I found that I couldn’t believe that it was. Neither was dad’s, neither was Rory’s, nor Aunt Fiona’s, nor Darren Watt’s. There was no such continuation; it just didn’t work that way, and there should even be a sort of relief in the comprehension that it didn’t. We continue in our children, and in our works and in the memories of others; we continue in our dust and ash. To want more was not just childish, but cowardly, and somehow constipatory, too. Death was change; it led to new chances, new vacancies, new niches and opportunities; it was not all loss.
The belief that we somehow moved on to something else - whether still recognisably ourselves, or quite thoroughly changed - might be a tribute to our evolutionary tenacity and our animal thirst for life, but not to our wisdom. That saw a value beyond itself; in intelligence, knowledge and wit as concepts - wherever and by whoever expressed - not just in its own personal manifestation of those qualities, and so could contemplate its own annihilation with equanimity, and suffer it with grace; it was only a sort of sad selfishness that demanded the continuation of the individual spirit in the vanity and frivolity of a heaven.
The waves surged against the cliffs, thudding into the rock and being reflected. The shapes of their energy charged back into that wild, disturbed water, obliterated and conserved at once.
It seemed to me then that it was this simple; individual life has no momentum, and - just as dad had said - the world is neither fair nor unfair. Those words are our inventions, and apply only to the results of thought. To die as Darren had, and as my father had, and perhaps as Rory had, with what might have been great things still to do, and much to give and to receive, was to make our human grief the greater, but could not form part of any argument. They were here, and then they weren’t, and that was all there was.
My father had had the right of it, when I’d been so upset at Darren Watt’s death; it had been a sort of petulance I had felt towards the world, an anger as well as a sadness that Darren had died so soon (and so uglily, so sordidly; a litter bin, for fuck’s sake). How dare the world not behave as I expected it to? How dare it just rub out one of my friends? It wasn’t fair! And, of course, indeed it was not fair. But that was beside the point.
Well, the old man had been right and I had been wrong, and I just hoped that he’d known somehow that I would come to my senses eventually.
But if he had gone to his grave - via the McDobbies’ - thinking that his middle son was a credulous fool, and likely to stay that way, well, that hurt me; hurt me more than I could say, but there was no fixing that now. It was over.
I turned and left and caught the ferry back to Ullapool from Stornoway that afternoon, drinking cups of styrofoam coffee and eating greasy pies while I stood out on deck watching the beating waves.
We’d seen dolphins following the ship once, coming back this way past the Summer Isles after a holiday, one day many years ago; mum and dad and Lewis and James and me.
But that was then.
I was back in Glasgow six hours later. I slept well.
And so we went back to the Anarkali restaurant on that Sunday night, Ashley Watt and I, and we had a meal that was almost identical to the one we’d had before, on the summer night when dad had died, except we got along just fine this time, and Ashley didn’t throw any brandy over me, and I didn’t act like a complete asshole, and as I sat there, talking about all the old times and about the future, again I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, because it was so good to see her, but she was going away tomorrow, flying off across that wide grey ocean I’d stood looking at just the day before, flying away to Canada and maybe going to stay there, and I didn’t know whether to ask about any men in her life or not - even though I knew from Dean that the guy she’d gone off with at Hogmanay had only been a one-night thing - and I still didn’t feel I could tell her how I felt about her because she was going to go away now, and how could I suddenly say I love you when I’d never said it to anybody in my life before? How could I say it now especially, the night before she was due to leave? It would look like I was trying to make her stay, or just get her into bed. It would probably wreck this one precious evening that we did have, and upset her, confuse her, even hurt her, and I didn’t want to do any of that. And through it all I knew there must have been a moment when I could have told her, some time in the past, some time over the last few months, when it would have been the right time and the right place, and it would have felt like the most natural thing in the world to say and do, but somehow, in the heat of things, just during the complexity of events - and thanks to my own stupidity, my hesitation, my indecision; my negligence - I’d missed it, and that, too, was gone from me; over.
