RENEWAL

   The others went upstairs with their lighted candles, for they had decided to save the generator for more serious needs. Even this very simple discipline was surprisingly difficult to learn. It was so natural to click the light-switch as one entered a room, even a room scarcely dark, that they had all experienced the same surprise when nothing happened. And then they had all felt the same alarm on hearing the generator begin to clatter in the workshop a hundred yards away behind the garden, the thump of its diesel unsteady at first, settling to a steady roar as the filament in the lamps began first to glow red, then orange, and then with its full white glare. They had all decided they could try to avoid setting this somewhat ancient machinery in motion simply in order to cross the room - or to do anything else that they could perfectly well do with their eyes closed.

Otherwise the scene outside was of absolute tranquillity. There was only a slight wind fluttering the leaves of the bent trees just below the level of the shelter of the headland, and the few upright stones in the home field, the stumpy jagged sarsens whose origin no one seemed to know, and which had no obvious arrangement, cast still sharp shadows on the bluish grass.
   Above him footsteps echoed down from landing after landing. He heard their voices cheerfully wishing each other good night, with the usual optimism, looking forward to meeting again in the morning; and then the house was quiet and he sat listening to the Aga making its gentle prrp-prp-prrrp-prp as drops of oil flared and burnt inside its shiny blue enamelled belly, and to the lambs' plaintive cries for anyone to come out to play with them, and he wondered what to do. It was not that he had no experience at all, but he had certainly not enough of this kind of invitation. For he had definitely been invited to share a bed, and he was not sure how to respond.
   The day had started without any of this complication; or even any premonition of it. They had collected their happy guest from the other side of the bigger island and brought her across it to this side in his little car. Then they had gone down to the boat-house to collect an outboard, and then into the boat with it, together with all the groceries they had bought in the village store. Within three or four hours of leaving their island they were back again. This was remarkably fast. They were getting better at making these journeys to and fro. Then they had had a simple meal, and had then enjoyed her astonishment as they showed her the size of the house, the number of bedrooms and who had once used which; and which one they had chosen for her - of course it had to be one of the best; and then they had set out to show her some of the delights of this little magical kingdom.
   But then the surprise had not been long in coming. Possibly she had had it in mind for some time but had had no opportunity. They were not, after all, strangers to one another. For nearly two years he had felt her to be a good friend, but this was simply a necessity rather than any other kind of interest. What they had in common was a serious need for disinterested friendship. She had left her husband in Europe, and was now divorced; but she still had her two girls with her, and it was hard for her to keep her job, to look after them, and at the same time manage the hundred things that having a house and a family require.
   So he had helped her a little with his support and knowledge, and she had helped him enormously, by her interest and kindness and with her knowledge: mostly it was sound emotional advice. When they had learnt that her girls would be joining their father for much of their holiday, leaving her alone, they had at once offered her the possibility of joining them on the island.
   It was one of those impossibly perfect days in which one might have been in the Aegean and not the Hebrides. The sky was a perfect denim blue. The sea glittered in the bright slanting sunlight, but the tide was far out and, drawn as always to follow the edge of the sea, they had soon stepped down from the sheep-cropped grass onto its border of fine white sand and were on the way to the ragged southernmost tip of the island, where the great boulders that had been broken from its foundations by centuries of furious battering by the winter storms lay piled in confusion, when they also realised that they were alone. They had looked around for their other companion, but it had not seemed to matter and they had scarcely paused to look longer. Perhaps she had stopped to watch the oyster-catchers that she loved to see shrilling their way very low across the shining wet sands, or had even seen the dark round heads of a seal or an otter - always very difficult to tell apart at a distance - emerging from the kelp along the rocky ledge that marked the edge of deeper water. They would always find her later. Either she would catch up with them, or they would meet her again on their return. A wanderer on such a day could come to no harm. Unless one walked off the edge of a cliff in the dark or when fog-bound and battered by a storm, as sheep occasionally would do, the island was perfectly safe.
   But the opportunity presented, was taken. "There certainly are a lot of bedrooms," she began admiringly, as they either crunched over the shingle, or their footsteps were suddenly muffled by stranded mats of weed; and then, more to the point: "But I notice you're not sharing one."
