Face the Wind and Fly (17 page)

She was in unknown territory, without a compass.

Ninian texted her.

That was all right, except how was she going to ask him about whether he had read the manuscript? If she and Andrew were to separate, what would happen to him? Kate couldn’t bear to think about it.

She took the smoothed-out sheets of paper and dropped them onto the kitchen table. Mrs Gillies had placed a vase of flowers from the garden in the centre. It was a riot of colour – coral pink gladioli, purple ball-headed allium, orange cosmos, deep burgundy and pink stargazer lilies and white lisianthus – and any other day it would have brought a smile to her lips. She lifted it an inch and slipped the sheets under it. When Andrew came in, she would ask him about his strange storyline.

She called him.

On the far side of the kitchen, his mobile startled her by ringing. Wherever he’d gone, he’d forgotten to take it. She crossed the room and picked it up. A ‘New Message’ sign was flashing and she clicked it in case it gave her a clue as to his whereabouts.

She almost dropped the phone. She didn’t hear the door open, but right behind her Andrew said, ‘Hi darling, you’re back!’ and bent to kiss her neck.

She’d heard the expression ‘I almost jumped out of my skin’, but had never understood its exactness as a description until now. She whirled round. ‘Jesus Christ!’

‘What?’ He was looking at her, amused, and so damned
normal
that she found it hard to believe anything had changed between them. ‘Sorry, love, I didn’t mean to give you a fright.’

She was shaking from head to toe. She thrust the phone at him, barely able to speak. ‘What’s this?’

He looked at it incuriously. ‘My phone? Did I leave it here?’

‘If you hadn’t noticed, I guess you managed to meet up with her despite being late.’

‘Kate, what are you talking about?’

‘She sent you a text.’ She located it. ‘Hi Squishy.
Squishy?
She really calls you Squishy? Are you still coming? I’m waiting.’

A hand came out and he took the phone gently out of her trembling grasp. ‘Let’s see. Yes,’ he went on calmly, ‘that looks like Sophie.’ He dropped the phone into his pocket. ‘I had to see her, Kate, but it’s not what you think. She was devastated because I’d told her we had to stop meeting—’

‘So
Squishy
went to see her? Makes sense,’ she said sarcastically.

‘Just to explain again, Kate. She can’t seem to understand what I’m telling her.’

‘Her expectations seem quite explicit.’

‘Her expectations are quite wrong.’ He pulled her to him. ‘You’re in a real state, love, aren’t you? There’s no need.’

It would be so easy to accept what he was telling her. It would be wonderful to think that the whole Sophie episode was over – but it clearly wasn’t. Whatever the reason he was seeing her, the fact remained that he
was
still seeing her. She pulled away.

‘I think Ninian’s been reading your manuscript.’

‘Oh?’

‘I found some pages crumpled up on the floor in your study.’ She marched across to the table and jerked the papers out from under the vase. It gave a little judder and a few fragile petals drifted down onto the scrubbed pine. ‘Martyne Noreis in love with some enchantress? Your story reflecting fact?’

He took the printout. ‘It’s a novel, Kate. That’s all.’

‘A novel.’

‘A work of fiction.’ He enunciated the words slowly and with heavy emphasis, as if explaining to a child with learning difficulties.

‘All fiction draws from experience.’

‘No. All fiction draws from imagination.’

‘Ninian read this and he’s fled to Stephen’s house.’

‘What do you mean, fled?’

‘He wasn’t here when I got in. There was just this crumpled paper and then I got a text saying he’s having supper at Stephen’s. He
knows
, Andrew, and it’s killing him.’

‘Heavens above, Kate – your son reads some of my made-up story and goes to have tea with his friend and you’re making it into a major crisis? What’s got into you? Calm down.’

Put like that, her interpretation of everything did seem exaggerated. Andrew’s whole attitude was relaxed, almost offhand. Sophie couldn’t matter much to him, surely, or he’d be more keyed up. She said in a small voice, ‘It really is over with Sophie?’

‘It really is over.’

‘You won’t see her again?’

‘I’m doing my very best to settle the situation down as smoothly as I can.’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise. Now, if we can stop this ridiculous conversation, do you think we might manage to find something to eat? I’m really rather hungry.’

