My Mother's Silence (ARC) Page 8

  I did some songwriting too: songs of lost love and being lonely. Songs of missing home and not having a place to call home. They weren’t the kind of songs that a Vegas audience wanted to hear, but I wrote them anyway, in my beige living room in my beige house in a development surrounded by a high beige wall.

  Then, my second relationship came along. John was an older man, a doctor. I could be forgiven, I think, for falling for him. For a while it was a nice life: skiing in Aspen, weekend breaks to the Grand Canyon. But everything fell apart when he was found out to be falsifying prescriptions and taking drugs. I spiralled downwards into depression. I didn’t leave my house or return phone calls. I missed a few gigs and got dropped by my management. I was at a crossroads, with all directions leading to a bad place. And then I got the emails about Mum’s fall. I was told that Mum had asked for me. ‘When is Skye coming home?’

  The words I’d been waiting to hear.

  I glance over at Byron, and instantly my time in America becomes a figment of my imagination, a shadow at the edge of my memory. But instead of a new beginning, I feel like the clock is running backwards, rewinding itself until the distant past looms larger than life.

  Instead of seeing him now, I picture him on the day I left home. Standing next to Mum, putting his arm around her as the coach pulled up. Seeing that gesture gave me the strength to get on the coach, even without my sister. I loved him a little for that.

  But now, I wonder why I’ve never been able to love anyone since I left home, or care very much whether anyone loved me. Is that down to losing Ginny? Dad? Was it guilt for choosing to ‘escape’ rather than stay with Byron? Disappointment that the reality of my career never lived up to the fantasy? Is it because Mum blames me for Ginny’s death, and I lost her along with my sister? Is that why I squandered the chances I was given?

  I don’t have the answers, but I need to find them if I’m ever going to make something of my life. I suspect that many of them they lie here in Eilean Shiel.

  When we get to the gate on Mum’s property, I jump out to open it. I get wet, but the rain feels refreshing after being in the car.

  ‘Thanks,’ Byron says when I get back inside. ‘Your mum really ought to get an automatic opener.’

  ‘Agreed,’ I say. ‘Know where I can get one in time for Christmas?’

  ‘Try Amazon. They deliver out here, you know?’

  I laugh. I’m not surprised. We pull into the yard, where there’s a green car parked next to Mum’s Volkswagen. The windows of the cottage are warm squares of yellow light. My melancholy evaporates. Home…

  Byron unloads the tree and offers to bring it into the house. ‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘I can handle it. I’m really grateful for the lift… and the chat.’

  ‘Yeah, it was good to catch-up,’ Byron says. ‘And maybe, we can do it again. Like over dinner.’

  I’m a little taken aback. Given everything that happened before, can he really be asking me out? ‘Um… maybe,’ I say, non-committal.

  ‘Think about it,’ he says. ‘That and the festival. Remember, it’s all about making new memories.’

  I think of Mum and the awkwardness between us. Her break with reality last night. The room she’s left untouched for so many years. ‘I wish it were that simple,’ I say.

  He looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read. ‘It can be, Skye. Remember that.’

  He gives me a kiss on the cheek and gets back into the Landy. I have an uncomfortable feeling that maybe we’re talking about different things.

  13

  I haul the tree inside. The door to the kitchen is closed, but I can hear Mum’s muffled voice, no doubt talking to whoever came in the green car.

  The strong sense of déjà vu makes me feel light-headed. Like a child reaching out a hand to touch a hot stove, I can’t resist moving closer to the door.

  ‘… feel it’s wrong that I never told her. Do you think it would have made a difference?’ Mum’s voice is slightly raised.

  ‘Come on, Mary, that’s not helping anything.’

  ‘I know.’ A sigh.

  I’ve no idea what Mum’s talking about – it could be any sort of local gossip for all I know. Or, it could be something about me. All I know is that I lost fifteen years of my life and my family from the last time I listened at the door to one of Mum’s conversations. I’m not going to let it happen again. Without knocking, I turn the handle and fling open the door. ‘Hi, Mum.’ I smile, taking in both her and her visitor. It’s the middle-aged woman from the coach. I was right, she was familiar. I’ve no idea what her name is, but she’s wearing a white smock, and has a small bag of dressings with her. The nurse from the local doctor’s surgery, I assume.

