If she were here right now, she’d probably tell me about her latest trip with Pauline into Liverpool: how she picked up a bargain, what diet Pauline was on, something outrageous Pauline said to the waiter in the Casa Italia, where they had taken to going for lunch these last ten years or so. Whatever. Normal stuff, quiet stuff, the day-to-day stuff of love. But we can’t talk about anything anymore. And I can’t have back the time I didn’t spend with her when I was establishing my career, having a family, living in London. I’m still busy. An early night home is eight p.m.; a later night sees me waking up on the camp bed in chambers, scuttling out to M&S for new knickers and shirt if I’ve neglected to bring spares. Time I cannot get back. It’s not that I regret it, not quite. Just that, right now, I’d happily shove a knife into my own leg if I thought it would buy me one more minute, one more second with her.
Seven
Carol
1984
Tommy hoists Jim’s arm around his shoulders and limps with him across the car park to Carol’s rusty old Cortina.
‘Tommy,’ she says, scurrying alongside. ‘What about Ted? If I don’t get back in time, like? It’s your wedding. You can’t be—’
‘Leave it with us, Carol. Not like we’re blushing brides, is it, me and Pauline? This has happened now. Your Johnny can help us later. We’ll put Ted on the settee as per, OK? Johnny can stay at yours till you get back, eh?’
‘Are you sure? Only—’
‘Carol. Listen to me. It’s fine. Ted’ll be none the wiser. Why change the habit, eh?’
‘But he might wake up.’
‘Aye, and pigs might fly. Now open this car door before my arm breaks off.’
She laughs nervously, unlocks the door. Tommy helps Jim into the passenger seat.
‘Hey, Jim,’ he says. ‘D’you want to borrow some undies? You know what them nurses are like.’
‘Get back to your wife,’ says Jim.
‘Tell you what, you can borrow Pauline’s knickers, can’t you? Not like she’ll be needing them much longer.’
The men laugh. Tommy bangs on the roof of the car, winks at Carol and runs back to the community centre. She bites her lip and watches him go inside, rubbing the rain out of his hair. Through the brick, the steady bass of the music throbs.
In the car, condensation fogs the windows. The interior is a state: the vinyl trim is hanging off the doors, yellow tongues of foam loll out, honeycomb where the kids have picked at it. These things don’t bother her normally, but she’s mortified now.
‘It’s wetter than you think,’ says Jim.
‘It is, yeah.’ She runs her hand across her own hair. It’s stuck together in a sheet. She looks a mess, she knows it. Jim’s shirt is transparent on his shoulders; his blazer lies across his lap.
Start the car, Carol. Start the ruddy car and drive.
‘Right then,’ she says, nails digging into the palms of her hands. What if Ted wakes up? This will be the one time; it would be just like him. He’ll wake up, she won’t be home, he’ll know. It’s madness to take Jim to the hospital. But it’s too late to go back to the wedding.
‘You OK?’ Jim asks.
‘Fine,’ she manages. ‘What’s with the knife anyway?’ Her voice is too loud; it ricochets around the inside of the car like cowboy bullets on The High Chaparral. Out of the corner of her eye she sees him make a book with his hands.
‘Worn by the menfolk,’ he says, pretending to read, ‘the small dagger or skean-dhu is a vital part of traditional Highland dress.’
She chuckles, a release of nerves, glad that he, like her, is keeping up the jokes now they’ve left the safety of other people.
‘So are you supposed to stab yourself with it?’
‘That’s all part of it, aye. Actually no, you’re supposed to put it into the sheath. Whoops, eh?’
Her jitters die down a little. ‘Better get you to the hospital then. Don’t want you bleeding to death. Make a right mess of the upholstery.’
‘Well we wouldn’t want that, would we?’
She dares herself to glance at him. He’s grinning widely at her. She stabs at the ignition with the key. So many teeth. Surely he has more than most people. She wipes her cheeks, hopes her mascara hasn’t run. Finally the key finds the ignition and she pulls the shuddering car forward. Ahead, gateposts stand sentry at the exit to the car park, a big white arrow on the tarmac and the words WAY OUT.
They have fallen silent. Her eyes hold the road but she can feel he’s turned to look at her; can smell wet wool from his kilt as it dries in the heat of the car. She makes herself speak.
‘So where’re you from, then?’
He tells her that he lives in Perth, that he works on an oil rig. I work the rigs, y’know? is how he says it, and she has to ask him to explain.
‘What’s that like?’ she says.
‘It’s OK. Plenty of time off and it’s a good enough laugh, y’know? Christmas is shite, though. It’s like an old folk’s home, all these trapped fellas in paper hats blowing blowers, drinking alcohol-free lager. Tragic.’
It’s raining harder. She tries the wipers on the faster speed, but the frantic swipe of them puts her even more on edge. She changes them back. The car fills with their intermittent frog croak. Up ahead, the slip road looms grey through the spattered windscreen.
Jim asks her about herself. She keeps to the facts. Two kids. Yes, her husband had a few too many tonight. Yes, it’s lovely to see Tommy and Pauline so happy, tying the knot after all these years. She wonders how much Tommy has told him. He probably knows exactly what her life is. So why ask? Perhaps he’s trying to give her back her privacy, covering her as you might throw a blanket over a naked troubled soul in the street.
‘You married, then?’ Heat climbs up her face. Honestly. Her and her stupid gob.
‘Divorced,’ he says simply. ‘My marriage died the day she called me up on the rig. “It’s Saturday night, Jim,” she said.’ He imitates a woman’s voice like all men do: stupidly high-pitched, not like a woman at all. ‘“And there’s gonna be some shagging in this house tonight whether you’re here or not.” That’s what she said. Charming, eh?’
Shock courses through her. A thrill follows. ‘She never said that?’
‘She did. Put in an emergency call. I was beside myself.’
‘God help us. What was her name?’
‘Moira. She was bad news, but it was a long time ago.’
They have reached the hospital. She parks and pulls up the handbrake. He’s not mentioned kids, she thinks. He’s not mentioned a girlfriend.
* * *
In the waiting room, Carol checks her watch every five minutes. Almost midnight. The wedding will be wrapping up soon. Tommy and Johnny will be bundling Ted into the back of a cab within the next hour or so. Poor Tommy. Poor Pauline. They shouldn’t have to get involved with her and Ted, not on their wedding day. Still, at least Tommy isn’t here, waiting for the nurse.
‘Mr MacKay?’