Chapters (43)
- Pronunciation
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Acknowledgments
“She’s been away in Glasgow, sitting exams for university entrance.” Fionnlagh registered Fin’s surprise. “She didn’t tell you?”
“We haven’t been in touch.”
“Oh.” His eyes wandered back down the hill towards the Macinnes bungalow. “I always thought that you and Mum might get back together again.”
Fin’s smile was touched by sadness, and perhaps regret. “Marsaili and I couldn’t make it work all those years ago, Fionnlagh. Why should it be any different now?” He hesitated. “Is she still in Glasgow?”
“No. She came back early. Flew in this morning. A family emergency.”
Seven
Seven
I can hear them talking in the hall as if I’m deaf. As if I wasn’t here. As if I was dead. Sometimes I wish I was.
I don’t know why I should have to wear my coat. It’s warm in the house. No need for a coat. Or my hat. My lovely soft old cap. Kept my head warm for years.
I’m never sure these days when I come through from the bedroom which Mary I will find. Sometimes it’s the good Mary. Sometimes it’s the bad Mary. They look the same, but they are different people. It was the bad Mary this morning. Raising her voice, telling me what to do, making me put on my coat. Sitting here. Waiting. For what?
And what’s in the case? She said it was my stuff. But what did she mean? If she means my clothes, I have a wardrobe full of them, and they would never fit in there. Or all my papers. Accounts going back years. Photographs. Everything. It certainly wouldn’t all go in a case this size. Maybe we’re going on holiday.
I hear Marsaili’s voice now. “Mum, that’s just not fair.”
Mum. Of course. I keep forgetting that Mary’s her mum.
And Mary says, speaking English of course, because she never did learn the Gaelic, “Fair? You think it’s fair on me, Marsaili? I’m seventy years old. I can’t take it any more. At least twice a week he soils the bed. If he goes out on his own he gets lost. Like a damned dog. He’s just not to be trusted. Neighbours bring him back. If I say white he says black, if I say black he says white.”
I never say black or white. What is she talking about? It’s the bad Mary talking.
“Mum, you’ve been married forty-eight years.” Marsaili’s voice again.