The House on Fortune Street (15 page)

“No, now they’re playing leapfrog.” She bent down and straightened one of the feathers. “You need a flag. Maybe a piece of seaweed tied to a stick.”

“Dad, Dad,” said Fergus. “We’ve got water.”

He and Paul emptied their buckets, gleefully, into the moat. In less than a minute the water was gone, but they were already running back to the sea for more. Meanwhile Carol had wandered off. Watching her walk across the sand, it occurred to me that this was a lonely holiday for her: no friends her own age, sharing a tent with her mother. We must give her a bonus when we paid her.

Before we went back to the campsite Iris organized us to gather wood. That night after supper we took groundsheets and blankets down to the beach and made a fire. The tide was going out, the wind had dropped, and an almost full moon dominated the sky. The children toasted marshmallows, laughing when they caught fire. Ingrid gave me her first unburned marshmallow; my mouth filled with sweetness. Iris had brought her guitar and she led us in songs we all more or less knew: “Over the Sea to Skye,” “Old MacDonald,” and “Rambling Boy.”

First Fergus and Paul, then the girls began to yawn. We took turns walking them back to the field, helping them get settled in their sleeping bags. Fiona got each of them to shout “Help,” to make sure we could hear them. When only Carol remained Iris said, “Well, I think a nightcap is in order.” She tramped up the beach and returned a few minutes later with four mugs and a bottle of scotch.

“I hate scotch,” said Carol. “Don’t you have any wine?”

“I did too at your age,” offered Fiona. “I’m still not that keen on it but I like the jolt afterward.”

“The jolt is nice,” Carol agreed.

I looked over to see if Iris was shocked by this revelation of her daughter’s proclivities, but she seemed absorbed in balancing the mugs in the sand and pouring measures. I got up to put more wood on the

fire. For a few minutes the flames died down and our faces were in shadow.

“One of the few useful things I learned from Evan,” remarked Iris, “was how to drink scotch.”

“Until he overdid it,” said Carol.

“Who’s Evan?” I asked. Too late I saw Fiona’s frown. “My dad,” said Carol nonchalantly.

“Before I met Cameron,” said Fiona quickly, “I used to go out with a comedian.”

While she launched into a Trevor story, I went to check on the children. The boys were lying curled up in their sleeping bags and so was Dara, but Ingrid lay on her back, her face in full view. I bent down, pretending to secure the flap of the tent. In the moonlight I could make out the curve of her nose, the bow of her lips. I was bending closer when she gave a small cough. I jumped up and gave the flap a last tug.

Since the days when I worked for Davy’s father, I had never been alone in the countryside at night. Now walking back to the beach, I was acutely aware of my own noisy progress—the crackle of grass and twigs underfoot, the rustle of clothing—mingling with the other night sounds: the wind in the rushes, the waves tumbling the pebbles on the beach, and, once or twice, the women’s voices rising in conversation. I felt exhilarated and free in a way that I barely recognized. My affection for Ingrid was part of a larger feeling that included Iris and Carol and Fiona and Dara and Fergus.

he next morning, Saturday, 7 June, I woke to find Fiona’s

sleeping bag empty and Fergus sitting on my chest, holding out his small hands to show me a ladybird. “Pretty,” I said. “Why don’t you

let her fly away home?” He darted off. The tent was full of light, and when I stepped outside, the sun was shining in an almost cloudless sky. Fiona and Iris were making bacon rolls; Carol was sitting with Ingrid and Dara, brushing and braiding their hair. I walked across the dewy grass to the toilets and, using the spotted mirror above the sink, shaved meticulously and brushed my teeth until they felt slick. I was putting my toothbrush away when a young man walked in, wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Beneath his short, fair hair, his ingenuous face seemed, even before he smiled, on the verge of smiling.

“How are you, mate?” he said in a soft Australian accent, and introduced himself as Mike, the owner of the blue tent in the corner of the field. I had noticed a motorbike parked beside it.

We chatted for a few minutes and I ceded my place at the basin. Back at our tents I asked if we had an extra bacon roll and, when Mike emerged, I waved him over. He shook hands with everyone, even Fergus and Paul, and accepted the roll with enthusiasm. As he ate, he explained that he had come over from Sydney last year and spent six months working in London and saving up. Now he was taking another six months to go round Britain, wherever the fancy took him. All his friends, he said, were doing Europe, but he liked the idea of learning about one place in depth. He had been on the road for three weeks, mainly on the west coast of Scotland. When Iris and Fiona began to make sugges-tions—what about Findhorn? Had he been to Inverness?—he said wait a minute, went over to his tent, and came back with a small notebook. As he took notes, Carol stood up and, leaving her two charges, came across to join the adults. I caught her studying Mike’s muscular arms, his well-defined chest.

