Star Gazing Page 20

  ‘Aye, I know! I’m paralysed by a bloody hypothesis.’

  She releases him and lies back on the pillows. ‘Your hypothesis is that it’s possible you’ll foresee the death of a loved one and feel utterly helpless. My hypothesis is that such visions are blocked by feelings of love. Or fear. The brain will not admit something so appalling. It won’t allow the eye to see it. My evidence for this? You’ve never foreseen the death of a loved one and you don’t know of anyone who has. What’s the evidence for your hypothesis?’

  ‘I don’t have any.’

  ‘It’s just a fear that it could happen?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘So you’re prepared to allow primitive superstition to outweigh a complete absence of verifiable evidence. Call yourself a scientist?’

  He turns and lies down again beside her, propping himself up on an elbow. ‘I’m also a visionary. A seer. Science tells me what I am doesn’t exist. Can’t exist. When I told my parents what I saw, they said I was imagining things. I wanted to believe them and I tried but… I knew what it was. So did they. Eventually we just stopped talking about it.’

  ‘But just because we fear something – fear it terribly – doesn’t mean it’s likely to happen! People regularly gather in their hundreds on hilltops to await Armageddon, but the world still turns. There’s no correlation between fear and likelihood. It just feels as if there should be.’

  ‘Marianne Fraser, you’re a woman of profound good sense.’

  ‘There you go again, making me sound like something out of Jane Austen.’

  ‘I don’t think Austen heroines do what you were doing twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think all that bluestocking propriety was just longing to be corrupted by something broad-shouldered in a pair of well-fitting breeches. Look at Lydia Bennet and Wickham. Once she was off the leash it must have been a sexual marathon.’

  ‘Speaking of which…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you’re not completely debilitated by the day’s strenuous activities –’

  ‘Not completely.’

  ‘I was wanting to ask you…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What d’you do for an encore?’

  * * * * *

  Marianne

  I was a fool. A fool to indulge, however briefly, in the fantasy of Happy Families; to think my future held more possibilities than I had imagined. Then, when the fantasy came crashing down around my ears, I didn’t even handle it with a good grace.

  I was a complete, bloody fool. A pregnant bloody fool, brain addled by hormones, sex and what even a blind man could see was love.

  * * * * *

  After breakfast Keir looks out the kitchen window and announces that the rain has stopped. They don boots and fleeces.

  ‘Where to today?’

  ‘The beach, I think. It’s not too wild now.’ He takes her hand and as they let themselves out the door, the wind chime bids its cheerful farewell, a sound Marianne never tires of hearing.

  Keir leads her through the garden, over springy rough grass pierced by the leaf-blades of flag iris, down to the seashore. He offers to carry her over the large boulders above the tide-line, but Marianne enjoys clambering over the rocks on all fours, removing her gloves so she can feel the rough textures of the different rocks. Keir eyes her anxiously, ready to spring towards her if she falls. Pausing for a moment, Marianne lifts her head.

  ‘What’s that bird called? The piping sound, a bit like a piccolo.’

  He doesn’t need to look. Still watching Marianne, he says, ‘An oystercatcher. Down by the shoreline.’

  Marianne turns her face up to face the emerging sun. ‘Shall we just sit for a bit? I’d like to listen to the sea. This feels like a nice flat rock. Come and describe the view for me.’

  He sits down on her windward side to provide some shelter. ‘We’re at the top of the beach, which becomes pebbles, then eventually sand. The tide’s going out. We’re looking northwest, facing a stupendous view of the Cuillin. There’s a wide stretch of sea – pretty choppy today – and beyond that there’s the mountains, their peaks covered in snow. The ridge looks serrated, something like holly leaves. Have you ever felt those?’

  ‘Oh yes. At Christmas.’

  ‘Aye, well, the Cuillin ridge is doubly serrated in that the “holly leaves” themselves are serrated. Erosion has given the ridge sharp teeth.’

  ‘Can you translate the view for me?’

  ‘Into music?’

  ‘Anything. Well, anything I can relate to.’

