Chapter 28
HEATHER
Heather bundles her new client’s ordered receipts dating up to last April and secures them with a paperclip.
She’s entered them into the bookkeeping database, and she’ll file them later.
The yet unprocessed receipts for other clients sit in piles elsewhere on the dining room table, but they will need to wait.
She needs to prioritise the irate e-mails asking for clarification on this and an explanation on that.
She pulls her laptop forward and begins to read.
“Does she realise that the financial year end is fast approaching?” demands one fractious client. “Yes,” she types in as placatory a manner as she can muster, “but don’t worry – we’re on schedule. I’ll confirm after the weekend.”
Thank goodness she’s kept the next four days free to catch up on things.
Even if it means working through the night, she needs to get this done.
The tedium of receipt inventory will need to be relegated to the small hours when it doesn’t matter if she’s half asleep.
She glances towards the easel and painting materials heaped in the corner of the room.
Next year, she thinks, my deadlines will be more satisfying to achieve.
She opens her major customer’s portfolio and sets to work.
A hammering on the door interrupts her rhythm. Heather looks up from her laptop and scans the room. Did she order a delivery? Have the new neighbours run out of milk? She’s still considering when there is an audible fumble at the front door, and a familiar voice shouts into the hallway.
‘Are you in, sis?’
Heather’s heart lifts. Fraser hasn’t granted her an impromptu visit in months, and they’ve barely been in touch since he agreed to her borrowing Maisie for painting practice in a few days.
Her reaction is visceral. She’s missed her brother.
She moves her laptop to the side and stands to greet him at the entrance to the lounge.
‘Fraser! What a brilliant surprise!’ She pulls her not-so-little brother into a bear hug.
The smell that engulfs her causes her to take a few steps back.
‘Phew. You’ve been busy, I can tell,’ she says.
He’s still in his customary heavier winter kilt: rough woollen socks and hiking boots, but he’s replaced his fleece top and down jacket with a light grey t-shirt.
‘I’ve been bagging a Munro with the lads and thought I’d drop in on you on the way back,’ he says amiably.
Heather glances at her watch. ‘It’s like twelve thirty in the afternoon,’ she says. ‘When did you leave?’
‘Around five.’
Heather does a quick calculation in her head. ‘This morning?’
‘We wanted to nab the best of the weather. The idea was to be on the summit at sunrise.’
Heather wonders if this rise-at-dawn approach would help her tackle the mountain of paperwork demanding her attention, but she can’t quite picture herself as a member of the 5am club.
‘Did you make it?’ she asks.
Fraser hands her his phone and indicates a stunning photograph showing the black imprint of the Scottish Highlands against a glorious orange and pink sky.
‘Oh wow! That’s amazing.’
Fraser sits on her sofa and begins untying his walking boots. Small puffs of dust dance from the laces as he works.
‘Got any food?’
Heather does a quick calculation in her head. She can afford to take an hour or two with her brother. The work might come more easily to her after a nice distraction.
‘I can do you a fry up,’ Heather says, looking in her fridge, ‘with mushrooms?’
‘Amazing.’
Fraser pulls the socks from his feet, wiggles his toes and allows them to sink into her carpet. Heather knows what’s coming next.
‘You get yourself into the shower. There are clean towels in the cupboard. I’ll get on with the food.’
Fraser leans forward and plants a kiss on her cheek.
‘You’re the best,’ he says.
***
‘Mum’s been asking after you,’ a fresher smelling version of Fraser says as he piles a square of potato scone and egg into his mouth.
Heather’s arms clench. She stands and begins to tidy dirty crockery into the dishwasher.
The plates clatter as she places them on the ceramic worksurface.
She remembers her mother’s frailty when she picked her up from the hospital, so isn’t perhaps surprised to hear this.
But she also remembers her mother's response when she offered to help her into the house: ‘Perhaps best not to this time, pet.' Her mother’s struggling, she gets that and she’s sorry about it, but what is she in all honesty expected to do? And to hear that she is asking after her after all these years evokes such a mix of emotions – frustration, anger, sadness, grief – that Heather doesn’t know what to say.
‘Heather?’ Fraser looks at her intently. Heather’s heart sinks. A look like this from Fraser generally only means one thing. He’s on a mission.
‘Uh, huh?’
Fraser folds his napkin into a tiny triangle, opens the shape up, then starts again.
