Chapter 46
Chapter 46
S truan was like a block of ice. Gertie had pulled them close to the fire and piled every single sleeping bag she could gather both below and above them, and crammed on mittens, socks, and a hat onto his wet curly hair. His eyes were open only a crack, not really focusing on anything.
Gertie felt absolutely terrible, like she had manifested an awful monkey’s paw version of a deep long-suppressed desire. Stupid Struan McGhie who thought he was it. Who didn’t even notice her. Who hadn’t even recognized her, years later.
But she knew what she had to do. Carefully Gertie wriggled out of her layers, her body still warm underneath. And she pressed herself very carefully against him.
It was odd. She willed her warmth to leach into his body.
Struan muttered something and she leaned closer to hear what it was. His breath was visible in the air.
“Sleepy,” he was saying.
“No, you’re not,” Gertie replied immediately. “No, you aren’t. You’re not going to sleep.”
He blinked, as she took one of his hands between hers and tried vainly to rub some warmth into it. Finally, she gave up and tucked them under her own armpits, desperate to heat him up.
“I... what...”
He sounded incredibly drowsy and confused.
“Concentrate,” she hissed.
“Wee Gertie,” he said, blinking in confusion, but sounding a lot more like himself. “Is that you?”
“It is,” she said. “Keep talking.”
He considered it for a minute. Then, finally: “Did we get really really drunk?”
Gertie squeezed his hands under her armpits, harder now.
“Ouch.”
“You felt that?” she said.
Struan blinked. “I think so... argh.”
She did it again.
“Why... where are we? Why are you torturing me?”
“Because you thought the only way we could end up under a blanket together is if you’d got blind drunk?”
Struan still wasn’t quite focused and his face screwed up again. “I don’t think that,” he said, his voice far away, as if he thought he was in a dream; didn’t really know or care what he was saying because he was so distant.
“I would never think that. If this was real... it would be...” His voice stuttered out.
“Keep talking,” said Gertie, urgently, and for more than one reason.
“It would be... amazing,” he said finally.
Gertrude looked at him.
“Do you even know where you are?” she said.
Struan blinked slowly. “I am not,” he said, his words a bit slurred, “exactly sure.”
Gertrude reached out of the sleeping bags and, with some difficulty, grabbed the hot flask.
“Drink some of this,” she ordered. “Slowly.”
He spluttered down the warmish tea, but without, she noticed, seeming to want to let go of her or move away.
Then he settled back down again, his hands tucked around her, and his eyelids fluttered again.
“NO,” she said. “No. Wake up. You can’t go to sleep.”
“But I’m cozy,” he said, sounding like a grumpy child. “I don’t feel cold anymore. I like being here with you. It’s like a dream.”
“It isn’t a dream,” Gertie said firmly, rubbing his arms.
“I would not mind,” he said. “To fall asleep in your arms, Gertie. I would be a happy man.”
“You would DIE a happy man,” replied Gertie, and started rubbing his hands harder than she’d intended.
“Well, yeah.” Then: “Ow,” he said and “Ow!” again.
“Good,” said Gertie firmly. “That means the nerves are waking up.”
“I don’t...” Struan screwed his face up again. “I’m really... Am I still up the mountain...”
He jerked suddenly, his face showing obvious pain. “Where are the children?” he said in a panic.
“They’re fine, they’re safe,” said Gertie, in a more soothing voice. The fire was dancing shadows on the walls of the cave. “You got them all down, do you remember?”
“Kind of,” said Struan. Then: “Owww” again.
“This is good,” Gertie said softly. “Where is it sore?”
“Still my hands.”
“Not your feet?”
“I wish you’d just... I need a little nap.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Gertie. “Bring your feet up.”
It was obvious Struan wasn’t sure he could. Somewhat inelegantly, Gertie pulled his knees up.
“This is a very weird one-night stand,” complained Struan.
“I am assuming,” said Gertie, “you won’t remember this tomorrow or if you do, you’ll apologize endlessly.”
Struan looked suddenly more awake. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Am I doing something bad?”
“No,” said Gertie. “No, you aren’t. But you need to stay awake, and I’m going to have to go and try and save your feet.”
“This is a really weird dream,” said Struan.
“Keep talking,” said Gertie, as she wriggled down inside the sleeping bag. Even with two pairs of her socks on, his feet were still blue and freezing. Not able to think of anything better to do, she hugged them close to her.
“It’s a nice dream though,” said Struan. “Being here with you I mean. It’s very nice. Although I didn’t think you’d be hugging my feet.”
“I also did not think that,” said Gertie.
“But I like that too.”
“Go on,” said Gertie, massaging them and squeezing them as hard as she could.
“And I know you,” he said again.
Gertie pursed her lips. Because he was half out of his mind with the cold. And he didn’t know what he was saying.
She changed the subject.
“Tell me... tell me about home.”
Struan’s eyelids fluttered, and she could see the shadows from the dancing flames casting his eyelashes onto his cheeks. She wasn’t going to let herself worry. She wasn’t. She wasn’t going to panic.
He smiled. “Nobody ever lets me talk about home. Everyone says ooh, Struan, go to Aberdeen; oh, Struan, you need to tour more; oh, Struan, don’t you have ambition.”
Gertie pressed hard, desperately trying to rub life back into his extremities.
“And I want to say... I want to say, look. Come down of an evening, when the wind is blowing fresh from the north, and watch where the seas join. Top of the world. Feel the breeze in your face and say hello to the seals and fill your lungs and watch the wee plane take off and wave to the fisher boats go out and I would say, Gertie, wouldn’t you, what better place is there in this life? When you come down the Salter’s Road and even the coos know you and come over to say hello and there is barely a child who wouldn’t ask you for a song, or a place you wouldn’t feel welcome, and would have you in to share their hearth, aye?”
“Go on,” Gertie urged.
“Everything else is wood on the fire, Gertie. You burn it away. All of it. Money or cars or the world. You burn it away and you’re left with your friends and your family and your music and the laughs and what you love and that’s all.”
Gertie couldn’t tell if he was being delirious or totally honest.
“Of course people keep telling me to go out and get all that other stuff,” he conceded. “Ouch! My toes!”
“That’s good!” said Gertie. “That’s really good! If you can feel them!”
“Bugger, I can!! Oh God.”
He blinked. The pain seemed to be waking him up; his hands were now a bright red and he was cradling them in pain. He was also shaking uncontrollably.
“Bloody hell.”
“Keep talking,” said Gertie.
He squinted. Then he did. He told her all about Saskia, and about the audition, and how he had to go and do things, bigger things.
“I think, sometimes,” he concluded. “The only time I feel like a failure is when everyone else thinks I’m a failure.”
Gertie stopped what she was doing for a second. “I know what you mean,” she found herself saying. “I know exactly what you mean.”
Suddenly she felt his hands gently on her shoulders.
“This isn’t good, is it, Gertie?”
She crawled up to look him in the eye.
“It’s going to be fine,” she said. “All you have to do is get warm.”
“I... I can’t.”
“Come here,” she said.
And she held him, and rocked him, and made him sing to her through the pain and when he did she felt herself grow warmer, and decided that that was, on balance, a good thing, even as the fire burned down and she did not know when or how it would go again, or if the snow would stop, or if they would both, in fact, just drift off to sleep; lose themselves in dreams forever.