   He looked at her surprised, for although he had never explained it, he thought she must have understood their situation. Before their lunch he had shown her the room that he had chosen for himself. It was one of the smallest and had no fine view of the sea or the island, but looked down directly onto the harbour, so that he could soon see if any there was amiss with the boats. It had probably not been a servant's room for the house as a whole, for the house-servants' bedrooms were all in the other wing, where they and the house-keeper and possibly in the summer vacations even the butler, had a parlour all to themselves. His might have been for a valet or a maid, because it lay just off the main landing, onto which the outer doors of all the master bedrooms all opened. It was in fact just a few steps away from hers. But that their bedrooms would be adjoining and alone on this floor until now had not occurred to him as anything other than a coincidence. Now it appeared to require an explanation. Which was not difficult.
   "We're not lovers, you know," he replied, although a little embarrassed at having to declare it, "she has taken the top floor all to herself because up there she can wander about in the morning, and can see in every direction, and in the morning she will also not wake me up. But there is really never anything special to see up there but sky, sea and sheep. We can see these too. And they look just the same, up or down."
   She ignored this weak attempt at humour, only stepping carefully around a great block of jagged black gabbro - the splintered volcanic rock that had first been torn apart by repeated awesome explosions as the Hebrides were first created, and then had been cemented back together again with even greater force so that it looked, and it also felt if you fell on it, like highly magnified black carborundum with edges still as sharp as knives. And then she had said, quite calmly and oh so very clearly: "In that case, you can come to my bedroom tonight. If you would like to."
   Which is why he was sitting there, still wondering stupidly what to do. He could not exactly remember what he had replied, or whether he had replied at all. He thought not. He had been too surprised, if this made any sense, to be surprised. In any case she had continued climbing up onto the great ledges of gabbro, needing to take his hand from time to time, which she did without the slightest indication that anything had changed between them. All that he was certain about was that he had not refused. They had simply scrambled around the rocks as if there had been nothing said at all, and almost at once they had met up with their lost companion, and the two women had talked cheerfully whilst he lagged behind, until they had made a full circuit of the island's southern tip and had returned to the house.
   They had a glass of wine with their supper. But not enough even to feel the least bit drunk. He examined the candle's flame thoughtfully whilst he examined his options. He could of course do nothing: but that was obvious. He had always found her attractive and had admired her agility and her slim figure. She also had nice round breasts. And yet he suddenly realised to his surprise that he had never before thought of her sexually at all.
   From the calm way in which she had spoken - there had been no silly pretence at allure - it seemed clear that even if he made no response they could still remain friends. There would be no hell hath no fury as a woman scorned, and so on. Or so he hoped. But, here was the next option: he had also spoken truly: their companion - his companion first, now hers - was not his lover. This was not his fault entirely: he certainly loved her for her steadiness and her good sense, and he was perfectly certain of her affection. That was what she had said to him: "I cannot say that I will ever love you passionately, but I have a deep affection for you." And certain too was that without her help he would never have survived the past year. He would have liked very much if they were lovers. But he could never force that decision on her.
   It was not so much that he was so old-fashioned, he told himself - although, of course: he was. Most of his friends had boasted cheerfully of apparently endless sexual conquests when they were all in their twenties. He had already been old-fashioned then and had only felt sorry for their feckless insincerity, as well as for their girls. He knew he might have tried to seduce her through pity. She had a figure like the De Milo Venus - complete - and although he would certainly like to make love to her, he also knew that he didn't need this as much as he needed her as his friend. And all he had ever wanted, in the long term, he remembered, was just a real companion. Someone who adored him would be nice too, but better someone who would know and accept him as he was, and who would like him - just like him - well enough to be a real pal: the best of friends.
   ' Now forget all this twittering about the long term', his candle flickered. 'Just try to think for a single moment of yourself, and what you want right now.' This was still an effort. He was not at all used to thinking about his own wants and needs. Ever since he could remember it was always others who had to be pleased before himself.
   "Okay." he replied to the glowing flame. "Here it is. I am well over thirty - no, I am forty - and I have never yet discovered what it is to enjoy making love to someone who enjoys it, and wants it, as much, as I do. That's what I really want. And that's all I've ever wanted."
