They eat in silence.
‘That was good.’
‘Excellent.’
‘We haven’t been here in ages.’
‘No. It hasn’t changed.’
‘The pianist is rubbish.’
Her face cracks into a small smile, the first he has seen since she arrived. ‘I knew you’d say that,’ she crows. ‘As soon as I walked in the door and heard him, I knew he wouldn’t be your taste.’
‘I think he’s showing off.’
‘To you? Probably. People want to impress you.’
‘Hmm.’
Archie likes to play down the fact that these days, in music circles, he wields a fair bit of influence. He falls silent, drawn into his own thoughts. Normally, Susie fills these small spaces with incessant chatter, regaling him with tales of her day, snippets of gossip from the Parliament or the Party, setting forth her views on this issue or that, so that his dreaming can pass more or less unnoticed. Tonight she’s silent, a fact that Archie, immersed in his own line of thought, doesn’t notice for several minutes.
There’s a pattern about such habits. He dreams, she talks. After a while, she pulls him out of his reverie with a ‘Don’t you think?’ or a ‘Can you believe it?’ or some other hook that draws him back in. Somewhere in his subconscious, a metronome must be ticking, his innate sense of rhythm registering that something is missing. She hasn’t spoken, his dream is continuing uninterrupted, there has been no pull back into the flow of conversation. He looks at her, puzzled. She’s staring into the middle distance, her eyes unfocused, her face troubled. This isn’t like Susie.
‘What are you going to have for dessert?’
She doesn’t hear him.
‘Suse?’
This time she meets his gaze, and there’s something in her eyes that sends a chill down his neck. ‘Susie? What are you going to have for dessert?’
She tosses her serviette on the table and stands abruptly. ‘Can we go?’
Astonished, he tries to make light of it. ‘What, no pudding?’
To his horror, he sees tears welling in her eyes and he rises swiftly. Susie speeds towards the door. He pulls out some notes and throws them onto the table, makes an excuse to the waiter, and follows her as quickly as he can. She’s at her car by the time he catches up with her, fumbling with her keys with uncharacteristic clumsiness. He catches her shoulders and turns her towards him. Something is troubling her and he has to find out what it is. He can help. As soon as she tells him what it is, he’ll be able to help her sort through it. It’s always been like that.
‘Susie. Darling. Tell me what’s wrong.’
For a few seconds he thinks she’s going to say something, then her eyes cloud and she turns her head away. ‘It’s nothing. Sorry. It’s been a hard day.’
‘Suse—’
‘I’d like to get home.’
She invests the words with such meaning that he remembers why she has won so many awards. Five words and she has conjured up a whole world, the persona of a heroine who has been to the limits of her endurance and is desperate for solace. But this time, she’s playing no role, her need is real. Something has happened.
Pragmatism returns. ‘Give me the keys, darling,’ he says. ‘I’ll drive.’
The remark dropped by Elsie Proudfoot being too fundamental to contemplate, Susie solves the problem by ignoring it completely. Or at least, life being so frenetically busy, she makes up her mind to shelve the issue until she has some time and space to consider it. When she wakes in the morning after their less than successful anniversary dinner, the cottage is reassuringly familiar: the bedroom with its dormer windows and cream cotton curtains, exotically lined with crimson; the convincing solidity of the chest of drawers, home to an uncatalogued assortment of lingerie, tights, tee shirts, make-up, sweaters, belts and scarves, many lurking unseen for years; the boudoir chair Archie bore home triumphantly from an auction in Edinburgh in response to her heartfelt plea for just such an item; Archie’s discarded clothing from yesterday, folded neatly on his own small wooden chair; and Archie himself, curled like a cat, one hand under his cheek, innocent in slumber.
Yesterday now seems unreal. If something has shifted in her core, she doesn’t know what it is – and perhaps in not knowing lies safety. If she has survived so contentedly all these years in ignorance, can this genie not be put back in its bottle?
