Face the Wind and Fly (13 page)

There was silence. Tam reached into his pocket and pulled out a pipe and a tin of tobacco. He opened the tin, pulled out a reamer and cleaned the bowl of the pipe, then packed it with fresh tobacco and tamped it down. Ibsen watched the ritual, his growing agitation calmed by the familiarity of it.

He said, ‘Anyway, I was about to tell you, this woman, Kate – she’s asked me to help out with a community garden they’re planning, on that old bit of waste land next the school.’

Tam grunted. ‘Wondered when someone would finally think about something like that. You’ll do it?’

‘I dunno. It’d be like sleeping with the enemy—’ Ibsen broke off, startled by the train of thought the stock phrase set in motion.

‘John Stuart Mill,’ Tam said.

‘What?’

‘Father of Utilitarianism. If it promotes happiness and reduces suffering, then it’s for the greater good. Do it.’

Ibsen rolled his eyes to the ceiling and shook his head at his mother. ‘Trust you to turn a simple decision into a philosophical argument.’

‘You’ve got it wrong. The philosophical argument informs the decision.’

Wellington gave a low growl and twitched. ‘Chasing rabbits again,’ Ibsen grinned.

‘The garden?’ said Tam.

‘Jesus, Pa, if it stops you nagging I’ll do it,’ Ibsen groaned. ‘Anything for a quiet life.’

But he had a feeling that if he took on the project, his life would be anything but quiet

Chapter Fourteen

Andrew ladled spaghetti into bowls and handed them to Ninian and Kate.

‘Thanks.’ Kate slopped the pasta round her bowl without interest. ‘Andrew—’

‘Yes?’

‘I thought I’d take you for a drink before supper on Saturday, maybe somewhere in town for a change? Malmaison? If it’s nice we can sit outside. Harry and Jane can join us, then we can all come back here to eat.’

‘I’m going to be in Elgin.’

‘In
Elgin
? On your birthday?’ Elgin was in the north of Scotland, a hundred and forty miles from Forgie.

‘I’ve made an arrangement to see the abbot at Pluscarden Abbey.’

‘You’ve had the call? Surely the visit could wait a few days.’

‘It’s all arranged,’ Andrew said with finality.

Ninian stared at his father, then at his mother, then mumbled, ‘Oh fuck,’ but as neither of his parents told him off, he blew out his cheeks, then carried on shovelling spaghetti into his mouth. Growth requires nourishment.

‘But we always have a birthday dinner.’ Birthdays were important to Kate. Andrew spent his first birthday after they’d met with his family and her memories of loneliness and anxiety still lingered.

‘Sorry.’

‘Brilliant,’ Ninian muttered. ‘Just fucking brilliant.’

‘Don’t swear, Ninian. When were you planning on going?’

‘In the morning.’

‘Just for the day?’

‘A couple of days.’

Kate felt unease well in her stomach and pool there. This was unlike Andrew. Research, yes, but to be away on such a special day? Family had always been important to him. There
was
something going on, there had to be. ‘Well at least shift it, Andrew, so that you’re back by the evening. Your family wants to see you. Dinner’s important.’

‘
My
dinner was important.’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake.’ She spat it out between gritted teeth. Ninian tossed his fork into an empty bowl, then stood up and walked out. ‘You’re punishing me – all of us – because I had to go out that night?’

Andrew met her stare defiantly, his jaw set and hard. Then his eyes flickered and he dropped his gaze. ‘If it means so much to you, Kate, I’ll try to go the day before and make sure I’m back in time for dinner. All right?’

It was a victory, but it didn’t feel much like one.

Kate hadn’t forgotten about meeting Ibsen Brown and, as Andrew was away, an evening at The Crossed Keys would fit in very nicely. She scanned her wardrobe. What was appropriate? She had never been in the pub in Summerfield. She settled on skinny jeans and heels, teamed with a crisp white shirt and a vintage silk crepe scarf festooned with a riot of pansies. Casual but comfortable, nothing too expensive, flowers for a gardener. Before she left, she tried Andrew’s mobile.

‘Andrew Courtenay, sorry I’m unavailable, please leave a message.’

He would have it switched off, of course, he was in an Abbey. There was probably a rule of silence or something. She imagined stillness and the sun slanting through stained glass windows onto old stone, and Gregorian chanting. A ‘no mobile phone’ rule made sense, but she left a message anyway. Hopefully he’d pick it up at some point.

‘Hi it’s me. Just wanted to know you’re safe. Call me when you can.’ After a second she added, ‘Love you.’

