Rise (16 page)

Not today, mind. Donald John McCall summoned him for a ‘chat’. When the Leader of the Council calls, you jump. Councillor McCall’s fireplace is enormous: a huge and ostentatious stone mantel. It is post-modern Gothic, the tourist brochure said. Yes, tourists come to the council chambers sometimes, when they do Doors Open Day. Take in the cabinets, the fancy stairs, the florid portraits.

‘Have a seat, son.’

Donald John was at school with his dad, has been instrumental in finding this niche for Michael, so he tells himself ‘son’ is a sign of affection.

‘This whole windfarm fandango is growing arms and legs, eh?’

‘Mm.’

‘Renewables, renewables, Michael. That’s oor mantra, eh? All anyone bangs on about now. Schools, houses, roads: you get laughed out the park if you put them before the great god Wind.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. But the other night, I had to leave—’

‘Aye, your boy. All sorted, is he?’

‘Well . . .’

‘Scotland’s fastest-growing energy source, wind.’

‘Yes.’

‘Still no fast enough. Can I remind you that the government – our government, mind – has a target of one hundred per cent renewables by 2020? Even if that means foresting every hill, moor and sea with the whirly buggers . . .’

‘I know. I understand.’

‘Good lad.’

For an SNP-led local authority to fail to push through an SNP-approved flagship key-plank policy, green-revolution future-deal windpowered whatever-they-call-it, is political suicide. If the independence referendum succeeds, but this windfarm fails, well, it’s a no-brainer. The ship will sail without him. There will be no place in Free Scotia for a promising start who stutters to a stop.

The referendum is only months away. He cannot thole that there’s the promise of something he’s wanted all his life so close, and that it might come to pass, and that he could miss it. Michael has done everything correctly. He has leafleted and campaigned. He has orated, counselled, schmoozed, borne witness. His party are top-dogs, after so many hungry years. They are the breath of change. Folk aye say they like change: they are frequently daft enough to vote for it. But he’s learning that, when push comes to shove and the promise of the bright new world you were elected on becomes hard fact and brass tacks, they all revert. Nimbies and naysayers, the lot of them.

Now his own wife seeks to thwart him. Humiliation. It wakes him at night, like trees tapping on the windows, like the nagging sense of things not done, of things undone, of wrong, of wrong . . . Michael clutches his spoon. He is calm. He is sitting in his kitchen. Concentrate, Michael. You have sensible problems. You have an unwell son who needs you to be strong. You have matters of state with which to deal. A referendum looming. Scottish Independence. Important, real things. Any time his confidence wavers, he simply turns on the news. Looks at how the government in Westminster is destroying all semblance of socialism, is crushing anyone and anything that is fragile and speaks of care, not profit, any structure or safety net – no matter how essential – that does not offer value to a rapacious world, and thinks:
you do not speak for me
.

He checks the kitchen clock. No rest for the wicked. But it’s good, busy. He’s been chasing his tail all day: trees damaging field drains; a neighbour dispute over night-time chainsaws has finally been sorted; he’s had a meeting with a lady who wants to open a therapeutic nature and nudist holiday camp (he thinks there may be licensing issues with that one). Michael checks the clock again. Its movements are jerky, automatic and he is taking nothing in, he sees a flash of red, sees a ribbon of blood, it’s just a jug, a bit of red glass, sees a blue, blue wing outside. He steadies his breathing. Quick bite of his sandwich. Busy, busy, busy. He wants to snare Euan’s doctor before visiting starts. And he’ll need to arrange a meeting with these damned archaeologists. Damage limitation. He stands up to get more bread. Sees Ross scampering up the path, waving at him. Michael raises his soup spoon in reply. Those wee stout legs do a mini-haka, then the door opens. Ross launches himself at Michael’s knees.

‘Daddy! Daddy! I made a bunny face!’ Pink tongue poking through a yellow-crayoned mask.

‘Woah! That’s brilliant, Rossie. Really good. Hello, Justine.’

‘Hiya.’ Justine leans over the range, stirs the pot. ‘Ross, would you like a bit of cake?’

‘Ooh-ooh.’ He stomps and skips.

