Blue Lightning (2 page)
Perez had told Fran exactly what to expect of his parents’ house. He’d described the kitchen with its view down to the South Harbour, the Rayburn with the rack above for drying clothes in the winter, the oilskin tablecloth, green with a pattern of small grey leaves, his mother’s watercolours hanging on the wall. He’d talked about his childhood there, then listened to her tales of growing up in London; the intimate conversations part of the ritual of a developing relationship, absolutely tedious to any outsider.
‘Mother will probably hide all her pictures away,’ Perez had said. ‘She’ll be embarrassed for a professional artist to see them.’
And Fran supposed that she was a professional artist now. People commissioned her paintings and they were shown in galleries. She was glad that Mary had left her own work on the walls. The pictures were very small and delicate, not Fran’s style at all, but interesting because they showed the small details of everyday Fair Isle life that it would be easy to miss. There was a piece of broken wall, with a few wisps of sheep’s wool snagged on one corner, a sketch of one grave in the cemetery. Fran looked at that more closely, but the headstone had been drawn from the side so even if the model had had an inscription it would have been impossible to read from this angle. Alongside Mary’s paintings of the Isle there were vibrant prints and posters reflecting the Perez family’s Spanish heritage. Legend had it that Jimmy’s ancestor had been washed ashore from a shipwrecked Armada ship,
El Gran Grifon
. It was probably true. The sixteenth-century shipwreck was certainly there, under the water for divers to explore, and how else was it possible to explain the strange name and the Mediterranean colouring of James Perez and his son?
Because the reality of the croft was so close to what she’d imagined, but not exactly the same – it was smaller somehow, more cramped – Fran felt rather that she’d wandered into a parallel universe. She sat at the table listening to Mary and James and it was as if she was an extra on a film set, disconnected, not involved in the main action.
Is this how it’ll always be here? I’ll never quite belong.
It hadn’t been discussed recently, but Fran thought Perez might want to move back here one day. She loved the idea of that, the drama of being in one of the most remote places in the UK, of continuing the tradition of a family that went back to the sixteenth century. Now she wasn’t sure how that would work out in reality.
Mary was talking about the wedding plans. Her son and this Englishwoman would be married the following May and she assumed Fran would be excited, eager to share her ideas for the day. But Fran had been married before. She had a daughter, Cassie, who was spending this week with her father in his big house in Brae. Fran wanted to be married to Jimmy Perez but she couldn’t get worked up about the details of the show. She hadn’t expected Mary to be the sort of woman to fuss over flowers, invitations and whether she would need a hat. Mary had come to Fair Isle as the community nurse and since her marriage had shared all the work on the croft. She was a tough and practical woman. But Jimmy was her only son and perhaps she thought it would please Fran if she showed she was interested in their big day. It seemed to Fran that the older woman very much wanted to be friends with her new daughter-in-law.
‘We thought we’d be married in Lerwick,’ Fran said. ‘A quiet civil ceremony. It’s the second time for both of us, after all. Then a party after for family and friends.’
James had looked up at that. ‘You’ll need something here too. For the folks who can’t get out to the mainland. And your family will want to see the Isle. You’ll need a hame-farin’. This is Jimmy’s home.’
‘Of course,’ Fran said, though it had never crossed her mind that they would have to bring the circus into Fair Isle. She imagined her parents having to endure the plane ride or the boat. And could she really allow Cassie to face that danger too? And if there were to be a celebration here she’d have to invite some of her close London friends. They wouldn’t want to be left out. What would they make of it? Where would they stay?
‘We were thinking we’d have a bit of a party this week to celebrate your engagement,’ Mary said.
‘That’ll be fun. But I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.’ Fran looked at Perez for support. He had been completely silent throughout this exchange. He gave a little shrug and Fran understood that the arrangements would already have been completed. Nothing they said would change things now.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t have it here.’ Mary smiled. ‘There’s no room in the house. You couldn’t have a proper Fair Isle party without some music, a bit of a dance. I thought we’d book the field centre. There’s a good space in the dining room for dancing and Jane would do the food for us.’
