Mutton, page 18
‘I still don’t think you can beat Manolo,’ Gaby screams. ‘Even after all this time. If it’s luxe you’re after, in a shoe.’
‘What?’ I can barely hear her, though she’s only a few feet ahead. The wind is really whipping up. I’m not especially meteorologically on the ball, but I’d call this the beginning of a gale.
‘Manolo Blahnik,’ Gaby yells. ‘MANOLO BLAHNIK. Oh, Clara! Look! Look! Over there! A person!’
And so there is, riding towards us on a quad bike with a trailer. I’ve never been so happy to see another human being. My hair is now completely vertical and my eyes are crying and stinging from the cold. My bottom half has gone beyond goosebumps and into a sort of cold-induced seizure.
‘I HOPE HE DOESN’T WANT TO EAT US,’ I yell at Gaby. ‘THIS COULD ALL GO A BIT DELIVERANCE.’
‘You’re quite safe,’ the man says, pulling up in front of us. ‘I prefer langoustine.’
‘Oh fuck,’ I say. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realize you could hear. Stupid joke. Also, sorry for swearing.’
My Hebridean knowledge is limited, but I’ve suddenly remembered that a certain dour, hardcore Presbyterianism pervades some of the islands: they’re not really the sort of place where you’d disport yourself in crotchless knickers while crying for strong drink. Thank goodness for Gaby’s modest cloak, which hopefully atones for her pagan hair.
‘Yes, sorry. We don’t understand wind direction. We are from a city. Fàilte!’ Gaby says.
‘Technically I say Fàilte to you,’ the man says. ‘To welcome you. You say Hàlo, or Feasgar math.’
‘Hàlo,’ says Gaby, whose interest in languages is beginning to get on my nerves. ‘I’m Gaby, and this is Clara.’
‘Jim,’ says Jim, holding out his hand. ‘And I don’t speak much Gaelic.’
‘I love the Scottish accent,’ says Gaby happily. ‘It is redolent of ancient lands. Ancient wisdoms.’
‘Thanks,’ says Jim. ‘What are you doing here, by the way? Only, we don’t get that many visitors in the middle of December.’
‘We’ve come from London,’ Gaby says, yelling again as the wind re-rises.
‘I’d never have guessed,’ says Jim. ‘And – come from London for why?’
‘Ah yes,’ I say. ‘Good question. We’re looking for a Bernard Frossage. He’s in a rented house somewhere. He writes books. We’ve come to find him. I don’t suppose …’
‘Bernard!’ says Jim. ‘I might have known. I’ll take you to him. Here, put your cases in the trailer. Better get a move on: there’s a storm on the way.’
He doesn’t look terribly religious, but then it’s so hard to tell, and my research didn’t extend to which islands are violently devout and which aren’t. I don’t feel we should be taking any risks.
‘God’s wrath,’ I say, gesturing at the sky, as if I would welcome nothing more than a really punishingly good storm. ‘We are but miserable sinners,’ I continue, warming to my theme. ‘Craven beasts. Of, of, er, the field.’
‘It’s just a storm,’ says Jim. His voice suggests amusement, but I can’t really see his face, which is sensibly muffled against the elements. The sky has now gone completely dark, like granite.
‘Come on, then, hop on,’ Jim says. ‘It’ll be a squash but we’re not going far.’ He points to a dwelling in the near distance, but it’s hard to see in the failing light. ‘That’s him, over there.’
‘How do I look?’ Gaby shouts into my ear as we chug along.
‘Lovely,’ I say. It’s almost true. ‘Windswept, but great.’
‘I could pee,’ Gaby says. ‘With excitement. Boy, oh boy. Bernard Frossage!’
There doesn’t seem to be any point in reminding Gaby that this is not, in fact, a date, but rather a pregnancy-related emergency. Within minutes, we have pulled up to a single-storey stone dwelling – just big stones, no discernible mortar – with what looks to be grass for a roof. There are two wooden window frames and a peeling blue door. It’s not quite the dwelling that I had imagined – I’d been thinking more well-appointed former manse – but the light inside, glowing yellow, is the most welcoming thing I’ve seen all day.
‘It’s called a bothy,’ says Jim. ‘A shelter for travellers, you know,’ he explains. ‘But this one is privately owned and has been adapted for visitors, and is relatively comfortable. He’s expecting you?’ Jim asks as we climb off the quad and grapple with our suitcases. It has started raining horizontally.
