about stone circles, about the people who built them. Then the option of buying the manse came up – in a stone-strewn glen, thank you very much. The church was selling it on their website. Michael, casting round for a new charge, a . . . something. Saw his grandpa’s old house, surplus to requirements. Saw himself the same. Saw the possibility of this place, the cleanness and the rightness of it.
He didn’t want to do it any more, he’d said. Preaching . (Although that’s exactly what he’s doing tonight. She watches him lean his bum against the counter, clear his throat. The skin of his Adam’s apple tightens. Lips soft. She’s nervous for him; yet she wants him to fail.) Already made enquiries, he’d said. Friends in the party thought he’d be perfect. The local touch, the lad come hame. Hannah had heard him speak about Kilmacarra, though they’d never been. But if it made him happy? Then she could pretend the sacrifice was all her own, that she was doing it to ‘save her marriage’. It was perfect! she told everyone. Fresh challenge for Michael; she’d get to live in a place she’d been trying to invent; country air; no crime; aren’t you jealous? Too perfect to listen to Euan’s protests and the too-quick chronology, and the whispering in her head. My God, it was all the answers.
‘Ross,’ she murmurs. ‘Sit at peace.’ She gives her youngest another chunk of scone.
Moving here, to Kilmacarra, gave enough oomph to the book idea to actually sell it: first to herself, then her hungry agent, her publisher. And – in a break of luck that has never ever before happened in the history of Hannah Jane Anderson – to an actual TV production company who have punted it on, provisionally, to actual TV. In a running motion of tumbling dominoes, the thing has raced off, with very little substance to sustain it. What was she thinking? How do you write a convincing cavewoman? We’ve done teenage vampires to death, darling. We need something fresh. But still kind of . . . savage, yeah?
The first speaker of the evening is her husband. His cheeks are scarlet. He has been weird all day. A thrill as the room falls silent. It’s a layered silence, of coughs and chewing, of expectations and disbeliefs. Amuse us, says the crowd. You’re talking shite, it echoes back on itself. The chairwoman smiles, Michael begins. A heckle right away.
‘One, three, six, nine,
We don’t want your wind tur-bines.’
A flash of camera clicking, as the Courier chap pivots to catch the culprits. The beast is stirring. Hannah’s skin spangles; a revenant of that forgotten life of opinions and beliefs when she could wear her hair spiked and shout and feel and march. March for the miners, march against Nazis, sit down to stop traffic at Charing Cross. March with placards, with paper bags on heads (that was a genius CND protest; thousands of them lying ‘dead’ in George Square). Sometimes, you didn’t know quite what the march was for, but it would be lunchtime and a Socialist Worker seller would shout ‘Are yous coming on the march?’ And the entirety of the Queen Margaret Union would rise from the refectory and take to the streets.
Her son wriggles on her knee.
‘Why are they shouting at Daddy?’
‘They’re not, sweetie,’ she whispers in his ear. ‘They’re singing.’
She doesn’t intend to say anything tonight (translation: Please, Hannah. You can’t be seen to be politica l ). But her mouth has that cold, nervy dryness, running all the way to her throat. It tastes of outrage. I don’t want this. I am middle class, articulate. I believe in democracy, for Godsake. You cannot make me. You can’t .
She’s always sensed she didn’t care for windfarms; but had listened without dissent to Michael’s careful justifications. Because he’s always careful, isn’t he? And this is not the time for further crackly edges to their life, not now when they are smoothing, buffing, my God you can almost see
He didn’t want to do it any more, he’d said. Preaching . (Although that’s exactly what he’s doing tonight. She watches him lean his bum against the counter, clear his throat. The skin of his Adam’s apple tightens. Lips soft. She’s nervous for him; yet she wants him to fail.) Already made enquiries, he’d said. Friends in the party thought he’d be perfect. The local touch, the lad come hame. Hannah had heard him speak about Kilmacarra, though they’d never been. But if it made him happy? Then she could pretend the sacrifice was all her own, that she was doing it to ‘save her marriage’. It was perfect! she told everyone. Fresh challenge for Michael; she’d get to live in a place she’d been trying to invent; country air; no crime; aren’t you jealous? Too perfect to listen to Euan’s protests and the too-quick chronology, and the whispering in her head. My God, it was all the answers.
‘Ross,’ she murmurs. ‘Sit at peace.’ She gives her youngest another chunk of scone.
Moving here, to Kilmacarra, gave enough oomph to the book idea to actually sell it: first to herself, then her hungry agent, her publisher. And – in a break of luck that has never ever before happened in the history of Hannah Jane Anderson – to an actual TV production company who have punted it on, provisionally, to actual TV. In a running motion of tumbling dominoes, the thing has raced off, with very little substance to sustain it. What was she thinking? How do you write a convincing cavewoman? We’ve done teenage vampires to death, darling. We need something fresh. But still kind of . . . savage, yeah?
The first speaker of the evening is her husband. His cheeks are scarlet. He has been weird all day. A thrill as the room falls silent. It’s a layered silence, of coughs and chewing, of expectations and disbeliefs. Amuse us, says the crowd. You’re talking shite, it echoes back on itself. The chairwoman smiles, Michael begins. A heckle right away.
‘One, three, six, nine,
We don’t want your wind tur-bines.’
A flash of camera clicking, as the Courier chap pivots to catch the culprits. The beast is stirring. Hannah’s skin spangles; a revenant of that forgotten life of opinions and beliefs when she could wear her hair spiked and shout and feel and march. March for the miners, march against Nazis, sit down to stop traffic at Charing Cross. March with placards, with paper bags on heads (that was a genius CND protest; thousands of them lying ‘dead’ in George Square). Sometimes, you didn’t know quite what the march was for, but it would be lunchtime and a Socialist Worker seller would shout ‘Are yous coming on the march?’ And the entirety of the Queen Margaret Union would rise from the refectory and take to the streets.
Her son wriggles on her knee.
‘Why are they shouting at Daddy?’
‘They’re not, sweetie,’ she whispers in his ear. ‘They’re singing.’
She doesn’t intend to say anything tonight (translation: Please, Hannah. You can’t be seen to be politica l ). But her mouth has that cold, nervy dryness, running all the way to her throat. It tastes of outrage. I don’t want this. I am middle class, articulate. I believe in democracy, for Godsake. You cannot make me. You can’t .
She’s always sensed she didn’t care for windfarms; but had listened without dissent to Michael’s careful justifications. Because he’s always careful, isn’t he? And this is not the time for further crackly edges to their life, not now when they are smoothing, buffing, my God you can almost see
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