Authors: Karen Campbell
Her feet slap down into the mud, which splashes the back of her wellies. Justine Strang is wearing wellies. She has two pairs actually: green for dog-walking, flowery ones for fun. She sees Mhairi, signalling to the scaffolder to come down. The scaffolder is Duncan. He grins at Justine, waves. She waves back. Blushes when he blows her a kiss. He looks tousled and lovely, in his nest of metal bars. The men are finished doing the platform; Señor Escobar is already up there. Him and Donald John both, two puffed-up bookends either side of the stage.
‘You nervous?’ she says to Mhairi. ‘Oh shit. What’s she doing here?’
‘I invited her.’ Mhairi sinks her teeth into an apple. Hannah Anderson is nearly upon them, is gliding towards them on invisible wheels. Or really nice suede boots at least; avoiding the big puddle that Justine didn’t. Go away, please go away. Her hair’s all gold and windswept, body swathed in a dark-grey wrap.
‘Hiya, ladies.’
What do you say, what do you say? Hannah’s stare feels like cold water. The last thing this woman screamed at her was
Keep away from my family.
Mhairi nods. ‘All right? Boys up with you?’
‘They’re over seeing one of Euan’s pals.’
‘Good stuff. Michael with them?’
‘Yeah! We didn’t know if he’d be up for the journey, but he’s been doing really well.’
Hannah moves her head slightly, careful to include Justine in the conversation. ‘His speech therapist says he’s exceeded her expectations. The rehab’s really good.’
Justine reciprocates. Equally carefully. ‘And Euan? Is he enjoying being back in Glasgow?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘I heard wee Julie Astley hitched all the way down to see him.’
‘I
know
. Her mum was livid.’
‘Ach, young love.’ Mhairi takes another bite. ‘Is thon Julie sixteen yet?’
‘
No.
Quit trying to recruit people to the cause.’
‘Every little helps. We’re only days away.
Days
, mind! You definitely on the electoral register, Justine?’
‘Yup. Form filled in and posted ages ago.’
‘Hmm.’ Mhairi chews the flesh. She’s been trying really hard – no cakes or pies, long walks up the hills, and the weight is falling off her. But she’s still Mhairi. ‘So the Big Smoke’s working out OK then? Definitely no plans to come back?’
Hannah looks around her. Her gaze elides over Justine. Justine pretends she doesn’t care. A big bird, a hawk or a heron or something, drifts above their heads. You can see its wingspan ripple the ground. ‘No. I don’t think so. We’re doing all right in Glasgow.’
‘Fair enough. Did you bring me some pakora?’
‘There’s two bags in the boot of the car.’ Hannah shakes her head. ‘Smell drove me crazy on the way up.’
‘Aye. You canny beat a Glesca curry.’
‘Mhairi! Mhairi – that’s them ready for you now.’ A swoop. A scliff. Johnny, on his shiny bike. He and Buddy loop round Mhairi. ‘Come
on.
They’re waiting.’
‘Right. Come on, you two. My audience awaits.’ She lobs her apple core into the long grass. The three women troop to where the stage is. Mhairi gets up beside Escobar, who puts out an arm to steady her. He smiles. She goes all girlie. Donald John moves across to join them. The whole of Kilmacarra is assembled here, plenty folk from further afield have come too. There’s the photographer from the
Courier
, and another couple of reporter-looking types that Justine doesn’t know. No TV cameras, not enough interest, not when the world is so busy outside. Not even if Mhairi offered to flash her pants again. There’s a referendum looming. Scottish Independence. Will we or won’t we? How will our hearts be doing, at that moment, in that booth? Who will we be?
