Chapter 22
Chapter 22
T here was one thing Jean Mooney knew. Gertie had been perfectly happy, until she’d spent the night with the staff of MacIntyre Air and come home furious and drunk. And now it was the next morning and Gertie wasn’t answering her phone. Before she knew what she was doing, Jean got dressed and marched off to Ranald’s to give him a piece of her mind for whatever was upsetting her darling daughter, who’d been absolutely fine until she’d started at this wretched airline of his. Those girls were bullying Gertie—she knew it. And if the helicopter pilots had been giving her grief, she’d move on to them next.
Ranald MacIntyre was working less these days, but he still enjoyed it immensely. Morag taking over had been the most wonderful thing, more than he’d ever dared hope for, even if she’d moved out.
Jean Mooney, likewise, wasn’t scared of much. She had been through, more or less, everything life could throw at her: a husband who hadn’t worked out, raising a child alone, enduring poverty and cold, and always working. She was tough, deeply loyal, and up with much she did not put.
She had tried to raise Gertie the same, but her vulnerabilities sometimes seemed so on display, her face so scared-looking all the time. She was her dad’s absolute double.
Jean, on rare occasions, suspected that she smothered Gertie a little. But there had been times, Elspeth notwithstanding, that they felt they only had each other to love, to cling on to, a tiny island in the great sea of the world. That was why the KCs were so important. Both of her sisters lived far away—one in London, one in Korea of all places, somewhere Jean had trouble even imagining—and rarely got home.
She had never expected her family to be so small; never hoped for it, the day she was wandering over Ben Eiris, and the sun was low and golden in the sky, lighting the amber fields with the heavy colors of a tired summer, and she had seen him, tumbling down from his parents’ croft, in his old patched cords and his untidy hair and a shy smile he could not hide in the glorious evening of the beautiful day. He asked her if he might walk her into the village if she was going that way and she said she was, and he pretended he hadn’t been waiting for her to walk that way with a basket full of gorse and she pretended not to know exactly what he was doing as they walked over the old stone arched bridge at the foot of the town, past the field of Highland coos with their elaborate hairdos, keeping the flies off them in the sweet air of harvest season.
They went to the Young Farmers’ dance, which was so loud and sweaty that they could barely speak to one another, which suited Robert absolutely fine, but, had Jean only realized, should have been a warning sign that sitting and having long conversations and joining in might not be the kind of thing the lad did best. But when you are caught up in a mass of wild dark hair, and the sweet blue eyes Gertie peered out of now, well, whether you were suited to the long winter evenings together was not the first thing on your mind. And now he was in the city, hair long gone, with a younger, hard-faced woman who made Jean shudder.
So Jean had always done the lot, she thought now, as she headed over to Ranald’s old drafty house. Gertie had gone to work for MacIntyre Air, and now she was sad and that was simply unacceptable to Jean.
Jean put on her warpaint: she had perfected her makeup rou tine in 1974 and had absolutely no intention of changing it now. Blue frosted eyeshadow, glutinously thick black mascara, frosted lipstick, and a lot of hairspray, along with her very best gold threaded blouson cardigan with the shoulder pads and chenille flowers, which meant she sometimes had to go sideways through doors, but gave her confidence nonetheless.
Gertie would have been horrified of course, just as she would have been horrified if she had known that Jean had also once had words with her supervisor at ScotNorth, who had never bothered Gertie again about her choice in work shoes and in fact stayed out of her way entirely until they conveniently found another job in Wick, and moved, with some relief. Equally if she’d heard some of the words Jean had used on Pamela McGinty, in those days Gertie’s Primary 4 teacher, with a tendency to mock children who, like Gertie, did not enjoy speaking out loud.
Furthermore Gertie also didn’t know that when she was seventeen, she had been targeted by Connal Bjornesson, local tearaway and all-round bad egg, who used to come in when she was working on the service desk and make her bend down to unlock the cabinet to get out his rolling papers, which had made her turn very pink indeed, although she still, notably, always managed to serve him. Jean had also had words with him vis-à-vis her little girl, not for a moment taking into consideration any idea that Gertie actually might quite like a bit of a very bad boy, would love a shot on his motorbike, and wouldn’t mind a bit that Connal was nobody’s idea of a good, marriageable prospect.