‘Jane?’ Fran thought it was safest to focus on the detail.
‘She works in the centre kitchen. She’s a grand cook.’
‘Fine,’ Fran said. What else was there to say?
Oh, Jimmy
, she thought.
I’m really not sure I could live here, not even with you.
She turned to his mother. ‘When were you thinking of holding the party?’
‘I’ve booked the field centre for tomorrow.’ Then in a rush: ‘Only tentatively, of course. I wanted to ask you first.’
‘Fine,’ Fran said again. Mentally gritting her teeth.
After lunch she felt as if she’d go crazy if she stayed inside any longer. She’d helped Mary to wash up and afterwards they’d taken coffee into the living room, where a big window looked south over low fields to the water. Jimmy’s father was a lay preacher for the kirk and had disappeared into the small bedroom they used as an office to prepare Sunday’s sermon. The three of them sat for a moment in silence, mesmerized by the huge waves that rolled across the south harbour and smashed into the rocks. It had stopped raining, but Fran thought the gale was even stronger. The noise of it penetrated the thick walls of the house, a constant whining that stretched her nerves, made her even more tense than she would have been anyway. Just outside the window a herring gull was struggling to make headway against the wind; Fran was reminded of the plane and felt a little sick. She reached out to take her cup and drink the last of her coffee, thinking:
What’s wrong with Jimmy? He’s hardly said anything since we arrived. Does he regret his decision not to come back when he had that chance? We’d just met then. Does he blame me? Does he want to come home?
Perez got to his feet and stretched out his hand to pull Fran up too. ‘Come on. Let’s go for a walk. I want to show you the island.’
‘Are you mad?’ Mary said. ‘Why would you go out in this weather?’
‘We’ll go up to the North Light, talk to Jane about the catering for tomorrow.’ A grin to show he knew there was no need, his mother would have done that already. ‘Besides, the forecast is even worse from tonight. If we don’t get out today we might not have the chance.’
They stood by the kitchen door to put on boots and waterproof jackets. It was sheltered there but she could still feel the taste of salt on her lips; when they moved away from the house a gust of wind took her breath away and almost blew her off her feet. Perez laughed and put his arm around her.
They walked north and Perez pointed out the places that meant the most to him: ‘That’s where Ingrid and Jerry used to live. I babysat their three lasses occasionally though I wasn’t much older than they were. What a dance they led me! The wind turbine provides all the power for the island now. In my day every croft had its own generator. You could hear the sound of them starting when dusk fell. That place over on the bank is Myers Jimmy’s house. There’s Margo on her way back from the post office.’
They called in to the shop to buy chocolate and a pile of postcards for Fran to send to her family in the south – when the weather allowed for post to go. The talk there was all about the storm. The middle-aged woman in her hand-knitted cardigan leaned across the till. ‘Any news on the boat, Jimmy?’ And when he shook his head: ‘I can’t see it going tomorrow and the last of the bread’s gone now. Just as well I bought in lots of dried yeast. The beer’s on the low side too. Let’s hope folks have stocked up for themselves.’
Further north again the settlements petered out. There was a rise in the land and Fran could see the road winding away, the hill and the airstrip on one side and an area of flat grassland on the other. To the right the sloping bulk of Sheep Rock, jutting into the sea, which gave Fair Isle its instantly recognizable shape from Shetland mainland and from the Northlink ferry.
‘What’s that?’ Fran had stopped and turned her back to the wind. She’d thought she was fit but this was hard going and she was glad of the excuse to rest. She pointed to a wire-mesh cage built over the wall. It was shaped like a funnel with a wooden box at the narrow end.
‘A Heligoland trap. It’s where the wardens from the field centre catch the birds for ringing. There have been naturalists here since the fifties; they started off in some wooden huts near the North Haven. The place was set up by a couple of guys who were prisoners of war. Apparently they dreamed of coming back and founding a centre for studying birds and plants. When the North Light went automatic there was a huge fund-raising effort to convert it to a state-of-the-art field centre. In the spring there are organized courses for botanists. This time of year it’s taken over by birdwatchers. Sometimes the Isle seems full of people with binoculars and telescopes chasing rare birds.’ Perez paused. ‘They’re kind of obsessed.’
