Don't Be Afraid Page 7

  “I say, yes. If Isabel wants me . . .”

  “We’ll persuade her,” said Torcuil, but he was tormenting a tea towel in a way that told me he was not that confident.

  I looked around at everyone. “Well, that’s the easy part done.” I felt a lump in my throat. Please let me persuade her, I prayed silently. Please convince Bell to let Clara into her life. But I knew it didn’t work like that – ultimately, Bell would make her own decision. It would be up to her to accept Clara or not.

  To try to walk on the road to recovery, or stand still and suffer.

  All the help in the world was there, if she accepted it.

  My Bell. My Bell and her battle.

  “You wouldn’t give me a guided tour of this beautiful place?” Clara asked, and with that, the tension burst like a bubble.

  We walked through room after room, each of them spotless, with the most beautiful furniture pieces. Dotted here and there were signs from the National Trust, explaining the history and use of each room. It was strange, to see these spaces we used to live in as children cordoned off and shown to the public. I remembered playing hide-and-seek here with my siblings, reading books on the antique sofas, stepping without thinking on the precious mosaicked floor of the music room, keeping our clothes in the intricately carved wardrobes, sitting for dinner in the light of precious chandeliers. It was all normal, for us. Just the way life was.

  “Look, there’s even a treasure hunt you can do. For children,” Torcuil said, handing Clara a piece of paper. “Margherita’s son – he’s four now – must have done it a hundred times!”

  “Let me see. Find the beast of the north . . . Oh, up there!” She pointed to the big framed painting of a polar bear. “My children would have loved this too, when they were little.”

  “You have children?” asked Margherita. But Clara was not forthcoming.

  “This is great. You are so fortunate to live in such a beautiful place . . .” she said, gesturing to encompass it all.

  “It was Margherita. She turned this place around.” Torcuil gazed at Margherita for a moment, and the love was evident in his eyes. I was reminded of what had been between Isabel and Torcuil, and how it was now truly buried.

  “Not true! You did just as much!” Margherita protested, but he shook his head.

  Finally, Torcuil opened a set of double wooden doors and led us into the grand hall, its ceiling painted blue and dotted with silver stars and baby angels. Clara couldn’t take her eyes off the fresco, and she wandered around for a while, looking up.

  “And that, there, is my house.” I pointed to one of the enormous arched windows. Among the greenery, we could see the whitewashed cottage standing alone across the loch.

  I imagined Bell there, waiting for me.

  We stood outside in the chilly afternoon air. Now that the decision had been made, I was a bit calmer. Clara’s serenity seemed to have rubbed off on me, at least to some degree.

  “So, tomorrow at ten? I’ll text you if there are any problems . . . I mean, if Bell really is adamant that she’s not ready to see you we can work around it, and rearrange . . .”

  “Tomorrow,” Torcuil repeated, and our eyes met. I could feel we shared the same trepidation, but we also shared the same hope. “She will let Clara in. I know it.”

  I wasn’t so sure, but I knew I would do anything in my power to make this happen.

  “We’ll be fine,” Clara said, and again I felt like I could breathe.

  Margherita broke the short silence. “I was wondering . . . I need to go and get my son at my mum’s, but why don’t you stay for dinner?”

  “You’re very kind, but tonight I’d rather be on my own. There is so much to take in, and I’m still a bit jet-lagged.”

  Margherita was sympathetic. “You must be. It’s a long way from Canada.”

  “A long way indeed,” said Torcuil, and once again he looked at Clara in a way I couldn’t decipher.

  I, too, turned down the invitation to stay at Ramsay Hall. I needed time to think. I spent the evening alone, sitting at the window, listening to music. I watched day turn to night and wished it was time to see Bell already, to have her back here, where she belonged.

  And then, after a few hours of tormented sleep and two cups of strong coffee, it was time to go to the hospital and finally, finally take Bell home.

