Furnace (13 page)

Where are we going to go? Her voice was drowsy now.

Let’s see what the weather does.

She stood up unsteadily, putting out a hand and holding onto the chest of drawers at the side of the chair.

Easy, honey, said Hamilton, and got up swiftly to steer her through her door. He waited while she settled herself under the sheets. If you feel sick, wake me, he told her. She reached blindly
for the soft toys on her bedside table and clutched the dog by a hind leg, dragging it to the pillow. The skin on her knuckles was angry and cracked. He hesitated, then stooped to kiss her forehead
before turning off the light.

Back in his room he switched off his lamp before moving to the door and checking one last time on the caravans. They were dark too, now. In bed he lay flat on his back and waited for sleep.

* * *

Without the alarm to wake him Hamilton slept past nine and even then lay a while, wondering what time the girls came to clean the rooms.

After dressing he went through to Marian and shook her gently out of a dead sleep. How do you feel? he asked.

She stared up at him blankly, still turned inwards and lost, her dazed eyes big and dark. I’m okay, she mumbled finally, but only after he’d asked her a second time.

Time to get up, he said, faintly unnerved.

She nodded blankly and he left her.

Outside, one of the twins was hanging washing on the line whilst the other watched and talked to her from the steps of the end caravan, her arms crossed under her breasts. They both wore their
work clothes. The day was fine and at last the Cairngorms were visible on the blue horizon, though the sharp peaks seemed weirdly trivial in the plain morning light. Hamilton waited for one of the
girls to catch sight of him, then waved before strolling behind Marian to the dining room.

On the recommendation of the manager they spent the rest of the morning at a highland wildlife reserve. It was good for them both, Hamilton thought, to be properly high up at
last and to feel the cold, thin difference in the mountain air.

At noon they climbed to a large wooden shelter overlooking the wolf enclosure. The timber all around them was roughly sawn and stank of creosote. Below them, a single wolf was visible, lying on
its side in the sun, sleeping. Hamilton sat on one of the big, simple benches ringing the circular platform. Marian stared down into the enclosure for a while longer before joining him.

The whole platform’s on stilts, she said.

Did you see the wolves?

Just that big lazy one.

You wouldn’t want to fall down there, though, even if he is lazy.

She didn’t answer. Do you think it’s a wolf or a she-wolf? she said eventually.

It’s hard to tell from up here, honey. The sun was hot on his face and he closed his eyes, enjoying it.

Is it true that sometimes she-wolves have brought up human babies?

He opened his eyes a crack. Where’d you get that idea?

There’s that story about Rome. And the wolf-girl. That film about her.

I think it’s just myths, honey. I don’t know about that film.

It was based on a true story.

Oh, he said. Well, I don’t know then. Maybe. He closed his eyes again and when he tilted his face back up to the sun he felt the irises pinch behind the lids. He heard Marian get up and
clump around the platform.

It says here they’re maybe going to put wolves back in the wild, in the Highlands, she called to him from the other side of the shelter. He looked, squinting. She was reading a board
nailed to the central pillar.

Hamilton nodded. He approved, he thought.

To the east, a scroll of white clouds had appeared on the back of a freshening breeze. Even in the sun-trap of the shelter Hamilton could feel the new wind raising goose pimples on his bare
forearms. Let’s go down and see the wild cats in the cages, he said, down in the woods.

In the afternoon, after lunch in the village, he took her walking along the back road to the barracks. To begin with he had thought to show her the path along the burn, hoping
to surprise her with the other river. What would she think, he wondered, when she saw it seeming to flow the wrong way and so much wider, and suddenly dark? But Marian’s face when she’d
woken that morning was still vivid in his mind; the pale head lolling when he shook her and the strange, deep senselessness swimming in her eyes. Somehow, the memory made the thought of any other
strangeness repulsive, and he said nothing about the burn, even when she commented on the footpath, noticing it from the road. The barracks, stark on the hill, seemed a more wholesome place and, as
they marched on, it was pleasant to feel the road begin to steepen and climb away from the marshy valley floor.

