Sewing the Shadows Together (8 page)

The kitchen at Shona’s. A sink unit in front of the sash window looking out over the Forth. Dishes hidden on shelves behind red gingham curtains. The smell of mince cooking on the range. Mrs McIver is stirring with a wooden spoon, wearing her long pinny with a ruff up the sides. She is asking us about school and the teachers in her melodic Hebridean tones.

Then a crash at the door and Mr McIver, red-faced, dark hair tousled, stumbles in. Everyone freezes. He lurches towards his wife, knocking over a chair. Shona grabs my hand and pulls me out of the room. I see Mrs McIver shrinking back over the formica kitchen units as her husband puts his red face close to hers. The door closing muffles his roaring curses. Shona and I stand outside the door, not daring to look at each other. Tom appears beside us and gently puts his arms round our shoulders, leading us to the front room.

Tom drove along the straight empty roads to the north. There wasn’t a ferry due at Lochboisdale so there was little traffic. As he approached the more mountainous skyline of Harris he realised that he was just driving, not knowing where he was going. He hadn’t been in contact with any of his father’s relatives for years. The only thing he knew was that his father had lived in Nigg so he was going there and hoped he’d find someone related to him.

As he drove through Lewis, the landscape became flatter and bleaker. He saw the circle of standing stones at Callanisch, gaunt against the skies, with dark clouds shot through by shafts of silver sunlight. Driving towards Nigg, slightly lower but still exposed to the unrelenting wind on the barren treeless landscape, Tom hoped he’d find a pub with a roaring fire where he could chat to the locals at the bar while sipping a welcome pint. But when he arrived the streets were empty and lifeless, reminding him of a town in a film he’d once seen, where all the inhabitants had been spirited away by aliens.

Beside the road he saw a bungalow with a sign
Nigg B&B
and
vacancies
. He was tired, had to stay somewhere, so he went in. Terry and Maureen, the proprietors, were very welcoming. The room was comfortable, but they couldn’t help him with his quest because they’d only recently moved up from Coventry and didn’t know many locals.

The next morning Tom walked to the local shop, which doubled as a post office, and, Tom was sure, the hub of all local knowledge. A shiny round face peered from between stacks of tins of beans, cereals, washing powder and shoe polish, everything that villagers might need.

‘Nearly everyone here is called McIver,’ the shopkeeper said with her sing-song lilt, in response to Tom’s question.

‘My father was called Kenny, he joined the Merchant Navy.’

‘So many of the young boys did then. If they couldn’t go to the university, that was the only thing to do. The fishing was not enough to support all the sons.’ She paused. ‘Kenny, did you say? Went to Edinburgh and never came back to the island?’

Tom felt a surge of excitement. ‘Yes, that’s the one. He was my father. Do any of his relatives live nearby?’

The round face hesitated. ‘It’s a long time he’s been away from the island. I’m no sure.’

Tom sensed she was holding something back. ‘We never used to come here as children. I know there must have been something of a falling-out.’

The shopkeeper removed her round glasses and rubbed her eyes. ‘Mary McIver at the church may know. But I’m not sure she’ll want to talk. Those were hard times.’ She paused. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’ Her head withdrew behind the piles of tins and Tom knew there was no use asking anything else.

He drove the hire car over the flat, bleak landscape. The clouds travelled quickly over the huge skies but there were few trees or landmarks until Tom saw an enormous church dominating the landscape. A thin woman in a faded dress was sweeping the doorstep.

He approached her slowly and coughed. She raised her head and stared at him. Her eyes were deep-set in her care-worn face.

‘Excuse me, I’m looking for Mary McIver.’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘I’m Tom McIver and I’m looking for relatives of my father, Kenny. He joined the Merchant Navy. I think he came from round here.’

‘There’s many that came from here and are long gone.’ A cold wind swirled round Tom. The woman turned away and continued vigorous sweeping.

Tom knew he had to persist to get anywhere. ‘My father died many years ago in South Africa and I want to find out something about the rest of my family. He never spoke about them.’

The woman rested on her broom and looked round. A flicker of recognition crossed her face and she pursed her mouth in disapproval. ‘As well he shouldn’t. Such wickedness.’

‘You knew him?’ Tom felt a sliver of hope, although the woman had turned her back to him again.

‘Kenny McIver was a wicked young man. It’s no surprising that he would never show his face here again.’

‘Please tell me about him. It would help me understand him better. I’m the only one left of our family now and I want to know where I came from.’ Tom waited.