“You should go to the abbeys in the borders,” she said.“Melrose, Jed-burgh, Kelso. They’re really old and pretty.”

“How old?” he said. His handwriting, I could see, was very neat.

“I don’t know,” said Carol. “Middle Ages? There are guides and notices.”

After breakfast Iris announced she was going into town to buy provisions—we needed more marshmallows, as well as several staples— and asked me to accompany her. “Sorry if we put you on the spot last night,” she said as we drove out of the field, “suddenly mentioning Evan like that.”

“No problem,” I said.“Of course I’ve wondered about the girls’ father, but I didn’t like to ask.”

“My fault,” said Iris.“I used to worry about upsetting them by mentioning him—after all he lived with us until Ingrid was four—but my therapist keeps saying it’s important to speak about him in a normal way.”

“Do they ever see him?”

“Not anymore. He was so irascible. Once, when he got angry—Ingrid had spilled her juice—he locked her and Carol out of his flat. They had to wait on the landing until he thought they’d learned their lesson. It was winter. and by the time he let them back in, they were freezing, not to mention terrified. And he was always criticizing them, saying they were fat, or stupid, or lazy—all the things he worries are true about him. I was scared he was going to do something really violent.”

“It sounds like a nightmare,” I said.

“Which is maybe why I kept thinking I’d wake up. It was nearly two years before I realized that I couldn’t expect the girls to say they didn’t want to see their father; it was up to me to say enough. I’ve told them they’re welcome to phone him or write to him but, until he gives real evidence of having changed, no visits. It’s hard for Carol because she remembers him from before, when he was mostly okay.”

We had reached the outskirts of the village with its stone houses. “She seems to have turned out remarkably well,” I said. “Dara adores her and she’s very mature for her age.”

“I’m glad you think so,” said Iris. “It’s been great for her spending time with you and Fiona. Maybe you don’t remember, but the first time she babysat for you, she spilled cocoa on the sofa. She was so upset

she phoned to ask if she could come home. When you got back she showed you the stains and you said not to worry, accidents happen. She couldn’t stop talking about it. She says you never raise your voice, though sometimes she can tell you’re upset.”

“How can she tell?”

“Apparently,” said Iris, “you tug your ear. Oh, look, there’s a parking space.”

I had always assumed that I barely registered on Carol’s teenage retina. Now, as I followed Iris into the shop, I wondered what else she might have noticed. It seemed like another small blessing when we got back from the shops to find that Mike had joined our party and was flirting with Carol.

We spent the morning at the beach. Fiona had brought a book about the seashore and she set the children to hunting for shells and seaweeds. They had a competition to find the most sea anemones. Carol and Mike joined in; their searches took them to distant rock pools and, briefly, out of sight into the next cove. A couple of times I saw Iris watching them. Perhaps it was with some thought of separating them that after lunch she suggested a walk to the castle whose battlements were visible above the trees, but Mike immediately said great; he was trying to visit as many castles as possible.

Tactfully on the walk there he took turns pushing Fergus and Paul on their tricycles, and chatted with Fiona. She was questioning him about Australian wildlife, kangaroos and koalas, and the four of them soon fell behind. I walked with Iris and the girls. I had brought my camera and I snapped a few shots of our straggling party; that way no one would notice when I took the pictures I most wanted.

The outer walls of the castle were in ruins, but the main hall with its huge fireplace and the stone keep were intact. A winding stair led up to the roof where a narrow walkway circled the square battlements, offering a panoramic view of the sea and the surrounding country-

side. Iris, Ingrid, and Dara turned one way, I followed Carol in the other direction with the thought of photographing the girls against the battlements.

“Look.” Carol pointed. “There’s our field.”

The wind was whipping her hair around her face and when she turned toward me, I pressed the button.

“Oh,” she said, “I didn’t think you photographed anyone over ten.”

I stepped back, hoping I had misheard. Happily Iris, Ingrid, and Dara were out of earshot, leaning over the wall on the far side. “Fiona doesn’t like having her photograph taken,” I said. “Nor does your mother.” Then, Carol was still eying me, I had a sudden inspiration. “Would you like me to take your photograph? I mean properly, like a portrait.”

