The Closet of Savage Mementos (4 page)

‘Dublin feels small to me these days, that’s all; I’m thinking I might go to the States.’

Verity’s face clamped up. ‘Oh, very nice. Very nice, indeed.’ She started to hum a high, pointless tune. ‘Everyone is leaving me.’

‘You know, more than likely, I won’t go at all.’ Robin glanced at me, then Verity. She was looking at her plate and hacking at the food, her eyebrows pointed into high peaks.

‘I suppose this was your idea,’ Verity said, spiking her knife at me.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ I said, throwing down my cutlery. ‘What is wrong with you?’ I shoved back my chair and stood up.

‘Come on, come on.’ Robin waved at me to sit down; I stayed on my feet. ‘Mam, of course Lillis didn’t come up with the idea of me going to San Francisco. Why would you even think that?’

‘Give me strength! Because she’s jealous of how close you and I are and she always has been.
That’s
why.’

‘I am not! I amn’t.’ I hovered over the table staring down at my mother. ‘You have got to stop thinking that, Mam, it’s not true. If anything, I do my best to bring the two of you closer.’ I tossed my napkin on top of my half-eaten dinner.

‘Mam, you promised you wouldn’t pick a fight today. Now look what you’ve done.’ Robin sat back and frowned. ‘Why are you always at Lillis?’

‘I’ll tell you why: I hate people who remind me of myself. And Lillis reminds me so much of me that I could kill her.’ Verity pushed her plate, knocking most of her food onto the table top.

I got up and went into the sitting room; Robin followed. I stood at the window, looking out at a group of kids playing football on the street.

‘She doesn’t mean it, you know,’ he said.

‘I wish I could believe that, Rob, but I’m entirely fed up with her at his stage. I’m going to go.’ I reached down to the floor and scooped up my bag. ‘I remind her of herself. Jesus. There’s no hope for me, is there?’ I smiled at Robin. ‘I think it’s time for me to take an
interregnum
from Verity. My only worry is that if I’m not around to be lorded over and bullied, she’s sure to start on you. Whatever you do, don’t let her guilt trip you into not going away.’

I hugged Robin and told him to give me a ring. I let myself out of the front door. One of the kids called to me and I dropped my bag and kicked ball with them for a few minutes, then went on my way again. I knew that Robin or Verity would be watching from the windows; I waved back at the house, without turning around, and walked on.

Chapter Four

T
he sand is packed into hard, ridged hillocks on Achmelvich beach; I scuff my toes through it, trying to find a powdery patch to warm my feet. I toss my sandals into a clump of marram grass, fold the back of my skirt under my bum and sit down. The husk of a tyre flaps in the sand near my feet and I wonder how it made it here. The sea is alien to me. I love it, but every time I am by the sea I realise how little I know about it; I crave the extra knowledge that people who grew up beside the ocean have. Turning my nose to the water, I breathe deeply on the seaweed and grass smell. It is quiet where I sit, I am surrounded by silence; every sound, even the breaking waves, seems to come from very far away.

Struan is running with a blue and green kite near the shoreline, trying to get it aloft. It whooshes high for a few seconds, tail ribbons flipping, and I can hear his delighted yelps, but the kite soon spins down to the beach again. He runs to it and tosses it high once more. I watch him make a few more attempts to get it flying before he begins to roll the line – there isn’t enough wind.

He waves to me, then beckons hugely, rolling his arm and bowing his body forward like a child. I listen to the sea, a far-off roar, and watch Struan. He points to the sand, and scissor-jumps in mock fear; he is still holding the kite and its tails sally out behind him. He is gorgeously remedial, I think, and grin to myself, but I don’t get up – it is nice sitting in the hush of the dunes. But I know Struan won’t come to me. He will stay where he is until I go over to him, making a mime show of his movements; he is stubborn like that. There is something he wants me to see and I have to disturb myself to go and partake; that is what he expects. I pick up my sandals and stroll towards him.