‘No,’ I say. ‘We couldn’t get in touch. But it’ll be fine.’
‘Best check he’s in before I peel off,’ says Jim sensibly. ‘Weather’s come in.’
‘Go on,’ I tell Gaby. ‘Knock on the door.’
You’d think this commotion, plus the sound of a bike, would have brought Bernard hurtling to the door, but we can barely hear each other speak.
‘Oh no,’ Gaby says. ‘I couldn’t. I don’t even know him. You do it, Clara.’
I bang on the door with my fist. It is opened by a man whom I recognize from his author photograph: Bernard Frossage, large as life and twice as bearded.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I’m Clara. Jack’s mum. From London. Everything’s OK.’
‘Oh my good Christ,’ says Bernard, blanching white. ‘It can’t be. Something must have happened for you to be here. Is Sky …?’
‘She couldn’t be better,’ I say. ‘She’s absolutely fine.’
‘Thank M’nork,’ he says, exhaling. ‘How do you do? I’m Bernard. But so … what brings you here? Ach, I’m forgetting my manners. Come in, come in. Fàilte. You’re half drenched – I’ll make some tea.’ Only now that he’s reassured about Sky does he look past me, to Jim. ‘Thanks, Jim,’ he says. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Will you want picking up?’ asks Jim.
I don’t know, is the answer to that.
‘I’m afraid we haven’t even thought that far ahead. I’m sure we can sort it out ourselves,’ I say breezily. ‘Thanks so much, though. And for all your help just now. We’re really grateful.’
‘We?’ says Bernard. ‘Who’s we?’
‘Oh,’ I say, moving aside. ‘Me and Gaby. This is Gaby, my friend. She lives with us. You’ve been corresponding.’
My standing aside has had the effect of pulling back the curtain on a stage: Gaby, soaked but beaming with pleasure, is revealed in all her glory. She stares at Bernard. Bernard stares at her. I can hear Jim’s quad bike driving away. Time stands still for a second or two.
‘Gabbro,’ says Gaby. ‘Morga balonkü, Bernard.’ She holds out her hand.
‘Gabbro. The Matriarch,’ Bernard says in an awed whisper. ‘Morga balonkü, Gabbro. It is an honour. I’m so glad you came. So glad,’ he repeats, and ushers us in.
It’s very snug inside Bernard’s bothy, and there’s a roaring fire. Half of the room is taken up with an ancient, highly waxed oak table, which is completely covered in paperwork – maps, diagrams, notes, Post-its, bits of paper with bullet points, typed-up material, A4 pads covered in handwritten scrawl. More paperwork is pinned to the back wall: what look like a dozen family trees, more drawings, arrows flying in every direction from one sheet to the next. I’m reminded of those whiteboards you see in police dramas, charting the course of the investigation. There’s paper on the floor and paper on the sofa and, in one corner of the table, an old-fashioned typewriter with three spare spools of ribbon.
The other half of the room is taken up by a large, unPresbyterian bed, covered in what appear to be animal skins – seal skins, to be precise, or at least seal-shaped hides (you’re supposed to think ‘roar’, but I just think of a strangulated ‘ark ark’, and of flippers flipping). There’s a screen to the side of it, presumably shielding a small bathroom area, although it wouldn’t remotely surprise me to learn that Bernard poos in a hole outside, digging his latrine merrily with an Iron Age spade. Back in the living area, there’s a Baby Belling and a couple of free-standing cupboards, as well as a comfy-looking sofa. The floor is covered in old rugs. It’s like a hobbit-hole, except for humans, and as the storm howls outside, it feels like the cosiest place on earth. Bernard makes three big mugs of sweet tea and digs around inside a tin, producing shortbread.
It takes me a while to realize that nobody is saying anything. Bernard is leaning against the big table, staring at Gaby like a meteor just landed at his feet. Gaby is smiling at Bernard, in her mad dress, which – I now see – was explicitly purchased for the effect it is now having on our host. I clear my throat. I have never felt more of a gooseberry in my life: my superfluity is actually palpable.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Well, first things first. You must be wondering what we’re doing here. Well, what I’m doing here.’
‘Yes,’ says Bernard, seemingly shaking himself awake. ‘Absolutely. Of course. But Sky’s OK?’
I always think bluntness is the best solution: there seems so little point in shilly-shallying about, with announcements.
‘She’s terrific,’ I say. ‘She’s wonderful. But she’s pregnant.’
