three women by louise angus

8/14/2019 Three Women by Louise Angus

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Three Women

Prologue

She knelt down on the bare wooden floor taking care to watch out for loose splinters,

the metallic drip, drip of the Victorian plumbing, a watery counterpoint to the rainnow splashing steadily onto the skylight. It was hard to be certain in the dim light. A

scrap of something peeked out at her teasingly. Whatever it was had become wedged

under a ripped sagging cardboard box of chipped mismatched china. Probably

nothing. She felt with her fingers, tentatively.

Ouch damn it! Shit! she yelled, biting her tongue on a stream of earthier expletives,

remembering that there were strangers in the house. She sucked on a forefinger. Paper

cut! Tiny, but excruciating.

She returned to her task, cursing under her breath. Grasped the ripped cardboard,

burrowed her hands under its base, and heaved. There was a satisfying crash of

porcelain as she dropped the box just clear of her quarry. She should have waited for

the men, but curiosity had the better of her.

A wad of yellowing papers was revealed, around half of them folded on the diagonal

when the crockery had been dumped on them, God knows how many years ago. She

could make out faded typescript, a title at the top of the first page.

Long forgotten university notes? Recipes? Missed vital legal document?

She picked up the bundle, warily flipping through to the last page. As her eyesbecame accustomed to the gloom she could just read it.

A name.

She felt a tiny frisson that had nothing to do with the dank surroundings as it dawned

on her. She was looking at pages and pages of manuscript. Something she hadnt

expected to find. She crawled out of the cramped attic space grasping her treasure.

She would let the men finish the task. Nothing more of value here she was sure,

sentimental or pecuniary.

She went downstairs and into the conservatory, clutching the papers close, utterlyintrigued. They were loose, and shed had to make certain she hadnt missed any.

Fortunately they were numbered and in sequence, more or less. None lost thank

goodness. She found a fairly comfortable wicker chair; the only one left in the house,

settled into it and started reading.

1. Pandora's Box

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Dont sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me, anyone else but me, anyone

else but me.

The long forgotten song played through her head over and over. She waited, half

hoping for the needle to slide abruptly, harshly off the end of the gramophone record,make the music stop for good, but it never did. It just returned to the beginning and

started again. Strange how a song could catch a moment of time or a piece of life and

brand it into our souls forever, the way nothing else could, she thought, not for the

first, or last time.

Dont sit under the apple tree

Memories too raw and sharp pushed to the surface, soaring joy to searing pain and all

the mess and confusion in between. Some buried so deep it had been almost more

than she could bear to dig them up. And yet, and yet, now she sat, shovel set aside,

task almost complete, excitement, anticipation and dread all jostling for position,Pandoras box unearthed for good or ill, forced open, its contents spilling over. Shed

been cajoled into it at first by her enthusiastic and encouraging niece, agreed in a

moment of weakness, or was it unconscious desire, to let her set everything in

motion. Like the proverbial boulder at the top of the hill it had begun to roll, slowly at

first then gaining momentum, till there was no chance of stopping it, except that this

boulder would become suffocated and choked with moss along the way. Despite this,

she knew that ultimately the decision to delve into her untidy past had been her own.

She bore all the hurt and responsibility as well as most of the hope entirely alone.

with anyone else but me.

With an effort she brought herself back to a present that more and more these days

felt like a dream, somewhere she had no place or right to be. She gazed around the

vast noisy echoing cathedral space of glass and concrete and plastic, feeling entirely

out of her element, as if shed been transported involuntarily to another time and

space. People everywhere, scurrying to and fro, demented souls talking to themselves

out loud, others wearing those ubiquitous white hearing aids, as if a deafness

epidemic had become the unforeseen scourge of the 21st century.

Would you like some coffee auntie? her solicitous niece had enquired with a nod

towards a centrally located food outlet.

It had an Italian name, which at least gave her some comfort of the familiar. Her

steady, deep grey eyes smiled a secret little half smile in remembrance of childhood

Italian cafes. Garish table clothes, shiny dark wood seats, the unmistakable caf

smell, a heady mixture of coffee and cakes and stale cigarette smoke and polish.

Their wondrous ice cream, a rare treat, served by the jolly Luigi or his sullen,

unwilling son Silvio, had been the stuff of dreams. Of course Luigi and Silvio had

quietly disappeared when the war came. Italy was the enemy and jolly Italian caf

owners, purveyors of delicious treats, were now potential traitors and had to be

unceremoniously removed and interned.

Shed sat with her niece perched on an extremely uncomfortable stool, in, truth be

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told, a fair amount of pain. But a woman of her innate dignity and gentile refinement

would never ever complain. In any case the secret aches and strains of old age, she

could see, entirely passed by her kindly, gregarious middle-aged niece, despite all her

fussing to make sure her aunt was comfortable. Shed sat ramrod straight and sipped

tentatively and politely at what appeared to be a foamy pudding of some sort. She

couldnt quite decide if she tasted coffee or chocolate. Shed agreed to a muffin whenencouraged by her niece but it wasnt what shed expecting at all and seemed to be

some sort of fruit laden, dense, yeasty cake. Shed have been far happier with a nice

cup of tea and a jaffa cake...

At least now she was back in the relative comfort of the airport waiting lounges

upholstered cloth seats. A strange notice on the wall just to her left, its meaning

impossible to guess - WI-FI.

WiFi?

The coffee and cake muffin - had made her sleepy.

Her mind drifted.

Wi-Fi, now was that like Hi-Fi or Sci-Fi? Fidelity or fiction, Fidelity, fiction.

The fiction of fidelity?

Shed married not long after the war to George. Respectable from the top of his

bowler hat to his highly polished patent leather shoes. A neat, dapper man with a

steady job in the menswear department of Copland and Lye. Brought home a lot more

than could be expected by most in those austere post-war years. Rose to be assistant

manager. Upright citizen, respected in his community and in the local Kirk. George

was the ideal husband, dependable. They were a model couple, neat little flat theyd

lived in, beautifully furnished in a timeless sort of way. Shed visited the local

auction sales and bought wisely, frugally, and with effortless taste. Of course there

had been no children to mess the place or break the ornaments. When nieces and

nephews visited they were warned to be on their best behaviour. People had

whispered to each other, Wasnt it sad they had never been blessed, such a lovely

couple, but of course theyd never ever utter it to her face.

Fidelity and fiction.

Very, very late every Friday and Saturday night, and just occasionally during the

week too, she would listen, ears straining for the sound of his key in the latch.

Finally, shed hear it, quiet and discreet, just like George. She would lie in her twin

bed, in the neat little room they nominally shared, rigid, feigning even breaths,

pretending to be asleep, oblivious, unquestioning, heart pounding. That was just the

way it was. She never complained. She was lucky to have him, she knew. That had

always been inferred, without the need for words.

Her niece returned from checking the arrivals screen, a little flustered - she noted the

tiny beads of perspiration - smiling encouragement and gently grasping her arm. Theflight from New York had been delayed by two hours so there was nothing to do but

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wait. Correctly gauging her need for silence, the younger woman retrieved a dog-

eared old favourite from her messy bag, settling further into her seat as she turned to

chapter one.

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.

She had retained her familys renowned fine-boned beauty into old age. Her steady

deep grey eyes were intelligent still, unfathomable and discreet bespectacled now,

watchful too, as she scanned the busy concourse. Of course some people had tried to

bomb this place last summer. Drove a jeep loaded with explosives at the main

entrance on the first day of the school summer holidays, but were stopped at the door.

Two weeks before shed visited her dear old friend Maisie in a hospital close by.

Turned out the nice young Asian doctor caring for her had been one of the occupants

of the jeep. The terrorists had encountered the familiar Glasgow disdain for anyone

who tried to get above themselves, or make themselves out to be anything special. It

was really just luck that the bombs hadnt exploded, but nobody felt inclined to tell

the story that way. Glaswegian bravado had saved the day and no one would beallowed to forget it. Yet people had been shocked too that anyone would think to

target safe old Glasgow.

The Germans are coming! The Germans are coming!

How theyd giggled as their mother had run through the house, yelling and banging

on doors, urging her children down to the Anderson shelter, as the air raid sirens

wailed in anger that first time.

And then came Clydebank.

Night after night, theyd listen as the two-tone engine sounds passed overhead.

Crump, crump, crump. Crump crump.

Crump, crump, crump. Crump crump.

