The Crow Road (52 page)

‘Fuck it,’ I said to myself. What was telephoning somebody you hardly know on the other side of the planet and asking them impertinent questions about their sex life, compared to this gratuitous malfeasance? I strode up the stairs to the reception-room study, determined to make the phone call.

I settled on the direct approach and the truth about myself.

And Lachy Watt put the phone down on me.

Maybe he just wanted to get back to the TV and watch our exciting Third World War for a bit.

I’d stayed in the Lochgair house over Hogmanay itself. We had plenty of drink in, and mum and I had prepared loads of food, but not many people actually visited after the bells. Verity went to bed about ten past midnight after struggling to stay awake from about ten o’clock. She had a very small glass of whisky at the bells. Some people from the village came in about one, Aunt Tone and Uncle Hamish arrived about two for half an hour of strained conversation, and some of James’s pals called in after four, but mostly it was just mum, Lewis, James and I together. James conked out about six, but Lewis and I were determined to see the dawn come up just on principle.

We sat in the conservatory, talking and listening to CDs on the gateaux blaster, which I’d brought down with me from Glasgow because it sounded better than the Golfs own sound system (which anyway didn’t include a CD player). We were drinking whisky, chasing it with pints of mineral water; pacing ourselves. Lewis felt we were both starting to nod off at one point and so suggested a game of chess. I mooted for the River Game, but we’d have had to have dug the board and everything out and read through all the rules, so we decided chess would be simpler.

‘I’ve been too sensible,’ I told him, while pondering a pawn exchange.

‘Sensible?’ Lewis sounded surprised.
‘You?’

I grinned. ‘Well ... Look at me; I’m studying, I’m living quietly, I’m coming home to mother each weekend ... I even bought a sensible, reasonably cheap car. All that money I got...’ I shook my head. ‘I’m twenty-two; I should have blown it all on floozies or dangerous drugs, or just took off round the world, or bought a Ferrari.’

‘You can’t buy a Ferrari for forty grand,’ Lewis said, chin in hands, studying the board.

‘I didn’t say it had to be a new one.’

Lewis shrugged. ‘Well, you’ve still got most of the dosh. Go ahead; go do some of that stuff.’

‘Yeah, but I sort of promised mum I’d get this degree.’

‘Okay, so wait till the summer and
then
do it.’

‘But mum’ll just worry if I get a fast car.’

‘So take off round the world.’

‘Yeah. Maybe. I might.’

Lewis looked up at me. ‘What are you intending to do, anyway, Prentice?’ He grimaced, stretched, rubbed his face. ‘I mean, are you still just going to wait and see who’s recruiting graduates and then take what sounds like the best job, or have you settled on something yet? Something you actually want to do?’

I shook my head. ‘Still open, that one,’ I said. I took the pawn Lewis had offered. He looked vaguely surprised. ‘I still like the idea of just
being
a historian,’ I told him. ‘You know, ideally. But that means staying in academia, and I don’t know if that’s what I want. Somehow I don’t think they let you go straight from graduation onto prime-time TV with a twenty-six part dramatised history of the world.’

‘Sounds a little unlikely,’ Lewis agreed, taking my pawn. ‘You given up on the diplomatic service?’

I smiled, thinking back a year to Uncle Hamish’s party. ‘Well, I’m not sure I’m cut out for that. I’ve met some of those people, they’re bright ... But in the end you have to do as you’re damn well told by fuckwit politicians.’

‘Ah! Politics, then?’ Lewis said.

I bit my lip, looking the length and breadth of the board, trying to work out if the bishop I wanted to move next was going to cause any problems in its new position. ‘Na, I should have started by now anyway, but ... shit; you have to make deals. You have to lie, or come so damn close to lying it makes little difference. It’s all so fucking expedient, Lewis; they all have this thing about my enemy’s enemy is my friend. “He may be a son-of-a-bitch, but he’s our son-of-a-bitch.” I mean; good grief. What a crock of shit that is. I despair for our species.’

‘Not politics, then.’

‘I wonder if Noam Chomsky needs an assistant,’ I said.

‘Probably got one,’ Lewis said.

‘Yeah,’ I sighed. ‘Probably.’

Lewis looked quizzical. ‘Everything else all right?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, feeling awkward. ‘Why?’

He shrugged, studied the board again. ‘I don’t know. I just wondered if there was anything ...’

‘Hi guys.’

We both looked over to see Verity, hair in spiky disarray, face soft with sleep, wrapped in a long white towelling dressing gown, padding into the conservatory holding a glass of milk.

