My Mother's Silence (ARC) Read online

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Too fast?’

  ‘A little,’ I say. ‘And besides, I’d like to see the view.’

  ‘Yeah, fair enough.’ He slows right down as we reach the lowest point of the road and drive along the rocky coastline. As we curve around, the village gradually comes into view. In the slanting sunlight, the little white houses seem almost cartoonish against the dark hills. Byron pulls off at a layby where there’s a fringe of white sand and some flat rocks that are perfect for sitting on. ‘Shall we stop for a minute?’ he says.

  ‘OK.’

  The discomfort of being with Byron is outweighed by my eagerness to experience the beauty around me that my soul remembers, but my eyes are appreciating for the first time. I unlock the door and get out. It seems a long way to the ground.

  As he gets out, Byron takes something from behind the seat. A red and green tartan rug. He spreads it over one of the rocks. I stare at the orderly geometric pattern that’s so familiar.

  I lost my virginity on that rug.

  I sit down cross-legged, determined not to think about it, or wonder whether or not he’s thinking about it. It might not even be the same rug.

  The air shimmers above the horizon as the sun dispels the last of the mist. The sea is a pale, milky blue and, at the horizon, I can make out the hazy shapes of the islands far out to the west. In the middle distance, a CalMac ferry is slowly making its way from port. The sea air is bracing, and I pull my coat tightly around me.

  ‘Nice, isn’t it?’ Byron sits down on the rock, close, but not too close. ‘I never really stop and take a look.’

  ‘I never did either,’ I say with a little shrug. ‘It’s just being back after so long.’

  He nods. ‘I get it. I went away for a few years too. To Glasgow. I guess you inspired me to leave. To escape. That was the word you always used, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it was.’

  I watch as a gull lands on a nearby rock, observing us with a shifty eye. I realise now how my constant talk of ‘escape’ was not only ridiculous, but callous too. It wasn’t like I had a terrible life – far from it. I had loving parents, a sister and brother I adored. And in Byron, I had a boyfriend who treated me well. Loved me, even. Why wasn’t that enough?

  I sigh as the gull hops away, landing in a nearby rock pool. The year I turned nineteen, we didn’t see each other much at all. He was off working on boats and I was sending off demo tapes. Each time we were together, and he smelled of fish and sweat and man, I pulled away just a little more.

  He, in turn, seemed more keen. When I told him about the audition, he said that he was happy for me. And then, he asked me to stay. He said he loved me, and that he wanted me to include him in my plans.

  I was surprised and taken aback. If I’m honest, Byron was part of the reason I didn’t want to go to the party at the lighthouse that night. I was trying to distance myself, and I knew that we’d likely end up drinking whiskey and having sex on that tartan rug…

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ I add, as if that makes the slightest difference.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘That’s for sure. And has life treated you well since you left?’

  ‘I’m doing all right.’

  ‘So you’re not married? No kids?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Hasn’t happened. I’m too much of a gypsy. Travelling around, touring with bands. It’s not a lifestyle that lends itself to that sort of thing.’

  ‘Sounds exciting,’ he says.

  ‘It has its moments,’ I say. ‘Ups and downs.’

  He fiddles with the fringe at the edge of the rug. It is the same rug, and he does remember. I’m sure of it.

  ‘I always knew you had it in you to be a success,’ he says. ‘Even more so than Ginny. You were just as talented, but unlike her, you worked your socks off.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘but we both know that isn’t true. Ginny was special.’

  ‘Well… she was a bit of hard work. I remember that.’

  I stare at him. Even when she was alive, people rarely had a bad word to say about Ginny. She was fun and charismatic, the life of the party, everyone’s friend. ‘What do you mean?’ I say.

  ‘Well, she always had to be the centre of attention, didn’t she? Everything was about her.’

  ‘I… don’t know.’