She would play an urgent little game. Shed sit hunched on the hard mattress,

hugging her pillow and Brown Ted, forcing the insistent sound into the rhythm of

happy, familiar tunes. A whistling noise meant that a stray bomb was falling very

close, and in those screeching moments shed hold her breath, scrunch her eyes tightshut and squeeze her ears with her fingers, counting the seconds, waiting for the

moment of oblivion, and wondering if there would be time for it to hurt?

One day Jane McPhersons house had been hit and her mother killed outright.

Safe old Glasgow.

Her brother, eldest in the family had joined the RAF and flew Lancasters. When he

came home on leave hed stayed tucked up in his warm bed during air raids, to his

mothers helpless chagrin. Later he had been decorated along with his crew for flying

his plane home and landing it safely. The bomb bay doors had jammed, and instead ofbailing out over Norway, and possibly killing people on the ground theyd carried on

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home. After the war he joined Glasgow Corporation as a clerk and never went near

another plane, not even as a passenger.

She had two older sisters as well, Maggie and Isa. They were giggly, flighty,

imagined themselves as the leading ladies they watched all agog, twice a week, in the

local picture house. Dreams of Hollywood recreated in the local Ascot. She knewMaggie lived her life as Rita Hayworth. Her wise young eyes watched amused as her

sister grew her hair like Ritas, aped her way of moving and talking, walking the grid

of streets in Glasgow as if it was a mini New York, not looking up too high so that

she could pretend the solid, sooty, Victorian merchant buildings were skyscrapers.

So when the GIs started arriving from America, well, Maggie and Isa were just in

seventh heaven. They talked excitedly and often in unison about the American

soldiers, their extra smart uniforms, their exotic accents, the money they had to

spend. Every last one a handsome film star dropped straight in from Hollywood.

Theyd go out to the Locarno or the Albert, dressed to the nines in their pretty home

sewn frocks, eye brow pencilled and ruby lipped, and would come home too bright-eyed, sometimes slightly dishevelled, purses stuffed with nylons and chocolate,

reprising all the tunes, spinning round the living room in remembrance, in the arms of

phantom partners.

As the youngest in the family she could only listen to these tales of glamour, and

dream, until one spring day A charity event, dreamt up spontaneously by the

generous GIs for the children of Clydebank whod lost their tenement homes, their

parents, their siblings, their childhood. Theyd put on a show and charged only what

local people could afford. Everyone in the neighbourhood squeezed into the Church

Hall, convinced that they were going to be given a privileged glimpse of Hollywood

or Broadway. Some of soldiers were extremely talented and everyone last one of

them beautiful to her, or, if not handsome, then at least uproariously funny. She

laughed and clapped and cheered in delight, wept at the sentimental songs and fell in

love with theatre utterly and forever from that day on.

Afterwards came the dancing. She was not yet seventeen and shed been allowed to

stay for this because it was in a good cause. Her very first dance; with the added

bonus of a real-life, bona fide American dance band on stage. Ah the Americans,

smart, accomplished on the floor, faces shining with well-fed health, so charming and

polite. The Glasgow boys really should learn something from these young men, shed

thought. The offhand, inarticulate, awkward, pale, pinch-faced local boys hadntstood a chance her older self thought wryly. At the time she remembered thinking that

the GIs mothers must be wonderful people to have brought up sons with such

impeccable manners.

She hadnt noticed him at all until just before he reached her, where she sat with her

sisters. Then there he was, all effortless graceful movement and charm, eyes dark and

deep and liquid, asking her if shed care to dance. Well, of course shed said yes, and

allowed herself to be swept up in a dream. Hed walked her home and placed a chaste

kiss of farewell on her cheek. Then he had asked to see her again. She was afraid of

her father and hated to disappoint her mother, could imagine them reacting with

something approaching horror, but shed had no choice. In any case she heard hervoice uttering yes, before shed quite made up her mind.

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his arms shed felt immune from everyday fears like war and separation and pain and

loss and sorrow.

Theyd seen each other always surreptitiously as often as they could all summer

long. Then one day in early September, trees heavy and dark and ripe, sweet damp

dank mist hanging in the air theyd met at the entrance to Kelvingrove Park.

And hed told her.

Marching orders.

His unit were moving south the very next day. There had been no time to take it in.

Tears, vows to write, heartfelt, earnest declarations of love, unbearable sadness, and

one last evening together. They should have spent it in some enchanted forest, or at

least the local equivalent, but there had been no time left. It had started raining and

the ground was sodden and anyway this was real life. Hed led her down a black

deserted lane just off Great Western Road. People nowadays would find it hard toimagine a city blacked out, so dark you couldnt see your fingers in front of your

face. Seedy, sordid, sweet, glorious memories of one last reckless night of frantic,

ferocious passion, against a damp tenement wall.

Then he was gone.

She remembered running home, thoughts in a whirl, stockings and shoes soaked by

unseen puddles; gasping in shock at a sudden painful glancing blow to her arm, the

lamp post looming just too late in the dark; recalling that night when shed caught her

sisters chortling, whispering too loudly, naively, thinking she couldnt hear them, now

praying to herself that it was true.

If you do it standing up you cant get pregnant!

Shed crept back into the house at two in the morning, knocked her shin hard and

loud against a chair or a table in the bedroom she shared with her sisters, urged them

to stay silent as they snickered conspiratorially. She lay awake on top of the bed

covers, eyes brimming, body shuddering, staring at nothing, not wanting to think,

only knowing she wanted to die, just as shed begun to live.

Shed missed him and mourned him, her first love. He wrote, every other day for awhile, sweet letters that shed bundled up, tied neatly with a ribbon, of course, and

kept hidden in a scuffed old shoe box beneath her bed, and shed always replied

straightaway, as best she could. But after a while the gaps between his letters got

wider, until eventually they petered out. She would work at rationalising this in her

head, urging herself to believe that he was so busy training for invasion he no longer

had time to write. But more and more in the weeks that followed, a creeping cold

doubt would seep into her. The pain of it was physical. It would start at her fingertips,

run up her arms, past her shoulders, catching at her throat, then down again, piercing

her heart, then on into the pit of her stomach, twisting it painfully.

Dont sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me.

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She expected the trees would be just as beautiful in Wiltshire in May.

Then came the nausea.

Shed remained in denial for three months until shed finally had to face the stark,

awful truth. Most of her memories of that time had congealed into a horrible ill-defined mess, squashed down deep, just out of reach, vague and blurry, until shed

begun recently to unearth them. One or two had remained pin sharp. Confessing first

to her wide-eyed sisters, whod run to her brother, home on leave. He said hed

arrange something for her through his RAF connections. The RAF boys had needed

some comfort other than drink between suicide missions, shed supposed, and had

become unwilling experts in the matter. She could remember the warmth of her

brothers comforting arm round her shoulder as hed told her not to worry, got a

number from a friend; hazy memories of following him one deep winters night down

to a seedy row of soot-blackened tenements. Yes it actually was a back street, an icy,

cobbled Dickensian clich, right by the docks too; till she stopped, suddenly realising

she could never, ever go through with it.

The final awful scene with her parents, mother screaming that shed always been the

sensible one, as if by saying it very loud she could make it so once again, the shame

shed brought on thefamily, her father strangely silent all the while, watching. The

sudden hot shock of the back of his hand across her face had stung, but it had been

the cold, cruel, dead, empty look in her fathers eyes as he did so that would brand

itself into her memory forever.

Shed tried more than once to write to her love, wondering if she dared call him that

any longer, at his training base in the south, to tell him the news. She knew she ought

to. Shed sat there, at the wobbly little ink-stained table by the window of her room,

God knows how long, biting at her lip until it was raw, pen poised over paper, fingers

paralysed, unable to write down the words, and give substance and reality to

something she could not believe herself, despite her swelling belly.

A baby?

No, she never told him.

Eventually theyd sent her off to an unmarried mother and baby home in England, run

by nuns, whod made it clear to her and her fellow inmates, in deed and word, thatthey were there first and foremost to atone for their Sin.

Labour.

Memories of bare off-white scuffed walls, the harsh light from a bare ceiling bulb and

a large round metallic clock ticking loudly, busily intent on marking out the seconds,

minutes, hours. Dressed in a rough cotton gown, blotched with the faint pale pinkish,

brownish stains of former tragedies, she hadnt had a clue what was happening to her

body. In her ignorance shed been certain she going to die that dreary June day. Of

course there had been no pain relief. Each contraction burned like six sharp knives

twisting in her gut; the pain, the hard eyes of the nuns seemed to suggest, barelyadequate punishment for her shameless wanton act. In those sweating, excruciating

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moments she believed utterly in the nuns. She was enduring the righteous retribution

of a vengeful Old Testament God.

