I continue staring at the guitar even as I hear footsteps on the stairs: slow, arrhythmic. Mum. I should get up, save her the effort of climbing the stairs. I don’t move. I pluck the low ‘E’ string. It twangs and slackens. The guitar is hopelessly out of tune.
‘Skye, what are you—?’ Mum comes to the top of the stairs. ‘Oh.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ I don’t look at her, but at my own, hazy reflection in the high gloss wood of the guitar. ‘So sorry.’
‘For what?’ Mum sounds a bit cross.
I don’t know. It’s not a specific sorry as much as a deep, existential sorry.
But it’s something that I feel needs to be said between us. I’m sorry that I didn’t protect Ginny that night. I’m sorry you blame me for her death. I’m sorry I’ve stayed away for so many years, not facing up to things. Sorry that I still can’t do so now.
‘I accidentally dropped the guitar on the Christmas boxes,’ I say. I set the guitar case aside and get to my feet. ‘The handle finally broke.’
A phantom smile crosses Mum’s face. ‘That guitar was so expensive. It should have been more sturdy.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘But the case was probably made in China.’
‘Probably.’ She shrugs. ‘Have you had breakfast?’
‘I had some coffee.’
‘I can make you an egg.’
‘No really, Mum, that’s not necessary.’
She stands there staring at me, the frown etched on her face. I’ve made a mistake. I should let her make me an egg, fuss over me – whatever it takes to make her look at me the way she used to, when I knew she loved me and was proud of me. She gives a little shake of her head and begins to turn, agonisingly slow and with a wince of pain. I hate seeing her like this. She takes a few steps towards the stairs, then stops and frowns. She’s caught sight of the book of Celtic legends on the floor.
‘That was Ginny’s,’ she says, almost like she’s talking to herself.
I decide not to point out that the book belonged to both of us, and I was the only one who ever read it.
‘We used to write songs about the stories in this book,’ I say carefully. ‘Do you remember?’
‘Of course,’ she says. ‘“The Selkie” – what was that one?’
The words to the song materialise from the ether, shape themselves in my head and demand to be spoken: ‘“She calls to you from upon the rocks, the maid with the silken hair. Leave your home, leave your lands, leave behind your care. Follow her down to the depths of the sea, your little boat adrift. Drown yourself in her deepest love, your human life forfeit.”’ My throat constricts as I finish speaking. Mum’s face is frozen, the cane juddering as her knuckles go white. ‘Yes, that was it,’ she says quietly. ‘I remember now.’
‘You went out there,’ I say. ‘To the lighthouse. To the place where she died. That’s where you had your fall. Bill told me.’ I try to find the courage to continue. ‘Why did you do that? Why put yourself through that?’
Mum stares down at her hand on the cane as it begins to steady. I hold my breath, thinking she isn’t going to answer. Then, she sighs. ‘Lorna and Annie wanted to have a remembrance service in the village. To mark fifteen years. A special mass, and a reading at the grave.’
I nod. I recall Bill mentioning something about that, a few weeks before Mum had her fall. At the time, I’d thought it sounded like a nice idea.
‘But when the day came, I just couldn’t… do it.’ Her voice is laced with anger. ‘It seemed like a joke, standing by that grave. Some kind of sick joke. I mean, she’s not there, is she? She’s still…’ She sweeps her hand. ‘Out there.’
I stand very still, worried that maybe Mum is losing the plot and has somehow convinced herself that Ginny is alive. The comment about the singing last night, the room kept as it was… what else might there be that I know nothing about?
She frowns like she’s guessed what I’m thinking. ‘I don’t mean that she’s alive.’ Her eyes darken with pain. ‘I know she’s… not.’
I nod, wishing I knew the right thing to say. The empty grave has haunted me too, across all the years and miles. Ginny was officially declared missing at the time because they didn’t find her body, just her jumper out on the rocks below the lighthouse and her scarf washed onto the beach by the old jetty. They searched by helicopter and lifeboat and the friendly, if not particularly sensitive, lifeboat captain gave us a fifty-fifty chance of recovering her body depending on the ocean currents, which were ‘complicated’. We were told we might be ‘lucky’: she might wash up on a beach near civilisation. Or, she might wash up on a remote inlet or skerry somewhere on the coast and never be found. Or, she might have been sucked straight down to the bottom. As it was, we were unlucky.
