Whirligig (10 page)

Selective Memory
, Katharine Whitehorn

‘B
ut you don't understand,' Claypole repeated as he danced around a moving Coky on the pavement outside the community hall. The cries of the seagulls above him were no less plaintive. ‘I'm not just
sorry
. I'm really,
really
sorry.'

‘There's no need,' she said.

‘Stop,' he said.

They were outside the police station now, next to Claypole's horrible electric car. If Coky did not forgive him for his blundering remark, he might as well get in it and drive back to London.

‘Listen,' he said, and held his forehead. But he did not continue. To his surprise her expression was not registering anger. This was sorrow.

‘I'm not offended,' she said. ‘The reason I'm upset is that I know she's a… what was the word you used? Begins with an “h”?'

‘Hooker?' he suggested.

‘No. For God's sake, Gordon.' She was trying to be
angry, perhaps. But the corners of her mouth were turned up in a smile.

‘Harridan?' he suggested.

‘Yes. Harridan. I suppose it hit a nerve.'

They both looked out over the harbour.

‘Oh. Right,' he said.

Coky gave a shudder in the quickening evening breeze as Peregrine appeared next to them, lighting a cigarette.

‘Could have gone worse,' Peregrine chirped.

Claypole turned to his business partner. ‘Could it?'

‘Well, the wicked witch talked a lot of bilge, but she didn't land any blows.'

‘She's your sister, Peregrine,' said Coky. Her expression was pained.

‘Hm,' said Peregrine, and blew smoke voluminously. ‘Come on. All back to mine for a dram.'

‘We'd better get your stuff from the car,' said Coky.

‘Are we abandoning the car?' Claypole asked, cheered.

‘Well, we can't take it on the boat,' said Peregrine.

Claypole gulped and smiled horribly, showing his lack of teeth.

‘I think I'll drive it. If that's… Can you get to the house by car?'

‘Oh, yes, but…' Coky was suddenly amused.

‘Nah,' Claypole said, ‘I just… Brr.'

Claypole did not want to appear scared of boats. Because Claypole was not scared of boats. What he was scared of was drowning. But he looked about the harbour to see if there was a boat that Peregrine might use to get around in. A skiff. Wasn't that the word for those little death-traps? Those tiny rowing boats that bobbed and ducked on the ocean until a wave or a
whale came and tossed the thing upside down? Maybe it was a rig, or a dinghy. However you were meant to describe them, Claypole could see no such thing in the harbour. All he could see were fishing trawlers, pleasure boats and…

‘Is that it?' Claypole's eyes widened.

‘Yup,' said Peregrine proudly. There was a fifty-foot yacht, pristine white and appearing to gleam even in the early evening gloom. Along its side was emblazoned ‘Lady of the Isles' and a trio of ‘go faster' stripes.

‘It's just a boat,' said Peregrine, his chest swelling gently.

‘It's a bloody great yacht is what it is,' Claypole squeaked. Was this, he wondered, what old money did with itself?

‘Posh people call it a boat,' said Coky. ‘It would be very “Non U” to talk about your “yacht”. Isn't that right, Peregrine?'

Coky was teasing her uncle, but he seemed not to hear. Claypole backed away.

‘It's a very nice… boat. But I'll just…'

‘Don't be silly. It'll take you ages to drive,' she said.

‘Really, I… I'd better take… with my stuff in the car, and… It's fine. Really, I'll take the… Pfah, no problem.'

‘OK, but you might need directions…'

‘Got satnav,' Claypole called over his shoulder, already wrestling his things out of the foul luminous car.

