Rise (40 page)

Mhairi sniffs. Slides her a mug of tea. ‘You’re gie chirpy, given the circumstances.’

How to explain? The waiting, a long night’s waiting; Hannah by the bedside, the warm scoop of Ross on Justine’s lap in the corridor outside. And Euan. Euan was there. A skinny boy in a wheelchair, plaster-cast leg thrust outright, hair too long and in his eyes. Same amber eyes as Michael.

‘See?’ whispered Ross. ‘I told you Justi was pretty.’

An embarrassed smile. A flash of metal where his teeth are bound and healing. He didn’t recognise her at all. Not a glimmer on him. For as long as she stays here – for ever – she’ll be safe. Michael will be cured and it will all be fine.

Deferentially, Mhairi lowers her voice. ‘Is he . . . ?’

The bell over the café door rings.

‘Mhairi, can I get a—’ the boy stops talking. ‘Justine.’

It’s wee Johnny. Buddy at his heels. His mouth breaks, smiling. He begins to dart forward. Frowns. ‘I thought you were coming to see me?’

‘Hello, John-boy!’ calls Ross. ‘Justi, please can I get a cake too? And for Johnny too maybe?’

‘Yes you can. Would you like a cake as well, Johnny?’ She gives Johnny a wink, means to charm him later, when Mhairi is not present.

‘A cake?’ He sidles grubby fingers to his hair.

‘Ho you, ya wee bugger,’ says Mhairi. ‘Don’t you be getting your nits over my clean counter.’

‘I’ve no got nits, ya fat bitch.’

‘Hoi! Don’t use language like that in my café, you.’

‘It’s a manky dive anyway. Justine,’ he tugs at her sleeve, ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Well, just let me finish speaking to Mhairi first, all right?’

‘But this is important.’

‘And so’s this. How come you’re not at school?’

‘It’s ma mum. You
said
you’d give us—’

‘In a
minute
, Johnny. Grown-ups talking, OK?’

‘You said you’d give me ma money.’

‘What money? Away and don’t be daft.’ Eyebrows raised, a glaikit smile, how thick is this boy? ‘Why don’t you take Buddy outside and I’ll talk to you later, eh?’

‘He sponging off you an’ all?’ says Mhairi. ‘You know, I caught the wee bugger pinching a quiche out the kitchen.’

‘Johnny Green! What are you like? You’ll be midgie-raking next.’ She tries to ruffle his hair. Her smile is wider. Is what you’d term ‘affectionate’. A soft space is clicking, quietly, round them; Johnny’s eyes darkening, finally getting the gist.
We will talk about this later.

‘Ach, fuck you.’

‘Johnny!’

‘Naw, I mean it.’ It comes in a fierce sob. ‘Fuck off, Justine. I
hate
you.’

Boy and dog slink off.

‘Charming. Cheeky wee bastard,’ says Mhairi. ‘Either him or his dug’s got fleas.’

Justine watches the slow drag of the boy’s feet. Her heart brittles. Even the dog’s tail is flat. ‘Och, he’s all right.’ Clearly, he is thick, though. But she shouldny have been so harsh. She’ll find him afterwards, explain you don’t discuss deals in front of strangers. Give him the cash, a cheeky wee hug, and Johnny will be good as new. Stuff it; she’ll buy him a bloody bike.

‘It’s no wonder, with that mother of his. Bloody lazy besom. Anyroad. How is Michael doing?’

There’s a dull, hard thud at the window. Feathers sheer past.

‘Jesus!’

Justine’s first thought is Johnny, throwing stuff. That’s what she’d do if she was a pissed-off wean. A wee half-brick; the deep joy of release. Mhairi pushes back the macramé curtain. An outline of a bird in flight shadows the glass. ‘Bloody pigeons.’

The splayed-shape looks bigger than a pigeon. ‘Can you see it? Is it dead?’

Mhairi shoves her cheek up against the window. ‘Nah. Nothing there.’ She leaves a cloud of breath, which blurs the imprint on the other side. ‘Right. Michael. What’s the latest?’

‘Still unconscious. They’re keeping him sedated a wee while longer. But they think it was a success.’