Unfortunately, Connal’s mum Senga was even harder than Jean and had absolutely no truck with this, leading to something of a stand-up fight in the high street outside the Silver Tassie that Jean had to lie to Gertie about and say it was about the run on the dis count silver four-ply that Senga knew fine well Jean had her eye on but had taken anyway without a care.
J EAN MARCHED UP the high street in the early morning sunshine. Very few people were awake, after the celebrations of the night before; there was a side street shinty match being played by some small boys but even they looked a bit peaky; presumably they’d been up till all hours. She passed the open bakery, which smelled fantastic. She’d get some doughnuts on the way back; even Gertie’s mood would surely be lifted by hot doughnuts. They could fix everything.
Ranald’s housekeeper Peigi answered the door. The women knew each other of old, and exchanged strained nods.
Peigi’s horrible dog Skellington, a bad-natured spaniel with a dribbling mouth that hung open over sagging jowls, pus-filled eyes, and mucky ears, wuffed at her balefully. Jean gave him a stare.
“Aye all right there, dog,” she said, calmly. Skellington tried out an explanatory growl.
“Skelly! Good boy!” said Peigi, who like all dog owners considered their perfect animal beyond reproach.
Skellington made a noise somewhere between a cough and a bark, left a spurt of wee on the carpet, farted noisily, and turned and headed back in.
“He’s such a character,” said Peigi, with which Jean could only agree. “What do you want?”
Peigi had her arms folded and was wearing a flowered housecoat. Jean shook her shoulder pads.
“Sorry, is this your house?”
Peigi shrugged. “I live here. What are you after?”
“I need to speak to Ranald.”
“He’s sleeping.”
At this Jean raised her eyebrows and Peigi got rather pink.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jean Mooney—he always rests in on a Sunday when there’s no planes. And I’ve got kirk to go to.”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” said Jean. “I want to talk to Ranald.”
“And I’m saying he needs his rest.”
“He’s not sick!”
Above their heads, a window slid open.
“I’m not deaf either!” came a voice. There was Ranald, dressed in a blue dress shirt, looking down on them.
“Hey!” said Jean. “I want a word.”
“Come in then.”
Peigi looked absolutely furious. Standing on the doorsteps with her arms folded telling people they couldn’t do things was absolutely her favorite way to pass the time.
“S O WHAT IS it you couldn’t text me about?” said Ranald, after the kettle had boiled and they’d sat down with tea.
Jean looked at Peigi.
“I thought you were going to kirk.”
“The minister will wait for me,” said Peigi.
“Will she though?” said Jean. There was absolutely no way the Very Reverend Jill would wait for Jesus himself if he was tardy, so Jean wasn’t buying this for a second. And even if she did, the twins would probably get things going all by themselves.
Peigi sniffed loudly and went looking for her hat, an unpleasant waterproof purple cloche with burgundy cherries on the brim. She kept up a stream of reminders to Ranald about what time she’d be back, what they were having for lunch, whether Morag was going to be there (Peigi hated Morag but for Jean’s ears spoke about her as practically her own beloved daughter) and how he should go looking for the fresh daffodils in the front garden and bring a few in for the table.
Ranald and Jean both watched her go.
“Your girlfriend’s nice,” said Jean eventually, after the old wooden door had swung shut.
“She’s not my...” Ranald didn’t finish this sentence as he had more or less given up from letting people speculate about what Peigi was to him, given it wasn’t her looks or cooking ability or delightful personality.
“Well, Mrs. Mooney, what can I do for you?” he said, sipping his tea. Peigi had made it and it was bitter and slightly stewed. Jean winced at hers. Being able to make tea seemed a fairly essential quality for a housekeeper but there you go.
“Your company,” she said.
“Uh-huh. I haven’t seen you on a plane for a while,” he pointed out.
“Well, why would I? I’ve got everything I need right here.”
“You never fancy a wee trip to Inchborn, walk the sand?”
“Too busy,” said Jean.
