Saturday afternoon: the High Street full of families. Eleanor leaned forward in her seat and tapped on the window of the cafe.
‘There are the girls – look. On the other side of the street.’ She tapped again.
‘They’ve seen us.’ Marion waved; their daughters weaved between shoppers, the bell of the cafe door pinged and they came up to the table.
‘We’re going to Woolworth’s to get smelly stuff for Emma’s birthday present.’
‘Gimme a taste of your cake, Mum.’ Claire bent her fair head, mouth open, and Eleanor fed her a spoonful of chocolate sponge. A quick pink tongue whisked away a smear of icing from her upper lip. ‘Yum. It’s nice.’
‘Go away,’ Eleanor said. ‘We’re trying to have a quiet cup of tea here.’
‘OK.’
‘Can I have a bit more money?’ Eilidh tugged Marion’s arm. ‘I bought a magazine, and the wrapping paper cost—’
‘How much? Here.’
‘Thanks.’
‘See ya.’
Marion and Eleanor watched the girls stride off up the High Street, leaning together and giggling.
‘What long legs they have,’ Marion said, ‘or is it just the trousers they wear?’
So here we are, Eleanor thought, as the dark head and the fair one disappeared into Woolworth’s. Here we are, eating cake in the afternoon, while our daughters plan parties, discos, presents; our daughters are fillies cantering over grass, tossing soft new manes, testing out the boundaries of the field.
‘You’ve got a funny look on your face,’ Marion said. ‘Is that cake all right?’
‘Fine.’ Irritated, Eleanor pushed the plate away, and poured herself another cup of tea. ‘I was thinking about … time.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do you remember,’ Eleanor went on, adding a splash of milk, ‘David and his friend Stanley Robertson having a den at the bottom of the garden at Pitcairn? They wouldn’t let anyone else in. But when we did go in there was nothing there but a pile of sticks and some sweetie wrappers.’
‘What on earth made you think of that?’
‘I don’t know. It just came into my head.’ Eleanor pushed her finger along the tablecloth, making a track through some spilt sugar. ‘I wonder where he is?’
‘Och, let’s not think about that again. We only go round in circles. He’ll turn up, he always does. And Dad’s all right.’
‘I know. He seems to accept it now – the way Davy disappears.’
‘Used to it,’ Marion said. ‘I think, you know, as long as he has Pitcairn, and the garden, he’s happy.’
‘You’re probably right.’
They turned to look out of the window again, as if expecting to see Claire and Eilidh reappear, but both of them were still picturing the long garden at Pitcairn, and their father going steadily down the path with his wheelbarrow, more slowly, and with a less heavy load now that he had angina. They watched him, in the clear space imagination makes for a real place, a real person.
Then Marion began to gather her things together and Eleanor turned to pick up her bag.
‘Whose turn is it to pay?’
‘Mine, I think.’ Marion opened her purse and poked among the coins. I’m sure it is. I’ve got change for once.’
Eleanor waited by the door while Marion talked to Joan at the till about the weather, and Joan’s mother’s operation. Then they were out in the High Street, and a keen wind flapped open Eleanor’s mac.
‘I’m teaching all week,’ Marion said, ‘so I’ll ring you on Friday.’
‘All right. I’ll be going up to town – but I’ll do it early.’
‘Right. I think it’s turning colder, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Freezing.’
Do I feel the cold more than Marion? Eleanor wondered as she walked up the High Street towards the car park. We should be hardy, we both grew up in that cold house, no central heating. We wore liberty bodices and thick grey socks and navy nap coats in winter, with a wide scarf tied round like a shawl, and pinned at the back. What little barrels we must have looked, wrapped up against the East wind, the snow, the long winters.
Outside the newsagent, Claire and Eilidh were in a huddle of girls. Around the fringes, two or three boys showed off, balancing on the back wheels of their bikes, shoving each other, calling out. The girls said, ‘Hi,’ as Eleanor passed; the boys stared, embarrassed.
‘Tea at six, remember,’ Eleanor said. ‘I’m going out tonight. How are you getting home – you want to come with me now?’
Claire hesitated. ‘No, it’s OK. Sarah’s mum’s picking her up. She’ll let me off at the farm road.’
‘That’s fine.’
When Eleanor bought the cottage, Claire was nine, and had until then been taken everywhere by car: school, Brownie night, swimming club, ballet lessons … Eleanor was scarcely able to remember that different life. Even the names of the other women, and the little girls Claire played with, eluded her. Apart from Barbara, who had been her own close friend, and her daughter Hannah, who was Claire’s, they merged, undifferentiated in memory. Now Claire was almost fifteen, and they were living in a very different world. When she chose her country cottage, Eleanor had been imagining quiet mornings and silent nights, the wind in the trees, and having room to breathe. She had not foreseen Claire’s impatience with its remoteness, or that she herself might one day no longer want to be separate and alone.