So I just sat there, across from her, looking into her soft-skinned face all glowing in the candle-light, that long, thin nose rising straight above her small, smiling red mouth as if together they made an exclamation mark, and I felt lost in the grey sparkle of those eyes.
We walked out into the cool March night. It was fair but it had been wet and the pavements shone. Ashley stood on the steps as I put on the old tweed coat that had been my dad’s. She wore a black dress and the old naval jacket with the turned-over cuffs I remembered from Grandma Margot’s funeral. She leant against some railings, watching me button my coat up, and with her left foot she clicked her toe and heel as if in accompaniment to some song I couldn’t hear.
I looked down at her tapping black shoe as I adjusted my collar. ‘Morse code?’
She shook her head, long fawn hair spilling over her dark shoulders.
We went arm in arm down the steps. ‘What was that film that had a dancer tapping out insults at somebody?’ I said.
‘Dunno,’ Ash said, click-clicking her feet as we walked.
‘Was it Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid?’ I scratched my head. I wasn’t wearing gloves and I could feel Ashley’s warmth through her jacket. She smelled of Samsara, which was a departure for her, I thought.
‘Maybe,’ she said, and then she laughed.
‘What?’
‘I was just remembering,’ she said, squeezing my waist. ‘Mrs Phimister’s class. Remember? The French teacher? We were in the same class.’
‘Oh yeah,’ I said. We turned onto Woodlands Road.
‘You hated her because she’d confiscated a radio or something, and you used to tap out insults in morse code.’ Ash laughed loud.
‘God, yeah,’ I said. ‘That’s right.’
‘ “Fuck off you old cow”, was the witticism I recall best,“ Ash said, still snorting with laughter.
‘Jeez,’ I said, pulling away from her a little to look into her eyes. ‘You mean you could decipher it?’
‘Yeah,’ Ash said, with a sort of friendly scorn.
‘You rotter!’ I laughed. ‘You absolute cad-ess. You cad-ette; I thought that was my secret. I only told people later, after I’d left school, and then nobody believed me.’
‘Yeah,’ Ash said, grinning at me. ‘I knew. A couple of times I almost got detention because I was giggling so much. Nearly wet my knickers trying not to laugh. Got some very stern looks from Mrs Phimister.’ She laughed again, throwing her head back.
‘I didn’t even know you knew morse code,’ I said. ‘I learned it in the scouts. Where did you learn it?’
‘My grandad taught me,’ Ash said, nodding. ‘We used to sit and pass messages at meal times by clinking our cutlery off the plates. Mum and dad and the others always wondered what we found so hilarious about yet another helping of shepherd’s pie and chips.’
‘And you never said!’ I shook my head. ‘You rascal!’
She shrugged, looked down at her black, medium-high heels as she did a little tap-dance. ‘You didn’t like me; what was the point?’
‘I didn’t like any girls,’ I told her. ‘In fact I wasn’t that keen on any of the boys either. Come to think of it, I felt mostly contempt even for my friends.’
‘Yeah,’ Ash said, leaning over towards me so that her grinning face was almost on my chest. ‘But you
didn’t break their noses with a boulder disguised as a snowball, did you?’
I stopped in my tracks.
Ash gave a little squeal as she staggered, suddenly losing support on one side. She steadied and turned. She faced me, looking puzzled, from a metre or so away. I just stood there open-mouthed.
‘You knew that was me?’
‘Course I did.’ She frowned and smiled at the same time.
‘Another secret gone!’ I exclaimed, waving my arms. ‘I’ve felt guilty about that for years!’
Ash tipped her head to one side.
‘Well, not all the time,’ I said. ‘I mean, on and off.’
She raised one eyebrow.
‘Okay,’ I said, slumping a little. ‘Mostly off. But I did feel bad about it. I really did. I always felt bad about that.’
Ashley shook her head gently and came forward, took my arm and led me along the street. ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I never told anybody. And I forgave you.’
‘Really?’ I said, putting my arm round her again, ‘When?’
