Emotional Geology Page 6

  ‘You’re trying to change the subject.’

  ‘No, I am changing the subject. Why Uist?’

  ‘Gavin was never here.’

  Calum laughs softly. ‘No mountains.’

  ‘That’s right. No mountains, so no Gavin. Just Gavin’s ghost... Calum, if - if we did go to bed, I’d like to be certain it was about you, and nothing to do with him. I don’t want there to be three people in the bed.’

  ‘Is he here for you now?’

  I actually look around the caravan, as if he might be. ‘No. There’s just you and me.’

  ‘Well, that’s a start.’ He takes my hand, tentatively, checking me with his eyes to see he is not off-limits. ‘The thing I don’t understand - I mean, it just doesn’t make any sense to me - why would Gavin want to sleep with another woman? The man was obviously an eejit.’

  Tears start into my eyes but I’m laughing. ‘Oh, Calum, you don’t know the half of it!’

  ~

  Rose sits up in bed. ‘You’re lying, Gavin.’

  ‘Why would I lie for Christ's sake?’

  ‘You wouldn’t do this to me... Even you wouldn’t do this.’ She slowly shakes her head from side.

  ‘Well, I fucking did!’ Gavin throws back the duvet and starts to get dressed. Rose watches his naked body, tries to feel revulsion and fails.

  ‘Did you do it in this bed?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Rose - what does it matter? It’s done.’

  ‘Is it over?’

  ‘Between us?’

  ‘Between you two.’

  Gavin’s head is bent over socks and trainers. He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Gavin... Is it finished?’

  He sighs, straightens up. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Christ, Gavin!’

  ‘I just don’t know, Rose! I didn’t plan for it to happen. I didn’t set out to - to betray you. It was just one of those things.’

  ‘How could you?’

  ‘Because I’m a bloody selfish bastard, that’s how, because I’m a man and therefore a lower form of life! And because I can’t bloody say no if it’s offered on a plate - which it was.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You want more details?’ he says nastily.

  ‘No! I just can’t believe... that you... I can’t—’ Rose starts to cry. Gavin yanks a holdall out of a cupboard and begins to throw clothes in, randomly, savagely. Rose gets out of bed and stumbles towards him.

  ‘You’re going?’

  ‘Well, I can hardly stay here, can I?’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Dave’s. Or Simon’s. I don’t know.’

  She grabs his arm. ‘Why did you do it, Gavin?’

  He wheels round on her, his eyes blazing, glittering with tears. ‘Because she was there!’

  ‘I mean why did you tell me?’

  His chest is heaving as he tries to steady his voice. ‘Because... I was angry with you. And because - oh, Rose, you’ll love this! - because I felt such a shit lying to you.’

  ‘But you didn’t feel a shit sleeping with her?’

  ‘Not at the time, no. I had other things on my mind!’ Rose recoils as if he has slapped her.

  ‘I didn’t deserve that.’

  Gavin is pale, his mouth moving as he struggles to retract, apologise. ‘No, you didn’t. You don’t deserve any of this. I’m getting out, Rose. I’ve done enough damage.’

  Gavin lifts the holdall and stalks out of the bedroom. Rose follows him downstairs, into the sitting room. He gathers up maps, correspondence, his address book. A fat stone Buddha sits on the desk, Rose’s Christmas present to Gavin two years ago. She studies the Buddha, notices how his smile has turned into a fatuous smirk. She moves away.

  Standing in front of the French windows she stares out at the moonlit garden. Snow is falling again. The scene looks like a Christmas card. Rose spreads her palms and rests her forehead on the icy glass. Behind her she can hear Gavin making a phone call in the kitchen.

  She wants to sleep.

  Sleep in the snow.

  Lie down in the soft, clean, perfect snow and forget about all this. Fall asleep as the snowflakes settle around her. The cold will slow her racing thoughts, still her pounding blood. The cold will bring peace, stop the thudding in her head.

  She looks down for the key to the French doors but it isn’t in the lock. Panic seizes her until she realises with a great surge of relief that she doesn’t need to unlock the doors. She picks up the stone Buddha from the desk, weighs it in her hand, grips it tightly then swings her arm back. She smashes one of the glass doors. The hole isn’t big enough yet for her to walk through so she smashes more glass.

