Читать книгу Barra’s Angel - Eileen Campbell - Страница 8

Rose picked up her cup. Her tea was stone cold.

‘Tell me again, what did he look like?’

Barra sighed, impatient to get to the rest.

‘He has blond hair, curly, like Roger Daltrey’s, only longer. And blue eyes. Very, very blue, like … I dunno, Mam, just very blue. He’s taller than me, but that’s ’cos he’s older. He’s fifteen. Well, he was … when he died. So he still is … fifteen.’

‘And his name’s Jamie?’

‘Aye, that’s his name all right. And he hasn’t met God yet, ’cos he’s just learning to be an angel. But …’

‘Jamie what?’

The question silenced Barra.

‘He doesn’t have a last name.’

‘Of course he does, Barra. Even if he is … well, he isn’t, but even if he was, he would have had to have a last name.’

Barra cast his mind back to the scene, trying feverishly to remember exactly what he had seen. It had been so real. Very real. But now that his mother was giving him the third degree, he had to admit how far-fetched it sounded. He would have to try harder – to remember. So he could convince Mam.

Jamie hadn’t given him a last name. Barra was sure of it. The stranger had reached out his hand as Barra approached and introduced himself.

‘Hello, Barra. I’m Jamie.’

‘Hello yirself. How y’doing?’

Jamie’s hand was cool. Very cool, considering the warmth of the afternoon. But before Barra had time to absorb this fact, a sudden heat suffused him.

He snatched his hand free. ‘Wow! What was that?’

Jamie had smiled. Just smiled. And the dazzle of it had lit the whole clearing.

Barra was transfixed. ‘How d’you know me?’ he managed at last.

Jamie beckoned him towards the old log and, obediently, Barra sat, all the while trying to take in every detail of this new acquaintance. Jamie was dressed in grey flannels and a white shirt – normal enough. But not even Mam’s Surf could get a shirt that white, and Dad had never had a crease in his trousers as sharp as this one. God, you could slice yir hand open just touching it.

It seemed to Barra that Jamie hadn’t said too much of anything – and yet … Well, he must have said quite a lot, really. He had told him that he was an angel. He definitely said that. He’d been in an accident, a car accident.

‘He didn’t say his last name, Mam. He was in an accident.’

‘An accident to the head?’ Rose asked, her voice edged with sarcasm.

‘Aye. Actually it was. He went through the windscreen. His parents are OK. It was just him … y’know.’

Rose gasped, her eyes clouding.

‘God,’ she breathed. ‘They’re still about then? His parents? Could there be anything worse than that?’

‘Y’see, Mam, he is an angel,’ Barra said, excited anew. At last, Mam was beginning to understand. ‘But listen, Mam. This is the best of it. He came here ’cos he needs me to help him!’

Jamie had been definite about that, too. Barra couldn’t remember all of it. Not every word. You couldn’t be expected to remember every word when you’d just met an angel. But Jamie had explained it. He needed Barra. There was work to be done in Drumdarg. Something pretty major, of course. It would have to be – for an angel to come here. To single him out – Barra Maclean. God, stuff like that didn’t happen every day, not even in his comics. You could hardly imagine it!

‘Imagine it, Mam. He came here for me to help him!’

Rose’s scepticism returned in full measure. ‘Aye, right. Here we all are – just waiting to be of service. And he was wearing grey flannels, this angel? And a white shirt?’

Barra gnawed on his lip. Who knew what angels were supposed to wear, anyway. Why couldn’t they wear grey flannels?

‘Well, at least he’s no’ a tink,’ Rose mused.

He wasn’t that. Whatever Jamie was, he was well brought-up. Barra shook the doubt from his mind. ‘He knew my name, Mam. Without me telling him.’

Rose gazed at her son, her expression softer. ‘He’s in Drumdarg, son. Everyone knows yir name here.’

‘But …’ Barra gritted his teeth. Mam was right. It wasn’t that big a place, Drumdarg. Not the kind of place an angel might choose. And Mam had been warning him about talking to strangers for yonks now.

