O Caledonia

Suddenly the door was whisked open. A woman stood there glaring at them. “How dare you make a racket like that. On a Sunday too. What do you want?’ Janet held out the pigeon. “You’ve not made an appointment. You can’t see the vet. In any case he’s not here. You’d best give that thing a knock on the head. Now be off with you and stop wasting my time.” She slammed the door. The pigeon was soft and warm, nestled in Janet’s hands, but blood flowed more freely now from its beak and it had begun to tremble. She could feel its tiny heart flickering. “Well,” said Cynthia, “either we chuck it over the cliff or we bash it on the head; it’s worse for it to go on suffering.” “Yes,” said Janet. “Yes.” She looked at the bird and knew that she could not end its life, no matter how right, how necessary this was. She tried to imagine swinging it against a wall or smashing its brain with a stone and she felt all strength ebb from her limbs. She leant against the vet’s railings, gasping. “Oh God

,” she wailed. “Right, that’s it. Give it to me,” commanded Cynthia. She took the bird and walked quickly behind the house. In a moment she was back. “It didn’t feel a thing, honestly.” “But we must bury it,” sobbed Janet. “Look, I’ve buried it; I put some earth over it. And we’re going to be late back if we don’t rush.” A bell tolled a single solemn note, a death knell. “My God, it’s one o’clock. Come on.

” Janet did not believe that Cynthia had buried the pigeon but she was finished, without resource. Obediently she followed her. Cynthia explained their lateness by saying that Janet had felt faint and ill. “I was really quite worried, Miss Smith. You can see how she’s shaking now. Oh, she had a nose bleed too. Her coat’s in a bit of a state.” “Well done, Cynthia.”

Janet was packed off to bed, where she continued to shake. She thought many thoughts, and the worst of all was that hateful Cynthia had had the courage to perform an act of mercy; she had failed through cowardice. “Well done, Cynthia.” Her teeth chattered. She slept. When she woke it was still light. Downstairs someone was practising the flute. Four o’clock on a wan Sunday afternoon in March; a bad time, a time that was endless.

Chapter Eight

In April, when Janet returned to Auchnasaugh, she was astonished and overjoyed to find that Lila was there. In fact, Lila had scarcely been away. The shock of the journey to Edinburgh and the unfamiliar central heating in the little house had proved too great for Mouflon and for three agonising days Lila had watched him die. She ignored Maisie and her nervous fluttering cries, her pleas for help up the stairs, for tea and shortbread, for a friendly chat. She sat in her room with a bottle of whisky, feeding the old cat hourly from a dropper; she entered the kitchen only to warm milk for him. She left the house only to fetch more whisky, which she put down on Maisie’s grocery bill. On the third day, when Mouflon was stiff and cold and dead she put him in the fridge, to await their return to Auchnasaugh, where he must be buried. Then she took the kitchen scissors from their hook above the sink (“A place for everything and everything in its place,” Maisie had quavered as she showed her around). She began to cut her hair off, sawing and wrenching at the resistant wiry locks. Long black hanks and twists drifted into the sink, blocking the drain outlet. The scissors were blunt. She hurled them across the room and seized a carving knife. Maisie heard the clatter and came creeping hopefully down the stairs. When she saw Lila her fey, small face lit up. “Och, that’s good,” she said. “Now you’re settled in at last. We’ll have a nice cup of coffee.” Lila stared blankly at her and went on slashing at her hair. Maisie, tremulously removing a bottle of Camp coffee from the cupboard, saw the sudden gleam of the knife in the neon strip light; she looked again at Lila, gasped, and sat down. The bottle smashed to the floor. Maisie began to cry. In bustled her cleaning woman, Dora. “Oh dear, what a mess. Never you mind, Miss Carstairs, it’s only a wee bit of broken glass, dinna fash, we’ll have it cleared in a minute.” She saw Lila. Her tone changed: “And what may you be doing? I’ll thank you to put that knife down. And if you’d be kind enough to move perhaps I could reach the brush and dustpan and perhaps I could get the milk for madam’s hot drink.” Lila stood with her back against the fridge door. “Go away,” she whispered. “Go away.” “I will do no such thing,” retorted Dora; she tugged at the door handle with one hand and grabbed at the knife with the other. Lila bit her arm. The fridge door swung open, revealing Mouflon’s outstretched pinkly lustrous figure and sightless glare. Dora shrieked, slammed it shut, and rushed from the room. She telephoned the doctor and the policeman before returning to the kitchen. Maisie was rocking from side to side on her chair; her eyes were shut; she sang a little ditty, beating time on the table: