And the Land Lay Still (90 page)

It was a secular ceremony. Angus had always considered religion to be utter nonsense. An appreciation was given by a distinguished journalist colleague from his London days, now resident in Edinburgh. For this Mike was very grateful: difficult as he finds such a task even now, it would have been all but impossible then. Or so it seems to him.

Afterwards, Isobel and Mike stood at the chapel exit and received everybody’s condolences. Since he’d moved to Perth he and his mother had been more communicative, and he’d told her on the phone that she shouldn’t feel under any obligation to attend, let alone do the line-up. She and Angus had been divorced for forty years, after all. He meant it kindly, but she insisted on being there.

‘None of the little friends are going to do it, are they?’ she said. ‘None of the little friends, I imagine, are going to turn up. It’s on occasions like this that one needs a widow.’

And on the occasion, Mike had to concede, she did her bit, glamorous in black at seventy-two, shaking everybody’s hands as well as freezing out Jean (whom neither Mike nor Isobel categorised as a mere ‘little friend’). Mike missed this moment. He was being commiserated with by Bob Syme, who had come with Isobel. Bob still lived along the road and still was not her boyfriend.

Mike had arranged for the usual provision of tea, coffee and alcoholic refreshment at a nearby hotel. There were far too many sandwiches – too much food altogether, including a tray of those greasy, flaky sausage rolls that never fail to appear at funeral teas. Bob Syme took it upon himself to reduce these to a respectable remnant. He also insisted on buying Mike a double whisky, and zealously bought drinks for anybody else who needed one. Isobel was driving so this included himself, several times.

Jean spoke to Mike for a while, then said she had better be going. She had a train to catch, she told him, and ended up sharing a taxi to the station with the distinguished journalist. Not long after that the party was down to three: Isobel, Bob and Mike.

‘Thank you, Mum,’ Mike said, ‘for coming today, and for doing the honours.’

‘Somebody had to.’ She was silent for a moment, then said, ‘I presume your father was not penniless. What will you do now?’

Mike had already had a meeting with Angus’s lawyer and knew that everything had been left to him. Angus had obviously lived well and spent well, as ‘everything’ amounted to surprisingly little. However, with a frugal lifestyle, there might be enough money to stretch over two or three years. Mike would need it. He couldn’t count on being a shop manager much longer. Jeremy Tait was getting on, and kept threatening to close the business. He couldn’t compete with internet prices any more.

‘I don’t know,’ Mike said. ‘I might go to Cnoc nan Gobhar for a while. ‘It’s mine, apparently.’

Isobel sniffed. ‘For what it’s worth.’

‘It’s worth a lot to me. A roof over my head, all paid for. That’s a relief.’

‘You may find it’s a trap as much as a relief,’ she said, and he knew she was referring to her own situation, the house in Doom in which she had lived since childhood.

‘Well, I like it,’ Mike said. ‘I’d forgotten how much, until I was there in the summer. I expect that’s where I’ll go.’

‘Really?’

‘The shop won’t last much longer. I fancy a change. I couldn’t afford to go back to Edinburgh. Why not try Sutherland for a while?’

‘You’ll become like him,’ she said. ‘A hermit. People will forget you exist.’

‘I’ll take that chance,’ he said. ‘What about you?’

‘Me?’ she said. ‘What about me? Nothing will be any different for me. I don’t expect anything from him,’ she sighed. ‘Not after all this time.’

‘Are you all right?’ Mike asked. ‘Financially, I mean.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want anything from you. You look after yourself. Anyway, Bob is very kind.’

Bob had had his eyes closed during this exchange. Now he gave a snort and opened them again. Isobel looked at him anxiously. He was flushed and short of breath and slightly slumped in his seat. He’d always been portly: now he was enormous.

‘We should be going,’ she said. ‘Do you want a lift?’

‘No thanks. I’ll settle up and walk back into town.’

‘Isn’t it rather far?’

‘A couple of miles. I could do with the walk.’

Bob sat up. ‘So could I,’ he said, ‘but let’s be realistic.’

‘You’ve had too much whisky, Bob,’ Isobel said, in a surprisingly uncensorious tone. Or perhaps, given what she’d just revealed – her dependence on him, which wasn’t that much of a revelation – it wasn’t surprising at all.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Where’s the Gents in this place, Michael?’

Mike started to give directions, but then Isobel decided she would go to the Ladies, so they all got up and Mike showed Bob the way. They stood next to each other at the urinals, saying nothing. Mike had washed and dried his hands before Bob had finished emptying his bladder, but it seemed somehow impolite to leave him there, so he waited.