  ‘Skye,’ Mum says, a frown tightening across her face. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

  ‘Sorry. We just got back.’

  The other woman looks a little like a deer in the headlights, but only for a second. It’s enough, though, to conclude that they were talking about me.

  ‘Hi, again,’ I say.

  ‘Skye, do you remember Alice Thomson?’ Mum says.

  ‘Of course,’ I lie. I hold out my hand and shake hers. ‘Nice to see you.’

  ‘Yes,’ the woman says. ‘Glad to see you made it home. In fact, we were just talking about how good it is that you’re around to help out, weren’t we, Mary?’

  Mum nods. I sense that she’d like to give Alice a good slap across the face. Whatever they were talking about when I came in, it wasn’t that.

  ‘Yes, well, I’d like to help.’ I punctuate my response by going over to the hob and putting the kettle on.

  ‘Good. Your mum obviously wants to be up and about, and that’s a good sign,’ Alice says. ‘But for now, she should stay off the leg as much as possible.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Mum says. ‘I’m fine.’

  Alice pats her hand as she rises up from the chair and gathers her things. ‘Now, now, Mary. None of that.’

  I admit it’s a little satisfying to hear Mum get her comeuppance and to know that, like it or not, she does need me here.

  The kettle boils and I take out a cup. There’s a plate of sandwiches wrapped in cling film on the worktop. Mum looks like she’s just sucked on a lemon as I make her tea and put it in front of her.

  ‘You needn’t have bothered,’ she says. ‘I’m going out. To the WI fundraiser. Lorna’s due to collect me any minute.’

  ‘Just make sure they give you a nice comfy seat,’ Alice says. She gives me a wink. ‘I’ll show myself out.’

  Alice leaves the kitchen and then goes out of the front door. Outside I hear the crunch of gravel as another car pulls up. I don’t want to be paranoid, and I don’t want Mum to drop everything just because I’m here, but I feel a little hurt that she seems to have orchestrated the day so as to spend as little time as possible with me. Some stupid part of me thought that maybe we could put up the tree, decorate it together. It will have to remain in its netting for now.

  Mum stays where she is and takes a sip of her tea. I grab a cloth and begin wiping down the table. She doesn’t speak to me. The silence is empty and disheartening.

  ‘I assume you’ve been over to MacDougall’s,’ I say, for lack of anything else. ‘It’s changed quite a bit since I was there last. Maybe we could take the kids to see the animals.’

  ‘I haven’t been out there.’ Mum purses her lips.

  ‘Really?’ I say, surprised. ‘The shop is quite nice. Byron says that James owns it now.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mum says tightly. ‘He does.’

  I study her reaction. Why is she so down on James? Maybe the locals objected to his planning application for expanding the farm shop – that would almost certainly have been the case. Maybe Mum joined in. Maybe she thinks it’s kitschy, or too high and mighty. I could let it go, but I can sense the pile of unaddressed issues growing between us again. I don’t want that.

  ‘You always liked James,’ I press. ‘Didn’t you—?’

&
nbsp; ‘He should have protected her,’ Mum blurts out. ‘He was her boyfriend.’

  I shudder a little. Part of me wishes that Lorna would hurry up and come in. But I can see through the kitchen window that she’s outside in the yard, having a chat with Alice.

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, carefully. ‘But there were lots of people there that night.’ I was there, I don’t add. ‘Unfortunately no one saw her out there until it was too late.’

  ‘So they say.’ Mum frowns, staring at the steam rising from the cup.

  I put down the cloth and stare at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Nothing. I shouldn’t have brought it up. But you’re right, no one saw anything. That’s for sure. And none of you should have been there in the first place. You all… she… should have been more careful.’

  My mind rushes to analyse the meaning behind her words. I know she blames me, but it seems that others bear some responsibility in her mind as well. Apparently James bears quite a bit.

