The Woman Who Walked Into the Sea (10 page)

She held his glare. ‘Why won’t you even consider it?’

Instead of answering he pushed back against the door, opening it wider. She stayed where she was. ‘I won’t go until you’ve answered me.’

‘I’ll put you out myself if you don’t leave now.’

Something snapped in Violet. She took the letter from her anorak and slapped it on the kitchen table. ‘Why don’t you read it?’ she said, her voice trembling.

‘What does it say?’ he asked.

‘It was brought to me by a social worker. It had been sent anonymously to his office in Inverness. It says Megan Bates gave birth to her daughter.’

Mr Yellowlees walked from the door back to the table. He picked up the letter. As he was reading it, she said, ‘That’s the date I was abandoned at Raigmore Hospital in Inverness. I am Megan Bates’s daughter.’

* * *

What had she done? In the taxi back to Poltown, she sat in the front passenger seat beside Graham and flipped between his discourse on the windfarm (
like winning the Lottery if you want my opinion
) and the one that was going on in her head.

What had she done? Every time she repeated the question, she felt elation and then seeping doubt followed by nausea. What had she done? Snatching the letter from Mr Yellowlees, she had bolted for the front door. ‘Wait,’ he barked, the habit of command still ingrained. When she looked back he was striding after her, telling her how mistakes happened, honest mistakes, how it was every policeman’s nightmare, a case coming back to haunt him. She recognised it for what it was, an attempt to keep her there. She slammed the door and ran along the side path to the wooden gate on to the street where Graham’s taxi was waiting. She got in beside him because it was quicker than opening the sliding back door. She didn’t look round again. ‘Can we go?’

Graham glanced at her. As he pulled away he must have seen Mr Yellowlees in his mirror because he asked, ‘Problem?’

‘No problem at all.’

‘To my way of thinking,’ Graham was saying now, ‘we’ve got enough wilderness and mountains for the eagles or whatever, all the stuff the conservationists shout about, but what we don’t have are jobs. Right enough . . .’ After a few kilometres, Violet realised he punctuated the ending of his sentences with the same two words and in the same loud voice.

At first Violet thought he was asking for her agreement. But when she didn’t offer an opinion Graham carried on regardless and she concluded he must be used to his own company and conversation. ‘If you’re asking me,’ he said. She hadn’t. ‘Without the windfarm, people will be the endangered species around Poltown. Right enough . . .’ He broke off to criticise another driver for going too slowly and to speculate about the weather now that some blue sky had appeared. ‘There’ll be another storm along later. Like buses, you wait for one then two come along together. Right enough. . . .’

Violet had been too preoccupied to notice the rain had stopped. ‘How much further?’ she asked.

‘Ten . . . eleven kilometres, maybe more,’ Graham replied.

‘Would you let me out here?’

‘The fare’ll be the same because the car still has to travel the distance, right enough.’ It was his way of saying she might as well stay for the ride because she’d paid for it anyway.

‘I just need a long walk.’ It was an apology of sorts. She said it had been interesting hearing all about Poltown and the windfarm. She hoped she didn’t sound insincere.

‘It’s what makes this job enjoyable,’ Graham said. ‘Meeting people.’ The taxi slowed and stopped. Violet thanked him and waved as he drove away. What had she done? She recalled Mr Anwar’s warning ‘to move slowly and with as many of the facts as possible before declaring who you are’.

Whatever she had done could not be undone.

12.15, early afternoon. The next low tide was ten hours away. She had time to kill. It was one of the reasons she had decided to walk. The other was a disconcerting feeling of being out of control. Too much was happening too quickly and Violet wished it would slow down. If only she had Mr Anwar’s instinct for an appropriate speed. In the space of a few hours she had heard distressing testimonies about both her parents: a mother who had been deceitful and immoral; a father unable to choose between his wife and his mistress, who hadn’t cared sufficiently for his baby. In this her biological parents appeared well-matched.