There had been one young pale dark-eyed nun who stayed by her side throughout,

smiled silent warm encouragement and wiped her brow and squeezed her hand in

empathy when she thought no one else was looking. She didnt know how she wouldhave got by without her. From time to time shed gazed out of the rusting barred

window at the sad grey sky, rain never far off, trees bending this way and that,

restless and impatient in the swirling wind.

June.

At times she would be briefly transported back to that golden unending day by the

loch, almost a year ago, nature on show at its most benign, her love by her side, until

another contraction would drag her roughly back into the present. In thrall to nature

once again, but this time wearing its cruellest garb. Nature in the raw, laughing

heartily at the transitory aspect of happiness.

Then someone said that they could see the head. Not long after, one final exhausted

push and her son popped out like a bar of soap. There he was on the mattress.

Absurdly, in those first seconds, her uppermost emotion had been surprise. Surprise

that a perfect little stranger had emerged so suddenly from within her. Theyd

scooped him up and taken him away to clean him before hed had time to cry.

It was much later that shed heard the news, D-Day, Invasion, the Second Front.

June 6th 1944, the day her most precious thing in all the world was born.

Auntie!

The voice seemed to come from far, far away. She felt as if she was swimming up

through a deep viscous pool of molasses to the surface. Her niece was tapping her

gently on her shoulder and presenting her watch. An hour to go. She peered

groggily at the younger womans kindly face, watching the progress of the little

shadow of concern as it crossed. The face was redder now, beads of nervous

perspiration more prominent. Then her nieces voice again, loud against a muffled

announcement. Ill just go and get us some more water. Its so stuffy in here. She

nodded in agreement, almost fully recovered, enough at least to record herbemusement, not for the first time, at the twenty-first century need to pay for little

plastic bottles of mineral water. Here in Glasgow anyway, where everyone knew that

the ever-abundant soft Loch Katrine tap water was the safest, sweetest stuff in the

world.

Shed been sitting awkwardly and her joints were stiff and achy. She got up to stretch

her limbs, taking careful effort to disguise the pain she was in. She walked the length

of the teeming concourse, slowly as ever nowadays, dodging bouncing children,

trundling suitcases, (what a simple yet wonderful invention those little wheels were),

and those people who always walked backwards, reading screens, talking into

phones, oblivious to their fellow human beings until they jabbed them with sharpelbows or trod painfully on toes. She found her way to the ladies room. As she looked

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in the mirror she caught sight of herself as she was now, always a shock these days,

as her grandmother stared back. Then she sighed quietly, reprimanded herself for her

vanity. She knew her inherited bone structure made her luckier than many. But still

Mr DeMille, just keep it in long shot, she chuckled inwardly.

Norma Desmond, poor old soul, had been all of 50 for God sakes, 50!

She splashed her face with cool water, and felt much better. She carefully added a

touch of powder to her nose and cheeks. She would never give up making the effort,

and especially not today. In those wartime days, she mused, tragedy or the threat of it

had been the close and constant companion of all, yet no one ever complained, or for

one moment considered the need for counselling or therapy from so-called experts,

the way they did today. Why, they just got on with it, soldiered on, made the best of

things.

Mustnt grumble!

Nowadays theyd probably expect someone like her to go on one of those awful talk

shows she came across sometimes by accident on television, populated by people

with a reckless and undignified need to spill out all their secrets to a barely interested

world.

She made her way back to her seat, and daintily sipped at some of the water offered

by her niece. Some smart young entrepreneur really should start bottling Loch

Katrine water. Theyd make a fortune.

Before hed been born shed been afraid to even think of loving him - or her. Knew

the decision she had made and would be expected to stick to. But all that changed the

moment, theyd brought the little bundle back to her, all clean and soft and warm, and

shed looked at the wondrous reality of him and loved him.

Even the severe, sharp, disapproving nuns forgot themselves briefly and seemed

suddenly blurred at the edges, momentarily transformed into kindly kindred spirits.

For a spell or two no one seems forlorn. This comes to pass, when a child is born.

Silly emotional Christmas song! It annoyed her intensely that it never failed to bring

tears, every single time she heard it, usually and embarrassingly over tinny littlespeakers in busy shops at Christmas time.

Six precious weeks.

Shed look at him as she held him close, could never get enough of looking, at the

curve and colour and softness of his little cheeks, his full soft lips, his beautiful long

dark eyelashes. She loved it most of all when he suckled on her breast, cosy little

bundle, all earnest frowning concentration. This little soul with no experience of the

world, yet with the wisdom of the ages in his face. He looked so perfect and new and

fresh it was as if the colours hadnt dried yet. She adored his little hands and fingers

and his absurdly tiny fingernails, sharp enough to cut as he reached out and gripped.Theyd put on miniature protective cotton mittens after a day or so for his sake and

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for hers.

She would watch him as he slept and wonder at the little movements and sounds he

made. What on earth could you dream about when your life experiences were so

limited? Happy sensuous dreams, she hoped, of scents and textures and touch and

taste and sound and love. Shed be so wrapped up in him, would stare at him for solong, burning the details of his neat little features into her mind, than when she turned

to adult faces they would appear grotesquely, comically huge.

And she loved his eyes most of all.

Eyes the colour of Tuesday.

Shed always been too embarrassed to tell people that she saw colours and shapes for

all the days of the week and the months and the years - for numbers as well - once it

had dawned on her that this didnt happen for others. Shed laughed out loud not long

ago as she watched a documentary. Goodness, it even had a name.

Synaesthesia theyd called it.

Pretty rare seemingly. Even suggested it was some kind of anomalous wiring of the

brain. People who associated words, numbers or names, sometimes musical notes

with colour or shape or texture, and even sound and smell. Shed been amused and

just a little proud, she was forced to admit, to discover that she shared this trait with

many of the great artists, musicians and writers.

She shifted slightly in the firm airport seat, ostensibly to get more comfortable, sat a

little more upright, clasped her hands in her lap, looked around at the echoing

concourse with unseeing eyes, then stared down at a little piece of torn biscuit packet

on the floor, momentarily transfixed by a fly flitting over the letters McV in its search

for infinitesimal crumbs. She was consumed by a desperate compulsive need to tell

herself the whole story, set everything straight, in careful chronological order in her

head before she could move on to the next chapter of her life.

But she had to steel herself to dig up the next memory.

One day they came and took him away, her little love, her joy, her life.

And shed screamed and screamed and screamed and never, ever stopped. She knew

shed done it out loud at first, God knows for how long, clinging hopelessly to the

pale young nun for a comfort she knew would never come. She wasnt sure exactly

when shed stopped screaming out loud, when it had become internalised? Couldnt

pinpoint it in her memory. But the scream was always there. Most of the time she

managed to keep it to a tiny thin sound, insistent, but well hidden within the deepest

recesses of her soul. Of course from time to time, it would emerge. Birthdays, special

landmarks, and all those unexpected times as well, it would pop to the surface,

deafening her, sometimes a pure high pitched piercing noise, icicle sharp, sometimes

a long low wailing persistent moan. It became part of her and shed learned to adapt

to its presence, and eventually, to live with it. And no one ever knew that she did.

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desperate to find a nice girl for George. She was one of the very few people to

whom her mother had confided her youngest daughters secret shame, officially at

least. Everybody knew, of course, but nobody ever said. The number of hushed little

conversations that had stopped as soon as she was within earshot was proof enough

of that, especially in the first months after her return. Mrs Sutherland, however, had

been allowed into the highly exclusive official inner circle. Rest assured shed madesure that her son George knew too. His mother had obviously decided that hed left it

so late hed had no choice but to make do with soiled goods. He would never ever

call her that, he was far too polite, but shed always known he thought of her this way

somewhere. He was never anything other than completely kind, but nevertheless, the

little shadow was always there, and along with it the lurking, silent threat that he

might just use it as a weapon if really pressed.

George had been invited for afternoon tea, and to dinner and she would be asked

reciprocally to the Sutherlands. Eventually, George, shy with girls, had plucked up

courage and done what was expected of him. They went out on their first official

date, to the tearoom at Copland and Lye, in Sauchiehall Street, where, of course, hegot staff discount.