There was a long pause before the woman turned again and lifted her head. ‘I’m Mary McIver. I’ll be your aunt.’ She looked carefully at Tom with her deep-set eyes. ‘So you’re the son of Kenny – you have a look of your father about you, sure enough.’ Tom looked at Mary; he could see nothing of his father in this grim-faced woman, but he was glad to have found a relative.

Mary pursed her lips again. ‘You’d better come back to the house. But first I have to lock up the church.’

Tom followed her into the enormous bare building. Mary indicated the space with pride. ‘It can hold 1400 people but there were 2000 for the inauguration of the minister.’ Tom stared at the stark white walls and the bare pews in amazement. There didn’t seem to be a thousand people living in the whole area.

Mary locked up the church and led Tom to a small modern house a few hundred yards down the road. She unlocked the door and Tom followed. They’d not exchanged a word since they were in the church.

The old lady showed Tom into the bare front room and disappeared into the utilitarian kitchen. There were no pictures, no plants, nothing to alleviate the stark chill of the atmosphere. Mary came back with two cups of tea and sat down.

‘I moved here with my parents when they built the new houses. The croft where we used to live is up the road. My parents are both gone now, and the rest of the family have all gone to Glasgow or further, so I just have the church now. And Duncan has gone too.’ She stared past Tom far into the distance through the bare square window. Tom waited for her to say more, not daring to break her flow.

‘Kenny was the oldest. He was the apple of our mother’s eye. A wild one he was, always in trouble. But then he joined the Merchant Navy and never came back. Lied about his age he did, he was only fifteen. Broke his mother’s heart.’

There was a long pause. Mary looked down and fiddled with the edge of her cardigan. ‘And then we found out why he had run away.’

Tom looked at her. He was longing to ask questions, but knew he had to let her tell her story in her own time.

‘He was always a fine-looking lad was Kenny, and popular with the girls.’ Mary stared out of the window. ‘A girl falling pregnant in those days was a scandal. Poor wee lassie, she was just a child herself.’

Tom gasped. ‘My father had a child?’

‘Aye, Duncan.’

‘I have a brother?’ Tom felt a rush of excitement. He wasn’t totally alone.

‘He was a fine boy, not unlike yourself. But he was taken by the sea, like so many others.’

‘What?’ Tom gasped. ‘When did this happen?’

‘Many years ago. He was nineteen when the fishing boat went down.’ Mary’s harsh features softened.

Tom felt a sense of loss. ‘I never knew anything about him.’

‘Your father was a coward. He ran away and left that poor wee lassie to face the music alone.’ Another long pause. Mary’s dark eyes began to glisten. ‘It was a terrible wicked thing. She was only fourteen and the birth was too much for her. She was taken by the Lord the next day. But she left the boy, Duncan.’

She sniffed. ‘The lassie’s parents were broken by the shame and the loss of their wee girl. Could never abide the sight of the boy. Our family took him in and your grandmother loved him so. It was something left of Kenny. A fine boy he was, Duncan, but cursed by his birth.’

Tom felt quite disorientated. ‘Are there any photos?’

Mary sat still for a long time and then stood up slowly. She opened a drawer in a cheap ugly sideboard, lifting out an envelope with a few yellowing photos. She looked quickly through them and selected one. ‘Here is Duncan with my dear mother and father. He will be about seventeen in this picture.’

Tom took the photo. He saw a small white-haired couple and a smiling youth standing between them, with his arms protectively over their shoulders. He felt a shock of recognition; Duncan did look like him. He’d had a brother and he never knew. His father had never said anything about him.

Mary interrupted his thoughts. ‘There’s a chest. Kenny left it when he went. I wanted to throw it out but my mother would never allow it. She was always waiting for him to come home.’

Tom’s head was reeling with what he’d heard. It explained the deep, hidden part of his father he’d never been able to understand. He nodded. ‘Can I look at it?’

‘It’s in the outhouse. You can take it away with you. I’ll no be wanting it.’

Mary stood up and led Tom out into the pale late afternoon sunshine. Tom shivered. The house was cold, both in temperature and the sparse signs of a joyless life.

Mary led Tom into a dusty outhouse and he saw an old-fashioned trunk in the corner wreathed in cobwebs. ‘Take it,’ said Mary. ‘I’ll be glad to see the back of it.’

Tom staggered as he carried it to the car. It was heavier than he’d expected.

‘You’ll be wanting to get away now.’ Mary stood with her arms folded and her mouth pursed. Tom felt uncomfortable. Did she want him to go or was she disappointed he was going? Her air of disapproval was evident, but Tom couldn’t make out why.

‘Can I take you for a meal this evening?’

‘There’s nowhere I would eat here. Only for tourists and incomers.’ Her thin mouth was set grimly over her prominent chin.

