Cauldstane (9 page)

I looked around the room, scanning Alec’s shelves and workbenches.
Eventually I found what I was looking for.

‘C
ould you possibly pour me a whisky? It must be lunchtime by now, surely. I think I’d feel a bit better if I had something to hold. Will you join me?’

Alec picked up a bottle and
went over to a battered wooden cabinet. He took out two glasses and poured us both a finger of whisky, then sat down next to me on the sofa. My hand was shaking as I took the glass from him. He registered the tremor and took my other hand in his as he sat down.

‘
Jenny, you don’t have to say any more. I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘
But I’d rather like you to know. I don’t want you thinking I’ve deceived Sholto. Or the family. Hear me out, then tell me what you think I should do.’

‘
If that’s what you want.’

He didn’t let go of my hand and I found I was glad. I took a good mouthful of whisky and said,
‘The day I was committed to a mental institution I’d telephoned my publisher, asking,
begging
them to abandon the latest squirrel saga. I’d been checking the page proofs and had got to a bit where the West Wind blows down The Old Oak which comes crashing to the ground, to the sentimental dismay of all the squirrels. None of them was hurt of course, but as I read on it suddenly struck me… What about the
tree
? Do trees have feelings? When it was wrenched out of the ground, uprooted by the wind, did it suffer?... No one could reassure me on this point and no one could stop me sobbing with remorse. So my GP sedated me and when I woke up, I found myself in a white room. It was practically empty. I remember being shocked there weren’t any books.

‘I sat in that room, looking out the window, for six months. I watched a family of squirrels in an old oak tree. I didn’t write a single word, I simply watched the squirrels, keeping an eye on them, making sure they came to no harm. I gradually got better but I knew I’d never write fiction again. It was too risky. But I still wanted to write. I still wanted to tell stories. So I decided I would tell other people’s. Stories that had already been lived. Stories over which I had
absolutely no control.’

There was a long silence in which I felt very foolish and had to fight an urge to burst into tears. I withdrew my hand from Alec’
s and cradled my glass, studying its contents, then said, ‘Will you tell Sholto?’

‘
Of course not. Why would I do that?’

‘I thought you might think I’d deceived him in some way.’

‘You think Sholto would mind a bit of deception? He’s a past master himself.’

‘I
haven’t lied to him. And I never would. I don’t mind if you do tell him about me. I will, if you like. It’s just… well, it’s just that I prefer to keep things simple now. Imogen Ryan was the novelist. The woman who cracked up. But Jenny is OK. Jenny loves what she does and feels strong. In control of her material. Because it’s all been lived already. It’s become a
story
. I just have to decide how best to tell it. And that suits me. It’s the part of writing I really love. Telling the story. And Sholto has so many wonderful stories.’

Alec raised an eyebrow.
‘Some of them possibly fictional.’

I managed a weak smile.
‘Oh yes, I’m aware a certain amount of embroidering is going on. But I don’t care. It’s his book. Sholto’s name will be on the cover, not mine.’

‘I’ve heard it said, all biography is fiction and all fiction is biography.’

‘That’s a massive generalisation, but there’s some truth in it. The fact that fiction could
become
biography was why I stopped writing it.’

Alec
set down his empty glass. ‘I wish you weren’t so afraid, Jenny. There’s no need.’

‘I’m not afraid. Not any more. I let the f
ear go with the fiction-writing. I have absolutely no power now, for good or bad. Jenny is just a channel through which stories are told.’

‘It’s a shame we’ve lost Imogen’s stories.
My wife certainly used to love them.’

‘Oh, they wouldn’t have been any good – not once I’d decided I could make things happen. I was so afraid of abusing that power, I refused to wield it.
I was crippled artistically.’ I swallowed another mouthful of whisky. ‘So… you don’t think I should tell Sholto?’

‘What would be the point? He’s happy. You’re happy.’

‘And Mrs. Guthrie? Will she say anything? She seems very protective of him.’

‘Och, no –
she’ll not say a word. If she did, it might suggest Sholto had been taken in. And by an attractive young woman.’

‘Hardly
young,’ I protested, embarrassed by Alec’s second reference to my appearance.

‘To a woman of Wilma’s years, you’re just a wee
lassie. But you can rely on her discretion and her devotion to her employer. She won’t say anything. Neither will I.’

‘Thanks. Though I don’t know why I’m thanking you. I don’t believe I’ve done anything wrong.’