Claypole checked into the Loch Garvach Hotel and dumped his rucksack in his room – a minute paisley-patterned box that smelled damply of chemicals – and received directions to MacGilp House from the hotelier
to which he paid almost no attention. The car was one of the generation of electric cars that was almost completely silent, before designers gave them an artificial ‘car noise' to decrease the sense of eerie unease in the driver. The only sounds were the muffled swish of tyre on road, his own breathing and – most unnervingly for a driving experience – birdsong. He could find only one radio station that didn't crackle, and he smiled at the dedications. ‘This one goes out to all the Kirkinpatrick Posse from Craigie T. He says take a yellow one for him, 'cos he's workin' on the rigs till Christmas. It's Runrig!'

He looked at his phone, but the satellite navigation system had become paralysed with indecision. There was no reception. He would have to busk it.

After a few miles, the road became a single track littered with foul municipal notices bearing the legend ‘Passing Place' where Claypole had remembered black-and-white painted wooden markers from his childhood. He did not let up speed. If he was going to go wrong, he calculated, it was better to go wrong quickly so that he could double-back and take another go at it. Anyway, speed made it fun – like some sort of extraverdant computer game. He saw a sign to ‘MacGilp House' and turned down a lane. The track started to show signs of becoming a long driveway, with thistles and patches of grass growing in the middle, but Claypole was so pleased at having gone the right way that he let his foot drift down on the accelerator, sometimes reaching the vehicle's top speed of forty-two miles an hour. And that's when it happened. Stepping whimsically into the road, just over the brow of a hill, was a female roe deer. The hind had no time to react to the impending collision, owing to the near-silence
of the car. Claypole himself had only a moment. In some drivers, the reaction would have been to stamp on the brake. In others it would have been to steer the car onto the verge to avoid the animal. Claypole was too shocked to do either. The only thing he managed to do was take his foot off the accelerator and close his eyes. It was thus at thirty-six miles an hour that he and his tinny car hit fifty pounds of startled venison full in the chest.

Night had only just fallen when Claypole, ashen and shivering, approached the French windows of the library of MacGilp House. He might have approached many other doors of the house before these to try and gain entry had he not been guided to them by loud Wagner. Claypole saw through a gap in the heavy curtains that Peregrine was smoking and drinking whisky, a laptop computer open at a pine table in front of him. When the old man heard Claypole's ‘tack, tack, tack' on the window, he quickly shut the laptop, killing the music. Drawing back the curtains and seeing who it was, Peregrine windmilled his arms in welcome before opening the doors with much unlocking and unbolting.

Claypole blundered in and headed straight for the fire.

‘Ha ha,' piped Peregrine as Claypole rushed past him. ‘You've taken your time. I nearly sent out a search party.'

‘Nightmare,' was all Claypole could say by way of greeting.

‘Good heavens, old boy. What happened?'

‘Buh.' Claypole dragged his hands down his face as he
let the fire warm his thin-suited rear.

‘Can I, ah, get you a drink?' Peregrine tapped his pockets.

Claypole's face emerged from his hands and displayed the purest gratitude. Peregrine poured a whisky and handed it to Claypole, who looked at it doubtfully for the merest moment before throwing three-quarters of it down his throat. He looked at his host's raised eyebrows.

‘Don't wanna talk about it.'

Claypole watched Peregrine silently refilling the glass in his hand and heard the parting words of Dr De Witt echoing in his mind. ‘You must eat better food, and no drinking. Exercise, also. Slowly at first, then getting more…
krachtig
.' Then the doctor had given a cruel smile. ‘Otherwise you will die soon I think.'

While Peregrine fussed about in a hostly way, offering more drink (accepted) and to hang up Claypole's suit jacket (refused), Claypole had the opportunity to assess the room. The most striking feature of the library was a mounted and stuffed tiger's head, the sight of it these days offensive to all but the most ardant animal-hater, which hung above the door. Moths had attacked it, giving it a rampant case of alopecia and a mournful demeanour. As well as the many books, there were a couple of guns in a cabinet and fishing rods on the walls, and it was in some ways a very splendid room – an oak-panelled hug of a place. But then he saw beneath the pine table that Peregrine was using as a desk some carpet marks showing that until recently a larger item had stood there. Also, for a library that was clearly so old, it was unusual to see large gaps in the shelves.

