Sally (31 page)

‘Absolutely!'

‘You bought muddy clothes with you, I hope?'

‘Wellies, walking boots, windcheater, thermal undies, woolly hat – I'm a dab hand, remember!'

‘Oh I do remember! Ach, this is fun, is it not? I have missed you, my lass. I say, “Hurray for the chicken pox”!'

‘It's not just the chicken pox,' Sally said quietly.

Celia decided not to pry.

Calgary Bay was deserted and the sweep of white sand implored Sally to run as fast as she could to the sea. Celia's laughter was carried on the wind to and from Sally's ears as she ran; it was eerie. Jumping back from the waves, Sally flung her arms above her head, singing, ‘It's so beautiful, so beautiful!' A grey seal bobbed his head above the swell as if to see what the commotion was about. They looked eye to eye for a caught moment and then, as if to say, ‘Oh, it's you again,' he disappeared leaving Sally motionless and open-mouthed, arms still suspended, until Celia arrived by her side. The women stood and gulped the invigorating air, occasionally turning their heads to follow the swoop of a gull. They scoured the water but the seal had gone.

‘You were blessed,' said Celia.

‘Oh, I do believe so,' agreed Sally and, linking her arm through Celia's they strolled along the water's edge and chatted awhile about wildlife. Stooping to pick a smooth pebble, Sally skimmed it across the water – four, five, six, seven – a skill painstakingly learnt from her father. Celia clapped.

‘Ach, Sal, it's so nice to have you here. You remind me so much of Robbie, and thereby of my own LoveLove too.'

‘Am I like Daddy? How?'

‘Well, it's not just your stone-skimming! Let me see – it's your zest for life, my duck. And that expression of wonder your face often wears – pure Robbie. Also, the way you talk to inanimate objects. He would talk at length to anything made of wood! Most of all, I see him when I see you gaze and gaze at I do not know what!'

‘At nothing in particular,' confided Sally.

‘Ah,' nodded Aunt Celia.

‘Aunt Cee,' Sally ventured because it seemed timely to do so, ‘Uncle Angus …' She paused. ‘Do you miss him still?' Celia looked at Sally and a momentary wave of angst swept across her face.

‘Every day!' she said aghast.

‘No, no!' cried Sally. ‘Of course you do! I mean, the
missing
him – how
is
it?' Celia looked into her niece's eyes and saw a comforting naiveté, a white page waiting to be filled with the advice, the experiences – perhaps the reassurance – of one who knew. She looked at her open face and saw an ingenuous young woman with the desire to know, to be informed, to learn, to listen. She felt touched and heartened.

‘Well, girl, I miss my man. During my waking hours and in my sleep too, do I miss him! Something will happen each day that makes me turn for him – and each time I find him gone.'

Sally watched her looking out to sea as if searching for her lost husband amongst the waves. Celia saw the grey seal but was too far into her thoughts to point it out to Sally.

I think her face is so beautiful
, thought Sally.
I love all those lines – they're not wrinkles, see how tight and firm the skin is, no baggy neck like Mother. These lines trace the paths of her life. She's walked with conviction through it and her lovely, brown healthy face is both her story and her reward.

With the grey seal gone again, Angus too, Celia turned back to Sally and took her face in her gloved hands. ‘Your uncle died fifteen years too soon,' she told her, ‘and next year, it was be sixteen years too soon.' Sally took Celia's hands from her face and held them in hers.

‘But isn't it just too painful?' she asked, a furrow of worry knotting her brow. ‘How can you bear it?'

‘It is painful,' explained Celia, ‘but that very pain tells me I'm alive. I can bear it because I would rather have had just six months with him than never to have had him at all. And I had thirty-five wonderful years with him. He was my light, you see, but my life is my own.'

Sally looked puzzled. Celia chortled. ‘It's a bit daft when people say someone was their whole life, don't you think? Angus died but I still live. He was the light in my life and that light shines on, my duck, shines away.'

They continued in silence for a few strides. Sally stopped, closed her eyes and held her head.

‘But Aunt Cee, would you have had it any other way? Fifteen years of unhappiness, loneliness – doesn't the pain you feel vanquish the pleasure of the love you had?'

