair. Then they settled back into their former positions, but closer than ever.
Half past nine said the clock. It would be starting to get dark outside.
“Think how lucky we are,” Mhairi said, “and out there, all that suffering.”
“We are doing what we can: you in the school, me in the surgery. I still feel guilty too sometimes, but you just have to get on with things.”
“They ask awkward questions, the children: about what is happening; why ordinary people are being bombed; about what will happen next. Sometimes the questions are heartbreaking…..”
“You just have to keep going regardless”.
“Yes,” she said. “You have to protect them somehow, even if it is by lying to them.”
This was a dark thought which took each of them to different places and other people, sometimes going back years, to when the whole world was different. And then there were the times when lying was simply impossible because the lies would have been pointless. Mhairi thought of herself and Jamie standing together in railway stations- in Oban, in Mallaig- with him not understanding. “Sometimes,” she thought to herself, “the waiting is all there is. You can’t expect things to be sorted: there’s only the waiting.”
“What are you thinking, John?” she asked
“I’m thinking about Achnasheen, about seeing you and Jamie together on the platform; about what happened there.”
Mhairi smiled to herself. He wouldn’t believe her if she told him.
“You probably don’t remember it,” he said. “It was something small.”
“I remember I kissed you,” she said quietly, “and that wasn’t small to me.”
She looked up. They kissed.
“I love you,” Mhairi said. “You make me feel …protected. You watch out for us. I’m not allowed to be incorrigible with anyone else, you know.” There was a pause. “You must bring out the best in me.”
John laughed. She was just so quick in her thinking, always wrong-footing him; always interesting to be with.
“How do you think Jamie would feel,” he said, “if we were to get married?”
That shut her up.
“I think,” she said after a long pause, “I think it would make him feel safe. And loved.”
“And how about you?” How would you feel about it?”
She could feel him tense up, despite his efforts to seem relaxed. It was a delicate, fragile thing, this moment. She knew she would not forget it, that there was no need to stretch it out. But old habits die hard, and already she was wanting to be smart. “Doctor- you’ll have to be patient. Ask me tomorrow.” Yes, she could say that.
“Yes is what I would say, John.”
She reached up and kissed him again. “I know you love me,” she said. “You don’t have to prove it. But I’d like you to make the effort,” she said, bringing his hand over to hers.
_________________________
The two figures lay still together on the hearthrug, without speaking, his hand cupped around her breast.
Mhairi lifted her head from his chest to see the clock.
“It’s eleven, but you don’t have to go just yet.”
There was still some heat in the fire, but she pulled up the dressing gown so that it warmed both of them, keeping safe what they had shared.
He would be going soon. It wasn’t about appearances, or about what people might say. People were already talking, going by what her mum had said. It certainly wasn’t to fit in with what was expected. It just felt right for them, leaving at eleven.
Tonight was different, she felt. They had made love before, and each time was separate in her mind; each one different. She looked across to the couch and the shirt and trousers draped over it. Yes, this time they had taken off more of their clothes beforehand but there was more to it than that.
She smiled. His socks were still on. Would both come off for the same event, or do so singly? She would have to keep an eye on his socks. The notion was amusing.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” she said.
It was the notion of half-secrets, she realised: of both knowing and not knowing. They were lovers who appeared like friends. If they were married this illusion would dissolve and tonight, for the first time, she knew that moment was closing. That was the difference she was feeling. She would miss the half-secrets.
“These trousers of yours- the ones you’re so fussy about- they might not need to be ironed this time. They’re usually crumpled. Like you’re in a rush or something.”
“I’m pacing myself, now that I’m engaged. I don’t want you wearing me out.”
John stood up and, bracing himself with one hand on the mantelpiece, he yawned before reaching down to pull on his underpants.
For several minutes (or so it felt) she watched his long limbs as he dressed. Their movement had an awkward kind of beauty. There was a strength there which would take a lot of wearing out. She made contact and smiled.
“It’s still a yes then?”
“Oh yes,” she said, getting to her feet and gathering her dressing gown, before giving him a peck on the cheek. As always he would see himself out, but she watched as he made his way to the car and looked back before driving off. He always did that.
Of course it hadn’t always been yes. For many years, until John in fact, she had explored the various forms of no. By the time of teacher-training in Aberdeen she was practised in the art of it. Once you’d learned to spot the signs at an early stage it was quite easy to deflect their attentions on to someone else. It didn’t always work. Nothing does. One History student only disengaged after an intimate conversation with her knee: deeply, deeply intimate. No re-enactment was required, historical or otherwise, and he kept his distance after that, though Vee did notice one of his acquaintances always gave her a big smile thereafter. It’s a strange thing, friendship. Looking back, she could feel she’d taken care of such matters well: a lot better than many of the other girls in the dormitory, some of whom were serial victims. That would not be happening to her. You control yourself; you spot the signs; then you control them.