Mhairi unties her pinny, hangs it by the cooker. ‘Good. Christ, the thought you could have a time bomb, ticking in your head. Ugh. Makes you want to . . . ugh, I don’t know. Hear you were a star, though.’

‘Och, no. Not really. Kept calm, got a blanket . . .’

‘Was he
mugged
, d’you think?’

‘In Kilmacarra? Doubt it. They think he’s maybe slipped.’

‘But what was he doing out there?’

Banging his head against the stones, Mhairi. To stop the voices.
She bets that’s exactly what he was doing. ‘Dunno. He likes to walk through the churchyard. It relaxes him. I think.’

‘Hm. How’s Hannah doing?’

‘Hanging on like grim death. Sitting at his bed like a sentry. That’s how I brought Rossie home. She says she’ll phone if there’s any change. Oh, plus her mum’s on the way up the road. So I’ve instructions to gut the house.’

‘Does that mean your services are no longer required? When Mrs G gets here?’

‘Need to wait and see.’

Justine is a triumph of hope over experience. One day, people will need her.

‘Well, you and me both. Tell you, if this bloody windfarm goes through, I’ve had it. Off. Bye-bye Kilmacarra. I just want a quiet life. I canny take much more fighting.’

‘You don’t mean that, Mhairi. I don’t want to leave here – and you can’t either. Here you go, Rossie,’ she takes him his toasted cheese, comes back to the counter. ‘Listen. I had an idea . . . it was for Michael, but it doesn’t matter who does it. Why don’t you play them at their own game?’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Challenge them. Tell Donald John you want a public debate, a mini referendum about the windfarm. Call his bluff. If they want folk to vote for them in September, they need to show they’ll listen now.’

‘You think?’

‘Yeah! And what about this Kilmacarra Museum you’ve been promising? Who’s going to set that up if you go? Look, I’ve even brought you the prize exhibit.’ She unwraps the tapestry, which was the purpose of her visit; but Mhairi’s sorting plates into the dishwasher.

‘Ach, the museum was just a fat old bitch shooting her mouth off. End of the day, it’s only a bit of land. Stupid poles on hills. Disny seem that important, does it?’ Clatter of cutlery, cursory wipe of her hands, then she has a poke at the opened-out parcel. ‘What is it anyway? It’s horrible.’

‘It’s a tapestry. A very old tapestry, from here. Look.’

‘Oh, right. Very good.’ Uninterested; a vague facsimile of what used to be here; like the pigeon-print on the window.
Who is this sad woman, and what have you done with Mhairi?

The door chimes again as two men enter. Both wear yellow jackets. They nudge and jostle like schoolboys.

‘All right, ladies? We’ll have two rolls and sausage, and I’ll take a coffee. Jim?’

‘Tea for me.’

‘Aye, go on then. Make mine’s a tea an’ all. Two teas, hen.’ He winks at his mate. ‘We’re absolutely panting, aren’t we, Jim?’

‘Aye,’ snickers the other. ‘
Panting
, so we are.’ Jim appears to be wetting himself. ‘Big, big pants.’

‘Right. Away yous both and piss off. I’m no serving anyone fae Sentinel.’

His arms spread wide; a swaggering contrition. ‘Oh, come on. There’s no need to be like that.’

‘Can we get it to go?’ says his mate. ‘Quick as a
flash
now, eh?’

‘Get out ma café. NOW!’

The fat cherub holding the door chimes wobbles as Mhairi pushes, then boots the café door. She spins the sign to
CLOSED.
A crescendo of tinkles accompany her movements. Justine thinks Mhairi is going to start crying. It flickers, certainly, her face, but then ebbs into a grin. Her smile is wild. For a moment, it’s just her smile and her fierce, warm eyes, and Mhairi, being almost beautiful. ‘Well, at least it got me on the national news, eh?’

‘And they were nice pants, Mhairi.’

‘They were gorgeous scants, weren’t they?’

It is her pride in this – a kid scowling, grinning:
I don’t care
– that makes Justine laugh all the harder. It’s a nice feeling. Smelling the baking, the outside whiff of peaty earth the men brought in.
Scants.
What a lovely word.

‘Aye,’ Mhairi blows the laughter from her nose. ‘But I’ve been bound over to keep the peace. No more protests for me, I’m afraid. No, what we need is some young ones to take up the fight.’