She and Claire lived at the far end of a row of three farm cottages. The farm had changed hands before she moved back North, and the cottages were sold off separately. The middle one was bought by Jim and Edie, who had always lived there. Jim had worked on the farm until he retired. The other house had been bought by someone who rented it out as a summer let, then put it up for sale. It had lain empty all the previous winter. In the summer, a couple had bought it, moving in at the end of August, but Eleanor had not seen much of them. Sometimes there were two cars by the door at night, sometimes one, but during the day there was no one at home.
Eleanor had the biggest piece of garden. She spent a lot of time there, but her efforts did not seem to have made much difference to the ragged grass or overgrown borders. Next door, Jim and Edie had flowers and vegetables in neat rows, and a patch of lawn smooth as green felt.
Indoors the cottage felt cold. Eleanor hung up her coat and hurried to the kitchen, which the Rayburn kept warm. She stood with her back to the stove, letting the heat flow up to her neck, resting her hands on the metal bar where the tea-towels were hung. After a moment, she turned and got her apron from the hook behind the back door. Then she began to prepare the meal.
Just before six, Claire came in, banging the door and kicking off her trainers in the narrow hall.
‘Hi, what’s for tea? Sarah’s coming for me at quarter past seven, I’ve to be at the end of the road. Can I have a shower?’
They had just begun to eat when the telephone rang. Claire scraped back her chair. ‘I’ll get it – it might be Eilidh.’
Tell her you’ll ring back.’ But Claire reappeared in a moment.
‘It’s Grandpa John.’
‘Oh, right.’ Eleanor put her plate in the bottom oven to keep warm.
‘Dad?’
‘Marion’s engaged, and she’s an awful bletherer, so I thought I’d try you now.’
‘Dad, can I ring you back, we’re having our tea.’
‘It’s all right, I’ve not phoned to take up your time. I thought you’d want to know David’s home.’
‘When?’
‘Arrived this afternoon, out of the blue. As well it wasn’t my golf day.’
‘On his own?’
‘Aye.’
‘So – how is he? Where’s he been all this time?’
‘You’d better come and ask him yourself.’
‘How long’s he staying?’
‘Och, you know him, never says. A wee while.’
‘I suppose Claire could go to Marion’s. Marion is teaching this week, so she wouldn’t be able to come.’
‘You away to your tea then, don’t let it get cold.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine, lass, I’m just the same.’
‘Right, well, I’ll ring you. See you Wednesday, maybe.’
Claire was reading a magazine while she ate. She looked up as her mother sat down again. ‘Is Grandpa all right?’
‘Yes, your Uncle David’s turned up.’
‘I haven’t seen him for ages – not since I was wee. He came and stayed with us when Dad was alive, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, often. He worked in London then.’
‘Where’s he live now?’
‘Oh, I think – maybe Edinburgh.’
‘Mum! He’s your brother, you must know that.’
Eleanor laughed. ‘He moves around a lot.’
‘Is he coming to see us this time?’
‘I don’t know. Grandpa wants me to go down to Aberdeen and see him.’
‘Can I come?’
‘You’ll be at school.’
‘I could easy miss it, it’s boring just now. We don’t learn anything anyway.’
‘Don’t be daft, Claire.’
‘I liked him – Uncle David. He used to bring presents every time, those play people, remember? I’ve still got them, in the loft.’
‘Did David give you those?’ Eleanor thought back to that other world in Berkshire, the new house, and Ian coming home at seven off the London train in a swarm of commuters. The hot car, Claire bouncing on the back seat, and the other women standing with toddlers and dogs in the treeless car park, July sun merciless on tarmac, flashing off the cars’ metallic sheen. Then Ian, amongst the other men, jacket hooked over his shoulder, tie loose, rumpled and sweaty from London, carrying the Evening Standard and his briefcase.
‘I don’t think it’s fair. You can go off any time you like, and I’m stuck with boring school.’ Claire pushed her plate away, and Eleanor was back in the cottage kitchen, dark enough for the light to be on, October rain spattering against the window.
‘What rubbish. I hardly go anywhere.’ Eleanor stacked plates and cleared the table.
‘I’m having a shower, right?’
‘Don’t use all the hot—’ But Claire had gone. Eleanor fell into a dream, a clutch of cutlery in one hand, thinking of the years when she was married, and her brother David.
By seven she was driving Claire down the farm road to meet Sarah’s mother at the gate. It was raining hard, and they sat in the dark, water streaming down the windows, engine running and lights on so that they kept warm, and Sarah’s mother would see the car.
‘We’re getting all steamed up,’ Clare said, rubbing her window with a sleeve, peering out into oblivion.
‘I’m picking you up from Emma’s tomorrow, is that right?’
‘Yeah, I’ll ring you. Maybe lunch-time.’ She turned to Eleanor. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Out with Andrew. The new doctor in Fergus’s practice.’
‘Oh. Is he your boyfriend now?’
‘I’m too old to have a boyfriend. And I’ve only just met him.’ She hurried on before Claire could ask another question. ‘We’re seeing a film. He’s picking me up at half-past seven, so I hope – look, there they are.’ Another set of headlights, another car moving slowly along the road. Claire grabbed her things, hugging the sleeping bag under one arm.
‘Careful – mind the puddles.’ Eleanor tooted her horn in greeting to Sarah’s mother, then began to turn the car and head back up the track.
