Sewing the Shadows Together (6 page)

We’re in Shona’s bedroom. The Bay City Rollers’ ‘Keep on Dancing’ is playing on her blue Dansette record player. Posters of the band in their tartan denim outfits plaster the wall; we love them all, especially blue-eyed Eric. They really are the boys next door for us – everyone has a connection – Woody’s aunty is even one of our dinner ladies at school. We are dancing, throwing our arms in the air, when I feel eyes watching us. I look round and see Tom at the door, leaning against the door-jamb, swaying and singing along with the record ‘Keep on dancin’ and a prancin’’. He’s tall and slim, in skinny bell-bottomed jeans, blonde hair hanging on his shoulders, fringe falling to his pale brown eyes.

We freeze. Shona picks up the pink teddy from her bed and throws it at him. Tom catches it and throws it back. Soft toys fly through the air. We collapse laughing together. Tom joins in singing ‘Shake it till the break of day’
,
dancing a parody of the Rollers’ strut. The music fades.

*

Sarah lay in bed and felt the rhythm of the Rollers’ music going through her head. The image of the sixteen-year-old Tom merged with the man she kissed at the doorway of her adult house. She still felt the imprint of his soft lips on hers.

Tom stood at the helm of the
Lord of the Isles
as it sailed away from Uig in the north of Skye towards North Uist. The sea was calm and the sun shone, twinkling on the islands and promontories that reached out into the shining water.

After a couple of hours he saw the outline of the harbour at Lochmaddy. Although it was more than thirty years since he’d last been there, he recognised it all. He drove off the ferry and through the treeless landscape, feeling a mixture of apprehension and excitement as he got closer to the place where he’d spent so many happy holidays. Images of Shona, running on the springy heather hills and along the long white beaches, came into his mind. Nostalgia pulled at his intestines, a physical response to coming back.

The sky was huge, almost colourless, with the sun glistening on the water with a pale, almost Scandinavian glow. Through Benbecula to South Uist, the single-track road wound past the sandy bays on the right and the three hills of ancient rock on the left, and as he approached Eriskay he saw the new causeway which had replaced the ferry they’d always used before.

Driving slowly over it, he passed the bay where they’d hunted for cockles when he was a boy. The tide was far out and the low sun glistened on the wet sand. Then he turned inland up the valley towards his aunt’s house, heather-covered hills rising on both sides. Where his grandmother’s croft had stood, there was a scattering of white modern houses, all of a similar design with satellite dishes on the side. He narrowed his eyes into the low evening sun and saw a figure sitting on the bench in front of one of the houses. His aunt. She stood up and waved, running towards him as he parked the car.

Opening the car door, he was enveloped in warm arms. ‘Tom, you’ve been a long time away, but now you’re back. Annie’s boy has come back!’ Mary Agnes, his mother’s youngest sister, spoke in the soft tones of a native Gaelic speaker. Like many on the island she had two names to distinguish her from the many other Marys.

She pulled him close to her. ‘I’ve always been waiting for you to come back, to come home.’ She led him into the modern kitchen. ‘You’ll be ready for a cup of tea, or would you rather have something stronger?’

Tom took tea and they sat on the bench, gazing out over the silver water of Eriskay Sound. Tom gave an upbeat account of their life in South Africa, skirting over many of the details of his mother’s slow death from liver cancer to make it seem as peaceful and painless as possible. He described how her Uncle Gus and his wife, Betty, had been so good to them.

Mary Agnes reciprocated with news of her children, who were just toddlers when Tom had last seen them. His cousin Donald was a surgeon in Glasgow, very successful but unfortunately divorced. Mary Agnes didn’t see those grandchildren at all now. She gave a sad smile. That happened so often these days. She brightened when she talked about her daughter, Kirstie. She was married to a very nice man and lived in the south of England. She came up to visit quite often with her children, two girls in their early teens now.

‘It’s lovely to see them on the beach, digging for cockles and collecting mussels from the rocks. I remember back to those days when you were all young, playing together.’ She looked at Tom. ‘Shona was such a bonnie wee lassie. It was a terrible thing that happened, a wicked terrible thing. That your poor mother had to suffer that – the loss of a child.’

She laid her hand on Tom’s. ‘The pity is she didn’t come back here. I think it was your father who wanted to go to South Africa. Kenny always was a wanderer, him being in the Merchant Navy and all. I suppose Gus’s offer just seemed the best thing to do at the time.’ She paused and smiled wistfully. ‘And your father never did want to come back to the islands.’