‘How does it work, the people in the field centre and the islanders? Does everyone get on?’
‘Generally. We all grew up with a centre on the island and everyone agreed with the lighthouse conversion – it’s so far from the rest of the houses that you can’t imagine ordinary folk wanting to live there. It provides business for the shop and the boat and the post office. There’ve been a few complaints in the past about visitors breaking down walls and flattening crops when they get onto folks’ land, but one storm like this could do just as much damage as a horde of birdwatchers. Maurice and Angela have been there for about five years. Folk seem to like them OK.’
‘I thought your mother said the place was run by someone called Jane.’
‘Jane’s the cook. Very good and scarily efficient. The island’s started to have its parties there because the food’s so good.’
He began walking again. Ahead of them was an isthmus with a sandy beach on one side, rocks and shingle on the other.
‘That’s the North Haven where the
Good Shepherd
puts in,’ Perez said. ‘In good weather she would be moored there, but they’ve pulled her up onto the slipway. Come on. Keep walking. There’s still a long way to go.’
They came on to the lighthouse suddenly, rounding a bend in the single-track road. A row of whitewashed cottages with the tower beyond and the whole complex surrounded by a low stone wall that had been whitewashed too, enclosing a paved yard, crossed at one end with washing lines.
Fran was tired after the walk in the wind. The sky was overcast now and there were welcoming lights in the small windows. She imagined tea, a fire, and an escape from the relentless noise of the storm. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to make the walk back to the south of the island.
Perez pulled open a door into a porch with hooks for outdoor clothes, a bench holding odd boots and shoes. There was a smell of damp wellingtons and old socks, waxed jackets. In the distance they heard raised voices.
‘I’m really sorry but that’s impossible.’ A clear, female voice, the voice of someone who expected to be taken seriously. Someone English and well educated. ‘You had the opportunity to fly out on the plane this morning. We did explain that the boat was unlikely to go. The crew won’t put their lives, and those of their passengers, into danger just because you’ve decided you’re bored.’
Fran decided this must be Jane, the cook. Certainly the speaker sounded scarily efficient.
‘Nobody told me about the plane!’ This was another woman. Younger. The voice had the complaining whine of a spoilt teenager.
‘An announcement was made at breakfast.’
‘You know I never eat breakfast. You should have found me and told me. Why didn’t my father tell me?’
‘There was no point by then. The available spare places had already been taken.’
‘Oh, God!’ The words came out as a high-pitched wail, but Fran thought she sensed real panic behind it, the sort of panic she’d felt when she thought the plane was going to crash. ‘I hate this bloody place. I’ll die if I have to stay here for another day.’
Perez lay awake in his parents’ guest bedroom, the room that had been his when he was a child. Beside him Fran was sleeping. Their sleeping arrangements had probably caused his parents some anxiety. One of the bedrooms in the house was tiny; now it housed the PC and a desk and a huge metal filing cabinet that Mary had taken when it was being thrown out by the school. There was no room for a camp bed. Perez had thought he might be expected to spend the nights on the living room sofa. His father had fixed ideas about sexual morality. But if there had been any argument over the propriety of their sharing a bed, Mary had won. She’d shown them into the room in the roof with an air of triumph.
‘This is a bit different, eh, Jimmy? It’s not like when you stayed here.’
And he saw that it had been transformed in their honour. There was a new double bed, fresh curtains with big blue flowers on them, and matching linen. A pair of blue towels folded on the old chest of drawers. He thought his mother must have been watching makeover programmes on daytime television when the bad weather made outside work impossible.
Lying there, listening to the wind tear at the roof tiles, Perez remembered the first woman with whom he’d had sex. The image came into his head, quite unbidden and remarkably vivid. She’d been a woman while he was still a boy. Beata. A German student, member of a National Trust for Scotland work camp; the camp had taken over the Puffin, an old stone fish store at the south end, for a month in the summer. He was sixteen, home for the long holiday. She was twenty-one.