  Keir is silent for a moment, then says, ‘I think you’ve finally stumped me. It’s just too big for any music I know. Too deep. Possibly too beautiful.’

  ‘So is there nothing? Nothing like it in the world of sound?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You once said the Cuillin were like the Hammerklavier.’

  ‘Aye, I did. But the Cuillin covered in snow, viewed across the sea, from a viewpoint at the bottom of my own garden, on an April day in bright sunshine… Ach, it moves me so deeply, makes me feel so proud. Yet at the same time so… insignificant. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t know how to translate it. Into music. Into anything.’

  ‘Thanks for trying. I know I ask a lot.’ She reaches out and meeting his thigh, runs her hand absently over the long expanse of muscle. Registering the hard warmth, she places her other hand flat on the cold rock beside her. Marianne fancies she can feel the blood pulsing through Keir’s arteries, that she can feel life with one set of fingertips, deadness with the other. The contrast excites her and she leans over to kiss him, aiming where she hopes his mouth will be.

  He puts an arm around her and pulls her towards him. ‘Hell, I do know what it’s like.’

  ‘What? Your wonderful view?’

  ‘Aye. It’s like making love. Don’t laugh, I’m serious! I don’t know what sex is like for anyone but me. But how this view makes me feel, it’s… like orgasm. Well, mine, anyway. You feel the biggest and strongest you’ve ever felt. And the smallest and weakest. Vulnerable. And full of wonder.’

  ‘Is sex always like that for you?’

  ‘No. Not always.’

  ‘Was it like that for you with me?’ she asks shyly. ‘And I’ll know if you’re lying.’

  ‘Aye, it was. That’s what made me think of it… You OK? You’ve gone very quiet.’

  ‘Struck dumb by the view.’ She gets to her feet unsteadily and says, ‘Come on. Let’s walk.’

  Keir takes her hand. ‘If we go closer to the water’s edge we can walk on wet sand, which will be easier for you, but it’s more exposed.’

  ‘Will it be very windy?’

  ‘Aye. It’ll blow away a few cobwebs.’

  ‘Let’s walk down by the sea then. Until we get too cold. ’

  He leads her out of the shelter of the bay, down towards the sea. Marianne feels the ground level out, the pebbles become smaller, until with a sense of relief she feels firm, wet sand beneath her feet and walking becomes easy. ‘Oh, yes, this is much better!’

  ‘I’ll let you set the pace. Do you want the wind in your face or at your back?’

  ‘In my face. I like to feel the wind.’

  Keir turns and repositions himself on Marianne’s other side. ‘I’ll walk by the sea so if a rogue wave comes in, I’ll see it coming. It’s not yet the weather for paddling.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No bother.’ He turns and studies her profile as the wind whips her hair back from her pale, exhilarated face. He notes the rosy tip of her nose and how the cold has turned her ears a glowing pink. He feels a tenderness mixed with an urge to protect, emotions he rarely feels for people, only birds and animals, sometimes trees. As a strong gust of wind buffets them, she lifts up her head and laughs. He laughs too, without knowing why. ‘Cobwebs gone?’

  ‘I’ll say! You know, I’ve touched cobwebs. Hateful things, all stretchy and sticky. And to think of all those
paralysed insect bodies caught in the web – horrible! Yet people say spiders’ webs are beautiful.’

  ‘So they are.’

  ‘You can’t touch them without destroying them, can you? Like bubbles. Something else I can’t imagine. A hollow sphere, made of water? Impossible!’

  ‘Cobwebs are very beautiful, especially if you’re of a mathematical turn of mind. Fiendishly delicate. Or perhaps I mean delicately fiendish. Think The Well-Tempered Clavier. On a harpsichord.’

  ‘Oh, what Lou calls knitting-needle music. She knits Fair Isle sweaters, you know. If you stand still long enough she’ll measure you up for one. She’d love to get a tape-measure round your chest.’