  13

  Prison

  The place I love the most

  Becomes my prison

  The world is just a space

  Inside my weary heart

  Isabel

  When I came back from hospital, everything was exactly how I left it. I couldn’t have handled it if Morag had come and touched my things, and Angus knew that. Only the bed was made, the little orange dots of my nightmare gone. Looking at the bed made me feel sick.

  I’d spent the journey home obsessively listening to The Singing Wheel, my friend Emer’s CD, and trying to forget I was actually outside. As we went through the garden, Angus tried to show me how lovely our late-blooming roses still were – but I preferred the view of my garden from the inside. I stepped into the kitchen, my husband following me with the little bag of my belongings, and then up the stairs, slowly.

  I was so happy to be home.

  I was devastated to be back in my prison.

  I was neither. I was hollow. I was nothing.

  I stopped for a moment in front of the mirror hanging on the landing and studied the shape of my head. I often wondered what had gone wrong in there. Was it an illness? Was it a choice, a personality trait? Was this happening because of what I went through when I was a child?

  Maybe it didn’t even matter.

  “Bell?” Angus beckoned me up the stairs.

  “Yes. Coming.”

  I went through the motions. Angus was there with me, murmuring words of encouragement and looking after me, sweet as a mother. I had a long, hot shower to wash the hospital smell off my skin, the water flowing over me like a cleansing waterfall. I noticed that there was a new set of soaps there, white with cinnamon sticks and mint leaves and bits of orange skins worked into them – I recognised Anne’s handiwork, my old school friend. She must have sent them while I was at the hospital. It seemed to me that Glen Avich had found a way to show it had not forgotten me, even in my self-imposed exile. Tears started prickling behind my eyes, and then fell silently, now that Angus couldn’t see me. Weird how when you’ve come so close to death, something like the scent of homemade soap is such a blessing. I’m still alive to feel this, my body whispered.

  I sat at the window seat in my bedroom and I switched on my laptop. I was scared of phones, but I was okay with computers. Weird, I know.

  Dozens of emails from Emer, panicking because of my silence. Oh God, I really hurt everyone who loves me, don’t I?

  I switched it off without replying. What was I supposed to say? Hi Emer, so lovely to hear from you, I tried to kill myself?

  I looked outside, resting my head on the windowpane. It felt cool against my cheek. The view was so familiar I could have drawn it with my eyes closed. Angus had plugged my hairdryer in and laid out the brush that had been my mother’s. He was as thoughtful, as loving as ever – but he would not meet my eyes. Every time our gazes linked, he looked away, he busied himself with something else.

  Maybe he couldn’t look my despair in the eye, it was too painful for him, or maybe he was angry and he couldn’t show me, he didn’t want me to see.

  I didn’t blame him for being angry. I had everything: I had his love, friends, a beautiful home and a job I adored. But I had fallen anyway.

  I had fallen into the black hole.

  Could I climb out? Would I be able to do that? I had to. I couldn’t leave Angus broken the way I was.

  But the other day, when downing the orange pills had seemed the only option left, thinking of Angus hadn’t been enough. Just the opposite: it seemed to me that he would have been better off without me, that I was doing him a favour. It really felt that way.<
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  “Bell, listen, I’ll just give Torcuil a phone and see if he can get some stuff in for us. I completely forgot to buy food and Morag doesn’t seem to have left anything edible . . .”

  I managed a little smile. Morag’s taste in food was an inside joke between us: she bought blocks of fatty cheap cheese and anaemic sausages, long-life milk, chemical sliced bread, a bottle of ketchup. And tinned peaches, for vitamins.

  “What did she get?”

  “Campbell’s mushroom soup and a can of haggis.”

  “Nice.”

  “Yes. So I’ll just give him a phone, and if it’s okay with you to see him . . .”

  “It’s okay. You go and get food. I’ll be fine, I promise. I mean, I’d love to see Torcuil, but there’s no need to send him to the shops.” I was embarrassed. A healthy young woman, so dependent on others she couldn’t even face a supermarket. She couldn’t be left alone for a moment in case she did something stupid.

