Sewing the Shadows Together (2 page)

Tom hesitated at the wide front door of the Craigie Arms Hotel. It was in Joppa, the more upmarket end of Portobello, one of a row of residential buildings in Scottish baronial style with turrets and towers and a long garden leading down to the seafront. It seemed familiar; he had a vague memory of being there once, perhaps at a wedding or an eighteenth birthday party.

Inside, the decor showed it had fallen on hard times. The function room was set up with five round tables, each seating eight, but the white tablecloths didn’t distract from the drab wallpaper and the stained carpet. On the left there was a small bar with a group of men holding pints and laughing. Small clusters of women were scattered about the room, talking earnestly, heads close together.

He thought back to the class photo he’d found among his mother’s things. Strange that she’d packed that last frozen image of him in his school uniform, blond hair down to his shoulders, surrounded by other sixteen-year-olds with seventies glam rock hairstyles. Looking towards the bar, he hoped that some of the faces would seem familiar, but he didn’t recognise anyone.

‘Tom.’ A very small woman in high-heels and a low-cut dress tottered towards him. She flung her arms round his neck and pulled his head down to kiss him. ‘Lovely you could make it. You look just like your Facebook photo.’

This had to be Patsy Mills, organiser of the event. She bore only a passing resemblance to her youthful photo on Facebook and he couldn’t remember her from school at all.

‘We have a reunion every year, but this one’s special because of the school’s centenary, so it’s great you could come.’

Taking his hand, Patsy led him towards the group at the bar and introduced him. There were a few muttered greetings, and one of the group stepped forward and offered Tom a drink before melting back into the comfort zone of his friends. Nobody else spoke to him. Tom stood on the edge of the laughing crowd, sipping his pint and trying to look as though he belonged.

Patsy, who’d been keeping an anxious eye on the entrance, ran towards the door, squealing ‘Rory!’ A hush fell over the room and all eyes turned towards the door as Rory Dunbar strode in. He bent to kiss Patsy on the cheek and then flashed a dazzling smile round the room, joining the group at the bar with much back-slapping and laughter. A woman – who Tom guessed was his wife – tall and graceful with shoulder-length dark hair, stood a few paces behind him.

Patsy stood on tiptoes and whispered in Rory’s ear. He looked round and nodded to her before coming over to Tom. Pumping Tom’s right hand with his left arm round his shoulder, Rory greeted him effusively. ‘Tom! Tom McIver. How great to see you! When did you get back?’ Without waiting for an answer he turned to the others. ‘Remember Tom? He was in our class, great footballer! Do you still play football, Tom?’

‘Not any more. I do a bit of running though.’

‘Still support the Hibees, I hope. You’d better – they need all the support they can get. Tragic how bad they’ve been this season.’ Rory turned to the group who started talking about scores and disappointments and how they ‘were robbed’; Tom felt the conversation drift away and fall into the void of the years separating them.

Patsy clapped her hands, her voice rising above the hubbub. ‘Now it’s time to eat. We want everyone to talk to each other so you’ll all have to move around. You’ve got a card with the four courses you chose, the table number and the seat number. Now don’t sit in the wrong seat or I’ll get very cross. Might have to spank you!’ There was a loud whooo from the bar.

Patsy giggled. ‘You know, we’ve got people jetting in from all over to come to this reunion. Jennie’s come from Singapore,’ a thin, short-haired woman with an expensive-looking dress and a lot of gold jewellery waved both arms, ‘and Tom’s come all the way from South Africa. The first time he’s come back and just for our reunion.’ Someone started clapping and others joined in raggedly. Tom gave an embarrassed smile.

‘And, of course, as always, we’re fortunate to have our very own Rory Dunbar here today.’ She broke off for a few appreciative cheers from the crowd and Rory gave a practised wave. ‘So find your places and, if you’re very good, there’s a special after-dinner treat for you.’

Tom was trying to decipher the information on his card when Patsy appeared at his elbow. ‘I chose the menu for you because you signed up so late. Hope that’s OK. Anyway, come along. I’ve put you at the same table as Rory for the first course.’

The seating was traditional – alternate men and women. Tom found his place between two well-preserved women, whose neatly-styled hair showed they’d been at the hairdresser that day. They introduced themselves briefly, explaining they were primary school heads, and then continued a conversation across him about children growing up too quickly these days. Tom tried to place them but their names meant nothing to him.

