Cutting the jiffy bag open with precision, I remove the contents. Two books about motorbikes. This is a dreadful disappointment for me, and she knows it is. Evidently, despite my being in the position of having to learn how to trust again, Kev is still in contact with her. How else would she know the result of our therapeutic mid-life shopping spree?

    Yet another letter is slipped in between the books. The theme of this one is how ‘people our age’ need their freedom. It’s forgettable nonsense and I Frisbee it across the table top without finishing it, but then I notice the four-times folded piece of paper lying in the bottom of the bag and, unfolding it curiously, find a series of closely packed ‘quotations’ - philosophical pronouncements cribbed from great thinkers and reproduced in tiny, ultra-neat handwriting, attributions at the bottom.

     Now, having been an enthusiastic student of philosophy during the final year of my home-study degree, I consider myself pretty good at extracting meaning from abstract ramblings - but boy does Juliet like to baffle! And it’s me she likes to baffle, because she must know that Kev’s response to even your basic ‘cogito-ergo-sum’ would be a loud “What-the-fuck’s-this-on-about?” She has picked quotations, the meanings of which are so obscure they fail utterly to pique the interest. I decide, nevertheless, to read them all, in case anything jumps out by making even a wee bit of sense, and that’s when I notice them. The four or five ‘quotes’ with an attribution which says – ‘Juliet’. They have long words in them, words I’ve never come across and as far as I can see, they are utterly meaningless except to signify the very dodgy condition of the woman’s psyche. Could this be a factor in what happened, I ask myself, bewildered? While a balanced person, though bored, lonely and looking for love, might suffer guilt and regret once they considered the damage they were doing in seducing a man away from his family and his long-term relationship, is there a chance that someone a little less, let’s say psychologically healthy, would get a buzz out of it? Has Kev, in his turn, been feeding a monster?

     Monster or just desperate housewife, this time she’s gone too far. Reacting with hysteria to situations always gives me an unpleasant headache – besides which, it’s really boring. But something has to be done. Sticking everything she’s sent back in the jiffy bag (damn-well won’t waste a new one on her), I sit down at the computer. What I have to say is simple and to the point. Stop trying to contact my partner through my household. I’m sorry about what’s happened to you, but you’re old enough to understand the dangers of getting involved with a man who already has a family at home. I tried to talk to you, woman-to-woman, but found you arrogant, self-absorbed and foolish.  Please don’t contact us again. Fond regards – Elizabeth Burns.

    Slipping my note inside, I re-parcel the whole thing up again ready for the post. Yes, I only just got home, but I am determined to turn this thing right round and throw it back in her direction.

    Me, the bent pick-up and the shore road to Cromarty Post Office.

 

January 26 - Victim Support would be happy to train me as a volunteer. It seems they (rightly) appreciated that co-ordination is not my strong suit, but that off-the-cuff responses, empathy and entertainment value are things I can supply, easily and in quantity, even on a bad day. I won’t get paid anything (of course) which is a step down from the five pounds an hour Kev disapproved of previously, but my expenses will be covered. Kev won’t say it’s a totally good idea  in case it distracts me from my office duties at this difficult time, but I know I need something that takes me out of the current ugly complications  of this life we appear to have vandalized together, into waters which will test my perspective and broaden my mind.

    I have said “Yes!” to two weekends of training at a local hotel. And the funny thing is, despite the desperately distracting effects of the ugly three-way, I have never, in my life, been busier. Kev now does no paperwork whatsoever. Having faced (and presumably dealt with) the prospect of losing the business completely due to his ill-advised  two-timing of his business partner, he seems to have suddenly decided to hand over to me more than he’s ever done. I’m not entirely sure this is in his best interests, given the still more-than-vague possibility that I might crack under the strain of the on-going situation and demand he leave, but it certainly works for me. This is something well overdue. Perhaps it’s even a part of the problem. I am competent, intelligent and keen. The kids are getting older and my time has come. Sharing the controls with ‘the little woman’ must scare the pants off Kev.

     It is my ability to price quite large, logistically complex tree surgery jobs effectively which has most surprised me. Yesterday, in weak winter sunshine, I set out south past Farr, to a house on a hill behind an ancient church. Snow on gravestones, black bare-branched trees and a mini panic attack on the windy road skirting a dead-calm loch. There was this queer, vast expanse of white sky, combined with flat plains of heather and ominous, lichen-covered rocks, and suddenly I had felt some kind of agoraphobia take hold which meant I couldn’t look at the water. This made negotiation of the single track road hazardous to say the least – the harder I looked away, the more likely I was to steer accidentally into the vast black pool, never to be seen again.

