The Missing Years Read online

  “How so?”

  I shrug. “You know. Talking about my father. I don’t usually do that.” Talking about my father, without really talking about my father. We covered his date of birth, town of birth, occupation, last known abode; the barren facts that in no way construct a person. The lawyer—Mr. MacKintyre, a veritable mountain of a man—had them in the file already, but after so many years and now with a different plaintiff, a double check was warranted. I hadn’t expected there would already be a file. “The lawyer met Mum once, actually. Years ago. She looked into the process too.”

  “Why didn’t she go through with it?”

  “That’s exactly what I said.” Though what I was thinking was less charitable: Why couldn’t she have cleaned up this mess herself? Surely her mess, or his. Because the only other person that was there was a seven-year-old me, and I refuse for it to be mine. “But it was too soon. Without sufficient evidence pointing toward the person having died, you need to show they haven’t been heard of for seven years. I guess she never got round to it when the seven years was up.”

  “That sounds remarkably like her.” There’s a caustic tone to Carrie’s words that surprises me. I throw her a quick glance, but I can’t deduce her expression in the darkness of the car interior. “Do you have to, I don’t know, come up with a theory? For what happened to him, I mean?”

  “I . . .” In front of me hang a hundred, a thousand, a million and more different possibilities. I almost can’t see the road for the myriad of my father’s lives playing out before me, like overlapping cinema screens, all that could have been, might have been, perhaps was, perhaps even is. All of the things I have imagined and all I haven’t yet thought of. If I had to pick one, I might damn all the others. What if I picked the wrong one?

  “Ailsa? Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Sorry. No, we don’t have to submit a theory. He has to speak to the investigating office, for completeness, but apart from that it should be . . .” I hesitate. Even now, I can’t use the word the lawyer used: painless. “Straightforward. More straightforward than the lawyer down south seemed to think, anyway.” I turn the conversation back to Carrie. “But what about you? How’s the director? You’ve worked with him before, right?”

  She talks and I listen as I drive. The car’s headlights don’t seem to extend nearly far enough in the darkness, and they have the odd effect of bleaching virtually all the color out of the grassy verges that are temporarily bathed in their light. I could almost believe we are driving in a black-and-white bubble. It’s a shock to see the vibrant red and white stop sign that suddenly rears up in front of us.

  “Where are the rest of the cast staying?” I ask.

  “A mixture of flats and B&Bs in Edinburgh.” She stifles a yawn. “We aren’t exactly worthy of Judi Dench–style accommodation. Though they’re all pretty close to the rehearsal venue, so at least they have the benefit of a short commute.”

  “Wouldn’t you have preferred the shorter commute?”

  “And have to endure Janey as a roommate? No thank you! This way I pocket the per diem and get to stay somewhere way nicer.” She turns toward me suddenly. “Wait, you aren’t trying to kick me out already, are you?”

  “No! I just thought—well, this commute isn’t that convenient for you. That’s all.” I feel her eyes upon me in the darkened interior of the car. I’m making a mess of this, I can tell. “Carrie, you’re welcome at the Manse as long as you like. Of course you are. I invited you.” She isn’t speaking. Does she think that I invited her out of politeness? Does she think that I didn’t expect her to accept? I didn’t, exactly, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want her to. I should have made a joke out of her comment, but it’s too late now—by addressing it earnestly, I’ve given it credibility. I risk a glance at her on a straight section of the road; when she sees me turning toward her, she looks straight ahead, tension somehow apparent in her profile despite her slumped position. I can think of absolutely nothing to say that will improve the situation. Our colorless bubble continues to eat up the meters and kilometers to the Manse.

  “Well, okay,” Carrie says finally, breaking the deafening silence.

  I search around for some way to return the (slim) olive branch, if that’s indeed what it was. “Oh, I went to the hotel yesterday, to see the leisure club.”

  She clears her throat. “Really?” Her tone is still belligerently neutral. “How was it?”