Bob said suddenly, ‘Do you have a pal?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I thought you might have a pal. Boyfriend. Partner, I suppose, is the correct term.’

He looked very hard at Mike. ‘A good thing to have, at a time like this.’

‘No,’ Mike said. ‘I don’t have a partner. I did have, but we split up.’

‘Sorry to hear it. What was his name?’

‘Adam.’

‘No chance of a reconciliation?’

‘No, Bob. It was a while ago.’

‘Oh?’

‘Quite a few years.’

‘Oh. Sorry. Nobody else on the scene?’

‘No.’

‘Isobel doesn’t tell me anything, you see.’

He shook himself vigorously, did himself up, and came over to the washbasins.

‘To be honest,’ Mike said, ‘I’m amazed she told you I’m gay.’

‘She didn’t,’ Bob said. ‘I mean, she didn’t exactly volunteer the information. It came out by accident. This would be, I don’t know, nine, ten years ago? We were talking about the fact that neither of us have grandchildren – well, obviously
I
don’t – and that led on to you and I never even thought, I just said, “So has he not found the right woman or does he prefer men?” and she said, “How did you know?” and I said I didn’t, which I didn’t. And that’s when she told me. She never told me about this Adam, though, or that you’d split up.’

‘She didn’t know about him,’ Mike said. ‘She doesn’t know anything about my life. She doesn’t want to.’

Bob finished washing his hands and grabbed a couple of paper towels.

‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ he said. ‘Thank God attitudes have changed,’ he went on. ‘I mind when I was doing my National Service, there was a lad in our squad, just couldn’t help himself, a nancy boy to his fingertips, and some of the others gave him a lot of grief, well, we all did, I suppose, can’t say I was blameless, but most of us eased off after a while because the bastard sergeant major really had it in for him, I mean it was relentless, merciless. And then
the poor sod, if you’ll pardon the word, the poor sod went and hung himself. Terrible. All hushed up, as you’d expect. Shameful.’ He shook his big, soft head. ‘Nobody was held responsible, nobody was punished. I made a vow to myself after that, which I hope I’ve kept. I swore I would try never to be deliberately cruel to another human being again.’

They stood facing each other in that washroom. Mike didn’t know what to say. Then, thinking of Isobel waiting in the lobby, he said, ‘We’d better go,’ and Bob said, ‘Aye.’ Reaching out a podgy hand, he touched Mike briefly on the shoulder.

‘Your mother finds it difficult, Michael,’ he said. ‘I know she shouldn’t, but she does. Partly generational, partly who she is. If I had a son, or a daughter, I wouldn’t give a stuff what they liked doing so long as it didn’t involve hurting anybody else. But that’s me, Mr Easy-osy. Your mother’s not like that. It doesn’t make her a bad person, though. I’m very fond of her.’

‘I know that, Bob, and I’m glad.’

‘God knows what she sees in me, though, fat, boring, ignorant, baldy bastard that I am. Your dad was a handsome man, wasn’t he? I’ve seen a picture or two.’

‘Yes, he was.’

‘Ach well.’

Mike held the door open, and Bob started to lumber through, then stopped.

‘Do you miss him?’ he said. ‘Not your dad. Your partner. Adam.’

‘Sometimes,’ Mike said. ‘Usually I don’t at all, and then sometimes suddenly I do.’

‘I bet you do,’ Bob said. ‘I miss Iona like that sometimes, even after all these years. Just comes out of nowhere and hits you. But I’m lucky. I’ve got Isobel.’ His fat hand came up and hit Mike’s shoulder again. And off he trundled.

‘Be with you in a minute,’ Mike called. He had to wait in the Gents for a little longer. After all, after everything, it was Bob Syme who made him cry at his father’s funeral.

§

I wouldn’t call it love at first sight. Not at second sight either – as if we’d harboured it all those years. I certainly didn’t.
He
says he always
kept a thought of me in his heart. I like the idea of that but if I’m honest I’d pretty much forgotten about him. It was just an incident, something that happened once, a long time ago.
When Don met Marjory
. And nothing happened anyway. It’s not as if anything
happened
. I sneaked him a look at his new baby, and that was it. But he says to me, Oh but don’t you remember when we waited in the corridor for somebody to go by, and you were pressed against me in the shadows, and you were so clean and lovely? And I say, You remember it so clearly. And he says, Aye, I do. Don’t you? And I say, No, not like you do. But maybe I do, a little. And maybe I always did.