‘What?’ says Bernard.
‘Pregnant. Up the duff. Three months gone. By my son. Jack’s the father.’
‘Good grief,’ says Bernard, sitting down and, I note, speaking normal English.
‘There’s more,’ I say. ‘She says she wants to keep the baby. She’s pretty adamant about it. I suppose we could raise the idea of adoption with them further down the line, but I haven’t broached it yet.’
‘I won’t hear of it,’ says Bernard loudly.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘She’s very determined and Jack is standing by her. You’ll need to talk to them soon, obviously. But I thought it would be best to come and tell you in person.’
Bernard is leaning over the table, his massive head in his massive hands. He’s built on an enormous scale, like a bear; his author photograph, taken from the waist up, gives no indication of his hugeness. When he looks up, he has tears in his eyes.
‘My little girl,’ he says. ‘My little Sky,’ and I have a lump in my throat.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, ‘for breezing in and telling you all this out of the blue. We only found out three days ago. She was actually pregnant before she moved in.’ This is a wholly self-serving and craven thing to say, but unfortunately the words are already out of my mouth.
‘The world is wonderful,’ Bernard says, sounding a bit distracted. ‘The world is beautiful.’
This hardly seems like the time to enter into a spirited discussion of the beauty of the Small Isles, but people say strange things sometimes, when they’re in shock.
So, ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It certainly is. This island strikes me as nothing short of magical, for example.’
‘It is full of wonders,’ says Bernard, like Shakespeare. ‘But I meant it about Sky. Oh, I wish you’d brought her.’
‘We thought about it,’ I say, ‘but we, er, we weren’t quite sure of your reaction, and I thought it was maybe best to keep things normal, to continue with schoolwork and try and keep on an even keel. Exams, you know.’ There is a pause. ‘To be honest,’ I say, ‘I’m still not quite sure of your reaction, Bernard.’
‘I’m shocked,’ Bernard says, taking a sip of his tea.
‘Well, yes,’ I say. ‘We all are.’
‘Shocked and awed,’ says Bernard. ‘Shocked and delighted.’
‘Oh!’ I say, because I’ve clearly been reading the entire conversation wrong. ‘Oh. Right.’
‘Behold the great Gaia in her fecund glory,’ Bernard says. ‘Behold the blossom bearing fruit. Ah, fertility! She’s young, of course. Very young – little more than a child. But she is a wise child, my Sky. She’s had to be, in our circumstances. She’s old beyond her years. And she’s the age,’ he adds, ‘that her mother was when she bore her.’ He pauses. ‘In the Chronicles, if the father falls, the clan takes in the Babeling. All Babelings are cared for. Tribe cares for tribe.’
‘Nobody’s going to be fatherless,’ I point out.
‘Tribe cares for tribe,’ Bernard repeats, with a faraway look in his eyes.
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ says Gaby. ‘I’ve been holding my breath for five minutes. She was so worried you’d be angry. Oh, if only we had Beakstrels to let her know.’
‘O marvellous Gabbro!’ bellows Bernard, laughing heartily. ‘If only we had Beakstrels indeed. This calls for a drink, I think. I have some malt somewhere. Of course,’ he says, rummaging around the bottom of a tower of paper, ‘I won’t hear of the child being adopted. Whatever help Sky needs, I will provide it. I’ll adopt it myself.’
‘That’s a lovely idea,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ says Bernard. ‘Funnily enough, it’s very like a scene in the third volume of my Chronicles, when Kyryn – the Komatiite, you know –’
‘Son of Picrite,’ Gaby says automatically.
‘Quite, quite. When Kyryn adopts Little Scoria, a Babeling.’
‘Despite her mare-like tail, for she has the mark of the Steed. Such a tender scene,’ says Gaby, misty-eyed. ‘And so profound.’
‘The women propagate early in Lapidosa,’ Bernard says. ‘The wenches have meat on their haunches, and bodies built for birth.’
‘Right,’ I say. Is it my imagination, or is he looking at Gaby a tiny bit disappointedly as he says this?
‘Do you have any more shortbread?’ says Gaby, possibly coincidentally, or possibly not.
‘Alack,’ says Bernard. ‘No more. But I have meats and roots, and tonight – tonight we feast like kings!’
‘I need to think about getting back to the mainland,’ I say. Aside from anything else, I don’t think I can cope with any more peculiar linguistic tics: between them, Gaby and Bernard are making me feel like I talk funny. It’s like listening to something in simultaneous translation: your brain is taxèd. Taxed, even.