They'd had to stifle guffaws at the sight of the stern-eyed, ever so slightly overweight

waitress in her black tightly fitting dress, white starched apron and little white

starched cap, as she placed the pot of tea for two and scones and jam down on the

table just a little too heavily, with glinting disapproval. It was a bit like laughing in

church in the quiet, stuffy ultra gentile atmosphere of the tearoom. But the ice was

broken. George was quite amusing once you got past his natural reserve and would

recount entertaining anecdotes of eccentric customers, accompanied by brave little

attempts at voices and mannerisms. After that they had made regular trips to the

pictures, and undaunted, by that first experience, even occasionally would venture

into Miss Cranstons Willow Tearooms. If Copland and Lye was the church, Miss

Cranstons was the cathedral.

After their third date hed kissed her sweetly on the lips before saying goodnight at

her door, and from that day on they were officially courting. He was pleasant enough

company and kind, but there was no unending sunlit loch-side day in June, seared

into memory, no apple blossom confetti, no catch in the throat or thump of the heart

at the unexpected sight of him, no breathless, passionate declarations of love, no

desire to die in his arms.

She knew younger generations would never understand, but when, six months later

he asked her to marry him, shed said yes straight away. Nowadays at the first sight

of trouble they were falling over themselves in the rush to the divorce courts. But she

had lived in an utterly different world. She had no independent means. Her only hope

of escape from the ever-present threat of her fathers cold ire, and to make a home for

herself was to marry. Shed left school at fourteen, at her fathers insistence and she

would never ever stand up to him. He didnt think girls were suited to cope with the

mental rigours of higher education and was scathingly disdainful of what he'd called

bluestockings, women of education. No, she was an accomplished seamstress and a

proficient cook, neat and tidy, perfect for her place in life as a housewife.

They were married in June 1946, and moved into their neat little West End flat, no

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money left for a honeymoon. Their wedding night was a disaster. Theyd tried a few

times intermittently after that, but things were no better. He was slow to anger, but

one night, in what she knew was self-defence, hed accused her of being frigid, and

after that they just gave up.

A few months into the marriage George started his secret nocturnal trips. The firsttime hed just said he was going out and would be back late. Shed fretted and

worried, peering through curtains, anxiously checking and rechecking the time, heart

pounding in panic, until shed heard his key in the latch. Shed leapt into her twin

bed, hauled up the covers and feigned sleep. Then, as it became a regular twice and

often thrice weekly occurrence shed learned to know what to expect and in the secret

depths of her soul guessed the truth of her place in his life.

He never told her where he went and she never asked or gave indication that she

cared or even knew. She would pretend to be comatose and oblivious when he

returned home, but she could never give up worrying about him, panicking if was

even five minutes late, and fearing the shame for both of them if he was ever foundout. They had a silent unspoken pact that both adhered to rigidly.

I wont tell your secrets, if you dont tell mine.

In some strange way, despite her fears, it made her feel closer to him. After all, shed

reasoned eventually, both of them were innocent victims of the age into which theyd

been born, and despite her worries and fears, it gave them a sort of kindredship.

Theyd eventually settled into companionable but separate lives. He was an avid

collector of the strangest things, which thankfully hed agreed to keep in the spare

room, toy cars, stamps and even thimbles. Although his chronic asthma had left him

unfit for military service he had a passionate interest in the war recently ended, a

mystery to her. She did adore one of his hobbies. He loved to bake and his selection

of light fluffy cakes, and delicious tablet, a sinful buttery, sugary teeth-rotting treat,

became some of lifes happy compensations. She knew she was lucky to have

inherited a physique that never gained weight, however much she ate.

Confectionery in place of sex?

Well, some people would call her lucky. And anyway she had her own passions.

She smiled wryly to herself, but anyone observing her closely in that split second

might also have caught the merest hint of a twinkle in her eyes.

She was briefly transported forward in time in a headlong rush, as the echoing

announcement declared that the flight from New York was now expected in twenty

minutes. She watched as her niece stuffed the second Mrs de Winter, nasty Mrs

Danvers and the dashing but melancholy Max de Winter she always pictured

Lawrence Olivier - into her capacious handbag and began to pace the floor.

Shed never liked the big department stores, not even the classy ones like Pettigrew

and Stephen or Watt Brothers, although she did go to Copland and Lye, for thediscount. Mainly she shopped sparingly and sensibly in the proudly independent little

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West End dress shops of Byers Road and Great Western Road, making thoughtful

purchases, resulting in a style that was classic and timeless. She loved antiques fairs,

and along with her best friends from childhood, Maisie and Moira, would go along

bright and early to seek out bargains. She would avidly read the antiques catalogues

and books borrowed from the local library. She was not too proud to say that over the

years shed become a bit of an expert in Royal Worcester, Royal Doulton and Spode,china tea sets, dinner services, classic figurines, ornaments of all sorts. Shed also

developed a practiced eye for items of classic occasional furniture, and she would

thrill in delight whenever she managed to beat an unwitting seller down to a bargain

price. She and her friends would then go off for lunch, to a caf or if feeling flush to

an Italian. She supposed theyd been ladies who lunched, long before the phrase was

coined.

She loved all the performing arts, and along with Maisie would go to the Scottish

Ballet, and slightly less often to the Scottish Opera, depending on the production. She

wasnt too keen on the Germans, but the Italians were marvellous just like their ice

cream! She loved classical music, especially the Romantic period.

Her burning passion, however, was theatre. Shed go to everything at the Kings , the

Alhambra, even the Pavilion, pantomime, musicals, comedies and tragedies, the

whole gamut. But there was one theatre that would always hold a special place in her

heart, The Citizens. Over the years shed watched numerous small but enthusiastic

companies of eager young actors work with an energy and passion and an utter lack

of fear that she never saw elsewhere. Sets were of necessity sparse she noticed a

recurring preference for monochrome - effects minimal, and there was always that

feeling that each production was running just half a step ahead of disaster, but

somehow the rough edges gave them an honesty and raw purity that was uniquely

satisfying. As usual she noticed a particular smell that she couldnt quite place. She

used to like to imagine it was greasepaint, and would add in rare foray into humour

that she was the roar of the crowd.

Over the years she saw everything there, sometimes with Maisie and Moira,

sometimes alone; Shakespeare, Shaw, Ibsen, Chekov, Wilde, and surprising perhaps

to those who didnt know her well, Brecht, Ionesco, Pinter, Osborne and even Orton.

She became a member of the theatre and donated as generously as she sensibly could.

The Citizens would become an excellent training ground for young aspiring thesps

and shed always feel a sense of motherly pride whenever any of her charges made

it in Londons West End as actors or directors, or turned up, as they did on a fairlyregular basis on television, and occasionally film, and on one glorious night, in

Hollywood clutching an Oscar.

Her brother stayed single and remained always a good and close friend. Her sisters

had married fairly well, Isa for money and Maggie for love. They each had several

children who grew up to live lives of quiet success or drama and dysfunction, the

usual mix. Maggie and Isa even took up amateur theatre as a hobby and thus in some

small way lived out their early dreams. She often went along to watch and had great

fun. Maggie looked more like Lucille Ball now than Rita Hayworth but as she was

almost as funny that was fine.

Then one rainy afternoon, two and a half years ago George passed away. He did so

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quietly and discreetly just as he had lived his life. He had dozed off after completing

the Herald crossword, and ebbed away in his favourite chair by the fireside. She felt

numb and unreal, as nieces and nephews and siblings fussed around arranging the

funeral and sorting out the financial stuff, which George had left tidily in order. It was

all a bit of a blur.

Then one day, around two weeks after the funeral and quite without warning, shed

broken down, thrown herself on her bed and howled and howled without hope of

consolation. She knew then how much he missed his companionable presence round

the flat, the way hed bring her cups of tea unasked, get her to sample his latest cake

creation, the look of frowning concentration on his face as hed peer over his

newspaper and his spectacles to ask for her help when he got stuck with a crossword

clue; his earnest, open enthusiasm as he read out snippets from the newspaper that

caught his interest and he felt the need to share with her; his kindness, and caring.

And she understood at last how essential he had become to her and that she had

grown to love him deeply after all.

It had been around this time that her gregarious niece, Isas second daughter, had

begun to visit. She was a successful lawyer by profession, a partner in a venerable

Glasgow firm. She was divorced and her children had gone off to university, so she

had a little more time on her hands. In the weeks and months that followed Georges

death she appeared more and more often at the door. She fussed around, made sure

that she was managing on her own, arranged for a cleaner to come and help out a

couple of times a week, and generally became a pleasant and welcome presence. She

was naturally warm and friendly, the kind of person you could find yourself confiding

in, telling just a little more than youd intended, she was so eager and warm and

encouraging of openness.

