Adam's Peak (47 page)

Was there a place in Stanwick to buy hiking boots, she wondered, or would it be necessary to wait until she returned to London? She'd packed running shoes and Birkenstocks, but nothing suitable for climbing. A silly oversight, really, for anywhere she might go there would be scenic hikes. Scotland, France, the north of Spain. And if she were to climb a sacred mountain, she would need decent boots. Her right hand clenched, and she rubbed her index finger with her thumb. It wasn't such a strange idea; it was something people did: travel to a place for the purpose of climbing a mountain. Unlike Patrick, she would avoid the full moon festival. She would climb alone, in the daytime.

Patrick again pointed across the fields. “There's another couple of cows over there. Do you see them?”

They'd stopped next to a low stone wall. Clare squinted in the direction Patrick was pointing but could make out only a distant smudge of brown.

“Why did you and Anne come back to Scotland?” she said.

Patrick looked around, as if to confirm that he was indeed in Scotland. “It's home,” he said. “We're not strangers here.”

IN THE LATE AFTERNOON
she returned to the abbey and sat in one of the back pews of the main sanctuary. There were a few tourists strolling silently around the periphery, but the cavernous space was otherwise deserted. Leaning against a stone arch, she extracted a stack of postcards and a pen from her bag. A hard-covered New Testament gave her something to write on. She cast her eyes down the empty aisle, down the choir, to the distant altar, admired the afternoon light shining feebly through the dark rose window, then she selected a card—a photo of a living room furnished in the style of Charles Rennie Mackintosh—and began to write.

Hi Markus. I'm writing this from my parents' hometown of Stanwick, not too far from Glasgow. The weather has been very Scottish. So far I've mainly been visiting, but I'm hoping to get more adventurous in the next few weeks. Don't think I'll make it to Germany, but thanks for the recommendations. Tell Peter I'm going through with Plan A after all (after France, that is). He'll explain. I hope all's well at the shop. Say hi to everyone for me. All the best, Clare

She imagined Markus sitting at his desk under the composer calendar, reading her card. For the first time in a long time, perhaps ever, she imagined him happy. She added a smiling face to the bottom of the card and went on to the next one.

Salut Marielle! J'espère que tout va bien. Je suis en Écosse (non, je n'ai pas encore vu de beaux hommes en kilt, à part ces gars sur les cartes postales!). J'ai hâte de voir la maison en Normandie. Merci encore une fois à tes parents. Le festival de jazz a-t-il été bon? C'est la première fois que je le manque depuis je ne sais pas combien d'années. Bon été! Claire

Dear Emma, the church on the front of this card is where I'm sitting right now. I have the place pretty much to myself. It's
amazing to think that some of these arches were constructed 400 years before Shakespeare. Some of the lighter coloured stonework is obviously

She stopped, reread what she'd written, then tossed the card aside. From the remaining ones, she selected a photo of a purple heather shrub and began again.

I did it, Emma. I found him. Didn't want to say anything on the phone (it was a little overwhelming, I guess). Anyway, he's a perfectly decent, interesting person (probably a better match for my mum than Dad was), and we got along fine. I had lunch with him and his wife (no kids). He talks nonstop, which made things easy. Saying goodbye was a little strange. I suddenly realized I might not ever see him again, and I felt kind of weird and out of sorts. He did invite me back, though. So we'll see. Will write again soon. C.

Hi Ma. Thought you'd appreciate this scene of the high street as it's looking these days, video shop and all. I went to Margaret's church this morning and talked with her for a while after. She got me to play “Blowin' in the Wind” for her. Remember that? I told her you'd write. And yes, I found Patrick Locke. His wife took a photo of the two of us, which she promised to send. He's worked on merchant ships most of his life. Says you should look him up next time you're home. I'm going to spend some time in London before France. Thought I'd check out some other travel possibilities while I'm there. Running out of room; will call soon. Love, Clare

She shook out her hand and looked around. The tourists had gone, leaving her alone in the massive, magnificent sanctuary. From her place at the back, it was easy to imagine that this abbey had been inspired by God. Except for a few colour variations in the masonry, everything—nave, transept, choir—seemed gloriously unified. But the impression was apparently misleading. The guidebook Clare had picked up at
the shop where she bought the postcards treated the abbey's haphazard evolution as a point of pride. “English invaders, accidental fires, structural failures, zealous Reformers, and equally zealous renovators of every persuasion from High Gothic to Abstract Expressionist have inscribed themselves on the sacred space,” the book boasted, before concluding that the history of Stanwick Abbey was as random and contingent as that of the country itself.

Leaning against the cool stone arch, tapping her pen lazily against the stack of postcards, Clare attempted to recall Patrick's recounting of Scotland's Wars of Independence, of which she'd known absolutely nothing before the topic came up over tea and dessert. Patrick was something of a Scottish nationalist, he'd said. A mess of invasions and vaguely familiar names circled her head, accompanied by a rogue voice—not Patrick's, strangely—insisting that this was really fascinating stuff. The voice was clear and distinct, yet it took several repetitions before she recognized it as Mr. Vantwest's. “Fascinating stuff ” he'd said of British history, the afternoon Clare and her mother went for tea.

