An Ocean Apart (5 page)

George rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and, closing his eyes, began rubbing his forehead in small circular movements with his fingers, his mind suddenly brought into involuntary conflict over his own instinctive paternal protection of his offspring and the continued well-being of his business. He had a mental vision of his son, who only a year before had himself been a vital and dynamic young man with his whole happy life mapped out before him, and who now spent every one of his waking hours endlessly and mindlessly digging in the garden at Inchelvie, never wishing to end his task lest his brain be taken over with thoughts of his dead wife.

Duncan watched him closely, noticing the colour drain from his face. He was about to say something when George spoke slowly.

“I do mean it. I don't think that David can take on anything like this just yet.”

Duncan thought for a moment. “I was about to say, George, that it may be just what David needs—to get away from Scotland, to go somewhere completely different. I promise you it won't be too taxing. All David will really have to do is … well, just be there.”

Lord Inchelvie sighed, realizing that for once the wretched man was actually showing some concern. “I know,” he said, his voice sounding old and thin, “and I'm grateful for your understanding of the situation. But it's not just that. I'm pretty sure that David wouldn't want to be too far from the children just at the minute.”

The smile slid from Duncan's face. He looked at George for a moment, then rose from his chair and started to pace up the boardroom.

“Listen, I quite see your point, but you have to look at it from where I stand. I was brought into this company a year ago to make sure that it grows. So far, I have achieved this. However, I cannot continue to do it without your full support. Right now, I am in desperate need of a marketing director. I cannot afford to lose further market share in our single most important overseas market.” He turned and looked directly at George. “I really do need a marketing director right now. I'm sorry to have to say this, George, but if David is not able to fulfil his role, then I'll have to think about replacing him.” Duncan had reached the other end of the table. He swung around briskly to face George before continuing. “Regardless of who David is, I'm afraid that I will have to ask the board to give this its full consideration at the meeting.”

Duncan looked at his watch. “I hope I haven't kept you too long. Will you still be able to make your meeting?”

George nodded slowly and raised his hand in acknowledgement.

“Well, good night, then, and drive carefully. I think the roads may well be pretty dicey with all this rain.”

He turned towards the door, opened it and left the room. George sat for a moment, then rose from his chair and shuffled over to the telephone on the table at the side of the boardroom. He lifted the receiver and dialled.

“Hullo, Hamish?… Yes, it's George Inchelvie … Listen, I'm afraid that I won't be able to make the meeting tonight … no, I'm sorry, but something has cropped up. Can you give my apologies? Thank you, Hamish. All well?… Good … my love to Christine … goodbye.”

Chapter
  
THREE

Jock leaned his fork against his body and blew on his hands in a vain attempt to get some warmth back into his numbed fingers. As twilight set in, the rain seemed to come on harder, and the sound of David digging next to him was drowned out by the heavy splattering on his sou'wester and the arctic wind that whisked about his face. Jock winced as he picked up his fork, the dampness kneading at his arthritic shoulders. He looked over to David, who as always continued to dig without break, oblivious to the conditions in which he was working.

“Mr. David.”

David straightened up, dug his fork into the ground and looked round.

“Mr. David, it's getting kind of dark.”

David snorted a laugh at Jock's morose diplomacy, knowing full well that this understatement of fact was Jock's way of saying that they were both bloody mad to be out digging a garden in the pouring rain, with darkness falling so fast that they could hardly see what they were doing.

But that was Jock. As long as David had known him, and that must be, he thought on reflection, for the best part of his life, Jock had always been miserly with words. He would work away in the garden with such a dark look of solemnity on his face, it was as if he held the world in its entirety responsible for this inability to communicate. Yet under this hard exterior was a kind heart, and it had been Jock himself who had approached David at the outset of his task to restore the old flower-beds with a short, offhand statement to show his willingness to lend support. “Here, man, you've no idea how to handle a fork, do ye?”

After that they had worked together constantly, Jock greeting David each morning with a flick of his chin to the side and a sound emanating from his mouth that was as brief and as incomprehensible as a question mark. It was a perfect partnership. Neither wished to talk about himself or his thoughts; the physical act of digging and raking the new beds, planting the new roses, and watching their efforts take shape was sufficient to create a bond of understanding between the two men.

David looked up at the blackened sky and nodded. “Yes, Jock, I think you're probably right. Sorry about keeping you out so long. I was hoping that we might be able to finish this bed today.” He pulled his fork out of the ground, stepped back off the flower-bed onto the grass, and for a moment surveyed their day's achievement. “Come on, we'll call it a day. We'll get the rest done tomorrow.”

“Aye, if the Lord spares us,” Jock said gruffly. “Gie me your fork, Mr. David, and I'll tak' the tools tae the shed.”

David handed over his tool and fondly watched the old boy head off, his waterproof clothing creaking and rubbing as he walked. David delved deep into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the grubby plastic folder that contained the garden plan. He started slowly towards the house, studying the drawings as he walked, then stopped and turned around to look back at the new flower-beds. The project was almost finished. Just that last bit around the variegated holly-tree to reclaim, and then the Inchelvie garden would be as it was before.

Yet he really didn't want the garden ever to be complete. It would break the spell of continuity which had existed since he started the job, his days of work linking the present with the past, linking this very moment as he stood there, rain dripping off his head and running down his face, with Rachel.

He placed both earthy hands on his face and pulled them down to his chin, clearing the water from his face and at the same time wiping away the unwelcome tears welling up in his eyes. “Shit!”

He slapped hard at his face with both hands to clear his head, then turned and began to jog across the lawn. As he rounded the side of the house he broke into an ungainly sprint, his arm movements restricted by his waterproof jacket and his loose-fitting Wellington boots burping out air as he ran.

