Sally (30 page)

Though she had completed well over half the journey, it was already afternoon and she knew she would miss the last ferry from Oban. Moreover, she wanted to enjoy the journey; she wanted to stand on the shores of Loch Lomond with bagpipes playing in her head and have a browse around Oban.

Having long thought the lakes to be a mediocre imitation of the Highlands, Sally decided to turn right, and not left, off the motorway at Penrith, and chose a farm bed-and-breakfast near Lazonby Fell. The room was just as she hoped, with very little floor space due to a profusion of family heirlooms. The mahogany bed was high in itself but had been further banked up with feather mattresses. It reminded Sally of her favourite childhood tale, ‘The Princess and the Pea', and she could hardly wait for bedtime. (Later, though she felt daft, she did check under the mattresses for an errant pea, and though she felt dafter, she was disappointed at finding none.) There was a Lloyd-Loom chair, very similar to her own, in which she sat and smiled. She admired a beautiful walnut chest of drawers and a very pretty dressing-table with filigree sconces for candles at the mirror. She creaked open the cavernous wardrobe which took up almost an entire wall and thought of C. S. Lewis; it was big enough for her to walk into so she did, but Narnia did not open up for her.

Not this time, not here.

Looking out, the Pennines rolled away, cut and crossed by dry-stone walls and thickets, and blessed by the late-afternoon sun. Venturing downstairs, Sally talked silently to the grandfather clock before pulling on her walking boots and greeting the fresh air – the first she'd had in days.

‘Would you like to see the lambs?' She presumed him to be Mr Barker. (‘I do Been Bee, he do farm, see,' Mrs Barker had trilled.)

‘I've had chicken pox,' Sally offered by way of an explanation. Mr Baker sucked on his pipe and cocked his head.

‘The lambs'll not catch it!' he mused after awhile.

‘No! I know!' stammered Sally. ‘I just wanted you to know. I'm not con-ta-gious any more. But I know these spots are a fright.'

‘To tell the truth, Missy, I thought it just a bad case of adilessent acme.'

Sally bit her tongue until the pain drove away any inkling of laughter.

‘I'd love to see the lambs.'

Having had a very good night and a hearty breakfast of duck eggs and home-cured bacon, Sally said a last goodbye to the lambs and continued on her way. Carlisle was soon upon her and she picked up the A74 to take her into the Borders. She switched off the radio, wanting no distractions.

Here it is! Scotland!

She could have wept but motored on, shaking her head and marvelling at how distinct from England the landscape was already; laughing as she passed Gretna Green; moved to reverential silence as she saw the signs for Lockerbie. Glasgow loomed and, with some dexterity, Sally made sense of the proliferation of roads and was, at last, on the road to Oban. As always, she was struck by the vicinity of Loch Lomond to Glasgow though the hubbub of the city seemed a million miles from these lovely shores. Though she was now itching to be on the ferry, she had promised herself a few moments at the great loch and no journey to Aunt Celia would be complete without it. Sally clambered her way through a thatch of Scots pine and crouched by the edge of the water. She thought of all the times she had done so. She thought of her father. She touched upon all the times she and he had made their pilgrimage to the shores of the loch while Mildred sat in the car eating boiled sweets. She dipped her whole hand into the water until her joints froze, then she swiped her fingers through her hair and felt anointed.
Now
she could continue to Oban.

There was one small hurdle – was she to take the magnificent road via Crianlarich, or the slightly longer route around Loch Fyne to the coast road? Showing enormous restraint, she opted for the latter. It suited her mood. It was important that this journey to Mull should be as symbolic and as Romantic as possible.

Anyway, I'll take the high road home.

Sally wound her way down into Oban. The town was bustling and she made slow progress to the dock. She bought a ferry ticket for herself and her car and then went in search of scones. Sitting over a cup of tea, she dabbed at the last crumbs and tuned into snippets of the conversation that surrounded her. She loved the accents and tried hers out in the mountaineering shop where she bought a small rucksack. No one batted an eyelid, either at her spots or at her Scottish lilt.

Och aye! I can be who I like, they'll have me for me!

Time to set sail, Sal. Caledonian MacBrayne will take you across Lorn to Craignure. All aboard the CalMac!