But Jamie wasn’t a stranger. It was as though they had always known each other. At least, Jamie had known him. And, after they’d talked (well, Jamie must have done most of the talking, because Barra couldn’t remember saying anything. Nothing at all. And wasn’t that the strangest thing?), Jamie had disappeared. He’d been there one minute … and then he was gone. Simple as that.

Barra had sat there, moments stretching before him, waiting … And then, the realisation dawned. Jamie wasn’t coming back. Not then. But he would be back. He’d said they had work to do. He’d show up when he felt like it. Angels could do stuff like that. And Jamie was an angel. Simple as that.

‘Anyway, I’ll be seeing him again, Mam. And when he comes back he’s going to tell me – what it is he wants me to do.’

‘Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare do anything that boy tells you, Barra. D’you hear me?’

‘He’s not a boy. He’s not, Mam. Well, he is really, but he’s an angel as well.’

Rose shook her head. ‘He is not an angel,’ she said, definitely. Definitely – dismissing the possibility.

‘How do you know? I remember, Mam, I remember when I was wee, and you showed me that circle of flowers on the riverbank. You said it was the fairies that made it. You told me that. And I believed you! I believed about the fairies and Santa Claus – and everything, Mam! … Just ’cos you told me.’

Barra’s voice tailed off, close to tears now. Even in the telling, he remembered. He remembered two Christmases – the two after he’d realised it was his father who put the presents at the end of his bed, his mother who lovingly filled his stocking. He’d believed for two years, knowing the truth, just because he’d wanted to.

Rose, too, struggled to keep her tears at bay. Nothing ever touched her more than this, this eternal need to protect her son. The sureness of knowing that sometime, somewhere along the way, she would find herself unable to shield Barra from the pain of growing – growing into a world fraught with betrayal. For the briefest of heartbeats, she wondered what it would be like … to be that sure.

‘That was different, son. You were a child.’ She swallowed. ‘Yir still a child, Barra,’ she murmured, lifting her gaze to his.

The boy’s eyes were feverish, and Rose wondered for a minute if he was coming down with something.

The thought had scarcely entered her mind when she felt her shoulders slacken with relief. Of course. It had been such a sudden change in the weather, and wasn’t it true that the bud of the leaf brought all manner of strange ills? She stood, reaching to touch Barra’s brow.

‘Gerroff!’

Shocked, Rose drew back her hand. ‘Barra?’

Why couldn’t Mam believe him? Why? She’d never doubted him before – not even when the Yaks had tried to blame him for stealing!

‘Mam, there’s nothing wrong with me. Honest to God, there’s not. I’m telling you – there’s an angel called Jamie in the woods. He knew my name and everything, and he can just disappear when he feels like it. And he’s met famous people. Famous dead people. Look, Mam, look! He showed me this.’

Barra jumped from the chair and broke into a tap-dance. ‘Al Jolson showed him how to dance, Mam. And he showed me.’

Rose grabbed him in the middle of a twirl and sat him back on the chair. She could see her knuckles white on his shoulders, but she didn’t care.

‘I don’t know who this “angel” is, but he’s definitely not right in the head – and if you go around telling people about him, they’re going to think the same thing about you.’

Barra’s face turned to stone, his eyes, as green as her own, luminous with defiance.

‘I don’t care what they think.’

Slowly, Rose drew her hands away. Giving them both time to recover, she lifted her cup and emptied her tea down the sink. As if she didn’t have enough on her mind …

Turning, she folded her arms across her chest, and once more sought her son’s gaze.

‘Like I said, Barra, everyone knows yir name, and there are hundreds of trees up there he could have disappeared behind – you’d’ve only had to take yir eyes off him for a moment. And just because he could do a couple of tap steps doesn’t mean he met Al Jolson.’

‘Think what you like, Mam. I know he’s an angel.’ And Barra did know. It didn’t matter what Mam thought. For the first time in his life, it didn’t matter.

Silently, Rose counted to ten – and back. As patiently as she could, she began again. ‘I’d have said he might be one o’ the boys from the shows, but they’re not due for another month yet. And they wouldn’t be that well dressed.’ She tried a smile. ‘Honest, Barra, can you see an angel wearing a white shirt and grey flannels?’

‘I can’t help what he was wearing.’ There was a new tone in Barra’s voice, a tone which sounded dangerously close to insolence.

