The Firebird

That was it, I realised. He’d had no defences up at all, as though he hadn’t had the energy to raise them.

He’d finished my dinner. The cutlery clanked as he set it on top of his stacked empty plates and slid everything off to one side to make room for his elbows. He didn’t exactly lean closer, but in that confined space it felt like he did as he lifted his gaze so it levelled on mine.

‘I’m fine,’ he assured me. ‘I’ve done this afore, and with less cause. Truth is, I enjoy it. So stop feeling guilty.’

‘I’m not. I just—’

‘Nick.’

No one else ever called me that. And if they had, it would never have hit me with all the effect of that one little syllable rolled in his deep Scottish voice. I’d forgotten the sound of it. Now it brought back a whole rush of remembered scenes I wasn’t ready to face, so instead I said, ‘I’m just concerned.’

‘No need for that.’ His tone was light, but it was meant to make a point. ‘I’ve got a mother.’

‘And you don’t need two?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Sorry. But you look—’

‘Like hell?’ he guessed.

‘No.’ Hardly that, I thought, then quickly closed my mind before he heard me.

‘Like what, then?’

The rain spared me from answering. It came on unexpectedly, and pattered hard against the bright red awning overhead and made the people who’d been standing round outside scoop up their parcels and their cameras and dash in to find a place to sit.

An older couple took the table nearest ours, and Rob was forced to move his leg again to give them space, while to our other side a family with young children dragged another chair across and squeezed themselves into the corner.

We were well surrounded, now. Their conversations, private as they were, flowed round and over us and I knew anything I said to Rob they’d hear as well, so I said nothing for a while.

The waitress came and took our empty plates, and brought another beer for Rob, and for myself a cup of coffee garnished with a tiny biscuit and a little square of Belgian chocolate. I drank it while the older couple tried to choose which battlefield to visit the next morning, and the children on the other side decided on their meals, with much negotiating, and I couldn’t help but wonder what they’d think if I asked Rob the question forming in my mind.

No doubt they’d all react the same way as that big man and his mates had in the pub that night in Edinburgh two years ago. They’d think us freaks.

I carefully unwrapped my chocolate, thinking. Then I let down my defences. Rob?

He looked at me expectantly, not giving any sign that he had noticed how I’d spoken. Not surprising, since he’d told me it all sounded just the same to him.

I took a breath, and went on, Can I ask you something?

Watching him, I saw the moment’s lapse before the realisation struck him; saw his gaze dip down to touch my mouth before returning to my own, a dawning light of pleasure in the depths of his blue eyes as though he’d just received an unexpected gift. He answered with his own thoughts: Ask me anything you like.

There was a freedom, I thought, talking to him like this, while the people seated round us carried on their conversations unaware. How do you stop and skip ahead like that?

I’m sorry?

Well, when we were watching Anna in the convent …

Aye?

We didn’t stay and watch her all the time that she was sleeping, for example. You just stopped, and skipped ahead and found her somewhere else, and then went on from there. How did you do that?

Practice. He leant back and looked away from me, relaxed. I stumbled on the way to do it when I was at school, by chance, and found it saved a lot of time when doing things like this. And so I practised. I could teach you, if you like.

My scepticism must have carried clearly in my thoughts without my having to express it, because Rob, still looking out towards the square, half-smiled while making his reply. You underestimate yourself, I think.

Yes, well. I haven’t got your skills.

Most skills are learnt. Or at the very least, developed. If I handed you a cello, would ye ken the way to play it? No. But given time and practice, ye could learn.

You’re an optimist. It came out as an accusation. Anyway, it’s not a good analogy. You’re working with a cello, I’ve just got a ukulele.

His gaze slid back to mine, amused. You finished with that coffee, yet?

Almost. Why, do you want to leave?

You read my mind. A wave of warmth rode with those words, and then his thoughts withdrew. He hailed the waitress, paid our bill, and pushed his chair back as though he’d been sitting long enough. Aloud he said, ‘Let’s take a walk.’

It was dark now, after ten o’clock according to the clock face on the tower of the Cloth Hall, which at every quarter hour let loose a beautifully melodic peal of bells, a proper carillon that lingered in the fresh night air. The rain had stopped, and left a fairyland of bright reflections on the street outside and in the square – the glimmer of the funfair’s flashing lights and coloured neon, and the even wilder colours of the prizes hung in clusters from the ceilings of the side stalls.

Couples sauntered past with pushchairs bearing tired toddlers, fighting sleep and watching fascinated as the dragon roller coaster rattled round its loops to the delighted screams of those inside it.

‘Want to ride the roller coaster?’ Rob asked, teasing.

‘No thanks. I’m not good with thrills,’ I told him. ‘I get sick.’