Herring gulls swoop and call and hover at eye-level with Sally, effortlessly defying the sharp gusts of sea breeze which take the breath away from her. Her eyes are smarting but she knows they would be so, even if there was no breeze. With a lump in her throat and a quivering smile on her lips, she hangs as far over the railings as she can, tasting the oily salt spray on her lips. The sea is wearing diamonds. Oban looks like toy town. Duart Castle is looming, standing dark and proud at its commanding position on the first point of the island. Sally can hear her father's voice. He is whispering in hushed, excited tones as he always does at this point on the journey.

‘Sal, my bird. Look! Duart! “Dark Headland”. Walls fourteen feet thick, my girl!'
Sally sings softly with him:

They sing together again. Sally is home.

S
o, Sally is now on the last leg of her journey. We have a feeling it is the last leg of her other journey too. She is but half an hour from Aunt Celia. Mull spreads its beauty before her and she marvels at its mystery. I could tell you of the colours put out by the heather, I could describe the incomparable beauty of the hills and of the light that the lochs contain and reveal, the sound of the sea; but Sally is now bursting to arrive and we are keen that she should reach her destination without further ado. Suffice it to say, the day is perfect, the scenery is spectacular, the colours could make you cry: Mull, in all its splendour, welcomes Sally back.

Though it has been at least two years since Sally's last visit, all seems comfortingly familiar. Tobermory looks radiant but she does not stop. She comes across the village of Dervaig, as picturesque as when she last left it, and pays a brief visit to the eccentric little shop selling just coffee and books. She buys a packet of freshly ground Costa Rican, and a small book on local walks. The proprietor cocks his head to one side in a semi-recollection but Sally flinches away from his eyes, her pock marks and the vicinity of Aunt Celia preventing a ‘hello' just now.

Celia stands at the end of her pathway and can see the Mini from far off. As the distance between the two diminishes, the driver can be seen bouncing up and down at the wheel, the car's horn ringing out parp parp! Celia waves expansively, Sally parps some more before screeching to a halt and pelting to her, the engine still running, door open.

There are squeals, liberal hugs, wide smiles and much hair-stroking, but we shall let them enjoy their reunion in private.

Sally went from room to room, routinely closing her eyes to soak up remembered smells then opening them wide to take stock of all the familiar furniture, the bits and pieces, the nooks and crannies. A lick of paint had changed nothing, all was intact and her memory had served her well. She stood awhile in the kitchen, Celia quiet behind her, a hand on Sally's shoulder. The smell of baking led her eye to the scrubbed table on which a batch of perfectly risen scones cooled on racks. The smell of flowers led her eye to the deep window sills where a bowl of hyacinths took pride of place. Pretty china greeted her when she looked upon the dresser; the glint and sheen of polished copper rang out from the hanging rack above her head. Slung over the back of an old Windsor chair, a shawl felt soft to her touch; under foot the stone floor was smooth and satisfyingly uneven, all the dints and chips at once familiar.

‘Want a cuppa?'

‘Mmm! I'll just take my stuff up to my room.'

My room! It is my room, and it is just as I left it! Darling bed, how are you! Hello, little etching of Iona! Curtains! Oh, such lovely flowers, bet they're from the garden. Mmm, wardrobe smells just as it should – polish with a distant whiff of mothballs. Pink padded hangers, just for me! I'll hang everything up, I'll put everything away, I'll brush my hair and have a quick wash, but first I just want to sit here on the bed and look out of the window.

For once, Sally did not gaze at nothing in particular, but ranged her eyes as far as she could to the horizon and then slowly travelled them back over the hills, through the forest, over the shaggy flanks of the cattle, across the road and back into the garden. No detail was left unobserved and, though she knew the view off by heart, she gazed out with virgin eyes and hailed all she saw.