Rory leant over one of them. ‘Tom, so great to see you. What’s life like in South Africa? Went there once, to Cape Town, loved it. Where do you live?’

‘A place called Plettenberg Bay.’

‘Is that near Cape Town?’

‘Not very. It’s a small town on the south coast, on the Garden Route.’

Rory shrugged to indicate that he’d never heard of it. A man across the table asked what it was like meeting all those beautiful women and Rory turned towards him. ‘It’s great. I’ve got them knocking at my door all the time – but I never let them out!’ Tom watched as a burst of laughter erupted from the table at this lame joke. Everyone wanted to be part of Rory’s magic circle.

Tom finished his lukewarm carrot and coriander soup and sat back as they joked amongst themselves. Most of the men looked their age, with thickening waists or balding heads, but Rory still had the large dark eyes and sculpted cheek-bones that had made him so popular with the girls when they were young.

Tom’s light trousers and his pale blue cotton shirt seemed exotically casual compared to the dark suits and white shirts of the others. He didn’t fit in. In South Africa he was always recognised as Scots, but here he felt colonial, his accent and identity worn away by the years in Plettenberg Bay. His skin was tanned, his hair thinner and bleached colourless by the years of sun and salt. He adjusted his long legs to fit under the table and tried to smile and nod as conversations flowed around him.

After what seemed like a very long time, Patsy tapped her glass with a spoon. ‘Time to move again. Hurry up, and no changing the seating plan, or else!’

Rory winked as he moved to his next table. ‘Catch you later, Tommy boy.’

‘Now, Tom,’ said Patsy as they settled down to their Waldorf salad. ‘I especially put you next to me for this course because I want to hear all about you. Are you married?’

‘Haven’t met the right girl yet.’ Tom cringed as he came out with the clichéd answer.

Patsy pressed on, undeterred. ‘So, what do you do?’

Tom felt her attention wander as he told her about his aimless career of odd jobs and messing about on boats. He started to tell her about the sculptures he made out of driftwood, but she turned away to a stocky man on her other side, who started joking with her, fixing his eyes on her cleavage.

Tom stabbed at a walnut; even the narrow single bed and the rose-covered wallpaper of the Regent Guesthouse were beginning to seem attractive.

He looked up from his half-eaten salad and round the room. At the next table he saw Rory Dunbar’s wife looking in his direction. Her eye caught his. She smiled and he felt a slight twinge of recognition. Had she been in his class? He couldn’t really place her, but the smile touched him.

When Patsy stood up again and gave the order to move, Tom was relieved to see Rory’s wife waving in his direction. ‘You’re over here, Tom, next to me.’

He slid into the chair next to her.

‘Do you remember me? Sarah, Sarah Campbell, Shona’s friend.’

Tom caught his breath. Beneath her graceful figure, he did recognise her. Sarah Campbell, the gangling thirteen-year-old with long dark hair who’d always been at Shona’s side. Images came flooding back: Shona and Sarah, one so blonde and the other dark, giggling in their new school uniforms, setting off arm in arm for their first day at secondary school, playing on the beach, dancing to Radio Forth in her bedroom. They were inseparable.

Tom realised there’d been a long silence. Looking at Sarah, an image of Shona as an adult formed in his mind. It was a shock. When he thought of his sister, he’d always seen her as a little girl. But she’d be an adult now, perhaps a wife and mother. His voice cracked, ‘Sorry, it’s been a bit strange coming back. And you’re the first person who’s mentioned Shona’s name.’

‘It was a long time ago and maybe people don’t want to rake up painful memories.’ Sarah hesitated. ‘But I think of her all the time. I turned fifty last month and it does make you look back over the years. My most vivid memories are of the time with Shona.’ She paused as Tom didn’t reply. ‘I’m sorry. Should we talk about something else?’

‘No, please talk about Shona. I haven’t even said her name for years. My mother avoided the subject – it was just too painful at the beginning and then it became taboo. Nobody else in South Africa had ever met her. I used to pretend I was an only child – it was just easier that way.’

Sarah raised her wide grey eyes and looked at him. ‘Shona was such a lovely girl – the only real friend I ever had. I miss her so much.’ Her lip trembled. ‘Things were always so much fun with her. I was such a wimp back then and she was so daring! Nothing scared her, she’d talk to anyone, do the maddest things. It was always an adventure being with her.’