  He stops walking and tugs at her hand, drawing her into his arms. She buries her face in his fleece, inhales the warmth of him and strains to hear his heart beating. They sway slightly in the wind and, with a sudden sinking of spirits, Marianne remembers what stands between them – literally now. She’s about to say the speech she has prepared when Keir, his voice a low murmur in his chest, says, ‘Marianne, there’s something I want to say. Something we need to discuss.’

  ‘Oh? Well, as it happens, there’s something I want to tell you too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, you go first.’

  ‘I’m going away again. To Kazakhstan.’

  ‘Kazakhstan?’ She lifts her head from his chest, her body stiffening. ‘That’s a very long way, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye. Central Asia. If I went much further I’d be on my way back. It’s one of the few places left with any significant deposits of oil. I’m going to be looking for them.’

  She wriggles out of his arms and turns her face into the wind. ‘Are you going for good?’

  ‘Och, no! Three months.’

  ‘And you won’t be coming back in that time, I should imagine?’

  ‘No.’

  Fighting a sudden wave of nausea, she swallows a mouthful of acrid saliva. ‘Don’t you think you might have mentioned this earlier? Perhaps before I came back to Skye?’

  ‘Aye, maybe I should.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Because if I had, you’d have had to deal with what you felt about me. And then you wouldn’t have come.’

  ‘Dead right, I wouldn’t.’ She shivers and folds her arms across her chest.

  ‘I didn’t pressure you to come, Marianne. And I didn’t have to drag you into bed either. The terms were yours. You asked if we could play it by ear. That’s what we’ve done. I think that’s how we should continue. Och, I don’t see what else we can do! I have to earn a living. But I’ll want to see you when I get back. I’ll want to send you tapes while I’m away. I hope you’ll let me ring you. But other than that… you’re free. No strings. I hope when I get back we can pick up where we left off. If that’s what you want,’ he adds.

  ‘Let me get this straight – are you asking for my permission to sleep around?’

  ‘No. I’m giving you permission to sleep around.’

  ‘Oh, thanks. I’m glad you brought that up. I was wondering how I’d cope. I’m so in demand, you know. The phone never stops ringing.’

  ‘Marianne, I don’t think I’ve handled this very well.’

  ‘No, I don’t think you have. But if you’d told me all this earlier it would just have sounded like a sex-with-no-strings speech. Which is what it sounds like now, so there was really nothing to be gained by being frank. And this way we probably enjoyed the sex more. It certainly sounds as if you did.’

  In the long silence that follows Marianne realises that she too isn’t handling the situation well and considers apologising or, alternatively, bursting into tears. Instead she stands silently, her body tense, and awaits Keir’s indignation which doesn’t come. Eventually she says, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Keir, say something! You can’t make a worse mess of things than I just did.’

  When he finally speaks his voice is even, the words measured, but Marianne hears the effort neutrality costs him. ‘I haven’t been dishonest. You knew about my work. About my lifestyle. I’ll be gone three months. We’ve just spent two months apart, but we were able to pick up where we left off.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Don’t you?’ She doesn’t answer and he continues, ‘In any case, I think this is my last trip.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I’ve had enough. I want out.’

  ‘Not because of me?’

  ‘No. I’ve wanted out for a while. A long while. You knew that.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I thought three months in Kazakhstan might focus my mind.’

  ‘So you expect me to wait for you.’

  His composure breaks then. ‘No, I don’t! That’s why I said the no-strings stuff! You’re free.’

  ‘And so are you.’

  ‘Yes, I’m free too.’ Keir looks out to sea, narrows his eyes and watches as a gannet folds its wings into an arrow formation and drops vertically, like a stone, plummeting head first into the sea. He waits for it to surface, then says, ‘I don’t do the future, Marianne. You know why.’

  ‘And I don’t do the past. I had hoped we might be able to come to some arrangement about the present. But with a continent or two between us, I think that would be a tall order.’

  ‘Are you not up for a challenge, then?’

  ‘Oh yes! Never let it be said that plucky little Marianne lacks courage! But I think I have enough on my plate at the moment. Coping with my condition.’

