‘Right.’ It makes sense. I’ve certainly dropped the odd name in my time to get tickets to a show or a table at some swish restaurant. And if it works for getting medical attention for a woman who almost drowned on a freezing beach, then good on him, I guess.
He doesn’t say anything else as the kettle boils. He takes two mugs out of the cupboard, opens a cannister helpfully marked ‘tea’, and plops a teabag into each mug.
‘Milk and sugar?’ he says.
‘Black with one sugar.’
He makes my tea and then his own. A splash of milk, no sugar, I note, like I’m the investigator on the scene. My mind flashes with different openers to break the silence. But I decide that I’ve asked enough questions. If he chooses to speak, then fine. If not, this will be a very awkward cup of tea.
It feels like a victory when he speaks. ‘Mince pie?’
A very small victory.
‘No, thanks,’ I say. ‘They’re for you.’
He unwraps the cling film and takes a mince pie off the plate. Then he leads the way back to the sitting room. He gestures with his head for me to sit down on the sofa. He sits in a wing chair on the other side of the fireplace. Kafka is lying on the rug, snoring softly; his tail gives a thump in his sleep.
‘So, are you staying long?’ he says.
This seems to be the neutral question that people are asking in lieu of talking about the weather.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’m playing it by ear.’
He gives a little laugh like I’ve made a joke. ‘Well said. I guess as a musician you do that a lot.’
I don’t smile back. Clearly there is some sort of point scoring going on here. I’ve got out of him that he was once a DCI. He’s made it clear that he knows who I am. ‘I suppose I do,’ I say.
‘Right,’ he says. He bites into the mince pie. ‘This is delicious, by the way.’
‘I’ll tell Mum you think so.’
‘And is she doing better now?’
‘Better?’ I sip the tea, letting it burn my throat. Mum’s made it seem like she knows very little about her tenant, but he clearly knows something about her. Another point scored. ‘In what way?’
He sits back in his chair, cupping his hands around the mug of tea. ‘I don’t know your Mum well, obviously,’ he says. ‘So I may be talking out of turn. She came to clean one day – a month or so ago – before she had the fall. I liked her. She was straight and no-nonsense. Not… chatty.’
‘That’s Mum,’ I say, unexpectedly proud. ‘She used to teach maths. There’s no nonsense about that.’
‘True.’ He traces the woodgrain on the arm of the chair. His fingers are long, like a pianist’s… or an artist’s.
‘And then, I went to see her about a week ago. After the fall. Brought her some biscuits and a newspaper, as you do.’
I raise an eyebrow. I didn’t have him down as the neighbourly type.
‘She seemed totally different. You were all she could talk about. You and your sister. How you were stars in America. How inconvenient it was that she hurt her leg because you were coming home and she needed to get everything ready.’
I sit very still, feeling the pit open up in the bottom of my stomach.
‘My sister died fifteen years ago,’ I say.
He lets out a low whistle. ‘Right. That explains the gossip I overheard in the village. I did wonder.’
‘Yes, well…’ I stand up. I’ve had enough of this. ‘Thanks for the tea. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.’ I give him a tight smile and go to take my mug back to the kitchen.
‘It sounds like quite a difficult situation to come back to,’ he says. ‘So, I won’t beat about the bush. When you went into the water the other day, were you hoping to drown?’
That stops me. Clear and to the point. Whether I just went for a swim or went in the water with the intent not to come out again – I’m beginning to see how it does make all the difference.
‘No.’ I take my mug to the sink. ‘No, I wasn’t.’
He comes up and stands next to me looking out of the window. The sea is hazy and grey and raindrops are racing down the glass. It’s a good place to be lonely, though if he is, there’s little sign of it.
‘I love this place,’ he says. ‘On a clear day, you can see the Small Isles. Just about. It’s an idyllic spot.’
‘Yes, that’s one word for it.’ I wash the mug and put it to the side.
