Don't Be Afraid (11 page)

 

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

 

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.

 

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 balloon 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.

Maybe feeling the change in the atmosphere, Clara changed the subject. “Kate and Aisling bicker a lot, but they seem very close.”

“I have a sister too,” I added, and I was surprised myself. I didn't usually talk about her. Or my father.

“Do you? Where does she live?”

“She's still in Ireland. Near my dad.”

“Are you in touch at all?”

“Not really,” I replied, in a tone that said
Don't ask any more
. But Clara wasn't satisfied.

“Why don't you write her a letter?” she asked, and the question hurt like a needle in my eye.

“I don't speak to my sister. I don't speak to my dad either. My dad . . . Well, when my mum died he went a bit crazy. He became obsessed with religion. I think it was his refuge.”

Clara was silent, waiting for me to continue. And, quite unbelievably, I did. “And there was his new wife too.”

Clara's eyes widened slightly. “When did he remarry?”

“I was sixteen.”

“And she wasn't good to you?”

“Maura was all right. She and Gillian – my sister – became very close. She tried to get close to me too, but it just didn't work. I mean, she wasn't my mum. I know it sounds terribly childish, but it's true.”

I remember very well when she came on the scene. One day, a lady I'd never seen before turned up at the church – Maura. She was tall, with a soft, low voice and a laugh that seemed out of place in the subdued atmosphere of the church. She had long, frizzy hair and the hat she wore sat on top of it like on a soft cushion. She'd never been married and she had no children, our friend Leah told my sister and me. Maura would come to lunch at our house every Sunday after church, and there was something in my father's eyes when he looked at her – something I'd never seen before. Something akin to joy, or at least satisfaction.

I was too young to read the signs – I only realised what was happening when things between her and my dad were pretty much settled.

In preparation for the wedding, Maura took my sister and I on a shopping trip. My sister smiled and chatted a lot, flushed and happy. She was now nearly twenty-three and she loved being involved in our father's wedding. There was a strange aura of triumph around her, almost a sense of vengeance. I knew it was about punishing my mum. She'd left us, and now finally my dad was finding happiness – with another woman.

Gillian and I were trying on bridesmaid dresses: the deep plum colour Maura had chosen made Gillian's black hair and white skin stand out even more, and made me look washed out. Or so I thought. Maura didn't seem to look at it that way – she looked at me with shining eyes and raised a hand to stroke my face, but I turned away. To this day, I regret that gesture – because she never tried again.

The day after the wedding, I left home.

But there was no point in telling Clara all that. She nodded, both hands cupping her mug of tea, her head down.

“As I was growing up I always felt like . . .”

“Like what?” Clara said softly.

“Like I was walking on thin ice. All the time. That any moment I could fall through. And then I did.” I shrugged.

“I'm sorry,” she murmured.

“It's not your fault. And anyway, I'll get better. I'm sure I will. One day.”

“You will. You're taking your medicines, and they'll help.” A knot of guilt in my stomach, because I wasn't taking my medicines at all.

“You know, I knew someone . . . a friend of mine. She was unwell for years, but then, when she was pregnant with her second daughter, it got worse. There was no help at the time, you know . . . The doctor just told her to rest, to eat. Her husband didn't really understand, so she confided in me. We drove to the nearest town, to a Chinese doctor. He gave her some herbal pills. He said take white for happy, green for baby! He was very nice. And he predicted she was going to have a little girl.”

“And did the pills work?”

“Not the Chinese ones, no. She was unlucky. Nowadays there is so much help available; doctors and medicines can help so much. But then her baby girl was born . . .”

“What was her name?”

A hesitation. “Sonia. She loved Russian names, you see. We both loved Russian culture—”

“So did my mum!”

Clara smiled. “Really?”

“She had a collection of matryoshkas, you know, the little Russian dolls . . . I don't know what happened to the dolls. So tell me more about your friend. What happened after Sonia was born?”

“She got better. A lot better. And she was happy again,” Clara concluded.

“That's great,” I replied, and a sense of relief streaked through me, leaving me light, weightless. It seemed like a good omen, that this unknown woman had recovered on her own. Maybe I would too.

At that moment, Clara's phone beeped.

“Well, the latest news is that Kate is actually engaged!”

“She
is
? You told me she's sixteen . . .”

“Yes, but apparently she says that in the Twilight books Bella Swan marries and has a baby at seventeen.”

“Oh, well then! If Bella Swan did it . . .” I laughed.

It was strange how Clara managed to make me laugh even in the middle of a sad conversation.

“So, Pablo. We'll meet him together, when he comes up. At la Piazza. Margherita will make paella and we'll dance the flamenco for him.”

All of a sudden, as she spoke those words, my mood changed again. I would not be at La Piazza. I'd be stuck at home. I couldn't forget that although I was feeling a little better, I was still living in a prison.

Some spark of the old me ignited in my chest, a stubborn little flame that refused to be extinguished. “I'll show you my studio, if you like.” I couldn't believe I was saying those words.

“I would love to see it,” she said simply. Like it wasn't that huge a deal. She was being cautious, treating me like I was a horse she didn't want to bolt.

She followed me upstairs and then up the metal spiral staircase that led to my studio. I took the steps one at a time, slowly, and opened the door like I was opening the room in the story of Bluebeard. The scent of colours hit my nostrils and I breathed in, breathed
deeply
. And then I couldn't wait to be inside, so I went in quickly and closed my eyes for a moment as I inhaled more of the beautiful, familiar scent. The scent of my work. When I opened my eyes again, the golden light of dawn had filled the room all of a sudden, in one of those moments that are like unexpected gifts that you can slip among your memories and keep there.

“The view from up here is incredible,” Clara said, gazing out of the small window at the opposite side of the room.

And it was. I stepped slowly across the floor and looked over to the loch. The dawn was like liquid gold and it spilled on our faces. Suddenly, she spotted the sleeping bag folded in two on a chair.

“Do you use this as a guest room?” she asked.

“No, I used to sleep in here sometimes. When Angus was away for work. I liked being among my work and I liked the smell of paint.”

She smiled. “I can imagine. It must be wonderful, to have such a talent. Such a passion.”

I didn't say anything. I didn't say I felt like I was losing it all.

All of a sudden, I wanted to go. I just wanted to be out of my studio and downstairs, cleaning or watching some stupid TV show. It seemed a dead space without me working in it.

“This is beautiful. If I were you, I'd spend my days here,” she continued, but when she saw my face she probably wondered if she'd said the wrong thing. The golden light, the rays of dawn vanished and grey ones replaced them.

“I don't know if I'll ever be able to work again,” I whispered.

“You will.”

“How do you know? You don't know me, Clara,” I said a bit harshly. “You've seen my studio now,” I said, and began to make my way down.