‘Look,’ he says, when I get close, ‘just look at this.’ There is a wide jellyfish at his feet; it is globular and translucent as sea glass. ‘It looks like a big snot,’ Struan says and pretends to sneeze onto the sand. ‘Ha ha choo.’

‘You’re so juvenile.’ I shake my head and smile. He dances me over the jellyfish. ‘Mind my feet, those things sting, you know.’ I grab my hand from his and back away from him. ‘My God, there’s an army of them. Look!’ We both stare down the strand towards the sea – there are scores of jellyfish stalking up from the tide line.

‘Argh,’ Struan shouts, running and staggering, ‘help, help, they’re trying to kill me.’ I wait for him to stop; I catch up, take his hand and we walk.

‘I’ve only seen a jellyfish once before – on holiday in Galway as a kid,’ I tell him. ‘Verity had bought me a pair of white clogs and they were toe-pinchers. She sent me into the sea in them, saying the saltwater would soften up the leather. When I got into the first waves I saw a brown jellyfish and I ran screaming from the water, losing one clog.’ I laugh. ‘Verity was furious. My father was delighted, though – he hated those clogs. He said they looked like two loaves of bread on my feet.’

‘I’d say you were a spoilt brat when you were a kid, with all the latest of everything. Daddy’s little angel.’

‘Shut up. I was not.’ I dig him in the side.

Struan takes me into his arms and hugs me. ‘You’re
my
angel.’ He kisses my mouth; I close my eyes only when we are both deep into the kiss. When we pull our lips from each other’s I hold him hard against me, breast to chest. Fulmars skirl overhead, looking like origami birds sent to put on a stilted air show; they careen and drop, holding themselves stiff as paper.

‘I should tie the kite to a gull,’ Struan says, ‘that would get it going.’

‘Struan, I might have to go home for a weekend soon. I got a letter from Robin – Verity is not in the best. Again. She’s driving him mad.’

‘How so?’ He holds me with one arm; the kite skitters in his free hand when the breeze catches it.

‘Ah, it’s the usual. She turned up at his office, half cut, ranting about being lonely and alone. He brought her home, then had to stay with her until she fell asleep.’ I sigh. ‘She was locked. He thinks she needs to go back into John of God’s, but he’s having trouble convincing her.’

‘And he thinks she’ll listen to you?’

‘Not necessarily, but Robin wants the backup. We can kind of double-team her.’

‘Well, whenever you need to go, just say. You can have a few days’ leave, don’t worry about it.’

‘Thanks. You could come with me, you know.’

‘Maybe I will. It’s years since I was in Ireland.’

We walk back along the beach to the dunes; I go ahead of Struan up a hump and, in its hollow, I almost fall onto a woman who sits feeding her baby. The full moon of one breast is released from her swimming togs and the baby’s red mouth is puckered around the dark areola.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I say, retreating. I stumble and slide in the sand, then move backwards to fend off Struan, but he is already on top of me.

‘Struan Torrance. Hello!’ the woman says, squinting up at us.

‘Ah, Margaret. Are you well? I heard you were back.’

The baby turns one eye up to survey us and it keeps on suckling. I can’t seem to unhook my gaze from the woman and the blue veins that trace like rivers on a map over her breast. Her baby’s fat hand kneads the skin around the nipple protectively.

‘We’re back for good; we bought a house at the end of Market Street. You’re our neighbour.’

‘That’s great. Call in and see me anytime, to the house or the inn. Come up for a drink. Dinner.’ Struan stands with his hands on his hips, looking down. ‘You’re the Madonna of the Dunes, Margaret, sitting there.’ He laughs. Margaret laughs too. Struan introduces us; she and her husband have been living in London, she tells me.

‘I used to work at the inn,’ she says.

‘You and everyone else in Kinlochbrack,’ I say and, realising I sound a bit cranky, I smile. ‘What’s the baby’s name?’

‘This is Charlie.’

‘Bonnie Prince Charlie,’ Struan says.

