Chasing Angels (29 page)

‘Should’ve been a rope about his neck!’ Kathy replied.

‘Oh, bugger Prince Charlie!’ Seona said. ‘Who cares? It’s just part of business, he’s just another version of the Loch Ness Monster, and as long as the tourists
keep coming, who cares?’

‘Are you saying you don’t believe in the Loch Ness Monster?’ Kathy demanded. ‘That’s treason!’

‘And you do?’ Seona asked.

‘Of course I do! Haven’t I met and lived in the same house as one of her offspring, the monstrous Rory Macdonald?’

The women all laughed. ‘I can’t believe you hated him!’ Seona said.

‘Aye, but you had a terrible crush on him all the way through school!’ Mavis said to her sister.

‘I did not!’

‘You bloody well did! It was embarrassing the way you used to drool when he was about!’

‘Well you had lousy taste!’ Kathy said to the giggling Seona. ‘I’ve never met a more unpleasant, pig-ignorant sod in my life!’

‘Yet you get on with Angus,’ Seona spluttered, ‘and everybody says Rory’s like him.’

‘Everybody’s wrong! Angus is gorgeous!’ Kathy protested. ‘If I’d been older or he’d been younger, me and Bunty would’ve been mortal enemies, I’ll
tell you that!’

‘You must be in need of a father figure, that’s what it is,’ Seona said, and suddenly Kathy was quiet. ‘You could say that,’ she replied.

The wedding was at the church of St Mary and St Finnan’s, beside the hotel on the lochside. The parish priest, Father O’Neill, was a friend of Angus’s and a regular visitor to
the house up the hill. The first time he and Kathy met he had made the mistake of thinking he knew her religion, and she had quickly disabused him of the notion.

‘I just assumed because of the name,’ smiled the priest.

‘Aye, your sort always do assume!’ Kathy responded. ‘You should get an operation for it, that might cure you.’

‘I do apologise, no offence intended. It’s just that I’ve never met a Kelly who wasn’t one of ours.’

‘Well you have now,’ Kathy growled.

Beside her Angus had chuckled. ‘I think I see a kindred spirit!’ he beamed. Angus liked Father O’Neill, he played chess with him, went to shinty matches with him, argued with
him and poured him drams, but thought he was insane. Angus had studied every religion that had ever existed and had long ago decided that anyone who believed any of it was insane.

‘I really do apologise,’ said Father O’Neill again, his Irish accent annoying Kathy even more than his assumption.

‘Maybe I should assume that you’re an atheist like me,’ Kathy persisted, ‘given that we’ve got this great thing in common, Irish surnames?’

‘Wonderful!’ Angus said. ‘Right, you poor, pathetic, weak little man,’ he said amiably to his friend, ‘answer that, why don’t you?’

‘I don’t think I will!’ Father O’Neill said. ‘I sense more than animosity here!’

‘Too bloody true!’ Kathy said darkly. ‘Enough animosity to rip your throat out with my teeth if you assume anything else about me!’ She marched into the kitchen, where
Bunty was at work. ‘I hate priests!’ she said. ‘They’re cruel to horses you know!’

‘What?’ Bunty asked. ‘All of them?’

Kathy grinned sheepishly, knowing how she must’ve sounded. ‘Aye!’ she said. ‘
All
horses!’

Bunty laughed. ‘Now that I didnae know!’ she said.

Standing at the altar behind Kirsty she kept a mental distance between herself and the surroundings while staring Father O’Neill firmly in the eye. Kirsty was her friend, she had been
delighted to be her bridesmaid, but she was only there for her, not to be involved in Father O’Neill’s rituals. She had to admit, though, that she looked quite stunning. She wore a deep
turquoise, Empire line gown, the bodice made entirely of cotton lace flowers. The heavy satin skirt was scattered with single lace flowers, and more had been woven into her reddish hair which had
been plaited high off her face. She had never worn anything like this, never looked anything like this, and staring at her reflection in the mirror she had hardly recognised the poised young woman
of twenty-three staring back at her. She wished Lily had been there to see her, but Bunty was, and Lily could’ve had no better deputy. Rory Macdonald was back for his first visit in three
years; there had to be one fly in the ointment.

‘Don’t you think Kathy looks just beautiful?’ Bunty asked him, her eyes shining.

Rory looked up from the fishing fly he was working on. ‘Aye,’ he said simply, then looked away again.

Kathy waited till Bunty, leaning ever more heavily on her stick, had left the room to get herself ready for the wedding. ‘That was as much as you could manage, was it?’ she
demanded.

Rory looked up again, a blank expression in his eyes. ‘What are you complaining about now?’ he asked quietly.

‘I think your mother was looking for a bit more than “Aye”, that’s all. She’s been really excited about this bridesmaid thing, you could’ve dredged up
something better for her sake, surely?’

