Lullaby Girl (15 page)

I smile.

‘I tried readin’ that one,’ I say. ‘I didn’t get very far.’

We lie quietly. Rhona drifts in an’ out of focus. Sometimes I hear her readin’ the words under her breath, an’ this sound reminds me of the wind in the ash tree.

‘I’m sorry for the other day,’ I mumble.

‘That’s all right.’

‘I went onto the moor.’

I hear Rhona put down her book. ‘You like it out there, don’t you?’ she says. ‘We should take a walk sometime.’

I turn, an’ smile hopefully.

‘Like old times,’ I say. But this time she doesn’t answer. Instead she slots a knitted bookmark into her book an’ places it face down on her lap. For a while she fiddles with the tassel on the bookmark. Then she flicks through the pages with her thumb.

‘Do you still pray?’ she asks, without lookin’ up. I watch the pages flutterin’. Beneath my head, my folded arm grows tingly.

‘Mm hmm,’ I answer, finally.

‘What do you pray for?’ asks Rhona.

I twist my mouth to one side. Is it allowed, to tell another person such things? Aren’t there rules? Like on my birthday, when I blew out the candles? Rhona sees me pause an’ thumps me gently on the arm.

‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Don’t worry. I’m just making conversation.’

I smile.

‘Sometimes,’ I tell her, ‘I pray for Mrs McRae.’

‘Oh,’ says Rhona. ‘Didn’t she pass awa—’

I stop. Rhona stops too, an’ turns her face away. Suddenly I understand she’s made a mistake.

‘I mean … I meant …’

‘Mrs McRae is dead?’

Rhona sighs. ‘I think so, yes.’ She doesn’t look at me, but I see the frown wrinkles on the side of her face.

‘Who will … run the post office now?’

‘I don’t know, love.’

A great gust of wind rattles the shutters then, breakin’ apart the silence that has fallen. We wriggle at the sudden chill, an’ Rhona shifts further under her bedcovers. I look at her mess of backcombed bed-hair, an’ cackle.

‘What?’ she laughs.

‘You look like a ginger lion.’

Rhona cackles too an’ flaps at me with her book. I duck.

‘Cheeky sod!’ she says, but I know she’s not really mad.

#

People stare when I enter the breakfast room. I fill a plate with toast an’ carry it to my usual table. Caroline is not here. I like to imagine she got into trouble for last night. My appetite is pretty good today, an’ the shakiness has disappeared. I worry that when Mrs Laird returns she’ll make me talk about yesterday. They never learn that fuss makes things worse. Iss not like I
chose
to faint, is it? Maybe I should tell someone about the horseshoe. They might go easy on me then, an’ take the bloody thing away. My God, I’d love that. I’d throw it over the
mountains
if I could. I’d throw it into the sea.

We’re meant to talk to Joyce this week instead of Mrs Laird, but there’s no way I’m tellin’ Joyce my super-private stuff. I don’t believe she’s clever enough to do the deep brain stuff anyway. Yesterday I heard Liz talkin’ about Joyce. That Joyce once did a night class in the stuff Mrs Laird does an’ now she thinks she knows it all. Could that be true? God, imagine if Joyce took over Mrs Laird’s job for good! I couldn’t bear it.

As I pick at my food I think of the Inverness transcripts an’ know that sooner or later I’ll be made to read them. But God knows what horrors I’ll find at the end of that path. Why is ev’ryone so anxious to send me back where I came from? How can I explain this fear to them? That I don’t
want
to leave this place. That I can’t. That if I lost Rhona, I think I might die …

After breakfast I go upstairs an’ ponder by my bedroom window. Outside, a spider is buildin’ a web. For hours, I watch its progress. Gettin’ battered by the wind. Hangin’ on by one leg.

By nightfall I’ve made my decision. I get up from my chair an’ go downstairs. The lights are turned off except for one dim wall lamp, an’ this makes the hall look smaller than usual. It feels strange to be down here so late, an’ I’ll probl’ly get in trouble for it, but this can’t wait till mornin’. I have to tell Rhona right now. I’m not goin’ to read the files. If I show her how scared I am, she can’t get mad. Can she? I’ll jus’ tell her straight.