Rose felt her temper snap. Her heart had borne its share of emotions over the years, but anger had never been one of them. Until the party.

That night, the night of her fortieth, Rose had found anger. She didn’t want it. If it was some sort of mad gift, she wished she could give it back. But it was here, it was here in her home, and in her heart. And even as she fought against it, she acknowledged it, welcomed it.

‘I warned you, Barra. Warned you – and warned you.’ Her voice was rising, strident even in her own ears. ‘But you wouldn’t listen. You’re as thrawn as your father, and I wouldn’t care if you both walked off into the bloody woods tomorrow – and never came out!’

Her fury found its target. Barra tucked his legs beneath him, seeming to gather the circumference of the table in his arms before bringing his head to rest in their cradle.

‘You don’t mean that, Mam.’ His voice was muffled, and Rose knew that he was close to tears.

She pulled out the chair opposite and sat, her hand reaching to stroke her son’s crown. Never, never before had she wounded him like that.

‘Oh, Barra, I’m so sorry, son.’ She swallowed, trying to get past the knot in her throat. ‘It’s not that I don’t believe you …’

‘But you don’t.’

She sighed. ‘Let’s just keep it to ourselves for now,’ she pleaded. ‘The boy’s probably staying around here somewhere. I’ll ask Olive. She’ll know, if anyone does. Please … Promise me you’ll no’ go round talking about angels until I can find out who this Jamie is.’

Barra sniffed.

‘Please, son. Promise me, Barra.’

Barra raised his head, and shrugged wanly. ‘OK. But you’re wrong, Mam.’

‘And, Barra, not a word to yir father. Not yet.’

‘I wouldn’t, anyway. He wouldn’t believe me.’ With that, he climbed from the chair and headed for the stairs.

Rose rubbed her forehead. She would give this Jamie a piece of her mind when she found him – if she found him. Barra’s imagination had led her on more than one wild-goose chase before now, but then, how could she blame him? He’d had the childhood she had wanted for him, the childhood she had missed so badly herself. And if he was more naive, more … gentle than other boys his age, so what?

In her heart, Rose wanted to keep her son just the way he was, to prevent him from adopting the rough, tough, swaggering arrogance of his peers. And yet, as she reached to refill the kettle, she wondered if she’d been wrong to protect him so fiercely from the world. For wasn’t it these same attributes which had first attracted her to Chalmers – that same ‘manliness’ (there was no other word for it) which attracted most women, and especially the Sheena Mearnses of this world?

Footsteps sounded on the path. Chalmers had been talking about building a garage ever since they’d moved here, but the old Morris van was still parked at the kerb. Rose usually heard its approach, but not tonight. Tonight she’d been distracted by angels, for God’s sake!

‘’Lo,’ Chalmers said, opening the back door and leaning on the handle while he cleaned off his workboots on the mat.

‘Hello yourself,’ Rose answered.

‘What’s wrong with your face?’

Rose knew her husband’s day had gone little better than her own. No sense making things worse. ‘Nothing, Chalmers. It’s just … nothing.’

‘Supper long?’ Chalmers removed his newspaper from his pocket and hung his jacket on the knob of the kitchen door, frowning absent-mindedly at the state of his scarf.

Rose gritted her teeth. Just once, just once could he take the bother to hang it in the hall.

‘I’m just boiling the tatties,’ she answered, placing the pan on the ring. ‘The stew’s ready.’

‘Pudding?’

‘Apple crumble and custard.’

Content with the answer, Chalmers sat down and spread his paper. He glanced around as though missing something, and Rose slid a battered ashtray across to him. Chalmers nodded his thanks and reached in his shirt pocket.

‘Hell’s bells!’ He threw a crumpled pack of Gold Leaf and a box of matches on the table.

‘They’ll be in the van,’ Rose offered, knowing her husband’s habit of mislaying his reading glasses – glasses which, at the ripe old age of forty-one, he detested having to wear at all.

Chalmers yanked open the back door, disturbing Socks the cat who had chosen the top step for a late afternoon nap. Socks, never pleased to see Chalmers under the best of circumstances, reacted by striking at his ankle with a hefty paw adorned by a ferocious set of claws.