‘I know my mother better than you do and she knows me. Is it not,’ he said in his slow way, ‘that you were hoping for more yourself?’

‘No, it’s not! Christ! I’ve never met a man more full of himself!’

‘Because,’ Rory continued evenly, ‘you’ve already looked in the mirror more than once and you know perfectly well what you look like, so why would my opinion matter more
than your own?’

‘Your opinion doesnae matter as
much
as my own!’ Kathy seethed. ‘I was thinking of your mother!’

‘Aye,’ Rory muttered, not even glancing up from what he was doing. ‘You said.’

‘Do you get on this well with everybody you meet?’ Kathy demanded sarcastically.

‘I get on pretty much with everybody I meet,’ Rory replied absently, holding the fly up against the light of the window and squinting at it.

‘Well you don’t get on with me!’

‘Well, maybe,’ he said, picking up a pair of pliers and adjusting the hook, ‘that has something to do with you. As they say in some parts, YP.’

‘YP?’

‘Aye,’ he smiled happily at the completed fly before looking up at her solemnly. ‘YP. Your problem.’

Kirsty and Kenny’s wedding lasted at the hotel from Friday afternoon till Sunday evening, with different bands taking over when one fell exhausted and the guests attending in shifts. Angus
was the only man Kathy knew who wore the kilt every day, but it was trotted out on special occasions like weddings in a way that offended Angus. It reduced the garb to fancy dress, he said, when so
many men who didn’t normally wear it did so at social functions, and you could always tell them too, because they wore it so badly. But the sight of so many unusually bare male legs made an
increasing impression on the women as the time wore on and the drink flowed freely. At the reception, Mavis, the mother of the bride, was sitting at a table with Kathy, Seona, and a group of women
who worked in the tourist office beside the monument. She was a small, plump, dark-haired woman with brown eyes that were permanently screwed up to protect them from her own cigarette smoke; Kathy,
and everyone else who knew Mavis, had never seen her without a lit cigarette in her hand, though she rarely seemed to smoke them, she was always too busy ordering people about. That night, with her
daughter safely married, Mavis was feeling merry. Her screwed-up eyes fell upon the hapless and specially bekilted form of the local carpenter, Lachie Stuart, who just happened to be coming through
the door at that moment.

‘Lachie Stuart,’ she called out. ‘Are you a real Scotsman?’

Lachie Stuart’s hands flew down to his kilt. ‘Of course I’m Scottish!’ he laughed.

‘You know bloody well what I mean!’ Mavis said, advancing on him somewhat unsteadily.

‘As I’m in a good mood I’ll give you another chance. Are you, Lachie Stuart, a
real
Scotsman?’

The other women had by now followed Mavis and were forming a circle around Lachie and, before it was completed, he tried to make a dash for freedom through the remaining gap, only to be felled
by the mother-of-the-bride’s rugby tackle.

‘Now, Lachie,’ she said reasonably, lying at full stretch on the floor and hanging on to the unfortunate Lachie’s legs and her habitual cigarette with equal determination,
‘we think you’re telling fibs. You’ve left us with no alternative, we’ll have to check!’

Lachie gave a scream as he disappeared under a pile of struggling, giggling women. Eventually an arm emerged from the scrum, proudly waving a pair of tartan Y-fronts and a loud cheer erupted as
Lachie’s knickers were thrown aloft to land on the ceiling fan, where they lazily began to spin round for all the world to see. Lachie, knowing when he was beaten, shrugged his shoulders and
took off at speed towards the bar. The women resumed their seats until the next man entered wearing a kilt, to be greeted by the challenge, ‘Are you a true Scotsman?’ and then
assaulted. By the end of the third night the overhead fan was spinning slowly, its progress hampered slightly by dozens of pairs of knickers in every colour and design that had been forcibly
removed from ‘false’ Scotsmen. At one point Rory Macdonald walked in. ‘Why,’ demanded Mavis, ‘are you not wearing the garb?’

‘Why?’ Rory asked. ‘Because I know what Highland women are like when they’ve had a few, that’s why!’

‘I wouldnae worry,’ Kathy said sourly. ‘I wouldnae think many women would want to remove your drawers.’

‘So you’ve obviously given the matter some thought, then, to come to that considered opinion,’ Rory remarked as he passed, and all the women laughed.