‘At the time. Well, after it stopped hurting, anyway.’
We turned the corner into Woodlands Gate. I shook my head. ‘Why didn’t you ever say you knew it had been me?’ I asked her.
She shrugged. ‘The subject never really arose before.’
I shook my head again. ‘Good grief,’ I said. ‘All this time. Good grief.’
Ashley had been ravenous when she’d arrived at the house in Park Terrace a little after seven that Sunday evening, so she’d just dumped her bags and we’d gone straight out to the restaurant. When we got back after the meal, I showed her round the place. We opened a bottle of Graves I had in the kitchen - after first agreeing that of course we shouldn’t - and then walked from room to room while I did my guided tour bit and pointed out the more interesting or valuable works of art, while we sipped our wine and the statues gleamed and the chandeliers glittered and the paintings glowed and the carpets spread before us like gigantic blow-ups of oddly symmetrical printed circuits.
Ashley shook her head a lot. When she saw the main bedroom she laughed.
We went back to the kitchen. She demurred when I offered to top her glass up. ‘I should go to bed now,’ she said, pulling a hand through her hair. She put her glass down on an oak working surface. ‘Take some water in a big glass and get to me bed ...’ she said. ‘Do you mind?’ She looked at me.
I shrugged. ‘No, of course not. There’s glasses in the bathroom, beside your room.’ A terrible sadness settled on me then, and I had to swallow hard a couple of times. I drank, to hide it, then said, as matter-of-factly as I could, ‘What time do you want up tomorrow?’
‘About seven should do.’
‘Right,’ I said, looking at my glass. ‘Right. Seven. I’ll bring you tea and toast, all right?’
‘Fine.’
‘Okay then,’ I said.
I looked up and she was smiling. She looked at her watch. ‘Well,’ she said, and flexed her brows. ‘Night-night.’
She came forward, put one hand on my shoulder, kissed my cheek.
I put my hand on her hip, let my head nuzzle towards hers a little. She put her arm round my waist and I turned to her, hugged her, my lips at her neck, kissing delicately. She pushed her head against mine, and we started to turn to each other at the same moment, as she put her arms round me; the kiss just seemed natural after that.
It went on for some time. Ashley seemed to loosen and grow more tense at the same time; her mouth appeared to want to swallow mine, her hands grabbed my curls, nails scratching at my scalp. I pulled on her hair, kissed and licked her neck. She dug her nails into the small of my back through my shirt. We kissed again and I kneaded her backside, then pulled the dress up while she wriggled a little to make it easier, and I found skin, stockings, her knickers, and pushed my hands inside, gripping her smooth, warm bum. She pulled herself up against me.
‘This,’ she said, breaking off, breathing hard, while her hands stroked the nape of my neck and her gaze flicked from my mouth to my eyes and back again, ‘this might be better suited to that ridiculous bedroom, what do you think?’
I nodded. ‘Good idea.’
‘Bring the wine.’
‘Better yet.’
It was something. On that monumentally ostentatious bed of the late Mrs Ippot’s, Ashley and I made love like we’d done it for years and then been apart for years and just met up and hadn’t forgotten a thing.
A couple of times, lying there panting afterwards while we trickled with sweat and licked at each other, or were stroking and caressing and thinking about starting all over again, she laughed.
‘The room?’ I said, first time.
‘No,’ she said, shaking her gorgeous head, all tawny hair and flushed face. ‘It’s just you and me; I never thought this was going to happen.’
And, later, when she cried out, I heard the crystal bowl on the table by the side of the bed ring, pure and faint, as if in reply.
It was later still, when we’d put the lights out and had agreed just to cuddle, exhausted and drained, but had not been able to merely cuddle, and so had coupled once more, and I still lay on top of her, inside her, while she breathed and I breathed and our hearts gradually slowed down again, that I did what I’d done before in that situation, flexing whatever muscle it is in the male genitals or the associated support systems that briefly fills the slowly detumescing penis with blood again, sending a small pulse of socketed touch into Ashley’s body. She gave a little exhalation half-way between a sigh and a laugh, and then squeezed back with her vaginal muscles, like a hand round me.
