Keeping the World Away (38 page)

This was the sentence that kept coming back to torture her – it was foolish, unfair, childish. Paul had done the ‘spoiling’ and what had been spoiled had already been far from perfect. It was her pride that was hurt, and, most of all, she had resented the fact that he had told her about his affair – it could have been conducted discreetly as she came to suspect previous liaisons had been. But he had had to confess and by doing so humiliate her, and then on top of that to suggest ‘terms’, all to do with maintaining appearances. She should have refused his terms, thrown them in his face and told him she wanted a divorce or at least a formal separation. But she was not a woman who could survive alone, or so she believed.

So they had carried on afterwards, for all those years, the marriage never recovering, just the husk of it remaining, solid though it might appear. And she had realised only during Paul’s illness that she was stronger than she had ever believed and was more than ready, far too late, to be on her own. She dared to start thinking that she could have a life that had nothing to do with him. She did not want him back from the dead. In her letter to Lucasta Jenkinson she made no mention of this unpalatable truth though she had longed to, and by saying her marriage had been ‘spoiled’ she knew she had created the opposite impression. The woman would think she had always loved Paul and that her rage was due to the jealousy and resentment she still felt. But it was not – the anger was because she could have stood on her own, left Paul, or made him choose, and she never had done. But there was another source of fury which she had not let creep into her letter, about the painting itself. Lucasta Jenkinson had written that she had given it to Paul to help him understand why she had to be on her own again, but that she had regretted parting with it ever since. The memory of it had haunted her for years now, and she realised she had been wrong to part with it. It had been a present from her father to her mother, and she should never have let it go. Paul, she thought, had probably never understood its significance and she doubted if he had treasured it. If Ailsa could return the painting, hers would be a magnanimous gesture she would greatly appreciate.

But I am not inclined to be magnanimous, Ailsa had decided. She’d grown fond, truly fond, of the painting, and had got into the habit of looking at it each time she left and re-entered the room, as though checking that nothing had changed. The chair was still empty, the posy of flowers still bright, the window still closed and curtained. She’d noticed tiny details never evident to her before – the texture of the floor, the exact pattern of the wickerwork in the chair – but still she felt the atmosphere evaded her. Had Paul really understood anything about his mistress from it? Or was she right, and he had not seen what she had seen? Sometimes, especially during the weeks of rain when she came in soaked, there had been a warmth there, a welcoming glow of serenity from the picture, but other days the sense of some significant absence was overpowering. She wished the canvas were bigger, that she could see more of what was going on in order to make up her mind about whether this was a happy or a sad picture. It was impossible to decide.

Whatever her feelings, she was not going to let Lucasta Jenkinson or anyone else have it. It was hers, to make of it what she wished, almost a test of how she had changed.

*

Thankfully, there were no more letters from Miss Jenkinson. Weeks went by, and nothing came from her, and Ailsa’s anger faded. By October, the nights drawing in rapidly, she was almost ready to leave the island. Her tenancy had been for six months, with an option to renew for a year, but she had already decided that she had achieved what she had come for and would go before the winter began. The islanders, she knew, would see this as a defeat, but she didn’t care – it was enough that she herself would know that on the contrary it was a victory, over herself. She felt stable and confident, happy to have tested herself and not found herself wanting – the relief of not having needed anyone’s help was thrilling. She could have stayed on the island, though perhaps not in the croft, for longer, especially if she had increased her rare trips to the mainland and given herself some distraction. But she was proud that she hadn’t needed others, and she knew she had
earned
a small measure of respect, from those who observed her, for keeping away from the world so successfully.

October was beautiful. The bracken and heather covered the hills in shades of bronze and purple which became startlingly bright in the sun. The constant change in the light towards evening was almost theatrical, as though the shafts shooting from behind clouds were deliberately directed by unseen hands. It was cold and misty in the mornings but the mist, clinging to every bush and shrub, was a home for diamond drops of water glittering along the paths. Never had she been so aware of nature’s beauty, and never more in awe. She wanted somehow to acknowledge and celebrate this feast, and what it mean to her, what it had done for her. Slowly, an idea of what she could do was growing in her mind.