One regret she did have was not having known all this earlier, but no-one had told her about such things. Even afterwards, her mother had seemed to struggle to say anything to her.
It was 1921 and Mhairi was seventeen and studying for Higher qualifications at the “big school” in Ullapool. Even then she had had her sights on being a teacher. Most of her peers in Gairloch and Kinlochewe had left school at thirteen or fourteen to work on local
farms, or at the fishing or keepering, or in domestic service or in shops. Back in those days, just after the Great War, there was a shortage of labour so work was easy to find.
A new village hall had been built in Kinlochewe and the dance was to be its christening. After a short speech of dedication by a local windbag, the band stuck up and soon the wooden walls were reverberating to the Gay Gordons, Draps o’ Brandy and the like.
Everyone was there: the old, the young, the comfortably- off like the doctors and the teachers, who kept their own company, down through rural society to the labourers and the fishing folk. And at the centre of it all were the farmers. She had known most of them for years, having gone through school with them and met them at the markets and shows which littered the calendar. It was always the talk of the area: who had won the trophy for the best ewe or tup; whose bull was the best earner; whose dog was fastest and so on. The beer and the voices ebbed and flowed, one attracting attention in one part of the hall, to be eclipsed by the other at a different table, or by spontaneous happenings on the dance floor.
For the first hour or so, families reacquainted themselves with their neighbours, inquiring about sons and daughters, commenting on the state of the crops or even just the weather. Mhairi noted how even these simplest of exchanges stumbled now and then and had to restart as an innocent enquiry led to a pause and then, in a low voice, the mention of Arras or Ypres. Even at seventeen she knew about the horrors they had touched on and she could see the guilt and embarrassment that came with having done so.
As the evening progressed Mhairi found herself on the dance floor more and more often, with friends of her parents at first and then with partners closer to her own age.
The Macfarlane boys were twenty-one and seventeen, from the biggest farm in Kinlochewe. Ewan had been very friendly with the elder all the way through school and the two of them chatted away and drank (possibly a little too much) in the early part of the evening.
The younger was the first to ask Mhairi to dance, as his partner in a Strip the Willow. This was an energetic affair with arms linking at the elbow in spins one way, then the other. Mhairi felt herself become breathless by the end, and her upper arms were red and feeling the strain by the time the tune had ended. And then, just as some of the dancers were heading back to their seats, the opening chord struck up once more and the groups reformed, sometimes with other partners. It was the older Macfarlane boy, Joe, this time and soon they whirled and clapped, skipped and whirled, elbows locking and occasionally slipping in a blur of colour.
The long final chord was greeted by the prolonged applause of the exhausted and the breathless, then the fiddle picked up a slow air. Gratefully, the dancers left the floor and sank down into their seats, the older ones fanning their faces or mopping their brows. The big doors were thrown open and a stream of the younger dancers made their way through it into the cool evening.
“Come on,” he said, and without sensing she had made any sort of decision, Mhairi found herself moving with Joe into the flow of people and outside, on to the walkway. Somehow, after the crush of the hall, those around them seemed to melt away, some heading to the stream (where it was cooler still) or the trees which bordered it.
“Still hot?”
Mhairi nodded.
“I’ll get us some drinks.”
He smiled and headed back into the hall, returning a few minutes later with two glasses.
“It was all they had.”
She smiled and took a good gulp of it. It was rather bitter for her taste but Mhairi was grateful all the same. They talked for a few minutes about the band, about the school they had attended together and about Ullapool.
It was a clear night and Joe ushered her along a little, to a part of the walkway opposite a gap in the trees. He was pointing up.
“That’s Orion….No,” he said, touching her shoulder, “not there. You are too far to the left.” He guided her arm to the three stars.
His hand released her arm, fell down to her waist quite naturally and rested there. She could feel its warmth through her dress. Then she heard him drain his glass. She did likewise and then he reached over to take her glass. He moved a half step backwards and, crouching down, he placed both glasses out of the way, next to one of the rail supports.
When he stood up he was almost directly behind her, with both hands resting lightly on her hips. She could feel the gentle pressure as his body moved up to touch hers. Mhairi tried to turn round, but the rails made this difficult and forced her into him. Before she was even half-way round she felt his right hand open out and hold her hip and he was kissing her neck. By the time she was facing him fully, he had kissed her on the mouth several times.