There was a pause, and I thought I felt her go very still for a second, and then she squeezed me again; two quick grippings in succession. There was a pause, and I responded, but she dug her fingers into the small of my back as though to stop me, and so I relaxed.
She squeezed again, four times, the second pulse longer than the other three. Another pause, during which I realised - it was morse! Then another four pulses, the second one short and the others long.
I. L. Y.
I had raised my head away from her shoulder while I concentrated on what she was doing in there; now I lowered my face to her skin again. I laughed, very lightly, and after a moment so did she, and then I sent the same signal back, with a single long pulse at the end: I.L.Y.T.
And I swear the sending made the signal all the truer.
And that falling was followed by two more shared fallings, as we fell apart, and then asleep.
I woke and she was dressed, standing by the bed, a beatific smile across her face, which was washed and glowing and framed by neatly combed hair. I struggled to get up on one elbow.
‘Ash?’
She put one hand to the back of my head and kissed my lips. ‘I have to go,’ she said.
‘What? But - you mean to Canada?’
‘Prentice, I promised. I have to.’
I felt my jaw drop. I rolled onto my back for a second, then sat bolt upright. ‘But last night!’ I said, spreading my arms wide.
Ashley smiled even more broadly and climbed half onto the bed, one black-stockinged knee on the crumpled sheets. She kissed me. ‘Was wonderful,’ she said, ‘but I have to go.’
‘You can’t!’ I slapped myself on the forehead with one palm. ‘This can’t be happening! It’s a dream! Stay!’ I reached out to her, held her face between my hands. ‘Ashley! Please! Stay!’
‘I can’t, Prentice. I said I’d go. I promised.’
‘I’m serious!’ I said. ‘I don’t -’
She put one soft hand gently to my mouth, shushing me, then kissed me long and tenderly. ‘I’m going, Prentice,’ she said, ‘but it doesn’t have to be for ever.’
‘Well, how long?’ I wailed.
She shrugged, stroked my shoulders with her hands. ‘You get this degree, okay? If you still want me then, well ...’
‘Promise?’ I said, in what was meant to be a terminally sarcastic manner, but ca
me out pathetically.
She smiled. ‘I promise.’
‘Oh my God!’ I said, looking at the clock by the crystal bowl. ‘I don’t believe this!’ Maybe, if I could just stall her ...
‘There’s a taxi waiting,’ she told me. ‘It’s all right.’ She smoothed some hair away from my eyes, her touch like silk.
‘But I was going to drive -’
‘You rest,’ she said. ‘You probably had too much wine last night, anyway. The taxi really is waiting.’ She slipped her hand under the covers, held my penis as she kissed me, then slipped away as I fell forward, trying to embrace her, hold her, keep her.
‘Ashley!’ I said desperately. She was at the door.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘I didn’t dream that... signal last night, did I?’
She laughed. ‘Nope. Meant every letter; every word. With all my heart.’ One brow flicked. ‘Amongst other organs.’ She tipped her head to one side, eyebrows raised. ‘And you?’
‘The same,’ I gulped.
She looked down at the floor, then back at me, still smiling. ‘Good. Well, we can take it from there, okay?’
‘I’ll write every day!’ I told her.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she laughed, with one shake of her head. ‘Just pass those exams.’
‘They’ll be over by mid-June,’ I said, more to keep her there in my sight for a few seconds longer that for any other reason.
‘Then I’ll be back in mid-June,’ she said.
She pulled her black gloves from her jacket pockets and put them on. ‘Bye, Prentice.’ She blew me a kiss.
‘Bye,’ I gulped. She closed the door. I flopped back, stunned, staring at the glittering red chandelier.
I jumped out of bed as the front door banged closed; I tore downstairs bollock-naked and waved to her from one of the drawing room windows, which went from about human knee level to giraffe’s head level.