‘Mm.’

They both stare a while at the tapestry on the counter. Mhairi turns it sideways. ‘Och look! See there.
Jemima W
. I wonder if that’s old Effie’s Jemima? You know? Oh here, she’ll be that chuffed if it is.’

‘Who’s Jemima?’

‘Jemima White in the graveyard? They drowned her, so they did.’

‘Why?’

‘Poor lassie was a Covenanter. Effie’s very proud of her, you know. Oh, I’ll need to gie her a wee phone. This’ll make her day, if it is her. Where was it you got this again? A junkshop?’

‘Aye –
Drowned
her? On purpose? For what?’

‘For sticking up for what she believed in.’

‘Jesus.’ The naive tapestry, with its birds and flowers and childish rhyme, has lost any appeal it might have had. She draws the wrapping across the front of it. ‘Well, give it to Effie then. I don’t care.’

‘Why don’t you?’

‘Nah. Don’t want to get involved.’

‘Justine.’ Mhairi folds her hands across her rotund stomach. ‘How long you planning to be here for?’

‘Until I get sorted.’

‘And what does “sorted” mean, exactly?’

Justine shrugs.

‘Why did you come here? To Kilmacarra? Or rather, why are you
still
here? Is it to make trouble? Because, see to be honest, that wee family have more than enough on their plates to be bothered wi’ a wee hairy like you.’

‘No! Man, I just want to . . .’ Justine tacks her lips. Tight-stitched syllables she doesn’t want to share. ‘You’re not from here either, are you?’

‘No. I’m a Glasgow girl, like you.’

‘So what made
you
stay?’

Mhairi, gruff. ‘That’s none of your business.’

‘Look. All I do is fuck things up. I fuck stuff up, then I run away. I’m tired. And I’m lonely. I felt . . . safe here. People were kind to me.’

‘The Andersons are not your family; you canny have them.’

‘I know that, Mhairi.’

But she can still admire the things she can’t possess. She can still want one safe place into which she can slip, that will open up and accept her. Have you never cooried under the blankets of your bed, Mhairi, put them wrapped round your head like the Queen of Sheba, and sat quiet in the dark? Staring out your window to a rain-smeared street, all the lights twinkling and you, not in it, but alone and watching through the wash of water on the glass. And how quiet it is, and how the lights come on – you can see a hall light, then a landing light. Bathroom, bedroom maybe, back downstairs. Landing off, kitchen on. You can see the buds of people – an arm, the curve of cheek, leaning in towards the blue light of their tellies, and you are not with them. But they are there, around you, and you feel the quiet, and safe. Occasionally a front door opens and you can see the warm blaze of hall, some coats hanging, and you imagine walking in. Just walking into the warm and putting up your coat, up there, beside the anoraks and the dog lead, and
come away in
and
your dinner’s on the table
. For a while it stops hurting. Do you never have that feeling, Mhairi?

Then Justine comes here, to this tiny place and there’s a fire and a toasting fork. There’s a wee shop and a café, there are the stones, all the solid stones for ever that are like long bones of far ago. And it makes her feel safe. Even the windfarm coming and the people fighting; even that; the fact they care. That makes her feel safe. If she wanted, she could maybe join in. It would be like going to a party, not on your own, but when you walk in with someone else, and it validates you, proves you are acceptable. Oh, not to walk in with a person you are scared of; there’s no validation in that; only fawning and glazed, gritted darts of smiles which fade as they form, but walking with a person, a decent, normal person-who-fits who, by their presence, says:
Yeah. Justine’s all right. Look. I’ll even stand beside her. Even get her drinks.
She wonders about old Frank, the tramp. Who stands beside him? And she wishes she’d been kinder to him when he came in the pub.

‘I just want to settle somewhere,’ is what comes out. ‘That’s all. I want to eat and sleep and be happy. Find a person to take care of, maybe. One day.’

‘Aye, well. Good luck with that here. Unless you like shagging sheep.’

‘More people will come to Kilmacarra, Mhairi. If we have the museum. I promise you. Even if they build the stupid windfarm, it’s not for ever. Look at all the bits of crofts, the rubble scattered. Look at the burn, and how wee and slow it is – when it used to cover all this valley. Things change. Duncan says—’