Ghost Moon E-Book

Ron Butlin

• Herausgeber: Salt
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

Longlisted: International Dublin Literary Award 2016 Having been thrown out onto the Edinburgh streets by her family, Maggie knows she must fight to survive. Many years later, the struggles she had to endure can be kept a secret no longer. Set mostly in post-war Britain and inspired by a real-life story, Ghost Moon is narrated with humour and compassion. A life-affirming read.

Leseprobe

Ghost Moon

Having been thrown out onto the Edinburgh streets by her family, Maggie knows she must fight to survive. Many years later, the struggles she had to endure can be kept a secret no longer.

Set mostly in post-war Britain and inspired by a real-life story, Ghost Moon is narrated with humour and compassion. A life-affirming read.

Praise for Ron Butlin

“One of the most powerful and compelling pieces to emerge from the pen of this superb writer.” —ALEXANDER McCALL SMITH

“Poetic genius . . . Ron Butlin is the voice of Edinburgh.” —FringeReview.com

“Butlin is the best, the most productive Scottish poet of his generation.” —DOUGLAS DUNN

Ghost Moon

With an international reputation as a prize-winning novelist, Ron Butlin is also the Edinburgh Makar (poet laureate). In 2009 he was made the first ever Honorary Writing fellow (together with Ian Rankin) at Edinburgh University. Much of his poetry, as well as many of his novels and short stories have been broadcast and translated into over ten languages. In addition to his plays for BBC radio and theatre (most recently Sweet Dreams for Oran Mor in Glasgow), he has written five operas, two of them for Scottish Opera.

By the same author

NOVELS

The Sound of My Voice

Night Visits

Belonging

SHORT STORIES

The Tilting Room

Vivaldi and the Number

No More Angels

POETRY

The Wonnerfuu Warld o John Milton

Stretto

Creatures Tamed by Cruelty

The Exquisite Instrument

Ragtime in Unfamiliar Bars

Histories of Desire

Without a Backward Glance

The Magicians of Edinburgh

DRAMA AND OPERA

The Music Box

Blending In

We’ve Been Had

Sweet Dreams

Good Angel / Bad Angel

Markheim

Faraway Pictures

The Perfect Woman

The Money Man

Published by Salt Publishing Ltd

12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX

All rights reserved

Copyright © Ron Butlin, 2014

The right of Ron Butlin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.

Salt Publishing 2014

Created by Salt Publishing Ltd

This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 978 1 84471 998 3 electronic

To my wife, Regi, my sister Pam and my mother Elizabeth

Contents

PART ONE

SUNDAY

1

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SUNDAY

2

SUNDAY

3

PART TWO

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SUNDAY

4

SUNDAY

5

SUNDAY

6

SUNDAY

7

SUNDAY MORNING

8

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PART ONE

SUNDAY

THE BLIZZARD WAS full-on – three hours instead of one with freezing fog, black ice and snow-snow-snow all the way. Penicuik, the Devil’s Beef Tub, then tailgating the same Argos lorry over the Moffat Hills, snailing it behind Mr and Mrs Cautious down the M74.

A one-man avalanche from Edinburgh – you’ve made it. You’re here. That’s what counts.

And so . . .

Time to get psyched up, get focused.

But first things first —

Log on. You’ve been driving for ever, so there’s bound to be something. So many messages, so many puffs of oxygen to keep you breathing. It’s not just you, of course – you can see it in people’s faces when their mobiles ring, the relief that somebody wants them.

C U @ 8 lol J x

The lovely Janice. You text her, confirming . . . and that’s you back on solid ground. Another Sunday, another Mum visit, then a seventies download and the body-contour leather to carry you safely home. Second shave, second shower and into the second-best suit – for Janice, plus all the trimmings.

Takes care of the day, takes care of you.

Your phone snapped shut, you breathe easy once more.

Life’s good.

Well, isn’t it?

Zap-lock the car.

The path’s needing shovelled clear and salted. A good six inches’ worth. Fuck. If only you’d thought to bring your magic wand! But no probs. Fifteen minutes tops will see it —

No.

No. No.

The front door’s locked and her key’s still in the mortice, inside. Jesus. How often have you told her about that key, about not leaving it in the lock? Maybe she’s not been out all weekend? Maybe she’s fallen? Can’t get herself out of the bath?

Which’ll mean breaking down the door.

Not again.

A good loud knock first, loud enough to wake the —

No. Don’t even think of it.

Thumping your fist big time. The snow’s running ice-wet under your collar, the wind’s razor-cutting your face. Stamp-stamp-stamping your feet on the front step to stop them turning into blocks of ice. You spoke on the phone only a few hours ago. She’d sounded fine, looking forward to seeing you.

You’re freezing. Stamp-stamp-stamp. Thump-thump-thump . . .

Ninety years lying crumpled in a heap on the living room floor like she’s —

Don’t even think —

Thank God.

The time it’s taking her to turn the key in the lock . . .

‘Yes?’Her tone of voice, like she’s never met you before. Not opening the door enough to let you in.

‘Mum? It’s Sunday. I’ve come to — ’

‘Your mother? Are you sure you’ve got the right house? I’m Mrs Stewart. Maggie Stewart.’

