Peter May - The Chessmen

Fin stopped and she was forced to turn and face him. ‘I don’t think I owe you anything, Mairead. You were the one who walked away, remember?’

Her eyes were wide and moist, and impenetrably blue. ‘And there’s not a single day that I haven’t regretted it.’

Heavy blue curtains were drawn across the windows in her room. A chequered blue-and-cream bedspread was neatly folded across a bed long since made up by room service. A large suitcase sat on the floor below the window, its lid up resting against the curtains. Mairead crouched to rummage through a mess of clothes to find the photo album, and she stood and threw it on to the bed before slipping out of her coat and draping it across a chair. Beneath it she wore a black blouse and a three-quarter-length black skirt over black boots.

‘You don’t mind if I get changed, do you?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, and Fin wondered what difference it would have made if he’d said no. She kicked off her boots. ‘Nothing you haven’t seen before.’

But he turned away, embarrassed, to pick up the photo album and open it at the first page. The most prominent image immediately to strike him was Roddy’s official school photograph from fourth or fifth year at the Nicolson. The school blazer with its prefect’s piping, the crisp white shirt and school tie. Roddy’s slightly lopsided smile, blonde curls tumbling all around his head. He glanced up to see Mairead slipping into her jeans. She wore a skimpy black bra and panties, her skin like ivory, the smooth curves and lines of a body he had once known so well. And in spite of himself he felt the stirrings of remembered lust deep in his loins. He turned back to the album and flipped over a page.

There were several photographs glued across both of the next pages. One of a very young Mairead on stage. How much rounder her face had been then. The band setting up for a gig somewhere. Donald, sitting in an armchair at a party, red-eyed from the flash, and looking very drunk. And there was Fin, with Whistler and Strings, aged maybe seventeen. All with beers in their hands, arms around each other’s shoulders, and making faces at the camera. He had no recollection of it being taken, and it gave him a start to see himself. He had no photographs from that period of his life. He’d had no camera, and his aunt had never been one for taking snaps. The young Fin, grinning like an idiot. But he could look at it now and see the pain behind the eyes, the denial of a truth he had been unable to face.

‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ Mairead leaned in beside him to take a look. She wore a sweatshirt several sizes too big for her and was still barefoot. ‘I’ve got hundreds of pics. I’m so glad I kept them now. They trigger memories I’d have forgotten otherwise.’ She reached across him to flick over a page, and he felt her breast brush against his arm.

There were more photographs of the band on stage at a ceilidh somewhere, and on the page opposite several taken at the Bridge to Nowhere. So many of the same faces as had been at the cemetery today, but so much younger.

Mairead took the album from him and sat on the end of the bed with it. She patted a place beside her. ‘Sit down.’

But Fin knew it would be fatal. ‘I’ve got to go, Mairead.’

She held his gaze for a long time, eyes laden with disappointment, before closing the album and standing up. She was tall. Almost as tall as Fin, and stood very close to him. He could feel her breath on his face. ‘Don’t go.’ Her voice was barely a whisper.

He could almost hear the beat of his heart, the blood pulsing through his head. It would be so easy. He touched her face with the tips of his fingers. He would be lost in her in seconds. Again. All those primal passions she had aroused in him all those years before, reawakened, as powerful and seductive as they had ever been. And he thought of Marsaili, and the way he had treated her during those first weeks at university. And of Mona, and how he had never tried after the accident to find a way with her, even although they had both needed someone to share their pain. He thought of how he had taken the wrong turning at almost every crossroads in his life, even when he knew which was the right way. And he wondered how it was possible that Mairead could want to make love to him when she had just put the love of her life in the ground.

He said, ‘I’m sorry, Mairead.’ He leaned forward and softly kissed her forehead. ‘Have a good life.’

And he left her standing there, alone in the middle of the room. She didn’t turn as he opened the door and slipped out into the hall.

He felt an enormous sense of relief as he drove across the wide open spaces of the Barvas moor, like a weight lifted from his shoulders. A burden he had carried for years, almost without realizing it. The sky ahead reflected his mood, grey breaking to blue, flashes of sunlight falling in dazzling patches on distant tracts of peat bog scarred by generations of cutting. Colour appeared all across the moor with the change of light, gold and purple, the wind rising now to whip through the long grasses and usher in cooler, brighter weather.

In denying Mairead, he had somehow felt himself more committed to Marsaili, and he was anxious now to get home. To hold her. To tell her how he felt about her. If anyone deserved better from him it was her.

She was hanging out washing on the line when he drew his Suzuki in beside her car. He stood for a moment on the road above the bungalow looking down at her, hair streaming forward in the wind, like the sheets she was pegging to the rope. Her face, pink from the effort of fighting the breeze, was still lovely, even without make-up, and he remembered the little girl with pigtails and blue ribbons who had stood up for him on his first day at school, who had shortened his name to Fin and who had taken his heart from the first moment he set eyes on her. And he felt an ache somewhere inside him. A sense of grief for their lost innocence, for half their lives squandered and gone for ever.

He walked slowly down the path and stopped at the steps to the kitchen door. She hadn’t heard him or seen him yet, and he watched as her still-slim body arched itself against the wind, arms reaching and straining to hold the rope and manage the furling and unfurling of the sheets. And then she turned and saw him. She stooped to pick up her empty laundry basket and wade wearily up through the grass towards him. Pale-blue anxious eyes searched his face. ‘I didn’t expect you back so soon.’

He shrugged. ‘A funeral’s not something you hang around at.’

‘Didn’t you go to the wake?’

‘Briefly.’

There was the hint of a query in the tilt of her head, in the gaze with which she examined him. ‘And how was it?’

‘The wake?’

‘The funeral.’

‘As you’d expect. Donald was there, and helped carry the coffin.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘ Un expected.’

He smiled. ‘It was.’ Then hesitated. ‘Mairead sang the twenty-third psalm in the church. Unaccompanied.’

‘That must have been moving.’ There was no hint of sarcasm in her tone, but Fin felt it there.

‘Yes.’ He wanted to tell her how it had been in Mairead’s room. How he had resisted her, and turned his back on her. But he knew it would only ever be open to misconstruction. He reached out to touch her face, as he had touched Mairead’s less than an hour before. But she turned away towards the steps.

‘Anyway, I’m glad you’re back. I was going over to my mother’s. You can look after the baby now. And keep an eye on the washing. Take it in if it starts to rain.’ She was swallowed up by the open door, disappearing into the house. And Fin stood for a moment longer, watching the sheets flap in the wind, whipping and snapping and pulling at the rope. He could see clouds gathering already on the far horizon, and knew that it wouldn’t be long before he would have to take them in.