Don't Be Afraid Page 11

  “Sorry, that wasn’t nice. Of course. Let’s go. Kyoko around?”

  “She’s making a call home.”

  It had to be just us, then.

  We sat in the cafe around the corner and I noticed how blue Bibi’s eyes were – forget-me-not blue. They were a bit bulgy though, a bit manic, I mused, and then berated myself for such an unkind thought. Bell’s eyes were deep green, and they had these brown specks in them, so unique . . .

  “So, how long have you been in the orchestra?” I asked, to break the silence.

  “Oh, four years now. A long time . . . for me.” She laughed. “Actually I was thinking of leaving, but then . . .”

  “What happened?”

  Bibi shrugged. “I changed my mind. I decided it’s worth staying.”

  “Where are you from, exactly?”

  “Tennessee. I thought my accent would give me away!” She laughed again. She laughed a lot, but not in an irritating way. More like cheery. Full of life. She had a generous mouth and curls that bounced when she spoke animatedly, punctuating her words.

  “I can’t really tell American accents apart.”

  “You’re from a small village around here, aren’t you?”

  “Well, not exactly around here, a few hours’ drive away.”

  “That’s around here, by American standards.” Again, that lively laugh.

  “It’s near Aberdeen. Tiny place.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Glen Avich,” I said, and just saying it aloud conjured the scent of wind, the still loch, the pine-covered, silent mountains. Home. Always.

  “Glen Avick.”

  I smiled. “Avich!”

  “That’s what I said! Avick! Avi . . . ch! No, I can’t say it! So,” she said, her long, fine fingers braided around her cup, “are you enjoying the orchestra?”

  “I’m loving every minute, to be honest.”

  “Are you? Because you look so preoccupied . . .”

  “Well, that has nothing to do with the job. It’s . . . other things.”

  “Tell me. What’s on your mind?” she said, taking a sip of her coffee.

  “Well, nothing . . . Just stuff at home.”

  “Your wife?”

  I nodded.

  “What’s wrong with her, if I may ask?”

  You may not.

  “Oh, she’s just a bit down on herself. She’ll get better.”

  “Of course,” she said, and just for a second, she rested her hand on mine. “Everything will be fine.”

  I froze. And then, to my great surprise, I realised it didn’t feel that bad. It didn’t feel that bad to see that someone other than Torcuil and Margherita actually care. To see that when I was in Glasgow, working, there was someone who knew what was going on.

  “Thank you, Bibi,” I said, and I meant it.

  To Isabel.C.Ramsay@gmail.com

  From Emer88@iol.ie

  Hi, my love. How are you feeling today? The weather is okay, here in Galway.

  Emer xxx

  To Emer88@iol.ie

  From Isabel.C.Ramsay@gmail.com

  Please can you speak normally to me again.

  I’m not dead.

  I’m not eighty-five.

  Tell me about your life.

  Please?

  Isabel x

  To Isabel.C.Ramsay@gmail.com

  From Emer88@iol.ie

  Okay, grand.

  Dear Bell! I’ve been invited to INDIA. Of all places. Your husband will eat his heart out, ha! Just joking, it’ll be years before I get to his level. But I’m so excited. I’ll be playing with some local musicians. I want to buy a sari and wear it at my wedding. Which will never happen because I’m DOOMED when it comes to love. I must be doomed. There is no other explanation. Last week Ciara tried to set me up with this ghastly guy who plays the oboe and only talks about himself. Ciara is obsessed with setting me up and she always gets it wrong. No wonder, though: ours is a limited pool – musicians, and the crazy people who are willing to go out with musicians. Throw in the last variable, me being visually impaired (like they say on official forms) and you’ll get a one-in-a-million chance of me finding the man of my dreams.

  Anyway. Here, I’m talking rubbish . . . are you still awake?

