Free The Closet of Savage Mementos by Nuala Ní Chonchúir

his bag and taking out the picnic blanket. He tosses it on the ground and lies down.
    ‘ Now can we have our lunch?’ I say, pulling up my shorts and re-hooking my bra.
    ‘Oh, go on then,’ he says, and lights a cigarette. He has one arm across his eyes and is working hard to steady his breathing.
    When he has smoked his fag, we sit and eat the egg rolls I have made and drink bottles of beer. I hand Struan a slice of Ecclefechan tart and I eat another; the fruit in it is juicy and the pastry heaves with butter.
    ‘Everything tastes so fine,’ Struan says, ‘after sex in the forest.’ He laughs, rustles in his bag and produces a Kendal Mint Cake. ‘You can’t go for a Highland walk without mint cake,’ he says, tearing the plastic wrapper and handing me a jagged white lump. ‘Even walkers on Everest have to have their Kendal’s.’
    ‘That sounds like a jingle.’
    I let the sugary cake melt on my tongue then I breathe quickly through my nose to feel the sharp mint in my nostrils. We lie in each other’s arms on the blanket when we are finished eating and Struan snoozes while I listen to the sounds of the wood, the small rustlings and snappings. I hear the call and echo of a bird that I don’t recognise. The cold, clay smell all around reminds me of exploring woods with Dónal, until we were both scared rigid by stray sounds and the dark between the trees. Anthony had told me there were bears in the woods and though I knew it couldn’t be true, there was always that doubt. What if? Those thoughts caused a sudden need to pee, but I would hold it until we got away from the wood to the safety of the fields and sunlight. Once clear of the trees, Dónal would act like nothing frightened him, but his laugh was sour and nervy and I knew he was as jumpy as I was.
    I kiss Struan’s mouth to rouse him but he keeps his eyes shut, so I poke him awake with my fingers.
    ‘Stop jabbing me, Lillis.’
    ‘I want to walk on.’
    He groans but pulls himself up; we pack our things before moving through the trees. I slide my arm around his waist, loving the protective heft of him. The ground is springy like a good carpet and I bounce my feet to make the most of the feeling. I have that perfect after-food, after-sex heaviness: my limbs are dull and my stomach is packed, but I feel warm and free too. I gently bite Struan’s arm and he ruffles my hair.
    In a clearing, we come across a group of pheasant huddled together like delegates at a conference. I stop, put my hands out and sing to them, a few lines of a country song that has been swinging in my head for days, about singing an old-fashioned song.
    The pheasant patter about, knocking into each other, then huffle away like tiny grannies, looking put out.
    ‘We should grab a few and take them to Dulcie – get her to cook them up,’ Struan says.
    ‘I would love to see you catching a pheasant. Off you go.’ I push him. ‘Go on.’
    ‘I’m not in the mood,’ he says, laughing.
     
    Tom has told me there is a heavy fog forecast; I want to catch it on film, so I get up at six in the morning. It is cold and my head feels swimmy. I fumble through my bag of clean clothes and find a thick, plaid shirt of Struan’s, put there in error by the girls at the inn’s laundry. It makes me smile to find it among my things and I put it on over a T-shirt and jeans; I take my camera and leave the staff house.
    The fog sits like a quilt over the village; Loch Brack is obscured and so are the hills. It is as if Kinlochbrack has been sliced off the world and set adrift under a cloud. I like the feeling of that very much; it adds to the Sunday calm. The streets are silent and my footsteps bang and echo, echo and bang; it is nice hearing my own noise thrown back to me. In the distance, I can hear the tok-tok of the boats in the harbour; the fishermen are, as usual, the only other people about.
    I walk up a silent Clanranald Street; the houses emerge from the fog one by one as I make my way