This was something she had thought about, a sensation she had imagined in private moments, but the actual experience still caught her by surprise. To her astonishment, she felt herself relax so her arms rested lightly on him, and the kiss became more open and a liberation. And then, just as quickly and for no reason she could explain, she had had enough. His breath smelt of beer and she could feel the pressure of the handrail behind her, pressing into her back as his body moved. Mhairi tried to move her face away but he had placed his left hand on the back of her head and his face seemed thrust into hers, eyes open. His right hand moved down quietly from her hips and round, over her bottom, then downwards again. She felt his fingers slip under the dress and suddenly he was a threat. She pushed with her arms and struck out with her knee, catching him by surprise and winding him. Off balance, he had to grab the handrail but in trying to right himself his foot caught the empty glasses, which slipped under him, so he found himself with his left knee down on the walkway. His arm, still grabbing on to the rail at over head height, was wrenched and he let out a cry.
By then Mhairi was several paces away and moving along the walkway towards the small side door at the far end of the building. People were looking. A couple in their thirties, leaning on the handrail, smoking cigarettes, looked at her then at the figure struggling to regain composure in her wake. They did not acknowledge her. They only saw her. Behind her she could hear his voice, apologising, but he was not apologising to her. He was apologising to those he had disturbed. He had “ slipped on a glass”.
To her right she saw a young couple caught in silhouette against the smooth trunk of one of the trees. Her legs were open, and their arms entwined in a soft excitement. He had been wanting that. She reached the door, smoothed her dress, straightened herself and opened it.
The electric lights shocked her eyes momentarily, giving the scene an unreal and even garish quality but she stepped inside. From where she stood now, the hall was unfamiliar and she almost had to work out where the family would be sitting. She made her way there with an “excuse me” and a “sorry”, squeezing past where chairs had been pushed back from tables, their owners wiping brows or engaged in loud conversation.
When she sat down next to her mother, she felt her hands gripping the seat tightly. Only six or seven minutes had elapsed, but that was not how it felt to her.
Her father smiled and pushed a glass of lemonade towards her. “You looked hot. I got this for you. It’s a good band, eh?”
Mhairi nodded and took a sip. “Thank you.”
Her mother had finished her conversation with an old friend at the next table and turned to smile at her. The smile that Mhairi returned must have been unconvincing because her mother looked at her quizzically, so Mhairi took another sip and looked back to the dance floor. She tapped her fingers on the table top to the beat and that seemed to settle the issue.
It was several minutes before he returned, via the main door. She saw he glanced in her direction, as if checking she was there, and then he looked at her father. She watched his anxiety dissipate.
Mhairi’s attentions returned to the dance floor, her fingers still tapping in a deliberate preoccupation which she maintained almost till the end of the evening, speaking little but thinking much.
Twice more she allow
ed herself to look at the Macfarlane boys. They had gone back to the drinking. The second time she caught them looking at her, like conspirators. Ewan smiled. Was he a conspirator too?
Much later, when they were home, her mum came up “just to say goodnight”, though that was not a normal part of their routine. Perhaps something had been said that evening, by someone who had been outside the hall. Perhaps her mother just sensed it, this shared knowledge of what boys were like.
It was not spoken of again. It was an experience Mhairi would remember, she knew that, but it would not define her. She had learned from it and now it would be safely put away, and quietly covered.
19 Bikers
Ullapool 2014
Even in the hour or so they had been away, Ullapool had changed. Street lights sparkled in the descending gloom and the square lights of houses blinked at them occasionally. Alastair checked his mirror, but there was really little need, allowing the car to choose its own speed. Even this was too fast and he braked a little. A scene like this could not be rushed.
After the Bosch Service Centre and the houses and the council offices, they reached the apex of the bend and turned right, along the sea front road. Only one or two vehicles were still to board the ferry ‘Isle of Lewis’ and when they had parked up they sat at the picnic benches and watched. You don’t get many ferries in Hamilton.
Near the stern of the vessel, an oddly-shaped structure of concrete and steel jutted out from the pier. Alastair had never noticed it before.
“A loading platform of some kind, perhaps for a specific vessel.” That was Tom’s suggestion.
Only when the ferry began to move, churning huge, frothy waters, did its purpose become clear.
“It must be a baffle, to break up the thrust from the propellers, to stop the beach being eroded or the pier being undermined.”
“That’s definitely an engineer’s answer,” said Tom, who saw how the angry water was smoothed out. “Very impressive. I suppose I’ll have to buy you a drink now.”
Vee: Lost and Found Page 11
