Whit

CHAPTER TWENTY - FIVE

I sat with my great-aunt, gradually piecing together the story, going over it from what seemed like slightly different angles in her memory. The story of my Grandfather being found on the sandy ground outside the mobile shop at Luskentyre on the night of the storm was all true, but what we had never been told was that the sisters had found an army pay-book inside the jacket he had been wearing.

They had also kept quiet the fact that the next day, after the storm, Aasni had walked along the beach at Luskentyre and found a zippered canvas hold-all, washed up on the sands. It contained a pair of brown leather shoes, sodden with sea water, and a money sack containing two hundred and ninety ten-pound notes, all from the Royal Scottish Linen Bank.

They wondered if perhaps there had been a shipwreck during the storm, and Grandfather and the money had been washed ashore from the foundering ship, but when they asked Mr McIlone and some other locals, then and later, nobody had heard of a ship going down that night off Harris.

My Grandfather had been in no fit state to appreciate all this, lying with his zhlonjiz poultice over his head wound, hallucinating. When he eventually woke up days later and claimed to be called Salvador Whit, the sisters thought the better of disabusing him of this notion while he was in such an obviously fragile and fevered state. They had already agreed to hide the money in their special chest, worried that the small fortune they had found washed up represented the proceeds of some nefarious exploit; when Grandfather started pleading with them to look for just such a canvas bag, they became even more worried.

By the time my Grandfather was well enough to start looking for the canvas bag himself, both Aasni and Zhobelia had rather fallen for him, and jointly arrived at the conclusion that if he was given the money - whether it was rightfully his or not - he would probably disappear out of their lives. The two sisters agreed that they would share the white man, assuming that that was what he wanted, and they would keep the money safe, only revealing its existence if there should arise some emergency which could be dealt with in no other way except financially.

They also agreed that, one day, they would reveal the truth to their joint husband, if it seemed like a good idea, and they were certain that he wouldn't beat them or leave them or cast them out. Somehow, that day never did arrive.

Eventually, one afternoon at High Easter Offerance in 1979, they decided to dispose of the money altogether, after something that Zhobelia saw (she had so far been very vague as to exactly what it was that had had this effect). They originally intended to burn it in the tandoor oven in the farm kitchen, but even in the middle of the night people sometimes came down to the kitchen, so that might be risky. They decided they would incinerate the notes in the stove in the mansion-house kitchen, where the sisters usually carried out their experiments with Scottish-Asiatic cuisine.

Zhobelia didn't actually know what had happened in the kitchen on the night of the fire, but had managed to convince herself that the money - evil influence to the last - had somehow caused the pressure-cooker explosion and subsequent conflagration, and that it was therefore all her fault. She had seen Aasni's ghost in her dreams, and once, a week after the fire, she had woken up in her bed in the darkness, and been quite fully awake but unable to move or breathe properly, and knew that Aasni's ghost was there in the room with her, sitting on her chest, turning her lungs into a pressure cooker for her guilt. She knew that Aasni would never forgive her or leave her alone so she decided that night that she would leave the Community and seek out her old family to ask their forgiveness.

The Asis family had moved too, setting up home in the Thornliebank district of Glasgow, from where they ran a chain of food shops and Indian restaurants. There were still Asis family members in the Hebrides but they were a younger generation; the people Aasni and Zhobelia had known had all decanted to Glasgow, and apparently there had been great debate amongst them regarding whether they wanted Zhobelia back at all. Zhobelia had gone to stay with Uncle Mo instead - swearing her son to secrecy in the process - while the Asis family were making up their collective mind.

Then Zhobelia had had a stroke, and needed more constant care than Mo could provide alone; she was moved out to a nursing home in Spayedthwaite. Uncle Mo had eventually contacted both our family and the Asis clan, pleading for support, and received guarantees that the financial burden of looking after his mother would be shared by all three parties. Later, the Asis family insisted that Zhobelia be moved closer to them, and the Gloamings Nursing Home, Mauchtie was the result.

'They come to see me, but they talk too fast,' Zhobelia told me. 'Calli and Astar have been too, you know, but they are very quiet. I think they're embarrassed. The boy doesn't come very often at all. Not that I care. Stinks of drink, did I tell you that?'

