Chapter 29
The sun burned away what remained of the morning mists and by the time we reached Maggie’s house it was a glorious day.
I sat shotgun, window down, arm out, fingers combing the breeze as Rowan drove us along a quiet country lane.
After enquiring about my breakfast—and then the lack thereof—he directed me to a box of oatcakes in the glovebox and wouldn’t let up until I ate at least three.
The hedgerows sped by in a blur as the sun arced high in the hazy sky.
I was feeling better. A lot better. It’s criminal how much sunshine and a bite to eat can change a person’s mood.
Maybe that was the problem. I wasn’t mad, I just had a Vitamin D deficiency.
Seasonal Affective Disorder. Could that make someone hallucinate a whole party next door or smacking an axe into someone’s face? I’d google it later.
We dropped Maggie off at her house—a converted barn between two barley fields, with a greenhouse full of neglected tomato plants.
“Cheers, pal,” she said to Rowan. Then she got out of the truck and casually slammed the door behind her. Before she could head up the gravel path to her door, I stopped her.
“Sorry about the other day,” I said.
Her eyebrows scrunched together even more, which was impressive.
“At the café,” I explained. “I made a bit of a scene.”
“Oh that. Pah.” She batted the notion away with a lazy flick of her hand.
“I just thought you were getting frustrated with your computer. You should see me with mine. Turn the air blue when my niece asks to video chat.” She leaned in the window.
“Whatever it was, it’s probably not worth the stress.
You take care of yourself, alright? Make sure that one”—she pointed to Rowan—“feeds you properly for your labour.”
Rowan saluted. “I consider myself telt.”
“Aye, good,” she said. “Go on to your trees then.”
Rowan pulled away. She waved, we waved, and then we got back on the lane. Rowan drove further up the hill and the whole world felt light.
Not far from Maggie’s house, tucked in amongst other farm buildings, we pulled up at a squat, long garage made of cinder blocks and a corrugated iron roof. A plastic sign with a simple green icon of a fir tree and poorly kerned text read: CARLINSREST FORESTRY (CIO).
“Here we are,” Rowan said. “Are you ready to dive into the exciting world of tree planting?”
I laughed and followed him up to the building.
There was something exciting about being invited here, like being shown around backstage at a theatre or brought into the teacher’s lounge at school.
Rowan lifted the painted garage door with a grunt, first pulling it up from the ground then shunting it into the ceiling space.
Inside the cave of cinderblocks and cobwebs was a tiny forest of deciduous saplings, wrapped in netting, spindly branches sticking out the top, neatly stacked against organised shelves of ropes, cables, bags of compost and firewood.
On the other wall hung various shovels, spades, hoes and rakes.
It had the same lovely, musty, earthy smell as a garden shed.
Tourists never saw this place. Only staff. And their friends.
Rowan hefted one of the saplings up onto his shoulder.
“You alright to help me get the trees in the bed?” He nodded back toward the flat bed of the truck.
“Sure,” I said. I hadn’t done any sort of manual labour in my life, but I was surprised how keen I was to try.
It took me a few tries to balance it right, but I eventually got a sapling on my shoulder.
The next time was easier. We wordlessly traipsed back and forth, carrying our trees out into the sunshine.
Once we were done, Rowan gently tossed the truck keys to me, underarm. I caught them with uncharacteristic ease.
“Really?” I asked.
“Like I said, it’s not too far up the hill. I can give you directions.”
I hopped up into the driver’s seat. I’d never driven a vehicle this size, but I wasn’t about to admit that to Rowan. His easy trust in me inspired a little in myself, and I didn’t want to break whatever spell he was casting.
I got the engine started and smoothly pulled away from the garage. Rowan closed it up and hopped in the passenger seat. He smiled, not a cloud of concern blemishing his sunny expression.
“Okay, let’s go,” I said.
Driving the hardware and supplies truck, I felt more at home than I had in a long time.
Walkers stepped back from the road to make way for me.
A passing lorry driver flashed his lights to let me through and offered a friendly wave, which I returned in kind.
I briefly thought about what it would take to retrain as a lorry driver.
Those long, lonely hours would probably suit me.
And it was an important job. I wondered why I had never tried driving a large vehicle before.
I supposed it had always felt wrong in Edinburgh to take up so much space.
And the petrol use! It couldn’t be forgiven.
But here it fit somehow. This was a working truck.
And I was a working driver. I needed the space, so I got it.
What a feeling! To just get space you need.
No questions asked. Maybe I needed a vehicle like this if I was going to live in the country.
Perhaps I would get my own. Perhaps I would offer to drive Rowan more often.
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. He sat relaxed on the passenger side, arm resting out the window, enjoying the air as we shuttled along. I cleared my throat.
“Hey, so, uh, do you mind me asking why you’re only just learning to drive now?” I indicated and checked the corner, getting the hang of the tight country turns. “Seems to me that not having a license is a bit of a handicap out here.”
Rowan was quiet for a moment. Long enough for me to realise I’d stepped into sensitive territory.
“I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Not like I know anything about living in the country,” I quickly added.
“No, it’s okay,” he said. He took a big breath through his nose, as if he were gearing up to a big jump or to lift a heavy weight. “I lost my license a few years back.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“No need to be sorry. It was my fault. Road rage.”
I did a double-take, then forced my eyes back on the road.
“You? Road rage?”
“Yeah, me.” He nodded. “Road rage.”
I hesitated to ask.
“Like?”
“Like…” He bit his lip, clearly weighing up whether to tell me or not.
“Excessive use of the horn. Threatening other drivers. Driving irresponsibly.” He paused.
“That’s what it said on the report. What that means in practice is,” he sighed, “driving at speed after another car, forcing them to pull over and then banging on the driver-side window until it cracked.”
“Christ.” I adjusted myself in my seat, suddenly very aware of the space between us. “What had the other guy done?”
“She hadn’t done anything,” he said. “I was late for work, and I thought she’d cut me off. The traffic police ran the footage back for me after I’d been taken in. Turned out she’d had right of way. I’d been wrong. Boom. Done. Lost my license.”
“How long were you banned for?”
“Six months.”
“Six months? How come it’s taken you so long to retake the tests?”
Rowan paused again.
“Eh, you don’t want to know.”
I gripped the steering wheel.
“You don’t want to tell me?”
“I do”—he nodded—“but it’s a long story. Let’s wait until we get to the forestry.”
I stared ahead.
Oh no, I thought to myself. Not Rowan.
He’d never given me a reason to feel uneasy around him. He was kind to Fergus and to me. He’d let me rant at him in the pub. He’d invited me, a stranger, to join them just to be welcoming. He was the most nonthreatening man I’d ever met.
But still, in that moment, I immediately found myself thinking about how I could crash the truck just right to knock out a passenger and save myself.