She had a tepid shower, cursing Claire, and was ready by the time Andrew’s car stopped outside the cottage.
‘Good week?’ he asked as she got into the car.
‘Fine. Hang on – is that my phone?’ Inside the cottage, ringing. ‘You’re not on call?’
‘No, no – I’d have the bleeper, anyway.’
‘I’d better get it.’ Halfway out of the car, Andrew’s voice following her. ‘The film starts at eight-fifteen, and we’re cutting it fine as it is!’ But she was already unlocking the door and hurrying into the hallway.
‘Thank God, I thought you’d gone out. I desperately need someone not elderly to talk to.’
‘Hello, David.’
‘Hi, Eleanor – are you OK? Dad said you were coming down, but he’s got Alice and Mamie here and they’re driving me crazy.’
‘Oh, the aunts. They drive him crazy. David, look, I’m sorry, I was on my way out. I can’t talk just now, we’ll miss the beginning, of the film. I only came back because the phone was ringing.’
‘And telepathically, you knew it was me, and I was in dire straits.’
‘Rubbish, of course you’re not. Just bored.’ And drunk, she thought, realising this. Or had a few at any rate. ‘Look, I’ll ring you tomorrow.’ She was conscious of Andrew, whom she hardly knew, waiting outside. And yet, what she wanted to do was stand in the cold hall and talk to her brother. ‘I’ll see you on Wednesday, I told Dad I’d come down. Or – Davy, you could come here. Claire was saying she wanted to see you again.’
‘Gorgeous Claire – is she still blonde and beautiful?’
‘Oh yes, even more so.’ She was laughing.
Andrew was in the doorway. ‘Are you OK? We’ll be late, they won’t let us in.’
‘All right, sorry. Coming. David, got to go, someone’s waiting for me. No, tell you later. See you.’
‘My brother,’ she explained, as Andrew drove too fast down the track and leaped onto the main road through blinding rain. ‘We’d sort of lost touch. But he always resurfaces,’ she went on, aware that this man, whom she had met twice before, liked the look of, no more than that, was annoyed. ‘Sorry,’ she added. ‘It was a bit of a shock, hearing his voice.’
‘So where is he now?’
‘At my dad’s. At Pitcairn.’
‘Right, your family home. Isn’t that what Fergus said? Where is it?’
‘Aberdeenshire.’ Yes, she thought, my home, my childhood. Suddenly there was something in the car headlights. Then it was gone. ‘Careful! What was that? Too big for a rabbit.’ She swivelled, but saw nothing in the blackness.
‘Fox, maybe.’ They were on the A9 now, and he had steadied. He seemed to have stopped being annoyed.
‘Sorry,’ Eleanor said again. ‘Didn’t mean to hold you up.’
The evening was changed, and the film, which he had wanted to see, and she had agreed to because Marion had said how nice he was, how it was time she went out with men again, floated past, leaving her unmoved. Her thoughts were busy with David, and the past. She had forgotten the sense of excitement he could generate, even on the end of a telephone line. I want to talk to him, she thought. I want to ring him up when we get home, or go straight to Aberdeen tomorrow and see him again.
‘Can I give you a coffee?’ Andrew asked as they came out of the cinema and walked to the car. ‘Or do you have to get straight home?’
Eleanor considered this. What did it mean? She had gone out with only two men since Ian’s death, and this was one of them. The first one had not been much of a success. She had suspected he really just hoped for sex; he seemed like a man who was not sure how to find it. Worse, he had bored her. Now she thought Andrew might turn out to be boring too and really, it was best not to give him the idea this could go on, get anywhere. David had upset her and made everything look different.
‘All right,’ she said, ‘yes. Thank you.’ Immediately, she regretted this, and worried all the way to the Tore roundabout, where she gathered courage, and told him, actually, she was tired, so if it was all right with him, she would just go home. ‘But,’ she said, now regretting having changed her mind, ‘you could have coffee with me, if you like.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘If you’re tired, we’d better leave it.’ Was there a hint of sarcasm in this? Eleanor could not tell, and blushed, glad the car was too dark for him to see. What she wanted, she decided, was that he should be just a friend. Now David was back, she would have that anyway, and without all the tiresome business of getting to know each other first.
The rest of the way home, they politely discussed the film.
‘I still don’t understand,’ Eleanor said as the car drew up at the cottage, ‘how the man with the gun knew they were in Switzerland. It’s a mystery to me, that sort of film. Too complicated.’
‘Well, here’s something simple, instead,’ he said, switching off the engine and turning to her, so that she knew he meant to kiss her, and that if she wanted it to, this could lead (now, or later) to sex. So she kissed him back, but without enthusiasm, not sure she liked his calm face so close to hers. Oh, I am tired, she thought, and my period’s due, that’s all it is. She moved her mouth away, leaning with a sigh on his chest. It was as if she was somewhere above them both, watching indifferently as he caressed her shoulder, tried another kiss.
‘I’ll give you a ring,’ he said after a moment or two.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that would be nice.’
Through the night, she woke once, wondering where she was. She had been dreaming of Pitcairn, and David.