While Marian explored the battlements, the broken stairways and living quarters, Hamilton sat near the gatehouse, watching her. The buildings were simple and roofless and there was no mystery to
them as far as he could see, but she seemed to be enjoying herself, wandering from one empty shell to another, observing. Behind him, an American couple bickered quietly at the gate before creaking
open the thin metal bars and entering the gravelled yard. Overhead, the white roll of clouds he had noticed at the wildlife reserve had unfurled steadily westwards to cover the whole sky. Now they
seemed to be lowering, closing in for rain. He called to Marian and waved her back to him.

On the road down they passed three low, bothy-like cottages advertised as holiday lets by a painted board in the nearest of their small front gardens. On the way up to the barracks Marian had
paid them no attention but now she stopped at their shared gate. We could have stayed there, she said.

They’re nice, Hamilton said. But the hotel’s nice, too, isn’t it?

She nodded.

We’ll come back some time and stay in one of them, if you’d like that, he said. But she was already walking on and if she replied he didn’t hear it.

That evening Marian called her mother again and then asked if she could join Hamilton in his room, though once there she seemed as reluctant to talk as ever.

Maybe Beata’s saving up for plastic surgery on her lip, she said finally after a long period of silence.

Hamilton grunted and looked up from his book. Maybe she’s not that worried about it, he said. It’s very faint. What would it feel like, he thought suddenly, to run the tip of his
tongue along the thread of it? He shifted on the bed. And anyway, he went on, you said you didn’t think it made her look ugly.

I don’t, she said, and left it at that.

Did she put your soft toys together again today?

Marian shook her head. I’ll make coffee, if you want, she said.

When she eventually went to bed Hamilton slipped outside. It was early enough for the girls to still be waitressing and the caravans were deserted, their curtains wide open. He felt an almost
irresistible urge to cross the courtyard, stealthily, and peer through each of the dark windows in turn. What would be the harm, when no-one was at home? He could feel sweat soaking his palms and
the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as they rose. He stepped back inside and locked the door.

* * *

In his dream he was lying on the floor of a modern, spacious hotel room. The room was many floors up, he sensed, and he was staring at a pristine blue sky through one of its
tall plate glass windows. The feeling of height and limitless space was dizzying and he was glad to be lying flat and secure. Then suddenly it was dusk and a huge owl, white and silent, the size of
a man, alighted on the outside sill of the window. Its white flat face stared through the glass at him, and with a feeling of amazement Hamilton saw it was holding a large cat in its talons: a wild
cat with pointed ears. He understood the owl had come from hunting over great snowfields and ice sheets and a feeling of awe, more at this sudden awareness of vast, blank silences than at the giant
creature itself, gripped and paralyzed him. Don’t let it in, he cried out, but now Marian’s mother was behind him in the room and she moved calmly to the window to slide it open. Under
the owl’s huge, impassive face the talons relaxed and the wild cat dropped like a dead weight to the carpet. For an agonizing time it lay motionless, coiled, as if stunned. Then slowly and
smoothly it stretched itself and rose to its feet, revealing itself now as a fully grown tiger. Bright as a flame it padded across the room to him.

Hamilton woke, his heartbeat frighteningly quick, eyes dazzled by the early morning light in the small, east-facing window. He’d forgotten to draw the curtains, he realised. Of course:
that was why he’d dreamed. He rolled onto his wet back, blinking, still half stunned, then glanced at the bedside clock. It was just five but he knew he wouldn’t sleep again now. The
adrenaline from the dream was draining away but he felt a quiet, creeping dread, not relief, in place of the panic. Peeling the covers back, he sat himself upright on the edge of the bed. The low
sun was staring directly into the room, and a vague memory of Stone Age tombs built to trap the sunrise played across his mind. A visit to Orkney, he thought, when he was Marian’s age, or
younger. His mother’s mother had lived there. What a journey that must have been: even further north than this on the roads of fifty years ago, his parents, his two sisters and himself all
jammed into a small blue tin can of a car, and then crossing the water to the islands. Now he could remember almost nothing of it, not the journey and not his grandmother. Most of life just happens
and disappears, he thought. People and places, days and years all sliding into the dark, as if they’d never been. The old woman died soon after and they never went back. It would be the same
for Marian, this holiday, he thought, in years to come. He needed to see her, he realised, and crept to the connecting door.