Tom stretched out his hand. ‘I’m so grateful that you’ve given me this and filled in some of the gaps in my history. Are you sure that there’s nothing I can do for you?’

‘I’m just glad that I can put an end to that time. Now I must go and prepare. It’s the Lord’s Day tomorrow and I must make everything ready.’ She nodded her head and turned away. Tom withdrew his hand. She was his aunt, but she was not the sort you could hug.

‘Thank you, Mary,’ he said to her retreating back, but she didn’t turn or acknowledge that she’d heard.

Tom lugged the trunk into his room at the bed and breakfast. He’d waited until the owners had gone out shopping before bringing it in from the boot of the hire car. He wiped off most of the cobwebs, out of respect for the cream carpet, and looked around to see if any neighbours were watching from their windows. Anyone would think that he had a body in it.

He looked at the trunk with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. He realised that he hadn’t really known his father. Had he ever had a conversation with him? The whole family had tiptoed cautiously around him, careful not to trigger one of his rages. His mother had spent her life making sure that nothing annoyed him; that his dinner was ready when he came home, that the family only ate the food that he liked, but he could still lash out at her, especially when he’d been drinking. Tom had felt helpless.

He’d felt his father’s belt on many occasions, often not knowing what he had done to incur his wrath. His mother always excused his father, saying he’d had a hard life; conditions in the Merchant Navy were severe in those days. Shona could do no wrong, though. His little princess. And after she died, he’d drowned in sorrow and alcohol.

The trunk was an old-fashioned one with metal bands round it and a rusty lock. He looked at the trunk with distaste. Perhaps Mary was right. Maybe there were some secrets that should not be disturbed.

Sarah looked at her phone again. Was it working? No messages. She rarely heard anything from the twins between Sundays, as they were firm subscribers to the ‘no news is good news’ school of thought – and her mother only phoned when she wanted something. The door flew open and Rory bounded in.

‘I knew there was something!’ he looked jubilant. ‘My journalist’s nose is still able to sniff out a story. I went to meet Archie Kilbride in the Café Royal and who should I see there, propping up the bar, but this old guy who’s always rambling on about his schooldays at Fettes. I just happened to mention that I was doing the programme on HJ Kidd and wondered if he was at the school about the same time.’

Rory beamed. Sarah smiled, encouraging him to go on.

‘Well, he did know him, and once he started on his tales I just couldn’t shut him up. Apparently, old HJ was a star student, the golden boy of his family, but then something happened. He left the school early, moved into digs and, instead of going to Cambridge as expected, went to uni in Edinburgh.’

Sarah nodded, waiting for him to build up to whatever was making him feel so pleased.

‘And who was his landlady?’ Another dramatic pause. Rory could hardly contain his delight, ‘the fragrant Hannah.’

Sarah frowned. ‘I thought she might be a bit older than him, but I didn’t think there was that much of an age difference.’

‘There isn’t really – it just sounds good. She was a student at the uni and her parents bought her a flat in Marchmont with a spare room. She was already in her third year when HJ moved in, aged seventeen, and the rest, as they say, is history.’

‘So what happened to make him leave school and home?’

Rory tapped his nose. ‘I don’t know – yet. But I’m going to find out!’ He swept up his coat and moved to the door. ‘Might be late – don’t wait up!’ A final grin and the door slammed again.

Sarah turned up the music – Brahms’ Poco Allegretto. How long had he been in the house – five minutes? She lay back.

Tom, please contact me
.

Another glance at the phone.

Nothing.

*

Tom prised the lid of the trunk open. A fusty smell. A teenage boy’s treasure trove from those troubled war years. Tom lifted the contents out slowly, hoping for some clues into the enigma that was his father.

The top layer was mostly paper: deeply creased football posters, bundles of old cigarette packets, Craven A, Players Navy Cut and Woodbine, bound together with a stiffened rubber band that snapped as he pulled it. Then he saw a yellowing newspaper with news of the sinking of a Merchant Navy convoy by U-boats. Tom skimmed the article and laid it to one side. Then he felt a clutch of milky marbles, a packet of Rizla cigarette papers and a cigarette machine with two little rollers and a loop of paper. This was like a time capsule, capturing life in the war years.

Reaching down, he found a fishing knife, a rusting box with a cycle repair kit, and a medal. Tom lifted it up:
Winner of the Junior 100 yards dash.
Tom felt a strange emotion; so his father had been an athlete; he had run too. Tom had never seen him do any activity more physical than lifting a pint glass. He felt a sense of pride in the father he did not know at all.