There’d been another time when he’d been unable to call her: when he’d still been with Val. Then there’d been months of furtive conversations during manufactured tasks – ‘I’m putting the bins out...’ or ‘I’ve just dashed out to get some milk...’. There’d been rushed arrangements, frantic declarations of love, assurances that it would all be sorted soon. Kate had hated that period. Duplicity was not in her nature. That first birthday, she’d still been trying to come to terms with what had happened, but not being with Andrew was not an option. It wasn’t just lust – though she’d never experienced such overwhelming desire. He was disarmingly romantic. In those early weeks, he’d sent flowers every day, so that her flat was filled with the heavy scent of lilies and roses. He was staunch through the nightmare of her boyfriend’s acrimonious departure, when, almost constantly in tears, she’d felt herself drowning in guilt.

She remembered saying to Andrew, ‘We should celebrate your birthday,’ and the shadow that had crossed his eyes. Birthday meant family, which meant that Andrew would be celebrating with them and she’d be here, alone.

‘I want to be with you always,’ Andrew had assured her, ‘I just need to find the right moment to tell Val.’

 ‘Oh.’

I need the right moment to tell Val.
Could she believe him? Charlotte, surprisingly judgmental about her affair with a married man, told Kate in no uncertain terms that he was just toying with her.

‘Men like that never leave their wives, whatever they say,’ she told Kate brutally. ‘Don’t waste your life on him, Kate.’

‘Men like what?’ she said, surprised by Charlotte’s vehemence.

‘He’s just a womaniser, believe me.’

She didn’t believe Charlotte, of course. And she did see Andrew on his birthday. He’d found time, an hour snatched on some flimsy excuse, to come round to the flat and she’d fed him on fruit and cheese and cake and they’d made love. She bought champagne – not Cava, she’d splashed out, even though she wasn’t earning much – but found when he poured her a glass that she couldn’t drink it.

‘Val was like that when she got pregnant,’ Andrew had remarked casually, and they’d looked at each other, both suddenly horrified by the possibility, for different reasons.

Andrew had been forty-one. She’d been twenty-two. And yes, she had been pregnant.

In some situations, Kate was fearless. She didn’t mind dealing with spiders or mice. She could climb an eighty-metre high wind turbine without feeling giddy. She could face an angry group of protesters and challenge prejudice with explanation. For some reason, though, as she strode to the front door of The Crossed Keys, she was forced to admit to herself that she was edgy about seeing Ibsen Brown again. He was so damned attractive.

Silly. He’s married, and a father.

The pub was an old one and sat in the middle of an array of miserable-looking Council-built houses. Many had front gardens filled with rubbish or paved over, others had boarded-up windows. There was graffiti on some walls and an array of satellite dishes. The contrast with Forgie could hardly have been greater. Still, there was no pub in Forgie. At least Summerfield had a lively hub.

She put her shoulders back and her chin up, and pushed the door open.

There was upholstered seating round the edge of the room, with low bar stools scattered by dark-stained tables. The bar itself gleamed. The brass rail running round it was supported by a dozen glorious brass elephant heads, their trunks curled to form the ring that held the rail. Curious, she forgot her nervousness and crossed the threshold to look.

‘Hi, Kate.’

‘Hi.’ Ibsen’s smile blew away her unexpected shyness. It was the first time she’d seen him wearing a shirt, rather than a tee shirt. It was pale lapis, exactly the colour of his eyes, and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing tattoos. ‘Poppy’ and ‘Hebe’. Old girlfriends? His mother and grandmother? Or maybe he just liked flowers.

‘What’s yours?’

He was waving a wad of notes and looking at her inquiringly.

‘I’d love a gin and tonic, but I should be—’

‘My treat. Here—’

He pulled a high bar stool out for her and she clambered onto it, feeling precarious.

‘Nora!’

The Keys’ barmaid had hair the exact colour of the elephant brasses. She turned and smiled. Her lips, carelessly splashed with scarlet, parted to reveal a tooth smeared in matching red.

‘C’me here, Nora darling.’  Ibsen beckoned the barmaid towards him, then levered himself across the bar on strongly muscled arms. He reached out his right hand and used his finger to wipe the lipstick smudge off her tooth. It was an oddly tender gesture for such an obviously strong man. ‘There. Beautiful again,’ he said, and kissed her cheek with a luscious and noisy smack of his lips, which were full, and restlessly mobile, and arched like angel’s wings.

Nora fluttered a hand. ‘Get away with you, Ibsen Brown,’ she said, blushing.

‘The lady would like a gin and tonic. And a coke for me, soon as you like.’

‘Coming right up.’

She said, making conversation, ‘Where’s Wellington?’

‘My parents have got him this evening.’

‘As well as the baby?’

The barmaid set down the drinks. ‘Ibsen’s been a rock for that sister of his.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Cassie. Ibsen’s sister.’

‘I don’t—’

 ‘Cassie Grant,’ Nora explained patiently. ‘She couldn’t have done without Ibsen when her old man was away on the rigs. Not after getting pre eclampsia and being rushed in, and the baby being so poorly.’

Comprehension dawned. She swung round to Ibsen. ‘Oh! The baby isn’t yours?’

