Читать книгу Barra’s Angel - Eileen Campbell - Страница 9

Murdo Macrae had risen at five-thirty for as long as he could remember, and the first hour of the day had always been his own time; a time to ease himself into the needs of the day, and to enjoy a mug or two of strong tea and the first fill of his pipe. Even Gallus, without ever having being told, understood this.

Murdo had raised several dogs over the years, but none had had the quick high spirits of the Westie. And though Gallus was on the go from dawn to dusk, not even he disturbed this, the most precious hour of the day.

Right now the terrier was lying under the kitchen table, quivering with unease.

‘D’you have to do that just now?’ Murdo sighed.

Helen, in a candlewick dressing-gown, her hair plastered to her head under an ancient hairnet, was yanking the heart from a cabbage with a knife which might well have been the envy of her ancestors.

‘I need to get the soup on,’ she answered.

‘It’s ten past six in the morning, Helen.’

‘I can read the time, thank you. Some of us did have an education, y’know.’

‘Will this soup be ready for the breakfast, then? Or am I too ignorant in believing that it doesna’ take six hours for a cabbage to cook?’

Whack!

Murdo needed to go to the bathroom. His bowels, like the rest of him, were used to a certain routine, a routine that did not include his wife’s presence at this time of the day.

He rose.

‘Where d’you think you’re off to?’

‘The bathroom, if you don’t mind.’

‘Open the window, then. And don’t go mad wi’ the toilet roll.’

The moment had passed. Murdo sat down, dejected.

That’ll be my piles back,’ he murmured. The inference was clear. Helen would be responsible for the inevitable onset of this adversity.

‘Don’t go blaming yir piles on me! Blame herself if you want someone to blame. Stravaiging about the place giving me orders!’

‘Wha …?’

‘Her wi’ the Alice band!’

‘Who?’

‘Madam Cunningham to you and me. Thinks she’s the lady o’ the manor when she’s here.’ The cabbage was scooped into a large earthenware bowl to await further torture. ‘Well,’ Helen continued, waving the knife dangerously close to her husband’s beard, ‘I had enough of that last time round. She’s no’ even close to being a lady. Not like Alfie. Not a bit like Alfie!’

Murdo relit his pipe. It tasted sour, and there was no sign of another mug of tea. He had liked Alfreda Cunningham a lot, admired her even. But how on earth his wife could consider Alfreda a lady when the wild besom had met her end in a backstreet brawl in some dive in Marseilles (accompanied by a twenty-year-old waiter she had picked up in Monte Carlo, no less) was beyond him.

Alfreda Cunningham had been the only woman he’d ever known who had smoked Havana cigars, the bigger the better. And that was the way she had lived. Everything had had to be bigger and better, including presumably the young waiter. Murdo embarrassed himself with the thought, and reached down to calm his dog.

Well, Alfie was gone. Forty years old, and this big old empty house was all she had left behind her. This house – and her son, Stewart Cunningham, as different from his mother as night from day.

For a moment, Murdo cast his mind back to the years of half-terms and holidays when the bairn had walked by his side, hanging on Murdo’s every word as the ways of the countryside were gently and carefully explained to him, learning to love and respect the cruelly beautiful land of his birth.

Stewart the boy had filled an empty, lonely corner of Murdo’s heart, but it had been Stewart the man who set off to gouge out a living in that foreign, heartless, concrete city – London. Murdo knew he had no right to the hurt he’d felt then, and he’d buried it a long time ago.

‘They’ll only be here for a couple of days, Helen. They’ll be back down south for Easter.’

‘He’s going to sell this place out from under us, Murdo,’ Helen warned, pulling off the hairnet to expose her still vibrant brown hair, hardly touched by the silver that had long since claimed Murdo’s own.

He rose again, and gathered her in his beefy arms. ‘No, he’s no’ going to be doing that,’ he soothed. ‘Dinna fash yirself wi’ wild imaginings, Helen. We’ve a home here – as long as we want it. Stewart wouldna’ do less.’

‘There’s something behind it, Murdo. I can feel it in my bones.’

‘Bonny bones they are, too.’ Murdo smiled, lifting his wife’s chin. ‘Educated bones.’

His teasing had the desired effect. Helen relaxed against him, a forlorn smile lifting the corners of her mouth. ‘Yir an awful man,’ she sighed, pulling gently away from him. ‘But it’s no’ Stewart I’m worried about. It’s her. She’s got far more influence on him than us.’

‘Hmm, maybe … At any rate, I’m no’ going to stand still for a change o’ residence at our age. OK now?’

Murdo reached for the kettle, and filled it under the splashing of the old taps. ‘If there is anything behind it, it wouldna’ surprise me if he’s going to sort out something wi’ the fishing rights. That river’s a wee goldmine, and there’s many a one around here who’s making a bob or two hiring out a stretch of it to the tourists.’

