Star Gazing Page 10

  ‘The kindness? Or the daffiness?’

  ‘Both. I suspect no man has taken her on because he thinks he’d have to take me on as well. Which isn’t the case. I could live independently. Lots of blind people do. I managed at university and I managed when Harvey was offshore. It would just be more difficult for me, that’s all. Can you pass me a tissue? I put some down somewhere, but I don’t remember where.’

  ‘There’s some kitchen towel on the tray.’

  Groping for the towel, Marianne continues, ‘I’m curious. How does Louisa strike you? Speaking as a man, I mean?’

  ‘Well, she’s not my type. Never would have been, even when she was younger, but she’s attractive if you like your women… ample. And fluffy. And plenty men do. And you can tell she’s interested, she hasn’t given up. That’s attractive to a man. The old antennae are still waving.’

  ‘Really? Must be the HRT. Were they waving at you, then?’

  ‘I think they might have been. I wasn’t paying her that much attention.’

  ‘You said in the Botanics you couldn’t tell if women found you attractive.’

  ‘I meant blind women. Has Louisa never married?’

  ‘No. Nor has she lived the life of a nun. But nothing’s lasted.’

  ‘What about Garth the Goth?’

  ‘Garth? He can’t be more than twenty-five!’

  ‘So? They say men are past their sexual peak at forty and women are just reaching theirs. Louisa might appreciate a bit of … athleticism.’

  ‘But what would a man Garth’s age see in Louisa?’

  ‘You’d be surprised. Kindness. Humour. An accommodating and sensual woman, one who wasn’t obsessed with cellulite and liposuction. And then there’s always gratitude.’

  ‘Gratitude?’

  ‘Don’t underestimate it. Men are just as insecure as women, maybe more so. We’ve far more to prove, to women and to ourselves. We lie awake at nights and fantasise about grateful women. Young women can be pretty damn scary. And not a lot of fun to go to bed with. Obsession with your appearance and your mobile phone can be a bit of a turn-off for a guy. Someone like Louisa might seem a more relaxing proposition to young Garth.’

  Marianne considers her sister in this new light and says, ‘Were you interested, then?’

  ‘In Louisa? No, I was speaking hypothetically. You asked for a male opinion.’

  ‘Have you had relationships with older women?’

  ‘Aye, when I was younger. There was a career woman in Aberdeen who loved her job and didn’t want to settle down with babies. I was young enough to feel flattered by the attention and callow enough not to mind being treated as a sex object. It was fun while it lasted.’

  ‘You never married?’

  ‘I’ve never looked for anything permanent. Which is probably why I’ve never found it.’

  ‘Oil marriages don’t tend to last, anyway.’

  ‘It’s a lousy deal for both partners. For the wife especially. Have there been many men since Harvey?’

  She pauses before answering, then says carefully, ‘A few.’

  ‘Ah! We entered a conversational no-go zone. I didn’t see the sign.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Keir, but I suddenly feel very odd sitting here in my pyjamas talking about my sex life – and yours – with you sitting on the edge of the bed, not the least like an elephant. I don’t know what’s going on.’

  ‘Nothing’s going on. We’re just talking. You told me Louisa saw me as some sort of… hero. I wondered how you saw me.’

  ‘I don’t see you, do I?’

  ‘You do, but not with your eyes. Don’t worry, I’m not going to try anything on. I find you too fascinating to risk frightening you away. And I’m too much of a hero – in my own eyes – to take advantage of you. But I thought it might be good to deal honestly with each other. Not least because I don’t know how to read you. You don’t give out all the usual signs. And you certainly don’t say all the usual things. So I’m having to make it up as I go along.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘My, aren’t we the spontaneous ones! Would you like more coffee?’

  She laughs. ‘You don’t have to back off, you know.’

  ‘I wasn’t. I was offering you more coffee before asking my killer question.’

  ‘Which is?’

  He shifts his weight on the bed, then says, ‘When you heard about Mac’s death, you said you wished we treated folk as if we knew we were about to die. Say all we wanted to say.’

