Tombstoning (3 page)

There were four of them in the ADS. Himself, Colin, Gary Spink and Neil Cargill. They were best of friends in fourth year at school, when they’d formed the drinking club, and it had lasted as a benevolent clique for two years. By the time they left school, though, the four of them were drifting apart, but they still clung to a last childish emblem of camaraderie, more out of convenience and an embarrassment about admitting that their lives were going in different directions. Colin was about to embark on a career as a professional footballer with Arbroath FC; David was off to uni; Neil, with nothing better on offer, had signed up for a life of military discipline in the Marines and was heading for basic training at the end of the summer; and Gary, well, Gary was stuck in Arbroath with the prospect of working for a bank, building society or worse.

Then Colin had died. After the funeral David had left town early, speeding over to France to help his folks renovate their barn. From there he had gone directly to Edinburgh, and had never since spoken to anyone from Arbroath.

Until now.

He just couldn’t go to the reunion, he thought as the taxi pulled into his street and he started rummaging for notes and cash. But then he thought of Nicola again. Jesus, Nicola Cruickshank, he said out loud, shaking his head. He paid the taxi driver and stumbled out the cab into his home.

David’s flat was a typical bachelor affair – two black leather sofas and a large flat-screen TV in the living room, generic film posters from his past (
Trainspotting, Reservoir Dogs
) lining the hall, and a messy bedroom dominated by a massive king-size bed. Among the debris in the living room were CDs, DVDs, magazines, empty lager cans and a couple of large pizza boxes. David finished another lager and surfed channels, cursing with each flick the banal choice of Friday-night television.

He should’ve stayed out. What use was sitting here on the weekend, alone, doing fuck all? No use, that’s what. But then he thought of the rest of them in the Basement, and he felt a shiver of repulsion at that prospect too. He mentally surfed through his other friends in town, but couldn’t come up with anyone he wanted to talk to, let along meet up with. Where did that leave him? Back here on his own, that’s where.

He made for the drinks cabinet, a classy wooden globe, and poured himself a house measure of Lagavulin. As he sat back down, the sofa gave a sigh under his weight. He took the email printout from his pocket and read it again.

A school reunion was not an attractive prospect, that was for sure, but Nicola Cruickshank? That was a different story. He dug his mobile out his pocket and thought about phoning her for the next fifteen minutes, his body enduring little ripples of nervous excitement each time he went to dial, then stopped. Eventually he downed what was left in his glass, poured himself a bigger one, sat down with his mobile in his hand and dialled the number at the bottom of the printout.

Who the hell was that now?

Nicola had not long got Amy to bed after the usual lengthy struggle of wills between parent and child, and before that she’d had her mum on the phone for over half an hour. Bless her mum and everything, but she didn’t half go in for pointless gossip. She had just poured herself a second large glass of wine when the mobile went off. She fished it out of her bag and checked the screen. She didn’t recognize the number. Probably some arsehole trying to sell her something, she thought as she pressed ‘reply’.

‘Hello? Is that Nicola? Nicola Cruickshank?’

It didn’t sound like a call centre eejit.

‘That’s me.’

‘This is Dave, Dave Lindsay. Erm… from Arbroath, I suppose.’

Nicola laughed out loud and followed it with a little squeal, much to her own amused disgust.

‘David Lindsay. How the hell are you?’

‘I’m good, thanks, a wee bit tipsy, truth be told. How the hell are you back?’

‘Pretty good, pretty good.’ Nicola found herself laughing again. ‘Well, I suppose the appropriate cliché is long time no see, isn’t it? I’m guessing that you are the David Lindsay who works for Still Waters, then, and that you got my rambling email today?’

‘I am indeed the Dave Lindsay of Still Waters fame, although for how much longer, Christ only knows. And I did get your email, yes, although it wasn’t really rambling at all, it was… it was nice to hear from you after so long. Listen Nicola… I… I suppose I don’t really know why I phoned, except that you mentioned in your email that I was welcome to call any time, so, well, here I am phoning you. I hope it’s not a bad time or anything… is it?’

‘No, it’s fine, I’m glad you called. So, what do you think then?’

There was a silence down the line, followed by what sounded to Nicola like glugging.

‘Think about what,’ said David cautiously.

