When the World Was Steady (22 page)

‘I do. I do. I do have a spirit of fun. Do you want Earl Grey or Assam or China?’

Mrs Simpson waved a regal hand by way of reply and continued to smile at the gardens. She was pretending, Virginia thought, that they belonged to her.

Virginia tiptoed to the other end of the lounge and into the dining-room. There, the tables were elaborately set with crystal and silver—two glasses per person—and a fire flickered in the hearth, sending out a warm, peat smell. Aside from the fire’s occasional expostulations, there was no sound. A door presented itself as, most probably, the kitchen door, behind which there had to be someone, preparing for the lunch to come, but Virginia didn’t want to open it to find out. She crossed back through the sitting-room, past her rapturous mother, to the Great Hall. She felt like Beatrix Potter’s Hunca Munca, a mouse let loose in a dolls’ house. Although she could never have admitted it to her mother, she felt playful and almost happy.

The bar next to the reception area was empty too, and loud, because it gave on to the river and the water sounded as though it were practically in the room. Virginia could see a little footbridge over the torrents and, on the far side, the forlorn flags of a golf course. She noticed that there was ice, unmelted, in the ice-bucket on the bar. It, like the fire, awaited the invisible guests. She ran her hand across the seat of her skirt: she was drying. She half-hoped, like her mother, that they would remain undetected for some time. She even considered climbing the stairs to wander the passages above, but as she came back into the hall she heard her mother talking.

‘—and biscuits please. Something sweet. Shortbread? Perfect.’

Virginia rejoined Mrs Simpson in time to see the neat black-and-white back of a uniformed maid clipping back to the
dining-room.

‘Your prowlings succeeded in raising somebody. Pity. But I ordered us up some tea.’

‘It will be expensive, you know.’

‘We don’t do it every day, after all. And lunch is twenty-one pounds.’

‘For two?’

‘For each.’

‘Mother, we can’t possibly—’

‘I’ll take it out of your inheritance. It makes me happy. I’m not long for this world, after all.’

‘Nonsense—’

‘Fact. Now fetch us the Monopoly board and let’s play a game.’

For Virginia, the arrival of their tea and shortbread and the spread of the game board signalled an end to the moment of adventure: she would willingly have gone back to the wet car and resumed their island peregrinations. But Mrs Simpson was having a ball, and kept whispering things like ‘lovely’ and ‘wonderful’, unprompted. At one point she looked up and said gleefully, ‘I can’t think of a better way to spend one’s last day, can you?’

‘We’re here for a
week
, Mother. A
week
. And it’s only just begun.’

‘Of course.’ But she was biting her tongue in a secretive manner that did not please Virginia at all.

They had been playing for the better part of an hour when they heard a car pulling up outside. They did not see it go past, and from where they were sitting its occupants were invisible, but they heard the clamour of arriving guests—doors banging and the reception bell being rung.

‘Poke your nose around the door and tell me what they look like,’ said Mrs Simpson.

‘I’ll do no such thing.’

‘I suppose they’ll have to come down to lunch.’

Ten minutes later, another vehicle came down the drive. This time Virginia looked out in time to see a small red car with snowy heads inside flit past. Minutes later, a stout matron of around seventy led her wizened spouse to a sofa not far from where the Simpsons sat. She nodded a chilly greeting and eyed the Monopoly with disdain.

Virginia looked back at her mother, who raised an eyebrow and winked. It was funny, and Virginia could only keep from tittering by turning her attention to the game—a game which Mrs Simpson, ever astute in money matters (although her acumen had never brought her wealth), was winning.

After that, the clientele arrived thick and fast: a trio of foreigners, clearly, were outsiders like the Simpsons, stopping off for lunch; then came a clutch of local women, prosperous, middle-aged, the Women’s Institute type; and an American couple, of about Virginia’s age, with their teenage son—hotel residents.

The patriarch was American-sized, a massive man with a vast expanse of pink shirt and an incongruous grey goatee; his wife, of an average size, looked minute next to him, her permanent wave close-knit against her head; and their son, plump and sullen, peered out through his glasses and alternately stroked his head or palpated his fleshy breasts through his garish check shirt.

‘What a crew!’ giggled Mrs Simpson, leaning forward to throw the dice. ‘How do they
get
so fat?’

‘It could be a thyroid problem.’

‘It could be too many four-course meals.’

They both turned to stare at the fat man, who at once struck up conversation with the genteel Englishwoman and her invalid spouse.

Their attention was thus distracted when a high-pitched voice cried out, ‘Virginia Simpson! Ginny, what on earth are you doing
here
?’

Angelica, a vision in pink and white, rushed over and tried to throw her arms around the seated Virginia, in what proved a cumbersome gesture.

‘Are you staying here? This is too funny!’ Angelica pulled back and her skirt hem scattered Mrs Simpson’s Mayfair hotels.

‘No,’ said Virginia.

‘We couldn’t possibly afford it,’ said Mrs Simpson.

‘Oh, Mrs Simpson, I’m sorry, hello.’ Angelica held out her hand for shaking, but Melody did not take it. She just nodded.

‘Are
you
staying here then?’

‘Well, I, I mean we, just arrived.’ Angelica waved over at the door, where Nikhil stood looking odd in a tweed jacket and tie. ‘We’re, you know, in search of Nikhil’s sister.’

Mrs Simpson turned her head, craning her neck. ‘So you’re the Indian boy? Come over here. I’ve heard a great deal about you.’

‘How do you do?’ he said. For him, Mrs Simpson extended an arm, which Nikhil pumped rather gingerly.

The foursome was not an immediately comfortable one. Mrs Simpson, whose dislike of Angelica seemed suddenly to have flowered, was at her most imperious; Nikhil, perched upright on the edge of his chair, said nothing; and Virginia felt confused, both because her Scottish dream-world had evaporated with the return of such familiar faces, and because Nikhil, she felt instinctively, held some key to her quest, but she wasn’t at all sure what it was.

‘How can you afford to stay here?’ Mrs Simpson was asking.

‘It’s, um, only for a couple of nights … it’s not so expensive.’

Mrs Simpson looked at Nikhil, and back at Angelica. ‘For two rooms?… or one?’

‘They do a good rate on dinner, bed and breakfast. It’s—it’s what I knew, really. I came here with my parents as a child.’

‘I wonder what they would think of it now. Of you coming
here now, I mean,’ said Mrs Simpson.

‘I always think it’s nice to go back to childhood places,’ said Virginia, from her rather crumpled position at the back of her armchair. ‘Don’t you, Nikhil?’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Simpson, for whom the day’s unexpected delights had been thoroughly spoiled, and who was determined to make everyone pay for the fact. ‘That’s tripe. You’ve never looked back in your life. You don’t even
remember
coming here when
you
were young.’

‘I think it is wonderful as a new experience,’ said Nikhil. ‘This is my first visit, and even with the weather I find it very beautiful.’

‘Yes,’ Angelica put in, clearly relieved to be back on safer ground. ‘Nikhil was dumbstruck by Glencoe.’

‘I can imagine that my sister would find the open spaces and the wildness very—appealing.’

‘It’s melancholy, though,’ said Virginia.

‘I suppose. But my sister would not remark upon this. She has a very strong spirit and it is important to her always to feel free.’

‘Yes. But you think you’re getting away from it all by coming up here and “it” just follows right behind you,’ said Mrs Simpson.

‘I think lunch is being served now,’ said Virginia. Distant clinking sounds and voices emerged from the dining-room.

‘Does your deal include lunch?’ asked Mrs Simpson. ‘We came for a treat, ourselves. Because of the weather.’

‘We thought we’d eat in, for the same reason.’

‘Well, we can all have lunch together,’ said Virginia with as bright a tone as she could muster. ‘What an unexpected pleasure.’

Everyone looked faintly downcast at the prospect but knew there was no other option.

There were so many questions Virginia wanted to ask Angelica, but could not; and so many she knew she would want to ask Nikhil, if only she could think clearly. Much as she did not
want to share her mother’s ill-temper, she felt it would have been preferable not to encounter Angelica and Nikhil in this way: all opportunities were at once present and thwarted; only the banal was safe.

In fact, Nikhil proved adept at smoothing things over. He recounted again the loss of his sister, and Mrs Simpson was wholly absorbed by the story, not least because she considered herself, however inaccurately, an expert on Skye.

‘Well she won’t be hard to trace now you’re here,’ she said knowledgeably. ‘Indian girls named Rupica—what a pretty name—don’t grow on trees in these parts. And all the islanders, the locals that is, keep up on who’s where. It’s a very—how would I put it? Close-knit community. They help each other out.’

‘The question is,’ said Nikhil, buttering a roll with great daintiness (his fingers, Virginia noted, were long and slender), ‘whether they will be willing to help an outsider like myself. I do not know where to begin: the address I have is a post office box in Portree.’

‘But they’re outsiders themselves, most of them,’ said Mrs Simpson, blithely contradicting herself. ‘I mean, take that Kenneth Campbell fellow on the docks last night. In some ways, he was as local as you get. But where was he from again?’

‘Northumberland.’

‘Named Kenneth Campbell?’ said Angelica. ‘How curious.’

‘But that’s my point exactly. They’re part of it and they’re not, at the same time. The lot of them.’

‘I don’t know, Mother, presumably there are those who were born here, who consider themselves “insiders” through and through?’

Mrs Simpson shrugged. ‘Inside, outside, so what? I think they’ll help you. They know what it’s like to be bludgeoned and given the run-around, the Scots. They’ll sympathize with you. I’m sure he’s no Scot, this fellow Rupica’s run off with.’

‘Not a Scot and not a Christian. So what is he?’

‘Maybe he doesn’t exist,’ said Angelica. ‘Maybe he’s a blank space.’

‘Maybe he’s a sign,’ said Virginia, thinking this a very profound comment. ‘Mother and I will do anything we can to help. Won’t we?’

‘I think we should start by ordering a bottle of wine,’ said Mrs Simpson.

‘With
lunch
?’

‘Why not? A big one, because we’re four.’

‘I don’t drink alcohol,’ said Nikhil.

‘Mother,
never
in the middle of the day,’ said Virginia. ‘It will put us all to sleep.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say no,’ said Angelica brightly. ‘What a fun idea.’

Mrs Simpson looked Angelica up and down with a narrowed eye. And then she smiled, and Virginia realized that lunch would be all right after all.

Neither Melody nor Virginia Simpson found it easy to return to their bed and breakfast on the waterfront, particularly because they were leaving Angelica and Nikhil behind. For Mrs Simpson, this was shaming: ‘Where does that girl get her money?’ she asked at intervals, to which Virginia could only shrug and say, ‘She’s always had it. I don’t know.’

Their room looked smaller and dingier after their outing, and the view of the port struck Virginia as a shabby, narrow view, littered with greasy bits of paper and petrol drums, gulls circling overhead. She sat on the end of her bed and looked out in silence.

‘I’ll just have a little lie-down, I think,’ said her mother. ‘And then maybe some television.’

It was only a matter of minutes before Mrs Simpson was
asleep. Her chin went slack, leaving her mouth slightly open. The whole area rippled as the air came in and out, like a sail heading into the wind. When she breathed out, Mrs Simpson made little ‘pooh’ noises.

Virginia tried to read her Bible, but the light in the room was very dim, and the print of the Bible was very small, and attempting to read proved a divine trial of itself, so she decided to go out.

The pub was not empty, like the evening before. Virginia was intimidated and almost turned back, but there was really nowhere else to be: the breakwater was wet, the sky still ominous, and, short of sitting in the car, she could see no alternative. She went in with her Bible clutched close against her chest.

The room was filled with large men. The smell, of beer and smoke and wet and sweat, was overpowering but not unpleasant. All the men were looking at her—she could feel it. Like a teenager in a mini-skirt, she felt at once terrified and delighted by the stir she caused. Mostly terrified.

She stepped up to the bar. ‘Half a pint of cider, please.’ Her voice came out with an unexpected assurance, which in turn gave her the courage to look at the sailors and fishermen. ‘Good afternoon to all of you,’ she said, politely but without smiling. She could see that their faces were neither angry nor lascivious—nor anything really. Large though they were, they had the open, expressionless faces of sheep, or cows.

She clasped her slippery cider glass with both hands, tucking the Bible under her arm, and made for the table nearest the window and furthest from the men. It was light there, and when she spread her Bible on the sticky table, she could see God’s words distinctly. Sweaty, a bit shaky, she lowered her head to read, taking tiny sips of her cider.

She found it hard to concentrate, in part because of the hubbub and in part because she felt as though she were waiting
for something. She kept looking up, between Godly sentences and earthly sips, to monitor the pub around her. She felt agitated, it was true, but somehow impressed with herself as well.