‘Sal, my funny thing.' She hugged Sally very close and when she spoke again, Sally heard her voice through her ribcage; magnified, unhindered. ‘I am not lonely,' Celia said, ‘I am just alone now. It hasn't been fifteen years just of unhappiness. Yes, I have grieved and I wish with all that I am that he was with me now. But had I not loved him so, I should not miss him, hey? And I rather
like
that feeling. It is a comfort for it can but remind me of what we had together. The pain can only be as great as the love we had, my girl. The love we had was limitless, the pain is indescribable, but the strength that love gave me allows me to sail on.
Amor vincit omnia
, my girl,
vincit omnia
.'

They looked at each other and Sally wondered how Aunt Celia could smile so benignly when she felt like crying at the injustice.

‘Do you see?' Celia continued. ‘Had I not loved so, had I not been so loved, then sure enough, I may not hurt. But then what would my life be like? It would be black and white. Silent. I like colour and song. Our life was full of both.'

‘But he's not
here
,' stressed Sally. Celia nodded but smiled on.

‘Would I that he is not here now, but was then, than he never was here at all.' Sally regarded her aunt. Her eyes shone back at her and the confusion on Sally's face slowly lifted. Now she understood and her gratitude rendered her temporarily mute. However, her smile, as it unfurled, spoke volumes to Celia.

They continued their walk, both serene now, and were blessed by the magnificent aeronautics of two golden eagles who seemed to be flying just for the sheer sake of it.

‘Would I that he is not here now, but was then, than he never was here at all.'
Celia's sentence had been so perfect, so full; the domain of a true poet, of one who knew. It had stuck in Sally's mind instantly.

It is 9.30 and Sally is tucked into bed; the crisp sheets, heavy blankets and a beautiful, hand-quilted eiderdown. Celia's words reverberate around her head and images from the walk assault her mind's eye. She is held a happy captive and falls asleep blanketed by the hills and accompanied by the seal. The rhythmic sound of the waves lulls her deeper and the eagles soar to keep watch overhead.

She wakes in the small hours and lies in velvet darkness for a pleasant moment. Drawing back the curtains and throwing open the window, she marvels at the true blackness of the night, no street lights invading, only a tiny patch of orange glinting from a distant cottage. If she listens well enough, she can hear the sea.

‘Would I that he is not here now, but was then, than he never was here at all.'

Well, would I? Would it have been better never to have met Richard? Would my life have been black and white and without song?

Well?

A
s the days passed, Celia watched the colour bloom back to Sally's cheeks – the spots were no less prominent, but the sparkle in her eyes and the glow of her face detracted attention away from them. Though Sally slept until lunchtime the first morning, she was soon down in the kitchen with the break of day, making porridge with a pinch of salt the Lomax way. She was very happy tinkering about with Celia and their days had a loose but welcome routine.

After breakfast, they took a tour of the garden to check that frost had been kept at bay, and to admire new faces amongst the flowers.

‘Wood anemones,' Celia cooed as she and Celia crouched in awe over the low little mauve flowers.

‘Wood anemones,' Sally repeated to herself, trying to commit leaf shape and petal formation to memory.

Celia's garden was a font of nostalgia for Sally. Despite the brisk air, she could travel with ease back to those heady summers of her childhood. Though it was midwinter, if she closed her eyes she could even fill her nostrils with the scent of fragile dog rose and wild honeysuckle. Gazing at the rockery for long enough turned it back into the harsh mountain her dolls had struggled to climb. Feeling the springy, peaty land beneath her feet, she remembered well the secrets of the garden that not even Aunt Celia knew. Here was the place, the space, in which she had been absorbed in play, absorbed in herself.

The garden seemed so much smaller now, but though Sally's years had altered its scale, its charm had not been compromised.

‘Wild violets?' she enquired.

‘Next month,' Celia informed.

And I'll miss them
, rued Sally.