‘Let me in, Mum. I’m freezing out here. It’s me. Tom.’

‘Tom? You know Tom?’ Her face suddenly all smiles. Opening the door a little more. ‘You’ve some news of him?’

‘News? It’s me, I’m telling you.’

‘But you do know Tom?’

‘Of course I know — ’

‘Then you’d better come in.’

At last. Into the cottage, into her sitting room – and a coal fire blazing in the grate. That’s more like it.

‘Well then, and how is Tom?’ She sits down.

‘But, Mum, can’t you see it’s me?’

‘I was told he’d be well looked after, so I hope he’s fine. Mrs Saunders was most reassuring.’

‘Mrs Saunders? Who’s Mrs — ?’

‘Tom won’t remember her, of course. He was far too young. Between you and me, it’s best he never hears her name. Best for everyone.’

What the hell’s she on about? The melted snow’s dripping into your eyes, down your neck, your back. You want a towel. You want a seat. You want to get warmed up.

‘Don’t you recognise me, Mum? Today’s Sunday. I’ve driven down from Edinburgh same as always to see you — ’

Noticing you’ve glanced across at the tea trolley beside her, laid out with the usual straggled columns of playing cards —

‘Learned to play patience during the war, and still keep it up,’ she tells you. Like you didn’t know already. ‘Learned how to cheat then, too. The way you cheated turned into new rules so the game could go on. It had to, so you’d survive.’

Like she’s talking to a complete stranger.

‘Played it while waiting for the bombs to fall, sitting there in the black-out, waiting and waiting. Hearing the planes, the anti-aircraft guns in Leith . . .’

Best to move things along. ‘I’ll make us some tea.’

Through to the kitchen. Water. Kettle. A towel for the hair.

Tea in the pot. Mugs, milk jug, plate of biscuits. Finish off the drying, set up the tray. Then through to get the afternoon back on course.

‘Here we are, Mum. I found a packet of HobNobs.’

Getting everything back to a normal Sunday. Some tea, some talk. Fix what needs fixed. Clear her path, then hit the road in time to begin the arctic crawl that’ll take —

But . . . her photos? What’s she done with the signed publicity shot of you as Mr Magic? It should be on the mantelpiece. And the lace curtains? What’s she taken them down for? Might make the room seem brighter, but —

‘. . . if the game worked out. We got bombed anyway. I was the only one in the family to survive. Nowhere to stay till the laird in the big house took pity. Lived here ever since. Sixty years and more, would you believe?’

Talking like you’d never lived here yourself, weren’t brought up here. Like she’s never seen you before. Doesn’t even know you.

Can it happen that sudden?

She’s half-rising from her chair as if to greet you for the first time. Such a warm, warm smile – you’ve not seen the like for months. So unexpected, so different from how she usually —

‘You needn’t worry, I’m really pleased to see you. I really am. I always knew you’d come.’ She’s almost in tears. Happy tears.

‘But I always do, Mum! I come every Sunday, don’t I? When we spoke this morning I — ’

‘I knew you’d come.’ She’s taken your hand and begun drawing it slowly down her face so your fingertips rest briefly on her eyes, her cheeks. Her lips.

What the hell’s all this?

‘I’m so very, very happy.’

Next thing, she’s led you across to the window where you stand side by side gazing out at her garden and the countryside beyond, a complete white-out of fields, woods and sky as far as you can see. Now the snow’s easing off there’s a few patches of faint blue, a last handful of tumbling flakes.

Gripping your arm: ‘That’s how I knew.’ Pointing to what at first looks like a smudged fingerprint on the glass, a daytime moon: ‘Everything’ll be fine now, won’t it, now you’re here?’

And next moment she’s touching your face, your eyes, cheeks, lips. She smiles again, ‘And you are here, aren’t you?’ She’s so happy, happier than you’ve seen her in a very long time.

Quite unexpectedly, she steps up close and kisses you on the mouth.

‘Mum?’

At the same moment she’s put her arms round you, pressing herself against you: ‘I’m so pleased, so — ’

‘Stop, Mum! What’re you doing?’ You pull away from her. ‘No. No. You can’t — ’

‘Michael! Michael, please — ’

Michael? Your father? She thinks that you’re — ?

You take a step back. As gently as possible, holding her at arms’ length.

‘It’s me, Mum. Tom. It’s Sunday, same as always, and I’ve come to see you.’ Does she understand what you’re saying? ‘Mum? Don’t you know who I — ?’

The utter desperation in her face now, the wretchedness.

Then her anger, sudden and out of nowhere: ‘Yes, I know who you are. I know all about you.’

Her anger, then utter fury.

‘Get out of my house!’ Screaming now, almost losing her balance as she staggers a couple of steps. ‘Get out! Get out!’ Her arm waving wildly towards the door. ‘out!’

You can see what’s going to happen next. About to fall, she’s clutched at the trolley . . .

Which tips over, scattering playing cards everywhere . . .

You rush over and manage to catch her just in time.

Saving the day.

