The Sister Surprise Page 17

  ‘I think I get it,’ I say as Ross slots a dish into the rack on the draining board.

  ‘What do you think? Too douchey? The ramblings of a mad man?’

  ‘No, I think it’s good.’

  ‘You do? Fantastic. Hold on.’ He wipes his hands on a polka-dot tea towel and ducks through an archway, returning with a notepad and a pencil tucked behind his ear. ‘That solves the problem of Sunday’s sermon.’

  Ross scribbles on a scrap of paper, pauses, and bounces the pencil against his chin as he scans down the page. My palms feel sweaty, which may have something to do with the overwhelming urge I have to be a rubber on the end of that pencil.

  ‘I’ve got to find a way to work in something about the oil rigs, seeing as it’s October. But I’ll come back to that,’ says Ross, pushing the notebook into the middle of the table.

  ‘I think Kian’s and Moira’s dads worked on the rigs. Is it an anniversary or something?’

  ‘Yeah, but not the kind of one you celebrate with balloons. It’s probably best if I show you.’

  Chapter 22

  Ross unlocks the door with an old-fashioned brass key and pushes it open. A cold draught sweeps through the gap, the smell of incense lingering in the air. He flicks the light switches and a row of fluorescent bulbs putter into life, illuminating two dozen pews. A number of display boards line the walls, the most colourful of which is decorated with small, cut-out hands outlined in felt tip and made to look like tropical turkeys.

  ‘It looks a bit fusty, but it’s the records that are interesting.’ Ross walks down the aisle. I let him linger at the front before following myself, if only to indulge in a silent fantasy about our fictional wedding day. ‘Hang on, let me take these back whilst I’m here.’

  Ross picks up a small stack of books and tucks them under his arm, his shoes squeaking on the marble that paves a runway past the altar. I walk to the far side of the pews and scan the inscriptions along the wall. Lots of Alberts and Margarets, a couple of Lairds and a few old ministers are listed as ‘returned to their maker’. What you’d expect. Beneath a dusty St Andrew’s flag, a different memorial draws my eye; engraved words precisely set in stone too clean for it to have been there long. An array of flowers in cellophane wrappers are slumped in various stages of decomposition on the flagstones beneath. I step back and read:

  Dedicated to the sixty-seven men who lost their lives in the offshore oil rig fire of 2001. Weary hours are past, for now you are at peace.

  I scan the dates again. If our father was on the rig at the time, there’s a strong chance he was amongst those lost. There’s a crinkle of plastic as I nudge one of the bouquets with my foot. A small card slips out, a watercolour illustration of lilies printed on the front. As I bend down to read it, there are footsteps behind me.

  ‘Ah, you’ve found it,’ says Ross. ‘The Brodmore rig was just offshore. I heard about the explosion growing up, but it was abstract, far off. A fire in the middle of the sea.’

  ‘Why aren’t there any names on it?’ I ask. As macabre as it is, I want to see his name there in the stone. At least it would be something solid, something to hinge my understanding on.

  ‘They didn’t find everybody.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Have you seen the rig? What’s left of it?’

  ‘Yeah, a couple of times when it’s been clear across the harbour.’ I think back to the farmers’ market. Moira and I had our stall a few strides up from the concrete slipway that tipped down to the firth, beyond which the twisted oil rig skeleton sat claw-like on the horizon.

  ‘That’s it. It was all over the news. I didn’t make the connection until I got here. Kilroch is the closest village to the rigs, so most of the men who died either lived here or somewhere just beyond. That’s a lot of families who woke up without a dad, husband, uncle, you know? It’s like a chunk of masonry was lobbed in the sea; there are effects today that ripple back to what happened then.’

  He points at the memorial. ‘Unemployment, empty houses, women who worked two or three jobs to plug the gap. This village is run by matriarchs, but it’s not happened without friction. It’s messy. Complicated.’

  My hands feel clammy, but it’s not because I’m warm. I can see my breath; the church is so bloody cold. ‘What was complicated?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, maybe it’s a sign of the times; people’s attitude to the environment is different nowadays. The explosion came because of a resource that a lot of people deem unethical, so sympathy isn’t always close at hand. Oil disasters are sad, but not as sad as bush fires, or drought.’

  ‘Yeah, but that doesn’t change anything for the families. If you’ve lost someone, you’ve lost someone.’