Peregrine urged Claypole to a seat, and placed the
decanter of whisky on a surface within easy reach. When he had recovered his wheezing breath, Claypole spoke.

‘Deer,' he said. ‘Brr… I hit a deer.'

‘Oh,' said Peregrine. ‘It happens. I wouldn't worry about it.' There was a pause. ‘Was it one of mine?'

Claypole looked darkly at his host.

‘Just… didn't see it.'

‘Yes. Well. It happens.'

‘Took me an hour to walk here.'

‘Ah,' said Peregrine with relief. ‘Probably not one of mine, then.'

‘Trashed the car.'

‘Oh.' Peregrine furrowed his brow. ‘Gosh. Are you…?'

‘Brr. No. Just… you know…'

They sat sipping their whiskies in silence until the library door creaked open. There was Coky.

‘Hello,' she said. ‘Did you find us OK?'

A man will find it sexy to see a woman in her pyjamas if what he wants to do is sleep with her. It reminds him of bed, and of nakedness. The degree of sexiness doesn't normally depend on the bedwear in question. But Coky was wearing large, wasp-yellow winceyette pyjamas, an oatmeal jumper, huge checked slippers, and a pink velour dressing gown. It rendered her, to Claypole's relief because he couldn't deal with desire as well as everything else, about as sexy as a Womble.

When Coky had sat down and gauged the atmosphere to be one of stress, Claypole was forced to relate what had happened.

‘I don't think… It wasn't the initial impact that did the damage. It was… Well, I was trying to do the right thing. Brr. You're not supposed to…'

He sipped his whisky, wondering whether he would be censured for his actions.

‘What?' said Coky.

‘I had to… gah, finish it off…'

Coky and her uncle exchanged glances.

‘You did so, I hope.' This was Peregrine.

‘Yeah. OK. Yeah. I reversed over it. Was that…?' Claypole's expression was pitiful. He had wanted to put the animal out of its misery and hadn't had a weapon to hand. Surely using the car had been the right thing to do?

Coky nodded. ‘Yes, I think that was probably –'

‘Several times,' said Claypole.

There was a pause. Claypole could feel their country eyes upon him.

‘Seven or eight, OK?' he said with irritation.

Coky and Peregrine both raised their eyebrows.

‘Maybe twenty. I think that's probably… The car's a bit…' Claypole went quiet again.

‘Where is the car?' Coky asked.

‘Ditch,' said Claypole sadly. ‘I thought I should get it off the road, and it just… Brr… Upside down.'

All three sat in silence. Claypole had the uncomfortable feeling that if he had not been there, they would have been laughing. But Peregrine changed the subject, spending the next ten minutes trying to convince Coky and Claypole that the meeting in the community hall really hadn't gone so badly. As Peregrine spoke of his relief that Claypole had replaced him as the chief villain of the wind farm, a large and comfortable black labrador came and sniffed at Claypole. He noticed that it had three legs, and gave it a pat, whereupon it settled at his feet. In the soft embrace of an armchair with a whisky in his hand, and the fire in the grate raging, Claypole
was finding himself beginning to relax. He calculated that the longer he stayed drinking whisky, the greater the chances of being offered a bed at MacGilp House. In his experience of staying in large houses – which was very limited – he suspected it would be one of two distinct experiences. Either it would be a delightful and vast bed with Egyptian cotton bedclothes and devilled kidneys for breakfast, or it would be a sleeping bag and a camp bed in a mildewed attic, with vast spiders and anonymous scuttlings in the wainscotting to keep him fearfully awake. But anything was better than having to go back to a bad hotel across open water, so he let Peregrine's burbling stream of optimism drift over him. Coky too seemed to be staring into space, and eventually perhaps Peregrine realised that he did not have a fully attentive audience and ground to a halt.