Again she looked around. Mr. Vantwest would be in his element here. He would pore over the faded stone inscriptions, make sense of the stained glass battles, populate the cloisters with medieval monks. She picked up the postcard with the photograph of the abbey and wished she hadn't wasted it. It would have been perfect. There was no obvious reason to send her neighbour either of the remaining cards; still, she selected a Glasgow street scene and wrote “Dear Mr. Vantwest” on the back. The rest was more difficult. She wanted to write; it seemed suddenly important. But the writing needed a pretense. Chewing her pen, she considered the possibilities.

Dear Mr. Vantwest, I hope you're well. I'm visiting my parents' hometown ...

Dear Mr. Vantwest, greetings to you and your sister. The streets here in Scotland are certainly different from Morgan Hill Road ...

Dear Mr. Vantwest, I thought you would be interested to know that I've decided to take a trip ...

Dear Mr. Vantwest, I've just had a very unusual experience. It turns out my father
—

This last thread was impossible, of course, but it gave her what she wanted. Not even a pretense, but a message she should have delivered
long ago. She returned to the Glasgow street scene, studied her opening greeting, then dropped the card onto the pew, on top of the wasted photo of Stanwick Abbey. Her last remaining postcard was a picture of two Highland calves.

Dear Alec, ever since I visited you the day you found out about the bombing in Colombo I've been wanting to tell you something. You spoke to me about Adam and his feelings for you. I don't know Adam well, but on the day of his accident he gave me a ride to the shops, and he talked about you. He knows you love him, and he loves you too. You talked about being responsible for all the misfortune in your family, but I don't think Adam would believe this. I think he'd say that things are much more complicated than that. I hope you don't mind my writing to you like this. I thought it was important, and I'm sorry it's taken me so long to do it. Yours truly, Clare Fraser

At the post office she bought an envelope for the card. She'd left no room for the address, and in any case the message was private. She also bought a stamp for the Stanwick Abbey card. Writing quickly, to make the last pickup of the day, she completed the description of the church, signed and addressed the card, then scratched out Emma's name and wrote “Joanne” in its place. Mrs. Skinner would be pleased.

D
ESPITE THE PRE-DAWN CHILL
and the hardness of the bench, Uncle Ernie slept. Rudy listened to the steady rise and fall of his breathing and envied his uncle's adaptability. His own night had been spent shifting from one awkward, cramped position to another, all the while tugging and stretching the blanket to keep it both under his body as a flimsy mattress and on top of him for warmth. It was possible he'd slept, but not much more than a fitful hour in total. Now, as the darkness began to thin, he lay on his back with his legs bent and stared up at the cracks in the wood plank ceiling. Resigned to wakefulness, he found it easier to be comfortable, even to appreciate the silence and the faint cooking-fire smell of the air.

Yet the company made him uneasy. His uncle's presence was a little like that of a one-night-stand lover he hadn't meant to wake up with. Their relationship didn't justify being alone together in such a close, dark space. To distract himself from the old man's gentle snoring, Rudy began a letter in his head. His time with Ernie had fostered a new sympathy for his father, and he was eager to act on it before the feeling disappeared.

He'd start with the easy stuff.
I hope you're well and that the summer is turning out as hot as you like it. Sorry I wasn't there to work on the garden with you
this year. I always enjoy our expeditions to the nursery
. As soon as it was light enough, he would leave the shed and find a place to sit at the summit, where he would write the letter out on a back page of his diary.
You may be surprised to hear this, but I'm at the top of Sri Pada with Uncle Ernie—with your brother, Ernie. Aunty Mary convinced him to look me up, as I'm sure you know, and we decided to come up here together. It's obvious that Adam takes after him. Would it be fair to say that Ernie is at the root—No, scratch that. Forget I mentioned it. It doesn't matter. Ernie's an interesting guy, but I think he'd get on my nerves after a while. The person he reminds me of most is Grandpa. Of course, Adam looks a lot like him, but that doesn't mean much. How is Adam doing? Look, Dad, I'm sorry I haven't been around the past few months. Next time you're with him, could you tell him that I climbed the peak for him? God, I'm a self-centred prick. Don't tell him that. I mean that I climbed up here for him. You can tell him I'm a prick, though. Be my guest. And you can tell him I say he has to get better, because we all need him. You know that, right, Dad? How's Susie doing? I've been thinking about her and
...

He squinted toward the door. His imagined letter had spun out of control, and the ache in his pelvis needed to be walked out. Slowly, stiffly, he pushed aside the blanket and sat up. His clothes were wretched—grimy from the climb, creased and rank from having been slept in while damp. Eager now to be out of the shed, he slid his feet into his hiking boots but didn't bother tying them. He groped for his knapsack then crossed to the door in a single, silent step. Outside, the sky was indigo and clear; the air was bracing. He limped to a clump of bushes behind the shed and unzipped his fly, praying that the chicken curry he'd eaten the night before would hold its peace until he'd returned to civilization.

At the entrance to the compound that housed the footprint, there was no sign of the gatekeeper, but the gate had been left unlocked. Rudy swung it open, then he remembered his boots. It would be especially boorish, he supposed, to flout custom after the gatekeeper had been as accommodating as he had. Nevertheless, it was damn cold out, and the idea of wandering about barefoot was more off-putting now than it had been the previous afternoon. As a compromise, he removed his socks—stiff and filthy anyway—then slid his feet back into his boots. If the gatekeeper appeared, he could pull them off speedily enough. Stuffing the socks into his jacket pockets, he entered the compound.