Chalmers kicked out, yelling, but Socks was already at the end of the path, stopping to lick the offending paw as though wanting to be rid of the taste. He paused in his grooming and sat flicking his fat tail, all the while regarding Chalmers with utter contempt.

‘I’ll swing for that bastarding cat!’ Chalmers promised as he stomped off back to the van.

Rose opened the press and grabbed the carpet sweeper, running it back and forth under the table where Chalmers’ boots had left the last of their dusty deposit on the rug. Socks had decided to return to the house, and swung himself across the doorway, avoiding the sweeper with the same disdain he more usually reserved for Chalmers.

‘Shoo, Socks! Shoo!’ Rose whispered, hoping the cat would be out of sight before her husband returned. Socks ignored her, sashaying into the hallway and on upstairs to join his master.

Two years before, Barra had found the kitten sniffing about the rubbish bins at the back of the Whig and had brought him home. Rose, unhappy at having an animal in the house, had tried everything to find its owner. But nobody had wanted the stray and, after a week of placing futile ads in the local paper and the shop window, Rose had reluctantly agreed that the cat could stay.

‘We’ll call him Socrates,’ Barra had insisted. ‘You can see how wise he is.’

‘Son, I’m not going to be standing on the doorstep calling “Socrates” every time he needs fed. People’ll think I’m a headcase!’

A compromise was finally reached, and the cat soon learned to answer to Socks. Chalmers, who had no initial objection to keeping the cat, became destined to endure the animal’s unremitting antipathy, for no reason that he could fathom. At first aggrieved by the cat’s attitude, he quickly – and painfully – became aware that Socks would employ any opportunity to sink his claws into Chalmers’ flesh. It didn’t take long at all before he came to detest the very sight of the animal.

Rose could hear Chalmers on his way back. She replaced the carpet sweeper in the press, sighing to herself. Lately it seemed that all her energies had been spent in keeping Barra and Socks as far away from her husband as possible.

And now she could add Sheena Mearns to the list!

Halfway through supper Chalmers’ patience snapped.

‘For God’s sake, son, can you no’ keep still at the table?’ he blared, irritated beyond measure at Barra’s restlessness.

Eating was a serious business for Chalmers. Friday or not, he had a full day’s work in front of him tomorrow and he’d eaten precious little all day today. Rose usually had his piece ready for him each morning before he left, but today he’d insisted he’d be done at the Wilsons’ by lunch, and would have time to nip home for a bite to eat before setting off to examine the old croft at Dunfearn.

The new owners had telephoned from Surrey to ask for an estimate to rewire the croft, and Chalmers knew that they’d probably call a couple of the big boys in Craigourie to compare his quote. He was therefore anxious to get his price in early, in the hope of convincing them that the sooner he could get started, the sooner they could enjoy their holiday home.

It wasn’t to be.

He had been held up at the Wilsons’ by the painter, who’d been held up by the carpenter, who’d been held up by the plasterer. Around eleven o’clock, the painter, the carpenter and the plasterer agreed it would be best if they discussed a workable timetable over a couple of pints.

Chalmers, fuming at this further delay, had thrown his pliers to the floor in disgust. All three seemed surprised, and somewhat disappointed, at this unwarranted show of bad temper.

‘Yir being a wee bittie too anxious, if you ask me,’ the painter informed him. ‘Too anxious altogether,’ agreed the carpenter. ‘It’ll all be here tomorrow,’ the plasterer added, ambling off behind his comrades towards the nearest pub. They did, however, bring him back a can of McEwan’s and a cold pie in recompense, at which point Chalmers had telephoned Rose to tell her he wouldn’t be home for lunch after all.

It took the rest of the day to do what should have been accomplished in a couple of hours, and Chalmers still hadn’t got to Dunfearn. Allowing for the half-hour drive there and back, it would be too close to dusk tonight to survey the croft. He’d just have to set off in the morning, before returning to the Wilsons’ to finish up there.

If Barra would settle himself, he might, he just might, manage to avoid a night of indigestion.

‘What’s got you going now, Barra?’ he asked rhetorically, hoping that, rather than having to contend with an answer, he might convey the extent of his displeasure at Barra’s fidgeting. If Rose wasn’t watching him the way she was – never looking at him, mind you, but watching him just the same – he’d tell the boy either to eat up or leave the table.