'Yes, Great-aunt,' I said, squeezing her hand. 'Yes, you did. Listen-'

'They look after us here. That Mrs Joshua, though; she's a horror. Teeth!' Zhobelia shook her head, tutting. 'Miss Carlisle, now; soft in the head,' she told me, tapping her temple. 'No, they look after us here. Though you can lie in bed and nobody will talk to you. Sit in your chair; the same. Rushed off their feet. Apparently the owner is a doctor, which is good, isn't it? Not that I've ever seen him, of course. But still. Television. We watch a lot of television. In the lounge. Lots of young Australian people. Shocking.'

'Great-aunt?' I said, still troubled by something Zhobelia had said, and starting to link it with a couple of other things I'd been confused about earlier.

'Hmm? Yes dear?'

'What was it you saw that made you want to burn the money. Please; tell me.'

'I told you; I saw it.'

'What did you see?'

'I saw the money was going to bring a disaster. It just came to me. Didn't do any good, of course, these things rarely do, but we had to do something.'

'Do you mean you had a vision?' I asked, confused.

'What?' Zhobelia said, frowning. 'Yes. Yes; a vision. Of course. I think the Gift passed on to you after me, except you got it as healing. Think yourself lucky; healing sounds easy compared to those visions; I was glad to see the back of them. It'll pass on from you, too, eventually; only one of us ever has it at a time. Just one of those things that has to be borne.' She patted my hand.

I stared at her, mouth agape.

'Grandmother Hadra's mother had the seeing, like me. Then when she died, Hadra found she could talk to the dead. When Hadra had her stroke back in the old country it passed to me and I started seeing things. I was about twenty. Then, after the fire, you started healing.' She smiled. 'That was it, you see? I could go then. I was tired of it all and anyway I wasn't going to be any more use to anybody, was I? I knew the seeing would stop after you started healing and I knew everybody else would look after you and, anyway, I knew Aasni would blame me for not seeing it properly in the first place and getting her killed; she was annoying that way and she'd always gone on at me for not treating the Gift with more respect; said it would have been better if she'd had the visions, but she didn't; it was me.'

I don't know how long the next moment lasted. Long enough for me to be aware that Great-aunt Zhobelia was patting my cheek and looking with some concern into my eyes.

'Are you all right, dear?'

I tried to talk, but couldn't. I coughed, finding my mouth and throat quite dry. Tears came to my eyes and I doubled up, coughing painfully but still trying to keep quiet. Zhobelia tutted and clapped me on the back as my face lowered to the bedclothes.

'Great-aunt,' I spluttered eventually, wiping the tears from my eyes and still swallowing dryly with every few words. 'Are you telling me that you had visions, not Grandfather; that you saw-'

'The fire; I saw a disaster coming, from the money. I didn't know it was going to be a fire, but I knew it was coming. That was the last thing I saw. Before that; oh, lots of things.' She laughed quietly. 'Your poor Grandfather. He only ever had one real seeing; I think I must have loaned him the Gift for the time he was lying on the floor of the van, covered in all that tea and lard. Poor dear; he thought it was this twenty-ninth of February thing that made people different. There was something special about him, though. There must have been. The only thing that ever really surprised me in my whole life was him turning up like that; I hadn't any inkling of that. None at all. That was how we knew he was special. But visions? No, he had that one, and woke up with it and started babbling, trying to make something of it. Just like a man; give them a toy and they have to play with it. Never content. All the rest though…' She set her mouth in a tight line, shaking her head.

'All the rest… what?' I asked, gulping.

'The visions. The seaweed factory, the hammock, those Fossil people, Mrs Woodbean, your father being born, and then you, and the fire; I saw all that, not him. And if I didn't actually see it every time, at least I knew what I wanted - what Aasni and I wanted, and got your Grandfather to do what we thought was right, what we thought was needed, for all of us. That's the trouble with men, you see? They think they know what they want, but they don't, not usually. You have to tell them. You have to give them a bit of a hand now and again. So I told him. You know; pillow-talk. Well, suggested. You can't be too careful. But if it's a warning of a disaster, well, there you are; you see what happened with the money.'