  ‘Your condition?’

  She hesitates for a moment, contemplates her future once again and comes to a final decision. ‘Leber’s Congenital Amaurosis. My blindness.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And I don’t. Can we go back to the house, please? I’m getting cold.’

  ‘Aye. Sorry, we should have kept moving. Will you take my arm?’

  They turn their backs to the wind and set off along the beach. After a few moments Keir asks, ‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter now,’ she replies, her voice leaden. ‘The moment has passed.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Louisa

  I think Garth spoke for us all, summing up our feelings of utter dismay when he exclaimed, ‘Where the ’ell is Kazakh-bleedin’-stan?’ To make matters worse, I had the temerity to ask Marianne if she’d actually told Keir about the baby. My sister is incapable of a withering look but she more than compensated with the scourge of her tongue.

  It seemed she regarded her relationship with Keir as over and said this made everything easier. I didn’t really understand, but assumed she meant having the abortion. I assured her that, more than ever now, Garth and I would do what we could to support her and I offered to make another appointment at the clinic. She prevaricated, said she was too exhausted to think and retired to her room, from which she barely emerged for three whole days.

  You can usually judge Marianne’s state of mind by the music she plays. Over the years I’ve learned to interpret her mood through her choice of music, much as you might read someone’s facial expression. (Not an option with Marianne.) She’d been through a Puccini phase recently, which I’d quite enjoyed, then she’d played Beethoven’s Hammerklavier piano sonata, the one that sounds like a sort of pianistic shopping list – a snatch of all the sonatas Beethoven might have written had he not decided to ditch the piano in favour of string quartets. Not exactly easy listening. Then she became obsessed with the Finnish bird concerto. There was always music of some kind in the background and I suspected that, lately, it had all been connected with Keir. The worrying thing was, after she got back from Skye the second time, she didn’t play anything, not even her birds.

  The only time I could remember Marianne entering a seriously silent period like this was after Harvey died. I couldn’t believe that breaking up with Keir had been an event of that magnitude, but my sister was always hard to fathom, and not just because of her blindne
ss. As the days went by and still no clinic appointment was made, I began to wonder whether what she was processing (rehearsing in a way) was death and grief: the death of her husband, the death of two babies and the loss (which was after all a kind of death) of a man she’d realised, somewhat belatedly, she loved.

  Marianne lay on the bed in her room, in silence, eating and drinking little and saying less. Garth did his cheerful best with her but in the end she sent him away. Then one morning, about a week after she got back from Skye, she emerged from her room, showered and dressed, and started moving purposefully around the flat. She made a pot of tea and as she poured herself a cup she announced, ‘I’ve come to a decision.’

  I braced myself, but tried to sound casual. ‘Oh? And what is that?’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Lou. In a way I think what I’ve decided makes things harder for you. Probably for me too. But it feels like the right thing to do. And in a way the easiest. Certainly the most humane.’

  ‘Darling, you know you can count on me. Whatever. Garth too. He thinks the world of you, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I do know. I can’t think what I’ve done to deserve such loyal support. I think it says rather more about your generosity than my deserts. But God knows, I think I am going to need you.’ She took a deep breath and said, the words tumbling over one another quickly, ‘I’ve decided to go through with the pregnancy and put the baby up for adoption. Don’t go hoping I’ll change my mind when it’s born – I have no attachment whatsoever to this child, only to its father. And though I know what I should do is get rid of it, make a fresh start, I just cannot bring myself to abort that man’s baby. It would be like killing him. A part of him. And I can’t do it. I’ve had too much to do with death. And so has Keir,’ she added softly. ‘So I’m going to let Nature take its course. If the baby lives, it will bring happiness to another couple. That seems to me to make some sense of the appalling mess that currently constitutes my life. But if I’m to see it through, I’m going to need your support. And I know that’s asking a lot.’

  ‘Well, I’d be lying if I said I don’t hope you’ll change your mind about adoption, but I can promise you faithfully I’ll never mention it, never put any pressure on you. But I think you know that would be my dearest wish.’