‘Look, Skye, I’m sorry if I offended you,’ he says. ‘I guess on some level I’m still a policeman. What is it they say in America? “To protect and serve?” I’ve seen a lot of…’ he hesitates ‘… things. And what they do to the people left behind. I’m just making sure Kafka doesn’t need to practice his doggy paddle again.’
I sigh. ‘He doesn’t. Not on my account.’
‘Good.’
He’s standing between me and the door. I’ll have to go around him, which will be awkward. ‘So why did you stop being a policeman?’ I say.
He doesn’t answer right away, and I begin to wonder if he’s going to. He rinses out his mug and puts it to the side. I go around him to the door.
‘Well, if you have a minute, I’ll show you.’
‘OK…’ I say, a little wary.
He goes past me and up the narrow stairs. I follow him to the door of what I imagine is the larger of the two bedrooms. I stand beside him and look inside.
The room is filled with a forest of easels and canvases. The bed has been pushed to the far corner of the room and the floor has been covered with canvas drop cloths. There’s a strong smell of turpentine and oil paint.
I go into the room, feeling a spark of excitement at the artwork. Each painting is a study in grey, blue, and silver: sea and skyscapes mostly, though there are some views of boats and the village as well. But as I look more closely, I see that each one actually contains a kaleidoscope of colours: a pop of orange or violet, a shimmer of gold or a streak of magenta. They’re stormy and complex, with a strong sense of movement: wind on water, ripples on sand, clouds moving across sky. There’s a slightly chilling quality about them that evokes the power of nature and people at its mercy.
My eye is drawn to a larger canvas near the window. It’s well over a metre long and almost as high. It’s clearly a work in progress and, from the tray of paints next to it, maybe the last thing he was working on. The sky is painted in moody shades of grey and mauve, with a streak of pink on the horizon. I recognise the view: the beach below the cliff, with the huge boulders framing the scene. What arrests my attention, however, is that this is the only painting that contains a figure, pencilled in and unfinished. A woman sitting on a rock, her back to the viewer. She seems to be naked from the waist up, and from the waist down, the sketch gives the impression of a slick, dark body like a seal. The Selkie. I shiver.
Nick comes into the room and stands just behind me, studying the painting. ‘It’s just a rough idea,’ he says. ‘I’m… experimenting.’
I stare at the girl, the lines of her body strong, and yet her pose giving her a fragility, a vulnerability. I move on to look at another picture near the window: of a small boat being tossed against a sky of seemingly endless depth. ‘These paintings,’ I say, ‘… they’re wonderful.’
He shrugs. ‘Some of them are getting there. It would be nice to have a little more space. I’d like to work on a larger scale. I’m hoping to get enough work together for a show in the spring. But one thing at a time.’
I recognise the evasiveness. An artist who is desperate for his work to be seen and appreciated, but doesn’t want to get his hopes up. I’ve been that way before, when I’m in the zone of writing my own songs, creating things that are fresh and different, poetry and melodies that I’m proud of. For me, it’s been a while. But Nick Hamilton is clearly in the zone with these paintings. ‘You have a right to be proud of them,’ I say, as if he’s been following my train of thought.
‘For me it’s about the process,’ he says. ‘If it’s going well
, then I try not to worry too much about the result.’
I understand that one too. ‘They say that art is the act of making the infinite finite,’ I say. ‘Committing your imagination to a medium and a moment in time.’
‘Yes.’ He looks a little surprised that I could come up with something like that.
‘For me, when I’m writing songs, it’s narrowing down all the possibilities of words and emotions, and creating a melody that “fits”.’
‘It sounds similar. Is that what you’re doing while you’re here?’
I turn back to the painting of the Selkie. The movement of her hair in the wind gives her a sense of freedom. But the figure seems transfixed by the horizon. Is she waiting for someone to come home? Or longing for escape? ‘I guess you could say that I’m open to inspiration,’ I reply. ‘Focusing on the process, not the result.’
‘That’s all we can do, isn’t it?’
He moves close enough so that his arm is almost touching mine. I can feel the pull of him, like he’s his own source of gravity. I move away.