Tom delved deeper into the chest. Next he lifted out a large cardboard book with the resplendent tail of a peacock on the cover. Tom opened it and saw a colourful sticker on the first page. Carefully written in copperplate hand
: Presented to Coinneach McIver. Annual Painting Prize. Nigg School June 1938.

His father painted – and he kept this book among his treasures. Tom felt a sense of regret which clutched his heart like a physical pain. So much lost potential. His father had been a runner and a painter; he’d been a teenager with hopes and aspirations. Tom had never known him like this, only as a resentful glowering presence with a beer can in his left hand and a short temper.

Then a bundle of photographs. His father, tall and handsome, standing squinting into the sun with a harbour wall in the background; a school class showing kids in long tweed shorts, the ill-fitting collars of fathers’ cut-down shirts, and girls with bows in their hair; a group of boys dressed in their best, leaning together, arms over their friends’ shoulders.

And then a well-worn photo of a girl with long blonde hair and a pale summer dress. Tom smoothed the curled corners and looked at the photo carefully. A very pretty girl of about thirteen, smiling shyly at the camera, a smile that showed attraction. Was this the girl he’d made pregnant? The mother of his half-brother? Tom felt a rush of revulsion. She was just a little girl, only about the age of Shona.

He looked further into the box. There were some pencil drawings, harbour views, a fishing boat, the silhouette of a tree, a few awkward figure compositions. Tom was surprised. His father had talent, better at drawing landscapes than figures, though.

Then he saw a thick roll of papers tied with a bit of string. He unrolled them carefully and straightened them out. There were about fifty pieces of paper and they all seemed to be of naked women. Or one naked woman. They were all the same prepubescent girl with small breasts and the beginnings of pubic hair. The face was sometimes blank, but where there were features it was recognisably the girl in the picture. Although they were drawn so many years ago, Tom felt an uneasy sense of embarrassment. This was too intimate.

As he leafed further down the pile of papers the pictures became more stylized, the breasts sharper, the private space between her legs larger and cruder. And then there were other images etched on the drawings with thick, heavily-drawn lines; ropes, knives, bleeding wounds, giant phalluses violating the purity of the images, crushing every part of the sketched figure. Tom screwed the papers together in disgust.

So, seeds of the violence and aggression that had characterised his father’s behaviour when he was older were there in his youth. Tom tried to think back to when he was that age. He’d fantasised about girls, of course, but this was something different. He thought of that poor girl. What indignities had his father subjected her to? Was this why he’d run away? He looked at the photo again. Her long blonde hair, her childlike innocence… there was definitely an air of Shona about her.

An unthinkable idea began to form in the back of his mind. He didn’t allow it to take shape at first, blocking it out, but it diverted and found other ways to force its way into his conscious thoughts and solidify. If it wasn’t Logan Baird who’d killed Shona… and Rory had said he’d seen Tom’s father in the park that night…

No, not his father… no!

It was impossible, unnatural… Tom wrestled with the thought in his mind. But, after Shona’s death, his father had really fallen apart, and they say most murders are committed by a family member…

No. it couldn’t be. His father loved Shona, he adored her, his little princess. He loved her sitting on his knee… No, these thoughts couldn’t go any further…

Tom was shaking. The walls of the small bedroom seemed to be closing in. He felt suffocated, nauseous. He had to get out, he had to get this wicked, evil chest out of the room. He dragged it back to the car, panting guiltily. A nosy neighbour really would think it was a body, he thought, as he looked furtively in every direction before lifting it into the boot of the hire car and slamming the lid shut.

The owners of the B&B didn’t seem to be around so he left the key with a note and payment for the next night. Still breathing heavily, he drove as fast as he could away from the village in the opposite direction from the church and Mary McIver’s pursed-lipped disapproval. Had she any idea of the secrets in the chest?

Tom sped on into the gathering darkness, down a long road, past an isolated churchyard seemingly in the middle of nowhere. He had no idea where he was going, he just had to get away. The road seemed to peter out as he reached a deserted cove. The beach was different from the ones on Uist and Harris, rockier with piles of marbled stones, smooth and regular from the sea, with swirling lines and colours of years of prehistory.

There was not much fuel around, but Tom managed to gather some driftwood, which had been caught between the stones and piles of dry seaweed and built a pyre on the beach. He found the book of matches he’d picked up at the B&B in his pocket and as the first stars appeared in the sky he managed to get a fire started. He watched as the flames grew higher and the logs glowed red in the gathering darkness before dragging the wooden chest over and heaving it onto the fire. At first, it was difficult to get the chest to burn, but once the ancient wood caught and the dry papers inside started to burn, there was a rush as sparks floated high into the night sky.

The flames started to subside into a red-gold ember glow and Tom poked it with a stick until there was nothing left but the twisted remains of charred metal.