Another highlight was the seeming non-appearance of the bride’s cousin, a noted Irish dancer who was appearing in a show in Edinburgh, though it was hoped that she would arrive before the
three-day event was over. In the meantime several of the men were only too happy to fill in, performing with commendable gusto, if impaired balance, their very own, very unique version of an Irish
jig. Legs were flying in every direction, arms held strictly to their sides, which was just as well, given that they had recently been initiated as ‘true’ Scotsmen, and there was almost
a touch of regret in the air when the diva herself arrived in full costume, ready to delight the audience. Unfortunately, as she kicked out in the very precise manner of the true professional that
she was, she accidentally kicked someone in the front row on the chin. Watching from the sidelines were the earlier dancers, who had only reluctantly vacated the floor and had been indulging in a
few discreet catcalls, feeling slightly resentful that the efforts of the latecomer were, till that moment, receiving more appreciation than their own flawless and artistic performance had drawn.
As her kick felled the guest one said loudly, ‘Look at that! Was that not awful? Now,
we
didnae do that, did we?’

As ever with weddings, the talk among the women turned to who was next. They were all feeling no pain, though Kathy, ultra-cautious because of Old Con, had never tried anything more powerful
than Babycham.

‘Hands up,’ said Mavis, ‘them that think the next one will be Kathy!’

A roar of approval went up, though they were in that merry state where the announcement of an imminent tidal wave would’ve been cheered just as enthusiastically.

‘It won’t be me!’ she said with feeling.

‘Och, we all said that!’ a slightly tipsy Seona laughed. ‘When I couldnae have Rory Macdonald there, I said I’d never marry, but I did. It comes to us all.’

‘With taste like yours I’m just surprised you ended up with a normal human being,’ Kathy retorted.

‘I’d take him now!’ Seona announced, in that peculiarly over-precise manner that the slightly tipsy always think will convince the world that they are not. All the women around
the table laughed. ‘I’m telling you!’ she protested. ‘If that Rory Macdonald tipped me the wink my drawers would be up on the ceiling as well!’

Mavis stood up and shouted. ‘Rory! Rory Macdonald! Where is he?’ and from the crowd Rory appeared. ‘My sister,’ Mavis announced very carefully, ‘would have carnal
knowledge of you forthwith! How about it?’

Rory shook his head. ‘Highland women and booze,’ he said.

‘Aye, I know,’ Kathy said icily. ‘I’ve just been saying the same thing myself. Doesnae just rob them of their inhibitions, but their normal good taste as well!’

Later, lying in her bed, her head slightly muzzy, she went over the conversation. Marry? Forget it! Jamie Crawford had inoculated her against men for life. She remembered the times she had slept
with him, though slept was wrong, their couplings having consisted of taking the chance when either of their houses might be empty, while she hoped each time they wouldn’t be. She had hated
it. The awkwardness, the embarrassed, silent fumbling; it turned her stomach just to think of it. Even that first time, when it hurt and she bled, he had said nothing, it was women’s
business. He would lie on top of her, sweating slightly with excitement, his eyes closed as he worked away, and she hated him for that. She would lie there watching him, desperately hoping it would
end that second, her mind full of furious anger thinking, ‘
He doesnae even know it’s me!
’ Then, within a couple of minutes it was blessedly over. And she hated cleaning
herself up afterwards too, the whole messy, smelly, stickiness of it. At least it never lasted long, though too long for her, but even so, she always wondered what he could’ve got out of such
a brief encounter. Physical release? Well, any tension was entirely one-sided, so she would have to pass on that one. Was the status of having done it the most important thing, she wondered? Was it
a means of putting his brand on her, so that he could look at her at any time and think ‘
Ah’ve had her
’? And they never talked; was it perverted to think there should be a
few words of polite conversation? Before-hand there was the rush to do it, on his part at least, then the brief, joyless act, followed by more silence. It was as though nothing had happened, they
might as well have shared a dual sneeze. He didn’t ever ask if she had enjoyed it, it hadn’t even entered his head that she should. He didn’t ask if she was all right or, more
importantly, if she was on the Pill. He assumed she was, because that was women’s business too; they were the ones who could get pregnant, so it was understood that preventing it was their
responsibility alone, and it didn’t even occur to him to want to know. The Swinging Sixties had brought universal free love, or so everyone on TV said, the old stigmas and conventions had
been swept away, and every female was rampantly sexually active and on the Pill. Yet there they had been at the start of the seventies in the East End of Glasgow, the only place in the world the
sixties had somehow swung past without stopping. Following on from that, a natural consequence you might say, had been the horror of what had happened in the Moncur Street bathroom one Saturday
night, and the baby she had failed to keep alive. The whole thing made her feel sick, it wasn’t anything she would ever try again, and any man who approached her was, and always would be,
given short shrift. She thought again of Kirsty’s wedding reception and the chatter about Seona’s lifelong lust for Rory. OK, they were all tipsy and having a laugh, but even talking
about it reminded her of sex with Jamie. She got up from her bed and rushed down the corridor to the bathroom where she was copiously sick. As she made her way back to her room she could hear the
distant sounds from across the loch as the next shift arrived at the wedding reception. Rory was standing at the top of the stairs on his way to his own room as she came out of the bathroom. He
shook his head as she passed, feeling like death.