  ‘It seems rather a foolish thing to have said now. I was thinking about Mac’s poor wife. And Harvey.’

  ‘Aye, I know. But I’ve been wondering… What would you say to me if you knew you were going to die? Or I was going to die?’

  ‘Oh, that’s not fair!’

  He shrugs. ‘You don’t have to answer.’

  ‘But you know I will.’

  ‘I hope you will.’

  She is silent, then says, ‘You aren’t about to die, are you?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. But it’s an uncertain world.’

  She plucks at the duvet, scowling. ‘You’re bloody impossible, Keir. You just don’t play by the rules.’

  ‘What rules?’ he says softly. ‘Shinty’s my game. And let me tell you, shinty’s not a game for jessies.’

  ‘If we didn’t have long…’ She scrapes her hair back behind her ears and sighs, exasperated. ‘Oh, it’s such a stupid question!’

  ‘So don’t answer.’

  She sighs again. ‘If we didn’t have long, I’d… I think I’d ask you to hold me… I’d probably ask you to make love to me as well.’ She covers her mouth with a hand and shakes her head. ‘Oh, God, I can’t believe I just said that! What on earth did you put in the coffee?’

  He is silent for a moment, then says, ‘But you’re not asking now?’

  She places her fingertips together in front of her lips, as if about to pray. ‘No. I’m not asking now.’

  ‘Then I’ll get you that coffee.’

  Relieved of his weight, the mattress tilts and Marianne feels momentarily giddy. As his footsteps retreat, she calls out, ‘Keir?’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘What would you say?’

  He pauses at the top of the staircase, his head and shoulders bowed to accommodate the sloping ceiling. ‘Much the same.’

  He descends slowly but forgets to duck at the foot of the stairs. The wind chime jangles.

  * * * * *

  Marianne

  I negotiated the stairs, the shower, then the stairs again. I got dressed and went downstairs, feeling more confident with each journey. I presented myself in the kitchen where Keir was washing up. I heard him stop scrubbing at a pan and after a moment he said, ‘D’you always wear black?’

  ‘No. Sometimes I wear cream. It makes life simpler. I don’t have to think about colours clashing.’

  ‘Would it matter if they did? It’s not something I ever think about.’

  I was thrown by the question and asked, randomly, ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘Jeans and a polo neck. And a zip-up fleece. ‘

  ‘What colours?’

  ‘The polo neck’s dark brown. Think… double bass. And the fleece is greeny-blue… Harp.’

  ‘Greeny-blue? Like your eyes?’

  ‘No, they’re green and blue.’

  ‘Now, that I would like to see.’

  ‘Twinkling stars… My eyes… Anything else?’

  ‘Snow.’

  I hear the washing-up water splash, then drain away. Keir takes my arm. ‘Come with me…’

  * * * * *

  Keir leads her across the kitchen to the back door. As he opens it, Marianne feels a wave of cold, damp air envelope her, as it does when she opens the freezer at home. He shuts the door behind her and she shivers at the sudden change in temperature. Folding her arms across her chest for warmth, she says, ‘Tell me what you see.’

  ‘Snow.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘More
snow. Sunlight shining on the snow.’

  ‘What does it look like?’

  ‘Dazzling. It hurts your eyes almost.’

  ‘And if it were a sound?’

  ‘A sound? Bloody hell, you don’t ask a lot.’

  ‘Come on, Keir, you’re good at this, you know you are. Humour me.’

  ‘If it were a sound…’ He gazes at the snow-covered landscape.

  ‘Aye, you know those strings at the beginning of The Flying Dutchman overture? The very opening chords?’

  ‘Oh, yes. They’re piercing!’

  ‘That’s what it looks like.’

  ‘Thank you!’ She turns away, smiling, and faces the white landscape, as if equipped now to assess the view.