My heart had been thumping hectically against my ribs by the time I’d found the tiny house with the hugely overgrown conifers, calmed myself talking authoritatively to the white-haired old lady who lived there, and found distraction in contemplating the cost implications of transporting the platform all the way out here to deal with large amounts of roadside deadwood. The debris would have to be chipped and swiftly – this was a little used road but a road nonetheless and we had to aim for minimum traffic hindrance. The chips would have to be taken away as the little old lady was clearly not up to a week’s work spreading them under her rhododendrons, the same with any larger chunks of timber. This would take the cost of the job up significantly.

    Clara Maitland would say rocks hang on to their memories and that, those of us who are in touch with our dream selves pick this up. Eldest says open water has always frightened him and that, given my obviously delicate psychological condition, it’s not surprising I ‘freaked’. Kev says I’m just a liability on the road.

     This evening Kev’s home early because it wasn’t wise to linger in Jim Fraser’s garden with a lorry and a seventy-foot access platform while sheet ice developed on the man’s 1 in 5 driveway. So we’re all able to eat together. My appetite’s still a long way below par (I am now a size 8 in jeans) but Eldest seems able to absorb significant quantities of food from the table (sometimes out of the fridge and the cupboards also) without developing a single fat deposit, or, to be honest, a single muscle, so there’s no chance we’ll end up with left-overs. It seems such a long, long way from Eldest’s shoulder to his fingertips and an effective mechanism for control of said fingertips, such as a bicep bulge or thickness of forearm, is so obviously lacking. I don’t know, in fact, how he does as well as he does. He says he gets cramp, particularly in his very long legs, and sometimes his back goes into spasm but he’s managed the Highland Cross cycle route with the school, climbed Stack Polly and lately I even managed to find him a pair of men’s jeans that fit him round the waist (ok, belted) whilst still being decently long enough in the leg not to cause embarrassment (to me).

A note has come home from school. Youngest will be getting sex education next term as part of a new policy based on giving them all the facts from a very early age in the hope that they will then decide to delay embarking upon a sex life until they’re mature enough to handle it responsibly. If his father is anything to go by, that will be never.

     Kev’s opinion is that they should get all the facts, unadulterated (no pun intended) as early as possible, that he should be able to laugh and joke about the subject in front of them and that references to anything they don’t understand should not be shied away from. I can’t help but think his opinions may currently be influenced by his own perception of sex as something way more important than it is. If you’re going to chase something as disruptive to your life as the adventure of infidelity, you have to tell yourself that your own sexual fulfilment matters more than a good many, very important other things. You also have to tell yourself (or allow yourself to be told) that the sexual fulfilment of the person you’re illicitly shagging is more important than those irritating other considerations in life – like family, love, honesty, trust, self-control, work, reputation, friends, peace of mind etc, etc..

     Youngest himself turns a fetching shade of scarlet when the word ‘sex’ is even mentioned. When there’s kissing on TV he puts a pillow over his face. If I even mention girls he grimaces. So, when I ask him if he thinks he’s ready, in the context of education, to see videos about S-E-X. “No,” he says categorically. “I don’t want to.” This leads me to argue that, no matter how good for him someone else thinks it would be, if Youngest says he doesn’t want to see a video about sex, then he shouldn’t have to see one. It’s like toilet training - no-one grows up unable to function without a nappy, but we all adjust to the concept of effective toilet use at different times, when we are ready. No pressure needed. Similarly then, no-one arrives at adulthood without having developed a healthy interest in sexuality. When they’re ready, children start to ask questions, or begin to giggle, aware of the ‘naughtiness’ of nudity, girls knickers and over-boiled hot dogs that look like ‘old men’s willies’. When this point arrives, timely and accurate sex education is essential. But no pressure is needed. None at all. I ask Eldest what he thinks, being not that far removed from childhood himself.

     “You got the facts in your final year of primary school, didn’t you?” I probe. “Do you think it was enough?”

    He’s very thoughtful, concerned even, about the whole idea of young children being able to add the word ‘vagina’ to their vocabulary. Himself, he’d stuck with ‘baby-spout’, a term he invented around the time Youngest was born, until he was nearly twelve.

     “Yeah, I think it was enough,” he says. “Young kids don’t really need it.”

     “Why not?” Kev challenges him. “It’s all perfectly natural. Why shouldn’t they have the facts? All of them?”

     Eldest leans against the cupboards with a mug of tea in his hands looking professorial. “I’m just not sure you could expect them to properly understand,” he says slowly, and he is plainly prepared to expand his point. Kev however is vigorously pursing his own agenda.