Well, things were strained enough lately. If she had any idea of the kind of day he’d had, maybe she’d spring to his defence for a change. But no! Barra – it was always Barra!

‘I got some new stamps today. From Mauritius,’ Barra answered.

Chalmers peered at him. Surely the addition of a few stamps to an already overflowing collection wouldn’t cause this degree of agitation. He shook his head. He’d never understand his son. God knows he loved him. He truly did. But Barra wasn’t in the real world at all half the time.

‘Mauritius?’

‘Aye, Da. They’re gorgeous.’

‘I’m sure,’ Chalmers answered. ‘Now if yir not going to eat your pudding, pass it here.’

‘I am,’ Barra replied. ‘It’s great. It’s great, Mam,’ he assured Rose. She smiled, glad to see that her son’s natural enthusiasm had returned.

Chalmers continued eating. He didn’t want to discuss stamp-collecting. He had never forgotten his own humiliation at Barra’s innocent mirth when he’d asked where ‘Par Avion’ was. Well, he’d seen the blue stickers in the Post Office. It had been easy to mistake them for stamps.

To make matters worse, he had his own father to blame for Barra’s hobby. Shawnie Maclean, a retired postman, had been instrumental in spawning Barra’s interest in stamp-collecting. He and Barra could spend hour upon hour in rapturous attention to the flora, fauna and great peoples of a world yet to be explored – a world which Shawnie often talked of visiting, though he knew he never would.

He and his wife Ola lived in a small cottage on the shoreline of Kyle, a cottage too small to keep their only grandson out of sight – or mind – and the hours spent asleep at their home were hours Barra sorely grudged.

His first blink of daylight was inevitably accompanied by the roar of the ocean and the wheeling, screaming cry of the seabirds, his days filled with adventure and happenings, and his evenings brought gently to a close with fireside tales of myth and legend.

It was a magical place, and Chalmers could understand why Barra loved every minute spent there. What he could not understand was Barra’s total lack of interest in football, or snooker, or any other pursuit more natural for a boy his age than stamp-collecting, for God’s sake.

‘The Cunninghams are coming up,’ Barra ventured.

Chalmers straightened. ‘Are they now?’

‘Aye. Murdo says they are.’

‘D’you know when?’

Barra shrugged. ‘Next week, I think.’

‘Find out, Rose,’ Chalmers instructed. ‘If I could get a word wi’ Stewart, I think I could convince him to get the big house rewired. It’s been needing it for years now.’

‘What about Dunfearn?’

‘Aye, well, I’m going there in the morning. But if I could get them both, it’d be the icing on the cake. The big house would be a job ‘n’ a half, and I’d have no bother getting my money from Stewart Cunningham. Might even take on an apprentice.’

‘Oh, God, Chalmers, what would be the point of taking on an apprentice, when you’d just have to pay him off again?’

‘Thanks for that vote of confidence, Rose,’ Chalmers shot back. ‘Can’t you see I’m working every hour that’s in it? Wouldn’t you like me at home a bit more?’

‘Aye. If it’s home you’d want to be!’

A tense moment followed.

Barra rushed to fill the silence. ‘Isla’s coming back too,’ he offered.

Rose shot him a grateful glance. Even Chalmers forced a smile.

‘That’s the reason for the excitement, then?’

‘Course not,’ Barra answered, grinning and blushing at the same time.

‘Aye it is. That barefoot dame on the telly’ll be taking a back seat now.’

‘Och, Dad! It’s Sandie Shaw. You know her name.’

Chalmers licked the last of the apple crumble from his spoon and sat back. His smile was genuine now. ‘I know, son. Still, Isla Gillespie would put any o’ thon pop stars to shame. She’s a bonny lassie, right enough.’

Rose stood and began clearing the plates.

‘I’m surprised you had the time to notice, what with all the work you’ve got on your plate. Finished?’ The bowl was whisked from Chalmers’ grasp, finished or not.

Chalmers glared at his wife’s back. ‘Thank you, yes.’