  The rush of freezing air is bracing, exhilarating. Rose squeezes through the doorway, her nightdress snagging on the glass shards, her thighs and arms tearing as she struggles through the opening. Stepping through the broken glass she walks across the snow-covered patio, her bare feet leaving bloody footprints behind her. She walks into the middle of the lawn, kneels and then lies down in the snow.

  Rose feels slightly better now. The dreadful pounding in her head has stopped. She feels at peace. She can’t quite remember... There was something, something very upsetting... Something to do with Gavin... No matter. She will sleep now and sort it out in the morning.

  But she cannot sleep. There is too much noise. Someone is screaming. Someone is in terrible distress. A man is yelling, sobbing, calling out for help.

  Poor man. Rose wishes she could do something, but she really is too tired to move.

  Gavin will deal with it.

  Gavin is good in a crisis.

  ~

  Rose and Calum stand awkwardly at the door of the caravan, she huddled into her waxed jacket. Darkness is already falling even though it is barely mid-afternoon. Calum ducks back inside the caravan and emerges again on the threshold with a fleece jacket and a small book.

  ‘Let me see you home.’

  ‘No, Calum, it’s okay. I mean, thanks, but there’s really no need.’

  ‘It’s no bother.’

  ‘I know, but actually I’d quite like a walk on my own.’ She scans his face for disappointment. There is only a nod. ‘I need to calm down. There are too many thoughts... I have to be careful.’

  ‘Aye, I know.’ He holds the books out to her. ‘You said you wanted to learn more about geology. That’s a kind of beginner's guide.’

  ‘Oh, thank you... You've been very kind, Calum. And understanding. I do appreciate it.’

  ‘Aye, well, as you now know, I have ulterior motives.’

  ‘You mean you’re really a bastard like all the others?’

  ‘Aye,’ he grins, ‘But I’m a canny bastard.’

  ‘I’ll see you at school on Wednesday then? Ten o’clock?’

  ‘If you need anything - I mean, if you want to see me before then - och, you know what I’m trying to say. I’ll not give you any more hassle, Rose, but I’m here if you need me. My door’s never locked.’

  ‘Go inside, you’re getting cold. I’ll see you Wednesday.’

  She sets off along the track, narrowing her eyes against the onslaught of wind, rain and sand that reduce visibility to a few yards. Resisting the temptation to look back at the glowing windows of the caravan, she wishes she’d left a light on at home to welcome her. Calum’s book digs into her ribs and she steps up the pace, eager to be indoors again.

  She opens her front door. At least there is no fumbling with house keys. No one locks their doors here, day or night, and Rose has learned to leave hers open during the day. The night is another matter.

  She switches on the kettle and shrugs off her dripping coat, removing the book. She examines the contents briefly but then reaches down from a shelf her own copy of Calum’s anthology, scanning the contents page for Stalactite. The wood-burning stove is still alight but languishing, so she opens the doors, shoves in some driftwood and then curls up on the sofa with one of her anaemic, much-loved antique qui
lts. She finds the page and reads Calum’s poem of lost love.

  When, some time later, she has finished crying, Rose re-boils the kettle, makes a pot of tea and retreats to bed, trying to decide whether she is angry with Calum or grateful. The question defeats her. She swallows a tablet and eventually she sleeps.

  ~

  I lie straight in the hospital bed, face down, suffocating. My fingers creep out across the coarse darned sheets until they grip the hard edge and sink into the flesh of the mattress. Pinioned like a butterfly, my eyes tight shut, I cling to the cool solidity of the sheets, then lift my head to breathe great gulps of stagnant, antiseptic air.

  I roll onto my side, sweating, crushing lacerated arms and legs, glad of the distraction of pain. I am suddenly conscious of the length of my limbs, how they flex, slipping and sliding over each other and across the sheets. I curb them and lie still on my back, listening to the thudding of my heart.

  God damn you.

  God damn you to hell, Gavin. You should be in my bed not hers.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sunday. God’s day.

