The Dog House (Harding's World of Romance) (23 page)

Colin looked at his mother askance as she sat looking victorious. “What, until I start to wrinkle and fade? Are we as shallow as all that after all?”

“It isn’t shallow, but we must keep up appearances,” his mother said crossly. “It falls to us, after all. Otherwise the whole country would be running around in shapeless tracksuits and speaking like fishmongers. Now why are you looking at me like that, Colin?”

Colin sighed. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. She won’t work for us, so don’t bother asking.”

Now his father eyed him critically. “Why not?” he asked impatiently. “Everyone has a price, you know, and judging by her wardrobe, I’m guessing that she could use a decent salary.”

“Yes, why not?” his mother demanded. “Really, you’re starting to be as difficult as your father.”

Colin stared at them both expressionlessly. “Because we evicted her.”

His parents looked at him blankly. “I beg your pardon?” his father asked dangerously.

“She was the tenant at Silverbeck,” Colin said simply. “The one with the dog.”

Elisabeth looked crushed. “Oh,” she said slowly. “Well, that is disappointing.”

His father looked smug. “I told you, you can’t trust that lot. Different set of moral codes, no sense of civic responsibility or honour.”

Elisabeth sighed disconsolately. “I really thought she would be more responsible.”

“Well, maybe she is,” Colin interjected brightly. “It’s just the dog that isn’t.”

His mother shook her head gently. “
We are responsible for our pets, pet.”

“
And our progeny,” his father added, looking darkly at Colin.

“That was a bit of a catty comment,” Elisabeth said impatiently.

“I’d say rather more dogged,” Colin tried, hoping to lighten the mood of the discussion.

His father silenced him with another of his infamous glances. “C
olin, we are having a serious discussion here,” he pointed out curtly. “She ought to have come forward and excused herself.”

Colin shifted uncomfortably. “There m
ay have been extenuating circumstances,” he suggested, wanting to defend Fiona.

“
Such as?” his father demanded, his bushy eyebrows coming together ominously.

Colin sent his mother a knowing glance, hoping for some help. It took her a moment and then she looked taken aback as she considered the situation. “Oh, she fancied you,” she deduced with a slow, uncertain smile. “So she didn’t want you to know.”

“Fancied Colin?” his father repeated incredulously. “Fancied his fortune, you mean.”

Colin was offended. “I’m not so bad, actually,” he said stiffly. “
Many a fair maiden has vied for my attentions. And it was mutual, as it happens.”

His mother seemed to be looking at him in a new light. “Well, she is rather pretty,” she acknowledged grudgingly, as she absorbed the idea. “She would make beautiful grandchildren.”

Colin choked. “Mother,” he sputtered. “You can’t even bear the thought of mixed breed puppies. You can’t seriously be thinking of a cross-class marriage.”

“
Well, it might reduce inbreeding,” his mother said, trying to sound off-hand about it.

“
I thought we considered that good breeding in our circles,” Colin said nastily.

“Non
sense,” Elisabeth said briskly, getting back into her efficient country gentlewoman mode. “Think of Irish setters and hip dysplasia. We need some new bloodlines, good for the character.”

Colin tried to divert her. “
Speaking of which, what is Aunt M going to say about Peewee?”

His mother looked severe. “
You realise we can’t ever breed her as a pedigree dog any more after this molestation,” she said crossly. “But she’s just going to have to accept it.”

Despite the importance of the major subject being discussed, Colin found himsel
f stifling a grin. “What has my good aunt done to deserve your displeasure?”

“Deliberately threw a bridge game,” his father answered for her. “Now can we get back to the matter at hand?”

Colin looked from his mother to his father and made up his mind. “I’m sorry, I must rush off and talk to McTavish. Something urgent needs my attention.”

Chapter Fourteen

A few days later, Colin found himself staring down the hill in consternation at the long rows of council flats and mean-looking housing blocks that made up this quarter of Leith. He looked again at the address that McTavish had found for him and compared it to the directions given on his GPS. Then, with some misgivings, he drove his immaculate Land Cruiser into one of the more disreputable neighbourhoods in Scotland.

Colin had been to Edinburgh quite often
and loved the old city centre with its castle, parks, restaurants and shops. He had often come up to stay for the famous Fringe Festival and until now had considered himself very much at ease in the city, but he had never ventured down to the north end along the water before today.

Leith was an active port which had once been synonymous with ill-reputed slums and derelict industries. Although it was now in the process of urban regeneration, it was the earlier image of the area that stayed with Colin as he drove slowly toward the council estates that his GPS indicated. No doubt Fiona could cite all the famous historical figures who had lived here but all he could think about was the film version of “Trainspotting” and those singing, nationalistic twins.

And of Fiona, of course.
He was already regretting his comments about her life in an academic bubble, realising that she obviously knew more about how the other half lived than he could ever have guessed. No wonder she harboured such hostility toward the upper class English, having grown up in this environment.

But that was the least of his regrets concerning Fiona.

Now, after having had some time to think things through, his understanding was clearer. Despite his initial fear that she was trying to change him, he realised that he was, in fact, different than he had been before he met her. His feelings for her were stronger than he was used to and he had never viewed her just as a passing fancy or felt that he would tire of her and be impatient to return to his bachelor lifestyle. Instead, that lifestyle now felt empty without her and he had to admit that what he really wanted was a more stable situation with Fiona where she could play a larger role in his life. In short, he was ready for a serious relationship.

He had
surprised himself by discussing this unexpected self-revelation with Aiken, many whiskeys into the night, and his old friend had surprised him back by being highly understanding.

“She’s different from the other girls we know,” Aiken had admitted grudgingly. “She’s special, more real.
In fact, you could try to find out if she has a sister.”

