The Heart Beats in Secret. Katie Munnik

I know, not funny. But that’s why I followed you out here. I used to come out here myself when a laugh wouldn’t work. Sometimes you need the space, don’t you?’ He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up at the sky. ‘Listen, chum. It’s not about me, is it? This door-slamming tick of yours. About me and your mum? Because if it is, I want you to know that people jump to conclusions and talk rot when they don’t understand and maybe when they are scared, but we’re solid. We always have been. And your mum just needs quiet sometimes. Like you need space. I know you get angry and have questions and all, but she’s doing her bit and her best, too. She’s holding us together, you know.’

      After this, he was quiet, and I was, too. We mooched out to the second submarine, squelching our feet in the mucky sand. I kicked the side and there sounded a dull thud. Above us, a skein of geese cut across the sky, and Dad raised his arms as if he was holding his gun, but he’d left it at home and they were flying too high anyway. I wondered what he’d do if the powers that be managed to get the bay pronounced a nature reserve. Less goose on the table, I’m sure. I teased him about that on the walk back and he pulled a grimace, then picked up his tune again.

       And I can hear the tinkling waterfall

       Far among the hills

       Bluebirds sing each so merrily

       To his mate in rapture trills

       They seem to say ‘Your June is lonesome, too,

       Longing fills her eyes

       She is waiting for you patiently

       Where the pine tree sighs.’

      Before I left Scotland, Dad told me about the whales found a thousand miles from the sea. Not in Montreal itself, but even further inland near a place called Cornwall where the river was island-strewn and slow. I asked how they’d managed and he laughed.

      ‘Fossils, my dear. Ten thousand years old. They were found by men digging clay for bricks half a mile from the railway station and two hundred feet above sea level. White whales, I think. Proves the story of the long-drained sea, but then so does the clay. It’s quick clay, tricky stuff. Formed under the oceans and riddled with salt. With the tides gone, the clay dries out, the rains wash the salt away and it shifts. So cracks appear on buildings or suddenly, a whole hillside slips away. Sometimes, fossils emerge that way, too. Sometimes, they’re dug up intact.’

      I wasn’t sure why he told me this. A token fact to ease my way into a new country. And a nod to what he knew, who he was. Clay and old stone, deep time and soil. It could have been that. But later, walking through Montreal looking up at the skyscrapers, a new understanding started to surface. Above me, the half-moons of hotel windows, the ribs of towers rising, and under my feet, things still hidden.

      Was I the fossil-hunter then? Or the whale?

       7

       PIDGE: 2006

      MATEO WAS STILL AT WORK AND I WAS MAKING SALAD when she called. Slicing cucumbers and preserved lemons, pitting green olives. When I picked up the phone, I could smell their sharpness on my fingers.

      Felicity’s voice was so quiet I thought she was ill, but she said no, it was only sad news. She’d had a phone call that afternoon from Scotland. One of the elders from the kirk in Aberlady was working through Gran’s address book, wanting to let her friends and relations know.

      ‘Kind of him, wasn’t it? Not to leave it up to a lawyer or someone, but to get in touch personally. He said the funeral was yesterday. Prearranged. It seems your grandmother sorted it all out ahead of time. She didn’t want … a fuss.’

      ‘Would you like me to come?’ I asked.

      ‘Here? No, no,’ she said. ‘No, I think not. I’ll be fine. It’s just I haven’t seen her in a while. I … I don’t quite know what to do. Now. What to do now. That’s it. I don’t know what to do now.’ She let go of her breath, and I could see her, standing in the farmhouse kitchen, her hair falling forward to curtain her face. She paused, and I could see her hold her hand up to her mouth, her long fingers, the blue of her veins. Outside the window behind her, another evening was beginning, a greying sky above the trees, the lake still and growing darker.

      ‘I’ll come,’ I said. ‘I can take some time off work. Someone can cover for me.’

      ‘No.’ She sighed again, and I waited. ‘I just wanted you to know. There really is nothing to be done, but I thought you should know.’ She told me Bas sent his love, and Rika, too. The snow was melting and mud beginning to show between the trees. They’d started tapping the maples. The beginning of another year. She said she would be fine.

      ‘I know,’ I said, softly.

      ‘Yeah. I know, too.’

      When Mateo came home, I cooked fish and he opened a bottle of wine. I opened the window, so the kitchen wouldn’t get hazy, and to the east, I could see streaks of light. For a moment, I wasn’t sure what they were. They looked like scratches or tears on the surface of the sky. I watched as they changed, brightened, grew longer and strange. Then I saw they were only vapour trails catching the last light of the setting sun. I thought about picking up the phone again and calling the camp to tell Felicity about them. She’d like that. On the other hand, she might think I was checking in, prompting or trying to get her to say something else. Better let her be. I’d tell her when we spoke next, I decided, and then it struck me she might be thinking similar thoughts, out beside the lake. That she couldn’t pick up the phone to tell her mother about the bright things that caught her eye. Not this evening or in the morning or later. She had to let her be.

      At the bungalow, I’d decided to sleep in the front bedroom because that wasn’t where Felicity and I slept. We were always given the back bedroom – her room before she left, now stripped and painted white. Felicity said that she’d asked her parents to do it – to make it neutral – when she left. She’d wanted to close a door like that. To make a fresh start.

      Even so, the double bed with its nubbly white coverlet was utterly Felicity to me. The pillows might have only just been shaken out, the sheet folded over. If I lay down, I would feel her hands soothing my spine, her hair warm beside me and, in the morning, tangling over me so I’d wake laughing. I would be a child again, too young for this empty house, and I knew I’d never sleep for her whispered stories, her gentle questions, and my own held answers.

      In Gran’s room, I told myself the clock would be soothing, the photographs interesting, and the knick-knacks would leave no space for ghosts. The wash of the sea would sound like wind in the trees at the camp or like trucks on the highway in Ottawa. But, inevitably, I slept fitfully. Maybe the smell of her soap never quite let me settle. Maybe I was just overtired. A little after dawn, there were birds in the garden and I started to compile an inventory in my head.

      The books. The photographs. The rag rug. All the boxes on the shelves. The letters. The things in the shed. The kitchen things, too. The teacups. The small jars. I might have slept again, thinking through the shelves and counting, but the blue glass cake-stand on the top of the cupboard brought Felicity’s voice close.

      ‘It was just this colour, wasn’t it, Mum? Do you remember that? The blue moon when I was wee?’

      I was sitting with two cushions wedged beneath me as she took it from the shelf. The collar on my new dress was itchy and wrong, but I held Granny’s coffee mill tight between my knees, turning the crank to grind the beans. Granny sat beside me, the pen in her hand paused over a sheet of white paper.

      ‘Goodness, Felicity. I’m surprised you do. It was a very long time ago. Be careful with that, dear. It was a wedding present.’

      ‘But the colour