His glance fell on the dashboard of the new Mini Cooper and his face lit up once more. It had been a welcome surprise to find in his father’s paperwork that he and his mother had been left very comfortably off. Dad had never thrown his money about and he’d had this terrific work ethic, encouraging his son to earn money, never giving him handouts, so that Gary had not realised quite the extent of the family’s wealth. Ah well, he thought, swinging the car around a bend that curved into a long stretch between bracken-clad hills, everything seemed to be working out now. When the chance to transfer from Birmingham to Glasgow University had arrived, Gary had grabbed it at once. He didn’t know much about Scotland but it was an opportunity to begin afresh, away from the memories that still haunted him. Yes, Mum would miss him, but the description of the flat in Merryfield Avenue had cheered her up enough to tell all her friends and neighbours about it. And, although Gary hadn’t actually made any promises, he thought that Moira might come up and visit once he was settled in.
The sun came out from behind a cloud as the car emerged from the shadow of the hills and Gary reached for his sunglasses. He had given a nod to the Scottish Saltire as the Mini Cooper had crossed the border from England into Scotland: it was the first time he had ever driven up as far north as this, his previous trips to Glasgow having been made by plane. Mr Magnusson had been really helpful on the last visit when he had confirmed his tenancy of the flat. It had been almost too simple, really; Gary’s late father had known the Swede through business, and a mutual acquaintance had mentioned that the young man was looking for a place to rent in Glasgow. He’d been asked all sorts of questions, of course — and had lied about his smoking habit — but the Swede seemed to have taken a shine to Brian Calderwood’s son. It wouldn’t be long now, he thought, glancing at the road signs; the city would soon be in sight and before the sun set over the horizon he would be meeting his flatmates, including the Swedish girl who was to be his landlady.
Eva closed the door behind her and dropped the carrier bags onto the floor. She had thought it might be fun to rummage around in the second-hand shops, purchasing stuff that made her look like every other Glasgow student, but her wanderings had taken her further than she had planned after one shop assistant had given her the addresses of several boutiques specialising in designer clothes. The excitement she had anticipated about merging into the Glasgow scene had all but evaporated once she had taken the time and trouble to select garments that she knew would look good on her. It was just like being back in Stockholm, being waited upon by the staff at Nitty Gritty, choosing clothes to wear that would meet with her father’s approval. Henrik always liked his girl to give him a fashion parade, twirling in front of him to show off any new outfits.
Eva had thought… well, what had she thought? That an old mended cardigan would give her the freedom to be herself for a change? Sighing, she picked up the bags again and turned into the room at the back of the flat that she had chosen for her own. It was cooler in here after the sultry heat of the city streets and she took several deep breaths, smelling the woody scent from last night’s candle. The window was open wide and the cream-coloured muslin curtains moved sideways as a draught of fresh air entered the room. Outside, a pigeon cooed its velvety note, a sound that was at once calming to the girl. She stood motionless by the window, looking out at the trees and the sky, wondering what she would do once this place was full of the noise of other people coming and going.
A quick glance at the antique porcelain clock on the mantelpiece told her that she had barely three more hours of solitude. Tonight, 24 Merryfield Avenue would be occupied by young men and women intent on discovering each other’s personalities, trying out conversational gambits on one another, jockeying for position with the one person who would rather they were not there at all.
Eva Magnusson sighed. Perhaps they would be nice. Perhaps she might even find friendship with the girl, Kirsty, though she doubted that they would have much in common. Her lips moved in a practised curve: she would be gracious and friendly towards them all, never allowing any one of them to see past the smile that she had learned to put on for every single person in her young life.
CHAPTER 6
The old man stood behind the door, watching through the crack as the last of them pulled his baggage over the top step and stood on the threshold of the house next door. This one was a tall lad with a shock of red hair, broad shouldered, too. Derek McCubbin couldn’t see his face but he had glimpsed a rugged-looking countenance as the young man turned into the doorway. His eyes flicked across the boy’s bare arms but there were no disfiguring tattoos there to make him snort with disapproval. In his day a single anchor had been enough. Nowadays their entire arms were a mess of ink, like the scribbles on a teenager’s school jotter.
At the sound of the bell the Swedish girl opened the door and Derek stood still, hardly daring to breathe. His new neighbour smiled up at the red-haired lad and in moments the door was closed to his prying eyes, but not before he’d had yet another peek into that familiar hallway with its high, proud ceilings. Oh Grace, why did you have to leave me?
Then he shut his own door, hearing the soft click, and sank into the ancient chair that was placed next to the hallstand. Derek’s heart raced suddenly, making him experience that choking sensation again, and he clasped his arms across his chest, feeling his whole body shake with emotion. It was necessary to sit quietly until it passed, he told himself, taking deep breaths in and out like that slip of a nurse had told him. It would pass, he told himself, then he would be strong again.
He could hear the rattle of a train on the track slowing down as it reached the station. Then a car passed by on the street below. The clock in the hall ticked on, beat after beat. Derek listened, realising that with each second that passed he was nearer to an eternity that gaped like a dark maw ready to swallow him up. He fiddled with the hearing aid in his right ear, the one closest to the door, but there was no sound at all, no voices from the flat across the landing, no laughter or merriment to make him scowl from under his bushy grey eyebrows.
‘Well, let’s have a toast,’ Gary said, raising the flute of sparkling wine that Eva had insisted on pouring out for them. ‘To Eva, for sharing her fabulous flat with us all!’
The blonde girl blushed and tilted her head but her smile seemed to reassure the four people who raised their glasses and then clinked them one after the other.
Kirsty Wilson took a step backwards until she felt the base of her spine rest against the Belfast sink. As she sipped the bubbly stuff (was it real champagne?), Kirsty had a moment to suss out her new flatmates. She had been first to arrive and had spent a quiet half hour chatting to Eva Magnusson, during which time she had decided that the girl was probably a little shy. She had shown Kirsty around the flat after she had dumped her luggage in her spacious new bedroom. This used to be the dining room, I believe, Eva had said as the girls had stood there looking out to the tenement flats across the street. She had a lovely voice, Kirsty thought, soft and melodious with the sort of accent that folk described as Transatlantic. Her English was, of course, perfect and Kirsty had found herself warming to the Swedish girl’s hesitant but well-mannered attempts at making her new flatmate feel at ease.