‘I thought you were a bunny, wee man, not a monkey?’ In one fluid move, Justine sorts plate, knife, cake and child. ‘Come and give your daddy peace.’

‘Are you going to do that brown colour in your head now?’

‘Mmhm.’

‘Can I help?’

‘Nope. Come on now, monkey.’

Quietly, she closes the door on him. Michael sits, stretches out his legs. To eat a meal in peace. This is bliss. Where is Hannah anyway? Upstairs? Out? No matter what she says, he’s positive she had something to do with those archaeologists. There’s a wee slide to her eyes, a levelling of her mouth when – he chews the dry bread. When she lies. Och, maybe he approached the whole thing wrong. Un-politically. He needs to practise being like Donald John, where every hiccup is an opportunity to convert, cajole, bad-mouth, reinvent, restore. But not confront.
Catch mair bees with honey, son
.

This archaeology thing’s been niggling him. If he’s honest, a tiny bit of him is sad that he didn’t think of it first. He knows Hannah’s struggling with her book. Heard her say so to Mhairi.
I don’t know who these people are
.

Years ago, when she’d been stuck with a poem, he’d taken her to Tantallon Castle. The poem had been about the sea – any sea, really – but she’d written it in Glasgow. It’s not working. It’s too . . . passionless. So, this one Saturday he’d got them in the car: Hannah, Euan – who was just a wee tot – and driven east to Tantallon. A majestic ruin, the castle sat clifftop-square to the raging sea. Oh, Michael didn’t have words the way Hannah did, but he’d seen spume that day, and silver fishtails and a deep dark pulsing power that rocked and shimmered under the water. By afternoon, the poem was written. As they were driving home, she’d said, ‘That filled me up’, and leaned over to kiss the side of his face. He’d been going to say something crass like
Oh, I’ll do that later, if you don’t mind
, because they’d joked like that, in those days. But Euan had been there, and anyway, he’d known exactly what she meant. It’s why he prayed.

Michael doesn’t know any writers, other than his wife. Occasionally, when they are in Glasgow or Edinburgh, she’ll drag him to a book launch or literary event, so he meets the odd one there. Odd being the operative word. But he doesn’t know any of these folk, so he can’t compare them with Hannah. Do all writers work the same way? For a woman who lives by her imagination, Hannah frequently needs to touch things, smell them, see them. He’d caught her in front of a mirror once, with her hand clasped up at her mouth, as if she was going to punch herself.

Longing
, she’d smiled.
I’m trying to see what longing looks like
.

Perhaps the dig could be a good thing. Donald John said nothing about stopping it – and Michael doesn’t think he can. It won’t interfere with the windfarm; the men are up at Crychapel, which is nowhere near the planned site. In fact, he’ll tell Hannah that he doesn’t mind. That it’s all good. Indeed, it shows transparency on the council’s part. He’ll arrange a meeting as a surprise, and take her too. Present it as a gift. If digging trenches in Crychapel Wood and hoicking up old bits of pot can make Hannah write well and be happy, if Michael can show he’s relaxed . . . Digging up the past will be a good thing. It will be a big bomb of distraction, and he can get on with representing the people’s interests. Even if the people rarely know what those are.

Michael set out, twenty years since, to be a good minister. To give the people what was good for them. In that, he failed. Is he going to fail again? He’s only following orders. Folk understand that, surely? And it is for the greater good. How can people not see that? How can’t she? Without renewables, the world will dry up. No oil, no gas. No heat. No oxygen. His head aches. The clock in the hall chimes quarter to five. Is it that late? The kitchen clock assures him that it is. Visiting’s at seven. Dammit. He said he’d do those posters.

Hannah’s written several drafts on foolscap, but they’re all a bit angry. ‘Find the car that hit our son.’ That kind of thing. He’s worried folk will turn away. People need to care about what’s happened to Euan, so they’ll help. He puts his bowl and plate in the dishwasher (unsure if the kitchen is now Justine’s domain or if Hannah’s rules still apply. Michael Anderson:
New man
). There’s some cardboard in his study. If he does the posters now, he can go over his transport committee papers at the hospital. Michael pauses on the stair. OK. This is the point the Ghost should appear: ‘Reading your papers at hospital, eh? Like Hannah and her writing, eh? But yours is proper work, eh, Michael? Eh?’

