Chapter Twenty-Nine
“I do not believe this!”
Lu is starting to push open the heavy, wrought-iron gate, her trembling hand flat against the giant tile at its centre. Naturally, there is no reason why she should believe this, as it isn’t true.
But William is quite convincing, as he points upwards to the small bedroom that looks out, as ever, over the pretty little courtyard.
Lu, who is genuinely mystified rather than just doing the face, also shakes her head in wonder. “Is big coincidence. This is the word?”
“‘God’s way of staying anonymous’,” says William. “Not me, sadly. Einstein.”
“It is very late, Gordon.”
William totally understands that now is possibly not the best hour to be trading obscure quotations from Swiss maths geniuses. “So why did I come across you walking back here all on your own, Lu?” he enquires, more pointedly. “On your honeymoon!”
The young woman, from three decades ago, looks at him with such a sadness that he finds his heart melting, in a way he can’t recall having experienced for so many years.
There was the wedding of course, not so long ago, his lovely Clairey and the painter, but this is different.
Perhaps because he didn’t cause the wedding, far from it, yet he knows damn well that the tears now pooling in this beautiful young woman’s soulful and so familiar brown eyes are all his own work.
She pushes the heavy gate a bit more, this time with his help. William can’t be certain but he senses that this younger Lu doesn’t want their conversation to end just yet. He takes the chance and follows her into the courtyard. She can regard him as either a stalker or a friend – it’s up to her.
When she sits on the rim of the fountain, cooler now that the natural oven known as Seville has dialled itself down, he joins her.
It’s a bit precarious but he manages. And she tells him exactly what her new husband just did to his slightly naughty, but basically innocent, best friend.
She may struggle with the terminology, yet her mime of an angry push and its aftermath leaves little to the imagination.
“Welcome to Glasgow,” remarks William, but almost to himself.
He notices that, as she talks, Lu picks nervily at her fingers.
William knows the action so well – and recalls that Luisa, his current Luisa, was doing much the same less than an hour ago, in such differing yet still anxious circumstances.
He wants so desperately to prise those lovely fingers apart, to stop the inevitable damage, but he doesn’t dare. Yet he can’t let it go.
“You’ll spoil those artist’s hands,” he says, with a gentle smile.
As she nods, Lu leans over, opening her arms. A white cat suddenly appears in her lap, as if from nowhere.
William jolts for a second, until he reminds himself that he is apparently ‘permitted’ to see artefacts (and domestic animals) of Lu’s era, provided they are actually being held by her or by Will.
There are clearly rules to this madcap game, but William wishes to heaven he knew who was making them.
For now he can simply enjoy the sight of a delightful young woman offering a slightly scrawny animal the unconditional affection William recognises as so much a part of who she is. Or at least of who she used to be.
And this is why, as he fondly remembers, he was so in love with her.
William is about to pursue the conversation when he realises that there is actually no need. The young bride wants to talk. Apparently his ‘happening by’ was simply one of fate’s more kindly acts on this most cruel of evenings.
“He has so much of the anger inside of him, Gordon,” she says, stroking the cat more firmly. “I know why this is. Of course I know why is this.”
“From his brutal childhood and his sadistic dad,” amplifies William helpfully, before her curious look signals to him exactly what he is doing. “Er – I’m guessing,” he adds a bit feebly. “But you can usually tell these things.”
“Sí,” agrees Lu, innocently. “From his very bad papa. His father who is dead now. This man, he was so—” She stops, a bit embarrassed.
William senses that for her to go any further would be an unforgivable breach of trust. He isn’t going to encourage or prompt her. Whilst she is hardly likely to tell him anything he doesn’t know, it might be more than he would wish to hear.
He wants so much to ease her discomfort. He also wants rather a lot to pat her hand, but William knows that this is hardly appropriate and there is a good chance she might squash the cat.
“It’s okay.” He turns to look at her and this time a genuine sincerity burns in his eyes, surprising even him.
“Trust me, Lu, he will learn to move on. To behave like a – well, like a grown-up. To tame that anger. Or at least re-channel it. And, you’ll see, he’ll be less like his nasty, thuggish drunk of a dad with every day that passes. ”
You’re off on one again, William, he thinks, his lower back starting to twinge, as if on cue. Stuff coming up for you, stuff you didn’t expect, revelatory stuff, but rein it in, pal.
“With your help and support, Lu. Naturally. With you on his side.”
It is only as these words unwrap themselves that William realises they began somewhere deep in his heart, in his past, where he seldom goes these days. He becomes suddenly thoughtful.
“Although Will may not actually thank you for it,” he says quietly. “Not ever thank you for helping him be the guy he never thought he could be.”
Lu Sutherland smiles up at this kindly (if disconcertingly prescient) older man, who is now getting up to stretch and click in a manner that seems curiously familiar.
Perhaps it’s a Scottish thing. The gentleman seems so wise, but of course thirty years of a good marriage – or at least a marriage that has endured – must provide some insights.
“I hope, sí, that you are right,” she says, with a familiar sigh. “I see all this good inside of Will. I do, Gordon. With of course the anger. But who can know?” Lu smiles, not entirely in happiness. “Poor Sandy. And he is just saying this night he want to give Will a job.”
William says nothing. The expression clouding his face says everything.
“Que?” she says, then adds “What?” for his benefit.
William deepens his troubled look, knowing that he has a captive audience.
“Can an old guy offer you a serious piece of advice, Lu? You and Will?” He takes her nod as a green light and moves forward at speed.
“NEVER mix business with friendship! Never. Ever. Recipe for disaster. Trust me, ends in tears. Nip it firmly in the bud before—”
“Am I interrupting anything?”