     “But what about animals? What about life on the farm?” he says. “We show them animals mating, don’t we? Young David Hallows up at the farm there must’ve seen it all by now.”

      Eldest’s brow is furrowed, and then the conversation gets really interesting. “We aren’t animals though, are we?” he says, as though this is the most obvious thing in the world.

     Kev becomes a little agitated. “Aren’t we? Close relatives of primates like chimps, aren’t we? What’s the difference? What’s the difference between showing them animals mating and explaining what it’s all about and then following on with how humans do it?”

     “Well, animals just act on instinct in order to reproduce though, don’t they?”

     “But aren’t our sexual impulses just the same?”

     “We have to control our animal impulses for all sorts of reasons. Sex is not just about reproduction for us, it’s about…”

     Kev interrupts. “Yes, but it’s that, the reproductive impulse, that leads us to have sex.”

     Eldest is un-fazed. “Maybe,” he concedes. “Sometimes. Although I think you might be talking about lust there. If you’re going to educate children about sex they need to know there’s a difference between lust and the sort of sex that’s part of a long-lasting relationship.”

     Kev shuts up - suddenly awed into keeping it zipped, I guess, and my brain flies off on a somewhat different, if not completely unrelated, tack.

     I’m pretty sure my instinct is to surround myself with the things I love and actively cherish them. You know, the kids, the house, my friends, the walnut chest of drawers in the boudoir,  make up collection in sterling silver bowls beside bathroom sink, Byron the cat. So which species of primate do I derive this trait from? Who cares? The fact is, if I invite a man to join my collection of cherished valuables I don’t expect that he’ll allow himself to become a destructive force within my walls, a hurricane blowing through all that’s dear to me, ripping everything from it’s moorings in order to satisfy some primitive reproductive impulse.

Why fix on reproductive behaviour to emphasize our links with the animal kingdom? Monkeys do other things – they throw their turds at you, they mob each other in groups and beat each other up, they kill their children, they yell and screech and hang upside down from trees. Should we excuse domestic violence, breach of the peace and gang warfare on this basis? Monkey bollocks to animalistic sex and uncontrollable impulses! I still believe in love and romance and finding the one! Wise monkeys contain their basic drives, hone them into something useful in their monogamous bedrooms and put into their relationships what’s required to make them flourish. Don’t ask me how, but my biology has programmed me to know this.

That Night – I promised Kev I wouldn’t keep him awake all night tossing and turning so I am lying, stiff as a corpse, mentally trying out my male acquaintances to see if anyone fits the bill as my next partner, while his snores boom off the walls and the wind outside squeals like a banshee from hell.

     Well, now - what about Ben Lawrence? I’ve known him for six or seven years, ever since he came over to render the outer walls of the workshop. He’s divorced now but he has his own house (very quaint) near Dingwall. We see him from time to time, usually when he’s doing his fatherly duty via his offspring – Youngest is fond of Annie and Joe, aged five and nine respectively. He’s fixed his house up nice, keeps a four-by-four on the road, works at general plumbing jobs whenever he feels like it, appears reasonably well off – and between the sheets? You know, I would guess he’d be pretty good. Patient, relaxed, planning his moves ahead (which is good for continuity). And he’s been on his own for quite some time now – which means he can go without and that he’d rather do so than put up with second best.

     Ah yes, and then there’s Daniel. Daniel the hairdresser. A bit of a free spirit, certainly more interesting than Ben but could he be just a wee bit in love with himself? How would that play out in the bedroom? Would he be self-conscious about how his muscles were moving? Would he be critical about my, not-very-well honed, body? Would we reach a simultaneous climax with our stomachs sucked in and our arms above our heads maintaining an impressive tension in our pecs?

     An older man then, perhaps a father figure. Some tall, intelligent merchant-banking type with a long, black overcoat and a Jag. All athletic moves (just to prove he can still do the business) and weird fetishes like smearing chocolate spread between your toes and licking it out. Or how about a top-flight lawyer with a huge grey beard, an even bigger cock and a Harley-Davidson?

     Don’t be stupid Lizzie, they don’t exist! Ben exists. Ben and Kev. That’s what it really comes down to – a choice between Ben and Kev

      Neil Gates though. Now there’s a thought. I could tell him his free-thinking views and undeniable sexual magnetism have made him impossible to resist, shag him, then tell him he was total rubbish.