Then one night when theyd each consumed the last drops of their third glass of

Harveys Bristol Cream that she really only kept for cooking, she found herself

telling all.

That winters night she unburdened all the secret guilt and shame and all the hidden

pain and sorrow and lost love on her niece.

Well, not quite all. After all she had promised, an unspoken promise, but knew it was

there and she always honoured her promises.

As she spoke she decided she must be feeling a little light-headed from the sherry, for

she became increasingly aware of the sound of the old grandmother clock that stood

beside the tall carved wood fireplace. It had been one of her first and favourite

antique sale purchases, and that night the ticking seemed somehow louder than usual.

No, not just louder. It had a strange attenuated echo, ti-tick, to-tock, whimsy, she

knew, but she could almost imagine it straddling time between the then and the now,

counting the beats of parallel lives.

As shed talked shed wondered absently if her niece heard this too. The cosy little

room seemed faded and a little fuzzy, as if not quite real. Each quarter hour the clockwould remember to chime obediently, marking the phases of her story. Her niece sat

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agog, mesmerised, transfixed, eyes a little wider than normal, unnaturally silent, aside

from sporadic little involuntary exclamations of empathy. When shed finally finished

her niece got up, cleared her throat and turned away quickly excusing herself to the

bathroom. Five minutes later she had returned, thrown open the door, rushed to her

aunt and scooped the smaller woman up into her ample bosom and squeezed her

tight.

The next day was a frosty, bright Saturday. It had been around eight thirty in the

morning when the doorbell rang and there was her niece laden with electronic

accoutrements, and an air of warm efficient optimism. Its so easy now, shed cried,

swept up by the beguiling notion that she could set things right, we can find him on

the internet! The way shed said it, so confident and ebullient, she almost expected

her to add, and then we can ask him round for dinner!

She remembered making tea in her neat square little kitchen and bringing it through

to the living room on a tray, taking great care as always these days, matching china

cups and tea plates, of course, a larger plate piled with McVities chocolate digestives,and some left over shortbread that shed found in a tin. Shed sat in her favourite

high-backed chair by the fire, opposite Georges, and watched her niece tapping

away, fiddling with strange sticks, making calls. The names on the phone and the

computer momentarily transported back to childhood and the sweet pungent smell of

fruit boiling in the big heavy pot on the stove for her mothers delicious jam.

And as shed watched she realised she wasnt sure if she wanted to do this.

It had all seemed just a little unreal and absurd, as if all she had needed to do in the

end was wait for the twenty-first century to turn up and the huge mess of doubt and

anguish and loss and despair would be swept up neatly and tidily in an afternoon.

Shed known of course it was never going to be that easy and shed always feared

hope.

Hope was a cruel temptress, clad in a scarlet satin gown, beckoning you with an easy

smile playing on red painted lips, offering the moon and the stars only to snatch them

away again at the very last with barely disguised glee and mocking laugh. Sometimes

she felt it would be best never to let her in. But her niece was enthused and full of

love and caring and a certainty that she could make things right. How could she

possibly make her understand or even begin to explain? She knew that the boulder

had been set at the top of the hill and pushed off and there was nothing she could doabout it.

Shed watched her niece during this period in a kind of semi-detached haze, as if a

veil of gauze had enshrouded her and separated her from the now. Shed always been

terrified of becoming forgetful but somewhere deep within her now she almost

longed for the peace of it.

First her niece had found the names of her sons adoptive parents, along with the first

revelation that theyd emigrated to the United States in 1947. How strange that he

should in some way fulfil his part of her little hopeful dream. Chicago, Illinois. The

Windy City shed added silently, well at least according to Doris Day.

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She wondered hopelessly what his life had been like there and prayed that it had been

the best that it could be. Still, it was surreal and she struggled to imagine the reality of

him. In her mind, despite the passage of time, hed always been that tiny warm

bundle.

Over the next few evenings running into weeks little pieces of the puzzle began totake shape. The family had moved to Wisconsin, when he was twelve, no reason

given. Hed got married there in 1972 and moved to New Jersey. But no clue as to

where he was now. Her niece had explained to her about these absurd internet social

groups with peculiar names like My Face that twenty-first century people felt the

need to join, and live their lives in a goldfish bowl; she couldnt for the life of her

fathom why. But he wasnt on any of them.

Was he even alive?

Ten minutes! her niece nudged her awake. Ten minutes, her face by now beetroot

red.

Shed wondered at the names of all these American states. Now, who was it? Yes,

Perry Como, his voice was so relaxed, sleepy almost. She remembered he had lovely

eyes. Italian. She hoped he wasnt one of these crooners whod ended up with horses

heads in their beds. What was it hed sung? She used to hear it on the radio on the old

BBC Light Programme, and shed joined in as she dusted the ornaments. Clever little

song.

What did Delaware, boys? What did Delaware?

She wore a brand New Jersey.

She wore a brand new jersey

It was the thing she remembered about him, the man in the kitchen with George.

Shed come in from shopping one day and there he was. Wearing a brand new pale

blue v-neck jersey over a white shirt. Matched his eyes, the jersey, not the shirt. He

was good looking, shock of messy fair hair, pleasant, sudden, dimpled smile. Shed

known George had not expected her back from the shops so soon. However hed

recovered quickly, and asked her to join them at the little kitchen table. Conversationover teacups and tablet had been light and polite and unreal. They talked about all

sorts but she still recalled the sudden shock, at something said at one particular point

in the conversation, she couldnt remember what, but it had hit her with the force of a

truck.

Theyd known each other for years.

He had a name, Colin, and after that strange little meeting hed appear on occasion.

No explanations, usually only briefly. They would be on their way out. Colins place,

she presumed. When a few months later shed brought home Tony from the Citizens

George had been equally pleasant and accommodating. And again later in later yearswith Stuart, the avid antiques collector. Yes, she and George had enjoyed a polite,

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discreet unspoken arrangement, so she supposed things had worked out pretty well

for them in the end.

Ill keep your secrets if you keep mine.

Colin had been a lost and forlorn, almost ghostly presence at the funeral. She went upto him where he stood, silent, a little apart. His hair had turned to silver grey, his face

old, etched deep with grief, and shed grasped his hands tight, hugged him briefly but

firmly, and gave him a little kiss on the cheek.

If her family wondered at the nice little sum George had left Colin in his will, they

didnt say.

After a while her niece had stopped bringing her computer round to the house on

visits. The trail had gone cold and Hope was trailing quietly away, casting occasional

derisive glances over her shoulder.

Then two weeks later.

Ive found him!

Her niece had yelled it down the telephone.

Charles Frederick Waverley. Still in New Jersey.

She wondered absently if they called him Chuck. She couldnt quite imagine having a

son called Chuck. Shed chosen the name Charles when hed been born, and she was

glad that theyd kept it, but she had always been her Charlie.

Her Charlie!

Then two days later the hammer blow.

Her niece had sat her down quietly and had held her hands as she explained eyes

bright with barely suppressed tears, that her beloved son didnt want to see her. His

adoptive mother was still alive but frail. He felt it would be a betrayal; he couldnt

and wouldnt hurt her. The thing that crushed her most was the realisation that her

own son thought of her as a stranger from a far off land, making waves in a still pond,disturbing the pattern of their lives.

Seemingly an aunt had called her niece a day or two later warning her off in a pretty

nasty way. It all got very messy and fraught.

Pandoras box.

Theyd given up and Hope was gone, as expected, slamming the door shut behind

her.

Then just three weeks ago her niece had telephoned excitedly about an email shedreceived from Fred, Charless son. He was bringing his family over to Europe on

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vacation and would really like to find his relations, discover his Scottish roots, meet

Grandma.

Shed wondered at the sound of a name for herself that shed never ever expected to

hear.

Grandma.

She said it out loud to herself as if trying it on for size.

Now people were tumbling out into the arrivals hall. She felt engulfed, almost

suffocated, slightly panicked by the sudden mass of humanity. Many laden with bags

with names from dreams, Macys, Bloomingdales, Tiffany she recognised, although

there were many others she didnt. Scottish people hopping over to New York to take

advantage of a two dollar pound. Groups of men in polo shirts and checked caps

trailing golf clubs, on their way to St Andrews, the Home of Golf presumably,

business men in slightly crumpled suits, and sticky shirts, walking fast, places to be.

Families. Americans arriving in Scotland for the first time, looking around, uncertain.