*

MacPhail took her stuff to the ferry on the day she left the island. ‘Had enough?’ he said. She just smiled. ‘Knew you’d never last a winter,’ he added. She went on smiling – let him have his little victory. ‘Back to London?’ He was remarkably inquisitive for an islander all of a sudden. She nodded. No need to tell him of her plans – he wanted to label her as a townie, so let him. He put her bags on the boat, and she paid him, but he seemed determined to have a conversation before she left and went on standing there, staring at her and expectant. ‘Will you be back?’ he asked, as the boat’s engine started up. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘one day, if I need to.’ He prepared to step onto the quay, then hesitated, and before jumping off the boat as the ropes tying it to the bollards were being released, he said, ‘You’ve done well, mind, managing.’

All the way across to the mainland, she repeated his words to herself: you’ve done well. How well, she had yet to see.

*

The cab she’d booked to take her to the station was waiting beside the pier. She chose not to sit in the front with the driver, wanting to enjoy the scenery without any distraction. But the man persisted in talking, pointing out things on the road, and she thought how
hard
it was going to be to adjust to the society of others. She’d lost the knack.

She wished, when they got to the station, that she did not have so much luggage. There were no trolleys at this local station and she had to ask the cab driver to carry the two heavy bags for her while she coped with the rest. He was not very willing – she should, after all, have talked to him – and she had to produce a five-pound note, an extravagant tip, surely. But he put everything on the train for her, and at last she was off, her journey home properly begun. Arriving in Glasgow was alarming. She stood on the platform, surrounded by her belongings, numbed by the noise, nervous of the crowds surging past as a train on the adjacent platform disgorged its passengers. She tried to take deep breaths, telling herself to keep calm, calm, willing herself to conjure up a vision of the island she had left. And then, behind her, a voice said, ‘Would you like a hand with all this, maybe?’ and she turned to see a young man hovering there, indicating her bags, his smile shy.

He carried almost everything for her all the way to the main concourse – all she took was her shoulder bag and rucksack – and found a trolley for her. He was off even before she had finished thanking him profusely. Her mood was transformed. There was no need to fear returning to city life – among the formidable hordes of strangers there were people like that thoughtful man. Later, she supposed that was when she had begun to relax her guard. She put her shoulder bag and rucksack on top of all the other bags and pushed the trolley towards the platform for the London train. Her progress was slow, with the concourse packed, but she did not mind, there was plenty of time. She hardly saw what happened. All she felt was a bump as someone passed her too close, and then she saw her shoulder bag, whipped off the mound of luggage, in the hand of a boy running very fast. He was gone before she had managed any kind of exclamation. Gasping for breath, she tried to go after him but the weight she was pushing, and the throng she was trying to push her way through, defeated her.

The station policeman was sympathetic. He took her to his
office
, leaving her luggage safely in the charge of someone else, and sat her down and gave her a cup of tea. He reassured her that her train would not be departing for another thirty-five minutes. It was only when he asked her to describe her bag and list its contents that Ailsa remembered it contained the painting. Apart from that, only some shells, a few birds’ feathers, and a bunch of heather she’d picked that morning. ‘So nothing of value, then?’ the man asked. ‘You have your money, your credit cards, cheque book, keys?’ Ailsa patted the zipped purse she had hanging diagonally across her chest and nodded. But then she began to say, ‘It’s just that the painting …’ ‘Yes?’ the man prompted. There was no way she could explain its significance. ‘Nothing,’ she said, ‘it’s just a little picture, of sentimental value.’ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that lad is going to be a wee bit disappointed when he opens that bag – I’d like to see his face. He’ll likely chuck it away. If we find it, we’ll send it on, if you leave your address.’