In the kitchen, she sorts through her briefcase, grabs a quick mug of tea and puts the hotel voucher from Jonno and Mannie on the dresser with the bundle of invitations, bills, vouchers and important information that reside there. Today, at least, she will put all thought about adoption aside. Today is full of Things To Do.
First on the agenda is a meeting of the Rivo Trust, a small charity in Hailesbank aimed at helping young people who are having difficulty in coping with life to find meaning, purpose and confidence. A few years ago, the Trust was gifted an old drill hall in the town, where they now run various classes – literacy, introduction to computing, confidence-building, art and music – put on small shows, host a drop-in centre and bookstall, and run a cheerful and cheap café.
A year after her election to the Parliament in Holyrood, Susie was asked if she would like to sit on the Rivo’s Board. She was well aware this was the Trust ticking boxes, but she was experienced in theatre, had a long history of volunteering with youth groups and, to cap it all, she had three initials after her name – MSP. Those initials open a lot of doors and bring a degree of kudos to any organisation with which she is associated. She accepted but, determined not to be in any way a token representative, makes it a point of honour to attend as many Board meetings as she can.
This morning she parks her car in Hailesbank High Street, feeds a couple of pound coins into the meter, and heads for the hall. Ricky Waring, the Director, receives her warmly.
‘Susie! I’m so pleased you could make it. We thought you might be too busy with the battle for arts funding.’ He bends his balding head and kisses her cheek enthusiastically.
It’s difficult not to warm to Ricky. He has a kind of natural charm combined with gusto and a record of hard work that appear to make him the ideal man to manage the Trust. Certainly he has been there a long time – fifteen years, if Susie’s memory serves her right.
‘Hello, Ricky. Didn’t want to let you down. How long will the meeting be today?’
He lets go of her hand and opens the door into the meeting room. ‘Couple of hours, hopefully.’
‘Fine.’ Susie does some quick calculations. She can be in the Parliament well before lunchtime and present in the Chamber for the afternoon debate. Excellent. She smiles at her fellow Trustees, helps herself to coffee and shuffles her papers.
The meeting seems straightforward, but try as she might, Susie finds that she can only concentrate with half of her brain. In the other half, despite her strenuous efforts to put it aside, a seven-letter word plays and replays itself.
Adopted.
You are like this lady, Indira. She’s adopted too.
It simply isn’t possible. How could she have reached the age of fifty-five without knowing that she is adopted? There must be a mistake. The words of the Agenda swim in front of her eyes as she struggles to concentrate.
Adopted.
‘Susie? What do you think?’
Because after all, there had been no reason to conceal such a momentous fact from her. Why would her parents have done that?
‘Susie?’
‘Sorry, what? Forgive me, I didn’t hear that.’ She struggles to focus on the meeting.
‘The change of auditor, what do you think?’
Change of auditor? Why are they changing the auditor? Surely this was all discussed some months ago and they voted to retain the services of the auditor they were using? ‘Remind me, why are we doing this?’ she asks, rather feebly.
Ricky smiles down the table, his thin, clever face radiating patience. ‘I decided to tender the work again. With money tight, it seemed sensible to ensure we were getting best value and the new auditors came in with a much better quote.’
‘I see. Everyone else happy?’ There are general nods of agreement, so Susie says, ‘That seems fine then. About these accounts—’
She runs through a series of questions. The Trust used to have healthy reserves, now the balance in the bank seems low. What about the performance of the investments? Most of the work of the Trust depends on income from these funds.
Ricky parries her queries smoothly. ‘We’re awaiting the funding from the government for the Outreach Initiative, it should be in soon. And we’re cutting costs – remember, we’ve laid off two employees.’
‘Doesn’t that leave you understaffed?’
‘We’ll be pushed, yes,’ Ricky admits, ‘but needs must. We’ll manage and with a bit of luck, everything will stabilise when the new funding comes in. We may even be able to rehire June Mackintosh.’