Outside there was a wind along the promenade, but the sun was out too; the rushes on the shore were bending slightly but not lying flat.
“Nice day for it,” said Ranald.
“You sound like you’re missing it,” said Jean. “On your one day off.”
Ranald smiled. “I know. Funny isn’t it? Do you still like cutting hair?”
Jean shrugged. “Actually I thought you could do with a trim.”
“I could.”
“Well then.” Jean took another sip of her tea and made a face.
“Oh sorry,” said Ranald, looking confused. “I think I’ve just got used to it.”
The sun danced and glittered off the sea.
“Want to take a walk down to the harbor and pick up something at The Point?”
The Point was a new coffee roasting place, run by bright and enterprising young people in the town, with long beards and a tendency to corner you if you weren’t paying attention and talk to you an awful lot about coffee. Jean hadn’t sussed it out yet the way she normally did to catering operations—marching all of the KCs in there with their knitting bags, taking over most of the tables, talking loudly and seeing how well the staff tolerated it—and had been meaning to check it out. Ranald was already pulling on his old cracked leather bomber jacket that hung by the door, the one he’d inherited from his own father, who’d flown in the war, and, unusually for her, Jean found herself without much of a choice.
It was sharp in the wind, but the sun made everything better.
“I love this time of year,” said Ranald. “Evenings getting longer, everything stretching out ahead of you, a summer full of parties and weddings and folks needing to get places. I like taking the young brides; they cannot stop yelling on the flight.”
Jean smiled.
“We were thinking of running a midnight sun flight this year. It’s some tourism thing, but they’re all over it. Take-off at 11:30, land on the beach in Inchborn at midnight, when it’s not quite dark. Light a bonfire or some such. I don’t know if that will come off.”
Jean looked at him. She’d never known Ranald well; he was older than her and had been a fixture in the town for so long. Now she looked into his enthusiastic smile and rather liked the lines around his blue eyes, formed by decades of squinting in the sun above the clouds.
Morag had spent a lot of time trying to convince him to use his undoubted talents as a pilot to fly long haul, travel the world, do any of the fascinating routes that were available to him, but he had always loved doing what he did now: performing perfect, accurate maneuvers in a plane without nine onboard computers doing all the hard work; without being locked into sky trails like bus routes, completely at the whims of air traffic control, stocked in a circle in the sky like flying in a car park round Heathrow or Frankfurt or Abu Dhabi or Singapore.
He liked knowing his passengers in the small communities; few were better than him at sniffing out, and coping with, difficult weather. He liked being on hand for the babies being born, for the necessary deliveries. He loved his community and liked being wanted.
Jean didn’t know any of this; she just thought he was the rich pilot, although now having been inside his house she didn’t think he seemed rich at all, which was a correct analysis, as he very much was not.
“So,” she started. “My kid is working for you.”
“Gertie!” he said. “Of course! I didn’t realize she was yours.”
Jean nodded. “Lovely girl,” he said. “Quiet one, though, right?”
Gertie had barely managed to stutter out a word to Ranald on his part-time shifts.
“Well, yes,” said Jean. “She is shy. And sensitive.”
“And she’s chosen a job on the front line of an airline?” said Ranald. “Ballsy move. I respect that.”
“Well, no,” said Jean, who felt this was getting rather out of hand. Normally by this time she’d be announcing that she’d said her piece and swanning off on a cutting line. “The thing is, I think she’s unhappy.”
Ranald frowned. “Is this one of those millennial things where you have to give them an award every day or they don’t turn up?”
“No!” said Jean, about to lose her temper. They had reached The Point, which was indeed on the corner of the harbor, in an old white building, next to the ice cream parlor, which did a roaring trade during the summer. Also in fact a roaring trade during the winter, when people were cold and it was a bit dark, so what better to cheer you up than an ice cream, and it did well in the autumn when people took long walks kicking leaves with their dogs if there was the promise of an ice cream sandwich at the end and in fact it was doing well today in the spring, as people saw the sun and, even though it really wasn’t warm enough, wanted to remind themselves that ice cream days were coming.
“It’s about how...” She tried to think. “Well, they just need to include her. Just because she’s shy doesn’t mean she isn’t a very good person.”
