Distant Voices Read online

  He sighed. ‘Listen. You have to believe me. You have to. Mummy loves you as much as I do and that is so much it would drown mountains.’ He managed a smile. ‘She only said she didn’t love you so much and you didn’t love her because she knew how cross it would make me! Grown-ups do that every now and then, you know. Just to wind each other up. It’s a sort of game they play. Then they make up and everything is all right. They know none of the things they said meant anything.’ If only it were true. Please God, let it be true.

  His hand on hers was ice cold and shaking slightly. She reversed the grip, taking his in her own two hot little palms and trying to give him comfort.

  ‘I didn’t mean her to get hurt. Truly.’

  ‘I know you didn’t. Cathie, it’s not your fault. The cat didn’t listen to what you were saying. It couldn’t have!’

  But even as he said the words he wondered.

  Inside at last he gave her hot cheese on toast on her knee in front of the television, not arguing when she refused to go to her room, until she had been home for an hour and he couldn’t stand it any longer. He reached down for her hand. ‘Come on. We’re going to check it out upstairs.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Yes. We need to look at your room, find you a night light so you’re never scared in the dark again, and look at this silly old suitcase.’

  It was where it always was, on top of the cupboard. For a long time they both stared at it, then Freddie collected her dressing table stool and put it in front of the wardrobe. ‘Hold it for me so I don’t fall off.’

  ‘Careful.’ Her mouth was dry with terror.

  ‘I will be.’ He grinned at her.

  Standing on tiptoe he reached for the worn leather handle and gave it a tug. It didn’t move. He tugged again, realising he was going to have to lift it over the small ornate parapet which ran around the top of the wardrobe. For a moment it resisted then at last he dragged it free and swung it down, surprised at its weight. ‘This old case belonged to my father,’ he said to her as he laid it down on the floor and knelt before the huge brass locks. ‘It went all over the world with him. Look at the labels.’ He glanced up at her. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of, Cathie. The case is empty.’

  She had backed away, her hands tightly clasped together behind her back, her face like chalk.

  He was struggling with the locks now, fighting them back, sure it wasn’t locked, until at last one clicked back and then the other.

  He stared down. The child’s fear was infectious. Suddenly he didn’t want to open it.

  He had an irrational feeling that the cat was inside; but how could it be?

  ‘When we’ve put this away up in the attic where it belongs, we’ll go and see Mummy, shall we?’ He smiled up at her.

  She nodded wearily.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll tell her about all this, do you, Pudding?’ he went on carefully. ‘I think it’s a special secret thing between you and me. Poor Mummy thinks it was just a silly old wild cat from the garden. I think it’s better that way, don’t you?’ She also thought the cat was some kind of punishment for what she had done. His hand was on the lid of the case and Catherine was watching it, mesmerised.

  ‘See this lovely old leather? That’s why the case is so heavy; almost too heavy to lift even though it’s empty. We should be glad modern suitcases are so light. In the old days they were all like this unless they were made of cardboard.’ His fingers stroked the surface and rested one by one on the torn stickers. ‘Look. India. Burma. China. What memories the case must have.’ He bit his lip. All places where big cats roamed free.

  Taking a deep breath he began to ease back the lid. Slowly it rose, revealing nothing but a rubbed faded lining and a few nondescript bits of rubbish. Tickets, a hairpin, an old envelope. The smell inside the suitcase was of old leather, dust and musty long-forgotten cologne.

  For a long time Catherine and her father stared down into the case, then he let the lid fall shut. Neither of them had noticed the clump of black hairs caught in the inner buckled straps.

  Pulling down the attic steps Freddie humped the case up out of sight and came back down again shutting the trap door behind him.

  ‘Right?’ He dusted his hands together. ‘Now, we’ll go and see Mummy. And I think you’ll find she’s got an idea for you.’ He smiled. She had been devastated in the hospital about her harshness to Catherine that morning, remembering only her small daughter’s crestfallen face and her tears, so resolutely held back as she walked into school. She would do everything in her power to make it up to the child, as she would to him. ‘I think, as Mummy is a bit off cats at the moment, that it might involve a puppy.’

