Don't Be Afraid Page 10

  “She let you in okay?” I asked, and I didn’t just mean into her home.

  “Well, after a little while. We had cup of tea and a chat. I think it’s going to work out,” she said, and she was beaming.

  “Good morning,” an Irish voice came from the kitchen, before I could say anything else. Aisling walked through from behind the counter, followed by a tiny girl with the face of a mouse and a mane of blue hair. “Hi guys, this is my sister, Kate. At last. I can go home and put my feet up,” she said, patting her belly.

  “I’ll show her the ropes. You’re officially on maternity leave, so go home or go and sit on the sofa and I’ll bring you a cup of tea,” Debora said.

  “Are you sure?” Aisling didn’t seem at ease with being served instead of doing the serving.

  “Absolutely. Can I get you something else, Torcuil? Clara?”

  “No thanks, I just had a gallon of coffee,” I said.

  “You can never have enough caffeine in my view,” Margherita appeared from the kitchen. “Hi, Clara. Was Leo okay?” she asked me.

  “He was great. Went without any bother. I thought maybe I could give you a hand?”

  “No, you’re fine, chat away.” She dismissed me with a wave of her hand. Just like I thought, she would not let me near the food she was preparing. She gave me a peck on the cheek and disappeared again.

  “Kate, if you come here I’ll show you how to work the coffee machine . . .” Debora began. At that moment, a loud song pierced our ears.

  “Sorry, it’s just my phone! I’ve got to get this. It’s Pablo,” Kate declared, and strode out of the coffee shop into the street.

  Aisling and Debora looked at each other.

  “Wait, I’ll just clear up that table . . .”

  “You go home!” Debora ordered. “Or if you want to stay, you are going to sit there and eat cake. You are forbidden to do any work! Enough is enough.”

  “Fine,” Aisling said, and gazed out of the window at her sister, who was standing close to the wall, out of the rain, and talking on her mobile. Clara and I exchanged an amused look.

  “Go sit on the sofas,” Debora said.

  “I wouldn’t get up again!”

  “Come and sit beside me, then,” Debora said, patting the chair behind the counter.

  “Sorry!” Kate walked in again. “That was my fiancée.”

  Fiancée? She looked about fifteen.

  “Fiancée?” Aisling got up again. “Do Mum and Dad know about this?”

  “Not yet. So don’t tell them.”

  “Kate, you are still—”

  “I’m old enough to make my own decisions!”

  “Right. We’ll talk about it later,” Aisling concluded and gave her a wait till I get my hands on you kind of look.

  “Anyway, Kate, come and I’ll show you how to use the coffee machine—” Debora began again.

  “Ouch!” Kate said, bringing her hand to her eye.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My contact lens fell out. I can’t see a thing without it. I need to go home and get my glasses.”

  Debora and Aisling looked at each other again as Kate disappeared out of the shop once more.

  “I’m going to kill her!” Aisling said, and disappeared after her. It was like being at the theatre, really. But with all the commotion, I hadn’t had the chance to speak to Clara, and she was already standing to leave.

  “Well, I’m off. I’ll see you soon. And don’t worry, it’ll be fine,” she said.

  I didn’t have time to say anything but “Keep me posted”, and she was already out of the coffee shop with a hurried goodbye. It was like she didn’t want to give away too much, somehow. I wondered why.

  I watched Clara leave, walking down the street with the umbrella in her hand, closed, and the rain soaking her hair. She seemed immune to the cold. I was about to stand and go home too when a black-haired woman came in. I was so rarely in the village, I had forgotten how you’re bound to meet someone you know at every corner.

  It was Anne, my former classmate at Glen Avich Primary and then Kinnear High. She was a good friend of Isabel; they had always played together during her summers in Glen Avich, and then, as teenagers, they went out with the same group of friends. I watched while she slipped her umbrella into the vase beside the door and then walked to the counter, her spine straight. She was a heavyset girl, with black hair and freckles all over her fair skin. She carried a sense of peace and contentment about her, with her unrushed ways and slow, deliberate voice.

