Page 103 of Little Wing
If he was honest with himself he also fancied the pants off her, pretty much since she’d first pulled his beanie on. At the time, though, he’d snubbed the sensation – focusing instead on being her guide, leading her through the tussocky grass and along the edge of the dunes to the White Cottage, accompanying her back in time to the place where she’d spent those first happy months of her life.
But his last night in Harris, in the secrecy of his bedroom, he’d thought about her – ordered up for his mind’s eye a vivid recall of her lips, her eyes, the swell of her breasts, her neat bottom as she walked across the garden to the studio while he’d watched from the kitchen. He’d imagined her naked, of course he had. He’d imagined kissing her. The feel of her. It hadn’t felt wrong or ridiculous, that night, but it had felt refreshingly illicit. It wasn’t as if he was going to call downstairs to Gordon, hey! Dad! I’m fantasizing about Nell – much as he wouldn’t have called downstairs when he was fifteen, hey! Mum! Dad! I’ve got a porn mag under my mattress. It was private, it was tantalizing, it was his. And that’s what Nell had been to him ever since, some strange talisman suddenly in his possession to feel overwhelmed by sometimes, and enthralled by at other times. For a while, it had felt dangerous and unsettling, something to brush off and turn away from. But his trip to Colchester had changed that. And in three hours’ time, she would be his for the day.
The heartbeat.
The reggae.
The thoughts.
From Harris via Colchester to here.
No expectations but a whole lot of hope.
Daft bastard. Get up.
In Nell’s flat, the potential outfits she’d pulled together from the decent clothes she owned lay lifeless on her bed – as if there’d been bodies within which had vaporized. She thought about it. Dougie had seen her in crap jeans and a shit anorak and appalling walking boots. He’d seen her with flour in her hair and an apron emblazoned with her name. So – no, not jeans again. She was bored of jeans. And no, not the cargo pants – supremely comfortable yes, but not flattering. And certainly not the outfit she’d worn on the disastrous date with that bloke that Debbie knew. She couldn’t remember his name just then. Public schooly. Rufus or Jasper or Simeon or something. It seemed such a long time ago. For Nell there was before Harris and there was now. And of course there was Harris itself.
Since her return, in her mind’s eye and whenever she could, she had spent a lot of time back there. She pored over her maps and re-tracked her routes with her finger. Even by gazing at a heavy bank of mauve-grey clouds which hung beyond the river rising up from the horizon and blurring her eyes a little, she could re-imagine the Colchester scene as those heather-heavy hills far away. She’d dedicated evenings well into the small hours online, searching and scrolling through photographs of the Outer Hebrides, videos on YouTube and, of course, lengthy periods spent on the holiday rentals website advertising the White Cottage. And Dougie’s beanie was on the hook on her bedroom door. He had said keep it, hadn’t he. And yes, she’d frequently held it to her nose and closed her eyes and inhaled. It wasn’t just Dougie’s scent, its fibres seemed to exude the fragrance of that day – salt and sand and grass and sheep and clean clean breezy air, white paint in a holiday home and the old walls and the dust and the warm stone floor of a forgotten studio.
But if she didn’t hurry up and make a decision about what to wear, Nell was either going to miss her train, or have to run for it in her underwear. She told herself to stop faffing and opted for a layered top that was clingy but soft, a gauzy skirt just grazing her knee and her favourite brown boots. Boho. They called it Boho for Kate Moss. Nell thought her attempt was probably more So-so. But she didn’t care. She felt happy, she felt excited and intrigued, charmed – and her reflection positively shone back at her when she checked the mirror before hurrying out.
Philippa had sent a text message telling her to kiss the face off him. Debbie had left a voicemail just saying good luck and to remember to enjoy it. Debbie also passed on messages from Danny and Libby and Sanjay, who wished to tell Nell that she was to behave, not to get married and not to be late to work on Monday because of silly love. Danny had also told Debbie to tell Nell not to have sex. But Debbie had no intention of relaying that.
For Dougie and Nell, suddenly nerves were in an utter tangle in the minutes leading up to them meeting, but they dissipated immediately when they saw each other. The hug was longer, more tender, and the kiss, which was initially directed to each other’s cheeks, brushed lightly over lips and tasted good.
‘Come,’ said Dougie and it felt natural as anything to take Nell’s hand. And though they were headed for the National Gallery, they found themselves doing laps around Trafalgar Square while they chatted nineteen to the dozen. And when they entered the gallery, though they had tickets for the Caravaggio exhibition, they were continually waylaid by conversation so they walked a random and circuitous path towards the exhibition through room after room, only half-looking at the art. And they marvelled that there was so much to talk about. And they relished all those gaps to fill in for the years that had passed since Nell had left the island at the age of twenty-one months. Occasionally, a painting silenced them and they’d stand where they were, filling their eyes while they continued to fizz inside. Stubbs’sWhistlejackethad done it for Dougie. For Nell, it wasThe Enchanted Castle, by Claude.
‘Look! It’s like Amwin Swede,’ she said.
Dougie peered at the canvas carefully. ‘Like where?’
Nell frowned. ‘A Moon Suede?’
‘Huh?’
‘The castle,’ said Nell, giving Dougie a little shove. ‘On the road to Hushinish. Surely you must know it? It’s a bloody great castle right there on the road! Don’t tell me you’ve never been there?’
He was mindful to stifle laughter because her earnestness was touching. ‘You’ll be pronouncing that Amhuinnsuidhe, Nell.’
He repeated it and they said it together. ‘Avn Soo Yeh.’ She looked so crestfallen that he laughed and hugged her. ‘Call yourself a Hearach!’
‘A what?’
He laughed and spontaneously kissed her forehead. He liked her face when it was all flustered.
‘What did you just call me?’
‘Hearach,’ said Dougie. ‘One who is from Harris.’
And Nell stood stock-still. That was who she was. And she thought that perhaps the reason she was so obsessed with looking at the map and the photographs and the websites wasn’t just about the trip she’d just made, or even about finding Flora. She’d found something of herself she didn’t know had been lost. She thought about the misplaced little girl she had so frequently felt herself to be during childhood when Wendy was up or Wendy was down or Wendy had disappeared into her room or somewhere well beyond the house for hours on end.
There was a bench in the gallery and Nell sat down heavily. She looked at the painting of the castle. Actually, it wasn’t anything like Amhuinnsuidhe. It was simply a springboard. She realized how she’d been continually looking for connections to Harris since her return, no matter how vague, how tangential or fanciful.
‘It’s a funny thing, identity,’ said Nell, as Dougie sat beside her.
Dougie nodded and sighed. ‘Sometimes, I think we redefine who we are according to the shit that happens. But actually, I’ve come to learn that it’s enmeshed and we can never shirk off what’s always been there. Because it’s always been there.’
Nell thought about this. ‘There’s so much I never knew.’