As Violet made her way towards Poltown she tried to understand why they’d behaved as they had, whether there was ever a pressure sufficient to excuse a parent from the obligation to a child. It was Violet’s open wound. Anna’s father, Hassan, had disappeared when Violet broke the happy (she thought) news of her pregnancy. She hadn’t forgiven him so how could she forgive her mother or father?

Walking also gave her time to work out why she was being pulled back to Poltown and the inevitable revelations to come, why she wasn’t returning home to Glasgow and to Anna. Only when she reached the top of the ridge from which she’d first seen Orasaigh, South Bay and North Bay did she find an explanation in her emotional response to the landmarks of her mother’s life and death. It reminded her of her unbreakable and possessive love for Anna; how she was always on guard to fight her battles for her. Now, it seemed, she was doing the same for her mother.

Violet rested where Stuart, the bus driver, had described the view as ‘a veritable panorama’. If anything it was more dramatic now. The wind was strong and picking up speed, a second storm chasing in on the tails of the one just gone. Clouds jostled against each other over the sea, a disorderly and looming procession, and here and there the landscape was lit by diagonal shafts of sunlight creating intense pools of colour where they fell: the rust-red of dying bracken behind Brae, sparkles of silver from a stream flowing to Violet’s right; and emerald green surrounding the church to her left. Violet looked from one to another until a movement on the pale sand of South Bay caught her attention. A small black figure was gathering up debris, going backwards and forwards across the beach.

It took her ten minutes to arrive at the beach road and a few more to find Duncan. She followed the smell of cigarette smoke and found him sitting against a dune. At first she wasn’t sure it was him. Could it be the nerdy owner of the pickup she’d met two days before? Then she saw Duncan’s unruly hair, like wind-blown stalks of dried grass. She walked close to him before sitting cross-legged and looking out to sea, instead of at him. She began to talk as if she’d been speaking to him for ages and this was just the continuation of a conversation, one in which he’d been taking part.

She told him how clever he’d been, how hard-working, how lucky it was someone like him was prepared to keep the beach clean, how exciting it must be, never knowing what he would turn up from one day to the next, his own Tombola, how Tombolas had been her favourite things when she’d been a child. Had they been his too? She told him the objects she would like the sea to wash up: jewellery, a necklace, diamonds. Wouldn’t that be something? Had he ever found anything like that? A message in a bottle: had he ever come across one? She bet he had; someone as resourceful and experienced as him. Oh, wouldn’t it be extraordinary to find a love letter written a century ago or a message from someone ship-wrecked? Had he found any like those? When she was a child she made a raft and launched it and often wondered where it drifted. Maybe it had even come ashore on South Bay. Had he ever found a little wooden raft with an upturned yoghurt pot for a wheelhouse and a pencil for a mast? She laughed. No, she guessed he hadn’t, or if he had, it wouldn’t have been hers. Hers would hardly have drifted at all; probably it came back on the next tide. She kept her voice the same pitch and speed, and she punctuated some of what she said with sighs of self-deprecation. She knew he was listening. She knew he was watching her too, but she didn’t look at him. She just kept talking.

She had a daughter, she said. Her name was Anna. She was sweet and lovely, with curly hair the colour of black chocolate, and glossy too. Her skin colour was somewhere between honey and brown. If he ever met her she was sure he would find her adorable; everyone did. In case he was wondering, and she was sure he must be, Anna was half-African; well, North African. Her father was Moroccan, a visitor to Scotland, an economic migrant. Weren’t economic migrants rather like flotsam too; different but the same? In their case, poverty, wars or politics drove them to other shores instead of winds and tides; but sometimes winds and tides helped them on their way, didn’t they? What was it about men, she asked?

