Seonag gazed at her in the semi-darkness, then rose to lean into the centre of the table and light candles. As she settled in her seat again she said, ‘So that’s what inspired the building of the bothy here?’
Niamh nodded. ‘It’s not as good as the one the Norgroves built, but we sort of borrowed their design, and the stone was all there from Iain Fiosaich’s first house. We made a half-decent job of it, I think, and in the beginning we used to go there quite a lot.’
‘Does anyone ever make use of it?’
‘The occasional hiker, I think. And some people seem to seek it out, just for the novelty value. To be honest I haven’t actually been in it for ages. A year or two, maybe. Ruairidh kept an eye on it and took care of any maintenance that was required.’ And almost as she said it, Niamh realized that he would never be out there again, and that in all likelihood it would fall into desuetude, a ruin, like the life she saw stretching ahead of her.
Seonag finished the Amarone and opened another bottle. Niamh watched, concerned. She tried to make a joke of it and told Seonag she was drinking too much. But Seonag was dismissive and refilled her glass, slurring her words slightly for the first time.
They talked about childhood, recalling the days when they had played ‘house’ in the shed in Niamh’s back garden and caught crabs on the shore, and cycled miles on disused single-track roads without ever seeing another soul. Pre-adolescent days when they had still been the best of friends, before hormones and adulthood had complicated simple lives.
Niamh got to her feet, finally, if only to stop Seonag from finishing another bottle. ‘I’ve got to go to bed, Seonag. And you’ve drunk far too much to drive.’
Seonag smiled. ‘It’s okay. I told Martin I might not be back tonight anyway.’
She remained sitting at the table as Niamh made her way towards the hall and her bedroom door, calling back over her shoulder as she went, ‘Don’t worry about the dishes. I’ll do all that in the morning.’
‘Oidhche mhath,’ she heard Seonag whisper as she shut the door.
For the second night she felt lost in this big, sprawling bed that she had once shared with Ruairidh. It seemed so empty without him. She remembered how he had insisted that they buy the biggest and the best, and she still cringed when she thought about the cost of it. But he had said, ‘We spend a third of our lives in bed, why would we skimp on it?’ And she couldn’t argue with that.
She turned over on to her side, facing away from where he had once lain, turning out the light and curling up in the foetal position, the duvet pulled tightly around her. Fatigue overwhelmed her after days of sleep deprivation. And she drifted off into the deepest of sleeps from almost the moment she closed her eyes.
She had no idea how long she slept before a strange awareness brought her drifting slowly back to the surface. Of warmth and human comfort, a body spooned into hers, just like Ruairidh after they had made love. For the longest time, floating still in that netherworld between sleep and consciousness, she believed that he was there in bed with her. Although some part of her knew that it was impossible, she didn’t want to let go of the illusion. That somehow he was still alive, his body moulded into all her curves and hollows. The comfort and happiness that accompanied it was almost too much to bear. If waking up would dispel the fantasy, then she never wanted to wake up again. Ever.
But, still, consciousness forced itself upon her, and as she rose up from the euphoric mists of delusion, she turned over to realize, with a sudden, waking clarity, that there really was someone there in the bed beside her.
She sat upright, heart hammering, reaching for the bedside light. And was shocked to see Seonag lying naked where Ruairidh had once slept. ‘For God’s sake, what are you doing?’ Her voice sounded shrill, even to herself, and resounded around the room.
Seonag didn’t move. She reached for Niamh’s hand. ‘Don’t be angry with me.’ But Niamh pulled her hand away.
‘Seonag...’ Niamh was at a loss.
Seonag said, ‘I only wanted to comfort you. I know what you’re going through. How lonely and lost you must be.’
‘You have no idea how I’m feeling.’ Anger replaced alarm.
Seonag sat up now, drawing the quilt self-consciously around. She reached for Niamh’s hand again, found it and held it tightly. ‘Niamh, there’s never been anyone else. You know that.’
‘Jesus, Seonag, I thought you’d got over all this.’ She shook her head. ‘That it was just some kind of teenage crush.’ She forced her hand free of Seonag’s. ‘For heaven’s sake, you’re happily married. You’ve got two kids!’
Seonag sucked in her top lip, as if trying to hold back tears. ‘Marriage has never made me happy. It was only ever what was expected. I love my kids. But God forbid that I should also be in love with another woman.’
All the tension drained out of Niamh now, and she let her head drop. She felt Seonag’s pain, but knew there was nothing she could do to end it. And when next she looked at her saw the tears that Seonag had been unable to contain, running in big slow drops down her cheeks. She said, ‘I can’t help you, Seonag. I’m not ever going to be the person you want me to be. Not in that way.’ She reached out to brush away the tears from her friend’s face. ‘You should go. You really should.’ And when she didn’t move, ‘Please.’
The first sobs tore themselves from Seonag’s chest, and she slipped from the bed and ran naked from the room. The door slammed shut behind her, and Niamh closed her eyes in despair.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was with dread that I returned to Galashiels in the September following my summer at Linshader Lodge. A long demoralizing journey. Three-and-a-half hours across the Minch on the Suilven, from Stornoway to Ullapool. Then bus to Inverness, and on to Edinburgh. I recall what seemed like hours of waiting, stamping my feet in the cold of the old bus station at the St James Centre, waiting for the bus to the Borders.
My first year at the Scottish College of Textiles had been profoundly lonely. My room in the halls of residence, at Netherdale on the outskirts of the town, was little better than a celclass="underline" painted brick walls, a single bed, a wardrobe, a desk, and a view on to the back of the halls. The merest glimpse of grass and the road beyond, where the bus would drop me on my return from trips home. I felt like I had stepped on to the set of Prisoner: Cell Block H.
Some of the girls had arrived with duvet covers and towels, stereo systems and posters, transforming their rooms into little dens. I came down from the islands with nothing more than a suitcase. My room was as cold and impersonal when I left it as when I arrived.
I had cianalas, what we Gaels call homesickness, within the first five minutes, and it never left me the whole year. I remember queuing up on bitter cold nights for my turn on the shared payphone to call my folks, with the hope of catching maybe a breath of the sea somewhere in the background. It all seems extraordinary to me now. In these days of iPhones and every other kind of smartphone, keeping in touch with friends and family could hardly be easier. Back then, I might as well have been on the moon.
The girls on my floor shared a toilet and shower at the end of the hall, as well as a communal sitting room with a single TV set and fights every night over which channel we would watch.
The halls of residence were catered, which meant that we had to queue (again) with a tray in the canteen, and carry our food to shared melamine tables. Cell Block H (again). I was utterly miserable.