Fossils
MODERN LIFE SHORT STORY BY LÉONIE GREGSON
Hannah felt compelled to protect this stranger on the coastal path…
Why did it worry her so much? He was just standing up there, staring out to sea.
It didn’t have to mean anything, did it? She was being silly.
He was probably just a birdwatcher, too engrossed to mind about the weather.
That’s what they were like. Her Robert had been just like that.
A salty blast flattened the oilskin against her chest as she climbed up to the top of the rise, scattering a noisy squabble of herring gulls.
Before her, the ground fell away into a vast amphitheatre of sea and sky, the steely surface of the water pinched with white-caps.
Closer to shore, waves surged and receded, leaving a lacework of foam.
The man did not turn at her approach.
He looked to be in his early seventies. He wasn’t tall; perhaps about the same height as Robert.
A good head of grey hair; beard neatly trimmed.
And a tweed jacket, comfortably worn, with brown leather patches on the elbows.
Slightly too big for him, she thought, although perhaps it would have fitted once.
The man spoke to her then, without turning.
How high is this cliff, would you say?
He said it as though it were the most natural question in the world. And, of course, it was.
She drew a little closer.
“About five hundred feet, I think. Why?”
No reply.
“I mean, how high does one need it to be?”
He wrapped his arms around his body.
Poor soul, she thought. He must be wet through.
“I’m Hannah,” she said.
Again there was no answer but the fretful stir of the sea.
“Not thinking of jumping off, are you?” she asked. “Because I’d really rather you didn’t.”
Strands of hair whipped her cheeks.
“Shall we have a seat for a while? I think I have a scone wrapped up here in one of my pockets.
“It might have gone a bit hard, but you’re welcome to it.”
A low, exasperated groan escaped him.
“Just my luck. A do-gooder. Are you a lady priest or something?”
The hint of a Scottish accent.
“Do I look like one?”
Now he turned, taking in her olive green Barbour, the quick-dry walking trousers and sturdy boots.
“You look like a retired social worker. Just as bad. Aye, worse, possibly.”
She forced a laugh.
“Try retired geology teacher.”
The rain was easing now. Eddies of wind stirred the coarse cliff grasses.
Hannah glanced down the line of cliffs and out along the headland. It seemed they were completely alone.
“What do you think it will feel like?” she asked after a few moments.
He reached into his inside pocket and brought out a quarter-pint of Bell’s whisky.
Unscrewing the cap, he offered her the bottle first.
She was about to decline, but changed her mind and reached for it without moving towards him, forcing him to draw back a little from the edge so he could pass it to her.
She took a quick swallow and handed it back.
As the fire slid down her throat, warming her, she made her way over to the bench and gently wiped her sleeve across the brass memorial plaque.
She knew the inscription by heart.
Robert Duncan Klein, 1944-2019. A hand that can be clasp’d no more.
She sat. About a mile out to sea, a small cream and blue passenger ferry cut cleanly through the waves.
She watched it for a while, with the sense that she was filling in time before something happened.
She didn’t like the feeling.
Moments later, the bench dipped as the man sat beside her.
Sneaking a look at his profile, she noticed that the silver hairs of his beard grew in a delicate whorl, like a fingerprint, and there was a network of tiny broken blood vessels in his cheek.
The faint scent of stale cigar-smoke rose from his damp clothes.
Robert had allowed himself two cigars a week, on Friday and Sunday afternoons, sitting in his old high-backed wicker chair in the back porch.
Even now, whenever she slid open the wardrobe, she caught the hint of old smoke, though the clothes on his side were long gone.
“The house is too quiet,” the man said.
Rummaging in his trouser pocket, he brought out a red spotted handkerchief, but then just sat holding it, stroking the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, almost tenderly, as if it were someone’s hand.
“My wife,” he said. “A month ago today.”
“Oh,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
That silence. Yes, she remembered it all too well.
The constant TV, radio – anything, dawn to dusk, just to fill it.
Falling asleep in the middle of the day with her face buried in his old brushed-cotton shirt, then waking hours later in a momentary cocoon of blissful normality before the bleak wave of memory rushed in.
“I’d like to hear about her.”
Grey-bellied clouds shifted above them. The sea below was patient but hungering.
“She was a Londoner, Frannie. Independent. Fiery.
“When we met . . .” His voice grew thin and he took a long breath. “I first saw her . . .”
He brought out the bottle again, taking a quick gulp, then kept it on his lap with the handkerchief, fingers spread protectively over both.
Hannah touched his arm, then gave it a tentative squeeze.
Beneath the heavy tweed it felt thin.
He swallowed, collecting himself.
“Geology, eh? My degree was in history. Political history.
“I would have loved to keep studying, but it wasn’t to be.” He put on a strict voice. “My father valued practicality above all else in life.”
“Political history’s hardly a frivolous subject,” she pointed out.
“He arranged for me to take up an apprenticeship at his accountancy firm, Wyatt and Turnbull.
“Lovely old building on Henderson Street in Leith. It’s now a Wetherspoons.”
“Always the way.” Her body was growing stiff, but she wouldn’t leave him, not yet. “Do you have family?”
“A son. He stays in Glasgow. He’s two wee girls, Ava and Lily.
“He split with the mother, but they live near.”
He gave a laugh.
“Iain! He’s the exact opposite of me. Calls himself an artist. Drifts through life, no proper job.