Susie thinks of the warm-hearted assistant who was the backbone of Rivo for years. She has children, a girl at university, two teenagers to follow. Losing her job must be hard for her.
Adopted.
Well, what does it matter if it was true? She had loving parents, no-one could have asked for better. Adoption would change nothing.
‘Any other business?’ The Chair, a tubby retired church minister called Hugh Porteous, is wrapping the meeting up. ‘No? Well, we’ll meet again in two months’ time, as usual. Thank you all for attending. The minutes will be with you as soon as I can manage to type them up. Hmm.’ He smiles apologetically. ‘Which won’t be as speedily as Mrs M, I’m afraid, my typing skills aren’t up to much.’
No-one else volunteers.
Outside, Susie slides into her car. Karen’s out of the office today on a course, so she calls her mobile.
‘It’s me, hi. Got a minute? I really need to talk to you.’
‘Sounds serious. Fallen in love with someone wickedly unsuitable?’
‘Sadly, nothing so exciting. But a little troubling.’
‘Tell?’
‘Are you free this evening? Archie’s out at a gig. You could come for supper and stay over. I’ll drag something out of the freezer.’
‘No, don’t do that. I’ll come, but I’ll stop off and raid the supermarket.’
‘You’re a sweetheart. I should be home by seven, any time after that.’
In the Garden Lobby at the Parliament, Susie is hurrying towards her office when Justin Thorneloe, his small, sharp nose twitching, lays a hand on her arm. She looks down at it pointedly.
‘Good afternoon, Justin,’ she says, calling on her professional training for the voice that registers polite attention. She looks at him inquiringly.
‘Rivo Trust,’ he says.
‘Yes?’
‘You’re on the Board, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. That’s right. It’s in the Register.’ All Members are required to register their interests, whether financial or memberships of organisations that might lead to partiality.
‘Sure. I know. I checked.’ He smiles tautly. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes and the words sound more like a threat than a reassurance. ‘I heard they were in trouble.’
Instantly, Susie’s guard goes up. Rivo’s Board minutes are posted as a matter of principle on their website, so the main points about their operation are public – but surely nothing could be up there about today’s meeting already? ‘They’re fine,’ she says carefully. ‘They’re just having to rein in a bit, like any other charity in the current climate.’
The man’s nose quivers, as if he’s scenting something. The whiff of a story, perhaps? What does he know? And if he knows something worrying, where has he learned it from? ‘So Rivo is financially sound?’
‘Basically, yes.’
‘I see.’
He looks like a weasel, she thinks, a nasty little weasel with very sharp teeth. Most journalists are not to be trusted, but it’s possible to have a reasonably good relationship with some of them and even confide in them with care. Reporters like Justin are to be avoided at all costs. Since the News of the World debacle, Susie supposes that phone hacking has become a taboo method of information gathering, but snooping takes many forms and she can envisage this particular journalist lowering himself as far down as his wiry little frame allows him.
‘I must go,’ she says, ‘I’m late. Sorry. If you need any information, why don’t you call Ricky Waring?’
‘Oh I will,’ he says, his eyes glinting. ‘I’ll do just that.’
She tries not to let him see it, but she’s rattled. She thinks back to the Board meeting. Is there something amiss? More than the short-term need for cash? Ricky was his usual cheerful, capable self and the Chairman seemed relaxed and apparently untroubled.
She waves her pass at the electronic door. She has too much on her mind to worry about Rivo.
Susie gets through the day with rather less than her normal verve. Uncharacteristically, she backs out from a promise to attend a reception for a children’s charity, guilt niggling her all the way back to the cottage. She feels unsettled and disorientated.
Waiting for Karen, she pulls a stack of papers from her briefcase and fiddles with them. There’s always urgent work. She glances at one letter, flips it over, repeats the action with a couple more before realising that she hasn’t taken in a word and turning them all back. She tries to concentrate.