‘Morning,’ I said.

‘Hi there, darlin,’ Lewis said, swivelling so she could sit on his lap. She put her head on his shoulder and he kissed her forehead. ‘You okay?’

She nodded sleepily. Then she straightened, drank some milk and ruffled Lewis’s hair. ‘Might get dressed,’ she said, yawning. ‘Been having nightmares.’

‘Aw,’ Lewis said tenderly. ‘You poor thing. Want me to come to bed?’

Verity sat on Lewis’s lap, rocking back and forth a little, her bottom lip pouting. She frowned and said, ‘No.’ She smoothed Lewis’s hair again. ‘I’ll get up. You finish your game.’ She smiled at me, then looked up. ‘Nearly dawn.’

‘Why, so it is,’ I said. Beyond the glass of the conservatory there was just the faintest hint of grey in the sky over the house.

Verity waved bye-bye and went off, head down, rubbing her eyes, back into the house.

I moved the bishop. Lewis sat and thought.

I had won a knight and another pawn for the bishop when Verity came back. She was washed and dressed; she looked fabulous in leggings and a black maternity dress with a black leather jacket over the top. She stood at the doors, clapped her hands together and - when we appeared quizzical - waved some keys at us and said, ‘Fancy a drive?’

We looked at each other and both shrugged at the same time.

We took Lewis and Verity’s new soft-top XR3i - roof down, heater up full - out into the grey-pink dawn and drove through Lochgilphead and then into Gallanach and just cruised about the town, waving at the people still walking around the place and shouting Happy New Year! at one and all. Lewis and I had brought the whisky, just in case we met anybody we felt we ought to offer a dram. So we started with each other, and all that water during the night must have done us the power of good because the whisky tasted great.

(I’d looked back at the castle, as we’d passed the hill on the outskirts of Gallanach, feeling guilty and ashamed and nervous because I still hadn’t done anything about my suspicions, but telling myself that I
still didn’t have any real
evidence, and anyway I was off-duty now; this was the season to have fun, after all. Hogmanay; let’s-get-oot-oor-brains time. And, naturally, an end-of-year truce. Hell, it was traditional.)

‘Let’s go down Shore Road and drop some whisky on that grave dad hit!’ Lewis shouted suddenly. ‘Mr Andrew McDobbie 1823- 1875 and his wife Moira 1821-1903 deserve to be thought of at this time!’

‘Ugh, you ghoul,’ said Verity.

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s a great idea. Verity; to the church!’

Which is how we came to find Helen Urvill and Dean Watt wandering through Gallanach along Shore Road, arm in arm. Dean was playing - necessarily softly - on his Stratocaster, while Helen held a bottle of Jack Daniels. They were being followed by a bemused-looking dog.

‘Happy New Year!’ shouted Dean Watt, and struck a chord. There ensued a great deal of Happy New Years; the mongrel that had been following Helen and Dean joined in by barking.

There were lots of hugs and handshakes and kisses too, before Helen Urvill yelled, ‘Yo Verity!’ as she hung on Dean’s shoulder and breathed bourbon fumes at us. ‘You sober, girl?’

‘Yep,’ Verity nodded briskly. ‘Want a lift anywhere?’

Helen swung woozily round to look at Dean, who was fiddling with a machine-head. ‘Well, we were heading back for the castle ...’ She frowned deeply, and her eyes flicked around a bit. ‘I think ...’ She shrugged; her thick black eyebrows waggled. ‘But if you’re going somewhere ...’

‘Let’s go somewhere,’ Verity said to Lewis, who was in the passenger’s seat. ‘Somewhere further.’ She nudged Lewis.

‘Okay,’ Lewis said. ‘Got a full tank; where we going to go?’

‘Oban!’

‘Boring!’

‘Glasgow!’

‘What
for?’

‘How about,’ I suggested, over the noise of the barking hound. ‘That bit north of Tighnabruaich, where you can look out over the Kyles of Bute? That’s a nice bit of scenery.’

‘Brilliant!’ Lewis said.

‘Great idea!’

‘Let’s go!’

‘Get in, then.’

‘And let’s take the dog.’

‘Is it car-trained?’

‘Who cares? We can point it over the side if it comes to it.’

‘Fuck it, yeah, let’s take the mutt.’

‘Might not want to come,’ Dean said, and handed the Fender to Lewis, who put it at his feet with the neck by the door, while Dean knelt down by the side of the dog, which was sniffing at the rear wheel of the Escort.