  From Isabel.C.Ramsay@gmail.com

  To Emer88@iol.ie

  I am! And it’s not rubbish. I love hearing about your life. Clara is here. She is not bad, actually. The whole thing started quite strangely. I don’t know if I told you this, but I dreamt of her just before they took me into hospital (don’t worry, I won’t keep going on about that, I want to forget all about it too). So anyway I dreamt of her, and it was a lovely dream. She reminded me of someone, or maybe it was like I’d known her before. Maybe in a previous life.

  She’s here now, down in the kitchen cooking me a hearty lunch (this is exactly what she said).

  I sort of like it that she is here.

  Weird, I know.

  From Emer88@iol.ie

  To Isabel.C.Ramsay@gmail.com

  Yes, it’s pretty weird you dreamt of her, and weird that you enjoy having her there, you big loner, you. No, seriously, I’m so glad you have someone there looking after you. That Morag, she is a human igloo. Anyway. I have to go now, rehearsal with Spiorad. Speak later. I can’t wait until you start using the phone again. I miss your voice.

  Emer xxx

  23

  Because nobody knows you like I do

  For you

  I’ll pick all the flowers

  In Heaven’s meadows

  Angus

  On the drive back from Glasgow to Glen Avich, the fields and moors were grey and barren. Winter eased itself in slowly at first, and then it fell all of a sudden. I thought of the long, dark days ahead and how they would affect Bell. Near-bare branches lifted their arms to the white sky and whirlpools of the last fallen leaves twirled in front of my car. Our garden would soon be empty, asleep. And Bell loved looking at it from the window. Now she wouldn’t have this joy any more.

  I wanted to bring some light back into her life, and colours, and a sense of things growing.

  Suddenly, an idea came into my mind, and I was so excited my heart started pounding. Listening to the radio, I used the rest of the journey to hatch a plan. Yes, it was perfect. The perfect gift for Bell.

  I couldn’t wait to bring my plan to fruition, but I needed Margherita’s help. I stopped the car in a lay-by and called my brother.

  “Torcuil, it’s me. Listen, I know you’re at the university right now, but I need to get in touch with Margherita.”

  “Of course, what’s up? Where are you, by the way? Sounds windy.”

  “On my way back to Glen Avich. I’m standing at the side of the road. I just had an idea, for Bell . . . I think Margherita can help. Do you know where I can find her? I’ll be home in an hour.”

  “She’ll be in the kitchen at the coffee shop; she has a big job on tomorrow. What idea?”

  “It’s a surprise. If she has a big job tomorrow maybe I shouldn’t bother her today. Maybe I should drop by in a couple of days?”

  “I think she’ll be happy to help. I’ll send you her phone number and you can ask her yourself.”

  “Great. Thanks!” I waited for a minute for his text to come through.

  Can’t wait for Friday, to see everyone again. I had such a great time. Bibi xxx

  Oh. This wasn’t the text I’d been expecting.

  She couldn’t wait to see everyone again? Well, that was nothing controversial.

  Then why did I read it as “I can’t wait to see you again”?

  Because I had a vivid imagination, that’s all.

  I deleted the text quickly. I could not think of an answer.

  “Margherita? It’s Angus. I’m sorry to bother you on your mobile, is it a good time to talk?”

  “Angus, hello! Of course, how can I help you?”

  “It’s for Isabel. You know the way she doesn’t go out much . . .” – or at
all, but that seemed so harsh, when it was said aloud – “And also, everything is looking so grey at the moment . . .”

  “Oh, I know, it’s so cold all of a sudden!”

  “It is! So I was thinking . . .” I explained my idea in broad paintstrokes. I’d give her the details when we met.

  “It sounds great. Come and see me and we can talk about it. I’m at La Piazza.”

  “Torcuil said you’re in the middle of a big job . . .”

  “It’s not a problem. Honestly, come down and we’ll sort it all out.”

  I stood for a moment in the icy wind, beside my car, looking over the fields, considering Margherita’s easy kindness, and feeling, after all, blessed.

