Page 82 of The Moon Sister
‘No, it definitely wasn’t,’ I panted, genuinely spooked. ‘He just grabbed me!’
‘He has the hots for you an’ that’s for sure.’
‘I felt as stalked as any deer during a shoot.’
‘Listen, I’m here now tae protect you, Tig. I’m off tae change into some dry clothes, but we’ll talk in the morning, okay?’
‘Okay, thanks, Cal.’
I didn’t sleep a wink that night, having visions of Zed trying to jemmy open my window with a crowbar so he could pounce on me and have his wicked way . . .
‘Come on, Tiggy,’ I told myself the next morning as I staggered out of bed. ‘All he did was try to kiss you, not rape you. He’s obviously used to making the first move . . .’
But what if Cal hadn’t come in when he had . . . ?
‘You look rough,’ Cal appraised as I met him in the kitchen by the kettle.
‘I feel it,’ I sighed. ‘I want to keep all the curtains shut just so I know he can’t be watching me.’
‘Yae’ve got yourself in a right ol’ pickle, you femme fatale, you.’
‘It’s not funny, Cal, really, it isn’t. I don’t know why, but he frightens me.’
‘Well, I’d reckon that if he realises he’s on a losin’ streak and can’t win yae over, the old lizard’ll be off back to whatever damp dungeon he crept out o’.’
Venturing out after Cal left, I saw the snow was deep after another big fall last night, so I decided to take Beryl the Land Rover down to visit the cats. If it was this bad up here, it would come up past my knees in the glen. Understandably, the cats weren’t coming out to play, so I drove back up to the cottage, lit a fire and took the pages I’d printed off about Lucía Albaycín to the armchair by the fire, partly because I wanted to read what I could about her before I went to visit Chilly today, and also because it provided distraction from thinking about Zed.
Sure enough, the Wikipedia version of Lucía’s early life and her rise to fame closely matched what Chilly had told me. And as he couldn’t read and had probably never laid eyes on a computer, it was doubtful he’d cribbed any detail. I read up to the point where she’d danced at the Bar de Manquet in Barcelona and decided to go no further. It was better if Chilly told me himself, but at least I knew now that I could check his story was real, and that wewerefamily.
‘So,’ I said to my reflection in the mirror, ‘it looks like youdohave gypsy blood.’ And in all sorts of ways, I thought as I went up to the Lodge to collect Chilly’s lunch, it explained a lot. On my way to his cabin, I stopped once more by the copse to search for the white stag, but it was deserted, so I continued onwards.
Unusually, when I opened the door to the cabin, Chilly was not in his chair. Instead, he was asleep, and the cabin was freezing. I tiptoed over to the bed, already aware that he was alive, due to the grunts and murmurs emanating from it.
‘Chilly? Are you okay?’ I said, looking down at him.
He half-opened one eye, glared at me, then used a hand to brush me away. Then he coughed, a cavernous rattling sound that came from deep in his chest. The cough went on and on until it sounded as though he was choking.
‘Let’s sit you up, Chilly,’ I said, panicking. ‘It might help.’
He was too busy coughing to stop me, so I put my arms around his shoulders, and heaved him and his pillow up. He was as light and floppy as a rag doll, and when I touched his forehead, I found he was burning up with fever.
Just like Felipe. . . I thought.
‘Chilly, you’re sick. That cough’s awful, and I’m going to radio for a doctor now.’
‘No!’ A trembling finger pointed towards the dresser. ‘Use herbs; I tell you which and you do boil them,’ he rasped.
‘Really? I think this is the moment for proper medical help.’
‘Do like I tell you, or go!’ His eyes, already tinged red from fever, blazed at me. Another coughing fit ensued and I brought him a glass of water and made him sip it.
With Chilly directing me, I took star anise, caraway, thyme and eucalyptus from the dresser, then lit the gas flame and put water and the ingredients into a pot. I left it simmering, then fished out a clean rag from the dresser, dampened it and went to press it against his forehead just as Ma had done when I was a child and so often sick in bed.
‘I had asthma really badly when I was small,’ I told him. ‘I was always getting terrible coughs.’
‘Another sickness do come for you,’ he muttered, his eyes rolling back in their sockets as they tended to when he was having a moment.
He dozed off and I sat by his bed, contemplating what he’d just said to me and hoping he just meant a cold. It also struck me that it was all very well hearing about my apparently famous grandmother, but who had mymotherbeen? And if Lucía Albaycín was such a star when she got older, she must have been quite rich too, so presumably it wasn’t financial circumstances that had led to me being given away?
