Don't Be Afraid (10 page)

 

Isabel

Finally it was Monday, and another week was starting. I wasn't that nervous the first time Clara came
officially
, without Angus. Well, maybe a little.

Okay, I was
very
nervous. Nearly panicky, but not quite, though I could feel my heart beating through my T-shirt. But the first meeting had been good, so that boded well.

She arrived a few minutes before Angus left, at break of dawn. He opened the door, all ready and packed to drive away, and Clara
tiptoed
into the house, smoothly, after a brief whispered exchange with my husband. Not literally, of course – but if
felt
like she was tiptoeing. She slipped in like a guest, without a hint of bossiness, without making me feel she was there to watch me, to check on me. In fact, she was nearly timid. I had been dreading that she would start telling me what to do, watch that I take my medicines – that would have been a problem – watch me eating, act like some sort of nurse. Which was what she was, but I preferred to forget about it.

But she did none of this. She didn't act like I had to somehow report to her. She sat with me in the kitchen, silent and smiling, a calm presence that asked for nothing. I thought I was going to have to do my best to avoid her, maybe even barricade myself in my bedroom and try to forget she was there, but I sat at the table in front of her and we were like two pieces of a jigsaw slotting together.

Strange.

“It's awfully early. Fancy a coffee? I'll make it, if it's okay?” she said.

“There is some ready . . .” I said, gesturing at the cafetière. I got up before her. I preferred taking charge in my own kitchen. I poured us both a coffee and lay milk and sugar on the table, like I'd done this with her forever. Like she wasn't a stranger sitting with me at half past six in the morning. And then I wiped everything the way I liked it. The way I
needed
it. I had a million little rituals that kept me prisoner, and if I didn't follow them I would go into a panic.

“It must be weird, having me at the house so early,” she said, reading my mind.

“It's weird to have
anyone
at the house,” I replied, wrapping my cardigan tighter around myself. “At pretty much any time.”

“I can imagine. It's good of you to let me come. Thank you,” she said, and the conversation was so surreal I didn't know what to say next.

“So, what's the plan for today?” she went on.

“I don't know. I usually . . . I don't know. I hang around. I clean and tidy, mainly. I don't do much.” I used to work all day, day in and day out. I loved it that way. To lose myself in my art. But not any more.

“I don't want to be intrusive . . . I mean, it must be strange enough to have me around . . . but Angus said you'd start taking your medicines today?”

“I did! I did already. Before you arrived,” I lied quickly.

“Oh, that's good. Listen, I was thinking . . . will you show me your studio? Angus said you have an amazing room up in the attic. And I'd love to learn more about art.”

“I haven't been up there in ages,” I said curtly, and began playing with my hair.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It's just . . . I don't know. I told you. Nothing comes out. I tried to draw and paint and I just couldn't. So I stopped.”

Clara looked at me sympathetically. “Well, they talk about writer's block . . . you have artist's block. It will all come back,” she said softly.

“Do you think so?” I asked, and then I immediately felt angry with myself. I was seeking reassurance from a total stranger. Why was I doing that?

“Of course. It's just that you're not well, right now. It won't be forever.”

Really?

At that moment, I realised I had come to be quite sure my illness would last forever, in spite of what Angus always believed, always told me: that one day I would magically be the person I used to be.

But maybe, like many illnesses, it would simply go away, one day. Some become chronic, but some just . . .
go
.

Maybe there was hope.

I gazed at my pictures, framed and displayed all around the kitchen – colourful paintings of owls and deer and foxes, all with a magical quality to them, in a style that was somewhere between realistic and primitive – my style. My signature. It was how I had made a name for myself, how I had slowly, slowly built a career. With my soul's work.

 

Angus

It was all a big exercise in trust, wasn't it? To leave Bell behind, believe that Clara would take good care of her, believe that she would keep herself safe and not do anything stupid. We'd spent yesterday together and it had been perfect. Twenty-four hours of peace, like a butterfly's life.

The drive to Glasgow was full of thoughts of Isabel, and how torn I was between her and my job. Somehow, between Glen Avich and the city, the wrench happened and my thoughts turned to music. It was never easy, but it worked; it had to work. If I was to juggle Bell's illness and the orchestra, the wrench
had
to happen.

When I got into rehearsal, Bibi was the first to greet me, leaving the group to come and say hello. She was very . . . expansive, when it came to me. I wasn't sure how to take it. On the other hand, she was like that with Kyoko too, the Japanese cello player who was on trial with me, so maybe it was my imagination running away.

“Hi! I have that book we talked about. It's in my bag, I'll just get it . . .”

“Oh, thanks. You didn't have to.”

“It's no problem. There,” she said, and swept her dark hair away from her face. “It's great to see you. How have you been?”

“I'm good, you?”

“Great! Listen, I found this place off Sauchiehall Street, why don't you and me make a run for it at break and get a quiet lunch?”

“I . . .”

I was saved by the conductor calling us to start.

It was weird to be away from Bell, but when I started playing I forgot about everything. And no, that's not to say I stopped caring, or I stopped carrying Bell in my heart every moment. It was a different thing. When I played, I wasn't myself any more: I was music.

I lost myself in it and my heart had only one reason to beat. It's difficult to explain if you haven't felt it: it was like suspending time, a perfect harmony of body and soul and the rest of the universe. Like being immortal. Immersed in beauty and bliss.

That was what music did to me.

It didn't always feel good. It was also an obsession. A hard mistress who wanted me to give her pretty much everything I was and everything I had. Sometimes music was freedom; sometimes she tied me with more binds than I could ever imagine, and I realised I wasn't her master, I was her slave. Sometimes I looked at my violin and thought of all the hours I practised, and how my work was never finished, never quite good enough, never perfect, and I realised as much as I loved it, I hated it too.

