the first time in some years in the observatory, one coal-sack-black moonless night in 1986, a few days before I left to go to University, when I was already full of the exhilaration and fear of departure and independence, and the whole huge world seemed to be opening up before me, like some infinite blossom of opportunity and glamour. The twins had taken to having star-gazing parties in the cold, cramped hemisphere which protruded from the summit of the compact castle, and I’d arrived late after being out on the hill with little brother James during the afternoon and then suffering a delayed tea because some friends of dad’s had showed up unannounced and had to be catered for.
‘Aye, it’s yourself, Prentice,’ boomed Mrs McSpadden, informatively. ‘And how are you?’ Mrs McSpadden was the Urvill’s housekeeper; a rotundly buxom lady of perpetual middle-age with a big baw-face that gave the impression of being freshly scrubbed. She had a very loud voice and dad always told people that she hailed from Fife. A ringing noise in one’s ears after a close encounter with the lady tended to enforce the impression this was literally true. ‘The rest are up there. Will you take this tray up? There’s coffee in these pots; you just turn the wee spot to the front here, ken, and -’ She lifted the corner of a heavy napkin smothering a very large plate. ‘- there’s hot sausage rolls under here.’
‘Right, thanks,’ I said, lifting the tray. I’d come in through the castle kitchen; entering through the main door after it had been shut for the night could be a performance. I made for the stairs.
‘Here, Prentice; take this scarf up to Miss Helen,’ Mrs McSpadden said, flourishing the article. ‘That lassie’ll catch her death of cold up there one night, so she will.’
I bowed my head so that Mrs S could put the scarf over my neck.
‘And mind them there’s plenty of bread, and some chicken in the fridge, and cheese, and plenty of soup forbye, if you get hungry again.’
‘Right, thanks,’ I repeated, and jogged carefully upstairs.
‘Anybody got any roach paper?’
I squeezed into the brightly-lit dome of the observatory; it was about three metres in diameter, made from aluminium, the telescope took up a lot of it, and it was cold, despite a wee two-bar electric heater. A modestly proportioned ghetto-blaster was playing something by the Cocteau Twins. Diana and Helen, bundled in enormous Mongolian quilted jackets, were crouched round a small table with Darren Watt, playing cards. My elder brother, Lewis, was at the telescope. We all said our hellos. ‘This is cousin Verity. Remember her?’ Helen said, as she draped the scarf I’d brought her over Darren’s head. Helen pointed at a cloud of smoke, and as it blew towards me and cleared I saw her.
There was a sort of cubby-hole in the non-rotating part of the observatory, built into the attic of the castle’s main block. It was just a long cupboard really, but you could coorie down into it to make more space in the dome proper. Verity Walker was lying in a sleeping bag there, only her upper half protruding into the dome; she was smoking one joint and rolling another, on the cover of a pictorial atlas of the universe. ‘Evening,’ she said. ‘Got any roach paper?’
‘Yeah; hi,’ I said. I put the tray down, searched my pockets, pulled out some stuff. The last time I’d seen Verity Walker, maybe five or six years earlier, she’d been a scrawny tyke with a mouth full of orthodontic brace-work and a serious Shakin’ Stevens habit. Now - once seen through the smoke - she had short, pure blonde hair, and a delicate, almost elfin face which tapered to an exquisite chin that looked like it had been made to be grasped lightly in three fingers and pulled closer to your lips ... well, to my lips, anyway. Her eyes were the blue of old sea-ice, and when I saw her complexion all I could think was: Wow; Lloyd Cole city! Because she had perfect skin.
‘That’ll do.’ She took something from my hand. ‘Thanks.’
‘Hey! That’s a library ticket!’ I grabbed it back. ‘Here.’ I handed her half a book token my mother had given me.
‘Thanks.’ She started cutting it with a little pair of scissors.
‘It’s just a tokin’ token,’ I told her, squatting down beside her.
She grunted with laughter, and my heart performed manoeuvres that the connecting plumbing makes topologically impossible.