  “Oh, hello, have you come to steal my cookies?” she said playfully as she saw me. There was something about her that reminded me of sunshine. She stopped for a moment, her hands still in the double oven glove having taken out a tray of biscuits shaped like ponies.

  “Absolutely. They smell amazing.”

  “Thanks! They’re for a christening. Now, about your idea. You can go to the outbuildings . . . They shouldn’t be locked, but if they are, you know where to look for the key . . .”

  “Second drawer on the left in Torcuil’s desk?”

  “Exactly. I’m so excited for you! It’s such a good idea. I wish I’d had it,” she said, piping blue icing on some of the pony biscuits she’d made earlier.

  “Thank you. That is a great help.”

  “It’s never a bother, you know that.” She pronounced “bother” with a Scottish accent, which made me smile, considering she was a London Italian. She’d been here just over a year and already she had a bit of a lilt.

  “By the way, I wanted to thank you for something else as well. You always send Bell cakes and biscuits. It’s very kind of you . . . We both really enjoy them . . . Well, it’s more than that, really. It’s the thought behind it. It’s so important for Bell to know she’s not forgotten.”

  “Of course she isn’t!” Margherita replied, carefully placing some iced biscuits in transparent bags. “It’s no problem, really. I appreciate her little notes when she says she enjoys them. But I’d love nothing more than meeting my sister-in-law for more than a few minutes . . . I’d love to sit down with her for a meal, have a chat, maybe go shopping . . .” she said, and there was a hint of sadness in her eyes.

  My stomach churned. I was always afraid that Bell would be blamed for something that wasn’t her fault. I was always afraid that even the people closest to us would not understand what she was going through, and how helpless I was. But Margherita didn’t blame her and my stomach unknotted when she simply said: “I pray for her every day, you know? And for you.”

  It was such a kind thing to say. I had no answer.

  “Also, she means a lot to Torcuil. I mean, I know about their history. That is also why I’d like to know her better. She’s on his mind a lot.”

  And that was like a small, near-imperceptible stab in my side.

  On my way home, my mobile beeped.

  Did you have a good time? Bibi xxx

  She wouldn’t let me get away with not answering, I supposed. I texted quickly as I ran home to see Bell.

  Of course

  24

  The flowers inside (2)

  Only you can see

  The flowers inside

  Isabel

  That day, Angus was being a bit strange. First of all, he’d been home two days in a row, which I didn’t think could happen when he was so busy with work, and second, he kept sending me upstairs with different excuses. Something was going on.

  From my bedroom I heard the front door opening and closing, and then a male voice in the garden. I looked out of the window and saw Dougie’s blue van leaving. I was about to get a bit panicky when Angus called me.

  “Bell! Can you come down a minute, please?”

  I went down the stairs – Angus was at the bottom, with a triumphant expression on his face. “I need to show you something,” he said. I followed him through to the living room and into the conservatory.

  I was speechless.

  The conservatory was overflowing with plants – violets, stephanotis, bulbs growing in water, orchids – and aromatic herbs – rosemary, sage, basil and others I didn’t recognise. It was like a little garden inside the house. The scent was incredible. Lavender, thyme, mint, peonies and even a tiny lilac mixed their scents into the air and made it smell like a summer meadow.

  “Of course we’ll need to replant the peonies and the lilac at some point . . . Some of the plants will have to be put back outside in the spring, some will need to be changed often, like the basil, Margherita said . . . But you’ll always have your indoor garden,” Angus said.

  “I . . . I can’t believe it. This is amazing!” I had tears in my eyes. “Thank you. Oh, thank you, Angus!” I threw my arms around him.

  “Well, if Isabel won’t go to the garden . . . But remember, this is only temporary. Until you can get outside and enjoy your real garden,” Angus said.

  My Angus had turned the conservatory into a little piece of heaven. All that was missing was the blue sky and the butterflies.

  It was like a dream.

  “I wanted you to have some herbs as well. Margherita said you’d love the scent, and also we can use them in the kitchen,” Angus said, beaming.

  “Margherita helped you?” I said, moved.