Having ensured that all was well in the garden for another twenty-four hours, Aunt Celia's timetable read elevenses time, and chocolate brownies were dunked into cups of coffee. After that, the infinite bits and pieces to do around the cottage took them to lunch-time. Sally implored her aunt to load her with chores. Somewhat begrudgingly, Celia obliged and Sally set about waxing the tables, scrubbing out the hearth, polishing the copper, dusting the books and giving all the window-sills a fresh lick of gloss paint. Seeing Sally beavering about her work, so thorough and attentive to her task, struck Celia.

She's me!

Where's her Angus then, Celia?

Has she an Angus?

Why not ask.

Och, no! That's for her to tell – not for me to pry.

Lunch-time was invariably followed by an excursion.

‘The beauty of being retired, so to speak,' Celia had told Sally, ‘is that you can turn a trip of necessity into a little outing for the afternoon! I may need a loaf of bread, but why go to Dervaig to buy it when I could have a jaunt to Salen, to Bunessan even!' Therefore, each day Celia made sure there was something to buy and whether it was a couple of apples or a fresh salmon, a pint of milk or a pound of potatoes, she ensured the route took them to far-flung corners of the island and passed outstanding viewpoints. They even took the ferry to Iona to buy soap, because Celia justified that the soap in the Abbey gift shop was not tested on animals and smelt heavenly too. Similarly, the journey back from Tobermory took them around two sides of a triangle so that they could enjoy a stroll to Loch Frisa. Invariably, they were home for teatime dunking. One afternoon, they forsook a jaunt altogether – the film of
Greyfriars Bobby
was on the television and, armed with handkerchiefs and a bowl of home-made fudge, they munched and wept the afternoon away.

In the mellow hours between tea and dinner, a fire would be lit and the two women snuggled deep into armchairs to read, sharing their space and often snippets from their books too. Celia sang old Gaelic songs while Sally shut her eyes and let the warmth of the fire and the sweetness of her aunt's voice course through her body. Sally read passages of Scott and verses of Burns out aloud, Celia assisting her accent.

‘Make it rounder, my duck, rounder. Smile while you speak. Use all the muscles of your lips. Hear the words
sing
in your mind first.'

‘Magical, Sal. You've got it! Robbie would be proud – both of them, Burns
and
Lomax!'

Sally drifted along, content that each day should come and go like the tide. Mull enchanted her so much that she exclusively devoted her sight and her soul to its gifts. Richard and Diana and Highgate and School were way down South, metaphorical miles from her mind too. After nearly a week, she had slipped easily into Celia's way of life, and Mull and its ways became the norm. This then freed Sally's thoughts and they began to wander. As she dug in the garden, or worked a hard-bristled brush over the flagstones, her mind travelled. Sometimes to nowhere in particular, often to her recent past, rarely to the present and never to the future.

The future will of course become apparent when the past is analyzed and the present confronted. For the time being, however, it was enough for Sally to think back over her time with Richard. Mostly she called upon specific events, blissful evenings, thrilling love-making; allowing herself a private smile, a guarded giggle, a stifled sigh. She realized with some surprise that the last time she had had sex was nearly two months ago. And in Paris. And with J-bloody-C.

I haven't made love with Richard since last year.

Occasionally, she contemplated just what it was that she had with him. She understood what had been intended as a dalliance had drifted into the Richard Thing which had in turn established itself, unasked, as a relationship.

What is it now? Is it anything? Does it exist at all?

She could not quite ask herself if she missed it.

As Sally started to mull and consider, cogs of recognition and springs of curiosity began to turn in Celia's mind.

She had been silent witness to Sally standing stock still, duster redundant in her limp hand, staring intently with a peculiar smile at the tall standard lamp.

Gazing so deep
, Celia considered,
as if caught by the eyes of someone. So who?

Moreover, at breakfast one morning, she saw Sally's shoulders give a little shake as she washed up at the sink and a mute reflection from the window pane revealed that same quirky smile. Furthermore, browsing around a bric-à-brac afternoon at Tobermory Town Hall, she was choosing notelets when she caught sight of Sally at another stall. Oblivious to the vendor's expression – oblivious to all around – she was holding a jar of honey aloft while staring distractedly, mouth half-open, at nothing in particular.