  It seems impossible that the Hebrides could ever get any quieter, then Sunday comes around and even the wind abates. (Not the rain however which is a law unto itself.) The few people who are about are on their way to church, or visiting relatives. Even here there is a certain amount of traffic during the week - cars, a few lorries, the odd flock of sheep - then on Sunday everything stops. All you can hear is the wind and the sea and - if you’re close enough - sheep urinating. It’s peaceful but eerie. Time staggers to a standstill.

  ~

  God would not approve, but I have been working hard today, buried under one of my periodic landslides of ideas.

  I am playing around with some ideas from Calum’s book of poems, Emotional Geology. Geology is not a subject I have given any thought to before. The book he lent me is illustrated with beautiful aerial photographs of Scotland and brightly coloured diagrams. I realised the patterns formed by landslides and folds in rock would lend themselves to a quilted wall-hanging. I’ve made a few sketches and lots of notes. I can make something in three layers, then slice it into sections and re-assemble them - bingo, instant earthquake. Maybe some of the filling could protrude? (Or extrude, as the geologists say.) And then of course the fabrics could be distressed for erosion. My mind is buzzing with ideas - cross-sections, layers, pleats, folds, distortions...

  I am alive again. I can work, my senses are functioning, I’m noticing things. It’s as if I have woken up after a long sleep. A nightmare.

  I am me again.

  ~

  Calum’s little book has explained geological vocabulary to me, so I now understand the significance of the titles of his poems. Boiling rock, while still underground, is called magma. (His poem of the same name describes the suppression of grief-stricken rage.) Lava which cools slowly becomes a black rock called basalt. (Calum’s Basalt is a poem of numb resignation and defeat.)

  I know so little about the earth on which I walk - know little and understand less. The mountains of Harris (visible from the north end of this island) are gently rounded hills, barely in the Munro category of three thousand feet, but apparently they were once as tall as the Himalayas. They are unimaginably old, some of the oldest rocks in the world, but they have been eroded by the elements until they are now gently curved, mere stumps of a once gigantic mountain range.

  A timescale I cannot possibly comprehend, a meaning, a purpose perhaps, that is beyond my understanding. It’s somehow reassuring that there is something bigger out there, bigger even than the mountains.

  I’m not sure what it is. Not God.

  Time, maybe?

  ~

  By eight o'clock on Wednesday morning Rose’s bedroom is strewn with clothes. Sitting on the edge of her bed wrapped in a damp bath towel she sifts through a pile of clothes, casting each garment aside as, variously, too smart, too casual, too sexy, or too small. Her judgement is clouded by the knowledge that - much as she despises the idea - she is dressing to meet a man she finds attractive and wishes to impress. However since she does not wish to look as if she has spent any time or energy grooming herself for the encounter, she is aiming for ‘casually stunning’. Or even ‘stunningly casual’. She will settle for either but doubts whether, at her present rate of progress, either state can be achieved in the two hours remaining before she is due to meet Calum at school.

  Gavin, a man who had a limited understanding of the subtleties of sexual allure, had favoured short skirts and low-cut tops. Whenever Rose dressed to please him she felt like a barmaid. Despite possessing a decent figure, Rose inclined toward a retro/hippy look, choosing clothes for their feel, colour or the way they moved. So, for old times’ sake as much as anything, Rose selects the outfit that she always knew she would wear, the one that Gavin hated: a black velvet Edwardian jacket, tight-fitting with tiny jet buttons fastening up to a high neck and a long burgundy skirt. Both items were flea-market finds and Gavin was unimpressed. When she insisted on wearing them to the theatre he requested that she wear no underwear to give him ‘something to think about’ during what turned out to be a very dull production of Lady Windermere’s Fan. To further spite Gavin she selects sensible rather than pretty underwear and holds her breath as she tries on the jacket and skirt, unworn for more than six years.

  They still fit. The jacket is tight now - Gavin would have approved - but the buttons don’t actually strain. She piles up her red-brown hair with tortoiseshell combs. Standing ankle-deep amidst discarded outfits she looks anxiously into the mirror, more anxiously still at her watch, then decides that she will do.