Her face lit up. “Would you? With Mike?”

He, the boys, and Fiona had just arrived, and the next thing I knew she was waving him over and the two were posing in the corner, his arm around her shoulders. By the third shot Iris had come over. “Pretending to be Lord Snowdon,” she said.

Quickly Carol stepped away, ducking her mother’s sarcasm. I lowered my camera. “Our tents look so small,” I said, pointing toward the field.

For a few seconds Iris was silent and I thought she was still cross. Then she said, “My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, but isn’t there someone snooping around?”

We all turned to look. Two men were walking across the grass. I started to say something about fellow campers but, as I spoke, the men approached the large tent, where Fiona and I slept, and one of them bent down.

“Shit,” said Mike, and headed for the stairs.

Carol was at his heels, and Iris, calling to her to wait, followed. “You’d better go with them,” said Fiona. “I’ll stay with the children.

All our valuables are in the car.”

“I hope to God I locked it,” I said and scrambled down the stairs.

Outside the castle Mike was already out of sight. Carol was running toward the track with Iris, who went jogging most Saturdays, in close pursuit. It was barely a mile to the campsite and by the time we reached it, I had closed the distance. The three of us arrived just in time to see a dirty white van pulling away. Mike was standing in the middle of the track, yelling.

“Are you all right?” said Carol. “What happened?” Iris asked.

“I’m fine,” said Mike. “When I got here one of them was pushing my bike across the grass and the other was rummaging in the big tent. As soon as he saw me, the guy dropped the bike and started shouting for his mate. They were out of here in no time flat. As far as I could see, they were empty-handed.”

“Well done,” said Iris.

“You were amazing.” Carol smiled at him rapturously.

While Mike, Iris, and Carol went to talk to the farmer, I retraced our steps in search of Fiona and the children. I met them walking along the track, talking in excited voices. Cops and robbers was one of Fergus and Paul’s favorite games, and now they had seen a scenario enacted before their very eyes. Ingrid and Dara too were thrilled.

Back at the campsite Mike reported that the farmer had recognized the thieves from his description—two hooligans from the nearby town—and had gone off to phone the police. Meanwhile Iris and Fiona, after a quick check of the tents, confirmed that nothing was missing. Iris made tea and Fiona poured juice for the children; we stood around, exclaiming. The excitement had put everyone in a spirited mood.

“We saw you from the castle,” Ingrid told Mike. “You were very brave.” “You ran right up to them,” said Dara.

“I was so mad that they were trying to take my bike. I worked for months to buy it and, even though it’s insured, it would have been a

hassle to replace. Usually I padlock it. But this place seemed so safe.”

I don’t remember which of us three adults said that nowadays nowhere was safe.

At Iris’s suggestion, we went down to the beach and played football. Then the girls decided to go swimming, and went back to their tent to change. On impulse I decided to go in too. As I drew near the tents, I heard shrieks of laughter. The girls’ tent was too small for them to stand and they were trying to change lying down. I listened for a moment. Then I leaned through the opening. Dara had her bathing suit up to her waist and was struggling to take off her sweatshirt and T-shirt. Ingrid was lying on her back, naked from the waist down, kicking her slender legs as she tried to aim her feet into her suit. Both girls were convulsed with laughter.

Ingrid saw me first. “We can’t get our suits on,” she gasped.

“Would you like to use our tent?” I said. I tried not to stare at Ingrid’s smooth stomach, the delicate V where her legs met. If only I could have a photograph, one photograph, of her like this. I had the camera round my neck. I raised it to my face.

“We’re fine, Dad. Are you coming swimming?”

“I’m just going to change.” The flash went off. Quickly I stood up. As I stepped back from their tent I saw Carol crossing the grass.

She had been to the toilet and was going back to the beach. Now she swerved and headed toward the girls’ tent. I was suddenly aware of how it would look if she found her sister as I had done. “Carol,” I called. “Can I ask you something?”

I had no idea what I was going to say but, as she approached, I recalled our exchange at the castle. “Listen,” I said. “Would you like me to take more photographs of you and Mike? After my swim, we could pick a quiet spot on the beach and I could shoot a couple of rolls of film. That’s what professional photographers do. Take lots of pictures so they can be sure of getting some good ones.”