34. Chapter 17
HEATHER
Heather sits at the breakfast bar at home; the scarf Scott “borrowed” wrapped around her hands. Five days on, Scott’s smell has begun to fade from the fabric. She holds it up to her nostrils and inhales deeply. There are still traces . Faint, but there, nonetheless.
What on earth has got into her? She’ll be kissing a printout of his profile picture next. Come on, Heather. Enough!
She drains her coffee, shoves the scarf into the pocket of her coat, which is hanging on the back of the door, and proceeds with the pastry for the mince pies.
She’ll wash it one day. A scream reverberates around the house.
Heather stops kneading abruptly. The rolling pin falls on the floor with an ominous thump.
‘Georgia? Georgia?’ she shouts. Because cries like that can only come from one source.
The screaming persists.
Upstairs.
Heather rushes up the stairs and reaches the landing area to find the loft ladder lying on the floor, the loft hatch open, and Georgia’s legs beating wildly from the opening.
Heather’s eyes bulge. ‘What are you doing up there?’
‘Get me down. Get me down. Mum! Mum! Mum! Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.’
Heather recognises blind panic when she hears it.
She grabs the ladder, positions the top end through the hatch, and wedges the bottom in place with her foot.
Georgia’s feet take purchase the moment the ladder is in position.
She climbs down and clings on to Heather as soon as her feet touch the landing area and stands, shaking in her arms.
‘What were you doing up there, Gee? I told you we’d get the loft things down after lunch.’ She uses her most tender voice.
‘You know I want to make this holiday extra special for Brianna, Mum. I want to do the whole lot for her,’ she says. ‘But what is up there?’
Georgia’s eyes flit towards the loft hatch but quickly return to the safety of the hall space and Heather.
‘What do you—’ but Heather suddenly knows the answer. ‘You found your Grandad’s taxidermy.’
‘Taxi-what?’
This conversation was inevitable. Heather just imagined she could choose the time and place. She holds her daughter’s shoulders.
‘You know what taxidermy is, right?’
Georgia nods, the fear in her eyes slowly morphing into curiosity.
‘It’s that gross stuff with dead animals.’
Heather can barely contain the smile, because Georgia has summed up her own attitude to her father’s all-consuming hobby in five succinct words.
‘It is. And when I was living at home around your age, my dad did it as a hobby.’
‘So, the stuff up there is dead things from ages ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, it’s not haunted?’
‘No.’
‘Those eyes.’
‘I know.’
‘I dropped my phone. I was using it as a torch.’
Heather can only imagine the shock of seeing those shiny dead eyes staring back at Georgia in the confines of the dark and cobwebby loft space.
‘That must have been terrifying for you,’ she says.
Twenty minutes later, with Georgia’s phone retrieved and two of her father’s prized specimens positioned on the table in the lounge, Heather is forced into that conversation.
‘I get Grandad did taxidermy and loved looking for dead stuff when you were a teenager, and it grossed you out and you hated it. So, then, why do we have it? And why is it in the loft?’ Georgia asks.
Heather glances towards the nearest Perspex display case, where a finger-sized rodent is mounted on a weathered branch.
The artificial grass on the false ground has leached to a putty grey.
The bark from the mount is now stripped bare, but the animal’s fur remains intact and is even glossy in places.
‘When I was a little girl, about ten years old, I had a pet gerbil called Tiny.’
No other words are needed. Georgia looks at the box contents, looks at Heather and clasps her hand in front of her mouth. ‘No!’
‘He didn’t tell me she died. He told me he’d feed her when I was on a school trip.
When I came back four days later, he gave me this case.
He thought I’d feel better about her being dead because I could look at her whenever I wanted.
’ Georgia makes a gagging motion into her hands.
‘My dad was always looking for mammals to work on and I guess, there was a part of me that wondered if he was pleased when one of my pets died because then he could …’
Georgia’s attention moves to the larger case, where a sulphur-crested cockatoo is displayed, the right wing extended, and the bird’s head tilted to the side as though examining its armpit. The angle of the head highlights the curve of the beak and the mustard-coloured plume on the back of its head.