It was the year all the construction work was done at the North Haven and the students acted as labourers, the year Kenneth Williamson had come to Springfield as a kind of lodger. One night there’d been a barbecue at the Puffin and Perez had been invited along. He remembered bottles of German beer in a row in the shadow of the hut, the smell of singeing meat. He was sitting on the grass talking to the woman and suddenly became aware that she was looking at him oddly. She half-closed her eyes and swayed slightly, lost it seemed to him now, in some erotic fantasy of her own.
‘I want to swim,’ she’d said, opening her eyes wide again. ‘Where can I swim?’
By then the other students were rowdily drunk, singing songs in languages he couldn’t understand. He’d taken her to Gunglesund, a natural pool formed in the rocks on the west of the island. It filled up on the very high tides and the sun warmed it, so it wasn’t so cold there as swimming in the sea. But still cold enough to make the children who came there squeal when they first jumped in.
Beata hadn’t squealed. Without any sort of fuss, she’d taken off all her clothes and slipped into the water. She had small breasts, a flat brown stomach, a white triangle where bikini bottoms had been. Her pubic hair was darker than he’d expected. She’d swum away from him with a languid crawl.
The sun had reflected from the water into his eyes and he’d felt faint. There was a weird shady light as if the sun had been eclipsed for a moment and would soon come out again.
‘Aren’t you coming in?’ she’d demanded, turning back to him. Impatient. A little imperious.
He’d hesitated for a moment. What if someone should come? And he’d known even then that what was expected was more than a shared swim. She’d been looking at him greedily since he’d first arrived at the Puffin. He began to undress.
They’d lain on a pile of clothes on a large flat rock, in shadow now that the sun was so low. The woman’s hunger for his body had scared and flattered him at the same time. And excited him. Of course he’d been excited. It had been like every adolescent’s dream.
When he’d returned home that night, everyone was in bed. He’d half-expected his father to appear, to stand at his bedroom door ranting about sin. This had been such a momentous occasion for Jimmy Perez; how could the whole world not guess what had happened? But everyone had continued sleeping and in the morning his mother had given him breakfast just as usual.
Thoughts of Beata had consumed him for months. While the work camp was still in the Puffin he’d haunted the place, but she’d taken no more notice of him than of any of the other island kids. The eyes that had been so predatory were now amused. ‘It was nothing, Jimmy,’ she’d said at last, irritated by his attentions. ‘A little fun thing on a summer’s night.’ Her absence had allowed his dreams to become wilder. But they’d never been purely physical: in every scenario his imagination created they’d become a real couple, setting up home together in a bohemian city bedsit or walking across a moonlit beach hand in hand.
The storm must have lifted a tile from its place because there was the crash of it shattering in the yard; the noise was blurred by the sound of the wind but it brought him back to the present with a start.
Even then
, he thought,
I was an emotion junkie. I needed to be loved
. Fran stirred beside him.
He wondered now whether it had been right to bring her here at all. She was an independent woman and she must resent the interference in her life by his family. What right did his parents have to make assumptions about their marriage? Soon they would be dropping hints that it was time she considered having another baby:
Better not leave it too late. You might not have a boy first time round.
He hated to think what Fran’s response to that might be.
The wind made everything a hundred times worse. Even the islanders who were used to the extreme weather started to bicker like toddlers. Most of them didn’t leave the place for months at a time, but in fine weather there was the understanding that you
could
leave if you wanted to. In summer the mail boat went three times a week and there were regular flights. In an emergency it was possible to charter a plane. Now they, like the visitors, were trapped. The children who were studying at the Anderson High School in Lerwick wouldn’t make it home for the half-term break and their parents were missing them. He should have waited until the spring to bring Fran here. Cassie could have come too and they would have seen the place at its best.
The walk up the island seemed to have exhausted Fran and she was in a deep sleep. He could feel her hair against the bare skin of his shoulder.