  * * * * *

  Marianne

  Keir said there were crocuses buried underfoot but daffodils in bud, standing bravely in the snow. He lifted my hand to rifle dangling catkins and I felt the long cold flowers trickle through my fingers. He cleared snow from a garden bench, spread something waterproof and we sat in the weak February sun. I turned my face up towards the warmth. Behind us there was the constant drip of melting snow falling from the roof; to one side, a furious flurry of bird activity in a hedge. We stopped talking to listen to a wren that was sheltering, Keir said, in a pile of dead and damaged wood he’d cut back after a gale and stored for fuel.

  I’m told that the wren is a tiny bird, comparable with a mouse in size, and that it creeps about something like a mouse, but to listen to that assertive, even strident call, you’d think the bird was much more substantial – the size of a blackbird at least. Keir said it was a case of serious over-compensation, like short men who drove big, fast cars.

  ‘What does that say about men who drive Land Rovers, then?’

  ‘I used to drive a sensible car. Low fuel consumption. If not green, then green-ish. Then one night I had an altercation with a stag in Glen Shiel, on my way home. At about fifty miles per hour. The car was a complete write-off. So was the stag.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Nothing more than bruises and shattered nerves. After that, though, I’d a hankering to ride around in a Sherman tank. The Landy was a compromise. It’s practical and it makes me feel safe. I figure I take enough risks in my working life. The fuel consumption gives me an ecological headache, but at least it runs on diesel. Are you getting cold?‘

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘We’ll go inside, get togged up, then go for a walk. There’ll be more snow, but not yet awhile.’

  As I got to my feet I felt the light touch of his hand on my elbow, guiding me discreetly between obstacles.

  ‘Mmm … What’s that wonderful smell? Wait, don’t tell me – daphne?‘

  ‘Aye, it’s growing against the wall just here. The scent’s for me and the berries are for the birds.’ I heard him inhale deeply. ‘You could get drunk on it, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Keir, why did you bring me here?’

  ‘Three reasons. I wanted to show you Skye.’

  ‘But I can’t see.’

  ‘You can. You will. As much as anyone would. My hunch is you’ll see more. And I wanted to show you my home and what I’m doing here.’

  ‘Keeping the twenty-first century at bay.’

  ‘It’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it. A third of all plants and a quarter of all mammals face extinction in the century ahead.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘Well, no, not particularly. As deities go, rather a negligent God. Mind the step as you go indoors.’ We stepped back into the fuggy warmth of the kitchen and he closed the door behind us.

  ‘And the third reason?’

  ‘Pure self-indulgence. You’re a treat, Marianne. Like a box of chocolates.’

  ‘Thank you. I think.’

  ‘You’re like a box of chocolates with the menu missing – the card that tells you what they are. I never know what I’m going to get with you: a soft, creamy centre, something chewy, or an explosion of alcohol.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like living dangerously?’

  ‘Unidentified chocolates I can handle.’

  * * * * *

  A few minutes later they are dressed for outdoor walking and standing in front of the house. As he shoulders a small rucksack Keir says, ‘The terrain is uneven but we’ll take it very slow. I’ll make sure you don’t fall.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m used to falling. It’s really not a big deal.’

  ‘It is when you’re as far from a hospital as we are. Have you ever used trekking poles?’

  ‘No. I’ve rarely walked on anything other than pavements and footpaths.’

  ‘Try one. Here – bend your arm…’ He slips the loop of one pole over her wrist and arranges her fingers round the handle. He notes the contrast between their hands: hers, small and slim; his own, twice the size, with thick, weathered fingers, nimble for their size, used to handling equipment in a North Sea gale or a desert sandstorm. When Marianne’s fingers are finally arranged round the trekking pole, he envelopes her hand with his, briefly and superfluously.

  ‘Now stand still while I adjust it for length. You have to have the handles quite high. You could use one pole and take my arm, or hand, or you could try going it alone using both poles. You won’t be able to use them as you would your cane because snow will have covered a lot of obstacles. It’s really a question of maintaining your stability. But even one pole will help with that. If you use two it will be impossible to fall over but you won’t be attached to me in any way. It’s up to you. The poles are telescopic and lightweight so we can collapse them and put them in the rucksack if you don’t get on with them.’