She looked at him shamefacedly. ‘Sorry. Panic, I guess.’

‘Okay. How do you fancy an omelette?’

So, with a mundanity, the episode was closed.

Chapter Eighteen

Kate started helping out in the community garden on a regular basis. It was dull, heavy work but she began to like the unthinkingness of it. After a day at AeGen, her head filled with figures and contracts, environmental reports, soil tests, wind measurements, consultant reports and deadlines, nothing seemed so appealing as the idea of picking up a spade and turning over soil. She found the primitive connection with the land thoroughly – and unexpectedly – restorative.

Even more to her surprise, she discovered that her initial reservations about Ibsen Brown were changing into genuine admiration. For a start, he was in the community garden most evenings too – and, unlike her, he must have been labouring hard all day already.

She got to know many of the volunteers. One evening as she struggled to sift stones from the heavy soil she asked a hard-faced woman with nicotine-stained fingers, ‘What started you coming down here, Maisie?’

‘That Ibsen Brown,’ Maisie said, stabbing her fork into the ground and reaching into her pocket for a cigarette. ‘He’s got a mighty persuasive tongue on him.’ Her grin revealed nicotine-stained teeth, but had genuine warmth. ‘It’s good, though, int it? Gets you oot.’

‘Aye,’ said the woman on the other side of her, ‘Tho’ you’d tak ony excuse tae get awa’ frae that man o’ yours.’

Everyone laughed. An atmosphere was developing here that was unlike anything Kate had come across before. This was a warm-hearted, funny, and genuine community, in which she sensed none of the subtle complexities and underhand scheming she knew abounded in Forgie. People here knew who she was, and of her connection with the wind farm, but they accepted her without comment. Most evenings there were anything from three to ten people at the site, digging, chatting, joking and teasing each other with an easy camaraderie.

‘Hard work, though,’ a young woman called Jodie grumbled, examining a blister on her hand.

‘Aye. He has tae crack the whip sometimes.’

‘You wish, Maisie,’ cackled someone else. ‘Dream on.’

‘Fifty Shades of Brown,’ came a shout, and there was more laughter.

Kate grinned as she bent again to her task. The mood was certainly very different to her office, where everyone was driven because deadlines pressed. There, all was reaction rather than action. The stress levels were high and most people dealt with them by plundering their reserves of energy until they were utterly depleted. Small successes buoyed them up enough to carry on, errors and failures dragged them down. She was beginning to discover that gardening was not like that at all. It was impossible to hurry nature and preparation was everything – though that, at least, she understood.

A couple of weeks after the debacle at Forgie House, she found herself alone with Ibsen for the first time. It was a windy evening, and decidedly cold, which might have been the reason no-one else had shown up. When she arrived at the garden, her geometric black and ivory Missoni wool scarf wound round and round her neck to combat the chill, he was already sturdily there, a man who inhabited his environment as naturally as breathing. She stood at the gap in the wall for a moment and watched him, with secret pleasure. Despite the cold, he’d taken off his jacket and was wearing another of his seemingly inexhaustible wardrobe of comic tee shirts. She squinted across the space between them and made out a yellow recycling symbol with the words ‘You can use me again and again’. Another of Melanie’s gifts, perhaps?

Perhaps he sensed her presence, because he lifted his head and smiled.

Ibsen wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of one hand, not caring if he left grimy streaks. He’d been completely lost in the rhythm of digging – in, twist, out, in, twist, out – so that Kate’s arrival threw him.

She looked so small. It was the first thing he noticed about her. It was always the first thing he noticed. It made him feel protective. How could she do that job she did? A small woman building very big things. It was sexy, in its own way.

And she had guts. It needed courage to put yourself in the middle of a situation that drew out such bile.

‘Evening, Kate.’

She looked forlorn, standing there all alone. Christ, he wasn’t exactly making her life easy, was he? But he had to be honest. He hated wind farms, and he always would.

‘Hi.’

She did sound low.

He threw his fork into the soil, hard, so that it stood erect, and crossed the few yards to where she was standing and swivelled round. ‘Put your hand in my back pocket. My hands are filthy already, I don’t want to mess up the paper.’

