Chapter 51
Chapter 51
O ne evening in late April, the KCs traipsed up the stairs, enjoying the opportunity to visit Gertie’s flat, and exclaim at how nice it was, with the new rugs and the soft throws everywhere, plus it meant they got to gossip solidly about Jean to her face, so everyone was happy. Even Elspeth had made it up the stairs without too much trouble, and exclaimed at the pretty sea views. Finally, spring had broken; the sun had come out and although the air was still cold, the hedgerows were bursting with fresh growth and tangled outbursts; bluebells carpeted the woodlands, the birds were cacophonous and the nights stretched out, light, ahead of them for months.
“And what about your ‘flatmate’?” asked Jean, smiling around at the KCs.
“Mu-um,” moaned Gertie, handing round the raisin biscuits she’d made. “Don’t be daft. We’re just flatmates. Stop saying it in quotation marks.”
As if on cue, Struan came in humming and holding his guitar.
“Hiyah,” he said absently to everyone, then looked cheerily at the biscuits. Jean passed him one over.
“So how is your new ‘flatmate’ arrangement working out?” she said.
Struan shrugged. “It’s fine, huh, Gertie? I barely see you. I’m busy at school anyway. We’ve got the Mod coming up.”
“Oooh,” replied Jean. “What do you think, Gertie?”
“It’s fine,” said Gertie. “Honestly, Mum. Stop worrying about me. I’m a grown-up. I’m fine.”
“There is,” said Jean as she stood up later to go, and hugged Gertie tenderly, “no such thing as a grown-up daughter.”
“That’s true,” said Elspeth, quietly.
And Gertie smiled, watching the gaggle of them, with their knitting bags and boxes and needles, walk down the road together, having decided they should go and get chips, seeing as they were out, and well, if Ranald happened to join them, Jean wasn’t going to mind a bit, all of them arguing in the familiar ways with the exception of a new topic, which was how incredibly annoying Peigi was. They hadn’t been this happy in years. Gertie had chosen not to go; she had an early start at the airport after all, getting back to normal, getting on with things.
S TRUAN REENTERED THE lounge, smiling.
“Ah, bless ’em,” he said.
He moved toward Gertie, who moved back from the window, in case anyone could see them, and when she realized they were fully alone, she slowly advanced toward him.
“I can’t believe you make biscuits too,” he said. “I think, Gertie, you are just too talented.”
And she replied, “Could you possibly not call me Gertie? I’ve never liked it.”
And he said...
He straightened up, carefully not putting weight on his sore toes, and thought about it, scratching his chin. He needed a shave. Gertie loved it.
“Sure. Do you mean it? What would you like?”
“I’m not sure,” said Gertie.
“What about Trudie?”
“Ooh,” said Gertie. “I like that.”
She did, but anything he said she liked.
“I do too. You sound like some kind of sexy... well. Just some kind of sexy person. But you are, anyway. Whatever your name. And whatever you do.”
Struan’s voice changed and deepened, and he put his hand out, again, to gently touch her cheek.
From the second Morag had moved her things out, commiserating all the while with Struan about Saskia, the atmosphere between them had been absolutely charged.
Gertie couldn’t quite believe it was happening. But also, to her surprise, it had felt like the most natural thing in the world. From the second he’d turned up at the door with his rucksack, he hadn’t been able to stop staring at her, until she’d felt stupid. And she kept stealing glances at him, and blushing like a lunatic whenever he came into the room. And he gave her the old gloves so she could patch them where it was needed. And she’d put them back on his fingers herself, so carefully that they’d had to both immediately go to their own rooms.
Then, on the fifth day, he’d sat down with her at breakfast, limping heavily. She’d looked up at him, concerned.
“I’m not sure,” he’d said. “I’m not sure this is going to work.”
“What do you mean?”
“Us being flatmates?”
“Why?” she’d said, worried.
And he’d leaned his head on the table, and ruffled up his hair, his eyes squeezing together in embarrassment.
“Because I can’t sleep and I can barely eat and... oh, Gertie, I have the worst, worst crush on you.”
And as if this was a dream, or a film—except she was in Snoopy pajamas, and had just eaten a large bite of toast and marmalade, and Struan was missing two toes, and although it was now technically nearly June, there was hail blowing against the windows, and she was going to be late for check-in...
In spite of all those things, Gertie had, completely out of character, moved her chair closer, then slipped toward him and sat upon his knee. And Struan had kissed her, and they had both tasted of marmalade, and it had been everything she had ever dreamed of.
“W E’LL HAVE TO tell people sometime,” said Gertie now. He pulled her closer.
“I know,” he said. “I know but...”
“The KCs will start speculating,” murmured Gertie.
“And everyone will say it’s too soon for me,” said Struan, groaning, even as he held her close.
“Is it?”
“It is not.”
And he squeezed her so tightly she could have absolutely no doubt he meant what he said.
“And my mother will go nuts.”
“And the kids will all...”
“Just a little longer,” said Gertie, beyond happy in the little dreamworld they were building for themselves, their own little castle in the air.
“And the plane can wait,” said Struan, kissing her deeply. “Truly, Trudie.”