 

Next day. - By nine-thirty Jenny from Victim Support has rung to say that, although she wouldn’t normally consider throwing anyone in at the deep end, there’s a family in Dingwall she thinks need a visit, a little girl, ten years old, being bullied and recently assaulted. She knows I have a child round about the same age and, since they’re very short-handed at the office right now, would I consider giving the mum a ring and going over? I say ‘Yes’ straight away in the interests of getting out more and phone the woman, a Ms Gordon, as soon as I’ve put the phone down to Jenny. After lunch would be a good time, she says, they have to put granddad on the train this morning. This gives me some time to fill.

    I walk up and down in the kitchen for a while trying to convince myself I have something to offer traumatized victims of crime. It will be essential to stay calm, collected, yet up-beat. I must not bring any of my own baggage with me on the visit. My whole frame feels rigid under my skin and my left eye has a twitch.

     Inexplicably, I am moved to ring round the hairdressers for a last-minute appointment.

     Have to try out a different one of course. Firstly because I am too embarrassed to go anywhere near Daniel but more importantly because I have, quite definitely, become a different person. The red has to go. Red was anger, drama, passion, hurt, heat, blame and the urge to disembowel with bare hands. Today, very suddenly and without warning, and courtesy of Lindsay and Beth (the girls with the sample charts and the colour-application know-how), my hair is to turn glossy and dark. Restraint, distance, strength, secrecy and self-interest. Dark like chocolate. Dark and bitter.

 

Unfortunately, I don’t get round to seriously re-thinking today’s choice of outfit till I’m standing outside the Gordon’s red brick semi with the hanging baskets, nervously clutching my identity card. The photo on the card is of someone a little sad and brow-beaten, someone borderline shy, someone caring but possibly ineffective. Stomach hits the deck. What have I done? The warm but damaged little person in the photo - that’s the sort of image I require to do this sort of work, isn’t it? And look at me for God’s sake – push-up brassiere, extra-long-sleeved, low-cut pink top from a charity shop, mottled, dark velvet leggings approximating leopard skin and the off-white fake fur Clara Maitland likes. It all looked fine at the Hairdressers when Lindsay and Beth set my hair in a waterfall of tight, glossy curls, exaggerated with tongs and finished with spray-on superglue. Young Kirsty Gordon’s already stressed mother, however, is going to think she’s opening the door to a Circus performer.

      Oh well. I’m probably not cut out for this job anyway. May as well just get it over with. I get up enough courage to knock, gently, twice. The house reminds me of the sort of thing I grew up in. Ordinary people in an ordinary house, on an ordinary street, in an ordinary town and, presumably, this is Kirsty herself at the door, peering through a small gap at first, big blue eyes,  wispy blonde hair straying over her face. “Hello!” I say, cheerful but not loud. “I’m Lizzie from Victim Support – you must be Kirsty?”

     “Yes,” she nods, opening the door wider. “My mum said you were coming. I like your trousers. D’you want to come in?”

     Thank God. An initially positive response to the outfit. Maybe this won’t be as bad as I think? Maybe the mother will be able to hide her dismay and afford me sufficient time to talk so that I won’t feel completely useless and then I’ll be able to leave with dignity? “Yes, I would like to come in,” I tell Kirsty. “I thought you might like to talk about what’s been going on for you – only if you want to, of course.”

     “Yes, I would like to do that,” she says, with typical child-like openness. Then she abruptly abandons the door to lead on through the hall, leaving me to close it behind both of us.

     “Mum!” she yells into the small kitchen at the far end, “Lizzie’s here!” and I already feel like a family friend. Their trust both astonishes and touches me.

     Caroline Gordon emerges from her kitchen, where she’s evidently washing up after lunch. She smiles, wipes her hand on the tea towel she has over one shoulder and then offers her hand to me. We’re about the same age. I notice she’s not wearing a wedding ring, but then neither am I and I have to remember not to make any assumptions. I’m here for Kirsty.

     We seat ourselves in the small living room with the big TV and I decline coffee. This is not a social call. Kirsty can’t take her eyes off me. What if I disappoint her? What if I have nothing useful to say? What if by the time I leave everyone’s in tears?

     “I don’t, er, know very much about your situation Kirsty,” I begin. “I was just given your mum’s phone number and told you would welcome a visit.”

     The little girl nods, still riveted. It’s her mother who speaks up. “It’s been going on for about a year now, getting worse and worse, and for the first time ever, I’ve kept her off school today. I’ve told the Head I won’t be sending her back unless they do something about it. I hate to see her so distressed! She’s good at her work and she has friends, she’s well behaved at school but she’s been living in fear this last wee while and when they assaulted her the other night…”

     There’s a catch in her voice. Caroline’s in a desperate place – get a lump in my throat for her. She cares so much for her daughter, anger’s making her eyes water and her mouth’s set in a tense line. I notice one of her hands is at her stomach, rolled into a fist.