“Aye, well . . .” He shifted, as though he were about to get to his feet.
“An artist, you say?” Hannah asked quickly.
“He dabbles. Painting, woodwork. At Christmas he gave us a wee table he’d built.
“Bleached wood, with a sort of rusty metal frame. Said it was made from ‘found objects’.
“Ugliest thing I’d ever seen. When he came to visit he asked where it was.
“I had to tell him, ‘We’d nowhere to put it, son. It’s away up in the loft.’
“He just laughed, but I could see the hurt in his eyes. Stupid.
“Next time, I’ll . . .” He fell silent, realising what he’d said.
A shard of sun speared through the clouds, turning the cliffs a dazzling white.
Hannah took out her glasses.
“May I borrow that fine handkerchief of yours?”
“Keep it.”
She blew on the lenses and began to polish as she talked, not looking at him.
“Like your Iain, I was an only child. My father was a gentle man – we were very close.
“He worked long hours through the week, but at weekends we would go on walks along the beach together, looking for rocks and shells.
“Starfish. All sorts. That’s probably where I got my interest in such things.”
The man picked at the label of the whisky bottle.
She didn’t know if he was listening.
“One Sunday, just after I’d turned sixteen, I came home after spending the afternoon out with friends.
“I was wearing my best dress, pale blue with tiny polka dots and a thin gold belt. Quite the thing.
“I sat down for dinner with my parents and we were chatting away when my father made a small mistake.
“He reached for something across the table and knocked my glass of Ribena, and it spilt over my dress, making a terrible stain.
“Well, I screamed. You can imagine.
“He was very apologetic, but I stormed off to my bedroom and slammed the door.”
“Ha. Typical teenager.”
Two birds rose in a flurry of beating wings from below the cliff rim.
“Next morning when I came down for breakfast, Dad had already left for work.
“That wasn’t unusual. It was only when he didn’t come home that evening that we realised something was wrong.
“Then we discovered that his car was still inside the garage.
“We found him in the workshop out back. He’d hanged himself.”
“Good God,” the man said. “I’m sorry.”
She’d known, of course – on a rational level, at least – that it had not been her fault.
There had been hints that all was not well: whispered late-night conversations about debts, a threat of redundancy, arguments.
But a teenage girl has more important things on her mind.
“It is a terrible way to lose a parent.” Hannah kept her voice neutral. “At any age.”
The wind traced uneasy patterns in the grasses.
There came a sudden movement as the bench released him.
“You know, the rock and clay here are more than a hundred million years old.”
Now she spoke with an urgent intensity.
“When the tide is out, you can find the most incredible fossils on this shore.
“Ammonites, sponges, sea urchins. Ancient
things . . .”
He stood with his back to her, staring at the sea once more.
“When I was a boy, our mam used to take us to the beach at Craigielaw – me and my brother, and our cousins, Alice and Rosie.
“Alice was older; she’d no time for wee boys, but Rosie – she was grand fun!
We’d run off exploring, collecting shells . . .
He turned to Hannah.
“We found an ammonite once – perfect spiral, big as my hand.”
He spread his fingers.
“I let Rosie keep it.”
When he smiled his face changed completely, the watery blue eyes
now warm and bright.
“Did you know that they are called ammonites because of Pliny the Elder?” she asked, squinting up at him. “The story goes, he thought the spiral shell looked like a ram’s horn so he named them ammonis cornua – the horns of Ammon, the Egyptian god.
“Whenever you see paintings or sculptures of Ammon he’s usually shown with ram’s horns.
“That’s where it came from.”
“You’d have been a good teacher.”
A fishing boat motored homeward under the cliffs, followed by a gang of gulls beating hard against the wind.
She watched it disappear around the point.
The faint smile was still on his lips.
“Rosie Baird. I’ve not thought of her in years. They moved away to Ontario after my aunt died.
“You know, it’s strange –”
He broke off, examining Hannah’s face.
“You’ve something of Rosie about you.”
Hannah laughed.
“I’m serious. I remember that wee face as though it were yesterday, and you have the same turned-up nose.”
He drained the last of the bottle and tossed it on the bench beside her with a clunk.
“Close your eyes,” he told her.
She wanted to grab his arm, to shout, cry, plead – but in the end, all she said was, in barely a whisper, “At least tell me your name.”
“Muir. Alistair Muir.”
She closed her eyes as he’d asked. Covered them with both hands. Braced herself.
For a while there was nothing but the rumble below and the pestering cries of the gulls.
The thud of her own heart. How often, in those months after Robert died, had she imagined herself here, at the same crumbling edge?
The short plunge through whistling air, the cold rushing up to meet her, and then . . . nothing.
The wash and pull of water over a limp body.
Now she could hear a faint sound over the stirring of the waves.
What was it? He was murmuring something – a prayer?
She didn’t open her eyes. The low wind carried the words away.
She sat for what seemed a very long time.
The sun must have come out again. She could feel warmth on her cheeks.
And then he spoke once more, and this time she did look, blinking into the light.
He was standing right at the edge, yes, but facing her.
She shielded her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Alistair,” she said. “What did you say?”
“The fossils . . .” Alistair took a small step towards her. Then another.
“At low tide, Hannah, will you show me?”
She was already on her feet, reaching for his hands, gripping them fiercely in her own.
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