‘Well, if that’s the idea, he needna’ think I’m getting tartanned up to put on a show for a bunch o’ foreigners!’ Helen’s temper flared once more.

Murdo gave up on his tea. ‘I’ll be in the vegetable plot if you want me,’ he murmured. Gallus had anticipated the move, and was already scraping at the back door.

Thank God for dumb animals, Murdo reflected, pulling on his wellies. A minute later, the pair set out together into the misty haze of the April morning.

‘It’s going to be a fine day,’ Murdo informed Gallus, his natural good humour restored.

Gallus looked up at his master. ‘I suppose you already knew that, though,’ Murdo said, tickling the dog’s rump with his walking stick.

Gallus barked. Of course he knew it.

Hattie finished making her bed, pulling the quilt over the blankets and smoothing its faded roses with the palms of her hands. She gathered the pitcher and glass from her bedside table, and carried it into the kitchen-cum-living room which made up the other half of the cottage. Only then did she walk back to the bedroom and switch off the light.

While Hattie had sat in the chilling dampness of her tiny prison cell, Alfreda had had the old scullery converted into a toilet, demolishing the outside shed which had served that purpose for so many years past. A new sink and stove took pride of place in a corner of the living room, but even they paled against the most precious gift of all.

Hattie had been welcomed home to the wonder of electricity. From that day onwards, she had never had to suffer the darkness again.

She ran her hand around the circumference of the metal fixture before flicking up the switch. ‘God bless, Mrs Cunningham,’ she said, as she did every morning – and every night.

A cheerful rat-a-tat brought Jennifer to the front door. She could see the pale blue reflection of Graham’s Triumph through the glass panel at the end of the hall, and threw the door wide in welcome.

‘You’re early on the go.’ She smiled, tucking a golden wisp of curl behind her ear.

Graham glanced at his watch. ‘Ten’s too early?’ he asked, his kind features wary.

‘No, of course not, Graham. You’re welcome any time. Come on in, we’re having breakfast.’

Jennifer led him into the kitchen, and motioned to a chair. ‘Coffee?’

Graham nodded, bending to squeeze Jim’s shoulder. He fought an instinctive shudder as he felt the sharpness of bone beneath his hand.

‘How’s it going, pardner?’

Jim stirred his porridge half-heartedly. ‘It’s going,’ he answered. ‘I’d be happier if I could get something decent to eat inside me, though.’

Jennifer poured a fresh coffee from the percolator, an acquisition which had brought them such delight in happier times.

‘God, what’re you complaining about?’ Graham asked, rummaging in a battered briefcase. ‘Wish I had someone to serve me a good bowl o’ porridge once in a while.’

‘Once in a while would be enough for you,’ Jennifer chided, setting his coffee before him and sitting down. She smiled to take the sting from her words, and Graham’s heart lurched at the desolation in her eyes.

‘Well, no doubt there’s a woman out there ready to make an honest man out o’ me. I’ll bide my time, though. No sense in rushing.’ Graham resolved to keep his tone light. He could hardly bear it otherwise.

‘Are we talking about the same man?’ Jennifer smiled. Graham Kerr was the most un-typical accountant she had ever met. Rarely still for a moment, he had proved the perfect foil for Jim’s steadfast, slower approach. Between them they had built a thriving, successful business, and now Graham was having to take the full brunt of its demands on his own wide shoulders.

‘Indeed we are talking about the same man,’ he answered, his eyes crinkling as a ready smile spread itself across his features. ‘You’d be proud of me these days,’ he assured Jim, patting his friend’s hand. ‘I’m at my desk for hours at a time! I’ve given up all this rushing about as though there’s no tomorr …’ His voice tailed off as he caught Jennifer’s wide-eyed alarm at his thoughtless use of the expression.

‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry, Jim. Jen …’

Jim shook his head. ‘Away with you now,’ he said. ‘God, it’s getting so no-one’s comfortable saying ANYTHING around me any more.’ He threw down his spoon. ‘I’m sick of it!’

‘Jim!’ Jennifer reached for his hand, but he pulled roughly from her. She reached for her coffee mug, looking down and away from them both.

With difficulty Jim rose, tightening the cord on his dressing-gown. Graham held his breath as he watched his friend stumble towards the kitchen window. He knew better than to offer his help. Finally, leaning on the counter-top for support, Jim spoke again.

‘It’s a fine morning,’ he said, his voice trembling with the effort of the movement.

‘It is,’ Graham agreed, forcing a cheerfulness back into his tone, a cheerfulness he no longer felt. He would never get used to this, never get used to seeing Jim wither in front of him; wither and die.

Last week, in a quiet hour while Jim slept, Jennifer had confided in him that she’d be glad when it was over. He had wanted to censure her for her honesty, but in his heart of hearts he too had wished it over. And in that moment, he had died a little himself.

