Page 66 of Little Wing
He smiled at Peggy kindly while adding a levelling in his eyes he hoped warned her to go no further.
But Peggy didn’t have her glasses on.
‘That terrible business,’ Peggy said, shaking her head, her eyes downcast. She looked up at him and he found he could not look away. ‘But that was a long time ago, Douglas. A long, long time ago.’ She gave him a little shove. ‘You must move on, Douglas. Aye – you must.’
So after church, Dougie ran through the garden, over the road, though the machair and along the marram ridge. On he ran, up the dunes, down to the beach, straight through a tidal rivulet and across the further dunes, headlong into the rain, welcoming it to wash away Peggy’s words. Would he ever not be known as the boy with all that terrible business? Fuck’s sake. And my dad wonders why I don’t come back more often! Dougie decided he’d sprint the frustration out of his system, that’s what he’d do.
But Dougie didn’t sprint. In the dunes above Tràigh Rosamol, the furthest stretch of sands, he stopped. It appeared he didn’t have the beach to himself. There was someone else down there. A woman, on her own, pacing left a bit, right a bit. Stamping and stomping, obviously vexed. She was raising her arms and slapping them down in exasperation, grabbing her hair either side of her head and giving herself a good shake. He thought he could hear her shouting at the sea. And Dougie thought to himself, she looks how I feel. And Dougie wondered, what sort of terrible business has she encountered, then?
It wasn’t because Nell was drenched that made her look so bedraggled to Al when she returned to the hotel late afternoon after a fruitless trip to deserted Leverburgh, it was her demeanour too. It was as if the stoating rain had washed the spirit quite out of her, soaking the very stuffing holding her upright and sunk it down heavy into her boots. It was still raining out there but lightly so and the sun was now spinning through the smirr. Nell, it seemed, had absorbed most of the black cloud.
‘Afternoon, Nell,’ Al called over. Look at you, all drookit!’
It raised a half-smile but she continued her squelch to the stairs.
‘Nell – will you wait up?’
If she’d looked at Al she’d have noted the dance in his eyes, the flush to his cheeks and his broadening smile. Her head, however, was hung low.
‘Say, Nell – there’s someone here. Someone to meet you. I found someone who can help.’
Slowly, she turned.
‘Come,’ said Al. ‘Please – come through to the bar.’ He knew that she was soaking wet, that perhaps it would be decorous to suggest she go up to her room, dry off and change. But – all these days had passed and she was away home soon and finally, just today, finallysomething. Nell looked at him almost fearfully; she hadn’t the capacity just then to wonder who or how, her mind was full of the statement that right here, in the hotel, there was someone who could help.
‘Follow,’ said Al. ‘Come.’
She walked behind him. The bar was empty but for one man sitting with a cup of tea at the far end. He had white hair in puffs, which seamlessly blended with his beard, and round spectacles that appeared to be welded to his face. Nell thought, Father McChristmas.
‘Hello.’ He stood. He was huge, but soft. ‘I’m Reverend Sinclair.’
‘Hello,’ said Nell. He motioned for her to sit and his eyes, intent on Nell, glinted with delight.
‘Now,’ he said, stroking his beard. ‘I didn’t know your mother,’ he said, ‘but I have for you someone who knew her very well indeed.’
Nell knew she couldn’t speak, she could only hope that, in spite of her deafening heartbeat, she’d be able to hear.
‘Aye,’ he said, drawing himself tall and then pouring another cup of tea. He sipped thoughtfully as if calibrating the portent of the information.
‘Miss Keaton,’ he announced. ‘NurseKeaton as she was then. She looked after Flora and she deliveredyou.’
Nell’s shoulders dropped so heavily that her forehead bounced down to the surface of the table. She found she could not lift her head. ‘But my mother’s name was Florence.’ Her voice hoarse, flat, hampered by the tired choke of tears. ‘Florence Lawson.’
A hand on her shoulder. A gentle squeeze. ‘That’s as may be,’ Reverend Sinclair said, ‘buthereshe was only ever known as Flora.’
Nell lifted her head, which was so heavy with information and so besieged with emotion she could do so only slowly.
‘She was known here as Flora Buchanan,’ he continued. ‘On account of Iain Buchanan – God rest him – who took her in.’
The name Buchanan rang a distant bell, but it was too muffled for Nell to hear clearly.
‘Anyway, young lady – it’s Sophia Keaton you’ll be wanting to meet. And I’ve phoned her already and she’s wanting to speak to you too.’
‘The nurse?’
‘Aye – your mother’s nurse.’ Father McChristmas with his sing-song voice and his happy eyes and his kindly face. ‘Yournurse.’
Nell’s voice gave up; she took her hand to her neck and tried to ease the pain of the welling emotion constricting her throat. An oily tear crowded her eye until it slid hot and fast down her cheek.
