She hadn’t meant to lift his phone when the notification sounded an hour ago, but he’d left it lying on his workbench while he pottered frenetically about, the way he had when he was a nervous bridegroom on their wedding morning and again as an expectant dad pacing in the waiting room before her C-section.
She’d only glanced at the phone screen for a second, setting it straight back down as soon as she’d seen the words.
Sent 15.05
You said I’d see you today. What’s keeping you? You really know how to keep a man on tenterhooks! Mac.
Sent 16.41
I can’t wait any longer, Maddie. It really is now or never!!
Roz hadn’t been able to stop herself reading the eventual reply too, and her heart felt pierced through with the words.
I’m so sorry! I couldn’t get away until now. Meet me in the back car park of the Garten Arms in half an hour, Mads xx
Read 17.01
No sooner had she set McIntyre’s phone down than he had appeared from the back of the shed, a pink flush touching his pale face. He’d looked like he was sickening for something. Or someone.
She didn’t know any Maddie, and she didn’t know why her husband was begging to meet her in a car park at night when he knew he had so many responsibilities tonight with the bonfire and procession.
She’d pretended to be busy with one of the kids’ headdresses but had caught him out of the corner of her eye lifting his phone, visibly sagging with relief and bolting from the shed without a word of an excuse, only telling Wayward she couldn’t go with him. ‘You stay here,’ he’d told the little dog.
In that moment he had forgotten Roz existed at all; forgotten their life, their home, their kids, and all the people gathered in the repair shop relying on him.
‘I can light the torches,’ Roz announced now, to stop the grumbles, and wishing they’d all clear out of here so she could gather her thoughts and analyse what this meant. It was only just occurring to her that she probably hadn’t been the only one in their marriage asking herself the question, ‘Is this it for me now?’ McIntyre had thought the same thing, but he’d gone and done something drastic about it. With someone called Maddie.
Mrs Hoolit eyed Roz warily as she put McIntyre’s welding apron on over her dungarees and cardi, and she’d joined the impatient families waiting outside. She lifted the lid from the brazier with the big metal tongs, making flames lick the air and smoke sting her eyes.
‘One adult from every family, roll up!’ she called out carelessly, no longer all that interested in being sweet, gentle, doormat Roz.
Most families let their menfolk approach to claim a fire torch. McIntyre had been making them all year and now they were doused in citronella and oil ready for lighting.
She was in no fettle for niceties now. Some of these men she only ever saw on Beltane night. They always wanted to be the one in charge of the fire-setting. Her mood made her uncharitable towards them. She wanted to say snide things about how she’d see them next year at the same time andnotaround the town when the mums were doing it all; running the whole world, carrying shopping and babies, pushing strollers and making appointments on phones, handing over toddlers to daycare while running late in their uniforms and office clothes to jobs that would only just cover the extortionate childcare costs, if they were lucky. For the first time in a long time, Roz’s heart was flooded with disappointment and humiliation and fury.
She lit each torch from the flaming brazier and handed them over in turn, only saying ‘you’re welcome’ to Livvie Cooper and the few other mothers and grannies who didn’t have (or want or need) a man around spoiling things. She really was ill-disposed to the world this evening. She knew deep down she was scaring some of the men with her scowling, and it wasn’t fair to take her disillusionment out on them, but she also couldn’t stop herself.
As soon as she’d handed over the very last firebrand and shooed the last dawdlers out of her driveway, she did something neither she nor her husband had done in years.
She drew the big gates closed over the gap in the boundary wall and bolted them firmly into the ground, shutting out some of the light and a little of the hilarity and impromptu singing coming from the departing procession as it made its way onto the high street. Then she trudged to the shed and turned off all of its lights before pulling the switch on the big floodlight outside.
As she made her way back to her family home she stopped for a second to look out at the dark, enclosed gardens. This was McIntyre land, her mother’s mother’s land, now lighted only by the glow from the brazier, which could burn itself out for all she cared.
She told herself she was done with being helpful and cheerful and giving, always giving. From now on she would shut herself away like the women they used to call witches, the ones scorned in the history books.
‘Let’s get inside, Wayward,’ she said in a voice she wished didn’t sound so self-pitying, and she stepped inside her mill house with her little black dog and locked the door behind her.
20
The whole town and half the population of the surrounding villages had turned out to welcome the procession into the sparkling Knowe, which tonight in the full moon light seemed to have more in common with an ancient site of sacred summer rites than the grassy space marked with white lines for the kids’ shinty and football clubs.
The fresh mountain air, spiced with the nectar of gorse flowers and the first bells of heather, mixed tantalisingly with the foody aromas from the sausage grill and the snack stalls set up to cater for hungry revellers.
Peaches watched the noisy cavalcade arrive, their torches almost burned out from the walk.
Her skin was cool in the evening air. She’d chosen to throw on the same handmade Beltane outfit as last year; an oversized, billowy romper in off-white cotton with huge pockets and delicate straps, paired with white sneakers and socks. She’d plaited her hair into two thick ropes that knotted at the nape of her neck. She hadn’t dared do much else today other than get ready, not while her mother still wasn’t able to bring herself to look at her, let alone speak to her as she raced back and forth in her organising frenzy.
So, she’d waited at home for her showcase grades to come through from the uni, or for a fashion scout to reach out to her. So far, neither of those things had happened, but she’d heard via Willie that Mosam’s ‘big cat’-inspired capsule collection had impressed a features editor and they were in talks to style a photoshoot forDazedmagazine, while Zandy’s TikToks of her models had overnight been picked up by the socials of the magazineBeauty Papers, which Zandy was reportedly delighted about, and one of her pictures had made it into one of the Scottish morning tabloids, who’d made fun of her design; something she was also delighted about. So far, Peaches’ own work had debuted without reaction, but there were always the weekend papers to come. Surely she wasn’t going to be overlooked entirely?
