Waiting for Lindsay Read online

  Moira Forsyth was born in Kilmarnock and educated in Aberdeen. She has lived in London and Morpeth and now in the Scottish Highlands. She has published three other novels and a collection of poems.

  Also by Moira Forsyth

  Fiction

  Waiting for Lindsay

  Tell Me Where You Are

  The Treacle Well

  Poetry

  What the Negative Reveals

  WAITING FOR LINDSAY

  Moira Forsyth

  Published in Great Britain and the United States of America

  Sandstone Press Ltd

  Dochcarty Road

  Dingwall

  IV15 9UG

  Scotland

  www.sandstonepress.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This edition published by Sandstone Press in 2014

  First published by Hodder and Stoughton in 1999

  © Moira Forsyth 2000

  The moral right of Moira Forsyth to be recognised as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act, 1988.

  The publisher acknowledges subsidy from Creative Scotland towards publication of this volume.

  ISBNe: 978-1-910124-20-8

  Cover design by Cover by Raspberryhmac Creative Type

  Ebook by Iolaire Typesetting, Newtonmore

  For my Mother and Father

  Contents

  The Past: thirty-four years back – Lindsay

  Winter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  The Past: five years back – Annie

  Spring

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  The Past: ten years back – Jamie

  Summer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  The Past: thirty-four years back – The Beach

  The Past:

  Thirty-four years back – Lindsay

  All afternoon the voices called, the two syllables of her name singing through the woods, down the steep garden, and across the sands to the sea. All afternoon, and then through the long bright evening, they searched, and did not find her.

  At ten, Christine made the children go to bed. They lay awake, whispering across the landing to each other, listening to anxious talk, the banging of doors, cars on the drive labouring in first gear, more voices outside. Jamie fell asleep, but the others got up and stood at the top of the stairs. All the lights were on; the house was bright as Christmas. Outside the pale midsummer sky was dimmed and the moon rode high, as if searching too, casting her light across the width of the Black Isle, looking for Lindsay.

  Jamie woke, and called for his mother. He had a pain in his stomach. His Aunt Christine came upstairs; she was the one left in the house to watch the other children.

  ‘Have you found her yet?’ they asked, as she tried to shoo them back to bed.

  ‘Not yet,’ she said, going in to Jamie, who was wailing, Mummy, Mummy!

  ‘Your mummy’s looking for Lindsay,’ they heard her say. ‘She’ll be back soon.’ She held Jamie in her arms, rocking him. He tucked his thumb in his mouth and was quiet.

  They all stood in the doorway, watching.

  ‘He was asking for his mummy,’ Annie said. ‘He’s wanting Auntie Liz.’

  ‘Go to bed,’ her mother scolded wearily. ‘You should all be in bed.’

  ‘Will you wake us when you find her?’ they demanded.

  ‘Yes, of course we will.’ She nodded at Annie. ‘I’ll come and tuck you in when Jamie goes off to sleep.’

  Annie’s bed was cold now, and her cousin Lindsay’s, next to it, was empty, her felt rabbit flopped where she had left him this morning, next to her pyjamas. Annie got out of bed again to fetch the rabbit and take him in with her. He lay next to her bear, and Louie, the rag doll.

  Perhaps she fell asleep before her mother came in. But till the moment she took the rabbit into bed with her, it all remained clear in her memory. On midsummer nights she could recall it vividly, and did, thinking again of the day Lindsay left.

  ‘Left’ was the word Annie used, though everyone else referred to her ‘disappearance’. But a child, a girl of thirteen, cannot vanish like a bubble, a puff of smoke. Even at six, Annie knew that. Her cousin Jamie, for months afterwards, had a story about his big sister Lindsay being ‘magicked’ away, as if by a wizard, a spell. Perhaps some misguided adult had suggested this to him; Annie did not know. He grew out of it, anyway.

  She had always known Lindsay inhabited the real world, not some fairy tale. Lindsay was solid, substantial, and even Annie’s memories of her had a vitality no story ever acquired. She remembered her cousin’s ringing voice, her long brown arms and legs, dusted with blonde down, and her hair reaching almost to her waist, thick and fair. When she closed her eyes, she could see Lindsay banging her sneakers against the lintel of the back door to empty the sand out, and picture her racing down the steep garden path, faster than anyone else, yelling Last one on the beach is a hairy kipper! It was always Jamie who was last, and he always cried. Then Lindsay would scoop him up and swing him round till he laughed again.

  It was not possible that someone so vigorous and beautiful could be spirited away by mere magic. That was why, Annie knew, they went on looking for her so long. She must be somewhere, they must be able to find her.

  And yet, however loud and long they called, however far and deeply they searched, they did not find her. Lindsay did not see, or hear, or answer them. When the children woke in the morning, remembering some strange thing had occurred in their world, and then what it was, they went downstairs together, all four, Tom and Alistair first, the little ones behind. In the kitchen their parents, Mrs Macintyre from the post office, and Hamish who worked in the shop with Stuart, Lindsay and Tom and Jamie’s dad, were all sitting round the table. They were white and tired, and the air was clouded with cigarette smoke. ‘Have you found her yet?’ they asked. ‘Is she back?’