Maybe Mum’s right – the grave in the village is a joke. And even if her body had been found, Ginny wouldn’t have wanted to be buried in a dark hole. But at the time, it had seemed the right thing to do to get closure: for Mum, for Bill, for me, for the entire village that was so shocked and shaken by the tragedy. Mum made the decision almost as soon as the lifeboats called off the search. It had seemed part of her coping strategy, and I for one was too dazed and numb at that time to question it. There was a memorial service for Ginny at the churchyard, and a little headstone erected next to Dad’s: black granite flecked with iridescent blue.
I am lucky: I haven’t had to see that grave every week for fifteen years like Mum has had to. Knowing that Ginny isn’t there. The only real closure of sorts came when Bill took care of having Ginny legally declared dead after the seven year ‘in absentia’ period.
‘I understand, Mum,’ I say. I decide that I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt… for now. That she went out to the cliffs to remember Ginny, not to try and find her – and failing that, to try and follow her.
‘Yes, well…’ Mum draws herself a little straighter. Maybe it’s because we’ve finally made a start – though a very small one – at breaking through the wall of silence. ‘Let me know if you change your mind about that egg.’
Mum continues her journey to the stairs. I wait until she’s out of sight and I hear the kitchen door close. I move the Christmas boxes down to the sitting room and go back upstairs and take the guitar to my room. My mind rewinds back to the night when Ginny left for the party. I’d stayed in my room, still so angry. I didn’t believe that Ginny meant what she’d said, but with her, you never knew for sure. I got out my notebook and went back over the calculations I’d made on the cost of our trip but the figures swam before my eyes. I knew then why I was so angry with her. It was because I was a coward; I’d never have the courage to leave without Ginny. The flyer that Dad’s friend had sent us was folded up between the pages. I ripped the flyer in two, balled it up, and threw it.
A while later, Mum had come into the room carrying a basket of laundry. As soon as she saw me, her face went pale. ‘Skye?’ she’d said. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were going to the party?’
‘I decided not to.’ I’d crossed my arms.
‘But… you were both going. I thought…’
‘I’m done playing babysitter,’ I’d said sharply. ‘It’s about time Ginny learned to look after herself, don’t you think?’
Mum sat down on Ginny’s bed, frowning at the mess of discarded clothes on the floor. ‘You know what she’s like. She needs you.’ Mum seemed oddly upset. ‘I’d just feel a lot better if you were with her. Those boys will be drinking…’
‘So now I’m supposed to be her taxi service? Is that all I am?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Mum snapped back. ‘Fine. If you won’t go collect her later, then I will. I just want to see her safe home.’
I shook my head, the fight draining out of me. ‘You hate driving in the dark. I’ll go get her.’
‘Thank you.’ Mum had seemed a little overcome. I had no idea why she was making such a fuss this time. We’d been out to parties loads of times. Yes, Ginny usually ended up doing something stup
id, like riding on top of a moving car or jumping off a roof. But that was just Ginny.
‘You’re welcome,’ I’d said with a shrug. I’d collect Ginny, bring Ginny home, keep Ginny safe, just like so many times before. But as Mum left the room and I got ready to go, I swore an oath to myself.
That this would be the last time.
10
Far away out of time there’s a knock downstairs on the front door. I wrest myself back to the here and now. I’m in my old room, but I’m a different person. I went out to the lighthouse that night to bring Ginny home, but I didn’t do it. I don’t know the how or why – I got in a car accident on the way back and suffered a head injury that took away my memories. Others who were there filled in the details. When I arrived at the party, I was annoyed that Ginny wasn’t with the others. I was told she was off with James, her boyfriend. I had a few drinks. Decided that someone else could bring her home. And then I left. Ginny ended up dead. Mum blames me, and I will always blame myself.
I stand up; I need to get out of this room. I go out into the hallway as Mum is answering the door. ‘Do come in,’ I hear her say. A moment later she calls up to me: ‘Skye, Byron’s here.’
