Bird of Passage (20 page)

‘But our feet are killing us. I wish you hadn’t waited up though. You’ll be so tired in the morning.’ Kirsty looked up at him in the gloom. ‘We can sleep in but you can’t.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Honestly,’ she told him, lightly. ‘You’ll be better off when I’m back in Edinburgh.

‘Don’t say that!’

‘Well it’s true.’ She spoke in a low voice, not wanting her mother to hear. But Isabel was in a world of her own.

Kirsty leaned in close. ‘You’ll soon get back to normal again. I just seem to upset you.’

‘You don’t really believe that, do you? If I thought you really believed that…’

They were outside the front door. The house was in darkness. Alasdair had waited for the bells and then taken himself off to bed.  

Isabel let go of Finn’s arm. ‘I’m dead on my feet. Make sure you put the lights off, Kirsty.’

Kirsty and Finn lingered in the doorway, their combined breath making patterns in the cold air. She reached up and kissed him quickly on the lips.

‘You’re drunk, Kirsty!’ He held her at arm’s length, embarrassed.

‘I think I must be!  But do go to bed. Please. You know I worry about you.’

‘Happy New Year, Kirsty. Sleep well.’

‘You too, Finn! You too! And may all your dreams come true!’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In the summer term of that first year at university, Kirsty discovered that she had a talent for finding and adapting long, vintage, velvet skirts, and Edwardian blouses and shawls  that suited her looks. She would ferret about Edinburgh’s second hand shops, in search of bargains, long before it became fashionable to do so. She hadn’t realised that she looked Pre-Raphaelite until one of her tutors told her so, showing her pictures of Lizzie Siddal.  After that, she used the pictures  as inspiration for her own idiosyncratic style.  She also wore beads and bells around her neck  and jangly bangles. She drifted around in a cloud of patchouli. She was self consciously arty.

Every afternoon, Kirsty’s Director of Studies, Dr Sharansky, held court in his room. Though it was frowned upon by the authorities, he did not let this deter him. There was home-made beer and wine and only certain favoured individuals, Kirsty included, were invited to these gatherings. They would sit around his big table, which was littered with books and pictures and manuscripts of all kinds. There were always more men than women in the room, postgraduates, some of them, or junior lecturers. Sometimes there were foreign visitors: young poets and playwrights and artists. 

One afternoon, Kirsty was perched among these smoky and self conscious  young academics, like some bright bird, when the door was suddenly flung open and a man with long hair strode into the room. He was tall and slim and seemed to inhabit every inch of his body in a way that Kirsty had never seen before. Like her, he was revelling in his own persona, and she recognised a kindred spirit but one who was older and much more practiced.

‘Ash!’ said Sharansky, leaping to his feet, delighted with his new guest.

He turned around, beaming at the rest of them. ‘This, my friends, is Duncan Ashley.  Otherwise known as Ash.’

He was a painter, exhibiting in the capital’s galleries, already making a name for himself. Kirsty had never heard of him, and never seen any of his work but Sharansky was clearly impressed by him. The conversation ebbed and flowed as she sat there, watching him, wondering why all the air seemed to have been sucked from the room. She fidgeted on the hard chair, struggling to breathe, aware of a flush rising from her neck to her cheeks.

Ash turned his gaze on her, raising his eyebrows.

Dr Sharansky hurried to introduce her. ‘Ash, this is Kirsty Galbreath.’

‘Pleased to meet you!’ he leaned over and shook her hand. His own hands were strong and freckled. She found herself smiling inanely at him, tongue tied for once.

‘Are you another
fine artist
then?’ he asked, with a hint of sarcasm and a malicious glance at Sharansky.

‘Sort of.’

‘Our Kirsty has real talent!’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He smiled, distant, unattainable, more physically attractive than anyone she had ever met.

He stayed for an hour, drank several glasses of wine in quick succession, then got to his feet and – without so much as a stumble – said ‘goodbye all!’ and left. As he went, passing her chair, he ran his hand across her back, a mere touch. She didn’t know whether it was deliberate or accidental but her body’s instant response surprised him. Again, the air left the room, and she found herself stranded, a fish out of water. Later, walking home through the hop-scented Edinburgh evening, she thought, I’ll probably never see him again, but she was rather sorry about that.

In their second year, Kirsty elected to share a top floor flat in the New Town with her friends, Molly and Anne. It was spartan and poorly furnished, it was chilly, even in summer, but it was theirs and they loved it. Much to Finn’s disappointment, Kirsty spent only a couple of weeks on the island that summer, and he was too busy about the farm to have much time with her. Then she went back to Edinburgh where Molly, with a couple of resits, was studying madly. That first morning in their new flat, Kirsty walked up to Henderson’s for wholemeal bread, through the New Town streets that smelled faintly of Gauloises. When they sat down to eat their warm bread and jam at the heavy utility table in the living room window, she had a sudden intimation of pure happiness. Anything could happen and all of it seemed exciting.

That same day, she started a part-time job in a tiny art gallery on Rose Street. Dr Sharansky had ‘put in a word’ for her. For a few hours each week, Kirsty would sit behind a desk, fielding enquiries about the pictures. During the whole time she worked there, nobody ever bought anything from her, although a handful of sales were made at the private views that opened each exhibition.

One Saturday, in late summer, with the city in its usual Festival turmoil, she found that the new exhibition consisted of a series of huge canvases, near-pornographic paintings, in thick layers of muted oils, depicting naked women and muscular (although fully clothed) men in attitudes of extraordinary violence. All the canvases were scrawled with the name ‘Ash’ in large black letters. Kirsty saw him at the private view but he was surrounded by adoring acolytes and she couldn’t get near. Later that week, however, he came into the gallery.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked. The answer was not very well, which was hardly surprising, thought Kirsty. She might appreciate his work, but she couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to live with it.