  How did this happen?

  My gaze went past the loch to the familiar cluster of grey stone that was the Ramsay estate. I couldn’t see the stables and the horses from our house, it was too far – there, behind the crest of dark trees, lay the Ramsay stables, such a big part of my lost happiness. I’d loved horseriding. Before.

  But my greatest loss was just above my head: my attic studio, where I used to work. I hadn’t been up there in months.

  It weighed on me in a way that was also physical; it hurt so much sometimes I felt I nearly couldn’t raise my head.

  If someone had told me just a year ago that I would not be drawing any more, that I would be too scared to do so, I would have never believed them.

  But this is how I live now.

  “I would rather not leave you, you’re just back . . .” Angus said.

  “Really, Angus. It’s okay. I’ll dry my hair and tidy up and give the place a clean.”

  A shadow passed over his face. “You’ll exhaust yourself again.”

  “No, I promise. Honestly. I won’t do it . . . that way. Just normal cleaning. Like normal people do.” I shrugged and gave a little wan laugh. He didn’t even smile. “If you can’t even go to the shops, how are you going to manage your place at the RSNO?”

  A pause. Cold spread through my bones as I realised what I’d said, the implications of it.

  “Good question,” he said, and once again he looked away.

  My head spun. It was too soon to talk about that; neither of us could have coped.

  “Please go to the shops. I promise you I’ll be fine. I won’t throw myself out of the window or anything.” I attempted a laugh. Again, Angus didn’t laugh at all.

  “I’ll do the groceries online.”

  “Fine,” I sighed.

  From now on it was going to be like that: he’d check on me, he’d ask me a million times if I were okay. And I couldn’t blame him. If he’d tried to do what I’d tried to do, I’d be the same.

  All of a sudden, I looked around me and I felt that there was much to do. Everything was out of place and everything needed to be cleaned and sanitised in a way only I knew. My heart was beating too fast again, and my hands felt cold and tingly, the way they did when panic began opening its mouth to swallow me. Too much to do, too much to worry about. And the blackness threatening to engulf me any moment, without warning . . .

  I closed my eyes briefly. I needed to tell Emer I was okay.

  From Emer88@iol.ie

  To Isabel.C.Ramsay@gmail.com

  Isabel? Please get in touch. I phoned Angus, and he told me what happened.

  Please write. I’m worried sick.

  I send you all my love,

  Emer x

  That was one of no less than fifty emails, imploring me to get in touch. I felt terrible. No surprises, there – guilt was my default mode.

  From Isabel.C.Ramsay@gmail.com

  To Emer88@iol.ie

  I’m home. I’m okay. Please don’t worry about me.

  Bell x

  A vision from the past flashed in my mind: Angus, Emer, Donal – her best friend – and I camping on a Barra beach, two backpacks of clothes between us, sand everywhere, washing in the freezing sea . . . Donal looking at Emer with such love in his eyes – and still they were just friends, because Emer was in denial. Emer asking us what the sea looked like, telling us that to her the sea was a sound, a scent, and it felt faraway even when she was right on the shore. Emer and I in our flat in Glasgow, when I was at the School of Art and she was studying music – the evenings we spent chatting and drinking cheap cider, Harvey, who was then her guide dog, asleep between us. Emer and I had shared a flat until Angus came on the scene, and Emer, though she would never admit it, was a little bit jealous. ‘The two musicians in your life,’ she always said.

  I switched the computer off, stood up and walked slowly out of the room. I gazed at the metal spiral staircase that led upstairs to my studio.

  No.

  I wasn’t ready.

  I just couldn’t go back there.

  I decided to go downstairs, instead – I felt like I was moving underwater. So much to do, everything to clean and tidy, and I was so tired . . .

  I looked out at my garden – as always, the sight of it gave me comfort. A blue butterfly was dancing around the rosemary bush, and I looked twice – a butterfly in the winter? To my weary eyes, it seemed like a miracle.