  ~

  At 9.45, having driven over the causeway onto neighbouring Benbecula, Rose is wrestling with the wind and the heavy glass doors at the high school entrance. Already she is regretting her flamboyant outfit. Passing students stare at her as if she were Mary Poppins, just blown in on an east wind. She approaches Reception cautiously.

  ‘Good morning. I’m here to see Calum Morrison. Of the English department.’

  ‘Is Mr. Morrison expecting you?’

  ‘I hope so. I’m giving a talk to his class.’

  ‘Will you take a seat please?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Rose sits and stares gloomily at the toes of her lace-up boots.

  ~

  I am nervous. For no reason. No reason other than that I am about to see Calum again after a gap of three days. No reason other than that I am inside a building I have never visited before. But there is a familiar school smell, a mixture of chip-fat and chlorine, laced with glue and a faint whiff of locker-room cheesiness.

  I remember the many Parents’ Evenings, all of them attended as a single parent. Perhaps that's why I am nervous. I am bracing myself for the bad news.

  ‘She doesn’t mix very readily...’

  ‘Of course, she could achieve more if she made the effort...’

  ‘She’s very quiet, isn’t she?’

  As if taciturnity were the eighth deadly sin. Poor Megan. You said I talked enough for two. And so, God knows, did Gavin. And you were such a good listener.

  Did we ever give you a chance to talk, Megan?

  ~

  Calum appears and strides towards me. He looks tidy, smart even, in a denim shirt, navy cords and a Simpsons tie and looks as edible as I remember him. I deeply regret my Lillie Langtry outfit.

  ‘Rose! Thanks for coming. Sorry if I’ve kept you.’

  ‘No, I was early. It's not ten o’ clock yet.’ His welcoming smile fades. He is staring at me. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No. I’m just... stunned. You look fantastic!’ He winces and lays a hand on my sleeve. ‘Sorry! I was going to be Mr. Cool-and-Professional, not give you any more hassle, but... you look amazing.’

  The long, splayed fingers on my arm are white with chalk dust. My stomach lurches as I remember Gavin’s hands coiling rope, chalky, damp with sweat, his knuckles bleeding from hand-jamming. Malham
Cove. Ten years ago. As if it were yesterday.

  ‘D’you want a coffee? Tea?’

  ‘No, thanks. Let’s get my stuff in shall we?’

  ‘Okay.’

  He reaches the heavy glass door before I do and pushes it open, seemingly without effort. As he holds the door open for me he looks me up and down again appreciatively. Obviously not a legs man then.

  ‘The kids will be very impressed.’

  ‘You don't think it’s too... theatrical?’

  ‘Not at all. Anyway, you want them to sit up and take notice. They will.’

  ‘I like the tie.’

  He pats the yellow-faced family on his chest. ‘It’s a form of silent protest against the school’s dress code. I have Mickey Mouse for more formal occasions.’ He hails a couple of senior pupils. ‘Fiona... Rory... Will you give this lady a hand unloading her car?’

  ~

  As the pupils shuffle into the classroom Rose busies herself unwrapping quilts and canvases. Calum stands at his desk watching as each child deposits homework in his marking tray. It is a class of twelve and thirteen-year olds and they stare curiously at Rose as they wander to their desks. Some of the girls smile shyly.

  A pale, under-sized boy approaches Calum’s desk empty-handed. Calum is marking a register and does not look up.

  ‘Morning, sir.’

  ‘Good morning, Kenneth.’

  ‘That homework, sir... ’

  ‘Let me guess, Kenny.’ Calum does not look up from the register. ‘You haven’t done it this time because you won the Lottery on Saturday and you’ve been busy consulting with your financial advisors trying to decide how best to spend three million.’

  The boy blinks and swallows. ‘No, sir. ’

  ‘Detention, Kenny. I’ll see you upstairs at lunchtime. Your essay subject will be “What do you buy the man who has everything? Or what I will buy Mr. Morrison when I win the Lottery.” Two hundred words.’ Calum looks up from the register and beams. ‘I look forward to reading it.’ The boy’s shoulders droop and he turns away. Calum throws down his pen. ‘Och, no, I’m in a good mood today. Write a letter to your granny telling her you’ve been selected to play for Aberdeen.’