He’d clearly been bottling up his amusement. His smile erupted into a belly laugh. ‘I was just lending a hand.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘Cassie had to go see the quack. The best thing about being an uncle is you can hand the infant back.’

‘Yes. I guess you’re right.’

‘Don’t you take any notice of him,’ Nora said. ‘Ibsen’s crazy about little Daisy Rose. Can’t stay away from her.’

‘Thank you, Nora,’ he said sternly. ‘Davey Fegan wants a pint.’ He waved along the bar to where a puffy-faced man in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt was brandishing a note and trying to catch Nora’s attention. ‘She thinks I’m a softie,’ he said to Kate.

‘Well? Are you?’

‘Do you think I am?’

She thought of the meeting in the village hall. ‘I don’t think... Hmm. Not always, certainly.’

‘Hey Ibsen.’ The man he’d called Davey passed by, two foaming pints clutched in large fists. ‘Melanie’ll kill you.’

‘I’ll survive,’ Ibsen said cheerfully.

Kate raised an eyebrow.

‘Melanie McGillivray. The girl you met on the Summerfield Law. I expect she’ll drop by later.’

‘With a gun?’

‘Looks can kill. Davey thinks she’ll be jealous.’

‘Of
me?
’

The twinkle in his eyes turned into something altogether more intense. ‘Why not?’ he said softly.

She jerked away, flushing. ‘I should go,’ she heard herself saying. Go? Go why? Because he was teasing her and she was rather enjoying it? Or because he had got a girlfriend with deadly eyes? Or – the thought did flit across Kate’s mind – because
she
was married and had a husband, who was currently in an Abbey?

‘Go? You’ve just come.’

‘I—’ This was ridiculous. She’d come for an answer about the garden and she was going to make sure she got it. ‘About the garden—’

‘Ah yes.’ He picked up his glass and took a long draught of the dark brown liquid. ‘The land by the Primary School.’

‘Have you given it any thought?’

‘I seem to remember saying I’d give you an answer tonight.’

‘Well?’

Kate tried to soften her impatience with a smile. Then she worried that the effect was too encouraging – on a personal level – so she tucked away the smile and tried to soften her expression to one of quiet expectancy. This was ridiculous. When had she last felt so self-conscious?

‘Is there anything else you’d like to know? I mean, have you made a decision or do you need more information?’

Ibsen looked thoughtful. He scratched his hair. She remembered her comment about a ribbon and realised she hadn’t brought one as she’d threatened. He turned his face to the bar for a second and she saw a dull gleam at the back of his head.

‘Wait.’

She reached out and grasped his arm, then turned his head, firmly, further away from her so that she could see his ponytail properly. What was securing his hair? It was black and satiny, and wrapped round and round, and it was knotted, not tied in a bow – but it was, very distinctly, a ribbon. She laughed out loud. ‘I don’t believe it!’

His lips were twitching. ‘I couldn’t trust you not to bring pink. Or something sparkly.’

She still had her fingers on his hair when a voice said, ‘And a very good evening to you, too.’

She dropped her hand. Melanie was standing behind Ibsen, glaring at her. Her auburn hair was gleaming and thick and a miniscule dress in electric blue slithered across her hips, revealing a sensational figure – but her heavy eyebrows were knotted and the glare of the emerald green eyes was drilling into Kate’s skull.

‘And hi to you too, Mel.’ The amused look on Ibsen’s face hadn’t changed, but something in his eyes had. The twinkle had gone.

Melanie slid an arm round Ibsen’s waist possessively then deliberately turned her back on Kate so that she almost obscured Ibsen. ‘Mine’s a peach schnapps and orange juice, Ibs, ta.’

He moved her gently to one side, but gestured to Nora and ordered the drink. ‘And another gin and tonic for Kate please, Nora.’

‘Is
she
staying?’ The sulky voice rose in disbelief.

Kate slipped off the bar stool and reached for her handbag. There was absolutely no reason why she should stay here and suffer this kind of rudeness. ‘I see you’re busy, Ibsen. We can discuss the garden another time.’

Ibsen said levelly, ‘No need. Mel, here’s your drink, be a doll and go talk to Sonja for ten minutes, okay? I’m talking business.’

Kate had entered foreign territory in more ways than one. First, she was in Summerfield, second, she was in The Crossed Keys, and third, she was alone in a strange pub. She had no wish to add to all this by entering into some weird contest, with unclear rules, over Ibsen Brown. For a few seconds she hesitated, while Melanie scowled at her. Then there was a toss of red hair and a glare –
if looks could kill
– and she shrugged and moved off, clutching her drink.

‘You should have told me. I don’t mean to spoil anyone’s evening.’

‘Mel likes to be the centre of attention.’

Kate grasped a brass elephant head and levered herself back onto the stool with some reluctance. ‘If you’re sure. I won’t stay long anyway. I promised I’d do something about this garden, that’s all.’

Ibsen’s glass was empty and she realised he hadn’t order a refill for himself. ‘Can I get you another?’