  Outside the sun moved up the blue sky, and far out in the firth porpoises dived and played. A few early holiday-makers strolled past the tennis courts and down on to the beach. In the kitchen of the High House, Liz Mathieson rose from her chair, unhooked her cardigan from the back, and leaving the others in the kitchen, walked out of the back door. She stood at the top of the steep path that zigzagged through the garden to the gate among the blackcurrant bushes at the bottom, that opened on to the track to the beach. She often stood there, watching the sunshine climb the garden slowly, the children scrambling up it fast. Beyond the bushes lining the path, the shining sea rolled to and fro, swaying gently up on to the sand and retreating again.

  In a few minutes she must go back indoors so that they could begin looking again, in daylight this time, for her daughter. Absently, she stretched out a hand and rubbed a few leaves from the lemon balm bush by the living-room window. She raised her fingers to her face, and breathed in the sharp citrus scent. Just this moment, she thought, that’s all I have, perhaps, for ever and ever, that will not be filled with pain. She was light-headed with lack of sleep, with something so terrifying it could no longer be called mere worry, or fear. The scent
of lemon, the shining sea, the leaves of the silver birches quivering, catching the light: all these she held, not wanting the moment to change.

  Someone called; she turned and went back indoors. Sunshine lay across the big table where her boys were seated, oddly silent. Her sister Christine sat keeping her own children close, Alistair leaning on her shoulder, Annie on her lap. Stuart was talking on the telephone; the police would be here again in half an hour. They fed the children, who, like the adults, did not want to eat. All the time, unable to help themselves, they told each other there was some mistake, some misunderstanding. Anyway, they would find her today, or she would come back.

  ‘It’s just not like her,’ Stuart kept saying, ‘to wander off without telling anyone.’

  ‘Not all night,’ Christine said. ‘Not all night.’

  The children were going down to look along the beach.

  ‘Stay together,’ their mothers said. ‘Look after the little ones.’ They felt helpless: should they keep the children with them or not? But they had spent all the summers of their lives on this safe familiar shore.

  ‘We’ll call you,’ they said. ‘Don’t go past the rocks. Come back when we call.’

  And they all trooped back as soon as they were called. All except Lindsay. They went on calling for her down the days and weeks and years to come, till there was no point in calling any longer. She did not hear them; she did not come back.

  Winter

  1

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ Annie said. ‘After Christmas is over, everything seems so bleak.’ She opened the cupboard in the alcove next to the fireplace. ‘What about a drink? You haven’t had your New Year.’

  ‘Aye, sure.’ Tom came over to look at what was left from Hogmanay. One thing about coming to stay with Annie and Graham – they always had a grand selection of drink. He chose his malt, and Annie had the same.

  ‘Canny there. I’ve still got to drive over to Jamie’s later.’

  ‘Oh, is that too much? Usually Graham does the drinks. Pour some back if you like.’

  ‘No, I won’t go that far, thanks.’ He took his glass, and sat down again. Annie moved around the room switching on lamps, and the suburban street, fading in winter dusk, vanished behind their reflections in the bay window. Then she sat down again, curling her legs beneath her in the big chair. Tom was sprawled on the sofa, growing sleepy with the heat of the room and the early whisky. He roused himself, realising Annie had asked him a question.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re in Aberdeen to talk to Jamie about the shop?’

  ‘Yes – that’s it. To see you as well, of course.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ She smiled. ‘Uncle Stuart’s agreed then – he’s OK about selling it now?’

  ‘I don’t know about agreed … but yes, he’s going along with it.’

  ‘He’ll miss the place, though, won’t he? He’s still there quite a lot, when you’re teaching.’

  ‘He doesn’t do any dealing now – I’ve been handling the antiquarian side, mail order and so on, for years,’ Tom said. ‘I think that’s why it’s difficult to get him to see there’s no future in it. He imagines we can just tootle along indefinitely. But we can’t.’

  ‘But that’s what you’ve been doing,’ Annie pointed out. ‘Why does it have to end now? Are you fed up with it?’ Tom didn’t answer this. ‘You could do with a change, maybe,’ she prompted.

  ‘Aye, I could do with that, certainly.’

  ‘But you won’t leave the High House – you’ll go on living there?’ Of course he would – impossible to imagine Tom anywhere else. But for a moment, Tom didn’t answer.

  ‘Oh, I hadn’t thought about that,’ he said at last. ‘But the shop’s actually losing money now. That’s the point.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘And Jamie’s joint owner, since Dad handed over to us, so I need to discuss it with him.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, smiling. ‘One change at a time is enough for me.’

  ‘It’s a wonder we don’t hate the place,’ Annie said, ‘after all that happened. Especially you and Jamie. But you don’t, do you? I still feel sort of tied to it myself.’

  She was thinking of Lindsay, and of his mother’s death, a few years later. But Tom did not talk about these things, even for Annie.

  ‘When’s Graham home?’ he asked, hoping to deflect her.