A pleasant couple trailing four little blond children and copious amounts of luggage,

a family of giants, mother, father, two teenage boys. She wondered in passing how

tall the boys would be when they stopped growing as theyd had already almost

reached their father.

An African American family, side by side, mother grasping a toddler, his soft face

streaked with the tracks of recent tears, stubbornly barefoot. Slightly fraught mother,

clutching small yellow socks and blue shoes in the hand that held him, resignedly

hauling the rest of his toddler luggage over her free shoulder, looking about. Beside

them, the tall good-looking dad pushing an empty stroller, two little girls walking

smartly, sometimes half skipping beside him, so alike they could be twins. Wearing

citrus sundresses, perfect against their dark skin, one lime, one orange, matching

ribbons in their black curls. She hoped theyd brought something warmer for the

evening; early summer nights in May could be cold in Glasgow.

Each girl carried airline colouring books and crayons, one a dishevelled doll and a

well-thumbed storybook, the other a large furry, honey coloured teddy.

The happy detritus of childhood.

The place was so crowded she lost sight of them as a ginger haired man and his small

dark haired wife came right up to her then veered away.

The African American family suddenly hove into view again. She half raised herself

from her seat to see everything better. They were close now coming towards her,

arms beginning to stretch out.

Then as if in response to some silent signal they all drew aside.

There he stood.

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Tall, upright, and broad shouldered, looking fit and vigorous in late middle age. Some

natural black flecking the iron grey of his hair. His dark handsome features etched in

a fine boned dignity, his gaze steady. Slightly questioning.

Silence.

The thronging concourse was suddenly, impossibly hushed, muffled as a snowy

village in the dawn.

She wondered at the silence. How could it be?

Then she felt the sun come out as she realised what it was.

The screaming had stopped.

His face.

She looked at his face as if she could never get enough of looking, deep tawny

shades, chiselled dark tones, soft full lips.

Like his father.

Dont sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me,

Till I come marching home.

Her niece helping her up, beaming through tears, her new family encouraging her

with friendly, welcoming faces.

And his eyes, deep, liquid, melting chocolate brown.

Eyes the colour of Tuesday.

She moved towards him as he stepped towards her, her love, her joy, her life.

Mom?

***

2. The Year of Living Dangerously

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She drove the short distance home to the large red sandstone townhouse, part of an

elegant West End terrace.

Kensington Gate, Glasgow.

Even at this hour the low sun shining from a glorious blood-red sky dappled throughthe black dancing leaves on the line of trees on the other side of the road, sighing,

singing, rustling in the gentle breeze in brief reminder of another time, another place,

another life. She let herself into the long hallway of the house that was far too big for

her now. She should have sold it she knew and moved somewhere smaller, more

practical, less draining on finances, shed just not quite got round to it yet. Anyway

she knew the girls felt comforted by cosy childhood reminders when they came home

on vacation, even if they would never admit to it.

This evening the spacious, shaded, high-ceilinged drawing room with its elegant

cornices and matching ceiling rose felt gloomy and oppressive. The pale cream

curtains hung languidly at the tall Victorian windows of the south facing roomreflecting the mood. The house had a tangible weight to it and she felt not for the first

time that it was much more than mere stone and brick and wood and slate and plaster.

It was, she was certain, a living, breathing, sentient organism, and tonight it was as if

it was straining to support the weight of its hundred years of history.

The evening had been euphoric. A rarely used word, yet an apt one. For her little

group of relatives, old and new the future would never be quite the same. That it had

in large part been down to her effort and dogged determination was quite something

to contemplate. Shed celebrated with them, shared in their joy and wonder at the turn

of events, played the part expected of her, the jolly gregarious niece, happy for them

and with them. Now shed returned to the echoing loneliness of home she felt the

inevitable post-euphoria depression set in. The accompanying guilt that she should

feel this way didnt help to lighten her mood.

I have supped full with - happiness.

She knew she was being foolish and self indulgent, but the mood persisted. She

raided the fridge for comfort food, regrettably for her expanding menopausal

waistline the only answer at such times. She moved back to the drawing room,

opened a bottle of red wine, then carefully pouring a glass she placed it on a coaster

on the solid oak coffee table. She stretched her length out on the couch in the gloom,settled into the cushions until she was comfortable and, Haagen Dazs and spoon in

her lap she finally let the torpor take her.

She drifted back twenty - four years.

Lotus Eaters!

Wind chimes in the porch. Heady hot spring day.

Smiling in memory at the simple beginnings.

Shut the door and keep the heat out! they all called out to the children in reflex as

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24/72

She found it impossible to imagine ever being able to call this place home. The 100

mile journey east along the brand new coast road from the airport at Tripoli that

afternoon felt like the hazy remnant of a slightly disturbing dream.

A slide show of images played through her head; countryside, sandy, but also greenerthan shed expected, serried ranks of olive trees as far as the eye could see, tall

swaying palm trees, sandy villages gone in a flash, substantial, single or two storey

concrete villas, partially hidden behind high walls, with ornate but forbidding

wrought iron gates, geometric patterns. Huddles of men dressed in white robes,

women similarly attired but with heads and faces covered by the hijab. Occasional

clutches of teenage soldiers in desert fatigues, casually caressing the automatic

weapons slung over their shoulders, as if placating capricious lovers. Nearly all the

vehicles seemed to be white too, including the ubiquitous pick up trucks, usually

driven by the head of the household, one arm stretched out of the drivers window

languidly trailing a cigarette, while wife, unnumbered offspring, and the occasional

goat, huddled together in the back, exposed to the hot, grimy elements likeinconsequential cargo.

Slowly in the days and weeks that followed shed adjusted to her new situation. She

got used to the ridiculously exotic view of the tall date palms from her kitchen

window and the animated biblical tableau that greeted her every evening as she

prepared dinner. The scene washed in throat-catching oranges, blood-reds and

elongated shadow. Dishevelled goats in a mixture of tones, cream, brown and black,

bleating in caprine musical round to the accompaniment of tinny dissonant bells. The

goatherd clad in white robes, shepherds crook in one hand, uttering occasional

guttural commands as he urged them home before sundown.

And there was no greater reminder of place and the culture in which she found herself

than the evocative call to prayer as it echoed through the town, haunting, as if the cry

of a ghost from ages past, yet at once so much in the present, and so regular, that you

could set your watch by it.

The cry of the muezzin,

Allaaaaahu Akbrrr,pause for two beats, Allaaaaahu Akbrrr!

She adored the taste bud tingling smell of freshly baked bread wafting from thebakery next door, laughed each morning, as her young husband would return juggling

a piping hot baguette for breakfast.

Theyd been married almost three years and he was a civil engineer. A good looking

fair-haired meat and potatoes kind of guy, practical, who didnt say much unless it

was about work, or sport, which fortunately she also enjoyed. Theyd married

ridiculously young, of course, but if their relationship had flaws shed been too naive

at that stage to recognise the emerging fault lines. She loved him, or looking back

with mature hindsight, had been at least in love with the idea of being in love. He was

the kind of man she believed she ought to be in love with. She lived in Voltaires best

of all possible worlds and was not experienced enough in life to realise that the bestof all possible worlds would turn out in the end to be distinctly average.

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The British company he worked for offered their expertise to the town government,

and were known as the Technical Support Team , or T.S.T. She met more of her expat

neighbours, fortunately none of them in any way like the brittle caricature of that first

evenings encounter. In fact, thank goodness, Ive been everywhere maam, as she

was known, left for parts unknown the very next week, somewhere presumably withservants.

She was to make some lasting friendships among the expat wives, very few of whom

worked in this male-dominated country. A number were English. Shed had to cross

the usual barrier with one or two who inevitably asked what part of England she came

from. She would watch that oh-so-familiar flicker of irritation cross their faces as she

corrected them Scotland. She knew they thought she was been typically Scottish,

over sensitive and uber patriotic, when she was merely pointing out simple fact. After

all they would have been baffled if she asked which part of Wales they were from.

Once that perennial hurdle was negotiated they got on fine. Many of the families

were from the Irish Republic. No one felt like suggesting that the proportionatelyhigh number of Irish families was in anyway connected with Gadaffis overt support

for the IRA, and anyway she found the Irish open and easy going and friendly and

good fun. She settled into a routine of coffee mornings and going for the burn with

Jane Fonda. Every time she saw that woman in the present day she would first envy

her bone structure and good looks, inherited from her father, and then would blame

Jane entirely for the horrible state of her middle-aged knees.

