Gillian Galbraith - Blood In The Water

‘Elizabeth’s a very… she was a very thoughtful person. I was lucky to have her as a daughter. My husband died when she was only seven, so there were just the two of us. She always tried to make me proud of her. And I was… and I am. She was doing very well and she loves her job at the Infirmary… loved… the job. I don’t see what else I can tell you…’ Her voice began to peter out, and Alice, sensing that if the old lady stopped altogether, she might be unable to hold on to her composure, quickly tried a new topic.

‘I understand that Elizabeth went out with a man called Ian Melville?’

‘Yes,’ Mrs Clarke nodded, ‘she was fond of Ian. So was I. I was very sorry when it all came to an end.’ An expression of acute pain suddenly transformed the woman’s previously impassive features, ‘Oh God!’ she exclaimed, tears beginning to stream down her pale cheeks, ‘…if only she’d kept the child, their child, I’d have a little of her left. Something of her. She should never have had that abortion, I never approved. Never approved. We are Catholics, so was Ian. I suppose she knew what I’d say, what he’d have said…’

The full realisation of her double loss was too much, and she covered her face with her hands, sobbing uncontrollably, oblivious now to the strangers by her side.

Monday 5th December

Sammy McBryde’s right hand landed, with a thud, on the top of the alarm clock, silencing it with one decisive blow. He yawned and stretched, before ruffling his tousled black curls with his fingers and scratching his scalp. In slow motion, he manoeuvred himself out of bed, trying not to disturb his still-sleeping girlfriend, and wandered into the kitchen in his T-shirt and pants to make their morning tea. By the time he returned, Shona’s eyes were open and he passed a chipped mug, silently, to her. Conversation before breakfast usually degenerated into argument, and they had both independently concluded that wordless communication was preferable to the daily bickering that had preceded it. They lay together, thighs just touching, relishing the first and best cup of the day, until Sammy, mug now drained, lit up a cigarette and passed the packet on to his companion. He took a deep drag, steeled himself to leave the comforting warmth of the bed, flung back the bedclothes and raced to their damp, unheated bathroom.

All of yesterday’s clothing lay in a muddled heap on the floor, a black bra snaked across the woolly bathmat and a pair of laddered tights lay, in the missionary position, on rumpled blue jeans. He extracted his work clothes as quickly as possible, noticing the goose pimples on his naked arms, and dressed in haste, rejecting only a jersey stiff with mud from the previous day’s work. The jeans would last one more day, they didn’t actually smell yet. Shona’s eyes were closed when he kissed her goodbye, brushing her cheek with his lips and delighting in the warmth and smooth texture of her skin. He double-locked the front door on the way out, feeling like a sultan protecting the treasure contained within.

The minute he stepped beyond the shelter of the porch he was assaulted by driving rain, blowing horizontally at him and turning the gutters into fast-flowing burns. He began to run, head bowed, through the downpour, splashing and soaking his trousers with every step, until he reached his battered old van. The pockets of his wet jeans stuck to his thighs, making it difficult for his cold hands to get a grip of the keys inside, never mind extract them. The van started, coughing thickly like an old smoker, and he rattled down the Medway in it towards Granton Road.

Davie was waiting for him huddled against the cold and rain, getting whatever inadequate shelter he could beneath the flapping awning of a grocer’s shop. He stank of rum, and his thick, tobacco stained fingers were clamped around a damp little roll-up. That the old fellow continued to cling onto life was, in itself, miraculous. He worked every day, Saturdays and Sundays included, often in the cold and wet, got the cash in hand he required and immediately converted it into rum at the Tarbat Inn. Any cheques he deigned to accept had to be made out to his drinking house, as it was also his bank. The state remained blissfully unaware of his existence: he claimed no benefits, paid no taxes and elected to cast no vote. Solid food, bar the odd pork chop grilled at midnight, rarely passed his lips, and he slept only for a few hours every evening. The remainder of the night was spent sitting upright in an armchair reading, devouring anything and everything in print, feasting equally happily on cowboy novels or cookery books.

As Davie hauled himself up into the van, Sammy noticed for the first time that the old fellow’s pale, cracked lips appeared to be tinged with blue, and his curranty eyes, largely obscured by his woolly bonnet, seemed duller than usual. Davie was the brains behind their partnership. The pair hired themselves out as jobbing gardeners, but they would turn their hands to whatever manual labour was requested by those desperate enough to employ them. Davie’s ability to work out the exact materials required for any job was prodigious, accurate to the last brick or nail, and none of their hard-earned profit was wasted on excess materials. Naturally, he paid himself an extra pound an hour out of their joint wage for his own managerial skills, and this was alright by Sammy; he wanted no responsibility anyway.

The van entered the leafy environs of Primrose Bank as the sun began to emerge from behind black, lowering clouds, and the rain dwindled into little more than drizzle before stopping altogether. They spent the morning, in their soggy clothes, laying sand and slabs for a frosty widow who monitored their every move from behind her net curtains, and remonstrated with them when they stopped, for ten minutes, for a tea break. Not on my time, if you please.

At twelve o’clock precisely they were paid in cash, as previously agreed, and rumbled off in the van along the glistening roads to the Tarbat for the first of Davie’s rums for the day. Sammy sat in the motor in the pub car park, eating the cheese sandwiches he’d made the night before and reading Principles of Practical Beekeeping, a good introduction to his new hobby. Tropical fish were too expensive nowadays, always dying and developing untreatable diseases. Anyway, he’d left the aquarium behind in the old flat, with his old life, and bees at least produced something, even if their stings might take a little getting used to. One day, one day soon, he and Shona would move into the country, somewhere on the Lammermuirs maybe, and she’d have her bed and breakfast and he’d keep bees.

‘When mating occurs, the drone not only gives the queen his passionate embrace, but also his life. The male organs are detached during coupling, the drone dying almost immediately and the queen returns to her hive with the proof of her meeting firmly implanted in her body.’

Involuntarily his mind flashed from bees to humans, and he stopped chewing his bread, almost choking on it at the sickening image suddenly and graphically appearing before his eyes. The unpleasant picture was dispelled by the sound of Davie rapping cheerily on the driver’s side window, signalling that their lunch hour was all but over. They travelled back to Primrose Bank in silence, Sammy trying to focus his mind on the site of his hives in the heather at Kidlaw and Davie busily calculating the number of slabs required for the spiral finish that the widow wanted near her pond.

The sound of the wheelbarrow tipping over, the bricks inside clattering onto the gravel path, alerted Sammy to Davie’s collapse. The old man lay on the grass, one leg trapped beneath the still half-full barrow. His eyes were closed, cap askew and he seemed to have wet himself. Sammy called his name, even slapped him lightly on the face as he’d seen done on television, but was unable to rouse his partner. He ran to the widow’s door and hammered on it. The door opened abruptly, and the woman stared at him as if he had no idea of his place and needed an immediate, unspoken reminder.