But not love at first or second sight, definitely not. Love among the tinned beans? Not us! We just met there, in the supermarket, him pushing his trolley and me pushing mine, and he recognised me and we started talking. If he hadn’t, if he’d been looking the other way, we’d have been trolleys that passed in the aisle. But he did. That’s how it works sometimes. Actually I think that’s how it works all the time. It’s
meant
. Don’t ask me to explain, but that’s what I think.

We were older, of course, than we had been. Years and years older, and the world was older too. The world was crazier but maybe we were wiser. We were both missing something and we’d been missing it a while. It was twelve years since Ray died. Call it love if you like, or companionship, or friendship. Call it trust. We’d both missed that and within minutes we knew we’d found it. Yes, I’d say that was true.

He said, Excuse me, and I thought he wanted to get at the beans. Really I did. I moved my trolley and he said, No, excuse me, but is your name Marjory Taylor? I looked at him. What was I supposed to do, deny it? I said, It
used
to be. He said, Oh. Like he was disappointed. We’re talking more than forty years later! He said, I’m sorry, I hardly ever come in here, I don’t like it in fact, but I was in the town so I just thought I’d get a few things and then I saw you, I knew it was you right away. I looked at him, this tall, handsome, dignified man, and I said, Do I know you? He said, Aye, but it was a long time ago, you probably don’t remember, you were a nurse. I said, I still am, you never stop being a nurse, where do you know me from? And then he told me who he was, and when we’d last met, at the infirmary. The
only
time we’d met. And after we’d gone through
all the oohing and aahing and isn’t that amazing, I said, You owe me a drink. And he said, So I do, I don’t suppose you’d like a cup of tea in the café here? And I said, and it was ridiculous because I felt like a girl again, there was kind of fluttering in my tummy, I said, Yes, all right, but I’d like a proper drink later. So right from the start, within five minutes, I trusted him, and he trusted me. You could say he picked me up in Tesco, but really we were both picking something up from over forty years before.

He was past seventy then, and I was well into my sixties. Neither of us looked our age, though I say it myself. We do now. But what does that mean, ‘look your age’? It means nothing. You’re the age you are and how you look is how you look. To me he looked a bit like Nelson Mandela, only white and Scottish, if you can imagine that. Anyway, we went to the café and started talking. That’s what we did. We started talking and we’ve never stopped.

I told him my life and he told me his. I told him about Ray and how we’d got together, and Ray’s engineering work that took him all over the world, and how hard it was for me bringing up the kids on my own for months at a time. And then how we’d settled in Aberdeen when the oil boom started, and Ray said he’d never need to go abroad for work again, and the children grew up and I went back to nursing part-time, and then the first grandchild came along and then Ray got ill and how ironic was that – that he got cancer when I was the one that smoked, although I packed it in quick after that. And then when he died and the family were all further south, Edinburgh and Glasgow and Liverpool, I decided I’d had enough of Aberdeen and I’d always liked this part of the country so I sold up and came back and here I was, ten years on, cruising the aisles of Tesco in Drumkirk.

I said, What about your boy, it was a boy, wasn’t it? And he said, Aye, our second. I said, What was his name? Charlie, he said. And what happened to Charlie? I said. He died, Don said. And I felt such an idiot, I put my hand on his arm and said I was sorry, and he said, Don’t be, and the pain on his face was awful to see. Don’t be sorry, he said. He didn’t die as a boy. He grew up and then he died. He wasn’t a great loss to the world. I was shocked to hear him say that about his own son. It must have been a great loss to you, though, I said. Well, he said, it’s a long story, but I lost him long before he
died. He didn’t tell me it all then, because it
was
a long story, but he told me about Liz, his wife, and how
she’d
got cancer, just when he’d retired, and she went down very fast and here he was on his own seven years later, still living in the same house in Wharryburn.

I said, What about your other son? Billy? he said. Billy’s all right. He’s a teacher in Glasgow, teaches History and Modern Studies. Billy took a while to sort himself out but he’s fine now, second time round, he’s very happy. He’s with a lovely lass, a Gaelic-speaking girl from the Highlands. Do you mind that slogan MAKE LOVE NOT WAR? he said. Billy took that to heart. He met both his bidie-ins on peace marches. He met the first one marching against Polaris and the second one marching against Trident. But for all that he’s not given me any grandchildren yet, he said. I said, Is that a disappointment to you? Sometimes, he said, but I believe you have to try to rise above life’s disappointments. Anyway, I can always hope. Catriona – that’s his partner – Catriona’s still just young enough, if they want bairns. But if it doesn’t happen I’ll not complain.