Authors: Karen Campbell
‘Cheers, love. I’ll ’ave a Coors Light.’
If she is quiet and still, they will have respite from saying anything at all. There will be nothing implicit in this. Just two people having a drink. She passes him the pint. He smiles, and takes it. Justine luxuriates into the silence, their silence, which is coated, protected from the dartboard whoops and jeers, from the two old ladies’ yipping, the football commentator’s rambling on and on. They sip. A fleck of foam rests on his upper lip. His nose is fractionally crooked, which she likes. A lot. He is significantly taller than she is, his eyebrows just the right side of thick, are possibly groomed in some way, but she doesn’t want to know this, so she focuses on the unadulterated stubble on his neck, the strong and random hairs that populate his upper chest. He’s just one button short of showing off. She downs her pint. The alcohol fizzes. Makes her reckless. She is regarding a menu, nothing more.
‘By ’eck – they’s playing crap the night, your boys.’
Rory is standing, arms folded, head swaying in fake-dismay at the telly.
‘Yes.’ Her man answers, but doesn’t engage. From this, she deduces he is polite and businesslike. Good. How they are standing now, him behind her. A crackling, live unit.
‘You like foo’ball?’ He speaks very quietly. Man, he’s foreign! French or Spanish maybe. Yuss! She likes them dark and hard.
‘No.’
‘Huh.’
He touches his hand on the base of her spine, and she presses, lightly, against it.
‘What team’s playing?’ she says.
‘Barca.’
‘That where you’re from? Italy?’
‘It is not Italy. It is
Cataluña.
’
‘Where?’
He sighs. His thumb stops rubbing.
‘What you call Spain.’
‘Oh.’ She stares intently at the telly. Considers saying
si
, then segues into ‘
So
. . . why’re you here? Long way from home, eh?’
‘Ro-ree. Two more, please. An’ two doubles.’
They both watch the football, him slightly overlapping behind her. Pressing. His thumb starts up again, rotating like a tiny toothbrush. It begins to chafe a little, but she is scared to move in case it stops. She wishes they hadn’t begun talking, it’s too familiar, this façade of pleasantries which is futile. She simply wants a no-strings fuck.
‘Ah, Spain. You work for the electricity company?’
‘I do. I am the boss.’
She does not imagine the little dunt he gives her. It is a definite thrust to the dent above her buttocks.
Oh, man. Do not become a fanny, pal.
‘Hi there.’ Duncan is beside her. He smells like fresh grass. ‘Evening Mr Escobar. Enjoying your night off?’
Escobar grunts into his glass.
‘Justine, I’m really sorry, but I’m not going to get to hear you sing.’
‘What? I’m not bloody—’
He laughs. ‘I
knew
you were feart.’
‘I’m nae feart of nae one.’
‘Is that right? Well, I’ll take your word for it. But I need to head right now. Got a wee job on.’
‘Another one?’ she says. ‘How did the—’
He shakes his head, eyes on to Escobar. Rory, she notices, has moved from their line of vision. She hears him say: ‘’Ere. We don’t want none.’ An aggressive edge to it.
Duncan interjects. ‘Rory, it’s all right. He’s fine, pal.’
Her Spanish man pushes a second beer at her, breathes inside her ear: ‘We can drink these in my room, you know.’
‘Oh, can we?’
They have gone beyond subtle; she can sense the old biddies staring at them. Or someone is. Very cleanly, they are stripping the side of her face; she can see a cheek, a cloud of ginger furze moving in.
‘Ach, it
is
you.’
A pale hand reaches in, splitting their circle of two. She recognises the grimy nails, how utterly ingrained they are.
‘Jesus! Frank?’
Brown teeth beam. How is this possible, that the tramp from the bus has found her, here? A thick slab of, it might be terror, but she calms it right down, dousing it with common sense. This is where he left her. Justine forgets, for a minute, that the ginger dosser is not part of Buchanan Bus Station’s furniture, that he’s a real-live moving entity, was on the bus that brought her here. That he must have a life, and that this will simply be a co-incidence.
‘How’s the head?’ says Frank.
‘All better, ta. Frank, this is Duncan and—’
She doesn’t know.