‘Course it wants to come,’ Helen said, with the conviction only the truly drunk can muster. ‘Not a dog been born doesn’t like sticking its nose out a car window.’

‘Here you go,’ grunted Dean, lifting a puzzled-looking canine of medium build, indeterminate breed and brownly brindled coat into the car and onto my lap.

‘Hey, thanks,’ I said, as Helen clambered in beside me and Dean squeezed in on her far side. ‘So it’s me that gets to find out if this beast’s shit-scared of driving.’

‘Ah, stop whining,’ Helen said, and pulled the fishy-smelling dog away from me to plonk it in Dean’s lap.

‘All set?’ asked Verity.

‘I wonder if its wee eyes’ll light up when the brakes go on?’ Dean said, trying to look into them.

‘All set!’ Helen yelled, then yodelled lustily as we performed a U-turn and went smoothly back through the town. Helen offered me some Jack Daniels, which I accepted. We still shouted Happy New Year! at people, and the dog barked enthusiastically in accompaniment; it didn’t seem in the least discomfited when we left Gallanach and headed through Lochgilphead and away.

We stopped briefly at Lochgair. I ran into the house. Mum was up, washing dishes. I kissed and hugged her and said we’d be a few hours. Not to worry; Verity was bright as a button and so sober it ought to constitute a crime in Scotland at this time on a Hogmanay morning. She told me to make sure nobody else drove, then, and be careful. She made me take a load of sandwiches, dips and God-knows what, two bottles of mineral water and a flask of coffee she’d just made, and I staggered out the house and had to put most of it in the convertible’s rather small boot, but then that was that and off we went through the calm, brightening day, playing lots of very loud music and munching through the various bits and pieces of food I hadn’t stashed in the boot. Dog liked the garlic dip best.

 
 
 
‘I don’t give a fuck what colour he is; a man who can’t pronounce his own name shouldn’t be in charge of the most destructive military machine the world has ever seen,’ I heard Lewis say, while I sat looking at Dean Watt, and thought, Shit, not again.

‘She did, did she?’ I said, trying to look pleased. ‘Well. Good for her. Nice chap, is he?’

Dean shrugged. ‘Okay, ah suppose.’

We were sitting on the rocks beyond the car-park crash barrier at the viewpoint above West Glen, overlooking the Kyles of Bute. The island itself stretched away to the south, all pastel and shade in the slightly watery light of this New Year’s morning. The waters of the sound looked calmly ruffled, reflecting milky stretches of the lightly clouded sky.

Damn, I thought.

Ashley had got off with somebody at Liz and Droid’s party. Dancin and winchin, as Dean had put it. Then gone off together. And suddenly I felt like it had happened again. Maybe not quite as stylish as jumping off your uncle’s Range Rover into your future husband’s arms, but just as effective. My heart didn’t exactly go melt-down this time, but it still wasn’t too pleasant a feeling.

Dean seemed happy to adjust his Strat and pick out the occasional tiny, tinny-sounded phrase; Lewis and Verity and Helen were arguing about the coming war. Or at least Lewis was ranting and they were having to listen.

‘Aw, Hell,’ Lewis said. ‘I’m not arguing he isn’t an evil bastard ...’

Ashley, I thought, staring out into the view. Ashley, what was I thinking of? Why had I taken it so slow? What had I been frightened of? Why hadn’t I said anything?

Hadn’t I known what it was I wanted to say?

‘- democracy and freedom, what Our Brave Boys are actually going to be fighting for is to restore the nineteenth century to Kuwait and defend the seventeenth century in Saudi Arabia.’

Now I thought I knew what I wanted to say, but it might already be too late. The knowledge and the provenance of its uselessness were the same; a feeling of loss I couldn’t deny. Did that mean I was in love with her? If I was, it felt quite different from what I’d felt for Verity. (Verity sat at Lewis’s side, huddled in her leggings and leathers and wearing Lewis’s startlingly bright skiing jacket, all orange and purple and lime; she looked like a little psychedelic blonde Buddha perched on the tartan car rug.) Something calmer than that, something slower.

‘- ternational law is only so goddman sacrosanct when it isn’t something awkward like the World Court telling America to quit mining Nicaraguan harbours.’

But perhaps I was wrong about Ash being interested in me, anyway. Ashley was the one I remembered talking to in the Jac that evening after Grandma Margot’s cremation; she was the one who kept telling me to tell Verity I loved her. If you love her, tell her. Wasn’t that what she’d said? So if Ashley felt anything for me beyond friendship, why hadn’t she said anything to me? And if she did feel anything, what was she doing going off with this friend of Droid’s?