Mhairi moves to the front of the platform. Raises her hands like an old pro. Big smile, arms out. Duncan winks at Justine as he slides off the stage, to the ground. She does not deserve Duncan. But then, he says he doesn’t deserve her. To wake each morning at Cardrummond: that she could be allowed to have that, and it’s not being greedy. The farm is safe. Bought and paid for. She would love it to have been her money that saved him, but the bastard polis put paid to that. Fair enough; it would only have tainted the place, made the soil go sour. She’d begged them to let her keep Askit, though, but they couldny find him at the house. She hopes he’s being loved somewhere.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. I’d like to thank you all very much for coming, to this, the official launch of the Kilmacarra Museum appeal. We’ve got the building, we’ve got the willpower and, thanks to Professor Tom Wilson and his team, we’ve even got some stuff to put in it! We’ve also been hugely fortunate to get our hands on the Covenanters’ Tapestry.’ Mhairi holds up the old tapestry Frank found. It’s been professionally stretched, and put in a split-new frame.
‘We’ve been advised that the quality and rarity of this wee gem is such that it could have fetched £60,000 on the open market. So we’re extremely grateful to the wonderful Effie and Duncan Grey for selling it to us privately.’ Whoops and cheering for an embarrassed Duncan, who half-raises his hand while lowering his head. Yes, Mhairi, she thinks. He
is
. He has given her love. Fire and warmth until she can’t distinguish joy from nervous flutters. Always, she is first. It’s a concept she still struggles with, that a person can give your desires priority over theirs. But she’s learning. Duncan’s a good teacher.
‘As you know, talks are ongoing with museums across Scotland and beyond, to see if we can bring other artefacts home, that may currently be housed elsewhere. But, of course, all of this costs money—’ she slows her delivery, so they can nod and mumble – ‘and that’s why we’re launching this appeal. We’ve already had generous donations from Historic Scotland’ (big cheer), ‘our local counciI’ (smaller cheer), ‘and Sentinel Power’ (boos and cheers in equal measure). Mhairi waits for the hubbub to die down. ‘Anyway. No matter what happens ultimately to this glen, we aim to build a museum that’ll tell the story of
all
the people that have passed through here.’ The wind catches her frizzy hair, whips it across her shining face, and she is prettier than Hannah. Spits of rain begin to fall, the clouds pulling down, drawing the hills closer.
‘We are fortunate to be blessed with a unique landscape. To be
entrusted
with it. Like Scotland’s people, Kilmacarra is quiet and unassuming . . .’
‘Och, here she goes,’ whispers a young woman behind Justine. ‘We’re getting the party political broadcast.’
The lassie’s got a point: Mhairi is beginning to drone – they’ll have no need of that piper who’s waiting to round off the celebrations. The people fidget slightly, like water. But still listening. Still contained. Justine drifts away too, her mind wandering back down the slope, towards the damp, blue-grey hills, and Cardrummond.
‘Hello, Justine, pet!’ Miss Campbell puts her arm through Justine’s. ‘How’s the—’
A man and a woman turn. The woman eyes her up and down, trying to equate her face with the mugshot in the papers. ‘Justine? Are you that lassie from Glasgow? The one that killed that dead guy in the cave?’
‘No, Sheena. It was a love triangle, mind?’
‘No. He’d been beating you up, hen, hadn’t he?’
Miss Campbell draws herself to a full five foot one. ‘Do you mind? This lady is nothing to do with that nonsense at all. Which was a
fatal accident
actually, if you bother to check. And her people are from here. No that it’s any of your business.’
The couple mumble their apologies.
‘Honest to God,’ whispers Miss Campbell. ‘Some people.’
But Justine doesny care. She feels Miss Campbell’s bird-hand round her wrist, sees Duncan sorting the mic cable beside the stage. He mouths
I’ll see you after?
She nods. Feels a long ripple. Which she likes. She backs away from all the bodies, catches the eye of wee Johnny, who is circling the edges of the crowd. He sticks his tongue out, calls: ‘You coming to see me at football on Friday?’
