‘Car accident,’ he says, coughing into his gloved hand.
Heather reaches over and places her hand around his upper arm. The pressure on his bicep through his jacket material is comforting, stabilising, and somehow encourages him to expand.
‘The driver was eighteen.’
Heather’s hand covers her mouth, but she’s too slow to silence the gasp. He’s talking about someone their daughters’ age, he realises.
‘I know,’ he says, allowing their eyes to meet, albeit briefly. ‘It was a young lad from our village. Leon Johnson. Just passed his test.’
Heather bites her lower lip. Perhaps she’s thinking, as he has recently, of all the young people she knows who have just attained this rite of passage. Perhaps this story could belong to any one of them? Wordlessly, they lean side by side against a large boulder at the edge of the path until, eventually, Scott feels able to continue.
‘He was showing off. Just before Christmas. And you can probably guess the rest – slippery road, unfamiliar car, going too fast. Lucy and Brianna were coming around the corner in the opposite direction. And … well …’
Scott claps his gloved hands together in a movement which makes Heather jump. It’s an abridged version but it will have to do. Only he and those at the trial know the full story. About how it was essentially his fault.
‘That Christmas, seven years ago, I felt obliged to sit and pretend and fake enjoyment and it was … It was fucking awful. We left the village in the new year, and we’ve not been in the UK for Christmas since. Some people say it’s running away. I call it survival.’
His final words blow out to the Firth of Forth, and they stand silently for a moment.
‘I do similar,’ Heather says, eventually, ‘only I go over the top in the opposite direction. Georgia’s dad left on Christmas Eve, and I was determined he wouldn’t ruin it for us. So, it’s full-on Christmas spirit, the entire works for us. Every year. I guess it’s an act of defiance on my part.’ There’s a pause. ‘I’m sorry about your wife, Scott,’ she says.
Scott closes his eyes tightly because–shit –as if out of nowhere, he’s tearing up.
Heather roots around in her coat pocket, extracts a clean tissue, and scrunches it into his clenched fist.
‘I get angry,’ he says. Three simple words he’s only ever confided to a counsellor.
‘I’m not surprised,’ she says. ‘I would, too.’
‘It’s not so much now,’ he clarifies, wiping his leaking eyes, ‘but in the early days—’
The rest of the sentence drifts off into Edinburgh’s night sky.
‘I can’t even imagine what that must have been like.’
He turns to her. Scott’s had sympathy extended to him before, but there’s something about the way Heather allows him to sit with the pain, even if it has faded in recent years, and just lets him be for a while. That, to him, is extraordinary. And it does an almost magical thing; it allows the pain to dissipate a touch.
‘Yeah. Well. Sometimes it causes me to have a go at a perfect stranger online because they’re considering a mattress topper for their daughter’s first year at university,’ he says.
A laugh bursts from Heather’s lips, giving Scott a shot of pure serotonin.
‘Ah. The mattress topper. Let’s never, ever talk about the mattress topper scenario again,’ she says, giving his shoulder a gentle push.
‘You called me Scott-Bloody-Reynolds,’ he says mischievously.
Heather’s laughter is of longer duration now as they both think back to those early days when they didn’t know one another at all.
‘I did. Scott-Bloody-Reynolds. And you touched my backside in the kitchen. Groped me like a pervert.’
She’s full on teasing him now.
‘I did not! Well, not on purpose, anyway,’ he protests.
Heather puts both hands on his chest, and Scott prepares to lean in to accept whatever it is she’s about to offer. A hug. A kiss. An embrace. But it’s none of those. Heather now seems topride herself on being unpredictable, because she shoves him backwards to gain an advantage for herself.
‘Come on, Scott-Bloody-Reynolds. The kids are miles in front. Race you to the top or we’ll miss it.’
They’re not alone on the summit. Several groups are already looking out across the Firth of Forth with the Bass Rock protruding from the sea and the rolling hills of Fife in the distance. Scott watches as Heather touches the trig point, looks up into the sky, says “hi” to the kids, then makes her way towards another group, who are talking animatedly in American accents. Georgia watches her mother move away and puts her head in her hands. ‘Sorry, guys. This is something us Scots do. We say “hi” to complete strangers in random places.’