  Catherine gave a gasp of delight but halfway down the stairs she stopped and glanced back. Obviously her father hadn’t heard the click of claws on top of the trap door or the small querulous growl, but then perhaps she hadn’t either.

  Stranger’s Choice

  The sun was slanting through the feathery branches of the larch tree. Fiona stood for a while in the dappled shade, looking down at the broad sweep of the river at her feet. It was a still, gentle evening. Behind her she could see the stones of the old kirk nestling up in the wooded slopes of the hill.

  Her heart beat fast and she checked her wristwatch. Half past, the minister had said. She clutched her music case a little more tightly and sat down on the river bank to wait, trying hard to think of anything but the coming test and the tunes she had so carefully practised.

  Setting the case down on the grass as gently as she would had it contained some of the eggs from her mother’s hens, she picked up a sprig of larch cones. Nervously she twisted them between her fingers, picking off the tiny scales. Then a bird caught her eye as it swept low over the water, just skimming the surface with its beak before it angled sharply up into the wood and disappeared. Fiona shivered. That was how she wanted to play the organ. The low easy skimming, the swift, controlled flights of ecstasy, the breathless, dizzy grace. She looked down at her hands. They were sturdy and red from the gardening, not the kind of hands to produce ethereal music.

  From across the trees came the echoing single note of the clock striking the half hour. Fiona scrambled to her feet in horror. Her watch must have stopped. She began to run up through the dim woods, fighting her way between the closely planted firs, her sandals sinking into the soft carpet made by their needles.

  The hillside was very steep, and when at last she arrived at the little grey-built kirk she was breathless and dishevelled. There was no sign of Mr Seton, the minister. Her heart sank. She knew he was a busy man. It had only been with reluctance that he had agreed to come and hear her play this evening at all. Indeed he had not even seemed to want to admit that the position of organist would be free when Sandy Gregor moved away. She knew he thought her too young for the post. To him, as to everyone else she was still Mrs Macrae’s ‘wee Fiona’.

  Ducking into the low porch she listened for a moment to the noisily squabbling birds in the roof beams. They had an untidy nest up there, she saw, with two gaping beaks protruding from it. The sight made her smile as, cautiously, she pushed at the heavy door. To her surprise it was unlocked.

  The kirk was very still. She thought for a moment it was empty, then she noticed a figure sitting on one of the benches to the side, near the organ. She approached on tiptoe and nervously cleared her throat.

  He did not appear to hear her. He was dressed in his customary black suit, his head resting on his hand, his shoulders hunched. For a moment she stood beside him in awed silence, not knowing what to do. Then she spoke softly.

  Slowly the man raised his head, and he gave her a grave smile. It was not Mr Seton.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Fiona backed away in alarm, seeing the grey, tired face and red-rimmed eyes. ‘I shouldn’t have disturbed you. I thought you were the minister.’

  Again the same smile. ‘Think nothing of it, lassie. It was time I was leaving anyway.’ He looked around the empty building,
his eyes dwelling momentarily on the bowl of daffodils and narcissi before the lectern. The sun slanting through the tiny panes of glass in the west window was casting chequered patterns across the floor, lighting the blooms in a glorious radiance.

  The man smiled. ‘This is a beautiful place, young lady,’ he said, his voice sad. Rising to his feet, he began to make his way towards the door. Then he paused and looked back.

  Already Fiona, preoccupied with her own worries, had made her way to the organ and was running her fingers soundlessly over the keys. Her stomach was tied in a nervous knot, and she wondered suddenly if she would be able to remember a single note if Mr Seton came.

  ‘Do you know how to play it?’

  She jumped as the stranger’s words carried back to her beneath the echoing roof vault.

  ‘A little.’ She smiled nervously. ‘I’ve come to play for the minister, to see if I’m good enough for the services.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The man slowly retraced his steps. He stood behind her for a moment. ‘Play something for me now.’