  So I describe the hotel. I even tell her about the manager’s reaction and the incident with Morag; I joke about not actually getting to see the health club. I’m overcompensating now, adding more color and detail than I ordinarily would, but little by little I can feel Carrie thawing out—and her hint of righteous indignation on my behalf is a reward in itself, so I tell her about the newspaper too. We’re almost back at the Manse now. Turning carefully into the driveway, I have to slam the brakes on suddenly—“Shit!”—as the headlights wash momentarily over a figure in the driveway, a scant meter or so from my front bumper.

  “Ow,” complains Carrie, rubbing a knee which presumably connected with the dashboard.

  “Jesus, I nearly hit them.” My skin is still singing with the sweep of adrenaline.

  “Hit who?”

  “The man. Didn’t you see someone?” I look around, but outside the bubble of the headlights, there is little chance of seeing anybody or anything clearly.

  “I was checking my phone.” She holds it up. “Did you recognize them?”

  “No.” I’m not actually sure I could give a description. Not terribly tall, though with the lights and the shadows, that could be debatable. I had the impression of jeans and a black parka with the hood drawn tight around the face, which, come to think of it, means I’m not even one hundred percent certain on the gender. “God, I hope it wasn’t one of our neighbors. They don’t need any more reasons to hate me.” Though it seems an odd place for a neighbor to be, actually within the grounds, on the Manse’s driveway. Perhaps the person was walking a dog that went roaming. I look around again and then put the car into first gear and inch gingerly down the drive.

  “You must have left the lights on again,” says Carrie in a mildly accusatory tone. I’ve been concentrating so hard on not running over any more neighbors that I haven’t really looked at the house; I’m surprised to see a yellow glow emanating from within the utterly black mass that is the Manse—blacker even than the darkness that it sits within. For a second the light puts me in mind of a dragon: a fire within the belly of the beast. But of course it’s sure to be something far more prosaic. An electric bulb, most likely the ceiling light on the second-floor landing. I must have left it on accidentally. Or perhaps I’m still subconsciously keen to keep the house lit, like last night. Though I thought I had turned everything off . . . I think uneasily of the figure I almost ran down. Then I remind myself that I changed all the locks.

  “I guess your key worked fine last night,” I say as I unlock the front door, not an easy thing to do in the darkness. I should install some kind of security light with a sensor, except of course I’m not going to be staying. Though maybe I should do it anyway, in case I rent the place out after all. Finally I have the door open and a draft of air licks over me, like the beast is breathing out. “I thought changing the locks was the safest thing to do,” I add casually. “Who knows how many old keys are knocking around after being rented out all these years. I feel a bit better knowing just you and I have access.”

  “You can take the girl out of London . . .” Carrie says. She’s not quite mocking, but it’s not exactly friendly ribbing either. The thawing process is not entirely complete. “Probably sensible, I guess, though I doubt the Highlands of Scotland is fertile ground for intruders.”

  Actually very fertile seeing as we’ve had one already, I think with grim amusement. She has her back to me whilst she takes off her coat and hangs it on one of the hooks near the front door,
so I don’t need to hide my reaction. “God, it’s Baltic in here. Is the heating not working properly?” Carrie asks.

  “It should be. It was fine earlier.” She’s right, though: the chill I’m feeling isn’t just the remnants of the cold outside. I’ve only been gone—what?—twenty-five minutes or so; surely the temperature inside couldn’t have dropped this much so quickly? I glance at my watch and try to recall the heating timing pattern, then put a hand to the hall radiator. It still holds some warmth, but it doesn’t seem as hot as I think it ought, given that the central heating should still be on. “I’ll go check.”

  “I’ll put the kettle on,” Carrie calls after me.

  The second floor, lit by the landing light that I must have indeed left on, is even colder. It’s not hard to trace the culprit: the bottom half of the wide sash window in the bathroom that I’ve been using is a couple of inches open. Was it open this morning? I haven’t ever opened it myself, and I can’t believe it was left ajar all the time the Manse was unoccupied. Surely I would have felt a draft whilst I showered if it had been open then? The boiler is in a cupboard in the same bathroom. There’s no light on it anywhere that I can see. I look in vain for instructions then tentatively press a button with a flame on it. There’s an encouraging whoof noise, then a blue pilot flame obligingly appears in a tiny open window in the metal casing.

