Free Rise by Karen Campbell Page B

Her elbow is in Hannah’s ribs.
    ‘Oh. My. God. Where were they hiding him? Would you look at the arse on that? I’ll never wipe thon worktop again.’
    ‘Mummy. Auntie Mhairi said a bad word.’
    ‘Ssh, son, I know. She’s very rude.’
    Escobar waits until the murmurs fade. There is a fine torque to his mouth. ‘Ladies. Gentlemen. Than’you.’
    ‘Laying it on wi a trowel,’ whispers someone. ‘All thon needs is a rose between his teeth.’
    Hannah is determined not to listen. She will remain unrapt. At the end of the row in front of her, a brace of old women have the same idea. They maintain a steady witter as Escobar talks. One has a green felt hat on, the other a bubble perm. You can only catch one-way snatches of the conversation, because the woman with the hat speaks much louder than the other.
    ‘Aye he does, a bit. The one with the wee moustache.’
    ‘No, dear, it wasn’t David Niven that was the angel.’
    The hatless woman whispers her response. ‘Swss . . . yishoor . . . psswss . . . mind?’
    ‘No, Margaret – he was the bishop.’
    The bubble perm moves her head and Hannah can see it’s Margaret Campbell. Which means the one in the hat must be Effie Grey.
    ‘Psshh, wshhw’s awfy handsome . . . biglad . . . pstshww . . . so I would.’
    ‘I know, Margaret, it’s a sin. How’s your veins?’
    These two old ladies trundle round Kilmacarra together almost every day, walking the single street, purchasing their bread and their milk at the store. Why not? Far better to get out and about than wait for your four walls to smother you. Escobar nods and smiles at his audience. Holds court, holds gazes. Heat slides under Hannah’s skin. She remembers this morning, Michael’s teeth and tongue on her breast, her wanting to pull him in, deeper to her. Afraid he would break. Remembering that, after, as they lay there, her breast was still damp. Wondering what the dampness was, knowing how, at night sometimes, he still cries. How he thinks she cannot hear him.
    She contemplates the crumbs on her plate.
    ‘It is important to know that the turbines will be on the hilly moorland, not in the glen itself,’ continues Escobar.
    ‘But what about the noise? And the peat?’
    ‘Aye, and you’ll still see them—’
    ‘Of course I appreciate how beautiful this place is – an’ we would respect that, of course. But, according to your government, the glen is not of huge historical significance. Many of the stones have been removed, or damage by the agriculture—’
    ‘But it’s the whole of it,’ says a man in the front row. ‘What it symbolises.’
    Escobar smiles. ‘What does it symbolise? From what I understand, very little people know this place, yes? No one really come to visit here, you have no industry, no tourism. Our development will bring jobs, we will build an eco-centre . . . is very good for you, no?’
    ‘How many jobs?’ demands Angus.
    ‘Oh, many, many jobs. We will have the construction phase, of course, an’ then there will be maintenance, supply, staffing of the visitor centre. Community-investment funds. Eco-awareness education. Perhaps we can offer you the specialised training . . .’
    The natives are resting. This charming man is lisping them all to sleep. You can see the tilt of them, inwards, inwards. Literally coming closer to his way of thinking. Hannah knows she’s doing it too, but it’s such a pleasant toppling forwards. So . . . reasonable.
    A blast of cold air as the door opens.
    Hannah follows the other turning heads. It is Rory from the pub, charging in. Pale and floppy in his daft kilt. Realising he has caught everyone’s attention, he wavers. Scans the room.
    ‘Ho!’ Mhairi raises her voice again. ‘Not historically significant? What about Crychapel Wood then? And the cairn on Mary’s Brae?’
    Escobar looks puzzled. ‘You mean your concrete bunker? Mm, it is a pity it was so . . . damaged by that funny little lid, no?