Mo’s handwriting catches her eye. ‘We should discuss.’ She glances at the email. It’s a query from Thorneloe about the Rivo Trust. He isn’t letting go, is he? Susie thinks fleetingly that she must dig deeper, find out what he’s getting at, and manages to turn over another dozen documents. A sheaf of lobbying letters about arts funding for schools that require a response. A briefing from the Chair of the cross-party group on literature. Some papers from the Petitions Committee.
She hears the noise of the engine first, a low purr that promises power and elegance, then comes the crunch of gravel. A car has turned onto the drive. Through the window she glimpses a streak of scarlet as Karen’s small Mercedes sports car – ‘my treat to myself for having had to endure the blasted menopause’ – flies past the trees near the gate, the tyres no doubt spitting small stones onto the grass on either side, little hazards for the mower.
‘Hi Suse!’
An arm waves wildly from the offside window and the beat of Runrig is cut off mid phrase – how that would irritate Archie. The engine falls silent and Karen emerges. She pulls out an overnight case and a small carrier bag clearly stuffed with more work.
‘Sorry I’ve got to lumber you with this lot but you’ll need it for your meeting tomorrow.’ Her heels clatter on the cobbles – no compromise for the rural setting – as she crosses the small space between them. ‘Bother, the food’s still in the boot.’
‘Let me.’ Susie smiles. Karen’s familiar presence is already helping to ease her anxiety.
In the kitchen Karen says, ‘I don’t know about you but I’m gagging for a drink.’ She knows she doesn’t need permission, simply pulls the cork with a practised hand.
‘Remember Elsie Proudfoot?’ Susie blurts out.
‘The woman who came in yesterday? The old neighbour of your parents?’
‘Mmm.’ Susie nods.
‘Well? What about her?’
Susie closes her eyes. Will saying the word aloud make it real? Will it make it true?
‘Suse? You’re alarming me.’
Surely she can tell Karen, her lifelong friend? Karen played in her father’s neat garden, picked his bright dahlias. Karen practically lived in her mother’s kitchen, learned there how to make a Victoria sandwich, flip a pancake, ice a chocolate cake. Karen knew her parents almost as well as she did. She draws a deep breath. ‘Elsie Proudfoot says I was adopted.’
Whatever Karen is expecting, it clearly isn’t this. The puzzlement in her eyes makes them grow dark. ‘Adopted?’
Susie nods. The word sounds different on Karen’s lips, more prosaic, less likely.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t know how I can make it any clearer, Karen. Adopted.’ A voice comes back to her – her father’s.
My wee giftie.
Robert MacPherson was a bank clerk, a man of huge kindness but little imagination. Routine was his mainstay. In the Sixties, when colour was busting out everywhere and psychedelia and Carnaby Street reigned supreme, he still dressed formally in dark suits with stiff collars and tightly knotted ties in dark green or deep burgundy. He read the
Times
and played bowls. His contribution to domestic chores was the gardening and his style was neatness. Every blade of grass was trimmed to within an inch of its life, the borders of the lawn cut in sharp right angles to the flowerbeds. Weeds were anathema to him and his pride and joy were the fabulously rich colour of the many varieties of dahlia he grew each summer.
If his clothes were dull, his garden was not and despite his leaning towards orderliness, Robert MacPherson was a loving, warm-hearted man. Nothing appeared to give him more pleasure in life than getting down on his hands and knees and offering rides to his small daughter – or, later, when she was in full acting mode, submitting meekly to being draped in a curtain to be Prince Charming or donning a silly hat to become a hobgoblin. His willingness more than made up for his deficiencies as an actor.
Susie can picture him now, scooping her up in his arms, tickling and cuddling her until her indignation gives way to delighted screams. ‘My wee gem’, he called her. ‘My wee giftie.’ Did it mean something, that choice of word?
Gift. Something that has been given.
Susie senses the boundaries of her world shifting once more, feels the room turn. She clutches her glass. It’s cold in her hand.