‘Or you just fancy someone feeling you up.’

‘Want to see what’s in there or not? Your choice.’

‘What will Melanie say if she sees me with my hand down your back pocket?’

It was the first time either of them had uttered Melanie’s name since Dahlia Destruction Day.

‘Oh come on, Kate,’ he said, keeping his voice light, ‘you know the answer to that.’

‘Do I?’

‘You don’t imagine I’d still be seeing her, do you?’ He was still holding his hands aloft. ‘Are you going to get that paper out of my pocket or what?’

She plunged her hand into the denim and he heard the crinkle of crisp paper. She said, ‘I’m guessing dahlia-kicking might be a relationship-breaker. What’s this?’

‘Unfold it and see.’

‘Wow.’

‘What do you think?’ He felt suddenly shy, and realised that her opinion mattered to him.

‘It’s beautiful.’

He picked up his waterproof jacket and spread it against the wall so that they could sit with their backs to the stone, out of the wind. ‘I had a feeling folk might be getting a bit pissed off with digging. We need to look ahead to what we’re doing it all
for
, don’t you think? So I put this together. Course it’s not final, it’s only up for discussion. Thought the Committee might look at it first, then once it’s updated, maybe they can find a notice board to stick it up on.’

He’d done the plan in watercolour, with detail added in fine pen.

‘Where did you learn to do this?’

‘At college. We were always having to present ideas and designs and we all developed different ways of doing it. I found this easiest.’

‘Hardly easy.’

He’d sketched in a wrought-iron gate between the garden and the school playground, with another at the other end where the path from the road ended. This was currently walled up but opening it would be straightforward. In the north-east corner he’d drawn four trees with a tent-like covering slung between them.

‘What’s that?’

‘I thought rather than applying for planning permission for a small building, we might just have a stout canvas covering there. It could be a teaching space, or a picnic spot, or a music area, anything really. It could be a proper building, if there’s enough money and people want to wait for planning.’

‘It would take years to grow trees big enough to support it, wouldn’t it?’

‘If there’s enough cash, you can buy big trees.’

‘It’s just a question of cash?’

‘Everything’s about money, isn’t it?’

‘Even trees?’

‘Especially trees.’

She pointed to another section of the drawing. ‘And is this a maze?’

‘Probably just low box hedges, or stones, or maybe a one-foot high willow fence. We could get people weaving. Anyway, we don’t want to lose children – or have them playing kiss chase out of sight of the teachers.’

‘Now there’s the voice of experience.’

He laughed. ‘And this—’ he pointed at a substantial area in the corner, ‘—would be the allotment area, fruit bushes and veg. Over here, maybe a pond. We could bring in frogs.’

He’d spent ages thinking the design out, varying it for interest, crisscrossing the patch with paths so that you could make a dozen different choices to reach any one spot. You could get lost, if you wanted, but of course, you would never be lost.

‘What’s this?’ She peered at the southeast corner, where a series of blue and pink spots had been painted.

‘A friendship garden.’ He smiled at her quizzical look. ‘Tree stumps, sawn flat to make stepping-stones. You take your friend’s hand, boy on blue, girl on pink – or the other way round if you like,’ he added hastily, seeing the look on Kate’s face, ‘or you could make them green and red, whatever. Anyway, you stay on the colour you started on. The idea is to work your way round the stepping stones without letting go of your friend’s hand. Sometimes you’ll have to stretch as far as you can because the blue stone might be three yards from the pink. Sometimes blue and pink will be on the same spot, half and half, with the next stone the other way round, so you have to snuggle up really close or wind yourselves round each other to find a way past. You have to work at it a bit, it won’t be easy. It’s a game.’

‘And a metaphor.’

‘Take it any way you like.’

‘I like.’ Kate stretched up and kissed his cheek, then sat back immediately, as if shocked by her own temerity. ‘You’re right – people need a vision or they’ll lose interest, but not everyone would have been wise enough to understand that.’

He wanted to take her face between his hands and kiss her lips till they frayed. Kate Courtenay was fast becoming a temptation that was difficult to resist.