He rocked back on his heels, hands in pockets. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’

‘I’m one of Peter Sharansky’s students.’

‘Oh yes, I remember, You were at one of those gatherings of his.’

‘I was.’

‘He’s a bit of an idiot, isn’t he?’

She was taken aback. ‘I like him.’

‘Yeah, well.’ He strode off into the other room.

‘Do you want a coffee?’ she asked. They kept a filter machine on the go for favoured customers.

‘I wouldn’t say no.’

After that, Kirsty found herself hoping that Ash would come into the gallery while she was there and he did seem to visit more often than was strictly necessary. Whenever he arrived, she would offer him coffee, with her tongue tying itself in knots. Everything she said to him seemed foolishly naïve. She would ask him questions about his work and let him talk about himself and his ambitions, which he seemed more than happy to do.

One afternoon, he came in just before closing time, when the Rose Street shops were putting up their shutters. She switched off the lights and locked the door, and  they went out into the hot August evening together. Their footsteps echoed off the old stones as he tucked her arm through his. She could feel the warmth of him, his firm, wiry body, striding along beside her.

‘Do you fancy a drink?’ he asked.

‘Why not?’

They went to the Abbotsford, its ornate interior full of BBC producers and tourists, and Ash had to shout to make himself heard. He drank beer and she drank cider and after two half pints, she felt lightheaded,  because she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast time.

They talked and talked. She told him about her own painting, and he said, ‘Why didn’t you go to Art School?’ and she explained how difficult it had been to get away from the island at all.

‘But Fine Art!’ he said. ‘That’s not what you want, surely?’

‘I don’t know what I want yet. And it’s certainly giving me all kinds of ideas about what I might want to paint.’

‘Well, good for you. I’m hungry, aren’t you?’

They went to an Italian restaurant and ate spicy pasta, and laughed over the gigantic pepper mill, and the way the waiter brandished it over their plates. On the street outside, her hand found his little finger and as if it were something quite new in the world, they were holding hands. He walked her home to the New Town flat and when they got to the door, she wanted him to come in, but he said ‘Better not. Maybe next time.’  

At the last possible moment, he kissed her, his tongue dipping into her mouth, a sudden and shocking intrusion, leaving her full of the sweet taste of him and she floated up the stairs with a foolish grin on her face.

Even after his exhibition had finished, Ash and Kirsty saw each other often. Sometimes she would go out for drinks or meals with him, late lunches or early dinners, and she would come in a bit tipsy and very happy, but he still seemed reluctant to begin a proper affair. For a while, he asked for nothing but her company. Once he bought her a big bunch of roses and she walked home through the Edinburgh streets carrying an armful of blooms, aware of how striking she looked, with her long red hair, and the pink roses. ‘Girl with a Bouquet,’ she thought, happily self -conscious.

The problem was that he was married. His wife was living in London and he said that they were estranged, that he didn’t see much of her, but they had a daughter, a little girl called Hannah. He made no secret of the fact and was adamant that he loved his daughter, but not his wife.  Kirsty knew that she couldn’t compete with a child, nor was she willing to try.

Soon after the start of the autumn term, Nicolas Laurence got in touch with her again. He was in his final year, and working hard, but sometimes he would invite her out to the theatre or the cinema. Once he brought a picnic in a willow basket and took her for lunch in the Meadows behind George Square.  They drank champagne and ate late strawberries and her friends and flatmates couldn’t understand why she wasn’t madly in love with him. Nicolas saw her with Ash on a couple of occasions and tried to question her about him, but Kirsty was deft at keeping the different compartments of her life separate and would only say that Ash was a friend and that he was helping her with her art. This was true. Ash was giving her lessons although her friends were sceptical about his motives. But Kirsty could have told them that the caution was all on his side.

Just before Christmas, the girls decided to throw a party. They pooled their finances and bought wine and cider from the off licence round the corner, cold meats and chocolate covered plums from the Polish deli on Broughton Street, bread and cheese from Hendersons. Kirsty found herself wondering which of the men in her life to invite, but Nicolas settled the matter by going off to London for the weekend, which probably meant that Annabel had got herself embroiled in some kind of misery again. She was always having what Nicolas called ‘man trouble’ and demanding that her brother come and sort it out for her.

 Kirsty went to Marks and Spencer’s and found an empire-line nightie with a low neck and little sleeves that emphasised her breasts. It was in some pale, diaphanous fabric and she intended to wear it for the party, even though the flat was too cold for comfort. Anne had managed to bring a record player on the bus, all the way from Devon, and they were playing Joni Mitchell and Leonard Cohen at full volume.  In later years, Kirsty could never hear Cactus Tree or Suzanne, without remembering that magical time in the New Town flat.  

 Most of the guests left in the early hours of the morning. The other girls went to bed, but Ash lingered, helped with the washing up, made a pot of tea. He was unexpectedly fond of tea. He brought the mugs into the bedroom;  she sat on the floor at his feet, loosened her hair, and began to brush it out.

‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Don’t do that, Kirsty!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I won’t be responsible for my actions, if you do!’

She blushed. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘God’s sake, woman, don’t apologise! I suppose I’d better go as soon as I’ve finished this.’

‘Do you have to?’

‘Do you really want me to stay?’

‘I do.’

‘Are you sure about this?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Then, come to bed, Kirsty.’

After that, even when he was away, he would stay in touch, writing her ten page letters, ornamenting them with tiny pen-and-ink sketches, making them for her on trains, in offices, at his hotel table, late into the night.