The majority of the other women were older than her and had children. Shed faced

the usual questions about whether she intended to produce. Were not in any rush,

she would lie. Couldnt they tell she was from the planet Zog just by looking at her?

She indeed felt alien, forcing a jaw-cramping smile during inevitable conversations

about the best month to give birth or the optimum gap between offspring.

They played tennis and everyone soon discovered that shed played the sport to a

high level. This led to her being called into service as unofficial tennis coach. Word

spread and her clientele soon included, Turks, Germans and Bulgarians as well as

Irish and English.

Friday was the Muslim day of rest so it stood to reason that Thursday night was party

night.

That first party.

Here you are darling. Welcome to Libya, dry as the Sahara!

A skinny guy, mid forties, greying at the temples, attired in pink t-shirt, RELAX

emblazoned across it in large black elongated letters, and excruciatingly tight jeans

painted on to drainpipe legs, shoved the small glass containing clear liquid and ice

into her hand with an encouraging smile. It looked like straight vodka or gin or even

water. Not wanting to appear rude she took a bigger gulp than shed intended, and

immediately gagged embarrassingly.

What was the stuff?

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She was to learn that it was called Flash, lovingly home distilled and with virtually

lethal alcohol content. She felt obliged to drain the glass. He watched like an

expectant puppy as she swallowed each searing mouthful.

Before long the room was spinning and fading she lurched to the front door, inurgent and absolute need of fresh air, gasped as the cold clear night hit her lungs

depriving her temporarily of breath.

Somehow she found the strength to haul open the compounds heavy steel entrance

gate. Then she staggered blindly - she hoped not permanently - along quiet dust and

sand back roads trying to walk off the effects of the alcohol. Of course, she was in no

state to remember the curfew that was always in place for God knows what reason.

Control she supposed.

Then without warning she tripped, crying out in shock as she landed heavily on

something. It was solid and lukewarm. She moved her limbs gingerly, momentarilyrelieved that she appeared uninjured, in the way of drunks, just a little numb.

She felt a soft furry texture brush her mouth almost lovingly.

She tried to focus.

A gleaming blank lifeless eye stared back at her in the moonlight.

Filling up with unspeakable gut churning horror, gagging and retching, as it dawned

on her that she was sprawled across a large and very dead dog. Her piercing scream

ripped through the clear sharp night. Living relatives of the deceased creature

responded in kind, their mournful howls echoing back at her in tragic chorus. Without

conscious thought she jumped to her feet, bounded back along the dusty road, head

turning wildly this way and that, trying desperately to get her bearings. She whirled

round a corner, gasping with renewed shock as she collided with a solid shape in

white robes.

Shinu fe hinna!

The old man caught her in his arms, his kindly smile morphing ever so slowly into a

leering toothless grin as she felt his bony hands caress slowly and deliberately overher breasts. She tugged at the thin arms, struggled to escape, finally shaking him off

in disgust. She stumbled off in panic, the old hajs pleading guttural patois slowly

fading into the dark places of the night.

Eventually she found her way back to the correct bungalow, easy to pick out, and

entered the room struggling for breath, heart pounding alarmingly. By now the party

was in full swing, a heaving mass of noisy humanity, music booming, incessant.

No one was in any state to notice shed been gone.

Karma, Karma, Karma, Karma Chameleon. You come and go, you come andgoooo, segued seamlessly into the throbbing, pounding anthem that would always

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take her right back every time she heard it.

Relax don't do itWhen you want to go to it

Relax dont do it

When you wanna comeYou gotta live those dreams

Scheme those schemesGot to hit me

Hit me

Hit me with those laser beams

She collapsed utterly spent on some cushions scattered Libyan style in a corner of the

room, the only space available, as a tall glass of lethal fruit punch was thrust into her

hand.

Life fell into a pretty pleasant, easy routine. The worst thing about Libya in the darkdays of the eighties was the lack of shops. In the year before theyd arrived all the

little shops, the lifeblood of any town, providing colour and variety and social focus

had been unceremoniously closed down. She would pass rows of boarded up,

shuttered premises, a haunting echo of an entirely different place that she tried to

imagine but would never know. Civilisation for locals and Europeans was on hold.

Its life, Jim, but not as we know it.

Some edict of the Leader of the Great First of September Revolution.

Shopping for essentials meant scouring the bland, poorly stocked state owned

supermarkets. You could get milk, eggs, couscous, rice, pasta, chickpeas, tins of

powdered spicy harissa, or butter and yoghurt past their use-by dates. Rice and sugar

and flour came in large sacks and had to be sieved carefully for a surprising variety of

creepy crawlies before use. One essential item that was always in plentiful supply

was a product called Bio Malt a dark yeasty, molasses-like tonic for infants, which

came in large tins. If the state appointed managers of the premises wondered at its

popularity they never said, just ordered more. It was of course the basic ingredient of

a pretty foul home brewed beer, known to the expat community as Pepsi, for

obvious reasons.

For luxuries; chocolate, biscuits, ketchup, toilet roll, Tampax, all you could do was

bring supplies with you, or order them from anyone going home, or to other parts of

Europe on vacation. There was one oasis of local colour, the vegetable market, or Veg

Souk as it was affectionately known. Here she found a proper glimpse of ancient

North African tradition, and a plentiful supply of seasonal vegetables and fruits.

Local suppliers with wizened broken-toothed grins would sit cross-legged and be

robed on the ground and present their wares, in a timeless fashion that had replayed

in a loop over and over throughout the centuries. She and her new friends would play

at haggling in minimal Arabic, although it was not really required.

Salam-alaikum

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Arabaah?

Hamsah!

Hamsah?

Aiwa

Shukran.! Ma'asalam

Looking back she realised that the result of all this deprivation was a pretty healthy

diet, and the added bonus of a new creativity to her cooking that would last evermore.

To this day she invented dishes with the ingredients available without the need for

recipes.

The working day began early in Libya and was over by two, which meant that

another favourite expat pastime could be indulged on a regular basis.

The Beach

It was vast, empty, of fine almost pure white sand, and entirely unspoilt, Backed by

rolling dunes. A throwback to Mediterranean beaches before the package holiday

boom. Here you could live the hedonistic western life, in skimpy bikinis and Speedos

without interference from the local community. Well, occasionally she would glimpse

some local youths leering from the sand dunes, but it was clear that everyone had

made an unspoken decision to remain oblivious and she meekly acquiesced in the

omerta. The happy band of multi-national expats would sit around in little groups,working on their perma tans, gossiping, putting the world to rights, or gently flirting,

as they enjoyed bottles of Pepsi or other fruit flavoured sodas, often fortified with a

little Flash. The only stain on the idyll the occasional jet globule of stubborn oil

sticking to flip flops or bare feet, courtesy of the leviathan oil tankers on the horizon,

a permanent reminder of Libyas oil wealth. A wealth that somehow didnt filter

down to the people, although shed heard that virtually every family now had a home

and a car, a vast improvement on the past.

It was not all lotus eating. The sport of choice was windsurfing, at least among the

men. Her husband bought second hand equipment not long after they arrived and was

soon proficient. She watched partly amused, partly annoyed as he unconsciouslypreened himself in front of the gorgeous golden Danish girls. She started to show an

interest in the sport, edging her way between her husband and the Scandinavians

why did they have to wear the tiniest bikinis and got him to teach her the technical

basics. Then one day she heard a troglodyte utter the words, making sure he said it

loud enough for her to hear,

No way! They cant windsurf. Women? Ive been here two years. Never seen one of

them master it yet. Dont have the strength.

A red rag to a bull.

When her husband had finished her lesson and was sprawled on the beach with his

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friends as they played card games with the girls was she imagining the mens

tongues actually hanging out? - she would drag the board and the sail out to sea.

Then, having first mastered the tricky skill of climbing on to the bobbling board and

somehow remaining upright, she would lean back as a counter balance and haul the

tall mast and sail out of the water with a long rope that left livid burns on her palms

and fingers, heaving at the rough knotted hemp with every ounce of strength until herarms were numb, fighting against the solid weight of water.

She would try to anticipate that precise tipping point when the mast finally emerged

from the sea, and the sail became suddenly feather-light and flapping in the breeze. At

that moment she would have to quickly have to grab the boom, adjust her balance and

stance and point the mast at the correct angle to catch the wind. The wind that would

fill the sail and make it rigid, giving her forward momentum.