Margaret unlatches the baby from her breast by sticking her pinkie between his lips and her nipple; Charlie flails and looks accusingly at us.

‘Will you take him a sec?’ Margaret thrusts Charlie up at me. I grab him under the armpits and heave him up to my chest. He is wearing only a nappy and his skin is butter soft. He slumps against me and I squeeze his lamb-chubby thighs.

‘His fat legs,’ I say, ‘they’re irresistible.’ Charlie snuggles his face into my shoulder and the heft of him is beautiful. I don’t ever remember holding a baby before. Margaret pulls up the shoulder strap on her togs and stands.

‘Now,’ she says, taking the baby, and I am surprised that I am reluctant to hand him back. I can’t look at her face in case she reads me, so I look down; her toenails are painted a sparkly black.

‘Cool nail varnish.’ I feel like a teenager as I say it, let loose in the company of adults.

‘I think so.’ She wiggles her toes. ‘I feel cool when I wear it.’

‘Hey, if you ever need a babysitter.’

‘Wow, thanks so much, Lillis. Me and Gordon haven’t been out in ages; I’ll probably take you up on that.’ She grins.

Struan helps Margaret gather her picnic blanket, towels and basket, and we walk her back to her car. He asks after Gordon.

‘Och, he’s fine. No accountant is ever out of work. And work makes Gordon happy.’

‘We’ll see you around Kinlochbrack,’ I say.

Margaret stops and hooshes Charlie onto her shoulder; she looks at me. ‘Your accent. My mother was from Dublin. She died last year.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say.

Struan puts his hand on Margaret’s shoulder and she nods, acknowledging the gesture. She scoops Charlie into his seat and straps him in. We watch them drive away.

‘A great girl, Margaret,’ Struan says. ‘One of the best.’

‘Presto has gooseberries,’ Dulcie says, her eyes lit up like new love. ‘Tom dropped by to tell me. Here, go and get me some.’ She hands me a ten pound note.

I slip out of the inn’s kitchen by the back door and walk in the sunshine to Shore Street. The place mills with tourists; they are a writhing, smiling sea of leisure. They idle on the footpaths and clog up shop doorways, so that I have to dodge on and off the path, into the slow flow of traffic, to avoid them. But I am glad to see the tourists all the same; they look happy – they make a languid, oozing mass of contentment. A trio of ducks flies frantically up from the harbour, flapping as if afraid they might fall from the air. The tourists shield their eyes to watch, some take photographs, and they all cheer when the ducks make it over the rooftops and out of sight.

Presto has five small trays of gooseberries left. I buy the lot. I drop one into my bedroom in the staff house and take four back to Dulcie in the kitchen. Struan is there, chopping vegetables because the kitchen porter has not shown up.

Dulcie takes the trays from me. ‘I’m going to make Gooseberry Fool.’

‘Old fool makes new fool,’ Struan says.

Dulcie swipes at him and he grabs her into his arms and waltzes around the kitchen, humming Strauss as he goes.

‘Let me go, you fucking madman,’ Dulcie says, but she beams and submits to the dance.

‘Struan, I’ll call around to yours later,’ I say, and he winks at me over Dulcie’s shoulder, then spins her past the sink.

Struan’s place is a two-bedroomed fisherman’s cottage and it huddles in a row of identical ones on Clanranald Street. I carry my tray of gooseberries to his house, stopping in Presto for a bag of sugar and some scones on the way. Struan spends so much time at the inn that his home is always clean and neat, barely lived-in, which I love. The house seems to wait for us, as patient as an old dog, and it springs to life when we walk its rooms. It smells of tobacco but also of the rosemary oil that Struan sprinkles on the radiators. His furniture is second hand and rough, which makes me feel at home. Verity could never pass a skip without pulling out a chair or a table – it didn’t matter how broken up or filthy. I have always liked the way other people’s heirlooms shed their history as they settle down in a new owner’s rooms.