  14

  Behind the scenes

  As I get closer

  Closer to you

  Isabel

  Later, Angus sat in the kitchen while I cooked dinner with what I’d found in the cupboard.

  The feeling he was up to something – that he was trying to tell me something, and he was waiting for the right moment – was growing stronger by the minute. This is what happens when you’ve been married for eight years: you start reading each other’s minds. I waited.

  “I need to speak to you,” he finally said.

  “I knew it.”

  “What?”

  “I knew you had something to tell me.”

  “I found someone. For you, I mean.”

  My stomach knotted. I should have been grateful he was trying to help me, but I was scared, scared that my painstakingly created routine would be upset and that I would have to confront my demons. Terrified of change. Terrified they would make me do things I was terrified of.

  Terrified, full stop.

  “A therapist? A Skype therapist?” I took a deep breath. “I might think about it . . .” I said quickly. I knew it’d be no use, but I would do it, if it were asked of me. If it got everyone off my back.

  “No, it’s not a therapist. You look exhausted, love,” he said, stroking my cheek. “Let me make you a cup of tea and then I’ll explain.”

  “I’ll make it,” I said, filling the kettle while a pot of pasta boiled on the stove. It was all so . . . normal. Like nothing untoward had happened. Like our lives hadn’t been turned upside down by what I’d tried to do.

  Making dinner. Drinking tea. Quiet domesticity.

  And the abyss of my mind ready to open, ready to swallow me.

  “You know the way I’ll be out for work a lot,” Angus began.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll be on your own.”

  “Yes. But you think I can’t be trusted.”

  “Well, it’s more that . . . I can’t relax if I don’t know you’re okay, and you don’t answer the phone, and anyway I can’t be texting or emailing, I’ll be working . . .”

  “But you don’t need to worry about me,” I said, and the absurdity of it hit me. I’d just tried to swallow enough pills to end it all. But sure, he had nothing to worry about.

  How could I convince him I would never try it again? That I would never put him through that again? That I was relieved I was alive?

  “Well, I do. I do worry about you. A lot. So Torcuil and I found someone to be with you.”

  “Here? In this house?” I felt a cold finger travel down my spine. My hands we
re shaking, all of a sudden.

  “Yes. Her name is Clara. She is coming tomorrow . . . She’ll just be spending time with you, that’s all. See that you are okay.”

  I turned my back to him, holding the counter with both hands while the kettle clicked. “No.”

  “Bell . . .”

  “I said no!”

  “Okay, fine.”

  “What?”

  “I said fine. You don’t want strangers in this house, you manoeuvred things so that you wouldn’t get visits from the Crisis team or whatever it was called . . . so it’ll be me keeping an eye on you. I’m leaving my job.”

  I turned around to face him. “You can’t leave your job! And it’s not just a job! It’s your life!”

  “Well, I don’t have to work for the orchestra. I’ll just tell them no, teach music somewhere.”

  “You can’t!”

  “Yes, I can. I have to.”

  “Please don’t. I couldn’t bear it . . .”

  “Then meet this woman.”

  “This is emotional blackmail!”

  “Not exactly. It’s just that I love you. It’s as simple as that. And I won’t leave you alone, not when you’re in this state.”

  Silence. Mutinous on my part, angry on his.

  “Bell. I lied for you. So that you could have things your way. Now please will you do this for me!”

  “Look. Fine, okay. But only when you’re not around. And she is not sleeping here.”

  “She is sleeping here when I’m away with the orchestra, end of! Otherwise I’ll stop the trial now.”

  “Let me at least meet her first!”

  “She’s coming tomorrow.”

  “I never had a chance to say no, did I?”

  I took a breath, and drank his face in, his voice. His blond-red hair, his eyes, cornflower blue, the straight, determined nose and his long-fingered musician’s hands.

  I loved him.

  “Bell . . .”

  “Fine. Fine.”

  “She can come to the house? You’ll meet her?”

  I love you, Angus, was on the tip of my tongue.