Time after time after time she got it wrong, plunging backwards (and sometimes

more alarmingly catapulted forwards) into the churning surf, gagging on the salty

water that stung her eyes and surged painfully up her nose. But she never gave up.She tried not to panic; fighting claustrophobia, when on occasion she found herself

trapped under the large sail and had to hold her breath for an excruciating length of

time while she swam underwater to safety.

Then one day she mastered it!

Oh the thrill, the exhilaration of ploughing through the water, with a surprising speed

to the shore, in control and with a new found confidence, as each wave slapped

against the board in watery applause. A little knot of her friends gathered on the

beach to congratulate her.

Take that troglodyte!

He actually had the decency to apologise and, she sheepishly admitted to herself, she

enjoyed the little moment immensely.

Every so often they would arrange an impromptu beach barbeque.

Surreptitious booze, fresh fish, vegetables, fruit, beach volleyball - and minced meat

produced from somewhere, black market, its animal of origin dubious, possibly

whisper it camel. How many people, she wondered, could say theyd enjoyed flamegrilled camel burgers?

One day, around a month after theyd arrived it was barbeque time again.

A new member of the Technical Support Team had recently arrived and shed yet to

meet him. This party was in his honour, to introduce him to the gang.

Theyd turned up a little late and the party was already in full swing, music pounding,

boisterous game of volleyball on the go.

He was part of the little group of men by the barbeque, helping to serve.

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Her very first memory of him was of a collection of limbs, clad in fashionably short

shorts. He turned round, and she could only stare as deep dark doe eyes and

impossibly long dark silky lashes gazed back. Everything went into slow motion

damn it! He greeted her with a cheerful hello and she mumbled back something

incoherent, painfully aware of her burning cheeks.

Oh God, how embarrassing! She closed her gaping jaw with an effort.

Shed had a weakness for the slim and doe-eyed for almost as long as she could

recall. Remembered telling her sister how much she loved any boy in a childrens

novel immediately he was described as wiry. Her sister had scoffed. In her sisters

view wiry meant, feeble and soft and too thin. But in her childish imagination she

saw a light, quick, lithe boy, slim and attractive with a hidden easy strength and

graceful agility that was far more beguiling. God she thought - was she in love with

Peter Pan? Put that in your pipe and smoke it psychologists. Well maybe just in lust,

because ultimately even at a tender age Peter Pans refusal to grow up and face reality

had irritated her immensely.

She barely needed the fingers of one hand to count the number of times a man had

made her forget to breathe. They were a rare breed. There had been that blond dark-

eyed Greek at Athens airport, on her honeymoon of all places, an Italian waiter in a

restaurant in Cambridge and in younger days that French crooner whod won the

Eurovision Song Contest with a ballad of unrequited love. There had been many

attractive men, whod caught her eye, including her own husband of course, but only

a tiny few of the drop dead gorgeous.

He introduced himself to all as he handed out plates of food. She noticed he was

having a similar effect on all the girls including the Scandinavian sirens, who were in

reality very nice people; shed had to admit it to herself through metaphorically

clenched teeth.

She took her laden plate carefully back to the blanket she was sharing with her

husband, joined in the easy chat and laughter with friends. Every so often she felt her

eyes drift unbidden to the right, surreptitious glances at a dream. Hed been

commandeered by the delicious Danes - they werent actually feeding him pieces of

food, she knew- she was just picturing it. Perfect golden blonde sirens and dark

Adonis.

Trouble was, she was eventually going to have to converse, even socialise with this

particular Adonis, somewhat trickier than drooling from afar.

Ive been looking for you.

Only she hadnt expected to have to get over that particular hurdle quite so soon.

He was suddenly standing over her, which meant she had to look up the full length of

his beautiful body to converse with him.

Looking for me? she gushed stupidly, feeling sixteen again. She felt the beetrootflush surge from her neck right to the roots of her hair as she tried desperately to keep

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her eyes from following her mind.

Yeah, Ive been told youre a tennis coach. Always promised myself Id learn to play

properly one day. What do you think? Could you fit me in?

As she looked up at him she hopelessly attempted to recall the report shed overheardon the BBC World Service that morning about pork belly futures.

She found herself somehow arranging to meet up with him the very next morning and

for the rest of the day she hugged that glorious knowledge to herself like a silly

schoolgirl.

The business of teaching him to play tennis gave her something else to concentrate

on, take her mind off his stunning beauty, but even then every so often hed give her a

quizzical sideways glance or move his body in a certain way that would make her

stomach lurch. She knew she laughed far too much whenever he said anything even

remotely amusing, but by and large she got by. He wasnt a natural. He held theracket like a frying pan no matter how often she tried to show him the correct grip,

but what he lacked in ability he made up for in enthusiasm.

Afterwards they went for coffee in the only place in town. Men with lined leather

faces and squinting bleary raisin eyes sat outside in the shade intent on hookah pipes.

As she entered she could feel their black eyes boring into her back, an uncovered

Western woman brazenly entering an all male establishment. She hesitated, but hed

urged her on, even touching her back lightly, impersonally, in encouragement.

Over tiny cups of treacly black coffee they got talking. She loved the way he looked

at her with a direct intensity when talking about his passions, his innate certainty of

the truth he was speaking. Her heart would do silly things when she looked at him,

but at least now she had her feelings under enough control to engage in fairly normal

conversation, well most of the time. It helped that he had interesting things to say.

He was politically to the left of centre, like her, liberal with socialist leanings in the

Western European democratic definition of that word. He had an intense hatred of

injustice, mans inhumanity to man in all its political manifestations, which she

thought endearing and noble. He hated Americas ties to the military industrial

complex, its need to retain tension with the Eastern Bloc. And hed read

Solzhenitsyn The Gulag Archipelago and urged her to so the same. SovietCommunism in 1984 was in its last throws, as represented by relics of a dying era,literally in the case of Andropov and Chernenko, though nobody knew it then. This

was the year of the TV movie The Day After Tomorrow, and the threat of nuclear

war was still very real. No one had yet heard of Gorbachev or glasnost and

perestroika. Frankie goes to Hollywood would sing about it in their next hit single.

When two tribes go to war

They found themselves in deep and animated conversation. He had a way of

articulating thoughts that she had only half formed. She was aware of that uniquely

satisfying sensation you get in earnest discussion with someone with whom you arein absolute agreement, a powerful feeling as if together you would have the strength

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in the top corner, and shed promised to read it. She went home in time to listen to the

Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race with her husband. Theyd sat in the porch in

anticipation, wind chimes singing in the ever-present breeze, and listened to the

voices from England set the scene on the Thames, far away. Her husband was

supporting Cambridge. The Light Blues boat managed to crash into the starters

barge and sink before the race even began. She hoped it wasnt some kind of omen.

The trip to Ghirza began to take a coherent shape. A number of people were

interested in taking part in the excursion and the event entered the planning stage.

Then one morning something happened that ripped the flimsy fabric of their

cocooned lives, a jolting reminder of the precariousness of their easy existence in a

very foreign land.

Clipped BBC tones from the World Service newsreader.

A policewoman has been shot and killed during a demonstration outside the LibyanPeoples Bureau in St Jamess Square, London.

She found it impossible to drag herself away from the radio. Couldnt get enough of

the news, even when in these first hours there was virtually nothing to report, the

same words repeated ad nauseam until she knew all of them by heart. She found

herself perversely dependent on the instrument that brought the news that might tear

her happy world apart. She had become its creature and could not escape. She

decided that it was like battered wife syndrome, as she clung with hopeless neediness

to the very thing that brought her pain. She would carry the radio with her

everywhere. Looking out of the kitchen window, even the familiar palm trees

opposite, swaying in the strong wind today, seemed somehow alien, threatening as

they tossed and bent impatiently. The World Service News theme tune,Lilliburlero,would erupt on the hour, every hour, silly jaunty jig contrasting absurdly with the

alarming events.

One hour since the shooting of the policewoman, two hours, three

The facts were, as far as they could be ascertained, that a demonstration of Libyan

dissidents had taken place that morning outside the Libyan Embassy, recently

renamed with inadvertent revolutionary irony, The Libyan Peoples Bureau. At some

point shots had been fired directly at the crowd, from the embassy it was reported. Anumber had been injured and tragically a policewoman on crowd control duty, caught

in the crossfire, had been killed. It was unclear exactly what had happened, and

Kennedyesque conspiracy theories would abound about who fired the shots and

exactly from where. There would still be debate twenty-four years later.

Over the next week and a half normal life was on hold as they waited for news. Yet,

outwardly there was no ostensible change. No si

three women by louise angus

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