‘So to answer your question,’ he says, ‘I’m no longer a policeman because I’m having a go at this.’
He picks up a pencil from the paint tray, frowns at the canvas, and bends down, correcting a single line. Then he stands back, considering. His face is a mask of concentration. There’s clearly more to the story than he’s letting on.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I say quietly. I move towards the door but it’s almost as if he’s forgotten that I’m there. ‘Thank you for showing me.’
I’m almost out the door when he stops me.
‘Skye,’ he says.
I turn. His grey eyes hold mine.
‘Good luck. With your songs. And… your mum.’
23
The rain has let up as I walk home. I can’t quite chase the enigmatic Nick Hamilton from my mind. On the one hand, he’s a bit of a cold fish. Condescending, unfriendly, trying to score points, not volunteering anything about himself. I did, however, appreciate him showing me the paintings. I don’t know much about art and what is and isn’t ‘good’. But I know what I like. Nick’s art was powerful and beautiful.
Either way, it’s irrelevant. I’m not going to let myself be attracted to him. We’re both here temporarily. He owes me nothing, and I’ve paid back my debt with… mince pies.
The lights are off when I pass The Stables and Bill’s car is gone. Maybe Emily threw a strop, refused to go to ‘Nan’s house’ so they went to the village instead. In truth, I can hardly blame her. I think of what Nick said about Mum: how quickly she went from normal to ‘losing the plot’. Bill’s got his family to deal with – I’ve got nothing. It’s down to me now to look after her. While Emily is here, I’ll stick to my agreement with Bill and not raise the subject of Ginny. But if I am going to be staying, I need to do something about my room. After seeing Nick’s art, I almost feel inspired to try writing my songs again, and I’ll need a place to work. But most of all, keeping the room as a tomb of memories can’t be good for Mum’s mental state – or mine. I need to make a start.
Today. Now.
When I get back to the cottage, Mum and Lorna are in the kitchen, and a new rack of mince pies is cooling on the worktop. I say hi to Lorna and we chat for a few minutes. I’m grateful that she’s been such a support to Mum over the years, and vice versa – Lorna being a widow too. Mum doesn’t join in the conversation, and there’s no sign that she’s told Lorna about what happened last night. I go to the cupboard under the sink, grab a roll of bin bags, and make my exit.
I go upstairs to my room and shut the door. I look around at the familiar things – the posters, the two beds, the view out of the window – and feel an overwhelming sense of sadness. So many memories – most of them good ones. But I have to stick to my guns. I know that what I’m doing is for the best.
The first thing I do is take down the posters. I remove Noel Gallagher and the concert calendars that are now years out of date. I consider taking down Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, but eventually, when all the other walls are bare, I decide they can stay for now. The knotty pine looks very dated, the room would look so much brighter if it was painted white. Another job to add to my list. I roll up the posters so they can go in the attic if Mum doesn’t want them binned.
Next, I brave the chest of drawers. I’m relieved to see that Mum’s cleared out the clothing and is using it to store extra bedding, gift wrap, and files of papers. I check my old wardrobe and find that she’s also using that to store her old things. That’s all very positive. But when I go over to Ginny’s wardrobe and fling open the doors, I recognise her things immediately: the dress she wore when she was Queen of the Fleet, a jumper that our grandma knitted for her in moss green wool (mine was navy blue), a blue cowboy shirt with mother of pearl snaps and red stitching on the breast pockets. I run my finger over the stitching, feeling a deep ache of loss. I can remember Ginny wearing this shirt when we performed once at the Highland Games in the village. I wore my matching shirt: white with blue stitching. They were our lucky shirts. We were going to wear them to the audition. I don’t know what happened to mine.
I go through her clothing, allowing each memory to rise and then float away like an autumn leaf. I’m beginning to see how difficult it must have been for Mum to get rid of anything. But it needs to be done. I put the dress, the jumper, and the cowboy shirt in a bag to take to the attic. The rest I put in another bag for the charity shop.
