‘Keep them safe.’ And the wind snatched up her words, casting them out on to the darkening waters of the sea.
Lexie, 1978
Daisy loves the graveyard. The moss is soft beneath her hands and knees as she crawls through the grass, chuckling at the tufts of bog cotton that tickle her nose and make her sneeze. I’m trying to have a serious conversation with the stonemason about what to put on Mum’s headstone. ‘Just Flora Gordon and the dates, I think.’
‘Ach, d’you no want some sort of a message? In loving memory of a beloved mother and grandmother, maybe? Gone but never forgotten, that sort of thing?’
I can scarcely afford the bare minimum and he charges by the letter, so I politely decline. The undertakers have already arranged for the urn containing the ashes to be buried alongside the grave where Mum’s parents lie. Her stone will be set next to the one with the three names – Seonaig and Isla and Iain – commemorating my grandparents and an aunt who died before she was as old as Daisy is now, a thought that unsettles me to the very core of my being.
He shows me some samples of lettering and I choose the one that’s closest to that on my grandparents’ stone. Then he gets me to write down Mum’s name and the dates in a notebook before he leaves, with a cheery wave to Daisy who ignores him as she tries to pull herself up to standing using the granite headstone for leverage. Her legs wobble and she collapses with a bump, her nappy cushioning her fall, then mutters softly to herself as she crawls off to explore further afield.
I walk across to scoop her up from the damp ground. She’s sitting gazing up at an elaborately carved stone angel that stands guard over the family memorial of the Mackenzie-Grants.
‘That’s your grandpa’s name there, see?’ I tell her.
I trace the lettering of my dad’s name – his and mine so alike – with my fingertips. And I remember how, on summer Sundays when I was little, Mum and I used to come to lay posies of wildflowers by our own family stone and how she would always take one flower – a harebell or a tuft of sea pink or a white ox-eye daisy – and lay it at the feet of the angel.
It’s a bright, breezy day at last, and a relief to be outdoors again. Daisy and I are both suffering from a severe dose of cabin fever after almost a solid week of rain, which has assailed the windows of Keeper’s Cottage from every angle. I’ve used the days to get things sorted in the house. I’ve brought the cot down from the loft and set it up so that we can both get a little more sleep, and I’ve wrapped most of Mum’s ornaments in newspaper and packed them away in boxes, safely out of the way of inquisitive little fingers. I’ve also managed to sort and stash away many of my own belongings so that the cottage doesn’t feel so cluttered. The attic is crammed full, but at least the boxes are out of sight. The sorting, unpacking and repacking and wrestling of boxes into the loft has made me feel as stale and dusty as the boards of the attic floor. I’m still stiff, the aftermath of the long drive as well as from ferrying everything in from the car and climbing up and down the ladder. But my physical aches and pains are nothing compared with the ache of the emptiness I feel, which seems to have embedded itself in my very bones.
Thankful to be out here on the hillside, I take a deep breath of the seaweed- and peat-scented air and then tilt my head back to follow the flight of an eagle whose feather-fringed wings are spread wide, catching the wind as it describes sweeping circles above us. It swoops low enough for me to be able make out the hook of its beak and the markings in its undercarriage. Instinctively, I scoop Daisy into my arms, hugging her tight. I point out the bird to her and we watch as it soars off, far out over the loch.
Then she points a chubby finger towards the water. ‘Bat,’ she says.
‘Yes, clever girl. It is indeed a boat.’ I wonder whether it’s Davy’s. Those squatties he gave us were absolutely delicious. Perhaps we should walk down to the jetty and leave him