‘You haven’t and I wasn’t suggesting you had. I just couldn’t understand how someone as successful as you had ended up at Cauldstane, writing someone else’s life story. It didn’t add up. And that was bothering me. But I’m pleased to hear it doesn’t bother you.’

‘
When I came here, I wasn’t sure I wanted the job. I certainly didn’t think I’d get it. But I fancied an autumn trip to the Highlands
and I thought it would be fun to meet Sholto. He was paying my travel expenses and offered me hospitality. How could I say no? Then of course, when I got here, I just fell in love. With Cauldstane, I mean. Once I’d seen the place and started to think about spending time here, writing about the family’s history, well, I was desperate to get the commission. As you pointed out, the money Sholto offered was pitiful, but I really didn’t care. I wanted the job so much, I wasn’t prepared to haggle. We compromised on my being allowed to stay at the castle as a guest.’

‘Which wasn’t exactly a big concession. Sholto will find it very convenient
having you around. Office hours have never suited him.’

‘Yes, we have
a fluid sort of arrangement. It wouldn’t suit everyone, I suppose, but it suits me. It’s so different from how I used to live. All I ever wanted to do was just write, but I became a literary commodity. It all got too big and when things get big you lose control. I mean, in London, before my breakdown, I was completely preoccupied with time. And timetables. Taking taxis, catching planes, living in hotels, giving interviews. I once gave eighteen in one day, starting with breakfast TV and ending with
The
Late Late Show
. When I was on tour promoting a new book, the only time I spent alone was when I went to the loo – and more than one female journalist attempted to follow me there. I was parcelled up for consumption on radio, in women’s magazines, on chat shows. I wasn’t a person any more, I was “product”. I felt as if I was running a race with time and time always seemed to win. I suppose it’s not surprising I went under.’

‘A
nd are you happy here? Happy in your work?’

‘Oh, yes.
I seem to have much more time here. And an acute awareness of history. It must be Cauldstane, I suppose.’

He nodded slowly.
‘Aye, it has that effect on some folk. The sense of history is… seductive. Though I’d have thought the eccentricities of our plumbing might have dampened your enthusiasm.’

‘No, that’s all part of the charm.
I like sad, old, broken-down things.’

‘Like Sholto you mean?’

‘No, of course not!’ Alec watched me and I knew he was waiting for me to catch up. Or be honest. ‘Well, maybe that’s partly why I feel so drawn to him. Why I wanted to tell his story.’ Alec still said nothing and I was aware that his silence – or rather the way he listened – was encouraging me to talk. ‘I always buy damaged things in junk shops. Things with cracks and chips, that look like they’ve really been used. And
loved
. I don’t know why I’m fond of things like that. I suppose it’s a form of salvage. I like rescuing things other people have cast aside and forgotten about.’

‘It’s still sounding like Sholto to me. He’s certainly had a few rough edges knocked off over the years.
’

‘He’s in pain, isn’t he? A lot of the time.’

‘He’ll never complain, so you’ll never know what he goes through. It’s not just physical pain. I think he finds the mental stuff harder to bear. He was an adrenalin junkie in his youth and fit as a butcher’s dog. Now he limps from room to room or just sits in a chair, staring out the window. He should be in a wheelchair or on one of those wee electric carts, but he won’t even consider it. On a good day he walks with a stick. On a bad day he walks with two.’

‘Is it arthritis?’

‘Aye. He’s broken so many bones and punished his body for so many years, he pays for it now. Can you imagine how hard it is to dress yourself with arthritic hands? And he lost one whole finger to frostbite, plus the tips of a couple of others. I’ve offered to help him in the mornings – that’s his worst time – but he won’t hear of it.’ Alec scowled and I noticed the resemblance between father and son. ‘If there’s a prouder, more thrawn old man in the whole of Scotland – well, I wouldn’t like to meet him.’

‘Sholto
could still travel, couldn’t he?’

‘Oh, aye, he’s able, but he won’t spend the money. When you’re feeling strong, get
Fergus to talk you through the Cauldstane finances. I doubt Sholto will want all that included in the book, but if you want to understand Sholto and how things are here, you need to know the trouble we’re in. But even if Sholto had a holiday – somewhere in the south where the sun would warm his aching bones – it wouldn’t provide the thrills he needs, has always needed. I have a wee theory that despite his reputation as a Highland Casanova, he wasn’t really that bothered about women. It was all about the
chase
. And the risk. Whether his wives would find out. Whether the husbands of the women he was bedding would find out. I think philandering was what Sholto did when he was home from expeditions and waiting for the next. It was just a substitute for what he really wanted to be doing. I suspect my mother understood that, but by turning a blind eye, she thwarted him in a way. She deprived him of some of the excitement he craved, some of the drama. But Meredith certainly made up for that,’ he added grimly,

‘She wasn’t so tolerant?’