'You foresaw the fire at the mansion house?' I whispered, and suddenly my eyes were filling with tears again, though this time not because my throat was sore.

'A disaster, dear,' Zhobelia said matter-of-factly, seeming not to notice the tears welling in my eyes. 'I saw a disaster, that was all. If I'd seen it was going to be a fire then of course the last thing I'd have suggested doing with the money would have been burning it. All I saw was a disaster, not exactly what sort. Should have known it would still happen, of course.' She put on a sour face and shook her head. 'The Gift is like that, you see. But you have to try. Here, my dear,' she said, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve. 'Dry your eyes.'

'Thank you.' I dabbed at my tears.

'You're welcome.' She sighed, settling her cardigan about her. 'I was glad to see the back of it, no mistake. Hope it hasn't been the burden to you it was to me, but if it is, well, there's nothing much to be done, I'm afraid.' She looked concernedly at me. 'How has it been for you, dear? Are you bearing up? Take my advice: let the men-folk deal with the consequences. They'll take the credit for any good that comes from it, anyway. But it's so nice when it goes; that's the blessing, you see; that only one person has it at a time. It's such a relief to have surprises again. It was a lovely surprise to see you this evening. I had no idea you were going to appear. Just lovely.'

I handed the handkerchief back to Zhobelia; she stuffed its sodden ball up her sleeve; it was the shape of the inside of my fist. 'How long has this… Gift… ?'

'What, dear? How long will you have it? I don't know.'

'How long has it existed? Is it just in our family?'

'Just in the women; any of the women, but only ever one at a time. How long? I don't know. There are some silly ideas… I've heard certain daftnesses…' She shook her head quickly, dismissively. 'But you don't want to concern yourself with them. People are so credulous, you know.'

'Credulous,' I said, suppressing a laugh and a cough at the same time.

'Oh,' she said, tutting and shaking her head, 'you wouldn't believe.' She reached out and held my hand again, patting it absently and smiling at me.

I sat there, looking at her, feeling half hysterical with all the things she'd told me, wanting to howl with despair and rage at the madness of the world and burst out in screams of riotous laughter for exactly the same reason.

What was I to do? What mattered most out of all I had discovered? I tried to think, while Zhobelia sat blinking and smiling at me and patting my hand.

'Great-aunt,' I said eventually, putting my other hand on top of hers. 'Would you like to come back?'

'Back?'

'Back with me, to the Community, to the farm, to High Easter Offerance. To stay; to live with us.'

'But her ghost!' she said quickly, eyes childishly wide. Then she frowned and looked to one side. 'Though you weren't a ghost,' she muttered. 'Maybe it would be all right now. I don't know…'

'I'm sure it would be all right,' I said. 'I think you belong back with us.'

'But if it isn't all right? You weren't a ghost, but what if she is?'

'I'm sure she won't be. Just try it, Great-aunt,' I said. 'Come back for a week or two and see if you like it. If you don't, you could always come back here, or maybe stay somewhere nearer by us.'

'But I need looking after, dear.'

'We'll look after you,' I told her. 'I hope I'll be going back soon, too; I'll look after you.'

She seemed to think. 'No television?' she asked.

'Well, no,' I admitted.

'Huh. Never mind,' she said. 'All the same, anyway. Lose track, you know.' She stared at me vacantly for a moment. 'Are you sure they'd want to see me again?'

'Everybody would,' I said, and felt sure that it was true.

She stared at me. 'This isn't a dream, is it?'

I smiled. 'No, it isn't a dream, and I am not a ghost.'

'Good. I'd hate it to be a dream, because I'd have to wake up.' She yawned. I found myself yawning too, unable to stop myself.

'You're tired, dear,' she said, patting my hands. 'You sleep here. That's what to do.' She looked over at the other bed. 'There; have the other bed. You will stay, won't you?'

I looked round, trying to judge where I might sling my hammock. The room didn't look promising. In truth I was so tired I could have slept on the floor, and quite possibly might.

'Would it be all right if I stayed?' I asked.

'Of course,' she said. 'There. Sleep there.'

And so I slept in Great-aunt Zhobelia's room. I couldn't find anywhere to hang my hammock so I made a little nest for myself on the floor with bedclothes from the other bed and curled up there, in between Zhobelia and the empty bed.