‘The reunion.’

‘Oh yeah, the reunion. I don’t really think it’s my bag, if you know what I mean. I’ve never even been back there, not once in fifteen years, not since…’

‘Don’t be soft,’ said Nicola, deliberately filling the gap David had left at the end of his sentence. ‘It’s the same for everyone, David. I don’t suppose anyone’s seen anyone else for years, but that’s kind of the point, I guess. Everyone’s in the same boat. Come along, it’ll be a laugh. And even if it’s shit, it’ll be a shit laugh, if you know what I mean.’

‘All the same…’

There was that glugging noise again.

‘What are you drinking?’ said Nicola.

‘What?’

‘What are you drinking? I can hear you slugging away on something.’

‘Oh, whisky. Lagavulin.’

‘An Islay, very nice.’

‘You know about whisky?’

‘I know about a lot of things, none of it very useful. I’m on the Chenin Blanc myself. Are you at home?’

‘Yeah, and you?’

‘Afraid so. All on my lonesome. How sad is that, sitting at home drinking alone watching shite telly on a Friday night.’

‘Snap.’

‘So, listen David Lindsay from Arbroath,’ said Nicola, ‘are you sure about the reunion? You can’t be persuaded to come along, keep me company amongst the scary freaks that all our ex-classmates will have turned into?’

‘How do you know I’ve not turned into a scary freak?’

Nicola laughed, wiggled her nose a little and took a swig of wine.

‘That’s a very good question. I suppose I don’t. But then the same goes for me. Maybe we’re the scary freaks, and everyone else has turned out normal. Shall we go to the reunion and find out?’

‘I really don’t think so.’

‘Tell you what, why don’t we meet up, and I’ll have a go at talking you round in person?’

Nicola was surprised at the idea which leapt from her mouth before it had even properly formed in her brain. There was a long pause at the other end of the line. Did he want to meet up with her? Did she want to meet up with him?

‘Why not?’ she heard coming down the line at her. ‘Where and when did you have in mind?’

She had to think on her feet, she hadn’t expected this at all.

‘What are you up to tomorrow afternoon?’

‘Nothing yet.’

‘OK, I’ve got a few hours spare while Amy’s at a friend’s birthday party, so how about if you meet me outside the Museum of Scotland on Chambers Street at two o’clock. How does that sound?’

‘Cool.’ Then a pause. ‘Who’s Amy?’

‘Oh shit, didn’t I say already? Amy’s my daughter.’

‘You have a daughter?’

‘Very well deduced from my last statement. Yes, I have a daughter. A gorgeous little eight-year-old who is equal parts sweet angel and stroppy bitch. Do you have any kids?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I guess we can do all this chat tomorrow,’ said Nicola. ‘If you still want to meet.’

‘Sure, why wouldn’t I?’

‘Just checking. Right, two o’clock outside the museum. I’ll see you there?’

‘OK. Have a nice evening, sitting in drinking on your own.’

‘Right back at you. See you tomorrow.’

‘Yeah. See you.’

Nicola pressed ‘end call’. What just happened? Had she just organized a bloody date? No, it was just two old school friends meeting for a chat. After fifteen years? OK, that seemed slightly odd, to just arrange to meet like that after so long, but where was the harm in it? She re-ran the conversation in her head, what she could remember of it. He didn’t have kids, but she didn’t know if he was married or not. Mind you, now she came to think about it, she hadn’t explained her situation (or lack of one) with Amy’s dad either. So they were quits on that score. What did it matter anyway, she wasn’t looking for anything out of this, just to meet up with someone she knew and quite liked at school to swap stories about how their lives had turned out.

He had seemed… well, she didn’t really know how he seemed on the phone. Cheery? A bit pissed? Maybe he was really drunk and he wouldn’t remember the conversation in the morning. She would go to the museum, see if he turned up. She loved that place anyway, ever since they’d tacked it on to the old Royal Museum a few years back. Of course you couldn’t keep the whole history of a country in one turreted building, but it was a good start, and she liked the peace, the airiness and the dignity of the ancient past that the place seemed to hold, despite being new.

Yes, she would go to the museum tomorrow, and see what happened. What the hell harm could it do?