He lit a cigarette, hoping for the moment to pass. Rose busied herself filling the sink and stacking the dishes. Barra rose to help, pulling the dish-towel from under the sink, and knocking over the pedal-bin-in the process.

‘Leave it! Just leave it, Barra,’ Rose said, bending to clear the mess.

‘Sorry, Mam.’

‘It’s all right. I’ll get this. D’you have homework?’

‘It’s the holidays, Mam!’

‘So it is. Right then. Well, you can go through and watch the telly.’

‘Can I go out?’

Rose stopped, her heart clattering. ‘Where? Out where?’

‘Just … out the back. I could sort my stamps. You can call me when Ready, Steady, Go comes on.’

‘Just out the back, then. Where I can see you.’

Barra ran upstairs for his stamp collection.

Chalmers stubbed out his cigarette. Even with her back to him, Rose knew he was taking some kind of perverse pleasure from rattling the lopsided old ashtray against the table-top. ‘He’s a bit old to be watched every minute, Rose.’

Rose whirled. ‘Really? You’ve forgotten what we went through with him, Chalmers? Or have you too many other things on your mind to remember he needs watching!’

She wanted an argument, a chance to get something, anything out in the open. But this particular argument was too well-worn to elicit much of a response in her husband.

‘There’s not a thing wrong with him, Rose. The operation cured the heart murmur; and he’s been fine for years now. He’s as healthy as the next one, and he’d be a damn sight better off if you’d give him a bit o’ slack once in a while.’

Rose closed the pedal-bin and turned back to the dishes. Angrily, she wiped the sudden tears from her eyes with the back of her sleeve. There had been a few sudden tears lately, and she hated them, felt betrayed and weakened by them.

‘He’s still so … impressionable,’ she insisted, her voice little more than a whisper.

‘He’s got to grow up some time,’ Chalmers said, his own voice gentle now. ‘Let him be.’

Rose sniffed again, content to let it be. ‘It’s Dunfearn tomorrow then?’

‘Aye. You’ll be going to the town?’

Rose nodded, her back still to him. ‘Mm-hmm. I’m changing my library books. D’you want anything?’

Chalmers busied himself lighting another cigarette, and Rose could hear him shuffling in his chair. What had she said now? For a second, no more, she puzzled over it. Then it hit her, and her mouth curled.

Rose borrowed her books from Boots in Craigourie, and Sheena worked at the No. 7 counter there. Had Chalmers reacted so quickly, knowing that? Or was her imagination becoming as overworked as her son’s?

‘No. There’s nothing I want in the town,’ Chalmers replied.

‘You’re needing shaving soap.’

‘That, maybe.’

Barra reappeared, clutching a thick green album and the Cadbury’s biscuit tin which contained his mounts and his newer acquisitions. ‘D’you want to see my Mauritius stamps?’ he asked, laying the tin on the table.

Chalmers rubbed his thumb across the lid of the old tin. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you come with me to Dunfearn in the morning? For the run.’

Barra glanced down. ‘Well, I thought I’d … just be here tomorrow. Just … be about here.’

‘Fine,’ Chalmers said. He scraped his chair across the lino and marched into the living room, already reaching to turn on the television set.

As he switched the dial between channels, Barra looked up at his mother. ‘Did I make Da mad?’ he asked.

‘No, Barra, you didn’t make yir father mad. He’s just in a bad mood,’ Rose replied tightly, making sure Chalmers heard.

She heard Chalmers sigh heavily as he settled into his armchair. That was another thing! Chalmers had insisted on buying the black vinyl suite as soon as he’d seen it in Dawson’s window, and had stubbornly refused to admit that it was nowhere near as comfortable as the moquette. Well, he’d bought it. Now he could put up with it.

Rose bit her lip, pained at her own mean-spiritedness. She couldn’t deny how hard Chalmers worked to provide them all with a nice home, a home she was proud of. God, if she could just settle herself, get things back to normal.

Barra was hanging on the doorknob, unsure whether to go or stay.

‘You’d be better off going with him tomorrow than hanging about the woods all day – waiting for some angel to appear,’ she said, her voice low.

Barra held the back door open. He reached for her sleeve, drawing her closer. ‘He’ll be there, Mam,’ he whispered back. ‘He will.’