Kate began to suspect that Andrew was still seeing Sophie, but decided not to spark another confrontation. Such clashes always ended in fervent denials and made her feel as though she was the one in the wrong. It seemed easier to ignore it and pretend, though discomfort about Andrew’s ever more frequent absences was swelling inside her. She couldn’t bear to think of Andrew’s hands on Sophie’s alabaster skin, of words of endearment passing between them like gift-wrapped parcels.

When she came home from work one day, she discovered that Andrew was out – again. Ninian was out too. His mobile was off and she had no idea where he was, either with Banksy or Cuzz, at a guess. She hoped it was Banksy, and she hoped he wouldn’t be too late home because she never slept properly until she heard his key in the lock and the front door opening and closing. She eyed the papers in her briefcase, but she’d had enough of work. She needed air. Clean air and bracing exercise. She needed – if she had a shred of honesty – to see Ibsen.

By the time she got down to the garden, it was late. It was almost October, and the days were much shorter now. In another couple of weeks, the clocks would go back and the evening would start to get really dark. For a moment she thought there was no-one in the garden, but then she caught sight of Ibsen in the corner, packing up his tools.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi.’

‘It’s getting dark.’

‘Yes. Sorry I’m late.’

‘No worries. There were a few folk here.’ He surveyed the land. ‘Almost finished.’

‘Yes.’

‘Fundraising’s going to start soon.’

‘That’s good. There’ll be money, you know, if—’

‘Don’t say it. Don’t mention the words “wind” or “farm”.’

‘No. Sorry.’

‘There are too many minuses, Kate.’

She couldn’t just ignore it, not because it was her job, but because she felt passionately about turbines too – she just happened to have the opposite view to Ibsen’s. Yet there was no point in arguing because his views were entrenched. Might there be any other way of winning him over?

Don’t tell him,
something in her head said,
show him.

She glanced at her watch. It was only eight o’clock. Ninian was unlikely to be back for hours, ditto Andrew, and anyway, she was angry with both of them and tired of being left alone in Willow Corner.

‘Are you in a hurry?’

‘Not really. Why?’

‘Fancy a spin?’

‘Where to? My van’s shockingly dirty.’

‘I have mine.’

He shrugged on a sweatshirt. Kate could smell the evening air on him like the sweet breath of freshly-cut grass and shivered.

‘Well, I’m willing to risk it. Where d’you want to go?’

The mischievous grin was Ibsen’s trademark, but this time Kate got to do it first. As he climbed in, she flashed him her best smile and said, ‘Wait and see.’

She turned the car towards Gifford and smirked into the darkness. She liked being in control – and especially, for once, in control of Ibsen Brown.

She threw the car along winding country roads in the gathering gloom and they reached the site in twenty minutes. The entrance was secured with a coded lock and the codes were changed weekly, but they were the same on all AeGen gates. She had to stop to open up. When the headlights illuminated the large board, ‘Dun Muir Wind Farm’, Ibsen groaned.

‘Good God, woman.’

‘I thought I’d show you something magical.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘You could look on it as an educational visit, if you like.’

‘You’re dragging me up to some wind turbines in the middle of the night and you think you’re going to change my mind.’

‘Perhaps, though it’s hardly the middle of the night.’

‘Hah!’

She’d made a series of rapid calculations in her head before she’d made the suggestion in the first place. It was dark, but the sky was completely clear. Soon it would be filled with stars and she knew that the moon would be large. There was something that happens around wind turbines in these conditions – to her biased eye, anyway. She set the car up the hill, slotted it into first and took the slope gently.

‘Just open your mind, Ibsen. That’s all I ask.’ She glanced at his profile but in the dim light from the beam of the headlamps it was unreadable.

From this side, the turbines were invisible, but when they crested the hill a few jerky minutes later, she knew they would spring into full view. At exactly the wrong moment, though, a cloud passed across the moon and they couldn’t see anything. This wasn’t the spot Kate had had in mind, so she didn’t panic, she merely turned left and up another hill, where they wound up a small sidetrack.

The Dun Muir wind farm was only five years old, so the technology was modern, but because of the nature of the terrain, the landscaping already looked quite mature. The land itself was undulating, so although there were thirty-eight turbines, it was impossible to see all of them from any one spot.