  ‘Oh, aye, I’m with you. The problem is, there was an inquiry after it happened that uncovered a lot of cut corners by the oil company. Then there was an animal rights group who occupied the rig sometime in the early Nineties, which slowed the whole project down. Something to do with dolphins, I think? Thing is, it meant they rushed to get the oil pumping again and didn’t detect a leak. Thus …’ Ross motions to the memorial. ‘No one was able to prove the correlation, but I don’t think it mattered. Grief isn’t known for being rational.’

  I nod, my shoulders tight.

  ‘I’ve been piecing together a bit of local history since I’ve been here. Backdated newspapers and the like. Here, come and have a look.’

  I follow Ross to a small side room filled with sagging cardboard boxes, a heavy-set table in the middle. He’s chatting away, but I can’t concentrate on the words. He said dolphins. Dolphins. Like Mum’s flotilla of figurines that line the French dresser back home. That’s how she met my dad; it’s got to be.

  ‘Are you all right?’ says Ross.

  ‘Yeah, fine.’ I try to smile, but I can’t stop my nostrils from flaring and can only imagine how psychotic this looks.

  ‘Here it is,’ says Ross, taking a stack of paper from a shoebox.

  I lower my gaze to the table, where a neat pile of newspaper clippings and reproduced photographs are spread across a felt crafting board. One image dominates the others. In it, a torrent of black smoke billows from flames so hot that a crane has melted, bending it towards the sea like the arched neck of a diplodocus.

  ‘Ah, here it is.’

  Ross hands me a newspaper clipping, the corner dog-eared and torn. I push it back, revealing a headline that reads:

  WE’LL GO DOWN FIGHTING’: THE EARTH MAMAS’ DEFIANT CALL AS RIG HITS THIRD WEEK OF OCCUPATION

  Beneath, a half-page photograph shows three women standing with fists raised behind a handstitched banner strung between the rig’s railings. Their faces are cast in rebellion, hair whipped wild in the wind, mouths stretched in mid-chant as dark clouds pool behind them. In the middle, wearing a crocheted cardigan that I recognise from its garish floral pattern, is Mum.

  ‘Pretty ballsy, eh?’ says Ross, flicking the picture. ‘The police removed them a week after this was in the paper, but I’m surprised they lasted that long. I can’t think it was too amicable, sharing 600 square feet with the skeleton crew.’

  He doesn’t know the half of it. I can think of one particular activity that may have whiled away the time.

  ‘Whatever The Earth Mamas did, it worked. Although I don’t expect they got a hero’s return from the locals when the police dinghy pulled ashore,’ says Ross.

  ‘No, I doubt that.’

  I look at the picture until Mum’s outline appears in bloom on the back of my eyelids. I can’t nest this image of her with the one I left in Dulwich. She’s always been a bit of an eco-warrior, but I thought it was more the separate-your-recycling and don’t-buy-apples-from-New-Zealand kind, not chain-myself-to-a-lump-of-metal-in-the-North-Sea-and-get-pulled-off-in-a-police-boat kind.

  Even though the oil company is to blame, I can see why The Earth Mamas were the perfect scapegoat for the hardship that crept in after they left. At the same time, I can’t help but feel a tickle of pride in my c
hest. Mum. You total, fucking badass!

  ‘What’s up?’ asks Ross, noticing the grin I’m struggling to push back down.

  ‘Nothing, it’s … I just remembered something funny.’

  I pretend to flick through the clippings, but I can’t focus on much else. This begs the question … How could Mum have ever been satisfied discussing crudités and Easter bonnet parades with the PTA after stepping down from this?

  ‘Hey, Ross. I should be getting back. Kian’s usually out in the yard for morning rounds about … five hours from now.’

  ‘Do you want me to walk you?’ asks Ross, sliding his hands in his pockets.

  ‘It’s three miles from here to Braehead Farm.’

  ‘I know,’ he says, taking half a step closer.

  ‘I’ve got John’s number. Moira said he does a taxi service, but I swear Kian claimed he was a mechanic, so it’s a bit confusing.’

  ‘He’s a train guard too, but only from Thursday to Sunday.’

  I laugh and follow Ross back into the church. He pauses at the door and I bounce off his shoulder, his arm reaching out to steady me as I stumble against a pew.

  With his hand at my waist, I sway on the spot like I’m finding my sea legs. In a way, I am.