‘Mum was saying how nice it was to see you. That there was so much more she wished she’d asked,’ he says, finally.
Heather allows herself a deep inhalation and a slow, re-grounding blink.
‘Okay. And?’
‘And I told her a bit more about Georgia, her course and whatnot. I hope that’s okay. I thought … I dunno … I thought she deserved to know.’
Fraser’s face deepens in colour as he speaks.
Heather imagines her mother, mining Fraser for news, grappling for any titbit of information, but never having the guts to seek the answer from Heather herself.
She feels a stab of compassion for her brother, who’s been caught in the crossfire for nearly twenty years.
She reaches across the table and clasps his hand.
‘That’s okay, Fraser. I agree. She should know. And I know I haven’t said it enough in the past, but I’m so glad you’ve kept in touch with them and seen them right all these years. It really does make a huge difference.’
She watches as Fraser’s shoulders relax, then re-tighten.
‘Dad’s getting really bad.’
Heather pulls her hand back, her heart lurching. It was her father’s inflexibility and inhumanity that had driven her away all those years ago, but he’s still her dad. She still loves him.
‘How bad?’ Her voice wobbles.
‘He called me Stuart.’
‘Shit.’
Her father’s brother Stuart had died in his early thirties. Neither Heather nor Fraser ever met him.
‘Mum wants you to see him.’
Heather stiffens. The thought of walking through that door and pretending the past twenty years never happened makes her head swim.
Her right hand moves to her chest. She looks up at the ceiling and inhales deeply.
Perhaps this is unavoidable? Perhaps this is something the new version of Heather might do?
The Heather who wild water swims and creates beautiful mementos for families.
Perhaps this is all part of her mid-life reincarnation?
She lowers her head and turns to look at Fraser.
‘So, what do you reckon? Next weekend?’ he says, clearly picking up on her hesitation.
Heather glances around the room. ‘I’ve got so much to do.’ She gestures at the pile of paperwork littering her table and the carrier bag of unprocessed receipts shoved in the corner.
He nods. ‘Okay. The weekend after next. Sunday? I’ve got a group hike in the Cairngorms on the Saturday.’
Was Fraser this tenacious as a child?
‘Is it really…?’
‘Necessary? Yes. Sorry, sis.’
Heather knows defeat when she sees it.
‘Next Sunday it is, I suppose,’ she says. Will Fraser warn her parents in advance, or will he present her as a surprise interloper into their Sunday lunch? She doesn’t have the energy to ask.
Heather foregoes the mountain of work for the early afternoon and settles onto the couch with Fraser and a gigantic bag of popcorn.
They binge watch their favourite American sitcom from when they were kids and laugh at the familiar jokes, baulking at the now-inappropriate references in today’s more inclusive society.
It’s like a little shot of oxytocin, being snuggled up under a blanket with her brother, eating snacks and reminiscing about what they were doing when the programme first aired in the UK.
‘You kept trying that hairstyle,’ Fraser mocked at one point.
‘Yeah. And I seem to remember you using that pickup line and being the laughing stock of the whole pub,’ retorts Heather.
A hammering on the door shakes them both from their reverie. Fraser’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline in question. Heather’s shoulders jerk towards her ears in response. She leaves Fraser on the couch as she goes to answer the door.
‘Scott,’ Heather blurts out when she opens the door.
Her heart soars at the sight of him, but this – turning up unannounced – is not Scott’s style.
Has he come to break up with her? A chill runs through her body at the very thought.
But Scott’s smile is broad. He extends his hands like a kid doing peek-a-boo: Ta Dah.
‘I just kept going,’ he says. ‘I was heading to Loch Lomond, but I found myself re-routing and coming here.’ A bike helmet hangs from his forearm, and his flattened hair shines against his crown.
His face glistens with sweat. Three telltale diamonds of perspiration leak through the chest and underarms of his lycra cycling gear.
‘You cycled here from Loch Lomond?’ Her eyes bulge.
‘Glasgow. I wanted to see you. There’s stuff I need to say.’ His voice shakes.
Heather doesn’t know what to make of this information. They talk most days.
‘I thought you were pulling back,’ she says, slowly.
He stoops to kiss her. Here, in the hallway, with her brother in the next room.
‘It seems not,’ he replies through tiny micro kisses that tingle her cheeks and cause her heart to race.
‘Scott … I …’