But she
had continued to duck Colin’s recent barrage of phone calls and neither the university nor the Andrews had been any help in providing clues as to her whereabouts. It was McTavish who had eventually managed to find her parents’ address in Leith. Now as he pulled up in front of the squat grey apartment block, looking at the broken glass and rubbish which littered the pavement, he found himself almost wishing for Fiona’s sake that McTavish was mistaken.

To make the ambiance
more grim, sultry clouds over the Firth of Forth were now starting to spit rain, washing out the slight colour in the sky and making the entire area seem grey and dismal. As a poet, he was sure that Fiona would find this appropriate and he wracked his brain for the long-lost literary term that he had learned back in school. With a sigh he gave up and settled for “bloody typical” as he parked his car and locked it, trying not to look as if he expected the tires to be slashed in his absence.

He made his way up the concrete stairs with distaste, stepping over bits of litter and sticky patches of
spilt beer. He found the Buchanan’s flat on the third floor and knocked loudly over the sound of music booming from across the hall.

He heard the sound of a chain being pulled in a lock before the door was opened part way and two young faces peered around, one scrawny, the other plump, both looking at him with suspicion.

“Ma, it’s the cops,” the younger one announced, keeping a wary eye on Colin as TV noises sounded from inside.

“Don’t be daft, it’s social services,” the older one corrected him, giving his brother a cuff on the head.

A voice carried from inside the flat. “What has that Julie gotten herself into now?” and with the scraping sound of a chair being moved, a fleshy, middle-aged woman with dyed blonde hair made her way to the door to stare at Colin.

“Mrs. Buchana
n?” Colin asked tentatively, holding out his hand.

The woman ignored it,
regarding him with a tough look although her fingers played nervously with an unlit cigarette. “If this has anything to do with Stu, he doesn’t live here anymore,” she said guardedly. “But you tell him if you see him that it doesn’t let him off the hook for paying his child support if there’s anything left in his pocket when he leaves the pub.”

Colin cleared his throat. “I’m actually here looking for Fiona,” he told her.

She continued to stare, saying nothing.

“Your daughter,” Colin added helpfully.

“I know who my own kids are, thank you very much,” the woman said indignantly. “She’s out right now, but she isn’t involved in any trouble, if that’s what you’re thinking. She’s a smart one, that one. And who are you to be looking for her?”

“I’m Colin Parker,” he said, receiving a blank stare in return. “I’m friends with Fiona and was hoping to find her.”

“You’re the man with the castle,” one of the boys suddenly exclaimed.

Colin gave a tentative smile. “That’s right,” he said. “And where could I find your sister?”

“Do you live in a real castle?” the younger boy asked before he was pulled away from the door by an older sister who had come to take a look. “You don’t look much like a knight.”

“You kicked Fiona out,” the sister
said, looking like a plumper, teenage version of Fiona. “She thinks you’re a twat.”

Colin’s polite smile was beginning to grow thin and he gave up any hopes of being invited in. “We had a misunderstanding,” he said mildly. “So if you can tell me where to find her, maybe I can clear it up.”

Finally Mrs. Buchanan spoke again, sounding slightly less aggressive. “She’ll be up at the Woolridge Arms just about now,” she said, pulling out her cell phone to glance at the time. “They have a poetry meeting or something on Thursday afternoons.”

“It’s called an open mike, Ma,” the teenage girl said scornfully. “They all get together and read each other bits of poems.” She looked at Colin smugly. “
Fi’s started writing poetry again. She must really be pissed with you.”

Colin smiled tightly. “Well, I’ll look for her there, then,” he said brightly. “And if I don’t find her, please tell her that I’m trying to reach her.”

“If she’s not there, try the university library,” Fiona’s mother suggested, now downright helpful. “Sure you won’t stay for a cuppa tea?”

Colin shook his head firmly. “Thank
you for the offer, Mrs. Buchanan, but I think I’ll try my luck at the Woolridge. Good afternoon to you all.”

He ignored the boys snickering as they imitated his accent and hurried back down the stairs
to the suddenly friendlier-looking skies over Leith. So much for making a good impression on Fiona’s family. Then again, his friends hadn’t gone easy on her either.

The more he thought about it, the less he believed in the importance of first impressions. Or last impressions. Surely all of that time in the middle, the fun days and long talks and love-making, had
to count for something? And surely Fiona’s clear-thinking, rational mind could see that as well. He hoped.

Fiona sat at a small wooden table with a few friends from her university days. They were near the back of the room, which was half-full on this late, grey afternoon. The current speaker sat on a stool in front of the microphone under a spotlight, reading his poem with only slight self-consciousness.

Fiona stirred restlessly. In her student days she had always enjoyed these open mike sessions, hearing creative minds share their work and
immersing herself in the world of artists and new ideas, new ways of seeing and communicating things. It was also good for her to remember that poetry was still alive, not just historical notes and traditional ways to recite stories.

The problem was that she was feeling disillusioned with poetry right now, or maybe with a lot more than poetry. She had started writing poetry again since her return to Edinburgh, also a flashback to her younger self when she believed that poetry could express thoughts and possibilities that normal prose could never quite find the words for. But it felt stilted, forced somehow,
no longer sufficient to act as a catharsis for her troubled spirit.

Campbell’s poetry was also starting to part ways with her experiences. Until now, there had been a vague parallel that pleased her and made it easier to interpret his writing, to appreciate what was hidden between the lines. She had plunged herself into her work in the library every day and had made good progress, discovering, to her surprise, that he seemed to reconcile with his estranged wife near the  end of his writings, as if he had cleansed his soul in the Highlands and come back a stronger, better man.