Maurice had given them a lift back to Springfield late in the afternoon, the three of them squashed together in the front of the Land Rover, windswept and breathless just after the run from the lighthouse to the vehicle. Perez had always found the field centre administrator an amiable man, relaxed and unflustered, but today he’d seemed infected by the general tension. He’d been quiet, gloomy, and there had been none of the easy conversation Perez remembered from previous meetings.
‘Is anything wrong?’ Immediately Perez had regretted the question. He was on holiday. If there were problems at the centre it was no business of his. Fran had flashed him a grin as the Land Rover rattled over a cattle grid.
You really can’t help yourself, can you?
She thought his curiosity was a sort of affliction and that he’d only become a detective to give himself the licence to meddle in other people’s lives.
Maurice had taken a while to answer. ‘It’s family trouble,’ he’d said in the end. ‘I daresay it’ll sort itself out.’ He’d been born in Birmingham and still had the Midlands accent. There’d been another moment of silence while he’d concentrated on keeping the vehicle on the road. He continued speaking but his eyes were fixed straight ahead. ‘It’s my youngest daughter, Poppy. She’s always been a handful. My wife thought a few weeks on the isle might help to sort her out, keep her away from some of the bad influences at home, but it hasn’t really worked as we’d planned. Poppy is desperate to leave. She can’t, of course. I had to give priority on the plane to the visitors who wanted to get out. She feels like a prisoner here. She can’t understand that there’s nothing we can do. She’s making life difficult for everyone, especially for Angela.’
Lying in bed, Perez thought about this. About problems within families and whether Fran’s daughter Cassie would see him as a wicked stepfather when they were married and about what it might be like to have a child of his own. He loved Cassie with a passion that took his breath away at times. His marriage had failed partly because his wife had lost a baby late in pregnancy. If the child had lived she’d have been much the same age as Cassie. But would he feel the same affection if he and Fran had a baby? Would the girl feel rejected or put out?
He must have slept at last because he woke in the morning to a grey light and rain like bullets against the window next to him.
Later he and his father went out and looked at the damage. A few slates down and the roof was right off the shed that had once housed a cow. Nothing too worrying. When they came back into the kitchen, drenched and scoured by the salt, sandy wind, Fran was up. She was sitting in his mother’s dressing gown, her hands cupped round a mug of coffee. The women were chatting and from the porch where he stood to take off his boots, he heard a sudden outburst of giggling. His first wife, Sarah, had never been able to relax like that on visits to the Isle. He felt his mood lift. Perhaps it would be OK. Fran was strong enough to deal with his parents after all. He left aside the question of whether they might one day return to the Isle on a permanent basis.
They spent most of the day in the house. Mary worked at the knitting machine that was set up in the corner of the living room. All morning they heard the swish and click as she pushed the wool in its shuttle across the ratchets. Fran was reading. There was a fire made with scraps of driftwood and coal and the wind roared in the chimney. Later in the afternoon Fran went to get ready for the party.
‘Come with me, Jimmy. Help me choose what to wear.’
And they made love very quietly, with the blue and white curtains drawn against the storm, like teenagers in their parents’ home, listening out for the adults who might suddenly come in.
Afterwards she laid her clothes on the bed. ‘What should I go for, Jimmy? Do people dress up here?’
He shook his head, bewildered by her sudden anxiety. She would look lovely whatever she chose. There was hardly a dress code for a Fair Isle party.
‘It matters, Jimmy. I want them to like me. I want to do you proud.’
In the end she went for a long denim skirt and a bright red cardigan, little flat blue shoes. She stared at the mirror before nodding to herself. ‘Not too formal, but dressy enough to show I’ve made an effort.’
Mary wanted them to be at the lighthouse early so they could greet all the guests as they arrived. She seemed a little tense to Perez. He’d never thought of her as a shy woman but she seemed awkward about acting as hostess in the field centre, away from her home ground. Perhaps she just wanted to make it special for him and Fran.