  “Yes, she and Torcuil gave me all these plants. They thought it was a great idea, to give you a place where you could, you know, breathe, relax.”

  “It’s wonderful. I can’t thank you all enough,” I said. I was doing my utmost not to cry, but I couldn’t help welling up. They’d all been so kind.

  “Right. I’ll put the kettle on,” Angus concluded in perfect Scottish style – when overwhelmed with emotion, either make a cup of tea or have a stiff drink. Left alone in my little indoor garden, I smiled to myself between the tears.

  Strange. It must have been a trick of the eye, because I thought I saw a little blue butterfly fluttering among the plants – but then, when I looked again, it was gone.

  25

  White is for happy

  You said to me once

  Autumn is our time

  Isabel

  Everything was bare now, and frozen; winter was here at last. It was a relief. I couldn’t wait to leave behind what I’d done that autumn, to forget all about those terrible orange pills. I’d given up on the medicines – trying and failing was just too painful – but not on the hope of recovering by myself. But there were so many blue days that I spent time frozen somewhere in the house or just sleeping the day away.

  I found solace in sitting in my indoor garden, in Clara’s company. Angus was away a lot, going out early and coming home very, very late, and I missed him. I knew that this was just the beginning, that he would be away with the orchestra even more when he’d take his post properly. Soon it would be time to find a flat in Glasgow and stay over for days on end, not just the odd night crashing at a friend’s, like now. The thought of Angus being away frightened me, but with Clara I was never alone. I had thought having Clara there all the time would get on my nerves, considering how used I was to being by myself, but it didn’t at all. It was easy. I couldn’t believe how close we’d become in such a short period of time. Like I’d known her forever.

  We developed a sort of routine, Clara and I. Every time Angus went away for work, she turned up and we’d spend the day together. Whenever Morag came with the groceries, Clara went for a walk and came back with Glen Avich stories.

  Like Mairi, who was six years old and had Down’s syndrome, landing a place in a theatre company in Aberdeen and appearing on the evening news. Her mum, Pamela, talked about nothing else. Or Inary, Angus’s cousin, being shortlisted for a prestigious literary prize and going to collect it in London. Someone starting a tiny library in the community centre, Glen Avich disastrously losing the local shinty championship like every year, a hot-air b
alloon from the nearby flying club doing an emergency landing in the middle of the play park, an exhibition of spooky pictures made by the local children for Halloween . . . Some news was sad, like an accident claiming the life of a young woman and the whole village gathering at the funeral, and some funny, like a Swedish woman, a new resident, applying to hold a witchcraft class in the community centre. Apparently, all the participants had to contribute was a few candles and a ceremonial knife – but that didn’t go down very well with the committee. They opted for a Pilates class instead.

  Drinking in her stories, it was like being out again, in the middle of life, instead of being holed up here. We sat together, drank tea and chatted. In those moments, I forgot all about the nightmares, the panic. I was just Isabel having a friend for tea, finding out the latest village news.

  “Aisling is fit to burst.” Clara had told me about Aisling’s pregnancy, among the news she brought back from the village. “And she still goes up to La Piazza to lend a hand because Kate is wired to the moon.” Clara smiled a mischievous smile.

  “And what’s the latest about Pablo?” I knew about Kate’s boyfriend, who, apparently, had eyelashes as long as a woman’s and hips like a salsa dancer – Kate’s own words.

  “Oh, Pablo just wants to act. His life is the theatre,” she said melodramatically. “So although Kate is the love of his life, as he keeps saying in his texts to her, he’s not coming up here, he’s going to London to study acting. Kate said he’s going to be the next Benicio del Toro.”

  “For sure,” I laughed. “But then, can you imagine if he really is successful and we are proved wrong?”

  “Then we can say we met him when he was a humble waiter in a tapas bar in Barcelona. Though we didn’t really meet him.”

  “We might soon. I mean . . . you might. I’ll be here,” I said, and the mood went suddenly dark.