     “Do you want to tell me what it’s like?” I ask of Kirsty, because I can tell she does want to. I’m a stranger, the ‘strange’ bit being particularly relevant. She wants me to listen, and to feel the injustice. She’s locked, outraged, in a confined space and I am the outside world.

     “It started at school last year,” she says, eagerly. “There was just the one of them at first. She started calling me names, mainly at break times, but after a while she started trying to kick me in class or trip me over on the way to my seat. If I try and answer back, or tell a teacher, it gets worse. I don’t like to swear but she doesn’t mind it. She twists her face right up till it looks horrible and says the most awful things. A few months ago two others who hung around with her sometimes started to join in. I used to get on with them not too badly but they pretend they hate me now – I don’t know why.”

     “And is it just at school this stuff happens?” I ask.

    “No,” she shakes her head. “But that was where it started and they live not far away, all three of them, and they started to follow me home some days. Just some days, depending on how they’re feeling.”

    “It doesn’t! Especially when they pick up sticks and wave their school bags around and say they’re going to hit me in the face!”

     I lean in a little closer. “So what d’you do when you think they’re behind you?”

   “No. I have my friends, Becky and Marie, but we’re all frightened, specially me cos it’s me they want to get.”

    “What about once you get home? Do you feel safe outside in the street, or on your way to the corner shop?”

    Her eyes are large as she re-lives the fear. “Not really,” she says. “It’s not that they come looking for me but they go to Youth Club and Gymnastics and some other things I go to. I never know what it’s going to be like before I set off. I get butterflies. I was thinking I might give up gymnastics…”

    Her mother interjects. “She’s so good at Gym! She loves it! And at school – she often gets top marks and the teachers like her.”

     Suddenly I can picture Kirsty Gordon in her long-sleeved leotard, blonde wisps tied back, toes pointed, arms outstretched. Bird-like, I imagine, naturally poised and in control. It’s clear what Kirsty’s problem is.

     “Sometimes I feel like I’ll always have trouble – like everywhere I go it starts.” She confesses, all in a rush. “It’s not fair on my friends and the teachers have stopped talking to me. What should I do?”

     My answer comes much more easily than I ever thought it would. “You shouldn’t have to do anything, Kirsty,” I tell her. “Except carry on being yourself. You haven’t done anything wrong. My guess is these girls are just jealous because they can see what a happy person you are. You do well at your work, you enjoy school, you’re popular, you have a mum who loves you to bits and you’re going to grow into a wonderful young woman. Kirsty, your future’s so bright it’s scary! Some people have problems in their own lives that they can’t deal with. Maybe their families don’t give them enough love, maybe they’ve been shouted at or treated badly themselves. For some reason they like to try and pass on their unhappiness. And you, because you don’t have those problems, you’re someone they’d like to get at. Don’t let them win now Kirsty, will you?”

     Her eyes are vivid and large as saucers. She shakes her head slowly, willing me to say more. “Be sensible,” I tell her. “Avoid them if you can, don’t you join in the swearing and threatening even if you feel like it! You’re better than that. You’re better than them. But do stand up for yourself. Do you know how best to do that?”

     She turns her gaze ceilingward. It’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t let her sweat. “Just by being proud of who you are,” I say. “And of all the things you have going for you. By not letting them get you down and by refusing to let them spoil things for you. Don’t give up the gymnastics Kirsty, okay?”

    Her cheeks have coloured. When she drops her gaze, a smile appears at the corners of her mouth. I turn to her mother, who’s leaned forward to put a hand on her daughter’s knee. “I’ll write to the school,” I tell her. “A supportive letter because you’ve told them what’s been happening and I’m sure they’ll be doing their best, but if we can encourage them to, maybe, shadow Kirsty a little, and remind them how much the bullying affects her, it can’t do any harm.”

     At the door, Caroline shakes my hand warmly. “Thanks for coming,” she says. And Kirsty edges her mother out of the way, the better to fix her blue-eyed stare on me again. “Thanks for coming,” she echoes.

     “Kirsty, it was no problem at all,” I tell her, because it wasn’t. “I’ll write that letter, and I’ll phone you in a couple of weeks to see if things are better.”

     Once back behind the wheel of the Audi, turning and re-turning round the housing estate in an effort to find a way out, I realize I haven’t thought about Kev or Juliet Sanders for a whole hour. My mind is as clear as a cloudless sky and there’s a warm spot inside like someone lit a votive candle.