‘No, indeed. Meredith was jealous, possessive and controlling. Then when Sholto lost interest in her and looked elsewhere, she got angry. When that didn’t get her anywhere, she decided
she’d
look elsewhere. But Sholto didn’t even notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care. He’d moved on to the next challenge.’

‘The next woman, you mean?’

‘Aye. Or so Meredith said. My father never discussed his marriage with me.’

‘But
Meredith did?’

‘S
he tried.  She wanted to confide in someone, but I wasn’t prepared to enter into that kind of relationship. I didn’t want to have to take sides. But if I had, I’d have taken Sholto’s. Meredith knew the score when she married him. She’d been his mistress for years, so she can’t really have expected an old leopard like Sholto to change his spots.’

There was a knock at the door. Alec glanced at his watch,
quickly got to his feet and called out, ‘OK, Wilma. I’m coming over now.’

Mrs Guthrie’s head appeared round the door. She looked startled
to see me on the sofa. Her sharp eyes didn’t miss the two whisky glasses either.

‘S
orry to disturb you, Mr Alec, but I was wanting to clear away lunch and I wondered if you – and Miss Jenny,’ she added with a deferential nod in my direction, ‘were going to come across? I’ve made
quiche lorraine
today. Your favourite.’

‘Thanks
, Wilma, we’ll be right over. I’ve been bending Jenny’s ear with the family history and I lost track of the time.’ He turned and offered me a hand up from the sofa. ‘Come on, Jenny. You must be famished.’

Mrs Guthrie
looked at Alec, then at me. Her smile wasn’t exactly conspiratorial, but I have to say, she looked inordinately and unaccountably pleased.

CHAPTER NINE

As Alec and I approached the din
ing room we heard raised voices – Fergus and Zelda engaged in what sounded like a heated argument. I hesitated in the hallway, unwilling to move forward. Alec stood beside me, listening, his brow contracted into a frown.

‘
Ferg sounds upset. That’s not like him.’

‘Perhaps I should go and eat in the kitchen. I’m sure Wilma will let me make myself a sandwich.
I don’t want to intrude.’

‘Och, no, you’ll come and have your lunch,’ Alec said, taking my arm. ‘
Ferg is probably ranting about estate business. It gets him down sometimes.’

Still unsure, I followed Alec
’s lead. As we reached the door of the dining room he was almost knocked down by Fergus who burst out of the dining room, his face flushed. But Alec side-stepped neatly, avoiding a collision.

‘Whoaa… What’s up,
Ferg?’

Fergus glanced across at me, then looked down at the carpet.
He plunged his hands into his jacket pockets, clearly trying to compose himself. I wanted to make myself scarce in the dining room, but the two men were in the way, so I just stood feeling awkward.

Eventually Fergus managed to speak.
‘She said no.’

Alec looked puzzled.
‘Who said no?’

‘Rachel.’

Alec’s face lit up and he thumped his brother on the back. ‘So you finally asked her to—’

‘She said
no
, Alec.’

His brother
’s face fell. ‘But… why?’

Fergus looked at me again
and I wished the ground would open up and swallow me. ‘Zelda will explain,’ he said turning back to Alec, then he swept past us, calling out over his shoulder, ‘Look at the
Courier
. Page six.’ He disappeared and shortly afterwards we heard the back door slam.

Alec bowed his head
and exhaled. Not for the first time I sensed frustration of some kind. It was impossible to ignore the coiled energy in him that I suspected he sometimes struggled to keep in check. But he looked up, shook his head with a little smile, as if to assure me Fergus would be all right, then opened the dining room door for me.

The sight that met us wasn’t encouraging.
Zelda sat at the table, her head in her hands, the remains of her lunch in front of her. To judge from what was left on her plate, she hadn’t eaten much. She looked up and attempted to muster a smile.

‘There you are!
We’d given you two up for lost. Have you both had a good morning?’