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ I say, backing down. ‘You’re right about that.’ I turn away. Through the window I see Lorna on her way to the door.

  ‘Leave it,’ Mum says. The burst of emotion seems under wraps now, her stiff upper lip firmly back in place. ‘I don’t think it helps to dredge all of that up again. I don’t want to think about what… happened.’ She pauses for a moment. ‘I’d appreciate it if you would respect that.’

  I sigh. ‘OK. Fine,’ I say. ‘I understand.’

  And I do understand – sort of. For fifteen years I’ve tried not to think about what happened that night, though I’ve also discovered that trying is pointless. But now that I’m here, surrounded by things that remind me of my sister, I’m not sure I agree. How can Mum and I have any kind of relationship when there is so much unspoken between us? Surely at some point we’ll need to clear the air, hang out the dirty laundry, not be allowed to change the subject. At the very least, I’ll need to talk to her about clearing out the old room. But maybe neither of us is ready for that yet.

  ‘Hello?’ Lorna calls out from the porch.

  I feel a further little jab when Mum abandons the tea I made for her and levers herself to her feet. She hobbles over to the worktop to collect the tray of sandwiches but I grab them away before she can try to carry them one-handed. ‘I’ll take them,’ I say. Before she can object, I go through to the front room.

  Mum comes in behind me, hobbling with her cane. I have a brief reunion with Lorna, Mum’s oldest friend, whom I’ve known all my life. We exchange hugs and as Mum puts on her coat and scarf, I chat with her about my journey and what her two sons and four grandchildren are up to.

  As they’re about to leave, Mum turns to me. ‘There are some extra sandwiches in the fridge for you.’

  I smile gratefully. Things between Mum and me are strained to say the least, but the fact that she’s made me some sandwiches says something too. That underneath the guilt and the pile of unsaid things, there is love too. Something to cling to.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I say. ‘Have a good time.’

  When they’ve left the house, I stand in the sitting room staring at the Christmas tree, trussed up in its netting. It looks sad, like a caterpillar curled up too long inside a cocoon. I find the tree stand in one of the boxes and lift the tree into it, tightening the bolts at the bottom to hold it in place. Then I go to the kitchen and find a pair of scissors. As I cut through the netting, it feels like I’ve thrown a party and no one has turned up. Under the watchful eye of the school photos of Ginny and my younger self, I fluff the branches out, dark green and thick. The scent of pine fills the room.

  I go back to the kitchen and find the sandwiches. I eat an egg and cress and half of a ham sandwich. The ingredients are store bought, but the sandwiches still taste better than if I’d made them myself. The silence, though, is unnerving; I don’t think I’ve ever been in this house when it was this quiet. I check my watch: it’s nearly three in the afternoon, so there’s about an hour of daylight left. I go to the door and put on my coat. The rain has stopped and a walk will do me good. And I know exactly where I’m going.

  14

  The path to the beach is one I could walk in my sleep. I go out of the house and down the new gravel track that leads to the cottages. The refurbished buildings were once part of the old croft that’s stood on this site for generations. When I was a child, the whole area was wild and derelict, the old stone paddocks having been taken over by bracken, broom, gorse, and rocks. The hills rise behind to form the backbone of the headland, giving it the form of a giant, beached whale.

  I pass a windbreak of trees and The Stables, the cottage where Bill and his family will be staying. Beyond that, in a little sheltered glade, is Skybird. There’s a grassy area at the back going down to the water, and a gravelled yard at the front where the silver car is parked. The lights are on inside the cottage. A dog barks and a man’s voice silences it. I quickly move on.

  The rocky path rises sharply as I head for the pass in the hills. It takes about fifteen minutes to make the ascent, by which time I’m breathing hard. The wind has picked up and the tops of the hills are shrouded in mist. The path levels out around a tiny lochan and then descends a boggy slope of bracken and dead heather. On the other side of the headland, there’s another bay. In the distance, a long white sand beach curves along the shore with a few caravans scattered among the dunes. The horizon is covered with cloud except for a sliver of light to the west where the sun will be setting in less than an hour. ‘Always go towards the light.’

  As I skid down the steep path, the sound of breaking waves grows louder. The path ends at a little cove sheltered by a cliff on one side and huge grey boulders on the other. The beach is mostly shingle with a small crescent of white at the water’s edge, the sand made up of millions of tiny, iridescent seashells. The waves froth and foam, making a pattern like lace as they pull back from the shore. I walk up to the high tideline marked by a fringe of brown sea kelp. The wind is bracing, and my hair whips sharply into my mouth and eyes.

  I love this place. Though I haven’t been here for years, everything is familiar, as if I’ve come here regularly in my dreams. I go along towards the huge boulders at the water’s edge, embedded in the sand like the tips of an iceberg. Every whelk and barnacle, every tiny plant clinging to the rocks, every sea bird circling overhead, seems like one I’ve known before.

  I listen to the shucking sound of the waves pulling back from the shingle. The rocks are dark and shiny, smoothed by the relentless tide. By force of habit, I look out for a pretty pebble or a bit of sea glass.

  The patch of silver at the horizon is larger now than it was only a few minutes ago. It’s like the saying printed on tea towels, mugs, and T-shirts around here: ‘Don’t like the weather in Scotland? Wait five minutes and it will change.’ The light is like a tantalising glimpse of another world far off to the west.

  I continue on towards the cliff and the little caves that we used to explore looking for pirate treasure and Jacobite gold. I sit down on a small, flat rock near the foot of the cliff. There are literally hundreds of coves like this, some on the tourist route, others almost inaccessible from the shore. Any one of which could be my sister’s final resting place. I shudder and pull my knees to my chest, as if the rocks scattered around me might conceal her bones.

  When Ginny was alive and we came here, she would go out to the furthest, wettest, most slippery rock. I remember how my heart used to race and I would get annoyed, telling her to be careful, and that if she fell in, I wouldn’t be pulling her out. And she would just laugh and sit cross-legged with the spray washing over her.

  There’s a thin, howling sound as the wind changes direction again. I shiver with a sudden, aching sense of loss. Like a ship drawn into peril by a siren’s song, my sister followed the voice in her head, the one that lead her out on to the rocks and away from me forever. What was in her mind when she was standing out there that night, the sea roaring furiously below? What did
she feel as the wave took her legs from beneath her, and she slid into the cold abyss?

  The glimmer of light on the horizon is fading and thin tendrils of mist have begun to creep across the beach. The air seems to grow opaque, almost solid around me. And that’s when I see her, a shadow projected from my memory. Ginny running down the beach, her arms outstretched, her hair flying behind her. A flock of gulls at the water’s edge all took flight together. I thought she’d never stop running, even when she reached the end of the beach. I thought she might take to the air and fly away.

  I taste salt on my tongue: a tear that has run down my cheek into my mouth. Out here, I understand why Mum went to the cliffs. Somewhere in that deep, ever-changing water, there is a part of my sister: the atoms of her body, the life force that was Ginny. If I try, I can almost reach out and grab hold of it… her freedom, her happiness…

  I take off my outer clothing and leave it in a pile by the rocks. The shingle stings my feet as I begin to run towards the water, wearing only my bra, long-sleeved top and underwear. The cold water flays my skin and a million nerve endings scream out with shock. I run out to waist-depth, and then I dive in.

  There’s a rushing sound in my ears. Under the surface, the sound is gentle, almost womblike. I open my eyes: bubbles of green water flow over my head as a wave breaks above me. Strands of kelp and seaweed brush my face. The cold is shocking, and my lungs are full to bursting. I swim underwater for as long as I can, and then surface to take a breath. But as I do, a wave crashes over me and the breath is half air and half water. As the undertow grabs hold of me to take me away from the beach, I’m seized by a coughing fit and I swallow more water. I have a fleeting thought: this is ridiculous. I’ve swum out here many times before. I just need to get to shore and everything will be fine.

  I surface again, try to breathe, swallow more water. My body kicks into panic mode. I flail with my arms and legs, but there’s another wave and I go under. My lungs fill with water.