Tom thought back; he remembered his father had always stayed in Edinburgh when they came up in the summer holidays. He said something about having to work. Tom couldn’t even remember ever visiting his father’s parents on Lewis.

Mary Agnes continued in her gentle tones. ‘Our mum and dad were so pleased when Annie met a man from the Islands. They’d worried when she went away to Edinburgh to do her nursing that she’d meet the wrong kind of folk. But because your father was a Lewis man they thought he’d treat her right. Of course, he was that wee bitty older, having been away on the tankers, but he gave that all up for her when she wanted him to settle in Edinburgh.’

She paused, obviously wondering whether to say more. When she did, she sounded sad. ‘Of course, it was difficult for him, her being a Catholic and all. I think it caused some problems with his family. You know what the church is like up on Lewis, they think Catholics are the anti-Christ. Be that as it may, Kenny never talked about his family and he never went back. Annie said often enough that you bairns should know all your grandparents, but Kenny wouldn’t have any of it.’

Tom thought back. What did he know about his other grandparents? They were just never mentioned. Tom was astonished how unquestioning he had been when he was young. He couldn’t remember ever asking about them or even thinking it was odd that they never visited. It was just the way it was.

Mary Agnes pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her deep-set eyes. ‘But what a lovely wee family you were. Until, that monster…’ She paused and took a deep breath. ‘I still cannae believe it. I cannae believe that any man would do that to a wee lassie like her.’ She tucked her hanky back in her sleeve and smoothed her skirt. ‘I think we need that dram, now.’

‘I think we do, Aunty Mary.’ He hugged her to him and held her tight. Then they sat, watching the sun sink into the sea, and drank a glass of whisky, silent in their own thoughts.

Tom wondered whether he should mention the news about Logan Baird’s release, but he realised he had to. It might hit the national news any day and it was better his aunt heard it from him. When he told his aunt she nodded and sighed. ‘It’s a bad business.’ There were no tears, no histrionics. The islanders were stoical, used to tragedy and accepted that life was hard and unfair.

Later, eating roast chicken, he caught up on some island news and then they sat and watched the huge television. Mary Agnes was knitting the complicated design of the seamless Eriskay sweater when she turned to her nephew.

‘What happened to you, Tom? You were so clever at school – I always thought you’d be a doctor or a lawyer. I hoped you’d meet a nice girl and have your own wee family. New life would have made it easier for everyone to move on.’

Tom didn’t know what to say. These were thoughts that sometimes came to him, but it was easier to bury them, to drift along and live from day to day. His mother had never asked difficult questions like these. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happened to all the years.’ He looked down.

His aunt, seeming to sense his discomfort, turned the conversation to her sister’s ashes. They decided on Thursday evening for the ceremony, enough time for Mary Agnes to contact all the relatives and the local priest. Tom hadn’t thought of involving the church, but he was more than willing to leave the organisation in his aunt’s hands; he could see she was gaining comfort from being able to say goodbye to her sister in this way.

After the late news finished, Mary Agnes folded up her knitting and kissed him goodnight. Tom climbed up to his narrow room under the sloping eaves, feeling a turmoil of emotions: being with his aunt made him think about his family and the lack of contact with his father’s relatives. Why had they never visited his home island? Why had his father changed so much after they went to South Africa? What lay behind his drinking, his dark depressions, his anger at the world? Of course, Shona’s murder affected all of them, but was there something more behind his smouldering rage? As Tom tossed uneasily in the narrow bed, he made a decision. He was going to Lewis – he needed to find out more about his father.

Eventually he managed to drift off, but slept fitfully. Memories of summers in South Uist mingled with images of Sarah, her grown-up wide grey eyes looking at him tenderly, her sensitive mouth hovering above his saying something he could not hear. He opened his eyes, remembering the taste of her kiss on his lips and the soft curve of her breasts as she held him close.

*

Sarah sat at the high sash window watching the evening sky darken over the roofs of Stockbridge. Her thoughts kept going back to Tom. A flush of embarrassment spread over her face.
That kiss
. It was so unlike her – she’d never had any kind of relationship with a man since she met Rory and here she was almost flinging herself at Tom. She hoped he wouldn’t think badly of her.

What had got into her? He was attractive, so tall and lean, with a beautiful sensitive mouth and full soft lips, so like Shona. But it was not just a physical attraction, it was the ease she felt with him. Although they’d only just met again, it was as if he’d always been there. And now he’d gone away and she was amazed how much she missed him.