‘That’s Polly. I came home from my first term at university to find her in there. Dad had never attempted a larger bird before.’ Heather’s voice is monotone as she remembers the horror of seeing her beloved pet encased in Perspex.
‘How did she die?’ She’d asked her father in a confrontational voice all those years ago. ‘Tell me! How. Did. She. Die?’
Neither of her parents ever answered that question.
‘So, is this why you don’t talk to Grandad?’
‘Not entirely. But it was the first sign that my adult relationship with him was in serious trouble.’
A beat of silence stretches between them as Heather reflects on the fallout from that argument. ‘I suppose one good thing came from it.’ Georgia looks at her mother quizzically. ‘Did you see the paintings?’
Heather retrieves the paintings from the loft while Georgia washes the cobwebs from her hands and face.
She returns downstairs with three of the best pieces in her hands and props them up.
She examines them as she waits for Georgia to return.
She did the paintings whilst on maternity leave.
They were her therapy whilst Georgia slept, her distraction from the sense of abandonment after Dougie left, and a process of contemplation as she reflected on what was next for both her and her daughter.
The paintings were consigned to the attic once Georgia began to crawl and Heather began to pursue accountancy seriously.
She can see now where her colour work needs a little refinement and areas where the shadowing might benefit from greater depth. Nevertheless, she’s proud of the work she achieved all those years ago.
‘That’s Polly,’ Georgia says when she sees the pictures. Heather smiles, thrilled that the bird is recognisable as her beloved pet.
‘I think the paintings were my way of defying my dad. Showing that you didn’t need a stuffed animal to best remember it. I painted them in their natural surroundings. I’d always imagined I might get them framed one day.’
‘They’re fantastic, Mum.’
The praise from her daughter is like a shot of dopamine.
‘Thanks, love. It was a million years ago. Okay, right. Let’s get on. Help me finish the mince pies, then after lunch, we’ll get everything down from the loft. Let’s make sure Brianna has the best at-home Christmas ever.’
Georgia skips into the kitchen, leaving Heather alone for a moment or two of quiet contemplation. What would her father think and say if he were to see these paintings now? There’s simply no time to entertain these thoughts. They’re expecting Brianna in three days. And Scott.
Did she mention Scott?
SCOTT
‘So, this is what Christmas at home is like.’
Scott watches his daughter let out a contented sigh.
She sits on the floor and leans back onto his knees.
There’s plenty of space on the sofa beside him, but Brianna insists she prefers to sit with the heat from the fire on her face.
Scott allows his fingers to fall into his daughter’s hair and gently teases a curl from her ponytail.
Is this how things might have been if he hadn’t whisked them around the world to avoid Christmas Day at home? Might Brianna have preferred childhood Christmases like this, even with her mother gone?
The smile on Heather’s face is unmissable as she watches them.
Scott smiles his gratitude towards her, trying not to think about how hot she looks in her flowing green dress with red belt and co-ordinating Santa hat.
The fire provides a focal point in the room, and he knows those flames are a result of hours of gentle coaxing.
Heather was probably fighting with the kindling at six o’clock this morning.
‘So. Presents,’ Heather says.
The girls sit up taller, wipe the crumbs from their morning pastries onto their plates and make a collective whooping noise.
Scott prises himself away from his daughter and joins Heather at the Christmas tree, where a seemingly excessive number of presents are piled.
‘First up, Brianna,’ he says, tossing the lightweight parcel in the girls’ direction.
Brianna catches the hastily wrapped gift in two hands while Heather scrambles by his feet to find the equivalent present for Georgia. Heather hands her daughter an exquisitely wrapped gift with a tag in the shape of a holly wreath and a green ribbon holding the recycled paper in place.
The girls unwrap in tandem and exclaim in unison when they uncover matching University of St Andrews hoodies in their favourite colours. Brianna’s loud shriek of delight is tempered by Georgia’s more muted cheer.
‘We knew you both wanted one,’ he says.
His eyes flit to Heather’s. Did she pick up on the careless pronoun there?
“We” almost implies some kind of association.
Which, he supposes, is reasonable given they discussed two weeks ago what each girl might like for a Christmas gift.