Ignoring her, Alec strode to the end of the table and picked up
a newspaper. He opened it and leafed through until he found what he was looking for. Zelda gave up all pretension to social niceties and announced gloomily, ‘Rachel turned Fergus down. He proposed, she said she’d think about it, then the
Courier
did its worst.’ Alec swore quietly. ‘My thoughts exactly,’ Zelda said, pushing her plate away. ‘Jenny, I must apologise for all the drama, but the news has been a blow to poor Fergus. To
all
of us. Though by now we should be used to this sort of thing, I suppose.’

‘I take it Fergus proposed to his girlfriend?’

‘Aye, he did. After much deliberation. A proposal of marriage is not something a MacNab makes lightly. You’ve heard about our curse, I take it?’

‘Yes. Sholto told me
about it.’

‘Rachel knew of course.
’ Zelda waved a bony and be-ringed hand. ‘
Everyone
knows! It’s not something you can hush up. The Cauldstane curse has been around for hundreds of years, but we try to play it down. Because of course it’s all nonsense!’

When he’d finished reading,
Alec folded the newspaper and handed it to me without speaking.

I sat down at the table to read.
The offending item appeared to be an article about Sholto and the headline read,
The Curse of Cauldstane Castle.
Sholto was referred to as “the literary laird” and the journalist had re-hashed old MacNab stories as a sort of trailer for the forthcoming memoirs. Unfortunately for Rachel, the journalist had chosen to illustrate the piece with photographs of three young women, all now deceased: Liz, Meredith and Coral MacNab. There were no quotes in the accompanying text about the curse, which led me to believe Sholto had probably declined to comment, but that hadn’t prevented the journalist dredging up the family’s tragic past for sensational effect. As I scanned the piece, it struck me it would be a brave woman – or one singularly lacking in imagination – who could accept a MacNab proposal with a light heart. I lay the newspaper aside, at a loss for words.

‘
So Rachel read that and panicked?’ Alec said, looking at Zelda.

‘
She said she loved Fergus very much, but didn’t feel she could take this final step.’

‘She surely doesn’t
believe
in this crap?’ Alec said angrily.

‘She claim
s she doesn’t. Though which of us knows what we really believe in our hearts? But Rachel said she wasn’t prepared to live her life as a sort of sideshow, knowing folk were
waiting
for her to die. Or prove barren. Or both.’ Zelda turned to me and explained. ‘Rachel’s a nursery teacher. She adores children. I imagine she’d be keen to start a family straight away.’

‘So she just said no?
’

‘She gave him a sort of ultimatum
, but she knew what he’d say. She knew Fergus would never leave Cauldstane. Not while Sholto was alive.’

Alec looked as if he was about to explode.
‘What were her conditions?’

‘She said she’d marry him if they could leave Cauldstane. Leave Scotland, in fact. Rachel’s from New Zealand
, Jenny. She wanted to go home. She wanted to start married life thousands of miles away from here.’

Alec snorted with disgust. ‘And
Fergus had to refuse because Sholto and I can’t manage the estate without him.’

‘Couldn’t Sholto find a replacement?’ I asked.

‘One who’d work for nothing?’ Alec snapped.

Zelda glared at him
. ‘That’s not fair, Alec. Fergus has a cosy wee house on the estate, the use of a Land Rover and pocket money.’

‘And he comes up here to eat with us to save himself money.’

‘You know as well as I do that if Fergus were to quit, Sholto would have to sell up or just watch the place fall into ruins. Either way, it would kill him.’

‘Could Fergus teach you how to run the estate, Alec?’

‘Oh, aye, he could. And I could do it, though not nearly as well as Ferg. He knows every inch of the estate, every tenant’s bairn
and
the names of their dogs. He’s a damn good manager. But I could take on that job. The trouble is, Jenny, the Cauldstane Armoury is a major source of income. We’d be robbing Peter to pay Paul. If anything, I should be training up an assistant now to cope with all the orders I can’t accept because I don’t have time to fulfil them.’

Zelda shook her head. ‘Rachel must have known
Fergus wouldn’t walk away. Not while Sholto was alive. But I suppose she hoped he might.’

‘Does Sholto know?’
I asked.

‘About the article? Of course!
’ Alec snapped. ‘It’s obviously his doing.’

‘I meant, did he
know about Fergus and Rachel? That they were serious.’

‘Why wouldn’t he know?’

‘You forget, Alec,’ Zelda said patiently. ‘
I
know only because Rachel confided in me. Fergus didn’t breathe a word.’

‘I don’t think Sholto
can have known,’ I said cautiously. ‘When he spoke to me about the curse, he made a particular point of saying he had no knowledge of his sons’ love lives. I don’t think he had any idea.’

‘Well, let’s keep it that way
,’ said Zelda. ‘We had no idea Fergus was going to propose, so I think we should take our cue from him. If I know my nephew, he’ll want to keep the whole business quiet.’ Zelda got to her feet and, supporting herself on the table, she said, ‘There are days when I feel old and very tired. This is definitely one of them, so I think I’m going up to take a wee nap. I trust I’ll wake feeling more cheerful. Enjoy your lunch, Jenny. And make sure Alec eats something, won’t you?’

Zelda
picked up the offending newspaper and walked over to the door, her tall figure slightly bowed now. She dropped the paper into a waste paper basket, opened the door and shut it quietly behind her.

I turned
round and saw Alec was now standing at the window with his back to me. I poured myself a glass of water, then one for him.

‘
Will you come and join me for some lunch? Wilma’s quiche looks delicious.’ He didn’t turn or speak, so I got up and went over to the sideboard where I helped myself to food, even though I wasn’t hungry. It gave me something to do. Serving myself some salad, I said, ‘Fergus can’t expect you to take on the running of the estate, Alec. It wouldn’t make any sense financially.’

He was
silent for a moment, then said, ‘The only thing that makes any sense financially is for us to sell up. Sell Cauldstane. Cut our losses and go.’

‘Do you ever think about that?’

‘All the time. So does Fergus. So does Sholto. But it would be quicker – and cleaner – to take the Cauldstane claymore and plunge it into my father’s heart.’ He turned, but didn’t meet my eyes. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Jenny,’ he said briskly, ‘I find I have no appetite. If she asks, tell Zelda I ate something.’

Without waiting for an answer, he strode across
the room and left me to enjoy a solitary lunch.

~

The conversation in the dining room and the sight of Fergus’ unhappy face bothered me more than I cared to admit. I was beginning to get a sense of how much the MacNabs lived under a cloud, albeit an imaginary one. The restrictions of the men’s lives and those of the women they chose to love were beginning to seem almost tragic. The weight of family history (with which I’d been entranced at first) now seemed oppressive.

I ate a sketchy lunch
, then stood at the sideboard, making a doorstep cheese and pickle sandwich. I picked up the plate and headed for the armoury. It wasn’t until later that I remembered the old adage Rupert used to quote at me after one of my rare culinary triumphs:
The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

~

I knocked on the door, but it sounded as if Alec was grinding a piece of metal, so I just walked in. He looked up, startled. I could have sworn that, for a second, he took up a defensive pose with his blade-in-progress, then his eyes travelled down to the plate I was carrying. He looked even more surprised.

‘
You don’t have to eat it, but I’ve brought you a sandwich anyway. Cheese and pickle. Wilma’s wonderful cooking is clearly wasted on you.’

He
grinned and set down his blade. ‘You made that with your own fair hands?’

‘Yes.
Sorry about the doorstep dimensions. As you can see, I’m not nearly as handy with a knife as you are.’

He
took the plate, wiped a grubby hand on the seat of his grubbier jeans and picked up the sandwich, which he proceeded to eat with relish. I stood and watched with something like maternal satisfaction.

‘D’you want to make tea?’ Alec mumbled, his mouth full of sandwich. He jerked his head towards the back of the workshop and swallowed. ‘If you’re not too fastidious, there’s a wee kitchenette at the back.’

I headed to the back of the workshop where a small store room had been turned into a kitchen. The tiny fridge contained more beer than milk, but I managed to produce two mugs of tea. As I handed one to Alec – there was no sign of the sandwich now – he saved me the trouble of raising the topic I’d come to discuss with him.

‘S
orry about the wee stooshie with Fergus. I wouldn’t mention it to him, if I were you. If you need to talk about the curse – for the book, I mean – you’d best talk to me. Sholto will get upset and Ferg will get angry.’

‘And you won’t?’

‘I’ve accepted it. Accepted that something which doesn’t actually exist can still wreck your life. Fergus could have ignored it – MacNab men have to – but finding a
woman
who will…’ He shook his head. ‘I thought Rachel was made of sterner stuff. Her grandparents were Scots who emigrated to New Zealand. She comes from generations of farming stock. She’d have made a grand wife for Ferg. And nothing’s going to stop that lassie having bairns, if she has to steal them from prams.’

‘So you think it was just the article in the paper that did the damage?’

‘Aye, that and everyone’s reaction to it. Her friends. Colleagues at work. That’ll be why she wants to go back home. To get away from our history.’