He saw her onto the London train himself and stowed her luggage away for her. As soon as the train began to move, Ailsa closed her eyes. She told herself she had been lucky. Nothing important had been lost. Yet even as she was assuring herself of this, she felt uneasy. Wasn’t the painting important? It certainly had turned out to be important to Lucasta Jenkinson. She had begged for its return. But it was more than that. Over the last few months, Ailsa reflected, it has come to mean something to me, too. What, then? She wasn’t sure. It had become somehow symbolic, she decided, of what she had been trying to do on the island, which was to try to live independently and simply, as the painting suggested life should be lived. What would that boy see in it, though? Nothing. Would he throw it away? If so, who would pick it up and treasure it?

Thinking of what might happen distressed her. She warned herself not to become agitated, and tried to settle into the rhythm of the train. She was almost asleep when the ticket collector came to tell her he had had a call from Glasgow Station saying that her bag had been found in a wheelie bin near the buffet, contents apparently intact. It seemed like such a happy omen for the future.
Ailsa
smiled, and fell into a deep sleep which lasted all the way to London.

*

Eight people she had had to talk to in the first twenty-four hours. Her sister Fiona, Cameron, James, Melissa, her neighbour Virginia, Virginia’s husband Morton, her cleaner Pat and Pat’s little boy, Ryan. Eight people, all of them demanding time and concentration and responses, all of them so kindly welcoming her, treating her as if she had recovered after a long illness. Their expressions of relief were various and hopelessly misplaced but all sounded undoubtedly sincere. ‘You’re back!’ they cried, in tones of congratulations, and she found it hard to bear. ‘Now you can start again,’ they said, and beamed at her. Start what? she wanted to ask, but knew quite well that they meant her life. Her old life. Her life as she had lived it with Paul – only without him.

Fiona, in particular, scrutinised her carefully. She had never liked Paul, who had patronised her and made her feel that her job as a social worker was a waste of time. Sometimes, Ailsa thought Fiona had suspected a little of what had happened to her sister’s marriage, but she had never asked outright what was going on and there had never been any temptation to tell her and seek advice or consolation. They were not close enough for that. But now, no longer concerned with keeping up appearances, Ailsa was more prepared to be truthful, so when Fiona commented on how well she was looking and wondered if this was just the result of a healthy, outdoor island life, she said, ‘No, actually. It’s the result of standing on my own two feet and not falling over.’

‘But you’re not the independent type,’ Fiona said, ‘you went straight from Daddy to Paul, looking for another strong man to adore you.’

‘That’s very bitchy, Fi.’

‘No. Just the truth. Men do adore you. They don’t adore me.’

‘Fiona, don’t be so, so …’

‘Petty? Pathetic?’

‘Don’t be so self-pitying. I never wanted to be adored, as you put it. I’d rather have what you have. You’ve got a career, you do
something
worthwhile, and what have I ever done?’

‘Worthwhile? Not what your late husband used to say.’

‘Never mind what Paul said, I know it’s worthwhile and I admire you.’

‘Rubbish. How can you? How can you admire me when I spend my whole time putting what Paul called sticking plasters over gaping wounds and watching them fall off?’

‘There’s no point in talking to you when you’re like this, Fi.’

‘No, there isn’t, but you’ve never wanted to talk to me, anyway, have you, not really talk, as sisters should.’

‘I don’t know about “should”. It would be nice if we could.’

‘Then why can’t we?’

‘There are two of us, Fi, it isn’t just me.’

‘It is. I don’t mind being truthful about how I feel – it’s you, you won’t
share
.’

‘Please.’

‘There, you see – the distaste on your face.’

‘It’s just the word …’

‘Then I’ll choose another word. You won’t open up, you won’t tell me, your only sister, how you’re really feeling.’

‘I’m feeling fine. Better than for years. There, that’s the truth, that’s being open and honest.’

‘It isn’t being open and honest enough. Why did you really go to that island? I don’t remember you loving it as a child, neither of us did, it was Daddy who did. You hated being made to go there when you were a teenager. You loved dancing and parties, don’t you remember? Why go there, on your own, now? Be open and honest about that, and I might believe you’re trying.’

‘This is very tiring, Fi.’