The Closet of Savage Mementos Read Online Free Page A

the Reader’s Digest , so it has to be true. Can you imagine the sound they’d make if you hit them?’ He swings an imaginary club. ‘Phluck, phluck, phluck.’
    ‘I have one now: my mother stuffs dead animals for a living. She’s a taxidartist.’ I smile and prod him in the belly. ‘Is that fascinating enough for you?’
    ‘It is, actually. What kind of animals?’ He squints at me, scratching his cheek.
    ‘She’ll use anything really. People know about her now, so she’s always being offered road kill and dead pets. Though she usually refuses pussycats and Jack Russells because of what she does to them.’ I look down at the lake and wonder how cold it would be for a swim; I shiver.
    ‘Why? What doesshe do to them?’
    ‘She skins and mounts them and dresses them in costumes. She turns them into works of art. Ultimately, she sells them.’ I laugh. ‘It sounds a bit obscene when I explain it like that.’ I look at Struan. ‘She was presented with a monkey recently; she gave it a pipe, a pinny and high heels.’ I smile. ‘People want to see their pets as they were in real life, not morphed into something weird. So she usually says no to pets and general taxidermy work. Verity prefers oddities.’
    ‘I love it. When do I get to meet this artistic genius? Would she sell me a piece for the Strathcorry?’
    ‘I don’t know. She might come over to Scotland sometime to visit me; she’s often busy with exhibitions and things.’ I wave my hand absently.
    ‘Maybe she’d show in the gallery at the inn? Her work sounds great. She sounds great.’
    ‘My mother has her moments, believe me.’
    ‘So much for me and my web-handed dad. He was a bus driver who rarely spoke. I think he thought speech was a kind of affectation. What does your father do?’
    ‘University lecturer; Marine Science. My parents are separated.’
    ‘My mum was a tea lady. The glamour.’ He flicks ash out the window. ‘Now she’s half mad.’
    ‘In fairness, your folks were probably a lot better at being parents than mine ever were.’
    ‘Maybe. No, I doubt it.’
    Struan stabs his cigarette butt into the ash-tray. He turns to look at me, leans across and gathers handfuls of my hair. He lifts it to his mouth and nose and sniffs.
    ‘What are you doing?’
    ‘I fancy you, Lillis.’ He leans over and puts his mouth to mine. His lips are firm but soft and we kiss slowly. He pulls away. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks.’
    ‘Me too.’ We both giggle and he puts his head on my shoulder; I stroke his neck.
    ‘I love your voice, your accent. It comforts me. My mother had an Irish friend when I was a boy; I can’t remember her name – it might have been Maura, something like that. Nora, maybe. She was exotic, like a woman from a film. Her nails were always pink, like the inside of a shell, you know? Listening to you talk reminds me of her.’
    I move my shoulder so that he has to lift his head and I take his cheeks in my hands; I kiss him. ‘Glad to be of service.’
    Struan pecks me on the lips, laughs and starts the engine. ‘We’d better start moving so we’re back in time for the evening shift. We don’t want our Lady Sam in a sulk.’
    We are quiet on the return drive; the road is narrow and Struan drives fast, swerving into the passing places when other cars approach. The road winds and dips through valleys of rock where sheep teeter, chewing contemplatively. He takes hairpin bends like a rally driver and I cling to my seat. The mountains rise and fall with the meander of the road, sometimes looming hugely, other times seeming smaller, less domineering. Struan names them for me: Bein an Eoin, Cul Beag, Cona Mheall. I spot Highland cows here and there, their faces stuck downwards in never-ending grazing; bog cotton sways festively in dark ditches full of water. I can taste Struan on my tongue and I glance sideways at him while he drives. My mother would approve of him, I think; she is a sucker for a confident