Everyone would be coming by car; this was no weather to take the three-mile walk north. Perez wondered how that would play out. There was hardly a strict adherence to the drink-drive laws in a place where the police only appeared if there was an emergency or to give a talk in the school. But everyone knew what he did for a living. He supposed there were sufficient non-drinkers in the Isle to provide lifts home. Mary never took more than a small glass of wine for a toast and they could squeeze someone else in their car.
In the field centre the tables had already been moved out of the dining room to make a space for the dancing. In the old keepers’ accommodation, walls had been knocked through at the time of the original conversion to make big spaces for communal living. Jane was in the kitchen. Perez went in to thank her again for her work. She smiled and took his hand but seemed distracted.
‘So we’ll serve the food as we decided yesterday? About nine o’clock as usual?’
‘How are things?’ He realized he was like an old woman, desperate for gossip. How pathetic was that! Why couldn’t he be content with his own business? But if he was hoping for more information about Maurice and his teenage daughter he was disappointed. Of course he should have known Jane would be discreet.
‘It’s been a very good season,’ she said, with another brief, clipped smile.
In the dining room he heard the first sounds of the musicians. The fiddle player was tuning up. They swung into the first reel and he felt his feet tapping already. Looking out from the kitchen he saw Fran surrounded by a group of islanders. She had her head tilted to one side and was listening to them talking, her eyes wide open as if she was fascinated by the words. Then she said something he couldn’t hear and they all began to laugh.
Of course they’ll love her, he thought. She’s so good at all this. How could they do otherwise?
He went to join her, took her hand and led her on to the floor for the first dance. He knew what was expected of him.
On the afternoon of the party Jane had sat in her room at the back of the field centre. She liked this space. With its high ceiling and narrow window, it made her think of a nun’s cell. There was a single bed, a wardrobe incorporating a chest of drawers, a wash-hand basin. On the bedside table her wireless (this was how she thought of it, a legacy from her very old-fashioned parents) tuned to Radio 4, on the windowsill a row of books, spines facing outwards as if on a shelf. On the chest there was a pile of
Times
crosswords, carefully cut out of the newspapers by her sister and posted each week. The crosswords were the only things Jane had missed in her isolation. She wondered fleetingly if sisters in enclosed orders were allowed crosswords and then how many lesbians had become nuns in a less enlightened time. She supposed it would be one way to avoid marriage, the expectation that one would inevitably become a mother.
The simplicity of the room appealed to her. She’d gone south for three months over the winter when the field centre was closed for visitors and it was this clean, sparse space that she’d missed most. She’d spent Christmas with her sister’s family and the good-natured chaos, the squawking children surrounded by wrapping paper and chocolate, had driven her slightly crazy. She’d fallen asleep each night, her senses dulled by the alcohol she’d needed to keep her sane, and dreamed of her room in the field centre, the ironed white sheets and the plain painted walls.
It was four o’clock, in the lull between clearing up after lunch and serving dinner. Dinner was already prepared; a casserole was cooking very slowly in the oven, potatoes had been scrubbed for baking. This evening a simple meal had been essential because of the Perez party later. Soon she would return to the kitchen to organize the buffet, but most of the work for that was already done. She took off her shoes and lay on her bed. She would rest for half an hour. This was a time of contentment. She loved the contrast between the drama of the storm outside and the peace of her room.
She was setting out the party food on big trays, before covering it with cling film, when Angela came into the kitchen. Jane was listening to the five o’clock news on the radio, but Angela’s appearance made her reach over and switch it off. Angela never dealt with domestic matters and her presence in the kitchen was unusual, an occasion. Her natural habitat was outside. She strode like an Amazon across the hill with her telescope on its tripod slung over her shoulder and binoculars around her neck. Indoors she seemed constrained and restless.
Jane assumed that this was about Poppy. They both disliked Maurice’s youngest daughter. It was the only matter they had in common. She hoped Angela had come up with a plan to control the girl. But it seemed there was something quite different on the warden’s mind.
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ she said, ‘about next year.’
