Peter May: The Lewis Man

Fionnlagh shrugged noncommittally. ‘Maybe.’

‘Will you be going to university in the autumn?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I need to find a job. I’m a father now. I have responsibilities to my child.’

FIn nodded. ‘How is she?’

‘She’s fine. Thanks for asking.’

Fin ignored the sarcasm. ‘And Donna?’

‘Living at home with her parents, and the baby.’

Fin frowned. ‘What about you?’

‘Mum and I are still at the bungalow down the hill.’ He nodded his head vaguely in the direction of the house that Marsaili had inherited from Artair. ‘The Reverend Murray won’t let me go up to see them at the manse.’

Fin was incredulous. ‘Why not? You’re the baby’s father, for God’s sake.’

‘With no means of supporting either his daughter or her mother. Occasionally Donna can sneak her up to see me at the bungalow, but usually we have to meet in town.’

Fin swallowed his anger. No point in directing it at Fionnlagh. Time enough for that. Another place, another person. ‘Is your mother at home?’ It was an innocent enough question, and yet they both knew how charged it was.

‘She’s been away in Glasgow, sitting exams for university entrance.’ Fionnlagh registered Fin’s surprise. ‘She didn’t tell you?’

‘We haven’t been in touch.’

‘Oh.’ His eyes wandered back down the hill towards the Macinnes bungalow. ‘I always thought that you and Mum might get back together again.’

Fin’s smile was touched by sadness, and perhaps regret. ‘Marsaili and I couldn’t make it work all those years ago, Fionnlagh. Why should it be any different now?’ He hesitated. ‘Is she still in Glasgow?’

‘No. She came back early. Flew in this morning. A family emergency.’

I can hear them talking in the hall as if I’m deaf. As if I wasn’t here. As if I was dead. Sometimes I wish I was.

I don’t know why I should have to wear my coat. It’s warm in the house. No need for a coat. Or my hat. My lovely soft old cap. Kept my head warm for years.

I’m never sure these days when I come through from the bedroom which Mary I will find. Sometimes it’s the good Mary. Sometimes it’s the bad Mary. They look the same, but they are different people. It was the bad Mary this morning. Raising her voice, telling me what to do, making me put on my coat. Sitting here. Waiting. For what?

And what’s in the case? She said it was my stuff. But what did she mean? If she means my clothes, I have a wardrobe full of them, and they would never fit in there. Or all my papers. Accounts going back years. Photographs. Everything. It certainly wouldn’t all go in a case this size. Maybe we’re going on holiday.

I hear Marsaili’s voice now. ‘Mum, that’s just not fair.’ Mum . Of course. I keep forgetting that Mary’s her mum.

And Mary says, speaking English of course, because she never did learn the Gaelic, ‘Fair? You think it’s fair on me, Marsaili? I’m seventy years old. I can’t take it any more. At least twice a week he soils the bed. If he goes out on his own he gets lost. Like a damned dog. He’s just not to be trusted. Neighbours bring him back. If I say white he says black, if I say black he says white.’

I never say black or white. What is she talking about? It’s the bad Mary talking.

‘Mum, you’ve been married forty-eight years.’ Marsaili’s voice again.

And Mary says, ‘He’s not the man I married, Marsaili. I’m living with a stranger. Everything’s an argument. He just won’t accept that he’s got dementia, that he doesn’t remember things any more. It’s always my fault. He does things then denies it. He broke the kitchen window the other day. I don’t know why. Took a hammer to it. Said he needed to let the dog in. Marsaili, we haven’t had a dog since we left the farm. Then five minutes later he asks who broke the window, and when I tell him he did he says no he didn’t, I must have done it. Me! Marsaili, I’m sick of it.’

‘What about daycare? He goes three days a week, doesn’t he? Maybe we could get them to take him for five, or even six.’

‘No!’ Mary’s shouting now. ‘Sending him off to daycare just makes it worse. A few hours of sanity each day, the house to myself, and all I can think of is that he’ll be back again in the evening to make my life hell again.’

I can hear her sobbing. Terrible racking sobs. I’m not sure now if that’s the bad Mary or not. I don’t like to hear her cry. It’s upsetting. I lean to see through into the hall, but they are out of my line of sight. I suppose I should go and see if I can help. But bad Mary told me to stay here. I suppose Marsaili will be comforting her. I wonder what’s upset her like this. I remember the day we got married. Just twenty-five I was. And her a slip of a lass at twenty-two. She cried then as well. A lovely girl, she was. English. But she couldn’t help that.

Finally the crying has stopped. And I have to strain to hear Mary’s voice. ‘I want him out of here, Marsaili.’

‘Mum, that’s not practical. Where would he go? I’m not equipped to deal with him, and we can’t afford a private nursing home.’

‘I don’t care.’ I can hear how hard her voice is now. Selfish. Full of self-pity. ‘You’ll have to sort something out. I just want him out of here. Now.’

‘Mum …’

‘He’s dressed and ready to go, and his bag’s packed. My mind’s made up, Marsaili. I won’t have him in the house a moment longer.’

There is a long silence now. Who on earth were they talking about?

And suddenly, as I look up, I see Marsaili standing in the doorway looking at me. Didn’t hear her come in. My wee girl. I love her more than almost anything in the world. Someday I must tell her that. But she looks tired and pale, the lassie. And her face is wet with tears.

‘Don’t cry,’ I tell her. ‘I’m going on holiday. I won’t be away for long.’

Fin stood surveying his handiwork. He had decided to start by stripping out all the rotten wood, which lay now in a huge pile in the yard between the house and the old stone shed with the rusted tin roof. If the rain stayed off long enough, the wind would dry it, and he would cover it and keep it for the bonfire in November.

The walls and founds were sound enough, but he would have to take off and renew the roof to make the building watertight and allow the interior to dry out. The first job would be to remove and stack the slates. But he would need a ladder for that.

The wind whipped and pulled at his blue overalls, tugging at his checked shirt, and drying the sweat on his face. He had almost forgotten how relentless it could be. When you lived here, you only noticed it when it stopped. He glanced down the hill towards Marsaili’s bungalow, but there was no car, so she wasn’t back yet. Fionnlagh would be at school in Stornoway. He would go down later and ask if he could borrow a ladder.

The air was still mild, blowing out of the south-west, but he could smell rain on its leading edge, and in the distance saw the blue-black clouds gathering on the far horizon. In the foreground, sunlight flashed across the land in constantly evolving shapes, vivid and sharp against the brooding darkness to come. The sound of a car’s engine made him turn, and he saw Marsaili in Artair’s old Vauxhall Astra. She had pulled in to the side of the road, and was looking down the hill towards him. There was someone else in the car with her.

He seemed to stand for a very long time, looking at her from a distance, before she got out of the car and started down the track towards him. Her long fair hair blew in ropes around her face. She seemed thinner, and as she approached he saw that her face was devoid of make-up, drawn and unnaturally pale in the unforgiving daylight.