Rehearsals were over, and we sat on the small couches against the wall, drinking coffee. I looked out of the window at the pouring rain, and I wondered if it was raining in Glen Avich. I wondered how Bell and Clara are getting on.

I wondered if I would ever have my Bell back.

“You are lost in thought,” a voice said beside me. It was Bibi.

“Yes. Just . . . lots on my mind.”

“Your wife?” she whispered. She looked at me like she knew everything there was to know about me. I nodded, taken aback. We hardly knew each other, really, and she was already asking me personal questions. The orchestra was a small fishpond, a tiny Glen Avich where news got around fast and everybody knew each other's business, but usually it wasn't spoken aloud so brazenly.

“Why don't we go somewhere for proper coffee” – she gestured at the instant stuff I had poured for myself – “and a quiet chat? I'm a good listener.” I supposed she'd given up on lunch and was now settling for coffee.

“But I'm not much of a talker,” I replied. Her face fell, and suddenly I felt cruel. She meant well – she just wanted to offer a sympathetic ear and some support. The problem was, it might have been what I needed – sympathy and support – but it didn't mean I was going to accept it.

“Sorry, that wasn't nice. Of course. Let's go. Kyoko around?”

“She's making a call home.”

It had to be just us, then.

We sat in the cafe around the corner and I noticed how blue Bibi's eyes were – forget-me-not blue. They were a bit bulgy though, a bit manic, I mused, and then berated myself for such an unkind thought. Bell's eyes were deep green, and they had these brown specks in them, so unique . . .

“So, how long have you been in the orchestra?” I asked, to break the silence.

“Oh, four years now. A long time . . . for me.” She laughed. “Actually I was thinking of leaving, but then . . .”

“What happened?”

Bibi shrugged. “I changed my mind. I decided it's worth staying.”

“Where are you from, exactly?”

“Tennessee. I thought my accent would give me away!” She laughed again. She laughed a lot, but not in an irritating way. More like cheery. Full of life. She had a generous mouth and curls that bounced when she spoke animatedly, punctuating her words.

“I can't really tell American accents apart.”

“You're from a small village around here, aren't you?”

“Well, not exactly around here, a few hours' drive away.”

“That's around here, by American standards.” Again, that lively laugh.

“It's near Aberdeen. Tiny place.”

“What's the name?”

“Glen Avich,” I said, and just saying it aloud conjured the scent of wind, the still loch, the pine-covered, silent mountains. Home. Always.

“Glen Avick.”

I smiled. “Avich!”

“That's what I said! Avick! Avi . . . ch! No, I can't say it! So,” she said, her long, fine fingers braided around her cup, “are you enjoying the orchestra?”

“I'm loving every minute, to be honest.”

“Are you? Because you look so preoccupied . . .”

“Well, that has nothing to do with the job. It's . . . other things.”

“Tell me. What's on your mind?” she said, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Well, nothing . . . Just stuff at home.”

“Your wife?”

I nodded.

“What's wrong with her, if I may ask?”

You
may not.

“Oh, she's just a bit down on herself. She'll get better.”

“Of course,” she said, and just for a second, she rested her hand on mine. “Everything will be fine.”

I froze. And then, to my great surprise, I realised it didn't feel that bad. It didn't feel that bad to see that someone other than Torcuil and Margherita actually care. To see that when I was in Glasgow, working, there was someone who knew what was going on.

“Thank you, Bibi,” I said, and I meant it.

 

To [email protected]

From [email protected]

Hi
, my love. How are you feeling today? The weather is
okay, here in Galway.

Emer xxx

 

To [email protected]

From [email protected]

Please can you
speak normally to me again.

I'm not dead.

I'
m not eighty-five.

Tell me about your life.

Please?

Isabel x

 

To [email protected]

From [email protected]

Okay, grand.

Dear Bell! I've been invited
to INDIA. Of all places. Your husband will eat his
heart out, ha! Just joking, it'll be years before
I get to his level. But I'm so excited
. I'll be playing with some local musicians. I want
to buy a sari and wear it at my wedding
. Which will never happen because I'm DOOMED when it
comes to love. I must be doomed. There is no
other explanation. Last week Ciara tried to set me up
with this ghastly guy who plays the oboe and only
talks about himself. Ciara is obsessed with setting me up
and she always gets it wrong. No wonder, though: ours
is a limited pool – musicians, and the crazy people who
are willing to go out with musicians. Throw in the
last variable, me being visually impaired (like they say on
official forms) and you'll get a one-in-a
-million chance of me finding the man of my dreams
.

Anyway. Here, I'm talking rubbish . . . are you still awake
?

 

From [email protected]

To [email protected]

I am! And it's not rubbish. I love
hearing about your life. Clara is here. She is not
bad, actually. The whole thing started quite strangely. I don'
t know if I told you this, but I dreamt
of her just before they took me into hospital (don'
t worry, I won't keep going on about that,
I want to forget all about it too). So anyway
I dreamt of her, and it was a lovely dream.
She reminded me of someone, or maybe it was like
I'd known her before. Maybe in a previous life.

She's here now, down in the kitchen cooking me
a hearty lunch (this is exactly what she said).

I
sort of like it that she is here.

Weird, I
know.

 

From [email protected]

To [email protected]

Yes, it's pretty weird you dreamt of her
, and weird that you enjoy having her there, you big
loner, you. No, seriously, I'm so glad you have
someone there looking after you. That Morag, she is a
human igloo. Anyway. I have to go now, rehearsal with
Spiorad. Speak later. I can't wait until you start
using the phone again. I miss your voice.

Emer xxx