My great-aunt wished me goodnight and switched off the light. It was quite easy to go to sleep. I think my brain had given up reeling by that point; it had gone back to being shocked. The last thing I recall was my great-aunt whispering to herself, 'Little Isis. Who'd have thought it?'

Then I fell asleep.

I was awakened by the noise of doors slamming and the rattle of tea cups. Daylight lined the curtains. My empty stomach was growling at me. My head felt light. I rolled over stiffly and looked up to see Great-aunt Zhobelia looking down at me from her bed, a soft smile on her face.

'Good morning,' she said. 'You're still real.'

'Good morning, Great-aunt,' I croaked. 'Yes; still real, still not a dream or a ghost.'

'I'm so glad.' Something rattled in the hall outside her door. 'You'd better be off soon, or they'll catch you.'

'All right.' I got up, quickly remade the other bed, took the cover from the bottom of the door and replaced Zhobelia's clothes on the bed. I ran a hand through my hair and rubbed my face. I squatted at the side of her bed, holding her hand again. 'Do you remember what I asked you last night?' I whispered. 'Will you come back to stay with us?'

'Oh, that? I don't know,' she said. 'I'd forgotten. Do you really mean that? I don't know. I'll think about it, dear, if I remember.'

'Please do, Great-aunt.'

She frowned. 'Did I tell you last night about the things I used to see? About the Gift? I think I did. I'd have told you before, but you weren't old enough to understand, and I had to get away from her ghost. Did I tell you?'

'Yes,' I told her, gently squeezing her soft, dry hand. 'Yes, you told me about the visions. You passed on the Gift of knowing about them.'

'Oh, good. I'm glad.'

I heard voices outside in the corridor. They went away, but I stood anyway and kissed her on the forehead. 'I must go now,' I told her. 'I'll come back to see you, though. And I'll take you away, if you want to come home.'

'Yes, yes, dear. You be a good girl, now. And remember: don't let the men know.'

'I'll remember. Great-aunt… ?'

'Yes, dear?'

I glanced at the shoe-box, which sat on her bedside cabinet. 'May I take the pay-book and the ten-pound note with me? I promise I'll return them.'

'Of course, dear. Would you like the photographs as well?'

'I'll take the one of Grandfather, if I may.'

'Oh, yes. Take the lot if you want. I don't care. I stopped caring a long time ago. Caring is for the young, that's what I say. Not that they care either. But you do. No; you take care.'

I put the photograph, pay-book and bank-note in my inside jacket pocket. 'Thank you,' I told her.

'You're welcome.'

'Goodbye, Great-aunt.'

'Oh yes. Mm-hmm. Thank you for coming to see me.'

I peeked through the curtains to check the coast was clear, slid up the sash window, dropped my kit-bag onto the path beneath and jumped out after it. I walked smartly away and was at Hamilton station within the hour.

A train took me to Glasgow.

I sat looking out at the countryside and the buildings and the railway lines, shaking my head and muttering to myself. I neither knew nor cared what sort of effect this behaviour had on my fellow passengers, though I noticed nobody sat beside me, despite the fact that the train seemed full.

Zhobelia. Visions. Money. Salvador. Whit. Black… All this on top of everything else I'd learned in the last few days. Where did this stop? What extremity of revelation could still lie in store for me? I could not imagine, and did want to envision. My life had changed and changed again in so many ways in such a short time recently. Everything I'd known had been exploded, thrown into chaos and confusion, mixed and tumbled and strewn, made nebulous and inchoate and senseless.

I scarcely knew what to think, where to begin trying to think so that I might piece everything back together again, if that were even remotely possible. At least I had had the presence of mind to ask Zhobelia for the ten-pound note and the pay-book. I supposed that I was clinging of necessity to the most practical course that presented itself, clutching at reality like a shellfish to a familiar rock while the waves of something unimaginably more vast and powerful washed over me, threatening to dislodge my sanity. I focused upon the immediate practicalities of the moment, and found some relief and some release in thinking through what had to be done now to bring the more mundane problems I was faced with to some sort of resolution. By the time the train pulled into Glasgow Central station, then, I had decided on the plan for the next part of my campaign.