  ‘Do you remember that time she stood on the top of Archie Kirk’s car? Arms out, singing at the top of her lungs? He must have been going thirty miles an hour.’ He shakes his head and laughs. ‘You were right to lay into her for that.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’ I feel a familiar sinkhole opening up in the pit of my stomach. The fear I felt. The anger. Of course I remember that incident – and others. Ginny ‘flying’ off Dougie Lyle’s roof and breaking her wrist. Ginny racing Rosie Morrison off the edge of the breakwater. Always testing limits and pushing boundaries – usually mine. I was the one who would get in trouble at home for her antics. I was the eldest, and we all knew what Ginny was ‘like’. There was only one time that I wasn’t there for her: the time when it mattered most. I think of a dream I’ve had in the past; almost like a vision. My sister out on the rocks below the lighthouse, waves crashing behind her. Arms outstretched, her hair whipped by the wind…

  ‘Ginny was a free spirit.’ I default to the euphemism that I, and everyone else, used whenever Ginny did something silly or dangerous.

  ‘Yes, she was,’ he says. ‘And I guess that for someone like her, there were worse ways to go. I remember what Jimmy and Mackie said when they saw her out there. Even over the noise of the waves they could hear her singing. She was happy; in her element.’ He smiles wistfully.

  ‘I don’t think it was a great way to go,’ I say. ‘It would have been cold, and frightening and horrible. Her body would have been bashed against the rocks and she would have drowned. That’s what the lifeboat man said.’ I take a breath. ‘And then, a few days or weeks later, the gasses inside the corpse would have made it rise to the surface. She probably washed up in a cove somewhere and rotted.’ I scrape my fingernails against the hard, unforgiving surface of the rock.

  ‘Well, since you put it that way…’ Byron winces.

  We both fall silent. This is exactly why I feared coming back here – one of the reasons, anyway. Everything here reminds me of my sister and my presence is reminding everyone else too. It’s pointless having this conversation. And yet, if there’s anyone I can tell, anyone who might take my side, then surely it’s Byron.

  ‘Mum blames me,’ I say. ‘Did you know that? She blames me for Ginny’s death.’

  ‘Hey, no…’ He holds out his hand, tries to take mine. I pull away. My nails are jagged now.

  ‘Yes, she does.’

  I stare straight ahead at the horizon and tell him what I overheard before I left. The anger in Mum’s voice. The fact that she’d never be able to look at me again and not think about my dead sister. The daughter she loved the best. Byron is silent for a long moment. I can almost sense the conflict in him as he tests each possible response for the right answer. When there can’t be a ‘right answer’.

  ‘Does she know you heard?’ he says softly.

  ‘No. I… don’t think so.’

  He shifts his body so that he can look me squarely in the face. ‘She was grieving, Skye. Fifteen years ago it was the most terrible, unendurable thing for her.’ He shakes his head. ‘And I can’t speak for her, obviously. But I did help out Greg – Annie’s other half – with some of the work on the cottages. We got to talking quite a bit. When I mentioned you, her face lit up. And then, when I asked what you were up to, her eyes died again. It seemed to me then that it was hurting her that she didn’t know. And to tell you the truth…’ his brows narrow ‘… I felt angry. Angry that you were putting her through that. I mean, she lost Ginny. You’re the only daughter she had left.’

  I swallow back a tear, wishing instead for the familiar cloak of anger. But if any person has a right to speak to me like this, I suppose it’s him
. Byron lost his father when he was fourteen. Losing our fathers was one of the things we had in common and that brought us together in the first place. But whereas mine died of an illness, Byron’s dad committed suicide. Hung himself from the boom of his boat, one winter when the catch was particularly bad. Byron’s dad was a drunk, and more besides. By all accounts the family was better off without him, but still… it’s hard to get past something like that.

  ‘I may be the only daughter she has left,’ I say. ‘But she’ll barely even let me make her a cup of tea. So far, I feel like I’m a complete stranger.’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Now that’s not true. I’m starting to see that you haven’t really changed that much.’ His eyes soften and for a second I’m transported back in time. To the days when the tartan rug got a lot of use. I look away.

  ‘Just give her time,’ he says with the hint of a sigh. ‘Unless you’re planning on leaving soon?’

  ‘I don’t know how long I’m staying,’ I say.

  ‘Fair enough. I guess the longer you stay, the more you’ll be part of things again. If you want to be. Then, it will just be you.’

  ‘It will never just be me,’ I say. ‘I’ll always be the twin that didn’t die.’

  I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. Now I’m sounding like I’ve got a chip on my shoulder. Maybe I do. Ginny liked to be the centre of attention. And she certainly is managing that – even fifteen years on.

  ‘Come on, now. That’s not true.’ His fingers brush mine. This time I don’t move my hand away.

  ‘Shall we go?’ I say. ‘I want to hear everything about Kyle.’

  11

  Byron folds up the rug and we get back into the Land Rover. As we drive inland to MacDougall’s Farm Shop, I stare out of the window at the bleak, craggy moorland of the hills and glens, coloured in soft tones of brown, grey and gold; the shimmer of waterfalls and swift-flowing streams, and the occasional tantalising glimpse of a distant snow-capped mountain.

  Byron accepts my invitation and talks about his son with relish. He tells me about Kyle’s football, his ice hockey, his Year 3 teacher and the park nearby where his ex lives. He’s lively and animated when he talks, but it’s all kind of heartbreaking.

  ‘How often do you see him?’ I ask.

  His strong face wrinkles into a frown. ‘About twice a month,’ he says. ‘I go there for the weekend and stay with my cousins. Jimmy and Mackie both live there now. Kyle comes up for school holidays and the odd weekend.’

  ‘That’s…’ I want to say ‘good’, but it’s obviously terrible.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So I mean, what happened? You said you’re separated?’

  ‘The problem was that I hated Glasgow.’ He gives a little laugh. ‘All those cars and people, all that noise. It was OK when I met Cath, but I always knew I’d end up back here. I never made that a secret.’ He shrugs. ‘Then she got pregnant, and my granddad died, and Mum inherited the pub. Cath and I came back here together. But she’s a city lass at heart.’ He sighs. ‘Out here it was too small, too isolated, too rainy, too… everything. It was a case of right time, right person, wrong place.’

  ‘I understand.’

  And I do understand, in a way. When people look at a map of Scotland, they see Glasgow, and they see the western highlands, and it doesn’t look that far away. But for anyone who lives in either place, it’s a world apart. Like many young people, Ginny and I wanted to leave as soon as we could. But there’s something about this land that gets in your blood. Even when I thought I might never come back, I still felt the pull of this place. No matter where I was in the world, if I listened hard enough, I could hear the whisper of home.

  ‘So right now,’ Byron continues, ‘everything’s in limbo. I just want Kyle to have a good Christmas. That’s all I’m focused on at the minute.’ He glances over at me and raises an eyebrow. ‘That and the festival. Are you sure you can’t be persuaded?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ I say quickly. ‘I need to focus on Mum right now. She’s… not entirely well.’

  ‘It was a bad fall,’ Byron says. He obviously knows much more than I do. ‘She was found by Kitty Reid and her husband. Complete chance that they happened to be out there that day. They said she was calling out for Ginny. Telling her to come home.’

  I feel a little nauseous. If Byron knows, then everyone knows. ‘Mum’s having a bit of a problem with reality right now.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Byron says. ‘That must be tough.’

  ‘It is.’ Having someone – him – acknowledge what I’m feeling brings the tears close to the surface again. I’m grateful that he seems content to leave it there. We reach a crossroads on the shores of a long inland loch with a few scattered farms and bothies. A sign points down the glen: MacDougall’s Farm Shop. Half a mile on, we turn onto a gravel lane. At first glance, the tiny farm shop, surrounded by barns and paddocks is much as I remember it. However, when I look closer, I see that the largest of the old barns has been restored and there seems to be a construction project underway. A canvas sign reads: ‘Coming soon, Indoor Adventure Park.’

  ‘Adventure Park?’ I say. ‘That’s very grand.’

  He laughs. ‘Daft, isn’t it? Old man MacDougall died and his family sold up. Now James has got grand plans for the place.’

  ‘James?’ I say. ‘James Campbell-Ross?’

  ‘The very one.’

  Another name from the past, coming up like a bad penny. Or, in this case, a very good shiny copper one. James was lovely. Kind and caring, a boy you’d be proud to bring home to meet your mum. Given how Mum felt about Byron, I think Ginny felt a little proud of herself when she did just that.

  ‘Where’s he getting the money to do all this?’

  ‘Worked as a banker for a few years,’ Byron says. ‘In London.’

  ‘London?’ Right now, London sounds as far away and exotic as it used to.

  ‘Yeah. Made a packet,’ Byron says as he parks next to a coach. ‘He’s doing up the old hunting lodge down the glen too. Like he’s some kind of laird.’ I sense that chip on his shoulder again.

  ‘Good on him.’ I get out of the car and look at the signboard. The farm shop now specialises in ‘Locally sourced, organic products’. There’s also, apparently, a little train that kids can ride to see the animals: sheep, deer, and highland cattle, along with more exotic animals like alpaca and emus. It’s not exactly Disneyland, but I can definitely bring Bill’s kids here for an afternoon.

  We walk to the farm shop. There are still a few trees for sale under an awning in the back, and I find a fat, bushy pine that Mum will like. I check the tag. ‘Crikey!’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Byron snorts. ‘James always did know how to make a quid or two.’

  Byron chooses a smaller, less expensive tree, and an employee puts his tree and mine through a big metal ring, where they come out the other end bagged up in netting. Another great invention they didn’t have before. We pay for our trees and I buy us both hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon sprinkles from a trolley near the till.

  He holds up his cup. ‘To coming home,’ he says.

  I clink my paper cup against his. ‘To old friends.’

  He gives me a kindly smile but looks a little sad as the little train rumbles by with a few kids and their parents going off to see the animals. The situation with his son sounds impossible unless he’s willing to move back to the city.

  ‘Do you want anything else?’ I say when we’ve both tossed away our cups.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘I’d best be getting back. I’m working the afternoon shift at the Arms.’

  ‘OK. Let’s go.’

  He hefts my tree onto one shoulder, and his onto the other. He walks ahead of me, and I wonder if I’m supposed to be impressed by this manly show of strength and muscle. I feel a touch of regret that the physical spark there once was between us has entirely died out. I know I didn’t treat him with the respect he deserved: he always came second to my dr
eams, my plans, and my sister. Realising that we wouldn’t have had a future even if I’d stayed is probably for the best. It makes me feel less guilty.

  But only a little.

  12

  Rainclouds are gathering overhead as we drive away from MacDougall’s. There’s still a glimmer of light towards the sea to the west. Dad said that he always liked driving towards the sun. ‘Always go towards the light,’ he’d tell us. He meant it literally, but it’s a good enough lesson for life.

  Though the landscape is impossibly beautiful, as the first drops of rain fall on the windscreen, a sadness overtakes me. Byron too seems lost in his own thoughts, and we drive on in silence.

  I stare out of the window thinking that I could have stayed in America, with its vast skies and reliable sun. For the most part, I had a good life there. I didn’t get the part with the Glasgow band, but I worked there for a few months and then bought a one-way ticket to Nashville. When I arrived on the scene, a fresh-faced twenty-year-old girl, I got lucky. My accent made me exotic, my instrumental skills made me useful, and I had a tush that looked good in Levi’s. I met people who knew people, I got a few opportunities and I took them.

  In the years I spent there, I had many love affairs, mostly short-lived and insignificant, like a stone gathering no moss. My lifestyle lent itself to transient flings with fellow musicians and hangers-on. Since the day I left home, I’ve not been one to gather moss.

  I had two longer-term relationships, which were significant, if only for the scars they left. The first was with Justin, a Nashville boy. We spent two years together in L.A., until our relationship ended when I found him in bed with a friend. I left. I got in my car and drove all night to Vegas. I spent a week holed up in a motel room with a bottle. Eventually I pulled myself together and got a gig at one of the hotels on the strip.

  I hated Vegas from day one. The drunken stag dos, the tourists, the glitz, the no-hopers pouring their dole money down slot machines. The strip malls, the heat. The only thing I liked was the desert. It was possible to drive out to a lonely place where I could scream at the top of my lungs. I got good at screaming.