She dared to look at Duncan. Since their first encounter deep folds had formed on his face; one traversed the thick stubble of his right cheek, another the left. His eyes were pink-rimmed and blood-shot. His appearance was dishevelled, even more so than before. He wore stained blue track-suit bottoms, probably scavenged from the beach, and an old denim shirt worn open over an old-fashioned vest which had long since turned grimy. She was shocked by the deterioration in his appearance but she didn’t show it. As she looked away he glanced at her and she wondered whether this was working, whether she was closer or further away from finding a way to him.

She was still talking.

Sometimes, she said, she was glad Anna’s father upped and went; sometimes she wasn’t. What was wrong with men that they would run away from a child? A woman wouldn’t; couldn’t. If Violet had to she’d kill to be with Anna, to keep her safe; the bond was that strong. She interlocked her fingers and tried to pull her hands apart. Men seemed to have a choice; women didn’t. As soon as a woman held her baby, that was that, for life. It was the strongest tie. It was like that with her and Anna. The love of a mother was the fiercest thing. Sometimes it frightened her. What she would do to protect her child; what wouldn’t she do? She knew women who would abandon a husband or a lover as quickly as they would discard a cigarette butt, but none who would abandon a child. Not one. She imagined he’d heard stories to the contrary just as she had. But, in her opinion, they were stories put about by the kind of men who would desert a child, selfish, horrible men. Now that she was on the subject she might as well say it, she didn’t believe a story people had been telling her. The story was about Megan Bates. No woman could carry a child in her womb for nine months, feel it wriggling and kicking, and not be overwhelmed by love. It happened long before the baby was born. Ask any woman. No way could Megan Bates have drowned herself and her baby. No way, she said again. Then she fell silent.

She gazed over the beach at the rolling waves and she waited.

At least he was still there. ‘What do you think, Mr Boyd? Could Megan Bates have done that?’ She risked another glance at him.

He started a little and said, ‘I’ve been looking after this beach for years.’ The boy was back. So was the expression of childish expectancy.

‘Isn’t that good?’ she replied. ‘I bet you’ve found some amazing stuff.’

He didn’t reply and Violet said, ‘You were neighbours weren’t you? You must have known her well.’ His expression was one she hadn’t expected, of sadness. ‘I think she was lucky to have you as her neighbour.’ Her voice wavered because she could tell that he was about to tell her something. He had the look of someone who had carried a secret for so long and who had longed for an opportunity to share it.

‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘She was lucky.’

She gave him another fleeting look. He was smiling. ‘Did you like her?’ she asked

‘Yes.’

She smiled too. Now they were like children exchanging secrets.

‘She was very pretty wasn’t she?’

‘Yes.’

Violet gave an appreciative murmur, impressed that he had managed to make a friend of Megan, maybe more than a friend.

‘She said I was sweet.’

‘Did she? Why did she say that?’

‘Because I said I would look after her and the baby.’

‘Did you say that?’

‘I did.’

Violet’s heart was beating so loudly she was worried Duncan would hear it. ‘You’re a good man,’ she said.

‘I am,’ he agreed

‘Were you the father?’

‘No.’

‘Hm.’ She was even more impressed: a man offering that to a woman when the child wasn’t his. ‘Did she love the father?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did
he
love her?’

‘Not as much as I did.’

‘Did you love her?’

‘I did.’

‘Did you know the father?’

‘Mr William Ritchie QC.’ He boomed it, like a master of ceremonies announcing a guest arriving at a party.

‘Does he live around here?’

‘He did.’

‘Oh.’

‘He used to live at Brae House.’

Violet tried to hide her surprise.
That
house. Despite her shock, she managed to ask, ‘Where does he live now?’

‘For the last six years Mister William Ritchie QC has lived in the graveyard.’

Violet listened to the announcement of her father’s death and waited to feel some emotion. There was nothing. ‘In the graveyard here . . . ?’

‘Yes.’

Still nothing. She changed the subject. ‘Did Megan love the baby?’

‘She did.’

‘Did she say that to you?’

