In The Garden Of Stones (9 page)

Across
the road, she pauses just long enough to glance up at the window of
Mal’s office, its blinds now closed, already convinced she would
not be seeing the inside of that room again any time soon, if
ever.

Chapter 8

It
had
been going so well, and she and Mal
had
been
making good progress. Had been, past
tense, until the minute she fucked everything up with her ludicrous
suggestion that the made-up Colin had caused the bruising on her
arm.

People who are only figments of imagination don’t make
finger shaped bruises in living skin, only real people do that. If
she had thought about it properly before opening her big fat mouth,
she would have realised that the chances were she
had
done it to herself,
by gripping onto her own arm in her sleep.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

“
Why don’t you go for a walk?” Alec says.

Grace is
sitting on the sofa, knees drawn up, the TV remote control in her
hand, systematically flicking through the channels. “No
thanks.”

“
We can go down the pub for a drink and pick up a kebab on
the way home.”

Click.
Click. “I don’t really fancy it.”

Alec
sighs dramatically and drops his shoulders. “You can’t stay indoors
brooding for the rest of your life, Grace. You’ve got to go out
sometime.”

“
I’m not brooding.”

“
If you’re not, it’s a damned good impression of it. Have
you given any thought about when you might go back to
work?”

Click.
Click. “I’m still feeling a bit fragile and out of sorts. I’m not
ready to face the outside world just yet, and it’s only been a few
weeks. Like my therapist says, I mustn’t rush things.”

My former therapist?

Alec
drops onto the sofa beside her, grabs the remote from her hand and
switches off the TV. This looks serious.

“
You might have to,” he says. “I didn’t want to bring this
up, not after … I know you’re not well yet and you have enough on
your plate to worry about, and this is just going to add to your
load, but … ” He sags with a groan.

“
But what, Alec? Come on, spit it out.”

He
screws up his eyes, rubs at his brow and forces his words out.
“Money’s been a bit tight of late and I had to pay both halves of
the rent last month. A whole raft of bills have landed on the mat –
leccy, council tax, car insurance, phone… everything all at once,
and everything’s gone up and… trade’s been down. My name’s on them
all and that makes me responsible, and I can’t risk falling into
arrears with anything. Red bills and final demands will really
bugger up my credit score… it could affect the business. I’ve had
to ask Denny for a loan to see us through.”

Grace is
horrified at the revelation. She hadn’t given it a second
thought.

“
Alec! You idiot! Why on earth didn’t you say so? How much
did you borrow? Give it him back and I’ll go to the bank first
thing tomorrow and sort this out. I have the money, you know I
have. We’ll be fine.”

“
It’s not
just
about the money,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to bring this
up for a while.”

“
What’s the matter?” And then the penny drops. “Oh. I see.
You want me to move out.”

“
It was only ever supposed to be temporary, we both knew
that,” he says. “It was just to get you back on your feet after
your split from Connor –” He sighs deeply. “I don’t want to rub
salt into your wounds darling, but it’s been nearly a year, and
Denny and me, we’re at that stage –” He snatches at her hand. “He’s
the one, Grace, he’s my heart and soul and I’m his, and we want to
find a place of our own, because …” The squeeze becomes painful.
“We’re getting married.”

Now
there’s a collection of sensations she never expected to feel
simultaneously – to be shocked speechless, whilst deliriously happy
and yet, at the same time, utterly heartbroken.

In a
split second she’s potentially lost her best friend, her home and
her security. She doesn’t know what to say except,
“Congratulations?”

It comes
out more like a half hearted, insincere question than a declaration
of joy, and it is clear it wounds him.

“
Well, thanks very much. I thought you’d be a little bit
pleased for us.”

She
presses her palms to his cheeks.

“
I am! Alec, darling, nothing would make me happier than to
see my bestest friend in the world, the one who lights up my entire
universe and fills my heart with joy, married to the man he loves.
I love you. I love Denny too, and if ever two people belonged
together, it’s you two. I am happy for you sweetie. I really,
really am.”

She
throws her arms around his neck and hugs him.

“
I’ll start looking for a new place first thing tomorrow …
while I’m out at the bank.”

Chapter 9

Flat
hunting is hard work without a car. Grace has walked miles today,
following up ads in the paper and details from the lettings
agency.

Her legs
ache, she has blisters. She’s tired and stressed and depressed.
After a bath and a glass of wine, she retires to bed,
exhausted.

It might
be the bone numbing tiredness, or the influence of the splendidly
rich Australian cabernet, but soon her mind begins to wander and
she feels powerless to stop it.

She
finds herself back at the iron gate to the gardens. When she puts
her hand on the barley twist ring, something catches her eye - a
black rectangle of wood with block capital letters carefully
painted in white.

PRIVATE
PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING.

This
wasn’t here before. Colin must have put it up because somehow he
knew, and quite rightly so, that she would ignore his warning not
to come back, the notice was his way of reinforcing his desire not
to be bothered by nosey parker interlopers.

“
My garden, my rules,” she says, turning the ring, lifting
the sneck and pushing open the gate. It squeaks so loudly they can
probably hear it up at the house.

Last
time she was here she was concentrating so hard on the garden she
didn’t pay much notice to the fine red brick building with its
plethora of windows and ornate chimneys. In fact, now she comes to
think of it, she doesn’t remember seeing it at all. Even now it
looks only half there, as if she’s looking at it though a heat
haze. She might take a closer look… another time.