  ‘Oh I couldn’t.’ Fiona was embarrassed. ‘Besides, I must wait for Mr Seton.’

  ‘He won’t mind. Come on. I want to hear some music.’

  Fiona slipped uncomfortably into the seat, then she let out a stifled cry.

  ‘My music! Oh, I’ve left my music down by the river.’ She looked round, anguished. ‘Oh what am I to do?’ The easy tears were already brimming in her eyes.

  ‘Hush, hush.’ The man put a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘Look there’s plenty of music there, on the shelf.’

  ‘But it’s not mine,’ wailed Fiona. ‘I had it especially prepared. I had practised special things.’ A tear fell on the keyboard and she hastily dabbed at it with her handkerchief.

  The man chuckled. ‘I’m thinking that these are the tunes you’ll be asked to play: hymns and carols, not organ sonatas and party pieces.’ He reached down a pile of tattered folios and began slowly to leaf through them.

  Fiona watched him miserably. It had all gone wrong. She knew now that she would fail the test. She would never be able to play; her hands were shaking too much. Once again she was Mrs Macrae’s wee Fiona and she wanted to run back to her mother’s house.

  The man looked over several pieces and then she saw him pause at one. He frowned and then gave a little laugh. Placing it before her, he smoothed back the page. ‘Play me that,’ he commanded.

  Sniffing, she tentatively ran her fingers over the stops, and then slowly, softly, picked out the tune, touching in an occasional chord to give the music depth. It was something she had never heard before – sad, haunting and very beautiful.

  Gradually she became absorbed in the music. She forgot herself and her mother, and the reason she was in the kirk. She did not even notice as the strange man, after listening for a few moments, his eyes distant with memory, slowly made his way back to the door and let himself out into the still evening.

  Neither did she notice when a while later Mr Seton slipped into the kirk, still panting from his climb through the wood.

  Not until the notes of the final chord had died away did she become conscious once more of her surroundings. Mr Seton rose from the seat he had taken at the back of the kirk and walked slowly up the aisle. ‘That was very beautiful, Fiona,’ he said. He reached over her shoulder and took the music. ‘A strange choice though, I think, for the kirk. A lovely song, but more suited for a lover’s wooing than one of my services.’

  Fiona blushed. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Seton. That gentleman chose it for me. And he took it from the music here by the organ, so I thought it was all right.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Mr Seton’s eyebrows shot up, but he seemed amused. ‘In that case I must have a wee word with Sandy Gregor before he leaves. I think it’s time he had a sort through the music.’ The minister himself picked up the pile of scores, and after a moment handed her another. ‘What gentleman was that, Fiona?’

  ‘He was in the kirk when I arrived. I disturbed him, thinking it was you, but he wasn’t from these parts at all. I told him I’d left my music down by the river and he chose that song for me to play for him.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The minister smiled once more. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t see him. It seems he has a sense of humour, your strange friend. Enough. Play me the Crimond there, and we’ll see how that sounds.’

  Fiona sighed with relief. This was something she did know. She wished Mr Seton wouldn’t stand quite so close behind her, checking every note she played, but on the whole she thought she got through it well enough. Her nervousness had not returned. He seemed pleased. She played two more hymns for him and that was all he wanted.

  She sat quietly on the narrow seat, her sandals tucked well up on the crossbar, waiting for him to speak after she finished the last piece. He had retired during the last couple of verses to the end of the nave where he stood, his hands behind his back, seemingly lost in thought.

  Then at last he spoke. ‘Well, Fiona. I think you’ve got yourself a job, my dear, if you’d like it.’ He smiled. ‘I had no idea you had such a talent. My congratulations.’

  Blushing, Fiona wriggled from her place and almost skipped down between the rows of empty seats to where he stood. Solemnly he shook hands with her.

  She followed him out of the kirk, paused while he locked the door and went with him across the mown grass of the graveyard in the gradually dimming light.

  ‘Will you go back by the river, Fiona, to collect your music?’ The minister grinned at her mischievously. ‘I know you won’t make a habit of leaving it there before service.’