A light flickers through the sittin’-room door, throwin’ a jerky pattern into the hallway. I stand for a moment, watchin’ the shapes. Then I peek inside an’ see Caroline lookin’ at the television. On it, a man with long hair is kissin’ a woman with short hair. I clutch my throat as I inch past, but Caroline doesn’t turn round. She looks younger from the back than the front. I wonder where ev’ryone else is. They can’t all be in bed already.

Then I hear Rhona’s voice. Unmistakable. I approach her office, expectin’ to find her on the telephone. But jus’ as I reach the doorway, I hear a second voice. Joyce! I leap back.

‘—blame yourself. You’ve got to have the courage of your convictions.’

‘If I’d only done it a different way …’

‘Listen to me. It was
not
your fault! She was old! No one could have saved her …’

‘If I’d remortgaged the house sooner … we could have paid for private treatment sooner, and—’

‘No, you can’t think that way!’

‘Now she’s gone … and the money’s gone … And this debt … I can’t keep it up … I … I just …’

For a long time there are no real words. It is Joyce who breaks the silence.

‘Be honest with yourself, Rhona. You’re just not ready to be back. You’re not … bloody
superwoman
. Take some time off.’

‘I have to make money, Joyce. The repayments are astronomical …’

‘Look. I’m sure if you just—’

‘I’m going to lose the house …
Generations
, we’ve lived there.
Generations
 …’

‘I’ll cover your patients. If I can cover Vera’s sessions for a week, I can handle a bit of paperwork.’

‘No … There’s Kathy … I can’t just … I just … I’ve got to …’

Rhona cries diff’rently now. Faster, an’ snottier, an’ without pause for breath.

‘Let me deal with Kathy,’ says Joyce.

My skin turns cold.

‘Bu … bu … but …’

‘Shush, lassie, I know how you feel. But you’ve got to put yourself first for once.’

This time Rhona doesn’t stop cryin’ at all. I listen for as long as I can bear. Then I creep away an’ climb the stairs.

13

February 5th-6th, 2005.

In my heart of hearts, I should have known Magnus would not chase me. I wait outside our building until midnight. Stamping my feet. Watching the street from end to end. When I’m certain he is not coming home I return to Loop the Loop and find it shut. The wind slices through my 15-denier tights, and I’m worried about my toes, which I haven’t been able to feel for an hour. So far anger has kept me going, but there’s only so much longer I can hold out in this weather. Magnus is not answering his phone. I decide, against all common sense, to find a hotel.

Stupid girl,
I think, over and over.
Why didn’t you just take the keys?

There are no single rooms left at the NordLys St Olav, and the doubles cost sixteen hundred kroner. Stunned, I ask after cheaper alternatives. The man says this is the cheapest I’ll find, this time of night. I tell him I need to make a phone call first and collapse on the lobby sofa.

What can I do? It’s the last money I have – more than that, it’ll put me in the red – but if I don’t stay here I’ll fucking freeze to death. Three deep breaths. I dial Magnus’s number. Like before, it goes straight to voicemail. I hang up, grit my teeth and go back to the reception desk.

‘Okay,’ I tell the man, and give him my credit card.

The room is spartan. I sleep like the dead.

#

I wake to the sound of a phone and groggily pick it up. A man’s voice starts talking, and I jump at the memory of Magnus.

‘Mrs Fenwick?’ says the voice, and then my heart droops. It’s just the receptionist. ‘Check-out time is ten,’ he snips.

‘Oh … Thank you.’

‘It is now half past ten. Will you be staying for one more night, Mrs Fenwick?’

Shit
. I sit up straight.

‘No, no … I’m sorry, I’ll be down in a minute.’

When I step back onto the street, last night’s indignation has all but disappeared. I feel small and foolish as I walk the half mile back to the old town. My clothes, which I slept in, feel grubby and wet against my skin, and I can’t wait to crawl into a hot bath. Perversely, the foremost image in my mind is of Magnus, waiting up for me behind the front door. It was probably a case of bad timing and we missed each other by minutes. Was he worried? Will he hug me and cry and apologise when I finally show up? Some self-righteous part of me hopes so. But I’m tired of being angry now. All I want is for this to be over.

The downstairs door is propped open. That’s a good sign. I go inside and start climbing the stairs. When I reach the third floor I try our front door, but it’s locked. I knock once and wait. Nothing. Again. Again. Nothing. I try the bell. Nothing.

Where the fuck is he?

Suddenly my ears prick up. Just for a second, I could’ve sworn I heard a creak. So quiet it could almost have been the wind. Neighbours. Traffic on the street. But my gut instinct tells me it was none of these things. That the creak came from the other side of this door.