‘And I’ve got just the news to make the morning even finer,’ he breezed on, determined to try – for all of their sakes. He shot a smile of shared sympathy at Jennifer. She caught it and nodded slightly, grateful for the gesture.

‘Well,’ Jim said, reaching for his wife’s arm, ‘don’t keep us waiting.’

Jennifer stood and helped her husband back into his chair, wrapping the blanket he had thrown from his shoulders around him. He tugged it away once more, and she sat, refusing to acknowledge this small rebellion.

Graham cleared a space on the white Formica top and pulled out a manila file. ‘You know that Atkinsons have been scouting around the area? Well, yesterday their “man about town” dropped by the office, Jim. They’ve clients in London who’ve been buying up property all over the place. They’re set on having a chain of bistros from Land’s End to John O’Groats.’

‘Bistros, no less!’ Jennifer interjected, smiling at the thought.

‘Don’t laugh, Jen,’ Graham said. ‘If they’ve come this far north, they’re not playing at it. Anyway, Jack Buchanan – that’s the bloke from Atkinsons - was telling me that they’re chock-a-block in the Glasgow office, and he was wondering if we’d like a crack at handling the account. He more or less let me know we could charge double our normal fees and, as long as we handled the first one right, they’d use us as their base in the Highlands. We could have accounts as far as Inverness. They’re not intending to let the grass grow under their feet, that’s for sure! What d’you think?’

Jim looked thoughtful. ‘What property do they have in mind?’

‘Wait, OK? Just wait a minute when I tell you - before you jump down my throat.’

Jim’s eyes were wary, but he nodded.

‘The Whig,’ Graham breathed, turning sideways to face his partner, crossing his long legs in front of him.

‘You’ve got to be joking,’ Jim protested, his voice unsteady still. ‘Maisie’ll never sell the Whig. It’s her life.’

Jennifer, too, was shaking her head at the idea. ‘I can’t see it, Graham,’ she said. ‘Not the Whig.’

‘Well, dear friends and colleague,’ Graham continued, smiling mischievously at them both, ‘Mr Buchanan is one step ahead of us there. It seems he’s had a word in Maisie’s ear already, and she’s definitely considering it. Definitely!’ he added, wagging a finger in emphasis.

‘We-ell …’ Jim exhaled, slowly. ‘That’s a turnup for the books.’

‘A very lucrative turn-up,’ Graham reminded him. ‘And it’s just the beginning. They’re planning six more over the next eighteen months. They could become a major client, Jim, and Atkinsons would be happy to stay on the sidelines. No interference from them, as long as we’re diligent.’

‘No interference from me either,’ Jim said, smiling ruefully.

‘Come on, Jim,’ Graham pleaded. ‘Don’t talk like that. There’s always hope.’ He wished desperately that it were so.

‘There’s no hope,’ Jim said, very quietly, very definitely. ‘I thought we were all agreed on that.’ He paused briefly. ‘Now, what d’you need from me?’ he asked.

Graham shook his head, lost for words. ‘Just … Just that you’re happy with pursuing it. The account.’

Jim reached out, clasping Graham’s arm with one hand and Jennifer’s with the other. ‘Look at me,’ he demanded. Two sets of eyes met his own. ‘All I want is for you to keep going, Graham. Keep rushing, and running, and busy, and alive! Don’t get so bogged down with accounts you forget what it’s like to be alive.’

Jim paused, gathering his breath. ‘And take care of my Jenny …’ he added, stroking her arm, his own eyes filled with an inestimable sadness.

Graham swallowed, hard. ‘You know I will.’

Jim eased back from them both. ‘Good.’ He smiled, though it lasted but a second. ‘What’s the next step?’

Jennifer was trembling slightly. Graham knew it wasn’t fear, for she’d long since faced her fear. Fatigue, then. At ten-thirty on a bright spring morning, he finally began to understand the depth of her fatigue. And, as he shuffled the unopened file back into his briefcase, he realised that he couldn’t wait to get out of here, out into the sunshine, and away from them both. Out, out, out!

‘I’ll … uh. I’ll call in on Maisie, see what she has to say about it,’ he stammered.

‘Be careful,’ Jim warned. ‘She was talking about changing her accountant not so long ago; saying she wouldn’t mind giving us a shot at doing her books. Don’t go getting involved in a conflict of interests, Graham.’

Graham stood. His eyes creased with genuine mirth as he leaned towards his friend.

‘A conflict of interests? In Drumdarg?’

They all laughed. It was too daft for words.

‘We’ll get the one o’clock bus from the Whig,’ Rose said, avoiding her son’s gaze.

‘I don’t know why I have to come to the town with you,’ Barra grumbled. ‘And if we see anyone from school, I’m walking off.’

‘Don’t give me a hard time, Barra. How d’you think I could concentrate on my messages, with you wandering about the woods looking for some headcase of a boy pretending to be an angel?’