Heather appears oblivious. She roots around on the floor by the base of the tree for Georgia’s main present: a MacBook.
He’d helped her choose the specification and had bought Brianna the same.
The girls’ screeches are unmatched when they unwrap them.
‘So, what’s next?’ Heather says now the pile has been depleted.
‘Sit down, Mum,’ Georgia instructs, ‘I want to give you mine.’
Scott smiles as Heather wiggles her fingers in anticipation, her manicured nails (green to match her dress) catch the lights from the Christmas tree. She sits as requested but looks bemused when Georgia gets up and leaves the room.
‘Well, it would’ve been a dead giveaway if I left it under the tree,’ she shouts down the hallway.
Georgia returns a few moments later with a large rectangular package, which hides her whole face as she enters the room. She leans over to present the gift to her mum.
‘What’s this?’ Heather says.
‘Open it,’ the girls instruct together.
Heather tears the paper away to reveal a beautiful painting of a cockatoo surrounded by tropical foliage.
Scott’s no expert, but even he can appreciate the artistry of the piece.
Who’d have known that there are greys, purples and reds incorporated in the plumage of a bird which is entirely white?
And the eyes draw you in as though they’re alive, probing yours.
‘Oh my,’ Heather says with a gasp.
‘You said you always wanted to get it framed,’ Georgia says. ‘The art shop in town had one the exact right fit. I measured it before and everything.’
Heather’s fingers dance over the surface of the glass.
‘It's so lovely, Georgia. Thank you. I love it.’ Tears glisten in her eyes.
‘Wait. So, who painted it?’ Brianna asks, and Scott’s shoulders sag with relief. It saves him from appearing like the ignorant one.
‘Mum did,’ Georgia says. ‘It’s her pet parrot from when she was my age. Grandad had it stuffed when it died, so mum painted it in its natural surroundings so she could remember it … well … better.’
‘Your grandad had her pet stuffed?’ Brianna’s face is incredulous.
‘Not just had it stuffed,’ Georgia says for almost comedic affect, ‘he stuffed it himself.’
‘No! Gross.’
Scott watches as Heather’s face flushes and her lower lip slips between her teeth.
‘It wasn’t a very nice thing to find when I came back after my first term at university,’ she says.
‘Gosh no.’
Heather’s face, as always, betrays her emotions: suppressed hurt, anger, grief.
Scott wants to haul her into his arms and smooth those feelings away the way he had in the hospital that night.
He knows he hasn’t always got things right as a father, but stuffing a kid’s pet? What kind of parent does that?
‘I think Mum should commission stuff like this and sell it,’ announces Georgia. ‘It’s what you planned to do before I was born, wasn’t it?’
Heather’s shoulders lift, and her head tilts from side to side.
‘It had been my plan for a while, yes,’ she says. A soft blush rises through her cheeks. ‘But I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘But surely you could do something about it now?’ Georgia insists. ‘You hate your job.’
Heather looks down at the carpet. ‘Gerry - Mr. Hargreaves - offered me a display area in the school vestibule. But I’m not sure it would be appropriate anymore.’ Her cheeks go redder still.
He has a hunch as to why Heather is no longer seeing the art teacher and he thinks – he hopes – it’s something to do with him.
The feeling of her in his arms at the hospital has haunted him all these weeks.
And that statement during their drunken walk to the bus station in St Andrews two months ago, when her palm fit so exquisitely into the dip in his chest: Look!
It's a perfect fit, is still etched on his brain.
‘I can help,’ he says. The words have rushed out, unbidden.
Everyone turns to look at him.
‘You can?’ Heather’s eyes are drilling into his. Penetrating. Perhaps she’s wondering, as he is: What does this mean?
Brianna squeals and claps her hands.
‘Yes, Dad. You can. You know websites and marketing and risk and all that kind of stuff.’
She says it with the assuredness of someone with utter faith in their parent, as though Scott has some kind of omnipotent marketing capabilities. Which he doesn’t.
‘I can at least try,’ he says, hesitatingly. The first rule of business is not to overpromise.
Heather looks away from him and allows her eyes to fall back to the framed picture resting on her lap. ‘I’d really like that,’ she says in a whisper.