journey to say their final farewells to Flora Gordon even as they shook my hand and muttered their condolences on that awful, empty day.
So now I am returning, at last, reluctantly, having run out of options. And it’s too late. Mum has gone. I still can’t really absorb the finality of those words. How can I carry on without her? The two of us were a team. As long as we had each other, we never needed anyone else. She was the one who gave me the confidence to leave, encouraging me to apply to the stage school and helping me pack my suitcase when the time came. I always knew that even though we were so many miles apart, she was always right there with me in spirit when I stepped on to the stage to sing. But now I’m on my own, with my baby, whom I know will be referred to behind my back as a fatherless bairn. There are worse insults, of course, and I’ve no doubt those will be put to good use, too. There will be the whisper of gossip in the lane, and the tutting of tongues at the kirk gate. And they will say that history has a funny way of repeating itself, and what would you expect from a girl who was born out of wedlock herself and went gallivanting off to the theatres of the big city? She had the voice for it, though, they’ll admit; but then they’ll shake their heads and say for all the good that’s done her.
Daisy wakes up, startled from her sleep as the car rattles over a cattle grid with a clatter. She wails in dismay at finding herself still strapped into her car seat, and squirms, straining to get out, building up to a really good tantrum.
‘Okay, sweetheart,’ I say. ‘We’re nearly there. We just need to stop at the shop for a few things.’
It’s sorely tempting to drive on through the village, past the old gateposts that mark the entrance to the long-deserted Ardtuath Estate, going straight to Keeper’s Cottage so that I can hang on to the precious, final shreds of anonymity for a few more hours. But I’m dying for a cup of tea – and something stronger, too. And I’ll be needing food for supper. There’ll be nothing edible in the house, which has been empty for months.
If I’m being totally honest, the thought of unlocking the door and stepping over the threshold into the chilly, darkening silence of rooms that were always so full of life and light terrifies me. Stopping to do some shopping will delay the moment when I have to confront the bare truth of the things I’ve been trying so hard to ignore for so long. Loss. And guilt. And grief.
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,