Sally (32 page)

Or is it at something very particular?
Celia had wondered.

‘Can't I stay here? For ever?'

‘Sally Lomax, Scotland may be in your blood but you've never felt your blood chill, your kidneys ache in the full grasp of a Mull winter! How would you fare then?'

‘I'd wear lots of layers!'

‘When the generator grinds to a halt weekly?'

‘I'd fix it!'

‘I think not. And the rain and the mist?'

‘But it's so wonderfully sombre! Romantic! To just make out the shrouded hills, but the distinction between land, sea and air all blurred!'

‘It's sombre all right!' Celia said, looking Sally straight in the eye. ‘And after week upon week it's no longer wonderful. You cease to look at the mountains as ethereal, romantic. You just want to be able to see them clearly. You long to see where the land meets the sea. You crave to see the sky again. It can pull a man down, Sal. Folk this way often
hibernate
– as a precaution against depression.'

‘I still think it's preferable to Highgate and all that stuff,' Sally said grudgingly.

‘Well,
I
think you'd miss it,' said Celia quite sternly over the top of Sally's pout. ‘I don't think you're giving enough credit to the freedom, to the very predictability it affords you.'

Sally looked hurt.

‘Things seem easier here,' she said quietly, raising doleful eyes.

‘It is not an easy life,' said Celia calmly. ‘It suits me because I am old and set in my ways. I have few expectations. You, my lass, should be bombarding yourself with expectations, standing as you are on the threshold of your adult life.' Sally made a half-nod. Celia continued gently, ‘If Things seem easier here, maybe you're saying Things are not easy in England. In Highgate? To forsake Highgate for Mull is hardly the answer. Merely geography.'

Sally remained silent and stared fixedly at the embers.

‘Though Mull won't solve your problems for you,' said Celia gazing at the photograph of the two brothers, ‘it might very well help
you
to do so.'

Sally let it lie. After a subtle silence she changed the subject and they chatted the afternoon away. Easier that way.

Sally has lived on Mull for a week. Last night they had fish and chips at Tobermory, eschewing a table and crockery for a harbourside bench and vinegary newspaper.

‘The only way to eat fishy chips!' praised Celia.

‘I'll say “aye” to that!' hailed Sally.

To Celia's delight, Sally has offered to cook tonight. Earlier, they had driven twenty miles in one direction for a bottle of Chardonnay, and fifteen miles in another for a head of garlic, the trek home readily interrupted by tea and scones (dunkable) at a small café near the shores of Loch Ba.

Celia is now helping Sally prepare – she is chopping what she is told, slicing as she is instructed, dicing as she is asked. Mendelsson's Hebridrean Overture has been chosen to accompany their labour and the women sway and
la la
in harmony as they work.

‘OK, Aunt Cee!' chirps Sally, ‘off you go now. Away! Put your feet up, have a Scotch – ooh, pour me one too! I'll cast my top secret magic over this lot and a feast for two will be on the table in precisely half an hour's time!'

They dined on cheese soufflés, followed by grilled trout lashed with butter and smothered with toasted almonds, and finally a breathtaking bread and butter pudding. For the most part they were silent, occasionally catching each other's eyes to hum with appreciation.

‘Mmm, can you
cook
, my lassie!'

‘Mmm, thank you! More potatoes?'

Because the trout had been small and so light, seconds and thirds of pudding were justified. As one of the penultimate spoonfuls from Celia's bowl neared her lips, she bit the bullet instead and let the spoon hover as she spoke:

‘Well, Sal! Seems a shame not to lavish such culinary expertise on someone more special!'

‘Aunt Cee! Who could be more special than you?'

‘Who indeed?' smiled Celia, letting her question hang in the air for a moment or two before she leant towards Sally and probed further.

‘Who indeed? You know they say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach?' Sally cocked her head. Celia continued, ‘Is there a man, Sal, whose stomach you seduce, hey?'

‘Gracious, Aunt Cee!' said Sally, trying to look taken aback rather than downright taken off guard.

‘Tish!' announced Celia, scraping the last of the pudding from the bowl. ‘What am I saying? I shouldn't be prying, Sal. Apologies, apologies. I just remember how terrible it was for you with that insufferable chap – you know, the one who … I was just hoping that perhaps there was someone making you happy?'

