The Skylark's Secret(5)
I pull up in front of the shop and groan, catching a whiff of a decidedly less-than-fresh Daisy, who’s now screaming at the top of her lungs. ‘Sorry, precious girl, you’ll just have to wait a few more minutes till we get to the house.’
I balance her on my hip, sending up a quick prayer that the shop will be deserted. I push the door open and the bell pings, although it’s drowned out by Daisy who is doing a much better job of announcing our entrance. My prayer has obviously gone unheard, as they mostly do. Several heads turn.
‘Och, Lexie Gordon, it’s yourself. Come home to Ardtuath at long last!’
Daisy’s wails have ceased for a moment as she takes a gulp of air and so the greeting is loud in the sudden silence that has fallen, reminding me that Alexandra Gordon, star of the musical stage, whose name was once printed on West End show bills, is long gone: here, I am – and always will be – Lexie.
‘We were just saying that we couldn’t recognise the car, thinking it must be some incomer. And look at this bonny wee lass, the pride and joy of her granny – may her dear, departed soul rest in peace.’ Bridie Macdonald bustles towards us, her flow of words washing over me like a wave. When she finally pauses to draw breath, she recoils slightly, nostrils aquiver, as the rich smell that has escaped from Daisy’s nappy reaches her.
‘Hello, Bridie.’ I nod a vague greeting towards the others, too, a blur of faces assembled by the till, too harassed to be able to single out individuals among the group. I juggle Daisy on to my shoulder, reach for a basket and begin to trawl the cramped aisles of the shop for what I need. Bridie follows close on my heels, asking a stream of questions and clucking distractions at Daisy who’s started screaming again.
I answer as civilly as I can manage. ‘Yes, I’m back. Yes, it has been far too long. Yes, I’m afraid she’s not very presentable after a day in the car. I’ve just stopped in to pick up these few bits and pieces, and then I’ll get her up to the cottage and sort her out.’
I chuck in some tea and biscuits, my progress hampered by Daisy’s squirming, Bridie’s questions and a cluster of shrimping nets on bamboo poles that I knock over as I try to manoeuvre past them to reach for a pint of milk.
‘No, I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying. No, I’ve no particular plans at the moment. No, I’m still not singing again. Yes, I’ll need to do some clearing out of Mum’s things. That’s a very kind offer, but I’ll probably be able to manage on my own, thank you. No, I’ve no particular plans to sell Keeper’s Cottage just yet.’
Bordering on desperation now, I throw a few more items into my basket – four shrivelled carrots and a tattered leek, and then a bottle of tonic water. I search for a lemon but there are none, save the ones made of bright yellow squeezy plastic. There are no potatoes left either, so I grab a packet of Smash and, because I am already beyond cooking anything from scratch, a tinned steak and kidney pie.
Finally, I reach the till. The assembled group there has been in no hurry to move on, happy to let Bridie ask her questions and to listen with interest to my answers. Their judgement hovers above my head like a sparrowhawk intent on its prey. I set the basket down and adjust my grip on my soggy, smelly daughter, thankful that she’s fallen quiet at last. When I glance over my shoulder I realise that her silence is a result of the chocolate buttons Bridie is feeding her, which Daisy is dribbling down the back of my suede jacket. I bought this jacket in another lifetime, when I had money and a lifestyle that went with such luxurious garb. Now I wear it because I can’t afford to buy anything more practical. I’m aware how it must look, though. Like its owner, this jacket doesn’t belong here.
I smile at Morag behind the till. The group of women watch, assessing each item as Morag rings it up and then packs it into a cardboard box, emblazoned with a logo, which reminds me . . . ‘Oh, and a bottle of gin, too, please.’
She reaches one down from the shelf behind her and I carefully avoid catching the eye of any of the other women. Their unspoken judgement hangs even more heavily in the air. I pay and then look up at last with a defiant smile at the assembled company.
‘Hello, Lexie,’ says a blonde-haired young woman with a pushchair, from which an immaculately dressed toddler, just a little older than Daisy, watches the scene with wide blue eyes. It takes me a second to recognise her.
‘Elspeth? Hi. It’s good to see you. And you have a wee one too now?’
We were friends at school, but lost touch when I moved south.
She nods. But makes no further attempt at conversation.
Awkwardly, I bend to gather up the cardboard box of groceries, balancing the weight of Daisy in my other arm. She smiles beatifically at Bridie, Morag, Elspeth and the other womenfolk, her cheeks flushed, her eyelashes spiky with her recent tears.
‘Here,’ says Bridie, ‘let me give you a hand with that.’
She tries to take the box of groceries from me, but I shake my head. If she sees that my car is packed to the roof with my worldly belongings it’ll be a dead giveaway: as well as clearly doing a very poor job of raising my fatherless child, she’ll know that I have slunk back to Ardtuath, homeless, my tail between my legs, my career in tatters, several months too late to care for my poor abandoned mother in the last days of her life.
‘Don’t worry, I can manage. If you could maybe just open the door for me? Thanks.’