Jane looked up from the tray of pastries. ‘Of course.’ She was astonished. Angela always left the staffing to Maurice. ‘I was thinking I might come in early next season. The kitchen needs a good clean and we never get a chance once the visitors arrive. And I could fill the freezer with baking. Take the pressure off once the rush starts.’ When there was no immediate response Jane added: ‘You wouldn’t need to pay me the full rate, of course.’ Actually, she would have offered to do the work for nothing but she knew Angela would find that weird. Jane thought how much she would enjoy a few weeks here at the start of the season, imagined the kitchen after it had been thoroughly scrubbed, the red tiled floor gleaming, the cooker and the larder spotless.
Angela stared at her. ‘That’s the point. I’m not sure we’ll need you at all next year.’
‘You won’t need a cook?’ Jane knew she was panicking and that was making her obtuse. She stared at the younger woman, whose hair was loose today, a black cape down her back.
‘Of course we’ll need a cook. But not you.’ Angela’s tone was amused, slightly impatient. She had better things to do.
‘I don’t understand.’ That at least was true. Jane knew she was the best cook the centre had ever employed. She didn’t need the compliments from the visitors to tell her, or Maurice’s comments after a particularly busy week:
I don’t know what we’d do without you. I’m not sure how we functioned here before you arrived.
‘The chair of trustees wants us to employ his goddaughter. She’s just out of catering college. Fully qualified.’
‘Then she could come as my assistant.’ Though Jane knew it would be a pain. Jane liked an assistant who did as she was told, who was happy to prepare vegetables and concentrate on the basics. The last thing Jane wanted was an assistant who thought she knew it all. In fact, she preferred to have the kitchen to herself. It had been a great relief when the latest help, a jolly Orcadian called Mandy, had gone off on the
Shepherd
the week before.
‘We suggested that,’ Angela said smugly. ‘But it wouldn’t do.’
‘Surely that’s Maurice’s decision. Not the chair of trustees.’
‘In theory.’ Angela smiled. ‘But Christopher has offered to make a substantial donation to the centre. It would allow us to completely update the library and replace the old computer in the office. In those circumstances we can’t turn down his offer to find us a cook too.’
Christopher Miles had his own business in the north of England. Jane had met him briefly when the trustees came to the island for their annual meeting. She’d liked his enthusiasm and his lack of pomposity. She thought the offer of employment had come from Angela, a way of cementing the sponsorship deal. Nepotism wasn’t his style.
‘What does Maurice make of this?’
‘As I said before, it isn’t really Maurice’s decision. We’re appointed by the trustees.’ She looked at Jane. ‘You only have a short-term contract. We’re not obliged to have you back each year. You’re an educated woman. I’d have thought this sort of work would bore you eventually anyway.’
And Angela turned, her hair swinging, and strode out of the kitchen.
Automatically, Jane continued to arrange slices of quiche on a plate. It was some minutes later that she realized she was crying.
Usually Jane enjoyed the dances in the lighthouse. The experience reminded her a little of Dee’s parties in the old house. It wasn’t that Dee’s media friends had gone in for fiddle and accordion music and they didn’t dance eightsome reels or the Dashing White Sergeant, but Jane had the same sense that she was managing the event. She liked watching people having a good time and knowing that her cooking and her organization had made it happen.
Now she was determined that Angela shouldn’t know she was upset. This was a celebration and it wouldn’t do to spoil it. Besides, why should she allow an arrogant and manipulative woman any sense of victory? Jane couldn’t believe that Maurice would allow Angela to sack her. Jane made his life easy and Maurice was all for an easy life.
She watched Perez lead his fiancée on to the floor for the first dance, felt a moment of envy for the intimacy, the matching grins when Fran stumbled over a step.
I never had that. Not even with Dee.
Maurice’s teenage daughter Poppy appeared in the break, just as the food was coming out. Throughout her troubles she’d always kept her appetite. She was dressed entirely in black and had intended to shock. The skirt was very short. Jane thought she didn’t have the legs to carry off the look and had made herself ridiculous, almost pitiable. She had a couple of young islanders with her – college students who’d got into Fair Isle for their reading week before the weather closed down. Jane thought Poppy had been entertaining them in her room; she’d got to know them on previous trips to the island. It was clear they’d all been drinking, but at the moment they were well behaved. The island kids wouldn’t cause a scene in front of their parents and grandparents and at the moment Poppy was taking her lead from them. They joined the queue for food. From behind the counter Jane watched the girl and felt sorry for her.