They both spin round at the sound of the voice.
Will Sutherland looks extremely sober as he approaches them. And equally sheepish. With a huge measure of contrition thrown in.
William finds himself wondering, just for a moment, who this rangy, red-headed guy is. This patently anxious young man who has interrupted such an important tête-à-tête. Yet as he registers the genuine contrition, he finds his heart swiftly going out to him.
For his part Will, both hands held suspiciously behind his back, ignores William completely and stares, guilty and unblinking, at his wife. Their wife.
William is surprised to hear the coldness in Lu’s greeting. He had always thought that came later. But, of course, he reminds himself, the smashed-face incident didn’t happen first time round.
“How is Sandy?” she asks.
“Bloody sore, but still laughing.” Will attempts a chuckle himself. “You have to admire his stamina.”
“Do you?” mutters William ruefully, although it is patently none of his business. They turn to him, as if just remembering he is here. “I heard about the fracas,” he explains.
“Fracas,” says Will, in William’s voice, which is obviously not hard to do. “Great word. Fracas.” He stares hard at the unexpected third party. “What’re you doing here this time of night, Gordon? Hunting more Nazis?”
Before William can bang on about the random nocturnal stroll, his practically photographic memory and the roots of coincidence, Lu begins to sniff quite loudly. So of course all eyes go back to her.
“What is this smell?”
She can’t stop sniffing. William has a go but isn’t sure whether a smell can travel thirty years. And, if it can, whether he’d really want to be there when it arrives.
Will is a picture of innocence. “Well, I don’t know, Lu. Hospital, mebbe?”
She hands William the scrawny white cat and moves towards her grinning husband.
Happily for the older man, the young couple don’t notice that the transferred cat has instantly become its own skeleton.
William drops it in horror, praying that it reverts back to cat and he doesn’t have to explain a pile of bones on the ground.
It certainly disappears from his view. (William is not a particular fan of cats and dead ones hold even less appeal.)
Meanwhile, Lu is trying to move around Will, but he keeps deliberately turning away, so that she can’t ever discover what’s behind his back.
This game goes on for some seconds. Whilst, to anyone else, it would most probably be sick-making, like a lovers’ mouth-to-mouth chewing-gum exchange, William is totally fascinated.
He finds himself taken by his own former playfulness and his young wife’s gleeful willingness to play.
Finally she manages to double-guess Will and land up behind him, where she finds a greasy paper-bag and a tiny cardboard pot.
“Churros!” she yelps, triumphantly.
“Not exactly The Ritz, Seville,” he says, apologetically.
“No, is better! I LOVE the churros.”
“You can only eat them if you promise to get chocolate all over your wee Iberian face.”
“There is not another way!”
William watches with genuine enchantment as Lu grabs one of the doughy coils and dips it into the still-warm and nicely sticky chocolate.
Her young husband can’t stop smiling at her.
Yet William can detect the apprehension there, the burning need to make reparations and the justifiable fear that an oily snack may not quite be enough.
He has no idea of time, as he gazes at the loving young couple with unexpected warmth and an almost infinite sadness.
William knows that he is smiling but is clueless as to how to desist and return to his more pressing agenda.
Nor if, to be honest, he even truly wants to.
He can almost feel the anger in his eyes dissolve into an embarrassing moisture, as this attractive pair play silly buggers just inches from where he sits.
Finally, Lu remembers that he is still there. “Oh, Gordon, I am sorry for this. Churro?”
William shakes his head. He would dearly love one but it would be way past its sell-by date. Like him, probably.
“So, Senora Sutherland,” says Will. “I did a very bad thing, didn’t I? A wee bit of an angry young Glasgow man thing. Very bad. Totally unforgivable.” He looks so serious. “Am I forgiven?”
To William’s surprise, Lu turns back to him, a tiny smile on her face, above the chocolate. “What do you think, Gordon? About forgivingness? In the marriage.”
I’m sorry?
William looks like he doesn’t think anything.
He appears totally speechless. And gormless.
As if someone has casually asked him for his take on the latest advances in string theory, rather than sharing an instantly accessible concept that has been around since humans became human.
His raddled mind churns wildly, as he processes the extraordinary yet stupidly obvious enquiry that his wife’s younger incarnation has just hurled at him like a grenade.
He knows that he has to say something or he will just appear rude.
“‘Forgivingness’? Hmm. Well…” Come on, William, Gordon, whoever I bloody am. “Well, I suppose, if simple ‘forgivingness’ is the way a couple can get back – you know – to how things were. To how things ought to be…”
His speech fades, his turbulent mind absorbing the words he has just heard leaving his own mouth. As if they’re front-page news to him too.
“This is what I think!” cries the young wife, in elation. And William believes for a moment that he is very wise.
Lu stuffs a churro into Will’s mouth and follows it up with a long, chocolatey kiss, both of them totally unfazed by their audience. The older man feels almost like one of the family, relieved that they are totally oblivious to the turmoil churning deep inside him.
Will the younger clearly isn’t finished. “I’ve fallen on my sword bigtime wi’ Sandy,” he says, “but I need to make it up to you, Lu.”
“You give me churros!” she laughs.
But Will just shakes his head. This clearly isn’t sufficient.
“Hey, Lu,” he says, “we were planning to go to the casino tonight! See Paloma in action. But well, I dunno, maybe now—”
William has absolutely no idea how the notion currently galloping into his brain like a Spanish stallion has arrived there, nor what the hell it thinks it is doing. He just knows he has to run with it.
“Mind if I make a wee suggestion?” he says, then steams straight on. “You must still go! Exactly as planned. But this time – with a psychic Scotsman on your team!”
Predictably they just stare at him.