500 Miles from You (Scottish Bookshop #3)(57)
“A nurses’ home. I’m so proud,” said Bridie dryly. Lissa caught sight of a photo of a handsome man wearing a smart army uniform, including an elaborate hat that came over his chin, with a younger Bridie and a stooped man on either side.
“Is this him?”
“Naw,” said Bridie, her voice softening a little. “That’s Rawdon.”
“He’s in the army?”
“So was Cormac once. Now he’s busy living in a nurses’ home, apparently.” Her voice sounded raw.
“He didn’t like it?” ventured Lissa.
“Not everyone can cut the army,” said Bridie sharply. “He’s just like his father. Anyway. Here it is. It’s a broken wrist. Well done. Can you tick your ninety-five file boxes, give me some nonsense survey, and be on your way, lass? I’m busy.”
She didn’t, to Lissa’s practiced eye, look remotely busy. The house was immaculate.
“Is anyone helping you out?”
“Aye,” said Bridie. “This is Kirrinfief. We help each other oot. Dinnae worry about me. I ken you English types don’t really believe in friendship, but we do round these parts.”
“All right,” said Lissa, knowing when she was beaten. “Okay, I’ll tell Cormac you’re fine.”
Bridie sniffed. “Well, make sure you don’t interrupt him being too busy in the nurses’ home, filling in all those forms.”
Lissa blinked. She glanced out the window into Bridie’s spectacular garden, where a pair of starlings was pecking on the lawn. Then she got up.
“There is nothing wrong with you, you’re healing fine,” she said. “Do you want me to tell Cormac I’m popping in every day and then not come?”
Bridie smiled. “That would be perfect.”
IN A FUNNY way, although she had learned nothing about him, Lissa was actually quite happy. It was easy, when you were having a difficult time, to think of everyone else’s lives as absolutely perfect and straightforward. This was why coming off Instagram had been, on balance, a good idea. So although she felt slightly sorry for Cormac having a grumpy mother—her own mother had pretty high expectations of her too—she also felt a little comforted.
She’s fine, Lissa typed. Big army fan.
She is, said Cormac, but nothing more.
Were you in the army for long?
Eight years.
That is a long time! Why did you leave?
Why did you leave A&E?
How did you know I was in A&E?
Kim-Ange told me.
That’s very unfair.
You went to my mum’s house!
You asked me to!
This was straying into the realm of a very personal conversation, and Lissa was worried, suddenly, that she’d gone too far. She was, after all, sitting in his house. It wasn’t really fair; it was just a professional swap.
How were the Lindells? she typed suddenly, anxious not to offend him.
Cormac mentally groaned, although at least he was on safer ground. He did feel uncomfortable, wondering what his mother had told Lissa, what she told everyone else in the village. She didn’t know what he’d seen, what it was like out there. Neither did Lissa, neither did Emer. Nobody did.
He wrenched his memory back to his unpleasant afternoon.
It was horrible to see.
I know.
THE ODDEST THING had been that Cormac had just been thinking how surprised he was by the city, how it wasn’t at all what he’d expected. From the papers you’d think it was all pollution and crime, but instead he found himself daily impressed by the layers of history, from the Roman walls in the City to the mudlarks down by the Thames, searching for ancient coins and treasure from the two thousand years’ worth of boats that had traveled up and down the river. And the contrasts, like where he was now, with the shining modern glass towers and the beautifully preserved old Georgian buildings of weavers and artisans past. Walking to his next appointment, he had passed an ancient building where they made up coats of arms and that housed the great merchant companies of the cities, then, being characteristically early, he had taken a detour to see the extraordinary inns of Chancery, with their fountains and gardens, mysterious shops selling wigs and pens, and signposts to the “Yeoman’s Office.” Cormac had never been academic, but even he was quietly taken aback to walk past the redbrick Middle Temple Hall and read a small plaque modestly mentioning that Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night was first performed within its walls; he had then passed the famous circular church of the Knights Templars, with its gray stone effigies laid to rest.
It was a completely different world from any he had ever known; he felt there was a surprise behind every corner in London, a sense too of the huge weight of history, commerce, and grandeur that made it easy—perhaps even necessary—for Westminster to send a bunch of young lads from small towns far, far away to fight and die in a distant desert.
He was in a thoughtful frame of mind when he reached his next appointment, and what happened next did not change it.
The house, some distance away, was located down a quiet residential street, tucked away just across from the river, where the great steel towers met the Georgian byways of Shoreditch. It had big, flat-fronted windows, with brightly polished panes of ancient glass in freshly painted pale green frames, and neat potted plants of lavender and small orange trees. It was a beautiful house, immaculately restored, and Cormac could only wonder about the amount of money invested in such a project. He’d double-checked the address, but no, it was here all right.