“You want me to tell Morag not to be... shy-ist? Is that it?” Ranald smiled. “Och you know, I think I would like that. Morag’s always calling me every ‘ist’ under the sun and being very correct about everything and calling me an old dinosaur. Aye, I think I would quite enjoy telling her that.”
“I mean, I just don’t want them to not include her...”
“Did they not go to the dance together last night?”
“They did,” said Jean, uncomfortably.
“Well then. Tell her not to get involved with one of those helicopter lads.”
“Why, are they bad? Maybe it’s them who’s upset her.”
“Probably them,” said Ranald. “Helicopters. Terrible things.”
He seemed unwilling to expand on this opinion, and stopped just before the coffee shop, bang in front of the ice cream parlor.
“Ooh,” said Ranald. “Is it a sin to have an ice cream on a Sunday morning do you think?”
They both glanced at the kirk, looming up in the highest point of town, made of sandstone. It had a small, careful graveyard with a special, tiny section given over for sailors, lost and washed up without a name down the centuries. The sound of a small congregation doing its best with “The church’s one founda shun / is Jesus Christ oor Lord ” made them both feel a bit guilty.
“We’re already going to hell by not being there,” pointed out Jean.
“Exactly,” said Ranald. “Better stock up on cold items.”
And they found themselves grinning at each other, and then found they both liked pistachio and didn’t think anyone else liked it and Jean thought, you know, that probably was it—Gertie was probably mooning over one of the helicopter laddies and she’d gone out, at least. And Ranald asked her how old Gertie was and she told him she was thirty and he raised his eyebrows and she did, indeed, think it was probably a bit late to be worrying about her daughter’s love life. And they finished their ice creams and then got tea to take away from The Point, even though the nice young man with a beard couldn’t believe they didn’t want to try his new Guatemalan blend, which had been pre-digested by cats, and they felt bad about disappointing him.
By the time they got out, kirk was out, and the congregation was bearing down on them—many of the congregation thinking that ice cream was a sin on a Sunday if you hadn’t been to kirk, but if you had got up early and dressed nicely and been to kirk then it would probably be all right to have an ice cream as long as the Very Reverend didn’t see them. It was all right for the Very Reverend to tell them not to sin or be worldly on a Sunday when the Very Reverend spent all her Sundays visiting the elderly whether they wanted to be visited or not, and reminding them about eternal hellfire, and eating all their custard creams.
Jean spied Peigi again out of the corner of her eye, chasing after them. It was hard to miss the purple hat. Plus Skellington had been tied up outside and had started a very unattractive howling noise when he saw his mistress. Peigi’s lips thinned when she saw Jean and Ranald together, and all her thoughts of hanging back at the kirk to complain to the Very Reverend about slackness in the church cleaning rota were forgotten as she bustled her way down.
“You’re buying tea from a shop ?” she hissed, in absolute puzzlement. Jean and Ranald exchanged guilty looks. There was a pause.
“Well, anyway. I’d better get on with Sunday lunch. No rest for the wicked.”
This was clearly meant to be a joke. Jean felt bad. Peigi was kind of a joke in town, being so in love with Ranald that she’d moved in, but she didn’t like making fun of the older woman, and she was suddenly reminded uncomfortably of Gertie, sad in her own kitchen, presumably over some silly helicopter boy or other. She didn’t want Gertie to end up like Peigi; that was for sure. Because if there was one thing Jean knew about getting older, it was how little, really, anyone changed on the inside, no matter how gnarled their hands became, or set in their ways they were.
Jean turned to Ranald. She couldn’t remember really what she’d come to complain about. Someone was making her little Gertie sad and she was going to kill them for that but she couldn’t deny... she’d had a nice morning. There. She’d admitted it to herself, with some surprise. It wasn’t what she’d been expecting at all.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Not at all,” said Ranald, his wrinkled eyes twinkling at her.
Ranald watched her go. He rather liked her forthrightness and had a lot of time for a woman who showed quite as much enthusiasm as he did for pistachio ice cream. Also fortunately for Jean he was not a man who knew anything about women’s clothing and hadn’t even noticed the shoulder pads.