It’s only when the hanging items are gone that I notice a wad of clothing balled up and shoved at the back. Immediately I recognise my cowboy shirt. There’s also a few T-shirts and a pair of jeans with rhinestone swooshes on the pockets that were mine. I’d wondered what had happened to those jeans…
I put the cowboy shirt in the ‘keep’ bag and toss the jeans onto my bed to see if I can still fit into them. I spot something else shoved at the very back where the wooden shelf is coming away from the boards. A notebook with a blue cover that looks like a school composition book. Ginny’s other journals had pretty covers of mountains or unicorns or goddesses – whatever she was into at the time – never a plain notebook like this one. I take it out and as I’m opening it, something falls onto the floor. A ticket. I pick it up.
It’s a coach ticket. Eilean Shiel to Glasgow via Fort William. The same journey we were supposed to be taking together for the audition. The same journey that was on the ticket Ginny ripped up. I turn the ticket over feeling a twisting in my stomach. Ginny tore up the ticket that I’d bought for her. This one I’ve never seen before. There’s a date on it.
It’s for the day she died.
24
I try to make sense of what I’m holding in my hand. A ticket to Glasgow. I shake the notebook to see if anything else comes out, like a return ticket. But no… I already know from the chill I feel inside of me. It was one way. Ginny was leaving – without me.
No. I don’t believe it. She wouldn’t do that to me.
Would she?
I stare at the empty spaces on the wall, the pine slightly darker where the posters were hung. My head hurts as I try to recall those last few months when I was working hard to secure our future. We had our usual rows over who got to use the car, who got the shower first, and whose turn it was to do the washing-up. She’d spent time away from the house with James and other friends, but that wasn’t unusual. I don’t remember the morning of the party very clearly – just the row we had that night. Had she seemed quieter than usual? More withdrawn? Not that I can recall. She’d been a little unwell the week before. A stomach bug. Other than that… nothing.
I stand up and pace back and forth. If she’d gone so far as to buy her own ticket, then why didn’t she get on the coach? And what was she planning to do once she got there? The audition was still six weeks away. Was she going to get a job? Where was she going to stay?
I rub at the lines on my forehead and sit back down on the bed. None of it makes sense. Is there some sort of innocent e
xplanation that I’m overlooking? Maybe Ginny found the ticket? Maybe it wasn’t even hers…?
Or maybe she was going with someone else. The thought is like a smack in the face. Her boyfriend, James. Of course. His family had money: they could have stayed in a nice hotel, seen the sights… Not like the awful hostel I stayed in, the rough café where I worked double shifts before I went to America.
I throw the ticket aside and open up the notebook. It’s mostly blank, but on the fourth page there’s something written in small neat handwriting: Ellen McCree. 12 Cranach Terrace. The writing isn’t Ginny’s: hers was loopy and flowing and took up a lot of space on the page. I’ve never heard of an Ellen McCree.
I flip through the rest of the book. On random pages in the middle, I find some of Ginny’s writing. A few notes of dates and reminders, a few words dashed here and there. Snippets of thoughts and songs. No outpouring of emotions and recounting of events as was her usual practice.
I close the notebook and toss it onto Ginny’s bed. My skin feels crawly and dirty. I go over to the harp in the corner and grab the strings in a fist. I feel like yanking them off. They gouge into my skin. Damn it.
It’s bloody nothing.
But is it nothing? If Ginny was supposed to be on a coach to Glasgow the day she died, then she wouldn’t have been going to the party. She wouldn’t have… died. I lean against the wall and put my hands over my face. What does it all mean—?
‘Aunt Skye?’
Jesus.
‘Just a second.’ I shove the ticket inside the notebook and put it under my suitcase. When I open the door and see Emily’s innocent blue-green eyes that so resemble Ginny’s, I feel angry – at myself. My sister was keeping secrets from me, and I didn’t even have the slightest clue.
‘Hi,’ I say, raking back my hair. My brow is clammy with sweat. I stand aside to let her into the room. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now, but equally, I don’t want Emily to think that something is wrong.
My Mother's Silence (ARC) Page 14