I put my finger on the bell and hold it. The creak comes again, louder this time. A pause. A little crash. Then footsteps approach the door, and it whooshes open to reveal Magnus. His face is like thunder.

‘What?’ he barks, engulfing me in whisky fumes.

‘What do you mean,
what
?!’

Muttering, he walks back down the hall. I dump my bag and follow. My anger has returned fully fledged, but there’s something about this that puts me on edge. We’ve fought before, dozens of times, but this is different. This is something much, much more …

‘Would you like to explain?’ I demand, when we reach the living room.

‘Explain what?’

‘The
girl
! Who the fuck was she?’

‘She’s no one.’

‘Where have you been all night? With her?’

‘Where have
you
been?’

‘I stayed in a hotel! I had to!’

Magnus makes a face. I realise now that he’s still drunk.

‘Are you seeing that girl?’ I demand.

‘No.’

‘Who is she?’

‘One of the kids. She’s in love with me, I guess.’

‘But you’re with
me
!’ I cry, exasperated.

Magnus makes the face again. He mutters something.

‘What?’

‘
You
don’t love me,’ he repeats.

I reel. ‘How can you say that?’

He mutters again.

Suddenly I feel light-headed. I float away to the sofa and sink to the floor beside it.

‘I spent my last money on the hotel room,’ I whisper.

‘I gave you the keys. Should have taken them, shouldn’t you?’

‘I have nothing now.’

Magnus snorts. ‘So how are you going to eat?’

I glare at him, and he glares back.

‘That girl,’ I start, but Magnus slams his hand down on the door frame, shocking me into silence.

‘She’s innocent,’ he says.

‘Have you told her you have a girlfriend?’

‘It’s not as simple as that.’

‘It’s extremely simple!’

‘She’s fifteen. She’s just flirting.’

‘So you haven’t told her you’re with me?’

‘Nobody knows. Not yet.’

‘What? You haven’t told
anyone
?’

‘It’s too soon.’

‘It’s been
five months
!’

Magnus shrugs. His eyes are like steel. Something in me snaps, then, and my shoulders start to shake. I curl into the floor and weep, while Magnus’s feet remain planted to the floor before me.

Time drags. My head aches. By the time Magnus pulls me into his arms, hours could have passed. I cry myself out against his chest, smelling the salt of his skin through the whisky-stained shirt. His heat against my cheek.

‘You’re mine,’ he whispers, from somewhere above my head. ‘No one else. But for now we must be secret. We must let people down easy.’

I don’t reply. I can’t.

‘They’re just kids,’ he says. ‘They’re vulnerable. I could never live with myself if they did something stupid.’

I want to say
They?
But I don’t have the energy for that argument. Instead I squeak, ‘Okay.’

‘I love this job. I don’t want to lose it. So no more dramatic shit, okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘I’ve got debts to pay, besides food for you and me. So you need to get a job, right? Try harder.
Smile
.’

He brings up a hand and pats my head with it. It feels like a lead weight. And as I submit to this comfort, I feel some important part of myself draining away.

#

Friday, 11th February 2005.

In the aftershock of Saturday’s events, Magnus is extra patient with my fluctuating moods. Maybe that’s because he feels guilty. Or it could simply be that my reasons for feeling bad are more tangible to him now. It’s hard to believe a Scandinavian could fail so completely to understand depression. As if I enjoyed feeling like shit, or did it on cue. Anyway, a shaky truce is formed, and I agree – against every bone in my body – to keep our relationship a secret.

There’s a party tonight at a rock club in the old town, and most of Magnus’s friends will be there. Before going, Magnus sets several ground rules: no hand holding, no clinging and no crying. I bristle inwardly as he recites this list. But until I can afford to feed myself, I have little choice in such matters. To hold on to Magnus, I must start making compromises.

‘Just for now,’ he says.

‘I know. Just for now.’

‘Come on. Cheer up.’

I do my best to smile. Magnus kisses me.

We have our own little pre-party in the flat – knocking back the bottle of rum we bought on the ferry – and this goes a long way towards softening the atmosphere. We play some music while picking out clothes to wear, and Magnus dances me round to a couple of our favourite tunes. He looks so handsome tonight. Ghostly pale in his dark shirt. At midnight, we head downtown.