‘Too late, dear Clara,’ says Bernard. There are only two crossings at this time of year, and you’ve missed the last one. Not that I imagine it set sail – not in this weather.’
‘Oh,’ I say, nonplussed. ‘Right. Well, then, I suppose I’d better, er …’
‘There’s another bothy yonder way,’ says Bernard, who is disconcertingly able to slip between speaking perfectly normally and speaking very oddly. ‘But it’s a tad basic.’
‘It’s December,’ I point out, ‘and there’s a storm, and I’m from London.’
‘Of course, of course. You’d be very welcome to stay. I’ve barely spoken to anyone for weeks. I’m enjoying the company, and you bring naught but good tidings. More malt?’
‘I’d like to stay,’ says Gaby, holding out her mug. ‘And yes please.’
‘Marvellous,’ roars Bernard. ‘Slàinte!’
I catch Gaby’s eye and flick mine towards the bed – the only bed. She shrugs at me. There’s always the sofa, I suppose.
Bernard turns out to be a most excellent cook. He makes us roast venison with shallots – God knows where he’s got the shallots from – and roast ‘roots’, as he keeps calling them, ‘roots’ including potatoes, which it would seem pedantic to point out are tubers. ‘Nature’s bounty!’ he booms, setting the dishes down on the table, alongside a steaming jug of red-wine gravy.
‘This is delicious, Bernard,’ I say. ‘I’m impressed. It can’t have been that you were expecting guests.’
‘I always have victuals,’ Bernard says. ‘Procuring them – foraging, where I can – is part of my routine here. I always make myself a cooked breakfast in the morning and a proper dinner at night. It gives shape to the day. And I love cooking,’ he adds. ‘Wasn’t much of a cook when Diana – Sky’s mother – first met me, but I became pretty good after she died. Out of necessity, you know. I can’t countenance the idea of a life without good food and wine.’
‘Me neither,’ I say, helping myself to more parsnips.
‘They’re a celebration,’ Bernard says, ‘of nature and of beauty and of being alive. Adjuncts to happiness. I’ve been here for weeks and they have kept me sane. I’ll take you both for a walk in the morning – you should see the island before you leave. Very fertile, as it happens. It’s mostly run as a farm, you know. We want for nothing here.’
‘I’ve brought my Kindle,’ I say after dinner – the venison is followed by goat’s cheese and crackers: he wasn’t wrong when he said it was a feast. Gaby’s washed up and the table is clear of dishes again. ‘I know you and Gaby – er, Gabbro – are keen to discuss your book. Really, don’t mind me. I’m going to curl up on the sofa and read. Or nap. I’m knackered – it must be the fresh air.’
‘Wonderful place, isn’t it?’ Bernard says, gesticulating expansively. ‘I could live here, in another lifetime. I can quite see why the publishers sent me here. The land … I am inspired by land, Clara, and the land here inspires me.’
‘Jolly good,’ I say. ‘It inspires me too.’ I can sort of see why Bernard is, as Jack so succinctly put it, a ‘shagger’. He’s very much not my cup of tea, but objectively he’s not unattractive, if you like hugeness. He’s at least six foot four, and wide rather than fat, with a big face, a big chest and big legs. The beard really does nothing for him. Beards seldom do, I find, and this is the full Cornish fisherman, a dark brown facial wilderness that swamps down well past his collarbones. He is rugged, if you like that kind of thing. Roughly hewn, like the staff of Bold Olivine, perhaps. It occurs to me that I have spent too long with Gaby and the Frossages.
‘Shall we, Gabbro?’ Bernard says.
‘It would be my pleasure,’ says Gaby.
‘Before you start,’ I say. ‘Is there a loo?’
‘The earth serves well enough,’ says Bernard.
‘Does that mean “outside”?’
‘It does,’ says Bernard. ‘But I have plentiful supplies of lavatory paper – just to your right, behind the curtain.’
‘Righty ho,’ I say, remembering how only the other night I was complaining to myself about men standing up when you went to warm loos with lights and sinks and towels and mirrors. ‘Well, I’ll just, er, you know. Go. I’ll just go.’ I want to ask him what I’m supposed to do with the used loo paper, but it’s too revolting. I’ll think of something. I wander out, as dignifiedly as I can, clutching a jumbo roll of Andrex, grateful not to be expected to use a pile of leaves.
