The Steep Approach to Garbadale (31 page)

Except, no, now he thought about it coldly, the planes went north-west towards Scotland before crossing the Atlantic. They’d flown to New York a couple of years ago, and after the trouble he’d gone to to get the window seat - out-tantrumming Cory, basically, though his trump card had been that she’d sleep most of the way - he’d taken care to keep asking his dad what they could see out of the window every now and again. Scotland, had been the reply a couple of times. They might even be flying over Garbadale right now . . .

Anyway, Haydn had been wrong. They wouldn’t have heard Sophie’s plane taking off. The distant roaring they could hear from the house was made by planes coming in to land.

He closed his eyes and turned his head away, letting the tears come.

He got up reluctantly a little later, feeling old and tired and worn out by it all, like his life was already over. He didn’t really want to move, he wanted to stay here lying on the warm, fragrant grass, listening to the traffic on the road and in the sky and smelling the cool night smells of the great park and mourning his lost love, but he couldn’t stay. They were probably already starting to worry about him, maybe calling for him in the garden, out looking for him even.

He went back to the house, relieved to find no teams with torches searching the garden. Not even anybody at the back door, calling him. He stuck his head round the door of the dining room; laughter and the smell of smoke. Yes, good, no problem. Feeling better? Fine. They hadn’t realised how long he’d been gone.

Upstairs, Haydn was smugly beating a squirming, bleating Fielding at
Super Mario Brothers
.

‘And anyway, what are these classy drugs?’

‘Sorry, Beryl?’

‘On the news. They keep talking about them.’

‘Ah: heroin, cocaine?’ Fielding says, uncertainly. He looks over at Alban, who looks over at Verushka, who narrows her eyes and then smiles.

‘What are what?’ Eudora asks. It is the night before Fielding is due to take Great-Aunt Beryl and Great-Aunt Doris towards Garbadale while Verushka will drive Alban there. A dinner has been arranged, at Rogano, in the city centre. Alban has invited Eudora, Verushka’s mother.

‘And what is it that makes them classy in the first place?’ Beryl asks. ‘Is it just the price?’

‘When I was young,’ Doris announces suddenly, ‘one didn’t have to travel abroad to discover oneself. One was, rather, simply always there.’

‘Drugs, Eudora,’ Verushka tells her mother.

‘Drugs, really?’ Eudora says, her gaze darting around the table as though looking for evidence.

Verushka smiles. ‘I think we’re talking about class A drugs.’

‘Why are we talking about drugs, darling?’ Eudora asks. She’s a tiny, lively old lady - not that old, Fielding supposes; Mathgirl must be about early thirties, so he’d guess her mum would be mid-fifties. She wears a cream suit and dark blouse. Nicely done hair, sort of grey-blonde. You wouldn’t, Fielding thinks, but if you had to, it wouldn’t be so bad. Not like if you had to with somebody the age of Doris or Beryl - that kind of thing doesn’t bear thinking about. Pretty stylish, really, old Eudora. When she walks she moves in a way that seems to have become a lost art.

Actually, maybe you just would anyway.

‘Who’s for pudding?’ Alban asks, as menus are redistributed. Then he leans over to talk quietly to Beryl.

‘I’m not entirely sure,’ Verushka says to her mother.

‘I was thinking of having a cigarette. Do you think this would be all right?’

Verushka looks pained. ‘Oh, Eudora, please don’t.’

‘Oh, I see!’ Beryl says, sitting upright.

‘You had a gap year, didn’t you?’ Doris is saying to Fielding.

‘Building toilet blocks in Mozambique,’ he tells her. ‘Hated it. Only went there because of an old Dylan song.’ Fielding shakes his head. ‘God, that was a mistake. It was rubbish.’

‘So, did I hear that you will be going camping while we’re all up at Win’s?’ Beryl asks Verushka.

‘I shall be camping,’ Verushka says. She’s had a few drinks. Not exactly a bucketful - like Fielding, she’s driving tomorrow - but sufficient to loosen her tongue.

‘I’m sure you could stay at the house if you liked,’ Beryl tells her. This is probably not true, Fielding suspects. Sounded like the place is going to be full up, what with most of the family, some people from Spraint and various lawyers being present.

‘The camping’s not the point,’ Mathgirl tells Beryl. ‘The climbing’s the thing.’

‘Climbing? What, mountains?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And is there a group of you doing this?’