Marian’s room, thickly curtained, was shadowy and the air was stuffy. She was lying sprawled, face down, breathing heavily. One lower leg, its pyjama covering rucked up to the knee,
protruded whitely from the tangled mess of sheets. In the flat half-light the naked calf and the long, narrow foot at the end of it seemed oddly smooth and lifeless, like a spindle of bone.
Hamilton had a sudden urge to wake her, just so that she’d turn and draw the strange peg of her limb back under the covers. But then what would he tell her? What reason could he have for
waking her? He had nothing to say, just as he’d had nothing real to say all through the holiday. There was never anything to say, he admitted to himself now, and this longer time together had
just thrown him deeper into the same old helplessness. All he could feel was a vague, powerless fear for her, and he didn’t know how that could help or teach her at all. Was that love? he
wondered. A kind of wordless dread underneath everything. Is that what makes us cling to one another? He couldn’t even do that properly. The night before, when she was drunk, had been the
first time since she was an infant that he’d even kissed her goodnight. All he would ever be able to give her now was money, or what money could buy. With a feeling of nausea he thought of
his gift, the riding jacket, hanging empty and stiff in his silent flat. It was her loneliness he couldn’t bear, he thought suddenly; at the station, in her own weird circle of stillness; and
when she wore the jacket, pinched up in its newness, and her bony wrists and hands, her long, raw fingers, exposed, as if even the parts of her body were separate and lonely.

He wished he could sit on the bed without waking her. He felt unsteady, as if his thoughts were spinning him, physically. He was glad she would be going riding again today. It gave him time to
gather his thoughts. Maybe he would go back to the game shop in the village. It had felt very peaceful there for a while, in the serious, musty, chapel-like quiet. It was restful to be amongst
useful things, well-made, in their darkwood racks, all their purposes clear. He tried to picture the long sleek hunting guns and lacquered salmon rods more clearly but instead found himself
imagining Marian riding in thick pine woods, through curtains of fine rain, part of a grey, silent procession. He frowned. Tomorrow he would take her all the way to the station in Edinburgh,
stopping only to collect the jacket. He would give her plenty of spending money for the journey back and for weeks to come, and she would thank him awkwardly, mumbling as she took it, another
packet of folded, deathly dry notes. This would be their last stay together, he was certain.

She stirred in her sleep and he flinched away, frightened at the thought of being discovered there, standing over her in the gloom. He retreated, shutting the door softly behind him.

After showering he lay on his bed thinking about his own parents, long dead, until it was time to wake her.

As they stepped out together to cross the cobbled yard they both caught sight of Beata coming towards them, her arms filled with neat folds of white, freshly laundered linen. It must have rained
heavily at some point during the night, Hamilton saw with surprise, because the bright, rutted yard was gleaming with puddles. Over Beata’s head, high in the southwest, a half moon was still
visible, very pale but detailed with faint bluish shadows. She was hurrying across the uneven ground, clearing each little pool she came to with quick, graceful skips. Morning, Hamilton called, and
Marian waved, and the hurrying girl fluttered her slim fingers back at them.

They spoke very little over breakfast. Marian fished at her cereal, leaving most of the milk behind in the bowl. At least she was washing her hands less now, Hamilton
reflected, watching her stirring the spoon listlessly, though her sharp knuckles were still pink and chapped.

I’ll go and settle the bill, he said finally. You finish up and then wait for me in the sun room, okay?

Okay, she agreed, and immediately slipped away.

Hamilton watched her disappear through the dining room doors and then fished a generous tip from his pocket, pinning the notes under the butter dish. His arms felt strangely heavy lifting the
dish and placing his crumpled napkin beside it on the table. As if he were moving in slow motion, he thought vaguely.