  ‘First day of term,’ Annie said, ‘so he might be late.’

  ‘So we can get another drink in?’

  ‘D’you want one? I thought you were driving?’

  ‘I am. Only kidding. Tempted by this wonderful malt.’ He leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘It’s warm in here. This is a very relaxing room.’

  ‘Is it?’ Annie looked round, trying to see it afresh. It was too familiar: all she saw was that the life in it came from Tom being there, the pile of books slipping sideways at his feet, the crumpled newspaper he’d been reading, his navy sweater slung over the back of the sofa.

  Tom opened his eyes. ‘Where did you say Alistair was – not at home for Christmas?’

  ‘Munich. Business, then he stayed with people he knows there. But he’s away somewhere else now, I think. What an exotic life he leads,’ she wondered, ‘so unlike the rest of us,’

  ‘Alistair was never like the rest of us,’ Tom said.

  ‘I know. Anyone would think you and Jamie were my brothers, not him.’

  They contemplated this in silence for a moment, and Tom finished his whisky. He grew drowsy, the room floated, and Annie’s voice droned softly on. Mm, he said, and You’re right, or Did he? Christmas, her parents, Graham’s bad temper over something that happened at Hogmanay, all the family trivia she gathered and stored, and relayed to him each time he came.

  Somewhere, a bell rang.

  ‘That’s the door!’ Annie exclaimed. ‘Who on earth—’ Tom stirred to wakefulness as she got up. ‘Probably someone selling something,’ she said. ‘Back in a minute,’

  She was gone for several minutes, but no one seemed to come in. He got up and poured himself another large dram, having forgotten about driving to Jamie’s. Jehovah’s Witnesses, he thought, sitting down again. Annie always made the mistake of feeling sorry for them. She’d be there for ages. Maybe he should call out, rescue her. Then suddenly she was back in the room. Her face was flushed, and she carried with her a rush of fresh air, something new.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Tom – it’s Rob. He’s here – by himself.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh, Tom, for God’s sake – Rob – Alistair’s boy.’

  ‘What?

  He could see she was excited: she loved the unexpected.

  ‘What – is Alistair here?’

  ‘No, that’s what I’m saying. He’s on his own. He came by himself – I’ve put him in the kitchen.’

  The kitchen? Are his shoes dirty or something?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. I asked if he wanted something to eat and he said yes. He says he’s had nothing since yesterday – imagine that, Tom.’

  ‘Annie—’

  ‘He’s been hitching lifts.’

  ‘I don’t follow this – where’s his mother – he lives with his mother, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Well, yes, Sussex – no, Surrey, not Sussex. I’d have to look up the address on my Christmas list. But anyway, I keep telling you, he’s come on his own. I don’t think – I have the feeling no one knows he’s here.’

  ‘But he’s just a wee boy, isn’t he?’

  ‘About fifteen, sixteen – it’s hard to tell. With that hair and everything.’

  Tom was startled. ‘Is he that old? I thought he was only eleven or something.’

  ‘Oh no. Older than that.’ Each contemplated, silently, the oddness of not knowing Rob’s age. Then Annie turned away, going out of the room. ‘I have to admit I didn’t recognise him myself – at first.’ She paused by the door. ‘Come through – I have to feed him.
Whatever else.’

  Tom followed her into the kitchen.

  On a revolving stool, spinning slowly, was a boy in a denim jacket covered in badges, and jeans torn at the knee. His hair was cut brutally short and adolescence had enlarged and coarsened features that might once have made him an attractive child. Tom did not recognise him at all. But then, he couldn’t remember seeing him since Alistair and Shona were still living together, and that must be more than ten years ago.

  Annie was slicing bread.

  ‘Will a sandwich do just now?’ she asked. ‘I’ve a casserole for later, but it’s not in the oven yet.’

  ‘Yuh. OK.’ This was little more than a grunt, ungracious. Even so, it was clearly a South of England grunt. Good grief, thought Tom, surprised, he’s English.

  ‘Hello, there. Don’t suppose you remember me.’

  ‘Yuh.’ The boy nodded. ‘She said. You’re Tom.’

  ‘Right.’

  Tuna or cheese?’ Annie asked briskly, opening the fridge door.

  Rob shrugged. ‘Don’ mind.’

  ‘Mayonnaise?’

  ‘Yeah. Ta.’

  Tom sat down at the table. A vase of pink carnations was in the centre, shedding flakes of petal on the pine surface.

  ‘Any chance of a cup of tea, Annie? Or coffee. Something.’ Even for him, it was a bit early in the day for so much alcohol. Annie put a plate of sandwiches down in front of the boy and went to fill the kettle.

  ‘Well then,’ Tom said, looking at Rob. He had begun to eat, very fast.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ Annie offered.

  ‘Got any Coke?’ Rob asked, his mouth full.

  ‘Oh – I don’t know.’ She opened a cupboard and stared doubtfully at the contents. ‘I think there’s some lemonade here, left over from Hogmanay.’

  It was flat.

  ‘Milk?’ she suggested.