   All of a sudden he sighed, a great sad gusty sigh that nearly blew the candle out. Whilst its flame flared, then steadied again, he realised that the lambs were finally quiet. They had all gone to sleep at last, curled up against their mothers. "And if you don't make up your mind soon, everyone will be asleep in this house as well, and you'll be looking pretty silly in the morning. This is what you have always wanted. Now you can have it."
   He picked up his candle, and checked the kitchen carefully in its shadowy light. It was in order. The Aga was unlikely to explode. He climbed the stairs even more carefully, placing his stockinged feet close to the walls: just like a bloody ninja, he told himself, but it seemed highly important that the old wood should not creak. Above the back of the house the moon was now so high that it lit the whole stair-well with a great pale flood of light through the high windows on each landing.
   His candle was very pale in this light; but he kept it for the darkness of his own room. When he reached his landing - pausing - there was still no noise from above. The door of his room was open, so that he could enter silently, placing the candle in the window over the harbour like a guiding light. Then he removed most of his clothes, went next to the nearby bathroom where a trickle of cold water was enough to wash. Then he hesitated again for a long moment, but was finally decided, leaving the rest of his clothes on the floor. He took a deep breath. He found he had not been much weakened by the cold water, and he found this - he was rather amused to notice - encouraging.
   Her door was closed, but was not latched, so that as soon as he placed his hand on the edge of the door it swung open, and the moonlight came with him into the room. The room was very large, the largest of the main bedrooms, with a fine round bay of tall sash windows that in winter would rattle and beat with the wind and the rain. There were two beds. At the back of the room on his right and facing the windows was a fine canopy bed. It was not exactly a four-poster because the upright struts of its carcass bent together in four graceful and symmetrical arcs to form a canopy like a Moorish tent. It was probably a 1920s design brought up by train from London and then by carrier for Oban. It was probably from Harrods or from Heals.
   This is where they had expected she would want to sleep, so they had made up this bed with fresh sheets and a feather pillow that smelt least of the winter damp. To the left of this bed, however, almost in front of him as he entered the room, was a much lower and narrower bed, with a mattress that had probably not been made specially for it , but which was also certainly less lumpy and uneven than an antique. It was this smaller, lower bed she had decided to use. Later he learnt it was not so much out of a preference for modernity, but rather because of her fear of the spiders which might be lurking - which undoubtedly would be lurking - in the dusty canopy of the museum piece.
   He closed the door behind him, pushing it with his shoulder until he heard the click of the lock, and as he shut out the moonlight the room became much darker, and she sat up and threw off all her covers. "I am here," she said softly, as if he might not be able to see her. The night was warm. Her night-dress fluttered to the floor like a moth.
   The next morning they came down for breakfast together. This was only natural, since their rooms were on the same landing, and they had to share its bathroom. Their companion had obviously had been up for an hour; had visited the chickens in the steading yard, for there were two fat brown eggs on the table in a bowl; and the steep banks above the house where the best mushrooms are not at once trodden and scattered by heedless sheep, for several plump domed discs, white above, dark brown below, lay waiting on a platter, their edges just beginning to fray. There was the brisk scent of bacon, butter and orange marmalade on the table, there was tea in the pot, and toast was browning nicely under the chrome of the Aga's shining lid. Truly, except for one tiny shadow or flaw - like that of a small dent spoiling the smooth reflections in the chrome - it was a wonderful morning.
   And their breakfast - despite the fact that almost all of the discussion was now about departing - was a very happy affair. Leaving an island, even in these sheltered waters, is not quite the same as closing the front door and turning a key. The chickens and ducks could look after themselves perfectly well for weeks at a time, and the sheep and cattle would hardly notice our leaving, but although the garden was much diminished from the times when it supplied the house with vegetables throughout the year, they would still make sure that its wall was sound and its gates secure.
   Then some of the fields' gates had to be left open along the length of the island to allow the sheep and cattle to move and graze freely; whilst others should be closed to stop them overgrazing. The Aga's fuel had to be stopped; the workshop full of tools, always the most tempting to any uninvited visitor, had to be securely padlocked; the mooring of the boats, small and large, had to be checked.