‘She did.’

‘When did she say that to you?’

‘Just before she disappeared.’

‘Did she love the baby more than she loved the father?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did she say that?’

‘Yes.’

‘She must have trusted you.’

‘She did. We trusted each other.’

‘Good friends then?’

‘Yes.’

‘I would have looked after her and the baby.’

‘I know you would.’

‘They could have lived here with me.’

‘Did you tell her that?’

‘I did.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She said I was sweet.’

‘Yes, I remember.’

‘I didn’t kill her.’

‘She killed herself didn’t she?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘The police thought I’d killed her but I love her.’

‘I know.’

‘I love her.’

‘Did you tell the police that?’

‘I did.’

‘Did they believe you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You found her hat and bag didn’t you?’

‘I did?’

‘In North Bay?’

‘Yes.’

‘That must have been upsetting.’

‘It was. I love her.’

‘I know. You said.’

‘I didn’t tell the police.’

‘What didn’t you tell them?’

He glanced at her. ‘That she’d gone away . . . she said she would.’

Duncan’s expression seemed fearful. Violet decided not to press him. She’d come back to it. ‘What did you love about her?’

‘She was kind.’

‘Was she?’

‘She was always kind to me.’

Violet smiled. ‘That’s nice to hear. And what else?’

‘She had nice hair.’

‘Did she?’

‘Yes. It was brown.’ He grinned again. ‘She let me brush it once.’

‘Did she?’

‘I keep the beach clean for her. I always have.’ He was pumped up with pride again.

‘Why?’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Yes, you can.’

He shook his head again. ‘No I can’t.’

He stood up and she looked away, fearing what was about to happen, hoping he would stay. When she turned back he was walking slowly back towards Boyd’s Farm.

Violet lay flat in the grass to shelter from the strengthening wind. The sky was black and lowering.
Mister
William Ritchie QC and Megan Bates
: for the first time she knew both her parents’ names. She said them out loud, practising the unfamiliar sequence of shapes her lips and mouth had to make, as if repeating them would compensate for time lost, would bring them to life or summon the missing story of their affair and project it image by image on the underside of the chasing clouds she was watching. She experimented with the names.
William Ritchie and
Megan Bates, Megan Bates and William Ritchie,
but reverted to
Mister William Ritchie QC and Megan Bates
because it better described the little she knew of their relationship; that it was an unequal one. Mister William Ritchie QC had been a man of position, with property and a wife. Megan Bates was a woman who seemed to have spirit and prettiness but little else, not even a family. Yet it was Megan Bates who lost everything: her lover, her baby, her life.

Spirited
and
kind, she reminded herself of Duncan’s comment.
She was always kind to me
?

She distracted herself with these and other speculations about her parents while putting off the next thing she had to do, to find her father’s grave in the churchyard. She’d been delaying because she was worried about what might happen. When Duncan Boyd told her about his death she had heard the news with indifference. The clocks didn’t stop, her heart didn’t miss a beat, her breathing didn’t quicken, nor did a tear form. Her father was dead: the father who abandoned his pregnant lover; the father who deserted his unborn child. Hadn’t he always been dead to Violet? But, as she wondered about her mother and father, she experienced a nagging curiosity about him. When she was standing in front of his grave, reading his name carved into the stone, what would she feel? Would she experience a daughter’s love for the father she never knew? Would it be a betrayal of her mother if she did?

As it turned out, she needn’t have concerned herself. She walked up the broad gravel pathway to the front of the church, her face and her heart as stony and as cold as her surroundings. The headstones on either side of her were all tilting and ancient with inscriptions that had been worn away after long exposure to wind and rain. Looking around, she saw more graves arranged in neat rows behind an old yew tree. They appeared to be more modern and some were decorated with flowers. She was approaching them when she noticed a grave apart from any others. It was under the wall which surrounded the churchyard. The headstone was white marble with black engraving and legible from a distance.