‘I think I shall have the cheese,’ Doris announces. ‘And perhaps a small port.’

‘No,’ Verushka says, ‘just me.’

‘Really? Just you? Isn’t that rather dangerous?’

‘Yes, it is,’ Verushka agrees. ‘Thanks, I’m fine,’ she says, handing the waiter back the menu. She sits back, arms folded. ‘Not really supposed to climb by yourself. In theory three’s the minimum, so if somebody’s injured one stays with the injured party and the other goes for help. But that’s not so important nowadays with mobile phones and tiny wee walkie-talkies and strobe lamps and pocket flares and space blankets and GPS and bivvy bags and so on. You can have an emergency in comfort these days. Still not advised, going by yourself, but not completely irresponsible.’ She sticks a nail between two teeth, digs around and then rinses with water.

‘Darling!’ her mother says, frowning.

Verushka grins at her mum, tips her head briefly in what might be an apology. ‘Anyway, I’m hoping never to see the inside of a rescue helicopter,’ she tells Beryl.

‘Well, I think you’re awfully brave,’ Beryl tells her, ‘climbing up mountains all alone.’

‘Brave or foolhardy,’ Verushka agrees. ‘Depends on one’s definition. Frankly, I’d admit to selfish.’

‘For pudding?’ Doris says, horrified, looking at Verushka.

Beryl touches Doris’s arm lightly. ‘Selfish, dear,’ she says.

‘Oh. I see.’

‘Selfish, dear?’

Verushka shrugs. ‘I don’t like climbing with other people. I prefer to be by myself. And it’s taking a bigger risk because of that. So, selfish. Yes.’ She takes up her water glass again.

‘So, is that why you haven’t married Alban?’ Beryl asks Verushka, who is taking a mouthful of water at the time and comes very close to spitting it back out again.

‘I beg your pardon, Beryl?’ she says, somewhere between a smile and laughter.

‘Well, you know,’ Eudora says, leaning over conspiratorially to Doris, ‘I’ve asked her the same thing myself.’

‘Beryl . . .’ Alban says, sounding like he’s a headmaster addressing a kid. One of those,
Worst of all, you’ve let yourself down
voices. It’s hard to tell with the fairly dim level of lighting back here, but Fielding strongly suspects Alban is blushing. Verushka is looking a little rosy around the cheeks herself.
Wow
, Fielding thinks,
this is fun!

‘Well, you’ve always seemed very sweet on each other,’ Beryl says, sounding perfectly reasonable. ‘I simply wondered.’ She looks round the table. ‘Oh dear, have I said the wrong thing again?’

‘Not in the least, dear,’ Eudora tells her.

‘I’ll have the chocolatey thing and this dessert wine,’ Doris tells the waiter, tapping the menu with the leg of her glasses.

‘Alban,’ Beryl says, putting her clasped hands on the table. ‘Why haven’t you asked this young woman to marry you?’

Alban closes his eyes, puts his elbow on the table and his hand over his eyes, shaking his head once.

Verushka purses her lips and stares at the table.

‘Hmm? What’s that?’ Doris says to the waiter. ‘Different sizes? Oh, well, large, I think, don’t you?’

‘Oh dear, I’m embarrassing my nephew,’ Beryl says. She turns to Verushka. ‘Am I embarrassing you, dear?’

‘I’m pretty hard to embarrass,’ Verushka says. She still looks flushed though.

‘Well, what would you do if he did?’ Beryl asks. Mathgirl has her gaze fixed firmly on Beryl and does not look at Alban. This undoubtedly means something but Fielding is buggered if he knows what.

‘Marriage isn’t something that I’ve ever really contemplated,’ Verushka says. She smiles widely. ‘I’m very happy with my life. It would be hard to improve it.’

‘Yes, but just supposing he did ask you.’

‘What, now?’

‘Yes, I suppose. Now.’

‘I’d ask him why he was asking anybody to marry him when he hadn’t yet resolved his feelings for his cousin Sophie,’ Verushka says, and looks over at Alban, at last, with a small smile.

‘And?’ Beryl pursues.

‘And then I’d listen to what he said in reply,’ Verushka says smoothly.

Alban catches Fielding’s eye. ‘And it was all going so well,’ he sighs.

Fielding shrugs. ‘
C’est la vie
, cuz.’

Doris looks round, seemingly confused. ‘Have we had coffee yet?’