   That morning there were far too may things to attend to. But even before they left the island he knew that he owed to her at least to try to explain what he had done, and, perhaps more important, why he had done it. He was not looking for forgiveness here; he did not feel that there was anything to forgive. Childishly, and as much as he had enjoyed every moment of it even more than he had expected, he even felt a kind of resentment that she had made this choice necessary after all.
   They had delivered his rescuer to the little station, his own miraculous deliverer for whom he had now, he had to admit, very different feelings from those of two days before; and they had all three enjoyed the usual festivities of departure: the hugs, the kisses, the promises - for two of them at least now much more piquant promises: her tenderness to him that night and also in the morning had been as much a revelation as her eagerness to please him in so many different ways.
   Now the road out of town was rising steeply in its long series of sharp curves around which the descending traffic was often travelling far too fast, and special care was also needed not to stuck too close behind an over-laden lorry - like the one that now appeared right in front of them, groaning with the effort, sagging on its springs, and belching blue-black smoke. And at least one of its injectors need cleaning, his thoughts registered automatically.
   "There's something I need to tell you," he began, with as much masculine carelessness as he could manage, whilst he also steered around the last of the bends, and as the road became, just briefly, level.
   "No, you don't." she replied. "I know already."
   He looked at her, astonished. She seemed perfectly composed: not angry; not shocked; not disappointed - not anything. She was just watching the road with her usual calm attention.
   "You do? How do you know?"
   "I wasn't sure last night what it was you both wanted. And anyway, I was soon asleep. But this morning - " she paused, and made a little shrug: "I know the sounds you make."
   "I - " he began. Or rather, he opened his mouth to say 'I' - then intended to follow this with some cautious response. But they never learnt what this might have been, for his voice tumbled backwards down into his throat instead, and out of it came instead a great shuddering guttural sob in place of the words. This took his breath away. And then, to his continued dismay, what followed made him completely incapable of speech, for no sooner had he taken another breath to try again, than from an even greater depth another of the same horrible noises emerged - a horrible tearing gagging groan, as loud as a shout.
   He simply could not stop it. As if to tell her: this is just nerves; just a minor problem; in a moment I'll tell you what I wanted to say, he reached out to take her hand. At once she clasped it warmly.
But the noises still would not stop. Instead they found a regular rhythm, as if controlled by some hard-wound clockwork deep down below his lungs, which, once started, could only be allowed to wind out all its energy until it stopped. So he drove one-handed - on this fortunately familiar road; fortunate as well, having passed the belching, grinding lorry, to find no traffic either before or behind - and all the time this wretched retching outpouring of grief and anger and pain and disappointment, misery, failure, guilt, came staggering up from deep within him; great gouts of stale black ancient vomit, gulping in air, shaking his head, shuddering with the effort - only to have more and more forced up, all the unhappiness and loss and despair that he had never allowed out until now.
   He realised that he was quite incapable of either controlling it or stopping it. Instead he made himself abandon attempting either. Beside the road a smooth dark river appeared, then the banks beside the road rose and higher closed it off from sight; and then it was visible again, and beyond it was a long black loch glittering in the sunlight; then there were more trees over the road; then the river again, but foaming around boulders now and sparkling over shallows and the moorland sloping steeply upwards either side above the rock walls. And all this while he watched the landscape unfold as if in a dream, as if entirely disconnected from the groaning, gulping, and yelping that was still welling up from within him.
   He continued like this for nearly ten miles. There were no tears, just these endless guttural groaning gasps. It was quite horrible in a way. It disgusted him to hear himself. And yet it also seemed to be the only way to rid himself of the demons within. Then there was a much bigger loch beside the road with woods around and a fine mountain slope of heather and scree beyond; and space to park the car. No-one else was there this early in the morning. He stopped the car, and finally was quiet. Without a word they got out of the car and went to sit on a bench to look out over the loch. They sat there not speaking until he was breathing normally again, and finally he said: "I'm all right now. We can go on."

Colin Hannaford,

"Soldier."
05/02/05

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