  Coming out of the bathroom, I’m faced with Carrie’s open bedroom door. That, at least, I’m sure has been open all day, offering a framed glimpse of the glorious view that lies beyond the wide bay windows. But now there is nothing beyond except a heavy pressing darkness. I have the uneasy sensation that mere glass can’t possibly keep it out, that the darkness will find cracks to ooze through, an inexorable creeping blanket of dark absorption that will eventually snuff out all light.

  Carrie is busying herself with mugs and tea bags when I get to the kitchen. “Sorted,” I tell her. “I’ve boosted the heating now; hopefully it will warm up soon.” She doesn’t react, her dark head still bent over the mugs. I watch her for a moment, taking in her deliberate silence. It’s effective, this passive-aggressive approach. She must have been an absolute joy to live with in her teenage years. I missed all of those. “We should go out,” I say suddenly. “We could eat at the local pub or something—it’s got to be better than freezing ourselves here. My treat. We can celebrate . . . I don’t know . . .” I trail off. What is there to celebrate? We’re only here because our mother died and somehow that prompted me to make a cack-handed attempt to reconnect with her. That, and what Jonathan said before I left Egypt.

  But Carrie’s head has lifted. “The Quaich,” she says. There’s more life in her voice now. The Quaich is the gastropub in the village. She’s pronouncing it wrong, with a hard k sound at the end, but who am I to judge? I haven’t lived in Scotland for twenty-seven years. “We could walk there, so we can both have a drink. We might even meet some of the locals.” The locals. Locals like Morag, or the mystery newspaper-deliverer? I wish I could swallow back the suggestion, but it’s too late, Carrie is glancing down at herself. “I’ll go and change.” Now she’s looking me over, assessing my attire too.

  “Me too.” It hadn’t occurred to me to change clothes for a dinner at the local pub, but Carrie’s enthusiasm is a stiff wind. It’s easier not to fight it.

  Soon I’m opening the door of my meager wardrobe, hoping for inspiration, but the clothes inside have not miraculously transformed into designer garments. I opt for skinny jeans with a kitten heel, and a white silk shirt with a deep V at the front that Jonathan always approved of. I head to the bathroom and put on some light makeup—the faint bruise from the poker requires some more careful work with concealer—then on second thought apply some heavier eyeliner. In for a penny . . .

  Carrie is exiting her bedroom at the same time as I’m leaving the bathroom. Once again she runs a critical eye over me. “Good,” she says approvingly. “Though, I think . . .” She dashes back into her bedroom and returns with a long, complicated necklace of different-sized silver circular links, interspersed by chunks of what looks like green glass. It’s far bigger and busier than the jewelry I would ever choose to wear, but I put it on obediently.

  “Much better,” she says with a satisfied air. “Here, look in my bedroom mirror.”

  I look at myself looking back at me. She’s right: it does make a difference, turning a perfectly nice outfit into something much more stylish and considered. Carrie’s tall figure is beside me in the frame, now clad in tight black jeans tucked into spike-heeled boots, with a sloppy maroon wide-necked cashmere sweater over the top. Her makeup is artfully edgy without being overblown. There’s no question in which direction the eye is drawn.

  Suddenly she throws an arm around my shoulders, easy to do from her height, and pulls me against her side. “Look at us,” she says smiling. “The Innes girls, together again.”

  I can’t spoil the moment. I let her infectious mood pull an answering smile from me, and I know better than to say, I’m a Calder.

  My father is living in the Lake District. He is in a civil partnership with a man named Colin, and they run an organic cheese-making farm together. Sometimes he wonders what his life was like before whatever the accident was that robbed him of his memories, but he would never risk upsetting Colin by investigating. Colin says they ought to be grateful for their happiness, and he is, although he hopes it’s not at the expense of anybody else’s. The cheese-making is a little dull, truth be told, but it’s lucrative, and they go on long holidays to the Bahamas. He feels grateful for what they have and doesn’t often wonder if there’s anything more.

