Mistakes We Make (8 page)

‘Caitlyn’s in love with Malkie, Caitlyn’s in love with Malkie,’ he chanted.

‘No, I’m not. What are you talking about?’

She dropped her bag on the floor behind the door and shrugged off her jacket.

‘We saw you chatting him up.’ Lewis joined in the chorus. ‘Caitlyn’s in love with Malkie.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, I am not. And anyway, he’s with Saskia.’

The twins stared at each other and giggled. ‘No he’s not. Sass’s brother told us they’ve split up.’

Isla May sidled out of the front room and hugged her knees. ‘Caitlyn—’ The little voice was suspiciously ingratiating.

‘What?’ Caitlyn said guardedly.

‘You know the summer camp at school?’

Caitlyn groaned. ‘Not that again, Isla May.’ Her sister had been pestering her about school camp for weeks now, ever since Joyce had told her there was no spare cash for her to go. ‘You know what Mum said.’

‘Aww, but Caitlyn—’

Caitlyn sighed and put her hands down to release Isla May’s grasp. She squatted down on her heels and looked her little sister in the eye. ‘Sorry, sweetheart. You know we’d pay for it if we could, but we can’t. Mum’s working too hard as it is.’

‘But everyone’s going!’

‘Don’t go on about it, there’s a love. We’ll think of another treat for you, but the camp’s out of the question.’

If Isla May had pouted, or sulked, or had a tantrum it might have been easier, but the surge of disappointment in her eyes and the way she bit her lower lip to stop it wobbling was hard to bear.

Caitlyn straightened and put on her determinedly happy voice. ‘Now – cheesy pasta for supper, or fish fingers?’

Isla May was easily distracted. ‘Cheesy pasta. Please.’

‘Good. And you can help by setting out the forks on the table. OK?’

When she’d finally got Isla May and the twins into bed, she finished the washing up and turned her attention to the ironing. How her mother had the energy for the extra shifts she’d taken on at the care home, she had no idea, but it meant a lot of chores would be left undone unless she squared up to them herself.

There. Done. She gathered the pile of sweet-smelling, freshly pressed laundry in her arms and ran up the narrow stairs.

School shirts for Lewis and Harris. She opened their bedroom door carefully and tiptoed across to the small chest of drawers. Harris was rolled into a ball, one hand under his cheek. Lewis was sprawled across his duvet on his stomach. They always slept just so. Caitlyn studied them for a moment, a small smile playing around the corners of her mouth. If only they were always so quiet!

She hung Isla May’s best dress on the hook on the back of her little sister’s bedroom door. She’d grow out of it soon, then they’d have to find some money to buy her another one. There was always something.

Ailsa, plugged in to her earpieces listening to something loud, was oblivious to her entry. Caitlyn didn’t bother to disturb her, she merely slipped her Oasis top, the one she’d asked for last birthday, into a drawer.

The rest of the pile belonged to her mother. She pushed open the bedroom door and walked in. Joyce had given up the double room at the front so that she and Ailsa could share. This room had a mean aspect out across the yard at the back on to the house behind it, an ill-maintained, ugly place with a broken window and another that had been boarded up, the yard full of junk and slipped slates on the roof.

She hung up her mother’s spare uniform, pale blue with white trim round the collar. The fabric had been washed so many times it had almost bleached out and it seemed to drag the colour from her mother’s face.

There was a photo on the chest by Joyce’s narrow bed. She picked it up and studied it. Caitlyn was now twenty-two; her mother was forty-three but looked nearer fifty. Here was Joyce in her twenties, in an off-the-shoulder black sweater and stonewashed jeans. Her hair was tied back in a bouncy ponytail, and she was smiling so that the dimple on her right cheek – the one that exactly matched Caitlyn’s – was in clear evidence.

When had Caitlyn last seen that dimple? When had her mother’s skin started to look so sallow, her eyes lose their sparkle? She was still slim, her build lighter than Caitlyn’s, but she looked gaunt rather than trim. What had happened?

Caitlyn answered her own question. Mick bloody Boyce, that’s what had happened. Four more kids and precious little income. A man who’d slid from saviour to sponge in an alarmingly short time.

As she made her way back downstairs, she heard a key slide into the lock and the front door creaked open.