Byron. I suppose I should be glad to see him, glad of a distraction from my own thoughts. But I feel so raw and unsettled, and would rather not see anyone. Still, he’s made the effort to come here, so I should make an effort too.
I make my way downstairs. Mum offers him a cup of tea, which he declines, and he compliments her on how well she’s walking after her fall. She thanks him, and I’m a little surprised that she’s being so friendly. When I was seventeen and Byron and I started dating, Mum was less than enthusiastic. He was the boy from the wrong side of the tracks, or more accurately, the wrong side of the docks, coming from a family of fishermen. In contrast, Mum loved James, Ginny’s boyfriend, who was polite and polished. It was another way in which I could do no right and Ginny could do no wrong, in Mum’s eyes at least.
But all that is ancient history. She and Byron seem perfectly amiable now as I go into the sitting room. Byron is standing just inside the door. He’s so tall that he could easily reach up and touch the ceiling. He’s wearing a black knit cap over his fair hair, and there’s rough stubble on his chin. He’s an attractive man.
‘Hi there.’ He bridges the gap between us and gives me a kiss on the cheek. ‘Thought I’d see how you’re settling in.’
‘Thanks.’ I resign myself to pretending. ‘Everything’s good. Right as rain.’
‘Grand.’ He turns back to Mum. ‘So Bill and the family are coming?’
‘Yes.’ Mum gives him a rare smile that makes her look years younger. ‘It’s going to be chaos. So we thought we’d get the decorations out before they get here.’ She indicates the boxes. ‘Skye wants to get a tree.’
‘Good idea.’ He smiles at me.
‘Yes, well, I haven’t had a tree for a few years,’ I say. I’m pleased that Mum seems on board with my idea of decorating the house. ‘I thought it might be nice, especially for Bill’s kids. Though…’ I hesitate, thinking through the logistics, ‘I’m not quite sure where to get one this late. And I’ll need to borrow the car…’
The car. For a second it feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. Why did I mention the car, and in front of Byron too? He was the one who found me that night after I’d had the accident. He called for emergency services and I was taken to hospital. The car was a complete write-off. I didn’t drive again until I got to America. But since then, I’ve driven a lot. In fact, I’m a very good driver.
‘Of course,’ Mum says through her teeth. ‘You may as well. I can’t drive yet with my ankle.’ I get the distinct impression that she’s seeing everything through a fifteen-year-old lens, just like I am.
‘Why don’t I give you a lift?’ Byron comes to both of our rescues. ‘I could use a tree too. My son’s coming for Christmas.’
‘Your son?’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ Byron says. ‘His name is Kyle. He’s seven.’
‘Seven.’ I consider this. Byron, who is stuck in my mind as forever twenty, has a seven-year-old son. Mum, I note, is watching me and my reaction. I go with: ‘Wow, that’s… um… great.’
‘Yeah.’
‘So you’re married?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘His mum, Cath, is a nurse in Glasgow. We’re separated. He lives with her most of the time.’
‘Oh.’ I don’t know what to say. I glance over at Mum. She’s leaning against the back of the sofa, resting her leg. She’s frowning down at a tiny stain on the upholstery, almost like she’s not paying attention to the conversation. I’m sure, however, that she’s listening intently.
He shrugs. ‘It’s not ideal, but it’s the way things are. So, should we go now and get that tree?’
‘It sounds like a fine idea,’ Mum says, looking up at me. ‘I can give you some money, if you need it.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say. I put on my coat, checking to make sure that my phone and credit cards are in the pocket. I may not have returned home rich and famous, but I have enough money to pay for a Christmas tree.
‘Great,’ Byron says.
As we’re leaving, Byron gives Mum a gentle hug goodbye at the door. I smile and give her a kiss on the cheek, refusing to acknowledge the relief on her face that I’m going out, or the relief I feel when the door is closed behind me.
If Byron notices anything is wrong, he doesn’t let on. As soon as we’re outside, he turns to me. ‘They may still have trees out at MacDougall’s. We can go there, get a coffee.’
‘OK, sure.’