Still Sally looked non-committal and Celia tried to look nonchalantly everywhere but at her face. She heard a stifled sniffle and glanced round to see that it had its roots in a smile. Sally tipped her head and ran her finger around her bowl. Sucking it clean, she then wrapped her napkin around it and decided to welcome her aunt into her private world.

‘Well, there is
someone
, Aunt Cee.'

Silence hung like dark velvet curtains, heavy and containing. Celia wondered whether that was all from Sally and was just about to change the conversation to the merits of trout over salmon, when Sally spoke again.

‘His name is Richard Stonehill. He is thirty-five years old and drop-dead handsome!'

Celia decided there were plenty of fish in the sea so she let the trout and salmon go and turned, all ears, to her niece. With a smile that she hoped was persuasive, she put her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands.

‘Ooh, do tell me more, Sal!' she cooed, eyes sparkling in what she hoped was a conducive way.

‘Richard is an architect. A very brilliant one, I think. He believes buildings are the backbone of our environment and must be sympathetic to, and reflective of, our lifestyle and our needs.'

Celia nodded approvingly, believing it was what Sally wished to see. It worked; Sally continued.

‘He's very manly and has a lovely flat in Notting Hill – always clean; fresh flowers; good food. He's fit and healthy – and a wonderful cook!'

Celia continued to nod and felt a little prompt or two would not go amiss. ‘And how long have you two known each other?'

‘Since the autumn,' said Sally.

‘Going steady, then?' Celia asked rhetorically. Almost instantly, she sensed Sally pull back.

‘Well, I don't know if you could call it
that
,' she said somewhat flippantly. Celia mouthed ‘Oh' in reply. They sat awhile contemplating their empty bowls. Sally refilled their glasses with the last of the wine.

‘I call him Richie and he calls me Sal – you and he alone, an honour indeed!'

‘I'll say!' said Celia, raising her glass. Taking a thoughtful sip, she steered the conversation back. ‘Well, if you've been with him since the autumn but are not going steady, what is it that you have? Please, dear God, not one of those “open” relationships?'

Sally giggled. ‘No, not very open at all,' she mused under her breath.

‘Go on,' encouraged Celia.

‘It's difficult to explain. It started as a bit of a rampant fling – you know, Jackie Collins bodice-ripping and all that?'

Celia had never read Jackie Collins.

‘Erica Jong?' ventured Sally.

Celia shook her head.

‘Xaviera Hollander?' she suggested.

Still Celia drew a blank.

‘Anyway, Sal, I'm sure my reading matter isn't relevant. After all, we're not
talking
fiction or fantasy, are we? Just life – yours.' Celia's swift overview of the reality of the situation made Sally feel vulnerable and somewhat belittled. She felt defensive.

‘Aunt Cee,' she corrected sternly, ‘you'd be surprised what I can get up to in my little life in Highgate. It may not be Los Angeles or Paris or wherever, but my small flat can be a hot-bed of passion, a boudoir of sins of the flesh! What goes on in there can compete with the best of them – the very stuff that books are made of!'

Sally's eyes glinted, Celia's soul winced.

‘I – I'm not sure I quite follow, duck.'

Sally was on a roll. ‘I set myself up as a true
femme fatale
to trap a man,' she explained triumphantly. ‘And did I ensnare a prime catch! It was fabulous and all so naughty!'

‘But what about Richard?'

‘I'm
talking
about Richard!' Sally laughed. ‘
He's
the man.'

‘But
he's
the architect,' reasoned Celia, ‘sensitive, mature – upright. The one who calls you Sal?'

Sally nodded vigorously, missing the point utterly. ‘I thought it would be fun to be a bit of a vamp. And it was certainly the most liberating thing I've done. Only it all went horribly wrong.'

‘How?'

‘Love.'

Sally uttered the word in much the same tone she used for ‘chicken pox'. It quite shocked Celia.

‘And that was
wrong
?' she gasped, aghast.

‘Oh, yes.'

‘Why?'

‘I suppose it made it all seem too dangerous.'