  “What do you have in the way of cake, Debora? It’s my father-in-law’s birthday and we’re throwing a bit of a bash,” she said, tucking a strand of black hair, streaked with grey, behind her ear. It was strange to think she was the same age as Izzy – she looked a lot older. Izzy had, somehow, stayed frozen in time. But Anne also looked so much happier than Izzy.

  “Anything you dream of and more,” Debora replied with a smile. “I can make you a sponge and decorate it for him, if you have time to wait until tomorrow?”

  “I’m afraid I have to take what you have ready. It’s all very last-minute. The party is tonight . . . Oh, hello, Torcuil!”

  “Hi Anne, how are you? And the family?” Anne had four boys and a huge extended family that usually trailed after her. I realised it was the first time I’d ever seen her on her own, without either a child or a granny or two in tow.

  “All good, thank you. Debora, could I have that chocolate cake, please? And a latte? Do you mind if I sit with you, Torcuil?”

  “Please do.” She did, resting her shopping bags on the floor.

  “I was just wondering how is Isabel . . .”

  “Well, she had a bit of a blip . . .” I didn’t want to talk about Izzy behind her back, but Anne was a good friend, and I didn’t want her to feel unwelcome about asking after Izzy. I was happy she had. In spite of Izzy’s effort to isolate herself over the last three years, there were people all around who cared for her, thought of her, wished her well. I thought it was a precious thing; I thought she needed to know it was so.

  “I know. I heard.”

  Of course she had.

  “Yes.” I looked into my coffee.

  “How is she now?”

  “She’s back at home. That’s something.”

  “Oh, Torcuil, my heart goes out to her. I tried to get in touch, but she never seemed to want to talk . . .”

  “She doesn’t mean it. It’s just . . .”

  “You don’t need to say. I just want Isabel to know I’m here if she needs me. I’ll be here when she’s better.”

  “Thank you. She’ll be happy to hear that.”

  “I made a parcel for her a wee while ago – some soaps. I left it with Angus. I’ll make her another one.”

  “I’m sure she’ll appreciate it,” I said, and I thought of how people sent Isabel packages and letters, as if she was marooned somewhere far, far away.

  “I just wanted to say . . .” It was her turn to look down, now. “Sometimes, my husband . . . Well, my husband went through a stage when he wasn’t really feeling himself. Dr Robertson gave him some stuff to take and he felt a lot better.”

  “Yes. Thank you,” I said. A silent brotherhood and sisterhood of sorrow. I was grateful.

  “Will you give her my love?”

  “Of course.”

  She looked at me thoughtfully, like she wanted to say something else. But then she changed her mind and left, clutching her cake box to her chest, her dark-green umbrella bobbing as she walked under the freezing rain. On impulse, I took my mobile out and texted Angus.

  Could you give Isabel a message from me? Tell her that Anne was asking after her, she sends her love.

  Any lifeline Izzy was thrown was worth clutching.

  20

  Respite

  Keep me close, keep me

  In the shelter of your arms

  Isabel

  Angus and I were alone, at home. It happened so rarely that when it did I treasured
every moment, every hour. We lay together until late, the curtains drawn, under the warm, heavy duvet. In his arms, I found an oasis of peace, a moment of respite from my restless thoughts. I couldn’t even remember the last time we’d been alone together without arguing or discussing my health.

  It was like a miracle, and I was determined not to spoil it with anxieties or upset. All I wanted to do was lie in his arms, listening to his steady heartbeat, and forget all about the world.

  “So, it went okay with Clara, didn’t it?” he said in a low, soft voice, caressing my hair. We were so close that I could hear his voice resound in his chest.

  I nodded. I didn’t want to speak. Not yet.

  “You think it will work out with her?

  I nodded again.

  “You seemed to be so relaxed with her. I have to admit, I was surprised.”

  “So was I,” I whispered.

  “I can’t begin to tell you my relief. Thank you, Bell—”

  “Please don’t thank me. Don’t.”