 
Beryl holds Alban’s arm as they make their way to the door and the waiting cabs. They’re bringing up the rear of the party, walking slowly.

‘Did I rather put my foot in it there with all that talk about marriage?’ she asks.

‘It did feel a bit awkward, Beryl,’ Alban admits.

‘Sorry. One gets impatient at my age. Desire to see ends tied up before one pops one’s clogs, sort of thing. But why don’t you ask her?’

‘To marry me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Beryl, I don’t think I want to get married.’

‘Well, just live together. That’s what counts, not the piece of paper.’

‘I don’t know if I want that either. And even if I did, I’m pretty sure it’s not what she wants. You did hear what she said.’

‘I’ve never seen two such clever people be so stupid. But it’s your life.’ She squeezes his arm as they approach the doors. ‘However. Any luck with finding out what was going on with your mother saying what she did to me?’

Alban had got used to old people making these ninety-degree changes in conversational direction. ‘Not a lot of luck,’ he told her. ‘I talked to Andy. He says it wasn’t him.’

‘Never thought it was.’

‘Same here.’

‘He had no ideas who might have disapproved so much?’

‘None. None he was willing to share, anyway.’

‘Oh well.’

‘Well, we’re going to have the whole family in the one place for the weekend. That’ll be the time to ask questions.’

‘Jolly good,’ Beryl says, and pats his arm as they stop at the cloakroom.

Eudora is saying, ‘What a lovely evening!’

‘Well, carry on then,’ Beryl tells Alban. ‘Let me know if I can help.’

 
‘Sorry about that.’

‘Beryl?’

‘The whole marriage thing.’

‘Don’t apologise. You didn’t do anything.’

‘Yes, but they’re my family. I feel I have to.’

They’ve dropped Eudora at her flat in Buccleuch Street and are on their way to Verushka’s. She looks at him for a moment. He’s staring ahead.

She touches his arm. ‘Any more you want to add?’ she asks him.

‘What do you mean?’

She moves over, snuggles up to him, holding his arm with both her hands, her head on his shoulder. ‘You do know how I feel about all this, don’t you?’

‘I think so.’

‘I don’t want children. I don’t want to get married. I may never even want to settle down.’

‘That’s pretty much what I thought.’

The cab stops, jerks forward, the driver mutters a curse under his breath then they move on again.

‘I love being with you.’ She says this quite quietly. ‘I miss you. When you’re away, and the phone rings, always I hope it’s you. Every time. Just in a small way, but always.’

He leans his head over so that it touches hers. He says, ‘I suppose I’ve always treated it like there’s only so much fun you can have with somebody. If you’re with them for decades then it’s spread very thin; watery, diluted and tasteless. But if you only live for a few days every now and again, then it’s all intense and concentrated.’

She shakes her head, runs a hand through his curls. ‘Oh, my poor love,’ she says softly through a sad smile. ‘You do talk the most utter nonsense sometimes.’

He reaches up and puts his fingers round the wrist of the hand that is stroking his head. ‘Do I now?’

She nods thoughtfully. ‘Yes, you do.’ She’s thinking that the action of gripping her wrist like that - gently and lightly, certainly - and stopping her from stroking his head is as aggressive as he ever gets with her. She suddenly realises that she quite happily slaps his arm, punches his shoulder, and even kicks him - albeit softly, pulling the action - in the calf and thigh and backside, and can recall at least once balling her fists and beating him on the naked chest, play fighting . . . And he never even pretends that he is about to respond. He has never raised a hand towards her.

Probably their most violent actions have involved arm wrestling.

Well, and sex, she supposes. But, even there, it is just the conventional lunge and thrust of perfect normalcy; no slapping or clawing, no bites or even love-biting. She’s had her ears re-pierced, nipples bitten so hard she’s cried out - not in a good way - and been left with bruises, scratches and grazes from other lovers, and in every case made clear her objections . . . But with him, nothing. In bed or out, he has always been gentle, thoughtful, sweet and even - in some sense that she has to confess confuses her own notions of masculinity and femininity - accepting.

This will, she decides, need some thinking about. He lets go of her wrist. She puts her palm to his cheek, feeling the warmth of him through his neatly trimmed beard.

The cab bounces over some road repairs. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry, too,’ she tells him.

‘What about?’

‘What I said about you and Sophie. I didn’t need to. I was kind of replying in the same coin and I shouldn’t have. So, apologies.’