‘I don't understand, Sally. How can
love
be dangerous? I'd have thought playing the tart would be much more so.'

‘I wasn't a tart,' faltered Sally. Celia raised her eyebrows almost imperceptibly but enough to hit Sally in the chest. ‘I just wanted to have fun,' she chirped, somewhat unconvincingly.

‘And was it fun for Richard?'

‘Oh, yes,' Sally answered rather too swiftly, and paused for a moment, trying not to fidget. ‘At first,' she clarified, ‘then he fell in love with me so the fun stopped.'

‘Why?' probed Aunt Celia sternly. ‘Surely, with more substance to it, the fun would have increased, the pleasure deepened?'

‘Theoretically,' stumbled Sally.

‘I'm lost again, Sal,' Celia said, her voice quiet, almost flat.

‘Aunt Cee, it's all such a headache. I'm sure it's part of the reason I've been run down. You see, it was wonderful when it started. I felt so strong, so high, when it was carefree and just pure passion.

‘When love came into the equation, it complicated the purity.' Celia raised her eyebrows high. ‘I know purity is a funny word to use,' Sally conceded, ‘but when Richard told me he was in love with me, I felt absolutely swamped and smothered. Let down.'

‘But, Sal, how could that be? He fell in love with you because he finds you lov
able
, surely nothing could make one feel stronger?' As hard as she was trying, Celia could see little merit in Sally's theory. ‘Is he not lovable?'

‘Oh!' Sally assured her. ‘On the contrary.'

‘Do you love him?' Celia suggested, watching pain scurry across Sally's brow.

‘Yes,' she sighed, shaking her head forlornly, ‘I do.'

Sally could see that Celia looked even more confused than she herself was feeling.

‘Aunt Cee, I needed time,' she explained as gently as she could, ‘time to recuperate – and not just from the chicken pox. Time to think, to consider. To make up my mind, if truth be told.'

Celia's frown slowly lifted. ‘So you came to Mull? What better place! I think I see now, Sal my duck. What started as a bit of fun became serious and you wanted some space to take it all on board? Might this be
it
, then – the Big One? Might Richard be your Angus?'

Sally cast her eyes downward and smiled coyly but remained silent.

‘Well, I think that's very sensible of you both and I'm sure Richard is behind you one hundred per cent, am I right?'

Suddenly the enormity of what Sally had done hit her with such force that, though she wanted to push Celia aside and run, she sat stock still and silent; winded.

‘Sal?'

Slowly Sally raised her head, darting her eyes to and from Celia's face. Still she could not find her voice but a small whisper filled the room.

‘He doesn't know.'

‘What?' Celia's gasp was edged with horror and suffused with disbelief.

‘I didn't tell him. Or anyone. Just Mother.'

Celia was flabbergasted. ‘Whyever,
ever
, not?'

‘I thought it would be a test?' ventured Sally feebly, flinching away from Celia's expression. ‘You know, just to see?'

‘See
what
?' Celia barked, standing up. She looked down on Sally, a remoteness tinged with disgust etched on her face. ‘No, Sally Lomax, I do
not
know. What on earth do you mean “a test”? Don't you think you've played with the poor man's emotions enough? Using him as some unsuspecting pawn in your stupid little game?'

‘But––' Sally pleaded.

‘Hush it!' chided Celia sternly. ‘I cannot believe that you, your father's daughter, just
left
without having the courtesy, let alone the conscience, to inform him. You'll be a lucky girl if he still wants you after all this. I wouldn't be in the least surprised if he passes you off. I think it's preposterous, really I do.'

‘Aunt Cee!' protested Sally.

‘No!' Celia scolded back. ‘Here is a man who loves you. Do you know how difficult that is to come by? It takes courage and maturity to recognize and proclaim it. He loves you and you string him along – I can't believe it's you, Sal. Not you!'

Sally fiddled with her napkin, twisting it this way, then that. There was so much she wanted to say, to explain, to apologize for, yet she was struck dumb with shame and could give no voice to her tumbling thoughts.

It isn't me. It wasn't me, was it? It was the idea of who I could be.

Ultimately, someone not preferable to who I really am.

But how was I to know, without this hindsight.