  SEVEN

  If I’m harboring any stereotypical qualms about the Quaich being some kind of parochial tavern where the locals stop talking and stare when strangers walk through the door, those are dispelled the minute we enter. The room feels like an airy barn, with high timber beams spanning the broad space. On one side, there are square wooden tables and chairs laid out for dinner, with sparklingly clean glassware, and the other is obviously meant more as a drinking space, with large leather sofas in dark greens and browns flanking low wooden tables. A long bar runs along the entire back wall. Even for a Friday night, it strikes me as busy: all of the dining tables look to be occupied, and there are clusters of people on the sofas and at the bar. Not a single person looks round at us.

  “God, I hope we can get a table. I didn’t think to call and reserve one.”

  “Well, we can always have a drink at the bar if there isn’t one immediately.” Now that Carrie is over her earlier hump, she seems determined not to let anything ruin the evening. “What is a quaich anyway?”

  “It’s a sort of shallow cup,” I say absentmindedly, trying to catch the eye of the waitress. “Always has two handles, and it’s usually silver or wooden. I think it’s mainly ceremonial now: the cup of friendship, that kind of idea. Ah, here we go.” The waitress has spotted us and is approaching with a big smile which doesn’t dim in the least even as she tells us it’s a thirty-minute wait for a table.

  “Why don’t you settle over there and I’ll get us drinks.” I point out two unoccupied wingback chairs by a low table. “What do you want?”

  Armed with Carrie’s order, I settle myself on one of the high bar stools to wait for attention from the bartender, a pale beanpole figure in super-tight black jeans and a sleeveless black T-shirt who is almost as edgily cool as Carrie. The artistic type: I went through a phase of those at university. If this was fifteen years ago, and I had my way, by the end of the evening I’d be making his close acquaintance up against a wall in a storeroom, or a bathroom, or out back behind the bins. I can imagine it now, I can see it unfold, I can even see the pale of the skin on his stomach, the marks left there by his tight jeans . . . but in an odd way, that removes the desire. There’s nothing new to be discovered. Instead I concentrate on trying to read the phrase tattooed down his ropy forearm in a cursive
script. I can only pick out a word or two: if and love. What words could be so important, so monumental, so timeless that he’s prepared to carry them with him forever?

  A man has approached the bar, squeezing into the space between myself and another customer. He’s looking away from me, over his shoulder, nodding in response to something a friend is calling to him. His height and his tousled caramel locks look disturbingly familiar, but I can’t see his face. Then he turns back and looks directly at me, a ready smile already in place that turns abruptly to surprise.

  “It’s you,” I blurt out.

  Something lights in his clear blue eyes. “You remember?” he asks. His face is broad and open. Even the wayward locks grow away from it, declining to obscure.

  “Seeing you at the hotel? It was only yesterday.” Does he think I’ve forgotten the events of one day ago? He’s wearing jeans and a smart light blue shirt now, but it’s definitely the same man.

  The light in his eyes fades, and he shakes his head. “Sorry. Yes, of course. I just thought . . . Sorry, where are my manners?” He sticks out a hand. I’m too puzzled to do anything except numbly shake it. His hand is warmer than mine. “I’m Ben. Ben Rankin.”

  “Yes.” I’m too confused to follow the niceties. “What did you mean when you asked if I remember? Have we met before?”

  “Yes. A long time ago. At least, we have if you’re the Ailsa Calder from the Manse . . . ?” I nod blankly, and a smile tugs at his mouth. “I wasn’t really in doubt. I remember those eyes.” There’s no hint of an attempt to charm; he’s simply stating a fact. “I was a couple of years behind you at the local primary school. You were the queen of the monkey bars, as I recall.” Instantly I’m transported back: I can feel myself swinging, getting the timing just right to release one hand and reach for the next bar, the cold metal slapping into my palm, my grip sure and solid. He’s right, I was good at it; the best even. I can feel that certainty within the memory. But here and now, I’m still staring at Ben, despite the hubbub and the background music of the bar around me, trying to see the boy he must have been. There’s something about his face: the openness of it, the directness of his gaze. There’s a thread of something—not even a thread; a suggestion of a thread, gossamer thin, floating through my mind. If I chase it down it might break, or vanish entirely, or maybe it was never there in the first place.