‘Caitlyn, dear—’

Joyce’s voice was slurred.

‘Mum? What are you doing home?’

Joyce slumped against the doorframe, her skin grey, her eyes drooping.

‘Migraine,’ she mumbled.

Caitlyn leapt down the last few steps. ‘Here. I’ll help you.’

‘Tried to—Can’t—’

‘Hush. Here.’ Caitlyn hooked her mother’s arm around her shoulders and supported her weight. Joyce Murray was nothing but skin and bone, but it took all her strength to get her mother up the stairs.

She pushed open the door to the small bedroom. ‘Get your uniform off. Here’s your nightie. I’ll get you a drink and some pills.’

‘Too late—’

‘Still.’

Caitlyn was concerned. Joyce had suffered the occasional migraine for years, but recently they’d become more frequent, and the attacks were debilitating. What she needed now was complete rest – and Joyce in bed meant more responsibility for Caitlyn. She might even have to call off a couple of shifts at the supermarket, which meant their income would drop, which meant there would be more pressure on both of them to work even harder to pay the bills.

She blamed herself. The job at Blair King’s smart Edinburgh office had been her dream until she’d spotted a client file that had made her first puzzled, then deeply uneasy. She had raised the matter (tentatively because she was young and still unsure of her ground) with Agnes Buchanan, the chief cashier.

‘It’s fine, dear,’ Agnes had said, handing the file back to Caitlyn with such matter-of-fact indifference that Caitlyn felt temporarily reassured.

But still it didn’t make sense to her. The worry kept her awake until, gathering all her courage, she braved the partner concerned a few days later.

He’d had a slick answer all right, but it didn’t ring true.

‘There’s no problem,’ he’d said, smiling at her kindly. ‘It was just an expedient.’

She’d had to look the word up. A stratagem, it meant, a means of doing something.

After several more worried nights, she knew she had to take it further. They’d told her at her induction that there were processes and procedures for this sort of case. She had made it all the way downstairs and was only a few yards from young Mr Blair’s office when she’d met the partner again.

‘Caitlyn? What are you doing down here?’

She’d blushed scarlet and stuttered.

‘Not that file again? You stupid girl.’

She could still remember the sneering look on his face.

‘What do you know about these things? Just do the job you’re paid to do and I’ll do mine.’

For a couple of weeks, Caitlyn had kept her head down and wrestled with her conscience. Should she take it further? What if her suspicions were proved wrong? She’d be kicked out or, at the very least, her life would be made a misery.

So when Mick Boyce upped off to live with his new woman, she’d seen it as an opportunity. She’d leave Blair King and pick up a job in Hailesbank. That way she could be nearer home and she’d be able to help Joyce out more.

Only it hadn’t worked out like that. She hadn’t been able to get a job in Hailesbank that paid half as well as the one in Edinburgh, so there was more pressure, not less, on Joyce.

––––––––

‘D
amn!’

Adam was half way along the track from the main road to Forgie End Farm when the underside of his car scraped rock.

He’d been driving too fast. His car wasn’t built for these roads. Should he stop and see if there was any damage?

He drove a tentative few yards further. No ominous rattles, no tell-tale growling. Perhaps it would be all right. At least he wasn’t driving a sports car like Logan Keir’s.

How could Logan afford a car like that anyway? He shifted into second gear and edged up the speed again. It wasn’t as though the partnership was doing especially well. There was so much pressure on law firms these days. There was endless red tape and you had to have a nominated money-laundering specialist in the firm, for example. Professional development seemed to cost more and more, and it was an endless struggle just to meet the monthly wage bill, not to mention the rent and rates. It was all targets, bloody targets, with endless post mortems and recriminations every month if they weren’t met.

Adam’s hands clenched around the steering wheel. He’d realised even before he’d qualified that he’d made the wrong career choice, but the pressure from his father had been enormous. If he’d met Molly earlier ... or later ... or if she’d been less ambitious, maybe he could have found the courage to switch career.

He bumped over another stone and grimaced.

He shouldn’t blame Molly. She’d had a point to prove to her clever brother and she’d wanted to make her father proud. She never talked about it much, but losing her mother so young had definitely affected her. For his part, he’d seen the damage caused by Geordie’s decision not to join the firm, and duty had taken precedence. Their pasts had shaped them both.