Tom felt a part of himself that had dried up through lack of use quivering into life; here was someone he could talk to, someone who had known Shona. Listening to Sarah, he could see his sister again in his mind’s eye; so bright, so beautiful and so wild. In fact, he’d sometimes worried about her, because nothing seemed to scare her.

‘Yes, she was always getting into scrapes – but she usually managed to put the blame on me.’ Tom laughed as he remembered; Shona could get away with anything, but he often ended up with a slap round the head from his father. ‘She could twist everyone round her little finger, especially my dad.’

Their eyes met. Sarah flushed slightly and lowered her eyes. Tom wanted to say much more, but not here. These were things too precious to be shouted above the superficial chatter in the room around them.

Sarah seemed to sense this and changed the subject. ‘How are your mum and dad?’

Tom cleared his throat. ‘Both gone. My father didn’t last long after we went to South Africa. Never really settled… and he had a few problems.’ He swallowed as he remembered how his father, who’d always liked a drink, had descended into full-blown alcoholism after they arrived in Plett. ‘Mum died two months ago.’

He looked up. ‘That’s why I’m here, actually. In the hospice my Mum made me promise to scatter her ashes in Eriskay, the island where she was born. Do you remember Shona and I used to go back to the Outer Hebrides every summer?’ He smiled, remembering those long sunny summers of freedom. ‘I’m going up on Monday.’

‘So you’re going on Monday…’ Sarah took a sip from her wine glass. ‘Are you doing anything tomorrow? There’s an open day at the school to celebrate the centenary. Would you like to come?’

‘There are some things I should do tomorrow.’ As he said this Tom wondered what they were. Sitting in the guesthouse or mooching around the shops? Looking at Sarah he realised he’d have the chance to talk to her again, and see more of Rory, too. He glanced round and saw him talking to Jennie from Singapore, who was dabbing her eyes with the corner of her table napkin.

Sarah leant forward. ‘Please come. I’ve got to go because the group has bought a present for the sixth-form common room and Patsy has persuaded Rory to make some kind of dedication. They’ve built a new school on Duffy Park, but our old school on the prom is still used as an annexe, so you could see our old classrooms too.’

Before he could answer they were interrupted by Patsy’s voice. ‘Now don’t all get too comfortable, because it’s time for dessert. Last person seated has to pay for the drinks.’

There was a sudden good-natured rush of musical chairs and Tom found himself next to Jennie. Beneath the facelift he recognised her. Jennie Howie… An old schoolboy chant echoed in his memory. ‘
Jennie Howie – any way you likie.
’ She was famous at school – lots of his pals had their first experience with her. He shuddered, remembering the last time they’d met, on that most terrible day.

‘So you’re Tom,’ Jennie leaned forward, her eyes glistening. To his relief, Tom saw absolutely no hint of recognition in them. She held out her glass and indicated that he should fill it.

‘You’ve come all the way from South Africa, have you? Are you by yourself?’ Jennie’s Scottish vowels were modulated by a mid-Atlantic twang. She brought her face close to his; Tom drew back from her stretched tanned skin and the high fly-away eyebrows and nodded.

‘So am I. My so-called husband had to stay in Singapore.’ Her head flopped forward and she put a bejewelled hand on his forearm. ‘There’s a woman. Half his age. She’s only interested in his money. These Chinese girls may look very sweet, but they’re crafty.’

Tom nodded, not knowing how to reply. Jennie gave a skeletal smile. ‘So, Tom, we’re both in Scotland on our own. We should spend some time together.’

Tom recoiled from the look of desperate need in Jennie’s face. It reminded him of the weekday widows in Plett, the ones whose husbands flew up to Johannesburg to work during the week. Sometimes one would ask him to do some ‘odd jobs’ around the house, but when he arrived he realised this was just a pretext. He knew he was just another diversion when golf, bridge and lunch became tedious, but he usually just went along with it – it seemed easier that way. But there was no way he was going to say yes to Jennie.

Patsy’s voice cut across his thoughts. ‘Now, I told you I had a treat for you… and here it is.’ She turned round with a flourish. ‘It’s our surprise guest and after-dinner speaker, HJ Kidd, or, as you probably know him better, Captain Kidd! You’ll remember him, as I do, as the most inspirational English teacher, but he’s also a published poet and he’s come along to talk to us tonight.’