  “You pushed yourself so that I could still go to work. I’m so grateful. I really am.”

  I couldn’t believe what he was saying. He was grateful? After all I had inflicted on him?

  His love for me always left me speechless. His unconditional, generous kindness towards me was a treasure I would not squander, I would not relinquish.

  He placed a kiss on my temple and I closed my eyes, drinking in his love, his presence, his warmth. He wrapped his arms around me and began kissing me, and I forgot all about the darkness inside me and lost myself in him.

  Afterwards, he brought me a cup of coffee and opened the curtains. I brought my knees to my chest and sipped my hot, sugared coffee while he sat on the windowsill and looked outside. Autumn was singing its last, spectacular song before the land fell asleep for a long, long time.

  21

  The memory of colours

  And in my dreams I bathed

  In purple and yellow

  And in my dreams I was

  The rainbow

  Isabel

  Finally it was Monday, and another week was starting. I wasn’t that nervous the first time Clara came officially, without Angus. Well, maybe a little.

  Okay, I was very nervous. Nearly panicky, but not quite, though I could feel my heart beating through my T-shirt. But the first meeting had been good, so that boded well.

  She arrived a few minutes before Angus left, at break of dawn. He opened the door, all ready and packed to drive away, and Clara tiptoed into the house, smoothly, after a brief whispered exchange with my husband. Not literally, of course – but if felt like she was tiptoeing. She slipped in like a guest, without a hint of bossiness, without making me feel she was there to watch me, to check on me. In fact, she was nearly timid. I had been dreading that she would start telling me what to do, watch that I take my medicines – that would have been a problem – watch me eating, act like some sort of nurse. Which was what she was, but I preferred to forget about it.

  But she did none of this. She didn’t act like I had to somehow report to her. She sat with me in the kitchen, silent and smiling, a calm presence that asked for nothing. I thought I was going to have to do my best to avoid her, maybe even barricade myself in my bedroom and try to forget she was there, but I sat at the table in front of her and we were like two pieces of a jigsaw slotting together.

  Strange.

  “It’s awfully early. Fancy a coffee? I’ll make it, if it’s okay?” she said.

  “There is some ready . . .” I said, gesturing at the cafetière. I got up before her. I preferred taking charge in my own kitchen. I poured us both a coffee and lay milk and sugar on the table, like I’d done this with her forever. Like she wasn’t a stranger sitting with me at half past six in the morning. And then I wiped everything the way I liked it. The way I needed it. I had a million little rituals that kept me prisoner, and if I didn’t follow them I would go into a panic.

  “It must be weird, having me at the house so early,” she said, reading my mind.

  “It’s weird to have anyone at the house,” I replied, wrapping my cardigan tighter around myself. “At pretty much any time.”

  “I can imagine. It’s good of you to let me come. Thank you,” she said, and the conversation was so surreal I didn’t know what to say next.

  “So, what’s the plan for today?” she went on.

  “I don’t know. I usually . . . I don’t know. I hang around. I clean and tidy, mainly. I don’t do much.” I used to work all day, day in and day out. I loved it that way. To lose myself in my art. But not any more.

  “I don’t want to be intrusive . . . I mean, it must be strange enough to have me around . . . but Angus said you’d start taking your medicines today?”

  “I did! I did already. Before you arrived,” I lied quickly.

  “Oh, that’s good. Listen, I was thinking . . . will you show me your studio? Angus said you have an amazing room up in the attic. And I’d love to learn more about art.”

  “I haven’t been up there in ages,” I said curtly, and began playing with my hair.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “It’s just . . . I don’t know. I told you. Nothing comes out. I tried to draw and paint and I just couldn’t. So I stopped.”

  Clara looked at me sympathetically. “Well, they talk about writer’s block . . . you have artist’s block. It will all come back,” she said softly.

  “Do you think so?” I asked, and then I immediately felt angry with myself. I was seeking reassurance from a total stranger. Why was I doing that?

  “Of course. It’s just that you’re not well, right now. It won’t be forever.”

