The Things We Do to Our Friends(55)

“Eight steps round and back,” came the instruction from the man at the front (who I now know is the caller), which meant nothing to me, but our little circle spun slowly and I saw the other dancers in our group.

I saw him.

His expression morphed. It went from a kind of friendly recognition to shock, and all the color drained away in his face. Of course, I recognized him too, it had only been a few months.

Tom Landore, looking well-dressed. Maybe a little gaunter than before—I saw that when I got closer.

He was about to say something to me but I whipped away from him, from the whole circle, and he didn’t try to stop me in the chaos of that night, a chaos that I hardly noticed until I felt the judgment of his gaze.

The violins screeched. Tens of circles of dancers in a haze of tartan. It looked perfectly structured but, as I was weaving through them, their faces were bright and too wide. It was impossible not to picture them all careening into each other.

I ran from him.

And then Ava and Tabitha were at my side, steering me outside.

The whole thing was all too much. When the cold air hit my face the duck rose up, sweet and rich, the kaleidoscope of colors and the sugary coating on the meat. I was sick on the sidewalk. No time to get to a bin.

I was purged. The nausea was gone, and Tabitha had her arm around my shoulders.

“Are you okay?” she asked me, concerned.

I went to speak, to mention Tom Landore, but she interrupted. “You seem better now, probably just that food. It was so rich. That was boring,” she added. “I have another idea.”

No mention of him.



* * *



—

We must have walked for a mile or so, down busy streets. Tabitha led us to somewhere I’d mentioned before to her, somewhere I liked, and I was touched that she’d remembered.

The graveyard—Greyfriars Kirkyard.

I enjoyed the cemeteries of Edinburgh in general back then. Quiet and well kept. Graves dotted around like observers, just about visible in the dark.

Tabitha begged us to go into the mausoleum, but Ava and I declined.

“I can see why you like it here,” Tabitha said to me. She handed me a hip flask and we stopped for a moment, in the middle where the path wound and all you could see in front, behind, and either side were neat lines of gravestones. I could still hear the faint murmur of traffic from the city.

The moon that night was round and bright, and the smell of dirt was a bit stronger than I would have expected, like a freshly dug grave, even though I didn’t really think people were buried there anymore. The ceilidh was almost forgotten and the Chinese meal seemed like days ago.

I took a sip of Tabitha’s whisky; it tasted like barbecued disinfectant, and it made my head spin. I probably didn’t need anything more to drink; I was already drunk by then, which wasn’t like me.

The two of them stood there, their shadows cast on the path in front of them. Ava was a sharp silhouette, looming.

“I think I should take a picture of you,” I said to them.

“Do you?” said Tabitha.

“You look like witches,” I said.

Tabitha squealed. Of course, it was the best thing I could have said. She came over and grabbed my hand. “Oh, I fucking adore it. Ava and I are ever so wicked,” she sang. “If we’re witches, of course, there are three of us.” She pulled me into a circle.

“Three witches,” I repeated.

“And poor Imogen is our pussycat,” she squawked, her hands on her knees now, laughing at herself. If anyone had seen us, we would have looked mad, or at least disrespectful, because she grabbed us both again and we spun in the graveyard, dancing with the tombstones set around us—a captive, coffined audience.

“This is our night,” Tabitha crowed. “I can feel it. Can you? What am I, Clare, say it again!”

I could feel something and maybe that’s why it happened.

I’m not sure what it was, but I couldn’t bring to mind the English word. Even though I’d just said it, something in my brain wouldn’t click. It had never happened before that I could remember, and I don’t think it’s occurred since. The word in English just wouldn’t come to me. A block—completely irretrievable.

I said it before I could even properly think it through: “Une sorcière.”

Tabitha looked at me curiously.

“I think I heard something,” Ava announced abruptly. “We should leave, there are wardens around here.”

In my head I thanked Ava for saving me in that moment, shot her a grateful look. Our shared agreement that we didn’t talk about my past—they kept my secret for me because they were my friends.





45


That was the first and only time I ever went to a ceilidh. Now, years later, my husband attends them regularly. Weddings in particular tend to feature them in Scotland.

I choose not to go.

The whole thing felt quite ridiculous at the time: the formality, the sense of misplaced ceremony in a made-up dance, the violence of being flung into the arms of various strangers against the backdrop of awful string music—all in the name of fun. It has only become more repellent to me with age.

I’ve often thought of that night in the years that have passed. I’d always been so scared that one of the men would see us later, but when it actually happened, it hadn’t been too terrible, apart from being sick of course, which nobody saw anyway. It was easy to slip away and pretend it had never happened. I was proud of myself at the time for reacting so well.