He threw open the wrought-iron gate which led out onto the gravel sweep at the front of the house, slammed it shut, and heard it miss its catch and bounce open again behind him. He stopped and put his hands on his hips, and as he caught his breath, he heard above the wind the sound of a car going through its gears on the drive. He strained to see if he could make it out, managing only to catch the faint red glimmer of its rear-lights glinting through the trees before losing it to the darkness and the wind.

He shut and snibbed the gate, then, crossing the gravel, took the steps two at a time and threw open the front door, just as his mother was making her way across the hallway in the direction of the drawing-room. She swung round with a start. “David!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands to her heart. “What a fright you gave me!”

“Sorry about that,” he said, smiling at her and holding up his hand in apology. He unzipped his jacket and threw it onto the church pew, then proceeded to toe one boot off with the other.

“How are you getting on, darling?” Alicia asked, coming across the hall towards him.

“What?” he said almost defensively, balancing on one foot as he pulled up his sock.

“With the garden, I mean.”

“Oh, all right. We'll get that bed finished tomorrow.”

“Well, I think that's marvellous, especially doing all that work in those dreadful conditions. You and Jock must be soaked to the skin. Has he gone home?”

“Yup, about ten minutes ago.”

“Good, because Effie left half an hour ago to make him his tea. We were going to eat early, but your father has just telephoned to say that he's cancelled his meeting for some reason. So, half past seven all right for you, darling?”

“Yup, that's great.” David placed his boots together and kicked them under the pew. Alicia pushed the dripping jacket to one side and sat down, trying to get below David's level so that she could make eye contact with her son. He caught her eye momentarily and gave her a faint smile before turning and walking towards the staircase. Alicia watched him go, and with a deep sigh, rose slowly to her feet and followed him across the hallway.

“I saw a car go down the road just then,” David said, without turning.

Alicia stopped, surprised at being given this sudden and rare opportunity to enter into conversation with her son. “Yes, that was Jane Spiers,” she said in a bright little voice, immediately being aware of the falseness of its tone. She cleared her throat to cover up for her over-keenness in grasping this slim and unexpected chance of communication, and continued in a more controlled voice. “She popped in for a cup of tea. I had just seen her off when you walked in. She was, well, just finding out how everything was, or is, so to speak.”

David turned and looked at his mother out of the side of his eyes. She tilted her head and smiled at him.

“That was nice of her.” He paused. “Well, I'll just, erm”—he pointed up the stairs—“go and have a bath.”

Alicia nodded. “You do that, darling. Dad and I will see you down here at about quarter past seven.”

As he walked slowly up the stairs, Alicia crossed her arms and leaned against the panelled wall, watching him until he was out of sight above her. She heard his bedroom door open and close behind him. She shut her eyes for a moment, shook her head and murmured to herself, “Oh, David.” Then, walking back to the door of the drawing-room, she opened it and entered.

David turned off the gush of water that ran from the huge Victorian mixer tap into the bath, and bent over to stir up the peaty-brown water, still in its natural state from the holding tank, being fed by the spring high on the moor above Inchelvie. He threw off his dressing-gown onto the floor and stepped with one leg over into the bath, simultaneously taking his watch off his wrist. As he laid it on the chair beside him, he noticed that its face was misted with condensation. He rubbed it clear with his thumb. It was three minutes to six—just about news time.

He stepped back out of the bath and walked through the bathroom's steaming atmosphere to the mirrored cabinet above the basin. He opened it, took a small transistor radio from the top shelf, and closed the door, its mirror swinging round like a trap to catch the diffused outline of his face. He stood there staring back at his own unrecognizable features, a face that told nothing: not good looks or ugliness, humour or anger, happiness or sadness. It registered neither identity nor emotion, and he felt an obscure sense of comfort just looking at it.

He placed the transistor on the side of the basin and slowly brought his hand up to wipe the mirror clear. There it was, the face that he knew, its gauntness now accentuated by the muddy streaks left by his fingers when he wiped his face in the garden. Just one year ago, he thought to himself, that forty-three-year-old face had registered the thoughts and cares of a twenty-five-year-old, and now, one year on, it seemed to have doubled its age.

David reached up and threw the door of the cupboard open to break the spell of self-remorse, just catching it before it slammed against the bathroom wall. “Bugger it,” he said out loud. “Will you stop thinking of yourself all the bloody time!”

He picked up the radio and turned it on, twiddling the dial to find the news, its speaker screeching a plethora of tones as if in defiance to its rough handling. Somewhere in the middle, he caught the merest sensation of the introductory bars of a song. He stopped and turned the dial backwards. There it was, then a voice-over, “… good you could join us this evening. This is Danny McKay on Moray Firth Radio going back in time with a beautiful track from Smokey Robinson and the Miracles—‘Tracks of My Tears.'”

He held the radio in front of him as the bars unfolded into the song. “People say I'm the life of a party, 'cos I tell a joke or two.” He cradled the radio in his hands as if he were carrying a small injured bird, frightened that if he moved it too much, it would suddenly stop breathing and die. “So take a good look at my face, can't you see the smile, it's out of place.” Laying it down carefully on the chair next to his watch, he stepped into his bath and slowly lowered himself downwards, allowing the luxury of the water to flood over his body, and the memories to flood through his mind.

Chapter
  
FOUR

That year, Oxford had uncustomarily shimmered in heat since the first week in May, bringing an early influx of tourists to streets already burgeoning with the youthful, buzzing throng of student life. The weekends were worst of all. On that particular Saturday, the volume of traffic going into town was horrendous, tailing back down St. Aldates as far as the police station. David sat in his stationary car silently cursing himself, realizing that he had been stuck in its baking interior far longer than it would have taken him to walk the distance from the Christchurch College tennis courts to the Kings Arms on Holywell Street.