2
A Declaration

Christ, I’m not as fit as I used to be, David thought as he puffed his way up Chambers Street. He was ten minutes late and he was working up a sweat in the close August heat. He had worn two layers, a T-shirt over a long-sleeved top, assuming it would be cold out, but the day had thrown him a curve ball and was almost relentlessly bright and sticky. The arse of his jeans was wet with sweat and his feet were hotting up in his Golas.

He looked ahead at the museum but couldn’t see anyone waiting. Shit, she’s already left, he thought; either that or she decided not to come at all. He couldn’t blame her, it had seemed surprising when she suggested it in the first place. Maybe she’d been drunk last night, and had forgotten the conversation. No, she had an eight-year-old daughter, she wouldn’t be sitting loaded in the house with her, would she? Why not, he supposed – there were no rules about that sort of thing, were there?

After he’d put the phone down he’d had another few whiskies, but the memory of the chat was still strong in his mind. Her voice sounded more grown-up than he remembered. She still did that thing where it sounded like she was about to laugh after every single sentence, but not in an annoying way, more like she just found any situation thoroughly entertaining.

He got to the museum’s entrance and there was definitely no one there. He was knackered. Is this what happens to your body in your thirties, he thought, you start getting worn out just from walking fast? He had to start getting fit again, soon. He’d said that to himself so many times over the last three years that he now just ignored himself, knowing it would never happen. He was standing with his hands on his knees, getting his breath back when he looked up. There she was.

His throat felt tight as he looked at her. Goddamn it, she looked fine. She was beautiful. Her hair was a little shorter, more stylish maybe, but still a bit all over the place. Her wide smile and clear, hazel eyes were as welcoming as he remembered and that nose, that kooky little nose just killed him. She was wearing a pair of sleek black trousers and a flimsy fawn blouse, and seemed taller somehow. He remembered her as being pretty but always slightly uncomfortable with that fact. She had definitely grown into her looks, she fitted her features better and seemed so at ease with herself, confident.

Her smile grew wider as she approached him, and he felt himself responding with an idiotic grin. He awkwardly stuck out a hand and she laughed, grabbed him and kissed him on both cheeks before standing back and giving him the once-over, her hands still on his shoulders.

‘You haven’t changed a bit, is the correct cliché, I believe,’ she said, and her nose went for a wiggle. David felt the knot in his stomach disappearing and knew they were going to get along just fine.

‘That cliché applies much more to yourself, I suspect,’ David said, ‘except you actually look younger and better than you did fifteen years ago. Whereas I’m just the same, except with two stone of weight added on somewhere.’

‘Well, you were always too skinny at school,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe it, David Lindsay from Arbroath, as I live and breathe. How about that?’

‘Actually, most folk call me Dave these days.’

‘I think I’ll stick with David. It’s more grown-up. And weren’t you David in school?’

‘Yeah, I changed it when I came to Edinburgh.’

‘Ah, the old “drop a syllable” routine. Never succumbed to it myself. Day one of “throwing off the shackles of the past” and all that. I think I’ll stick with David, how would that be?’

‘That would be just fine.’

‘Good stuff. So what now, David? Fancy a trawl through thousands of years of Scottish history?’

‘Not really, to be honest. It seems like such a nice day maybe we could just find a beer garden or something…’

‘Nonsense. Apart from anything else, I’ll burn to a bloody crisp in this sun, my pasty face can’t handle it. And anyway, I love this building and all the old stuff they’ve got in there. You didn’t do history at school, did you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, then I can be your informal guide through the corridors of time’ – she was putting on a booming voice-over voice – ‘through thousands of years of bloodthirsty mayhem and savage carnage.’ She returned to her normal voice with a laugh. ‘Eat yer heart out, Simon Schama. Come on, I won’t lecture you too much, and I promise to go for a pint later on. How’s that?’

David couldn’t give a damn about the last five thousand years of Scottish history, but he sure as hell wanted to spend the next few hours with Nicola Cruickshank. He motioned towards the museum’s squat, sandy turret of an entrance.

‘After you, madam. Is age before beauty the appropriate cliché?’

‘Watch it, I’m only a few months older than you,’ said Nicola, punching him on the arm and laughing to herself. David watched her go inside with wide eyes, a big smile and feeling for all the world like he was eighteen years old again.