  Really?

  At that moment, I realised I had come to be quite sure my illness would last forever, in spite of what Angus always believed, always told me: that one day I would magically be the person I used to be.

  But maybe, like many illnesses, it would simply go away, one day. Some become chronic, but some just . . . go.

  Maybe there was hope.

  I gazed at my pictures, framed and displayed all around the kitchen – colourful paintings of owls and deer and foxes, all with a magical quality to them, in a style that was somewhere between realistic and primitive – my style. My signature. It was how I had made a name for myself, how I had slowly, slowly built a career. With my soul’s work.

  22

  What I leave behind

  What I leave behind

  Is my heart itself

  Angus

  It was all a big exercise in trust, wasn’t it? To leave Bell behind, believe that Clara would take good care of her, believe that she would keep herself safe and not do anything stupid. We’d spent yesterday together and it had been perfect. Twenty-four hours of peace, like a butterfly’s life.

  The drive to Glasgow was full of thoughts of Isabel, and how torn I was between her and my job. Somehow, between Glen Avich and the city, the wrench happened and my thoughts turned to music. It was never easy, but it worked; it had to work. If I was to juggle Bell’s illness and the orchestra, the wrench had to happen.

  When I got into rehearsal, Bibi was the first to greet me, leaving the group to come and say hello. She was very . . . expansive, when it came to me. I wasn’t sure how to take it. On the other hand, she was like that with Kyoko too, the Japanese cello player who was on trial with me, so maybe it was my imagination running away.

  “Hi! I have that book we talked about. It’s in my bag, I’ll just get it . . .”

  “Oh, thanks. You didn’t have to.”

  “It’s no problem. There,” she said, and swept her dark hair away from her face. “It’s great to see you. How have you been?”

  “I’m good, you?”

  “Great! Listen, I found this place off Sauchiehall Street, why don’t you and me make a run for it at break and get a quiet lunch?”

  “I . . .”

  I was saved by the conductor calling us to start.

  It was weird to be away
from Bell, but when I started playing I forgot about everything. And no, that’s not to say I stopped caring, or I stopped carrying Bell in my heart every moment. It was a different thing. When I played, I wasn’t myself any more: I was music.

  I lost myself in it and my heart had only one reason to beat. It’s difficult to explain if you haven’t felt it: it was like suspending time, a perfect harmony of body and soul and the rest of the universe. Like being immortal. Immersed in beauty and bliss.

  That was what music did to me.

  It didn’t always feel good. It was also an obsession. A hard mistress who wanted me to give her pretty much everything I was and everything I had. Sometimes music was freedom; sometimes she tied me with more binds than I could ever imagine, and I realised I wasn’t her master, I was her slave. Sometimes I looked at my violin and thought of all the hours I practised, and how my work was never finished, never quite good enough, never perfect, and I realised as much as I loved it, I hated it too.

  Rehearsals were over, and we sat on the small couches against the wall, drinking coffee. I looked out of the window at the pouring rain, and I wondered if it was raining in Glen Avich. I wondered how Bell and Clara are getting on.

  I wondered if I would ever have my Bell back.

  “You are lost in thought,” a voice said beside me. It was Bibi.

  “Yes. Just . . . lots on my mind.”

  “Your wife?” she whispered. She looked at me like she knew everything there was to know about me. I nodded, taken aback. We hardly knew each other, really, and she was already asking me personal questions. The orchestra was a small fishpond, a tiny Glen Avich where news got around fast and everybody knew each other’s business, but usually it wasn’t spoken aloud so brazenly.

  “Why don’t we go somewhere for proper coffee” – she gestured at the instant stuff I had poured for myself – “and a quiet chat? I’m a good listener.” I supposed she’d given up on lunch and was now settling for coffee.

  “But I’m not much of a talker,” I replied. Her face fell, and suddenly I felt cruel. She meant well – she just wanted to offer a sympathetic ear and some support. The problem was, it might have been what I needed – sympathy and support – but it didn’t mean I was going to accept it.