  My neck aches from looking up at him as the space shrinks between us. I worry that Ross can hear my heartbeat, thumping like music through a thick wall. I can’t kiss a priest. Can I? But what if the priest is the one initiating the kiss?

  Ross grazes my collarbone. I shiver. He searches my face, as though nervous that I’m about to duck under his arm and bolt out the door. I trace an outline down his shirt buttons, poised like a match over striking paper.

  The sound of a latch and the accompanying door clunk ping-pongs from one side of the church to the other. Ross and I whip around, looking over our shoulders to a hooded figure who pauses by a candle stand. The lit votives flicker in a draught.

  ‘Jacqui! How are you?’ Ross flicks into a smile that’s more appropriately public facing and takes a few short strides towards her. Jacqui pulls her hood down, her cheeks ruddy and pink like they’ve been scrubbed with a potato brush. In the crook of her arm she holds a bunch of lilies and purple freesias.

  ‘Evening, Minister,’ she says, smiling, an expression I’ve not seen before. ‘I’m glad I caught you before you locked up.’

  ‘Ah, I’m not as prompt as Reverend Dingwall.’

  ‘Quite. I’ve come to …’ She looks down at the flowers and across to the memorial, at which point our eyes meet and my stomach freezes into a little cube.

  ‘Ava.’ She gives me the slightest of nods.

  ‘We were just talking about the rig tragedy,’ says Ross, motioning towards me. He’s articulating sympathy with every part of his body, right down to the head tilt and slightly furrowed brow.

  ‘You were? Good,’ she says, turning towards me. ‘Folk should know what something like that does to a place like this.’ The look she gives me is like a taut wire between us. I break away first, sidestepping towards the connecting door, my arms covered in goosebumps.

  ‘Ross, I better call John. Thanks for the dinner, it really was nice.’

  ‘Right, right. Let me show you out—’

  ‘No need, I’ll just grab my bits and … yeah.’

  I pull open the heavy door that leads into the rectory and stand on the other side, my lungs heavy like I’ve been wading waist-deep in the firth.

  Chapter 23

  I turn over a postcard that Rory has sent me, the purple gel pen blotchy on the back. Underneath a rough sketch of a human body, Rory has drawn three objects with the question:

  For ten points, which of these did I remove from a patient’s rectum today? A = a toy car, B = a small string of Christmas lights, C = three rocks of crack cocaine. I’ll give you a clue. THERE IS MORE THAN ONE RIGHT ANSWER. PS nothing to report from Mumland apart from the standard consumption of Malbec. Peace out, lassie! Rory xoxo

  As the kettle builds to a shrill whistle, the back door opens and Moira steps inside, rubbing her bare arms. Her fringe sticks up in a number of directions that she attempts to smooth by licking her palms and running them over her crown.

  ‘All right?’ she says, her cheeks ruddy. ‘Sun!’ Moira points outside with a broad grin pinned to her face.

  ‘Yeah! Good, isn’t it,’ I say, taking down another mug for her.

  ‘Practically bikini weather. You have to soak up the vitamin D whilst you can up here.’ She unties her jumper from around her waist, pulls it over her head, and gestures to the table. ‘What happened?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, tucking Rory’s postcard under my laptop.

  ‘The table. I can’t remember the last time I saw the surface.’

  She looks over my shoulder at the open folders, skim-reading the sticky notes tacked to statements and invoices that I’ve yet to pull figures from.

  ‘How bad is it?’ she asks.

  ‘Well, it’s hard to say. I don’t know enough about the financial side of things, you know? I’m trying to get the farm administration digitised, but I’m struggling to input the numbers in a way that looks … viable.’

  ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, really bad,’ I admit.

  Moira grimaces, eyes wide. ‘I did suspect so, but Kian gets defensive about it whenever I bring it up. It’s not like I don’t know what I’m talking about. My family have never owned farmland, but I must visit eight or nine every month with the vet stuff, so I know what goes into it.’

  ‘His ideas aren’t all bad,’ I say, zipping my fleece to the chin.

  ‘Oh, I know, but he jumps from one to the other without seeing the first one through. I wouldn’t say this to him, but it’s like trying to shoot a rabbit with a shotgun. If something hits, it’ll be luck, not aim.’

  I sit back in my chair and tap my fingers on the table.