  ‘Oh I won’t,’ Fiona agreed with him fervently. ‘Indeed I won’t.’

  She stood and watched as he made his way out of the gate into the lane, then slowly she turned once more into the fragrant larches. Below her the evening sun, reflected in the river, turned the waters to a broad sweep of red gold.

  Her music case was where she had left it on the river bank, the leather damp with dew. Clutching it to her she stood for a moment gazing out across the water.

  She could hear someone singing. The voice, distant and melodious, seemed to be coming from further down the river. She strained her ears to make out the tune above the sound of the water: gradually she began to distinguish the notes. He was singing the love song she had played in the kirk.

  She strained her eyes in the gloaming to see him. Was that a figure standing further down river near the rocks? She wasn’t sure. Already the sound of the music was fading.

  Raising her hand she waved in its direction, although she knew he couldn’t see her.

  ‘I’ll never know who he was,’ she reflected with a strange certainty, ‘but maybe I’ll play that tune for him again one day.’ Whoever he was, his quiet smile and gentle choice of music had won her back her confidence and given her the job of her dreams.

  She turned away from the water slowly and once more clutching her music case to her heart she began to make her way home in the dusk.

  Aboard the Moonbeam

  I stretched luxuriously and lay looking up at the dappled white reflection playing over the ceiling. It puzzled me for a moment. Then I remembered. I had arrived late the night before at the old house on the edge of Chichester Harbour. Outside my bedroom window stretched a vast expanse of ice-rimmed water.

  Pulling my dressing gown around me with a shiver, half of excitement, half of cold as my feet met the floorboards beneath my bed, I got up and went over to the window to look out. It was early morning still and the harbour was deserted. Over towards the east the water was tinged with red from the morning sun. On either side cats’ paws flecked the water into slate and silver shadow.

  A solitary boat, large and black, was moored across the channel. I gazed at it fascinated for a while, lost in a dream, and then forgot it as I heard a call from downstairs.

  My cousin, Jim, was in the kitchen.

  ‘Granny stays in bed till lunch,’ he explained, ‘and I’m driving into town, so there’s nothing for you to d
o but relax, and get well.’ He smiled.

  I was not really ill but long months of glandular fever had left me exhausted and depressed. My great aunt, Andrea, who had already offered Jim a home, now said she would be glad to have me for a few months as well. I think she guessed how lonely and unsettled I was and she knew how much I had loved my childhood holidays in her house.

  After Jim had gone, I settled back to enjoy a second cup of coffee in the peaceful dining room, and inevitably my thoughts went back to Graham.

  I looked ruefully at the engagement ring on my finger. It was a little loose still. We had never got round to having it altered to fit me properly. Dear Graham. He had said nothing; neither had I, but I had a feeling that when next we met it would be for me to return that ring. He had been too eager to go back to New Zealand without me, had too easily accepted my reason for postponing the wedding. Indeed he seemed almost relieved when I said I would not follow him until later.

  This time I had not cried when we parted. There was a tight restriction in my throat, but also, unaccountably, a sense of sudden freedom.

  I was so immersed in my thoughts that it was a moment before I realised that someone was knocking on the side door. A young man stood outside, a muffler pulled well up to his chin. I supposed him to be one of the local fishermen.

  ‘Morning.’ He stared at me, obviously wondering who I was. ‘I just thought I’d let you know. Moonbeam’s signalling.’

  ‘Moonbeam?’ I stared at him, bewildered.

  He nodded. ‘Is Jim here? ’E always goes over.’

  ‘He’s gone up to town.’ That at least I could answer.

  The man scratched his head. He looked worried. ‘Might be urgent. ’E don’t often signal.’ He saw that I still didn’t understand. ‘Chap lives over there on the Moonbeam.’ He indicated the black hulk I had noticed earlier. ‘Your Jim rows over most days and takes him food and papers and that. Edward Avon, that’s ’is name, has an emergency signal if ’e needs help.’