The Courier & Advertiser (Angus and Dundee)
He should have reminded me that some things are more precious than books
Somewhere in the house, a key grates in a lock. The front door opens, and a ghastly echo carries along the passages.
The hall always has that empty-house ring to it, regardless of how many bits and bobs I pad it out with.
The sound of footsteps carries towards me. That will be Arthur.
My heart sinks and immediately I go into guilty mode. I am a bad mother. A can’t-be-bothered mother.
My eyes drop automatically, going to the photograph on the desk.
My own mother, wartime drab but happy in a floral tea dress she’d knocked up from remnants.
We have bad mother genes, I suspect. There is a coldness in us.
I remember Mother feeding a poorly dog tinned salmon while we kids were sitting scoffing bread and dripping.
The thing is, I fear I’m heading for the ultimate fail. The leaving-your-child fail.
Footsteps approach my study.
“Come in,” I say, without enthusiasm.
New pain
Arthur sticks his head round the door, hair rumpled, flour on his glasses.
“Good morning, Ma. How’s it going?”
He always asks and I always reply: “Crap”, or some such. He remains unperturbed.
“How long have you been sitting there? Shall I put the kettle on?
“I’ve got some of yesterday’s flapjacks.” He holds aloft a brown paper bag.
I shrug, conscious of a new pain in my right arm. Which arm is it for a heart attack?
I’d been hoping for a quick in-and-out visit – Ma, have you got any Kilner jars? Ma, can I borrow some vanilla? – but Arthur seems bent on a let’s-have-acuppa-and-achat sort of thing. I sigh and close my notebook.
“I don’t know why you don’t use the computer,” he says. “It would be much easier.”
I get reluctantly to my feet. It always takes a little time to straighten, so I do it casually, like I’m not really trying.
“I’m going to get the girl, Lucie, to type up my stories.”
“Good idea!” Arthur smiles and my heart unbends a little. Guilt is ever present between us. Nowadays, it’s mainly his.
He plays the dutiful son, making sure I’ve locked up at night and that I don’t starve to death, when really it’s me who should be full of remorse.
In my low moments I ask myself if I’ve been a good enough mother, but I’m never sure of the answer.
I’ve always spread myself too thin, competing with male academics with neat little wives to support them.
Jim never complained, though I suppose it took its toll – all those times he had to look after Arthur when I was giving a paper at some conference or other.
The meals that never materialised because I was locked in the study, elbow deep in research.
I can still remember the tentative knocking at the study door, and my son’s timid voice: Mummy, are you coming to put me to bed?
Maybe Jim shouldn’t have put up with so much. He should have reminded me that some things are more precious than books.
It might have saved a lot of heartache.
“Has she got over her jet lag yet?”
I let out a reluctant chuckle. “Bus lag, more like. She did appear a little green about the gills. I’ll give her an easy week.”
Happiness
I follow Arthur out into the cold hallway. I feel bereft, away from my warm cell, my books, my pen. I think I may be wearing my face.
The dogs get up as soon as he opens the kitchen door and there’s a lot of tail – and body – wagging, pink tongues and general doggy happiness. Arthur pretends to do a head count.
“Wait a minute – you’ve one missing.” “Floss. Been out all night, the rascal. I suspect she’s adopted our newcomer.
“There’s a job for you. Perhaps you could drop by the cottage and bring her back?”
He hesitates, glances at his watch. “I really need to go back to the cafe. I’ve scones to bake.”
I make impatient noises. “It won’t take you a minute and I’m sure Anita can pop a tray in the oven. Please? And it will give you a chance to introduce yourself.”
“Okay.”
The word doesn’t carry much enthusiasm, but I smile and retrieve the brown bag from the table.
“Take these with you as a welcome offering. Lucie might be partial to a flapjack.”
Arthur slopes out of the door, the way he used to do as a teenager when I asked him to cut the grass or carry out some other boring chore.
But perhaps he’ll find Lucie more appealing than an overgrown lawn.
Lucie
Mac shuffles off ahead, gesturing with one arm for me to follow.
She’d told me to show up around 9.30, start typing up some of her work.
She ushers me into her study, a small, untidy room stuffed full of books and papers.
“So what exactly do you do?” I ask.
“I’m a retired history lecturer. I specialise in folklore and the oral tradition.”
I latch onto the retired. “So what are you doing now?”
“I’m specialising in folklore and the oral tradition.” Her look suggests that I am a particularly dim student. I suppose experts never stop being experts. “Sounds interesting. Are you writing a book?” In reply, she waves a hand towards the bookshelves that line her study.
They’re mahogany, or some kind of expensive dark wood, crammed with every volume you could imagine.
They range from paperbacks to the sort of crusty leather-bound specimens you see on the Antiques Roadshow.
An entire shelf is dedicated to the books of Dr Margarita Muir. She told me at my interview never to call her Margarita, it was too girly. Everyone calls her Mac.
I move closer to the books and trail a finger along their spines.
The Scottish Farming Tradition. Bothy Ballads: Volumes 1–3. The Scottish Miller’s Tale... It goes on and on.
“This will be my eleventh book,” she says, in case I’ve missed the point.
“It’s going to be a collection of short stories based on local legends. I thought I should get more creative in my old age, so I did a fiction-writing course last year.
“Can’t abide all that technical nonsense – the PCS and the printers and the what-have-yous.
“Complete Luddite. Always will be.”