  ‘I’ve been trying to think of a way to make it work for him,’ I say. ‘There are university grants he can apply for, agricultural courses that need farms to partner with, but the applications are properly tedious.’

  I gesture to the plastic sleeves in front of me, each stuffed with records so dense and complicated that it takes a strong coffee to read a page without yawning.

  ‘If we make sense of all this, he could apply for one. They want working land and modern farmers who are open to new concepts. That’s Kian, right?’

  ‘Oh, aye. I don’t think it’s a bad idea at all. Ingenuity runs in the Brody family. Before his granddad got kicked in the head by that bull, he used to ride a horse to the pub. He’d tie it up outside and get a leg up from Mad Steve after last orders, then sleep all the way home because the horse knew the route without him having to do anything. Pretty ingenious, right?’

  ‘Yeah. Cheaper than a taxi, for sure.’

  ‘Speaking of which, I’ve sorted us a ride back from the ceilidh next week. John’s got the night off, but my Uncle Mike can drop us back because he’s on dialysis so can’t drink anyway. If it goes tits up with Kian, I’m going to get hammered and there’s no way I’m walking home across the fields.’

  ‘Positive mental attitude, Moira. There’s every chance it could be the origin story you tell your kids in the future.’

  ‘Oh me, no pressure. Speaking of which … dinner with The Rev! How was it? Do you have any reason to say extra Hail Marys?’ says Moira, quirking an eyebrow.

  ‘Ha! Nothing quite like that, although there were some prolonged bouts of eye contact that felt pretty raunchy, by Jane Austen standards, anyway.’

  ‘Good vibes, on the whole?’

  ‘Maybe? God, it’s hard to say. It got really deep really quickly. Intimate, but not physically. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Like your brains were making out with each other?’ says Moira.

  I blink, a little disturbed by the image.

  ‘I know it’s lame, but I wouldn’t expect to get off with someone on a first date, let alone a date with a priest.
That would be weird, right? If he was snogging parishioners on the regular.’

  ‘The last woman he had round for dinner was Teresa and she still wears a girdle, so I’m going to say that’s unlikely.’

  ‘I guess I don’t know how to read him. It could be that he’s just being nice to me and I’m interpreting it wrong.’

  ‘Now you understand my predicament with Kian.’ She claps her hands to her mouth. ‘He’s not here, is he?’

  ‘No, he’s down at the pigs.’

  ‘Good. Things are not going in the right direction there. He popped round yesterday, right? I came through to fill up my hot water bottle and he was stood in the porch talking to Mum, then when he saw me, he said he had to leave because Big Bertha was having phantom contractions.’

  I laugh, but Moira looks so disheartened that I want to scoop her up and tuck her in my pocket.

  ‘I’m worried he’s going to throw his hands up and leave Kilroch again,’ she says in a quiet voice.

  ‘No way – no negativity here! He’s probably just preoccupied. Keep at it. I know we haven’t known each other long, but if he doesn’t sit up and notice how bloody cool you are, he isn’t worth the effort, quite frankly.’

  Moira’s grin pushes dimples into her cheeks.

  ‘Stop now, or you’ll give me a big head.’

  I tuck my laptop on a shelf, laughing.

  ‘I’ll get Mum to pester him about this,’ she says, pointing to the files. ‘She can be pretty intimidating when she’s got a bee in her bonnet, so it might make Kian more likely to sit down and do the application.’

  ‘I can believe that,’ I say, feeling sorry for Kian already.

  ***

  After a morning spent picking up sacks of animal feed from a carefully curated list of eco-friendly, Kian-approved suppliers, I take Moira up on an offer of breakfast. Although scoffing Jacqui’s leftovers is of clear appeal, I can’t shift the low-key anxiety that has crept in since I skimmed through my emails an hour ago. Duncan’s most recent request to ‘curb the cutesy village larks and get back on the sister search’ was followed by an ultimatum: I have two days to give him a solid update or he’s pulling me back to the office. For now, I’ve fobbed him off with a line or two to buy myself a bit of time. I had intended to film our reunion, but it’s not like I could whip my phone out mid-pig debacle without it feeling weird and inappropriate, like I was using her for an internet sideshow. The problem is, the closer I get to Moira, the more I want to protect her. As a result, I’m so on edge that it feels like I’ve permanently got an ice cube slipped down the back of my shirt.