He listens hard, but there is only the happy hum of the boiler and bursts of xylophonic chase music from the cartoons Ross is watching in the lounge. Cheered by this good news, he treads the narrow stairs down to the basement. His study is panelled and dim; is perfect for containing all your thoughts. He can climb inside himself here, like he’s walking inside his brain. A middle-aged explorer, poking murky corners, disturbing the occasional cloud of birds. So far, the Ghost has not visited him here either. Justine’s room faces his study. Outside her door, he hesitates. It is not quite shut, he can see her towelling her hair. It’s one of the turquoise towels Hannah keeps for guests. Should he say . . . He blinks. Her back is naked. Shaped like a violin. Oh.

Oh.

Why did she come here?

He could just ask her, he could just say what is your game or who
is
Myra but it has been calm, so calm in the manse and the nice food, his shirts are clean and when he goes too deep it hurts. For the present, he will skate lightly on the surface of his life. Ask no questions, tell no lies. Justine is beautiful. It makes him happy just to look at her. Not with desire. No. She is a hungry soul, with capable blue-white shoulders. If there’s any point the Ghost will rise up, it will be . . . NOW! Whispering temptations in his ear. He steels himself. Feels a well of peace. The Ghost has gone. It was a blip brought on by overwork, that’s all.

He watches Justine rummage in her wardrobe. Reaching far into the back, mouth moving like she’s counting. He turns away, to give her privacy. Gathers up the transport file from his desk. Gets out the cardboard, slams a few drawers. Returns to the little hallway that separates them, waits a moment, then chaps the door.

‘Justine?’

‘Yes?’

‘Would you mind giving me a hand with some posters? Hannah asked me, but I’m a bit pushed for time . . .’

‘Sure. Be up in a minute.’

‘Great. We’ll do them in the kitchen, eh?’

He goes up, fills the kettle. Feels light and high. The coloured china on the dresser gleams, the sky outside is polished from the rain. His son will – is – getting better. He is a fortunate man. His wife is beautiful. He should relax.

Justine’s hair looks darker when it’s wet. He switches on the kettle. ‘Tea?’

‘Sure.’

The house is very still. Ross’s cartoons are muted. Michael goes through, opens the door to the lounge. ‘All right in there?’

Ross nods, eyes glued to the screen. He keeps the door open. Justine has poured the water on to the tea bags. ‘You take sugar, don’t you?’ Spoon poised already above the cup.

‘Please. One. I thought we could use a photo,’ he says.

‘Sorry? Of what?’

‘Euan.’

She blanches. It touches him she’s so upset for his son.

‘Why?’

‘To try and get some witnesses?’

‘For what?’

‘For the accident? We’re making posters about Euan’s accident.’ He lays out the coloured card. Justine’s in the middle of drinking her tea, and it shoots out her nose as she coughs.

‘Sorry! Here!’ He hands her a piece of kitchen roll. ‘You all right?’

She’s dabbing her lips. ‘Shit. I think I got some on this.’ There’s a sheaf of papers on the dresser. ‘Is that Hannah’s book?’

‘Is it? I don’t know why she’s left it up there.’

‘
Fool Circle
. By Hannah Anderson.’ She turns a page. ‘“First step on foreign soil . . . ”’

‘Better just . . . don’t mess up the pages.’

‘OK, padre!’ She raises her hands, palms up. ‘Calm down. I wasny hurting it.’

‘No. It’s just . . .’ Michael copies her gesture. ‘It’s fine. She doesn’t like folk looking at her work.’

‘Why? Is that no the point of being a writer?’

‘I don’t know. Anyway. I thought we could use a picture from here maybe.’ He goes to the collage of photos Hannah made. Two decades of his life sparkle and take a bow. ‘What do you think?’

Justine fixes on the one photo that has no people in it.

‘What’s that?’ She points at an army of red stones. It is like a thousand Kilmacarras: crops of standing stones that are dotted in sheaves, on every bit of land. A million red spines. You couldn’t even begin to count them.