‘You’ll have to get rid of it,’ he says, the heat of his rage turning to a cold, hard anger as he turns away to pour himself a large Scotch.
For a moment I’m confused and think he’s talking about the lesion. But then I’m dumbstruck with horror as I realise he means the baby. Abortion’s been legal for ten years now, but I haven’t even considered it as an option. I feel a connection to this child already, at once fiercely protective and lovingly tender.
He takes a gulp of whisky and goes on, ‘Get rid of it and then if you need an operation on your throat they can sort that out. You don’t want to lose this role.’
My head fills with white noise and I can’t think straight. And then, through the confusion and the fear, I hear a thread of my mother’s voice, singing the words of songs of love and loss in the kitchen at Keeper’s Cottage:
‘Will ye gang love and leave me noo?
Will ye forsake your ain love true?’
I know the answer to that question: there’s no doubt what Piers is going to do. He has already left this relationship.
And then the noise in my head clears and there is no doubt in my mind, either. I’m going to have this baby and I’m going to raise it on my own. Perhaps my voice will mend in time. The voice coach said there was a chance it would, as long as the damage I’ve done to it isn’t too bad. I’ll need to see a specialist to know. But now that will have to wait a few months. I have some savings set aside which, at a pinch, I can live off until the baby is born and then I can get my career going again. It isn’t over, just on hold. After all, other singers have combined children and a career. Why shouldn’t I?
The Scotch has loosened Piers’s tongue by now and when I tell him to leave he lets fly a stream of invective so bitter it makes me frightened for what he might do to our baby. He tells me he wants nothing to do with me ever again, that I am selfish to make this decision, that I’m just as self-centred as every other actress he’s ever met. ‘It’s probably not even my child.’ He pulls on his jacket and as he wrenches open the door, he flings back at me, ‘It’s not surprising they gave you that role – they clearly know a whore when they see one.’
I shut the door on his hateful words with a thud. The finality of the sound echoes off the walls. And then I collapse to the ground and lie curled on the grimy tiles of the hall floor, my knees drawn up to protect the flicker of new life in my belly as I sob into my hands. I feel completely alone.
But one thing’s for sure, my life is in London now. There’s no way I’m going back to Scotland.
Lexie, 1978
Thankfully Daisy’s slept, strapped into her car seat, ever since we passed Inverness. I know that means it won’t be easy getting her off to bed tonight, but I’d rather have the peace for the final miles. I turn off the cassette player, having grown heartily sick of our combined collection of nursery rhymes and West End show tunes over the two days that we’ve been in the car. The radio reception up here is non-existent, so I’m left with the humming of the engine and my own thoughts as the twisting road draws us north-westwards.
A sense of dread lodges itself in the pit of my stomach as we begin to approach the coast. I haven’t been back once since I left Keeper’s Cottage more than a dozen years ago. Of course, Mum came to see me several times during my career and from the way she went on about it, you’d have thought the journey down on the sleeper was the big event rather than watching her only child perform in Oklahoma! and Carousel. I suppose I always took it for granted that she’d be here, in the little stone croft house on the shores of Loch Ewe, if I ever wanted to come back. But coming back was something I definitely never wanted to do. I didn’t even have the strength to arrange a funeral service in the kirk when Mum died in the hospital in Inverness. It was easier – and far more practical – to have a simple service at the crematorium in the city. I could sense the disappointment and disapproval among the small band of villagers who made the journey to say their final farewells to Flora Gordon even as they shook my hand and muttered their condolences on that awful, empty day.
So now I am returning, at last, reluctantly, having run out of options. And it’s too late. Mum has gone. I still can’t really absorb the finality of those words. How can I carry on without her? The two of us were a team. As long as we had each other, we never needed anyone else. She was the one who gave me the confidence to leave, encouraging me to apply to the stage school and helping me pack my suitcase when the time came. I always knew that even though we were so many miles apart, she was always right there with me in spirit when I stepped on to the stage to sing. But now I’m on my own, with my baby, whom I know will be referred to behind my back as a fatherless bairn. There are worse insults, of course, and I’ve no doubt those will be put to good use, too. There will be the whisper of gossip in the lane, and the tutting of tongues at the kirk gate. And they will say that history has a funny way of repeating itself, and what would you expect from a girl who was born out of wedlock herself and went gallivanting off to the theatres of the big city? She had the voice for it, though, they’ll admit; but then they’ll shake their heads and say for all the good that’s done her.
Daisy wakes up, startled from her sleep as the car rattles over a cattle grid with a clatter. She wails in dismay at finding herself still strapped into her car seat, and squirms, straining to get out, building up to a really good tantrum.
‘Okay, sweetheart,’ I say. ‘We’re nearly there. We just need to stop at the shop for a few things.’
It’s sorely tempting to drive on through the village, past the old gateposts that mark the entrance to the long-deserted Ardtuath Estate, going straight to Keeper’s Cottage so that I can hang on to the precious, final shreds of anonymity for a few more hours. But I’m dying for a cup of tea – and something stronger, too. And I’ll be needing food for supper. There’ll be nothing edible in the house, which has been empty for months.
If I’m being totally honest, the thought of unlocking the door and stepping over the threshold into the chilly, darkening silence of rooms that were always so full of life and light terrifies me. Stopping to do some shopping will delay the moment when I have to confront the bare truth of the things I’ve been trying so hard to ignore for so long. Loss. And guilt. And grief.
I pull up in front of the shop and groan, catching a whiff of a decidedly less-than-fresh Daisy, who’s now screaming at the top of her lungs. ‘Sorry, precious girl, you’ll just have to wait a few more minutes till we get to the house.’
I balance her on my hip, sending up a quick prayer that the shop will be deserted. I push the door open and the bell pings, although it’s drowned out by Daisy who is doing a much better job of announcing our entrance. My prayer has obviously gone unheard, as they mostly do. Several heads turn.
‘Och, Lexie Gordon, it’s yourself. Come home to Ardtuath at long last!’
Daisy’s wails have ceased for a moment as she takes a gulp of air and so the greeting is loud in the sudden silence that has fallen, reminding me that Alexandra Gordon, star of the musical stage, whose name was once printed on West End show bills, is long gone: here, I am – and always will be – Lexie.