She looked at her phone again. She wished she’d asked for his mobile number when she’d given him hers at the reunion. No message. Why hadn’t he contacted her?

*

Tom woke next morning to find the house swathed in low white cloud. The smell of bacon wafted up the stairs and when he went down he saw Mary Agnes standing at the cooker.

‘Good morning, Tom. I trust you slept well.’ She paused and cracked an egg into the frying pan. ‘I’ve been phoning the family. They all want to see you, Tom. We were worried you might never come back.’ She turned the bacon and looked round at him. ‘I hope you’ll no have to run off again too soon.’

Tom put his arms round his aunt. ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay all that long. I’ll have to leave after we’ve scattered the ashes because there are things I’ve got to do.’ He didn’t add that he was going to Lewis, because he was not certain himself if it was a wise thing to do. He allowed the thought to remain in her mind that he was going back to Edinburgh to see the police.

After breakfast Tom changed into his running kit and ran up the track away from the house. He felt happy to be running again. In South Africa he went every day, pounding along the firm sand at the water’s edge and through the soft dunes. He’d missed that and was pleased to feel the damp air in his lungs as he forced his way up the path and into the springy heather. There was a drizzle in the air and his vest was damp by the time he reached the top of the hill. As he stood there, surrounded by the peat pools, the air lightened and the sun shafted through the cloud like beams pushing through a window. The view opened up over the island, showing the long white beaches and smaller islands dotted in the sparkling ocean.

As he stood, feeling his heart swelling with the beauty of the view, his phone beeped. A text message. His first thought was Sarah and he took his phone out of his pocket with excitement. When he saw it was from his South African provider, asking if he wanted to sign up for an overseas package, he felt a sense of disappointment and isolation. His only contact since he arrived in Scotland – an automated message from a mobile phone company.

In the distance he saw the beach his mother had loved so much, where her ashes would be scattered. He remembered her sitting in the hospice, eyes sunken, her hair colourless, and her face covered with white papery skin. She’d reached out and clutched his wrist, using all her strength to ask him to bring her ashes back to ‘her’ island. He was glad he could fulfil this last request. Soon she’d be at peace.

Running down the hill, he passed the shell of his grandmother’s croft. He and Shona had stayed there when they were young, collecting water from the well, washing in the stream. Mary Agnes explained that nobody lived in the old buildings now, since the Highlands and Islands Development had paid for the new houses. They could choose from a very limited number of designs, which explained why nearly all the houses looked similar, strangely modern and out of place in the wild countryside.

When he arrived back at the house, cousins had arrived, bringing a bucket of crabs’ legs. They all sat down on the bench in front of the house and exchanged family news. The whisky bottle was brought out and they had the customary dram.

This set the pattern for the next days. A run in the morning and then a succession of visitors arrived, or he was taken by Mary Agnes to visit other relatives. He seemed to be related to nearly everyone on the island.

The days were full, but as he lay in the narrow bed at night he found it hard to sleep, his mind crowded with thoughts of Shona, Logan Baird and Sarah.

Thursday dawned clear and after Tom’s run up the hill they drove to St. Michael’s Church, at the highest point of the island, overlooking the main village. It wasn’t that old, about a hundred years or so, but it had a timeless Scandinavian feel, rectangular with a rounded north end, steep blue roof, grey stone with the windows picked out in white bricks. It would not have looked out of place on a Norwegian fjord.

Eriskay, South Uist and Barra had always remained Catholic when the other islands had become protestant. St Michael’s Church was surrounded by a memorial garden, with a statue of the Virgin Mary, overlooking the Sound of Barra. They went inside. It was bigger than Tom had expected and was dominated by the altar in the form of the prow of a boat.

A priest stepped out from the shadows under the gallery and held out his hand. ‘I’m Father Eric McNeill. Bless you, my son.’ Tom felt awkward; he had never been a church-goer, but Father Eric smiled and soon put him at his ease. ‘I’m sorry to hear of your loss. Your aunt has told me about your mother and I’ll be happy to say a few words when her ashes are scattered.’

Tom grasped his hand, ‘Thank you.’ Although his mother worshipped at the ecumenical One World Church in South Africa, she’d asked for a priest before she died and was comforted by the ministering of the Last Rites. ‘That would make her very happy.’

Afterwards Tom and Mary Agnes made their way round the island, stopping at white houses dotted on the treeless headlands and bays. Herds of wild white Eriskay ponies wandered freely over the roads, knowing that every car would stop for them. At each house they were welcomed in, food and drink appeared and, after a few minutes, the whisky bottle.