She
stops at the rose bed to smell a bloom of the deepest red. Its
perfume is heavenly, hypnotic almost, and she is sorely tempted to
pluck the flower and carry it with her to enjoy it whenever she
likes. They won’t miss one flower. She grasps the stem, being
careful to avoid the thorns.

“
Don’t yoo dare!”

The
authoritative bellow makes her start and squeal with fright, and
she lets go of the stem, jabbing her right middle finger on a
thorn. It stings and starts to bleed, and she sucks at
it.

“
Mr McLeod. I didn’t see you there,” she says, the pad of
her finger pressed to her lips.

He puts
himself between the flowers and their potential thief. “Fit ken
ye’re deein’?” he says.

“
I’m sorry.”

He
repeats the question. Still as clear as mud.

“
You’re going to think me awfully crass, Mr McLeod,” Grace
says, maintaining an air of politeness. “And I don’t mean any
offence, but your accent is very strong and I can’t understand what
you’re saying.”

He
glares at her for a long moment before taking in a slow deep
breath. “I said, what do you think you are doing?”

Every
word is measured and carefully enunciated, as if he’s speaking to
someone who is either deaf, or stupid, or both, and as he’s gone
too far the other way, it comes out sounding
condescending.

“
I was admiring the roses,” she says, equally
tersely.

“
Gain ta steal one mair like.”

Nothing
lost in translation there. “I was not!”

“
I telt ye afair, these gardens are private,” he says
angrily. “Ye’re trespassing and ye’re no welcome here. I’ll give ye
a count of three ta be on yer way, after that…on yer ain head be
it. Oan.”

So much for polite introductions.
Grace folds her arms defiantly, head
cocked to one side.

“
Twa.”

She
lifts her chin, daring him to …

“
Three.”

The
world turns upside down as in one swift movement he snatches,
lifts, and flings her over his shoulder in a classic fireman’s
carry.

Grace
yowls in alarm. “Put me down!” she screeches.

“
I asked ye to go, ye refused,” he says, striding toward the
gate. “I’m well within ma rights to send ye on yer way in any way I
choose. Yoor fault.”

She slaps at his back. “Gerroffme! How dare you! I’ll
bloody well have you for assault or kidnap or something!” She
wriggles furiously, squirming and writhing until she breaks free
from his grip and drops down into the gravel with a
crunch
, pain radiating from her banged backside. “Ow! Bloody
hell!”

“
Ah, crap.” A hand appears in front of her face, ready to
help her to her feet. “I’m sorry. I couldna hold ye. Are ye
hurt?”

She bats
the hand away and gets up herself.

“
No thanks to you.” She brushes gravel dust from her
backside. “Touch me again and you’re going to be in a whole
barrowload of trouble, matey.”

“
I said I’m sorry.”

“
You will be when I have you up in court, showing them the
bruises on my backside while I’m suing the pants off you, and
that’ll be you, not me, out of here … for good!”

Colin
McLeod first gapes at her, swallows hard, and then snatches his cap
from his head and wrings it frantically in his hands, all the fight
gone out of him. No bluff and bluster now. Instead he looks
frightened and ashamed.

“
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean ta … I didnae ken … I wouldnae …”
Another swallow. “Forgive me.”

He bows
his head, looking at his boots, and looks so totally deflated that
Grace finds herself overcome with shame and guilt at having acted
so unreasonably. Bombarding him with silly empty threats has done
nothing but upset them both.

If this is what Dr Mal meant when he suggested Colin is
merely another part of my psyche and my arguing with him represents
me battling against my inner self, it seems to be a cruel and
heartless way of going about it, and I don’t think I like it very
much.

“
It’s okay. Forget it,” she says. “No real harm done. I
won’t say anything if you promise not to do it again.”

“
I … I won’t.”

His head
twitches and he blinks hard, screwing his eyes tight closed.
Nervous afflictions she has seen before in others, often brought on
by sudden and intense stress.

She lays
her hand on his sleeve to still his agitation. “It’s okay. We’ll
forget all about it.”

He
flinches at her touch, twitches his head again, and she removes her
hand. His eyes stay on his boots.

“
Thank you, Miss,” he murmurs.

“
My name’s Grace. Did you forget?”

Eyes
like a whipped dog’s dart to hers, then back to the ground. “No,
Miss.”

An
awkward silence descends and she sucks at her bleeding finger
again.

“
You want to get that looked at,” he says, risking a quick
glance. “There might be a bitty thorn in it. It might get infected.
You canna be too careful.”

She
offers him the wound for examination. “I can’t see anything. Would
you like to take a look? I’m sure you have plenty of experience
with these types of things.”

“
No, Miss.” Obviously he doesn’t like skin contact
either.

“
Please, I’m giving you my consent,” she says, adding, to
her own astonishment, “I trust you.”

He looks
as surprised as she feels and they hold each other’s gaze for a
moment, until he breaks off and turns his attention to her
outstretched finger, gently cupping her hand in his, holding it
steady and running his fingertip over the wound, feeling for any
piece of embedded thorn. For a man of such unkempt appearance, such
outward roughness, his touch is ultimately tender. He lifts the
finger close to his eye and examines the puncture carefully. He
squeezes the skin around it and a tiny seed pearl of blood emerges.
Without hesitation he snatches a handkerchief from his pocket and
wipes it away.

“
It’s fine,” he says, and lets her go. “It’s jest a scratch.
I’m pretty sure there’s nothing in theer. Ye might’a sooked it out
already.”

She
takes her hand back, astounding herself when she discovers she is
desperately disappointed he hasn’t offered to kiss it
better.