‘I am indeed,’ she calls back, moving further down the slope. Relief as the distance increases. She’s not so good with crowds, folk all jostling up against her, sharp voices, and the hands. She’s good here, with the pillowed, wide clouds and the open land. She moves faster as she reaches the bottom; her feet keep running from her. She makes a new path through the bracken and the mud. Reaches the edge of the field, the fence, the gate, and she is definitely running. She runs past the shape of Michael and his boys, she turns, jogging backwards, and it
is
them, she’s sure, she feels it certain, those distant people who are being helped from the car, those three slow figures who are making their way past the small prides and polished doorknobs of Kilmacarra’s houses, the two who are flanking the limping third, who form a single creature: Euan the head, Michael the humphy back, wee Rossie, the mischievous tail, who are moving along the road towards the church, and all the people. And Hannah, who yelled:
Keep away from my family
.
She watches them limp and struggle; her Michael with his sons, his wife. Who got their miracle. She wishes them love. She keeps on running, over empty broad land filled with mist and rock. She runs past the shadows of castles, past the memories of war, past human-hefted, soaring stones. She runs past the rubble of farms and the pastures of sheep, past road-scars and the three spears of turbines. She runs over bones and blood and seeds and roots. Goes fast, then slow, picking her way over the biggest ruts, the bumps and knots, the loam and peat and stone. Then fast, faster than she ever thought was possible, until it feels like she has wings and her heart’s too big to fit inside. Above her, another huge bird rises like a kite, and she watches it soar. Follows it, faster, she is running, rising up the rock and heather hills; she will run until her muscles are buckling, glorious and full.
She won’t fall, though.
Because she is pinned into the map.
Many lovely people have helped in making this book. With grateful thanks to my two midwives – my agent Jo Unwin and my editor Helen Garnons-Williams; to Tram-Anh Doan, Inez Munsch, Alice Shortland, Terry Lee, Madeleine Feeny, Sarah-Jane Forder, Greg Heinimann, Liz Woabank, Oliver Holden-Rea, my US editor Kathy Belkin, and everyone at Bloomsbury for all their enthusiasm and support; Susan Armstrong; Shelley Harris; Helen Fitzgerald and Sergio Casci; Jan and Isabella Smedh; Tom and Margaret Cassidy; Dr Neil Hughes; Stuart McHardy; Mairi Matheson; Dougie, Eidann and Ciorstan for reading, love and provision of all writerly comforts; and to the folk of Kilmartin Museum and Kilmartin Glen – a magical place in Argyll on which Kilmacarra is – loosely – based.
Karen Campbell is a graduate of Glasgow University’s renowned Creative Writing Masters, and author of
The Twilight Time
,
After the Fire
,
Shadowplay
,
Proof of Life
and, most recently,
This Is Where I Am
, which was a BBC Radio 4 Book at Bedtime. A former police officer, and council PR, Karen Campbell won the Best New Scottish Writer Award in 2009. She lives in Galloway, Scotland.
The Twilight Time
After the Fire
Shadow Play
Proof of Life
This Is Where I Am
Also available by Karen Campbell
This Is Where I Am
When the Scottish Refugee Council assigns Deborah Maxwell to act as Somali refugee Abdi’s new mentor, the two are drawn into an awkward friendship. They must spend a year together, meeting once a month in a different part of Glasgow. As recently-widowed Deborah opens Abdi’s eyes to her beloved city and its people, he teaches her about the importance of family – and of laying your ghosts to rest. All Abdi has brought with him is his four-year-old daughter, Rebecca, who lives in a silence no one can reach.
Until, one day, little Rebecca starts talking. And they realise why she stopped.
Heartbreaking, uplifting and unforgettable,
This Is Where I Am
is a novel of loss and guilt, friendship and hope, and of what we can grow from the ashes of the past.
‘A generous-spirited, big-hearted depiction of life behind the statistics’
Daily Mail
‘This was the best novel I read on holiday ... A brilliant story, beautifully told’ Alastair Campbell,
Metro
‘Bold, gritty and fearless’
Sunday Times
www.bloomsbury.com/KarenCampbell
http://bloomsbury.com/uk/this-is-where-i-am-9781408832721/
This electronic edition published in 2015 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © 2015 Karen Campbell
The moral right of the author has been asserted