‘Baldomero,’ her dark man says.
Justine snorts into her pint. In her head, she will call him Miguel.
‘So what brings you here?’
Kilted Rory is hovering, clearly unhappy. She smiles airily to show him it’s all right.
I can vouch for this orange dosser. He will not run amok and steal your meths.
‘Actually,’ says Frank, ‘I was looking for you.’
There’s a blow to her belly,
thud jab-jab-smash
. It is true. Charlie Boy
has been tracking her with tramps. Justine calculates how fast old Frank can run, reckons he will be carrying a knife at the very least. The tramp reaches into a tattered poly bag. The concrete inside her does its job, keeps her fixed and rigid in her spot while her head is screaming
Run
. He tugs out a piece of newspaper. ‘Yeah. If you were still here, that is. Thought someone might be interested, anyway. For the museum.’
‘What?’ Relief becomes derision. He is merely an old nuisance.
‘I saw this when I was up in Mull. About the windfarm?’
It’s a front-page photo of Michael catching a bun.
‘Says you’re starting a museum up.’
‘Are we?’
‘Says so in here. Some woman called Mhairi says there’s going to be a Kilmacarra visitor centre, with history walks and arte- facts.’
‘Lemme see that. Please.’
Baldo . . .
ugh
. . . Baldomero takes the paper. Soft Spanish murmur, a shake of his head. ‘This is rubb
ish.
Who is saying this?’
‘I told you. This Mhairi-woman.’ Frank removes more newspaper from his bag. ‘I’m glad you stayed,’ he smiles. ‘It’s a nice place here.’
‘It is,’ agrees Duncan. ‘Can I get you a drink, pal?’
‘Ooh, I’ll take a wee lemonade, if you don’t mind. Anyway. Seen as I was coming back down the road, I thought, if you were still here, you might like this. Sorry, dear. I don’t even know your name.’
‘This is Justine,’ says Duncan.
‘Excuse me, please.’ Baldomero is addressing Justine. ‘This Mary? Is she the fat woman who has the café? She will not be providing a visitor centre – we have a contractor.’
‘That’s right,’ says Frank. ‘It says she owns the café. I tried there, but it was shut. But d’you think’d like this?’ There’s a sprig of heather stuck on his lapel. The tiny bells of it tremble as he rummages. ‘I’m not a fan of windfarms, myself. Bit like a virus, to my mind. See if your wee museum—’
‘Frank. I don’t know anything about a museum.’
‘Ta dah.’ He unwraps a framed tapestry. It’s an old sampler, faded roses round the edge, joined by swirly stems. Justine reads the embroidered letters:
East, West
Home is best
North, South
Here is the mouth
The light of day
And dark of night
Where all points meet
And all is right.
‘Very nice.’ She tries to hand it back.
‘I know,’ says Frank. ‘You think I’m loo-loo. Away with the fairies.’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Who is Lulu?’ says Baldomero. ‘Is she with Mary? How do you know this man?’
Och, it’s no use. She cannot shag a man called Baldomero.
‘What does it mean?’ says Duncan, handing Frank his drink.
‘Cheers. I don’t know exactly. Home is where the heart is? Found it in a junkshop on Tobermory.’ Frank is digging in copious coat pockets, bringing pieces of string, a hanky, a crumpled bus ticket into the light. ‘Ah.’ He unpicks a lolly stick from a five-pound note. ‘Here you go.’ He offers it to Duncan.
‘Away. Don’t be daft, man. Put your money away.’
‘Thanks, son. That’s very kind of you.’ Frank takes a long draught of his lemonade. ‘Aye, I always have a wee nosey in junkshops. Amazing what you can pick up. That’s where I got my brolly.’
‘Oh, God. Yes! Your umbrella,’ says Justine. ‘It’s up at the manse. I need to give you that back.’
‘Did it keep you dry then?’
‘It did.’
‘Aye, it’s a good brolly that.’
‘Can I see that tapestry a minute?’ asks Duncan.