I lift the hinge of the door knocker and bang it, still not feeling I have the right to use the key Struan gave me, when I know he is inside.

‘Well, helloooo,’ he says, opening the door.

‘Are you trying to sound sexy?’ I ask, kissing him.

‘Do I
not
sound sexy?’

I hold up the gooseberries and sugar. ‘Jam,’ I say.

‘Contraband. Did you nick those on Dulcie?’

‘I bought them. I wanted to make you some jam.’

We sit at the kitchen table together, top and tailing the fruit, listening to the dance music that Struan has recently decided he loves. He boogies in his chair, elbowing me to join in. When the jam is at a rattling boil on the stove, he gets up and goes riffling through the food press.

‘We need ginger,’ he says, pushing jars and tins to and fro along the shelves. ‘Where the fuck is it?’

‘We don’t need ginger.’

‘I thought you said this jam was for me and I like ginger with goosegogs.’

‘Oh my God – you’re such a whinge-bag sometimes. Here, let me look. And it’s goose
gobs
not goose
gogs
.’

‘Gobs. Gogs. Who cares?’ I find some ground ginger and toss it in; Struan stands over the pot, stirring the jam with a smug smile. ‘Domestic bliss,’ he says.

Struan carries the jam and scones up the stairs on a tray. I strip, tossing my clothes onto the bedroom chair, and we eat and drink tea, sitting up in Struan’s bed.

‘The perfect way to spend my afternoon off, I must say.’

‘Mmm,’ Struan says. ‘And thanks. It was very sweet of you to think of making jam. No one has ever done that for me before.’

‘Hey, you’re welcome. You’re always doing stuff for me, dinners and that, so I thought it would be a change.’

He kisses my shoulder and flicks my nipple with one finger. ‘It’s nice of you.’

‘What can I say? I’m a nice girl.’ I kiss his nose. ‘It’s a while since I made jam. Me and my friend Dónal made it as kids. We’d spend hours collecting blackberries, then his mother would let us loose in her kitchen. Mrs Spain had the patience of ten saints. Unlike Verity.’

‘You make your mother sound awful. Is she really that bad?’

‘Worse.’ I lick jam off my fingers, enjoying its tang. ‘One time me and Dónal smeared blackberry juice all over our faces and crept into my mother’s studio. We shouted “Boo!” and she nearly dropped. She roared at us, nearly killed us – we genuinely scared her. I remember thinking she couldn’t take a joke like a normal person, but she thought we’d burnt our faces or something.’ I slide my fingers up and down along Struan’s arm, feeling the tension of his muscle. ‘She was always angry, my mother.’

‘Dónal? Is that Irish for Donald?’

‘I dunno. Maybe Donald is Scottish for Dónal.’ I put my plate and cup on the bedside locker. ‘Dónal died last New Year’s Eve.’

‘Jesus, I’m sorry. That’s rough. What happened?’

‘Motorbike crash.’

I shift my body and lie on Struan; I pull up his shirt so that my head is on his bare chest.

‘I’ve lost friends along the way. It takes a while to get over,’ he says.

I prop my chin on his breastbone and look up at him. ‘You’re the first person I’ve been with since him.’

‘Were you more than friends then, you and this Dónal?’

I nod. ‘We were, you know, friends mostly but sometimes we…’ I push tears away and Struan holds me.

‘Shush, now, it’s OK. It’s hard to lose someone, especially suddenly like that.’

I wriggle around and lie with my back along Struan’s front. I look at the shoeboxes stacked like coffins along the wall and the shelf opposite the bed that holds a row of Caithness glass. Struan collects paperweights in shades of blue and they are mesmerising when the sun slants through them, as it does now, throwing their colours onto the white wall. My favourite is a deep-blue oval paperweight that seems to suspend the sea in its core; Struan calls it the plumbago egg. Inside it, bubbles of glass rise to the top around golden coral and ferny pink seaweed. To me, it looks like fireworks have gone off underwater.