The music started again and Maurice asked Jane for a dance. For a man who was rather unfit, who took very little exercise, Maurice danced well. He dressed up for these occasions, a parody of himself, in a bow tie and shiny black shoes. Jane had realized during her first season what a part traditional music and dancing played in island life and had determined to master the steps. She’d watched, taken notes and practised in her room. Now she could do them automatically. She no longer had to count the beats in her head.
‘Angela says you don’t want me back next year,’ she said. They were in the middle of a circle of clapping people. They held hands, arms crossed, elbows bent, and began spinning, their bodies leaning out with the speed of the movement. He didn’t have time to answer before they separated and skipped out of the circle, but with some satisfaction she saw a flush of anger. A moment later they came together again, linked arms, and promenaded around the room, following all the other couples. Ahead of them Mary and James Perez were light and easy on their feet so you could believe they’d keep going all night.
‘Nothing’s been decided,’ Maurice said. ‘She had no right to discuss it with you.’
‘I think I have every right to know what’s going on.’ Jane thought she sounded very reasonable. ‘I have my own plans to make.’
‘Leave it to me. I’ll sort it out.’
The music stopped and the dancers clapped and laughed. Outside, the storm grew even more fierce.
Poppy lost her temper at the end of the evening when many of the guests were leaving; by then Jane had been thinking they’d get through the party without a problem. The tantrum had been brewing for days. Jane thought Poppy was like an enormous two-year-old, chubby, demanding and inarticulate. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see the girl lying on the floor kicking and screaming. How could you reach the age of sixteen and have so little self-control?
Angela had been taking her turn working behind the bar – all the field centre staff did a stint on open evenings – and had refused to serve Poppy a drink. Poppy had been clearly drunk, but Jane suspected the decision not to allow her one more can of lager had been a deliberate provocation. Angela disliked the girl and disliked Maurice’s attention being distracted by her. The evening was winding up and perhaps Angela was a little bored. She did like a drama.
So suddenly Poppy started shouting abuse. She leaned across the bar and yelled at her stepmother: ‘You have no fucking right to tell me what to do.’ She took a full glass of beer that had been standing next to her and flung it at Angela. Jane saw with some satisfaction that it went all over the famous hair.
The lingering guests moved quickly into the lobby to collect their coats and change their shoes. They were clearly embarrassed. Jane went with them to say goodbye, to hold the door and warn them to take care on the drive south. Jimmy Perez was the last to go. He seemed intrigued by the scene being played out in the common room and stood watching through the open door. It took Mary to call him away. There was a flurry of thanks. Mary shouted back to her: ‘You must come and have dinner with us in Springfield before Jimmy and Fran go home.’ Then came the sound of a car engine over the gale, headlights showing it was still pouring with rain.
When all the guests had gone, Jane waited for a moment. The wind caught the heavy outside door and it began to bang. The storm must have changed direction. Still westerly, which the birdwatchers hated, but with some north in it. She pulled it to again and locked it. The common room was quiet. She supposed Maurice and his strange dysfunctional family had gone through the kitchen to their flat.
She began the task of clearing up. The visitors would still want their breakfast the next day. Usually Maurice would have stayed behind to help her, but she knew he would have other things on his mind. Ben, the assistant warden, seemed to have rushed off too. Jane stacked plates into the dishwasher and cleared the glasses from the common room. The tables could wait for the following day. She felt oddly happy. Angela had miscalculated. It hadn’t been clever to wind up Poppy so she made a show in public. Maurice wouldn’t like that. Then there came a horrible thought, worm-like, entering her brain and refusing to leave. She couldn’t let Maurice and Angela separate. If they were to split up Angela would stay at the North Light. She was the warden, the famous naturalist, the person who pulled in the punters. Anyone could take on Maurice’s role. And there would be no place for Jane in Angela’s new world.