Nice one. That’s you – a safe pair of hands. Mr Magic, right enough. Forget the no-kids and marriage number three flushed down the pan with no regrets, you’re all she’s got. She knows it, too. Deep down. She must do. She loves you.

And it’s only a moment later – when you’re helping your mother back to her seat, your arm holding her and keeping her steady – that she turns and spits in your face.

1

LISTEN, MAGGIE: AS the years continue to slip from your grasp, you can see your younger self in front of you – thirty-year-old Maggie Davies as was, walking the length of the ship and back again, alone, past oil drums and coils of rusted chain, past the covered lifeboat creaking on its ropes.

No one else on deck, not a breath of wind, and the June sun failing to break through the half-mist, half-drizzle cloud that hangs above the dull heaviness of sea.

Up and down, up and down the wet boards, she goes . . .

Apart from the muffled chug-chug-chug of the ship’s engine somewhere below, the only sounds are from seagulls screeching overhead and the propellers churning up the sullen stillness of the Minch. Maggie is glad of her woollen beret, her gabardine and scarf – these are all the outdoor clothes she’s brought. The trip is not a holiday.

Lying here in the near-darkness of your bedroom in the care home, adrift between past and present, you’re being carried to and fro by currents that run deeper than any measured time, currents that crisscross days, years and decades alike. Your days and years – until once again you’re on that small ferry sailing from Mallaig to Stornoway. The salt-sea dampness in the air washes over you, the smell of paraffin almost turning your stomach whenever you pass too near the stern . . .

How clearly it’s all coming back to you now, more vivid than any long-ago photograph could ever be. Mumble-singing to yourself: ‘Speed bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing . . .’

Straining to open your eyes, desperate for the reassurance of the familiar chest of drawers, the wardrobe and easy chair you’ve brought with you from your cottage to Rosehaven House, your toiletries arranged on the glass shelf above the wash hand basin, the tea trolley with its half-finished game of patience waiting for you, the portable DAB radio beside your bed . . .

Sixty years foreshortened at a glance – like when you’d stood at your living-room window that morning, gazing out across the countryside under snow . . . yesterday, was it? Last week? Last month? No matter. Overnight, a handful of precious stones had been scattered across the pane where they’d frozen solid – an arrested cascade of light. Too cold to go out, the side roads probably blocked, and the pearl-sheen sky hard as a sheet of ice. The path up to the big house would be impossible for walking. Across on Keir’s Hill, you could see some of the village children stumbling about in the snow, trying to clear a run for their sledges —

That’s when you saw it, high above the village, and remembered the name you’d made up all those years ago.

A ghost moon.

So comforting it seemed to you then, as you’d paused for a moment at your cottage window, and so familiar. You traced its outline, hardly daring to press your fingertip on the chill glass, afraid the sliver of unexpected light might melt to nothing at your touch.

But there’s no need to be afraid any more, Maggie, and no need to pretend. When the past returns, it is already an act of pretence. There’s no shame in this – for how else could anyone bear to go on living?

Close your eyes and watch as Maggie Davies continues to pace the wooden deck. See, she’s come to a sudden stop to stare down into the cold waters of the Outer Hebrides. A solitary woman, a mere silhouette pressed by chance against a backdrop of mist and sunless water . . .

The bedsheet feels slightly tight across your chest where it’s been tucked in. They wanted you to be comfortable is all, and feel secure. The worst is over, Maggie, and the best just about to begin. Really.

Though it’s still daylight outside, the woman you call Boss Beryl has already been in to draw your curtains. She pulled the door shut behind her when she left, without a word.

Close your eyes. Something wonderful is about to happen.

Listen —

WHEN THE FERRY docked in Stornoway, Maggie struggled down the swaying wooden gangway, her heavy suitcase bumping against her legs. No Waverley Station this with its grime and grit, no soot-blackened walls and layers of soiled daylight seeping down through the trapped, filthy air – the ship’s arrival had been perfectly timed for her to see the mist being burned away to reveal a Hebridean sky so vast, so generous and light-filled it looked newly made. There was the clean smell of sea and of heaped cod, mackerel and salmon packed in ice – the morning’s catch being winched ashore to be stacked on the quayside next to the creels of live lobster and crab. But as for the stench of gutted fish wafting in the hot sun – she had to move further away, and quickly.

The white-bricked harbour master’s office was so spick-and-span it must surely have been built only the day before, ready to greet her. Two men who might have been father and son were lifting fish boxes into a van. Seagulls celebrated her safe arrival by strutting up and down the quayside, screeching in excitement, and rising into the air every few seconds only to settle again a yard or so nearer to the dripping crates. The older man looked up and addressed her in Gaelic. Maggie shook her head.

‘Grand day, missus!’ His unfamiliar cadence, its singsong gentleness, made the commonplace greeting sound like an ancient psalm of welcome.

‘Really beautiful!’ She smiled back at him.

What energy surged through her! What hope! Coming here had cost her more than she could afford, but what choice had she? Nowhere to stay in Edinburgh, no job and her small savings soon to run out. Nobody knew her here, not really. The Isle of Lewis was a foreign country near enough, a new beginning surely.

By the time she’d found out what bus she should take, it had already departed and the next wasn’t due to leave until the following morning.