  ‘No, they feel really comfy. I think I might like them. If I walk along right behind you, it will be like following a path. I’ll feel your footprints. Like King Wenceslas and the page. You’ll have to remember to tell me if you stop or we’ll collide.’

  ‘OK, we’ll give it a go. If it gets too much, just say and we’ll have that snowball fight instead.’

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘We’ll follow the burn, maybe as far as the waterfall, if the weather holds. We’ll see how you get on with the poles. I hope we’ll be able to move fast enough to keep you warm.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Stop fretting.’

  ‘You’ve got about fifty feet of clear terrain in the direction you’re facing before we come to any trees. You can stride out for a while. There’s a wee bit of gradient – going up – but the poles will compensate for that.’

  They set off, slowly to begin with then, as Marianne gains confidence, they achieve a normal walking speed. This despite the fact that most of the time, unbeknown to Marianne, Keir is walking backwards to monitor her progress.

  Marianne calls out. ‘Does the waterfall ever freeze?’

  ‘It has. But it won’t be frozen today. It’s not cold enough.’

  ‘Ice is silent, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘I was thinking of the burn and the waterfall, stopping in their tracks, transformed into ice. The water music would stop. When it does, the silence must be uncanny. Frozen music.’ Marianne plods through the snow, seeking the indentations of Keir’s footprints. He is complimenting her on the ease with which she walks, aided by the trekking pole, when he trips backwards over an unseen tree root. Snow falls around them in a sudden, slithering shower. Marianne turns her face upwards, laughing, and licks the snow that lands on her lips. Watching her, Keir steadies himself with a hand against a tree trunk.

  ‘Are you walking backwards, Keir?

  ‘No,’ he replies, too promptly.

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Your voice has been facing me. And then you tripped. Someone like you wouldn’t trip. Not on home territory.’

  ‘It’s a fair cop, officer. I’ll come quietly. Tell me more about this frozen music.’

  ‘Face the way you’re walking and I will.’ As they set off again, Marianne res
umes, ‘It’s how someone once described architecture to me. As frozen music. I found that quite helpful. Buildings are things I can never grasp, especially big ones. I can feel the texture of stone in a cathedral, but I can’t get much of a sense of the building itself: light passing through stained glass windows, flying buttresses, the sheer scale of the thing. The grandeur.’

  He doesn’t reply for a moment, then stops walking and stands still. As she approaches he reaches for her arm. ‘I’ve stopped.’

  ‘Is something wrong? I don’t need a rest yet.’

  ‘OK, this is a long shot but d’you know Poulenc’s organ concerto?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Not very well. I find it an intimidating piece – a bit overwhelming, to be honest. Oh…’ Her voice fades. ‘Is that –’

  ‘Aye, it’s pretty close, I reckon. It’ll do for now anyway. I’ll give it more thought. What’s the matter?’ She is standing with her head bowed, her body tense, as he remembers she stood once before in the Botanic Gardens before she told him about her dead husband. ‘Marianne? Have I upset you?’

  She turns up her eyes and he sees they are brimming with tears. ‘No, I was just… so touched. That you always try to translate things for me. And you do it so well. I’m really grateful, you know.’

  ‘Aye, well… As I said, when you get to my age, you dream of grateful women.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘There’s a couple of stepping-stones here, where the burn gets wider. We need to cross to the other side. Will I carry you over or d’you want to try and find them for yourself?’

  Marianne pauses beside the stream. ‘Are they flat stones?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘But wet, I suppose?’

  ‘Possibly icy.’

  ‘I’ll let you carry me over. Piggyback?’

  ‘Not worth it. Put both poles into your right hand and stand still. I’m going to put an arm behind your knees and another round your waist, then I’ll lift you off the ground, OK?’

  As Keir lifts her, Marianne hooks her free arm round his neck. She pats the rucksack. ‘What have you got in here?’

  ‘Waterproofs. Camera. Picnic.’

  ‘A picnic in the snow?’