“It’s all so banal, isn’t it? One has heard it all before. A story out of an old melodrama or a Victorian opera. By the time Andreas told me that it had to end, our love, and that he was going back to Frankfurt and Inga and the children, I had steeled myself to accept his decision. But when the time came to say goodbye, and I knew I would never see him again, I felt as though all life was draining from my body; it was like bleeding to death, or something ghastly like that.
“I thought I could stay in Oberbeuren and try to get on with my work, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t keep my mind on anything, and the job was too demanding and important to be done at half-cock. So I went to my boss and told him I was lighting out. Going back to London. I stayed long enough for them to pick a replacement… an efficient girl who’d worked under me … and then I flew home.
“I have dreams about Andreas still. Sometimes they’re frightening, other times, he’s there to tell me it was all a mistake, and that Inga didn’t want him any more, and we could be together again. Those times I wake up feeling so happy….”
There was a long silence, and then Carrie stirred, and smiled. She said, “So that’s it.”
“My darling girl. