And the Land Lay Still (20 page)

‘Thanks a lot, Jean.’

‘Sorry. That’s not what I meant.’

‘My father probably said that to her at the time. “Sorry, that’s not what I meant.” And he told you all of this, did he?’

‘He couldn’t help himself. And I’d get angry but I let him tell me. I preferred hearing it to not hearing it. At least it meant he was with me.’

‘And you were still having sex with him,
not
getting pregnant, while Isobel was swelling up with me?’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘You must have been seeing him almost while he was getting married to her?’

‘Yes.’

‘How could you? How could
he
get married to her in those circumstances?’

‘It was what people did. The
right thing
, even if it was the wrong thing. Even if it meant you were going to be miserable for the rest of your life. As I said, I’m not proud of myself. He should have been loyal to Isobel and tried to make it work, and he didn’t. And I was complicit in that, in their marriage being a sham from the beginning, and I’m sorry for it. Can you imagine what it felt like when you walked into my house? I’d decided to keep my independence and Angus had decided to have a child by somebody else. He wanted a son, Mike. He wanted you. And then he sent you to me, to show me what he’d achieved.’

A thought occurs to Mike, too suddenly for him to suppress it. ‘You’re telling me the truth now, aren’t you? This isn’t a story that’s going to have a different ending next week?’

‘I could be dead next week. It’s the truth, and nothing but. Why?’

‘I’m not yours, am I?’

‘What?’

‘You didn’t give birth to me and then, for some reason I can’t even begin to imagine, Isobel raised me as her own? That’s too ridiculous, isn’t it?’

Jean laughs. ‘It
is
too ridiculous. This isn’t
Little Dorrit
, it’s reality. You are Angus and Isobel’s child.’

‘Such things happen.’

‘Good God, look at yourself. You couldn’t be anybody else
but
their offspring. Whatever else they saddled you with, they gave you their looks.’

‘We know so much now that people didn’t know then,’ Mike says. ‘Kids who grew up with a much-older sister who then turns out to be their mother. Kids shipped off to Australia and brought up to believe they’re orphans, who discover their mother’s alive in Glasgow forty years later. Apparently happily married men who are blackmailed or driven to suicide because they actually prefer happily unmarried men to whatever pretence they’ve maintained for decades. It was all kept hidden and secret while politicians went around telling people they’d never had it so good.’

‘There’s something else I’m sorry for,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry I was never able to tell you all this while your dad was alive. It’s so strange how the past makes you keep its confidences. I didn’t even
know
I couldn’t tell you, not until after he was dead. Not even then, in fact. I couldn’t speak to you at the funeral. It’s just now that time is running out …’

‘Time isn’t running out.’

‘Aye it is. And it’s important – I can’t tell you how important it is, Mike – not to leave things unsaid.’

They have come, by some route the details of which are lost in the amount of whisky they have drunk, back to where they started. And Mike understands that whatever he has learned from Jean tonight he has really always known, though perhaps not admitted. None of it really surprises him. And none of it changes anything.

‘I said to you yesterday,’ Jean says, ‘I’m shedding things. So I gave you a hard time about your dad. You’ve made me shed this. Let’s call that a fair exchange.’

‘What about after my father?’ Mike says. ‘You said you didn’t have many relationships before him. What about after? Was there nobody else?’

‘There have been several,’ she says. ‘And that’s been fine and pleasurable and made us feel better about ourselves, I hope. But none of them matched him.’

‘Walter?’ Mike says.

‘I’m not giving you names,’ she says. ‘You’re not, so why should I?’

‘I’m not what?’

‘Giving me names.’ Her stare is very direct. For a moment he is on the verge of telling her about Murdo. Then the moment passes.

And a little later, just before they stagger off to their beds, ‘The truth is,’ Jean says – as if, since they can’t beat the second bottle, she has to drain the very dregs of her thoughts – ‘the truth is, we had great fun together and he didn’t want that to end, even when he and Isobel got married. And neither did I. So we kept it going for a while, but after a year or so it stopped being fun. It began to feel sordid. And he was getting too well known, so we couldn’t be anonymous. Before he had his fling with Isobel it was much better, much healthier. That’s what I remember most, and best.’

‘And there was me thinking it was you he had the fling with,’ Mike says. ‘I know their marriage was crap, but it did last ten years. It always seemed to me that Dad’s flings happened away from home. But I suppose it depends where you’re looking from.’

‘I suppose it does.’

‘There’s no certainty, is there?’ Mike says. ‘It’s the curse of the age we live in. Having to take everybody’s point of view into account. Bigots on radio phone-ins and arseholes adding their online comments to news and blogs full of nothing but ignorance. I mean, what can you trust?’

‘Trust the story,’ Jean says. ‘That’s all you can do. Trust the story.’

§

Maybe it’s the whisky, maybe it’s Jean’s voice, but one of her stories is in his head when he drifts off, and it’s there when he surfaces hours later. It’s about Jack again, the hero of so many of her stories. Sometimes he’s cunning, sometimes lucky, but more often than not he’s an innocent. So. Jack was wanting to go on a journey, and he told his mother he’d be away in the morning and asked her to make him up a piece to take with him. Well, his mother made up a piece, just a hunk of bread and some cheese, and while she was doing this she said, ‘And where are you going on this journey, Jack?’ Because he wasn’t very bright, Jack, he was daft really, and she wanted to see what he’d say. ‘Well, Mother, I thought I would go to the edge of
the world and have a bit look over the edge and see what lies beyond it.’ Because he thought the world was flat, you see. ‘Right,’ she says, ‘and how are you going to get there?’ ‘I don’t know that,’ says Jack. ‘Usually when I set off on an adventure my two older brothers have gone before me, and I follow on behind them, but I seem to be on my own this time.’ ‘That’s right,’ his mother says, ‘you’ve no brothers in this story so you’ll need to make your own way to the edge of the world.’ ‘Well, I suppose I’ll just set off and keep walking till I get there,’ he says, ‘but there’s one thing,’ he says, ‘do you have something to give me before I go, because in the other stories you ask us if we want a wee piece and a blessing or a big piece and a curse, or some such thing, and my two brothers are greedy and take the big piece and a curse, and they always end up in trouble, and I usually take the wee piece and a blessing, and somehow things work out all right for me.’ ‘Ach, well, that’s just stories, Jack,’ his mother says. ‘I’m not going to bless you or curse you, and the piece I’ve made for you is just an average kind of size, but I will give you some advice. If you do reach the edge of the world,’ she says, ‘have a look over it but don’t, whatever you do, step off it, because if you do I doubt you’ll ever get back again, and I’d like to see you safe home again after your adventure.’ ‘Right,’ he says, ‘I’ll mind that.’ She says, ‘There’s your piece wrapped up for you, Jack, and I’ll kiss you goodbye now for I think you’ll be up and away before I’m out of my bed in the morning.’ And she kisses him, she was awful fond of him for all that he was daft, and away they go to their beds.

So in the morning Jack’s up early, and off he goes with his piece and his mother’s advice, and he walks and walks and walks, miles and miles he goes, further than he’s ever gone before, until it’s coming on evening and he reaches the very end of the land. There’s a long sandy beach and the sea breaking on the beach, and Jack is tired, just worn out, so he sits down and eats his piece, and while he’s eating he says to himself, ‘Well, I know that’s the sea, and there must be a lot of it before you reach the edge of the world, so somehow I’ll have to get across it but I don’t know how. Anyway, I’m too tired to go any further, so I’ll just have a sleep here and when I wake up I’ll see what’s to be done about it.’

So he stretches out in the lee of the dunes and goes to sleep to the sound of the waves breaking not far away. But hardly has he closed
his eyes when he feels a terrible
dunch
on the bottom of his left foot, and then another
dunch
on the bottom of his right foot, so he sits up, and here’s a wee man with a long grey beard, just the ugliest wee bodach you ever saw, kicking the soles of Jack’s feet as hard as he can. Jack says, ‘Here, what do you think you’re doing?’ and the wee man says, ‘What do you think
you’re
doing? This is my beach and ye canna sleep here.’ ‘And who are you?’ says Jack. ‘I’m the ferryman that ferries folk across the sea,’ says the wee man. ‘Who are you?’ ‘Well,’ says Jack, ‘I’m Jack and I’m wanting to go to the edge of the world, to have a bit look over it. Is it across this sea?’ ‘It is,’ says the wee man. ‘And can you take me there?’ ‘Aye, I can that,’ says he. ‘Well, I would like to go there,’ Jack says, ‘but I’m needing a sleep right now.’ ‘Well, if you’re to be my passenger, you can sleep here after all,’ the wee man says, ‘and in the morning I’ll take you over the sea to the edge of the world. When you wake up, just walk along the beach, round the end of the point there, and that’s where I keep my boat. You’ll see three boats pulled up on the sand. The first boat has a pair of oars and the second has a set of sails and the third one, that’s mine, and it has an outboard motor.’ ‘Och away,’ Jack says, ‘in a story like this?’ ‘Aye,’ says the wee man, ‘I’m all for modern conveniences. When you get there yourself you’ll see if it isn’t true.’ ‘And is there a fare to pay?’ Jack asks. ‘Well,’ the man says, ‘if you take the boat with oars there’s no fare, and if you take the boat with sails there’s no fare, but you’ll have to steer them yourself and I can’t tell you if that will be easy or no, but if you come with me I’ll make sure you get across the sea but there is a fare.’ ‘And what’s the fare?’ Jack asks. ‘You must give me the most precious thing you have,’ says the wee man, ‘until you come back.’ ‘Well, I haven’t anything,’ Jack says. ‘I’ve no money, and no rings or fancy clothes, I’ve nothing valuable at all.’ ‘The most precious thing anybody has,’ the wee man says, ‘is his soul, and if you want to go across the sea you must leave yours with me.’ ‘Well,’ Jack says, ‘I’m not doing that, I’d be mad to hand over my soul to a complete stranger.’ ‘It’s just a loan,’ the wee man says, ‘you’ll get it again when you come back. In fact,’ he says, ‘it’s really for safe keeping because if you’re away at the edge of the world you might drop your soul over it, whereas I can keep it safe till you come back.’ ‘Well, I’ll need to think about it,’ Jack says. ‘Well, you think about it
and I’ll see you in the morning anyway,’ the man says, and off he goes along the beach. And it’s very near dark now, so Jack stretches himself out in the lee of the dunes and goes to sleep.

In the morning he wakes up, and it’s a fine, sunny morning with just a light breeze blowing, so he says to himself, ‘I’ll take a stroll along the beach to where these boats are, and see what’s what, but I’m not sure if I’ll be going anywhere with yon mannie.’ So he walks round the point and sure enough here’s a boat drawn up on the sand with a pair of oars in it. And Jack thinks, now, if only my older brother had been here before me, no doubt he’d have taken this boat to save himself the fare, and rowed out on the sea, and I’m pretty certain he’d have come to a sticky end of some sort, so I’ll just pass on by. And he walks on a wee bit and here’s the second boat, all ready to go with its sails flapping against the mast, waiting to be made taut. And Jack thinks, if my second brother had been here before me, surely he’d have saved himself the fare by taking
this
boat, and I think he’d have capsized it or something, so I’ll just pass on by. And he walks a bit further and here’s a wee boat with an outboard motor at the water’s edge, and the bodach with the long grey beard is sitting on an old kist beside it, smoking a pipe.

‘Are you ready to go then?’ says the ferryman. ‘Well, I’m not sure,’ says Jack. ‘I’m not sure about this fare. How do I know I’ll get my soul back if I give it to you?’ ‘You don’t,’ says the ferryman, ‘that’s a chance you’ll have to take. But I notice you didn’t take the boat with oars and you didn’t take the boat with sails, so you must have had a reason to come this far.’ ‘Well, I’m wanting to go to the edge of the world,’ says Jack, ‘but I don’t want to lose my soul.’ ‘It’s up to you,’ the man says. ‘The only way across the sea is with me – unless you take one of the other boats, but I don’t think you fancy that.’ ‘No,’ Jack says, ‘I’ve got a strange feeling about those boats, I don’t want to get in either of them.’ ‘Well, it’s me or nothing then,’ says the man. So Jack thinks to himself, he thinks, ach you only live once, I’ve come all this way and if I go home now I’ll always wonder what I missed. ‘Right,’ he says to the ferryman, ‘let’s go.’

As soon as he says that the ferryman jumps up and starts getting the boat ready. He says, ‘Now, I’ll just take your soul and put it in this kist here, and lock it away safely, and you’ll get it again when you come back.’ ‘And will you fetch me when I’m ready to come
back?’ Jack asks. ‘Aye, I’ll do that,’ he says. ‘And how will I let you know I’m ready?’ ‘All you need to do,’ the man says, ‘is turn three times widdershins, that’s anticlockwise, and I’ll be there. Now, get into the boat and sit in the bow, and I’ll sit in the stern.’ So Jack climbs in and sits in the bow, and the ferryman reaches over and touches his middle and Jack gives a gasp, a wee blast of cold air goes through him, and the ferryman’s holding something in his hand, and he goes and opens up the kist and puts the something in it and closes it again and turns a key in the lock and the key is on a string, which hangs round his neck. And all of a sudden Jack feels an emptiness inside him, a wee sadness, and he thinks to himself, so this is how it feels when your soul’s been taken from you. He doesn’t like the feeling but he thinks, well, I’m in it now, I may as well see this through. And anyway the wee man’s already pushed the boat into the water and jumped in and started the motor and they’re heading off out through the waves.