He looked up at the sky. Without the light pollution of the city, the sliver of moon shone brightly in a vast dome of stars. The Milky Way was clearly recognisable and also some constellations he could remember from comics when he was young. He breathed deeply; it was almost as if he had been holding his breath since he opened that poisonous chest. He must never tell anyone what he had seen. He must keep it a secret.

He felt tears prick his eyes. Who would he tell? There was no one. His parents were both dead; his sister, and the half-brother he’d never even known, also gone far too soon. He’d led too superficial a life in South Africa to form close friendships. He shivered, although the air was not cold. He felt so lonely, so totally alone.

He put his hand in his pocket and felt his mobile phone. Sarah. He had Sarah’s number. He’d forgotten, until this moment, that she’d given it to him that first evening. She was the one person in the world he wanted to talk to. He typed in a text message.

*

Sarah was sitting in her favourite chair, flicking through the television channels and half-reading the
Evening News
on her knee. She felt restless, in limbo, waiting for something to happen.

A beep sounded. She leapt up. Where was her mobile phone? She patted her pockets and looked into her handbag. Not there. After keeping her phone next to her for days, she’d almost given up on Tom contacting her and had no idea where it was. She looked around, feeling frantic.
Calm down
, she told herself
, it could be anyone
. She looked under cushions and newspapers and eventually went to the landline to phone her mobile.

There was a ring from the bookcase. She ran over and looked at the screen.
Thinking of you
. She didn’t recognise the number but it could only be Tom.

Her heart gave a leap. He’d contacted her.
Thinking of you too. How are things? When are you coming back? Sarah x
As she sent the message off she saw her hand was shaking. Tom had sent her a text; he was thinking of her. She held the phone close to her breast.

She jumped as she heard the key in the lock and Rory came in. ‘Come on, we’re going out. We’re filming HJ’s poetry evening at the Canongate Centre and he wants you to come too.’

Sarah started guiltily as if he could read the phone messages. ‘Now? I’m not dressed for going out.’

‘You look fine. Come on, we’ll be late.’ Sarah grabbed her coat and fluffed up her hair in front of the hall mirror, before obediently following Rory down the worn stone stairs.

The Canongate Centre was a decommissioned church which had been converted into an Arts Centre. The pews were removed, but otherwise little had changed from when it was in use. A small film crew was standing in a corner, adjusting the lamps. The beams of light emphasised the gothic curves and pillars and cast deep shadows over the drafty interior.

Where the altar had stood there was a raised podium and a gaunt figure with dreadlocks was reading from a crumpled paper. As he read in a staccato, breathless voice, Sarah could feel the anguish in the psychedelic whirr of words and images. The poet finished with a muted flourish and raised his eyes for the first time to the circle of watchers.

HJ Kidd was standing at the rear. ‘Danny, that’s brilliant. It lays bare your feelings and we share your pain.’ He paused and walked towards the bony frame of the poet, hunched over his paper, his dreadlocks falling over his face. ‘Look up, Danny. Your words have so much more impact when you raise your eyes and look into the faces of your listeners.’

Danny looked further down and muttered. ‘I want my words to speak for themselves. I write these words for
me
. I don’t care about the listener.’ He looked round at the cameraman and sound engineer. ‘And I can’t read with these wankers here. We’re not performing poodles. This isn’t what I came to the poetry group for.’

HJ moved towards him. ‘Your words are a wonderful gift. Share this with others. Other people can experience the release you felt when all your feelings were crystallised into words.’ HJ looked directly into the eyes of the tortured young man. ‘You have helped me. You inspired me to write again. What we have here is beautiful and we can share it with others through filming this programme.’

Danny shrugged his shoulders and went to join the small group sitting to the right of the podium. Rory leant over to Sarah. ‘We’ve got it all on camera. This is great television, showing what an inspiration HJ is.’

Sarah looked over at Danny’s hunched figure. Did Rory see everything in terms of great television?

After a moment’s pause, an overweight young man, with a round, childish face and a too-tight AC/DC T-shirt, walked in a determined way, head down, onto the podium. He clutched an exercise book tightly. Lifting his head he turned directly to the cameras. ‘Before I read my poem I want to say that it is HJ who’s given me the confidence to stand up and read my poetry. I was bullied at school, I had no friends, I stayed in my bedroom nearly all the time. Now I can write, I feel the tightness released from my chest. I can create something.’

Sarah looked at his eyes shining in the arch lights and glanced at Rory. Was this a set up? Rory was grinning and rubbing his hands together. ‘This is pure magic. I couldn’t have scripted it better myself.’