‘Sure.’ Frank passes Duncan the frame. Justine is aware of Baldomero grabbing for it too. Deftly, Frank sweeps the frame away. ‘Ho! Excuse me. My pal here asked to see it, no you.’ He hams up the Glaswegian, but Justine is struck by how authoritative he is. For a moment, she can imagine him respected and cool, directing some kind of crisis. Or operating. Yes, she sees him as a surgeon, palm out, scalpel in, crisply cutting, until one terrible day . . .
Aye. If he ever was a doctor. It seems unlikely. But then, look at her. Could people tell her story at a cursory glance? Man, she hoped not.
‘See the wee letters all round the edge? In amongst the roses?’ says Frank. ‘
Jemima W is my name; And Scotland is my nation; Kilmacarra is my dwelling place; And Christ is
my salvation
.’
‘There’s a date too. 1678.’
‘It’s not much, I know.’ Frank takes another glug. ‘But it is old. And it’s part of the history of this place, eh? Some wee lassie from here took a lot of time and care to stitch this. So if it helps for your museum – and your windfarm campaign . . .’
‘There is no campaign!’
Baldomero is being loud and beery. Justine’s worried about Rory, who’s rolling down his shirtsleeves with a purposefulness that suggests he’s not about to clear glasses.
‘Aye there is,’ she says.
Baldomero grips her wrist. ‘When you say campaign, what is it that you mean? Are there many peoples?’
‘
I
don’t know.’ She pulls away. ‘I don’t know about any of this. Look at one of their leaflets, go on their website. I just came in here for a quiet drink.’
She hears Rory go: ‘All right, mate. Enough. This in’t a dosshouse.’ Hears Duncan say something too, though it’s hard to make him out, with Baldomero nipping at her ear. Man, talk about a space invader. ‘They have a
website
? Leaflets? How I do get their leaflets?’
‘You can get one at reception. Christ, Mhairi’s got them everywhere: here, the shop . . . There. Look. There’s a bunch of them on the windowsill.’
Baldomero goes to get a leaflet. ‘
Merda
. This is
bad
. I was told this digging is to prove there is no archaeology left. Not to promote . . .’ He stops reading. ‘Are you with this campaign also?’
‘Oh, aye. I’m a regular honeytrap, me.’ There is a beer-bubble filling her throat. Deliberately, she makes a burp. In the second it takes to round, then dispel, Baldomero’s fate is sealed. Like waiting too long for a complicated meal, Justine has lost her appetite.
There is a whoop, a catcall as the TV changes and the news channel comes on. Familiar hills roll, the stunted stones of Crychapel appear as the table of archaeologists and hingers-on cheer and
shush
in equal measure. The whip-slim, tanned presenter on the telly smiles. ‘Archaeologists are tonight pondering an amazing discovery—’
‘
Ooh.
Pond
-ering,’ go the archaeologists.
Baldomero mutters a word that sounds like
puta
, wheechs out a wafer-thin phone. Justine hears the door close. Turns to look for Frank, and Duncan, but they’ve gone.
E
vening. A carefully crafted vintage kitchen. A man, humming a tune. From the outside, he must look happy; this middle-aged man with his hands in suds, zithering ‘Rock of
Ages’ through his teeth, a glass of Sauvignon perched on the windowsill. Michael rinses the last of the dishes, carefully avoiding the naked haunch that is straddling the draining board.
‘You missed a bit. Oh, Michael. You really need to get a grip.’
He clangs two pots together.
‘
Ooh
. Get you, grumpy.’
The humming grows more demented.
Rawk On
trills above it. He takes two Anadin, another slug of wine. For his whole life, Michael has clung to his rock. Whether it’s from fear of what lurks elsewhere, whether it is the frozen-on grasp of dizzy heights or true volition that
in God we trust
, he can’t be sure. All he was sure of was his wee rock, and the fact of his persistent fingers. It’s a strange, quiet rock, Michael’s faith. Over the years, when he’s thought about letting go, when he’s tried to shrug it off and walk away – it’s been there all along. Spread under him, the full shadowy girth of all his world. Some folk have washed by his rock, others clambered over when he waved. But it’s been carrying him all that time. And it’s always been easy, really, to reach down, seize your wife’s hand in yours and keep going. No matter what. No matter that you cannot—