With hair brushed, face washed and revived with ice-cold peaty water, she made a slow progress downstairs, peeking into Aunt Celia's bedroom and the sewing room as she went. Silently, Sally stood in the sitting-room, smiling at the sound of the table being laid next door. In the range, embers of the morning fire glowed and crackled, the surrounding bricks sooty, the grate spilling with ash and charred wood. The mantelpiece heaved with photographs and Sally worked her way from left to right, pleased that she was in most, her father too, her sisters in few, her mother in but one. She dwelled upon a lovely sepia photograph of her Uncle Angus, so handsome, hair waxed and waved. She looked into Angus's eyes and wondered how well she really remembered him. With a certain dismay, she supposed true memory counted for only a part, assisted recollection for most.

After all, Sally had only been ten years old when he died. His voice was unforgettable and memories of dancing merrily with him on the sand were still clear, but she wondered if she really knew the man he was, the man her aunt adored, the man her father so mourned? She did remember one night vividly, a late summer evening, the Highland dusk just drawing in, an eerie light pervading. She had dozed off into a troubled dream and had woken in a panic. Going downstairs in search of reassurance and a cuddle she had seen, unseen, Aunt Celia and Uncle Angus whiling away the evening; Aunt Cee knitting and looking over to him, Uncle Ang drawing on a pipe and gazing at her through half-closed eyes. The knitting needles provided the only sound in the room, the smell of sweet tobacco whispering through. A sense of peace pervaded and, no longer needing to go right in, Sally crept back to bed, safe and warm. She had fallen asleep hoping that, when she was all grown up, she too could be like Aunt Cee and have an Uncle Ang.

How old can I have been?

You were seven.

By the telephone was a photograph of Angus and his brother Robbie, Sally's father. She considered how similar they had looked, Angus six years older and slightly greyer, her father more portly. Their smiles were so similar, somewhat lopsided, their identical eyes crowned with neat, long eyebrows. She recalled how both shared the same gait, and remembered Aunt Celia finding much hilarity in walking behind them, trying to impersonate their loping, swinging stride. The photograph, in technicolour, showed the brothers standing on the sands at Calgary, Angus bare-chested, hands on hips, Robbie with shirt sleeves and trouser legs rolled up, his hand on Angus's shoulder, a football at their feet. Both squint at the sun with out-of-breath smiles etched wide and skewiff. Sally grinned back at them and traced her little finger around their faces.

She had loved to see them together, so comfortable in each other's company; talking earnestly, laughing privately, standing side by side thigh-deep in the sea, casting their fishing rods in unison in pursuit of elusive salmon. She recalled vividly how they would sit together in silence, always absorbed and at ease in each other's company. Scanning the bookshelves, Sally smiled at memories of bedtime fireside stories being read to her while she snuggled deep into her uncle's or her father's laps on alternate nights throughout her holiday. Their voices were almost indistinguishable and once again they filled her head as she touched the spines of the books and took down
The Just-So Stories
and buried her nose, Best Beloved, within.

‘Yoo hoo! Lunchie!'

Celia's call brought Sally back to the day in hand. The Camel got his Hump, the Rhinoceros his Skin and the Leopard his Spots. Angus and Robbie finished the Sing-Song of Old Man Kangaroo and returned once more to the frozen time of the photograph, happy and strong. Much missed.

I wish they were here.

The women feasted on barley soup and cracked rolls plastered with chunks of hard, cold butter which oozed into the soup as they dunked. Dunking was an institution for the Lomaxes and Sally smiled at Celia as they plunged their bread into the soup and then swiped away the predictable dribbles from their chins. Sally remembered the annual look of disdain on her mother's face at such meal-times; she remembered too her father's furtive winks as he plopped his bread in and out of the soup – a pastime absolutely forbidden in Lincolnshire. There was nothing slovenly about such table manners, the soup tasted fundamentally the better for it. Dunking went without saying at every meal; at breakfast it was toast in and out of egg yolk (fried or boiled), at lunch it was bread into soup, at tea-time it was home-made digestive biscuits into mugs of tea, at supper it was bread into anything that could be mopped up, lastly it was shortbread into bedtime cocoa.

Today, Sally dunks with aplomb and Celia dunks as she always does.

‘Well, my duck, I must say you are spotty! Do they itch still? Did you manage not to scratch? Do you feel terribly self-conscious? And that poor patch of hair – it'll grow! Well, no need to worry – you'll hardly pass by two people while you're here! I thought you might like a blow-through on the beach this afternoon.'