We cross the yard to where Byron’s parked his vehicle: a dark green Land Rover. On the night she died, Ginny got a lift with Byron to the party. He was driving his uncle’s beat-up Jeep with no shock absorbers back then. If Ginny and I hadn’t quarrelled, if I’d gone with them instead of driving myself, would things have turned out differently? I get in the vehicle and slam the door hard.
Byron whistles a little tune as he gets in the driver’s side and turns on the engine. In a way, I’m grateful that he seems so relaxed; like the sight of me hasn’t immediately made him think of her. ‘Nice Landy,’ I say, matching his casualness. ‘Must come in handy.’
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘It does the job. Towed a carful of tourists out of a ditch not a fortnight ago.’ His eyes twinkle as he reverses in a three-point turn. Then, in a gesture I remember, he reaches behind me and pushes down the door lock. ‘Keep you safe,’ he says. ‘Seat belt’s broken.’
‘Oh…’ This is the excuse I need to get out of the car. Stop this ‘old friends’ charade right now. My Uncle Ramsay broke all his teeth when he was flung out of the car as a boy, and Mum and Dad drilled that story into us to teach the importance of wearing a seat belt. When the emergency services found me that night, I apparently wasn’t wearing one.
‘Drive carefully,’ I say with a shudder.
‘Always,’ Byron assures me.
As we approach the gate, Byron slows down. Another car is coming towards us and reaches the gate first. I feel lucky. It’s twice now that I haven’t had to open the gate. We all hated doing it as kids, and when we got older, we traded gate duty. ‘You get the gate this week, and I’ll do the hoovering,’ and so forth. Maybe, while I’m here, I could get Mum an automatic gate opener. Surely, that wouldn’t count as meddling with her independence.
The other car is a silver Vauxhall Estate covered with mud. A man gets out, raising his hand in a wave to show that he’s got this. He’s as tall as Byron, but less broad-shouldered, with a clean-shaven face and dark hair. He’s wearing a red ski jacket, blue hat and mud-splashed waterproof trousers. He looks a few years older than us: maybe fortyish. I don’t recognise him, but I assume he must be Mum’s guest – tenant? – the artist who’s renting Skybird.
‘Odd bloke,’ Byron says. He gives the man a quick wave and we go through.
‘Odd how?’
‘Keeps to himself. Never seen him do
wn the pub once. Like he’s got a stick up his arse. I guess he’s an artist…’ he pronounces it ‘ar-teest’, ‘so he thinks he’s too good for the rest of us.’
‘Maybe he’s here for peace and quiet,’ I say. ‘Or maybe he doesn’t drink.’
Byron snorts, like either of those possibilities make him a lesser mortal. ‘Maybe.’
It’s strikes me that Byron has a chip on his shoulder that wasn’t there before. When I knew him, he was always so sure of his place in the world – a big fish in a little pond. He was the centre of the working-class cool crowd at school, which was nearly everyone other than James and his mates. If there was a party to be thrown, he was the go-to man. If there was a bully to be sorted, he wasn’t afraid to use his fists. He’s distantly related to Annie MacClellan, so he had clout in the village. The Fraser twins, Jimmy and Mackie, who saw Ginny swept away by the wave, are his cousins.
I’d fancied Byron from the time I was fifteen. When at seventeen he asked me out to the mobile cinema and we spent the entire film snogging in the back, I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven. I started writing cheesy love songs, one after the other. Ginny laughed at me. She thought Byron smelled of beer and fish, and wondered if he ever bathed. I was a little offended by her reaction, but not put off. Not long after, James asked Ginny out, and she started singing cheesy love songs. I said that James was too straight-laced, a mama’s boy, and wondered if she worried about mussing up his hair or crinkling his shirt when they made out. She was a little offended, but in a light-hearted way. It was nice to be us: the Turner girls, both sorted with the hottest boys in the village.
The track is bumpy, and without a seat belt, I bounce up and down uncomfortably. Byron comes to a sudden stop at the main road and I’m pitched forward. My hands are clammy, my pulse unnaturally fast. He turns onto the main road, which is smoother but full of twists and turns. I tighten my grip on the handle of the door, hating this feeling of panic. As the road levels out, Byron seems to notice my disquiet.
My Mother's Silence (ARC) Page 6
