The Lewis Man Read Online Free PDF Page B

and the baby.’
    Fin frowned. ‘What about you?’
    ‘Mum and I are still at the bungalow down the hill.’ He nodded his head vaguely in the direction of the house that Marsaili had inherited from Artair. ‘The Reverend Murray won’t let me go up to see them at the manse.’
    Fin was incredulous. ‘Why not? You’re the baby’s father, for God’s sake.’
    ‘With no means of supporting either his daughter or her mother. Occasionally Donna can sneak her up to see me at the bungalow, but usually we have to meet in town.’
    Fin swallowed his anger. No point in directing it at Fionnlagh. Time enough for that. Another place, another person. ‘Is your mother at home?’ It was an innocent enough question, and yet they both knew how charged it was.
    ‘She’s been away in Glasgow, sitting exams for university entrance.’ Fionnlagh registered Fin’s surprise. ‘She didn’t tell you?’
    ‘We haven’t been in touch.’
    ‘Oh.’ His eyes wandered back down the hill towards the Macinnes bungalow. ‘I always thought that you and Mum might get back together again.’
    Fin’s smile was touched by sadness, and perhaps regret. ‘Marsaili and I couldn’t make it work all those years ago, Fionnlagh. Why should it be any different now?’ He hesitated. ‘Is she still in Glasgow?’
    ‘No. She came back early. Flew in this morning. A family emergency.’

SEVEN
     
    I can hear them talking in the hall as if I’m deaf. As if I wasn’t here. As if I was dead. Sometimes I wish I was.
    I don’t know why I should have to wear my coat. It’s warm in the house. No need for a coat. Or my hat. My lovely soft old cap. Kept my head warm for years.
    I’m never sure these days when I come through from the bedroom which Mary I will find. Sometimes it’s the good Mary. Sometimes it’s the bad Mary. They look the same, but they are different people. It was the bad Mary this morning. Raising her voice, telling me what to do, making me put on my coat. Sitting here. Waiting. For what?
    And what’s in the case? She said it was my stuff. But what did she mean? If she means my clothes, I have a wardrobe full of them, and they would never fit in there. Or all my papers. Accounts going back years. Photographs. Everything. It certainly wouldn’t all go in a case this size. Maybe we’re going on holiday.
    I hear Marsaili’s voice now. ‘Mum, that’s just not fair.’ Mum . Of course. I keep forgetting that Mary’s her mum.
    And Mary says, speaking English of course, because she never did learn the Gaelic, ‘Fair? You think it’s fair on me, Marsaili? I’m seventy years old. I can’t take it any more. At least twice a week he soils the bed. If he goes out on his own he gets lost. Like a damned dog. He’s just not to be trusted. Neighbours bring him back. If I say white he says black, if I say black he says white.’
    I never say black or white. What is she talking about? It’s the bad Mary talking.
    ‘Mum, you’ve been married forty-eight years.’ Marsaili’s voice again.
    And Mary says, ‘He’s not the man I married, Marsaili. I’m living with a stranger. Everything’s an argument. He just won’t accept that he’s got dementia, that he doesn’t remember things any more. It’s always my fault. He does things then denies it. He broke the kitchen window the other day. I don’t know why. Took a hammer to it. Said he needed to let the dog in. Marsaili, we haven’t had a dog since we left the farm. Then five minutes later he asks who broke the window, and when I tell him he did he says no he didn’t, I must have done it. Me! Marsaili, I’m sick of it.’
    ‘What about daycare? He goes three days a week, doesn’t he? Maybe we could get them to take him for five, or even six.’
    ‘No!’ Mary’s shouting now. ‘Sending him off to daycare just makes it worse. A few hours of sanity each day, the house to myself, and all I can think of is that he’ll be back again in the evening to make my life hell again.’
    I