He smiled to himself. Targets! Everyone thought lawyers made a mint. If only they knew.

A shadow fell across his face as the track entered a small copse. In the last few days, the weather had changed and, although it was still August, the temperature had dropped appreciably. The sun had warmth, but the shade held portents of autumn.

The track took a sharp turn to the right and emerged fifty yards in front of a metal gate.

Adam slowed to a halt. There it was, only a hundred yards away – the farmhouse. A lump formed in his throat, catching him by surprise.

Forgie End Farm was solid, square and undecorated – grey granite, hewn from local quarries and designed to withstand wind and weather.

How many years was it since he’d last been here? He swung open the car door, walked slowly towards the gate, and studied the façade as if he were seeing it for the first time. The farmhouse had been built to be practical, a functional, serviceable home for a family. Three sash windows upstairs, two windows and a door on the ground floor, all neat and symmetrical, like a child’s drawing. The Georgians had a fine appreciation of symmetry.

There was a small porch over the door, supported by two granite columns. The porch had obviously been intended to provide shelter from the driving rain as much as for aesthetic reasons, though these days the front door was hardly ever used – everyone entered from the yard at the side. The roof was steeply pitched to deal with rain and snow, and two large chimney stacks (one at each end) serviced the large fireplaces in the draughty living room and dining room. When had they last been used? Jean and Geordie lived in the kitchen, so far as he could remember.

Adam had a lump in his throat again. You’d think the place had been in the family for generations, the way he felt about it, but Uncle Geordie had bought it just forty years ago.

And that, Adam thought with a grimace, had been the start of the famous family feud.

He snapped open the heavy metal latch and swung the gate open. Well, it would surely soon draw to an end, because Geordie was dying. Time to stop feeling emotional about the house and go and visit the man.

‘He’s quite good today,’ Jean said, drawing Adam into the large farm kitchen, the hub of the home. ‘Eh, laddie, it’s good to see you.’

She stood back and looked up at him, her skin grey with tiredness, her eyes clouded with age. How old must she be? Only in her early seventies, not old by today’s standards. He hadn’t seen her since the wedding, when she’d betrayed nothing of the grief that must have dragged her down after her son’s death. And now here she was, dealing with yet another blow.

Impulsively, Adam put his arms round his aunt. She felt fragile in his embrace, like a small bird. She allowed herself to relax into his arms for a moment, and when she pulled back, her eyes were unnaturally bright. She jerked her head away at once, too proud to show sadness – or fear.

‘The nurse has been and now he’s sleeping, but he won’t sleep for long. You’ll have some tea?’ She strode to the sink and turned on the tap. In so many ways she hadn’t changed, he thought. Still the tweed skirt – he could swear it was the same one she’d worn to Hugh’s funeral – still the sensible brogues. She was a farmer’s wife, and she looked like one.

Best to tackle the difficult conversation head on. ‘How long has he got?’

She lifted the Aga lid and set the kettle on it, then turned and leant against it, a well practised pose. She crossed her arms and looked him squarely in the eye. God, he admired Jean Blair. You had to have mettle to be a farmer, and if you didn’t have it when you started, you developed it or failed in the role – and she was tough.

‘You can never tell, not with cancer. It might be days, it might be weeks. It’s not likely to be months.’

Adam sank onto a chair. He dealt with death every day – it was the inevitable by-product of a life spent dealing with wills and legacies – but he had not had to confront the messy, difficult process of exiting this world on a personal level since Hugh’s unexpected demise.

‘Oh. I hadn’t thought it would be quite so—’

‘So quick?’ She reached behind her, lifted two mugs off a mug tree and set them down on the worktop. ‘Do you know, an awful part of me prays he’ll last a few months, but that’s worse than selfish.’

‘Is he in pain?’

‘The morphine keeps it under control. Mostly. But it’s not good. If I were a more generous soul I’d pray for a swift release, but there it is. I’m not.’

She pursed her lips into a tight line.

‘Aunt Jean, don’t ... you’re not a bad person. Of course you want to have him as long as possible.’

Adam felt helpless. Molly would be good in this situation; she was terrific with people. It was one of the many traits that had attracted him to her – her brilliance was so much more than superficial gloss.