‘He is an angel,’ Barra insisted.

‘He is not!’ Rose thumped her string bag with the two library books on the table, making Barra jump.

‘Come on, son,’ she said, her voice quieter. ‘You’ve earned your pocket money. We could enjoy the afternoon together. I hardly get any time with you any more.’

‘It’s not that, Mam. Honest, it’s not.’ Barra’s brow furrowed. ‘It’s just … it’s cissy going up the town with yir mother.’

‘You don’t have to stay right beside me,’ Rose wheedled. ‘We can meet up after I’ve done the messages. Go to Bremner’s, maybe.’

Not even the thought of Bremner’s fresh cream cakes could interest Barra.

‘I’d rather stay.’

Rose drew a deep breath. ‘Barra, you’ve had all night to think about this, and all morning too. Surely you can see how ridiculous the whole thing is?’

‘But that’s just it, Mam,’ Barra argued. ‘The more I think about it, the … the realer it is! He has to be an angel. He just has to be.’

Barra pulled himself up on the draining-board, something he seldom did in Chalmers’ presence, his legs swinging wildly with the thrill of his conviction.

‘And he said we have things to take care of. Me and him, Mam. The pair of us!’

Rose grabbed his knees, halting Barra’s movement. Never in her life had she been tempted to raise her hand to her son, but she really felt like clattering him now.

‘People don’t see angels, Barra, far less talk to them.’

‘Catholics do. They see them all the time.’

‘Catholics are … they’re … they’re brainwashed,’ Rose said, exasperated beyond measure.

‘The Yaks aren’t brainwashed. They brainwash everyone else,’ Barra answered, his eyes glowing with determination.

Rose glanced at her watch. ‘We’re going to miss the bus if you don’t hurry.’

‘Mam …’

‘No, Barra. I’m sorry, but no.’ Rose reached behind her son to pick up the old shaving mirror, and turned to retrieve her lipstick from her handbag. She painted on another coat of ‘Pink Frost’ and checked her eyeliner. No way Sheena Mearns was going to see her looking less than her best. Then she fished for a hairpin, pulling it through her fringe to separate each lacquered strand. Finally, Rose checked for spaces in her backcombing and, satisfied, turned to replace the mirror.

Barra hadn’t moved.

Rose picked up her books and her handbag, and reached for the door handle. ‘Go ’n’ get yir blazer and comb yir hair.’

Barra slid to the floor and trundled through to the hall. He reappeared, shrugging into the jacket with one arm and using his free hand to press down his wiry curls.

Rose sighed again.

‘Can I get a cream hornet at Bremner’s then?’ he asked, appearing quite broken-hearted at the prospect.

In spite of herself, Rose smiled. ‘If you want. Now hurry up!’

They walked in companionable silence down the road and around the corner to the Whig. As they approached, Rose spoke again.

‘Watch at the stop. Call me if you see the bus.’

‘Don’t say too much to Olive, Mam,’ Barra implored. ‘She’s no’ the type to believe in angels.’

Rose disappeared into the shop.

Barra raked the woods with his eyes, but there was little movement. Trees stirred here and there as birds flew among their branches, an almost soundless rustling in the warm, sweet stillness of the afternoon.

As he watched, Barra became aware of the swell of birdsong and he closed his eyes, lifting his face to the melody. The glory of it filled him, and he took a long, deep breath, inhaling the sound of it deep into his being.

He was standing like that as Rose stepped back out into the sunshine. She stopped in her tracks, and somewhere inside her a new fear took root. God, she thought, look at him there, his hair shining and that smile on him. If ever a boy was touched by the angels … Please don’t take him now, God. Don’t take him from me now.

She shook her head violently. You’re as daft as he is, Rose Maclean, she told herself. But her own heart had gone somewhere else for a little while, and she felt a sudden chill in the April air.

‘Barra!’

He opened his eyes, smiling still.

‘Olive says there’s no strangers around that she knows of,’ Rose informed him, as matter-of-factly as she knew how. She walked past him and gazed up the road. The bus took shape in a distant flurry of dust. ‘But there’s been a few stramashes at the snooker club in town, and she wouldn’t be surprised if one o’ that troublemaking crew had found his way out here.’

The bus pulled to a stop in front of them, and Barra held her elbow as she stepped up on the platform. They sat together on the long seat by the door. ‘So you be careful, all right?’ Rose finished. ‘Just be careful.’

Barra appeared not to have heard her. He leaned forward. ‘How’s yir lambs getting along?’ he enquired of the elderly gentleman sitting opposite them.

‘They’re grand, Barra,’ the man answered. ‘Getting as fat as pigs, they are.’ A toothless cackle followed, and Barra crossed the aisle to sit by the man and discuss the progress of his flock.

Rose watched them, wondering anew. She had never seen the man before in her life.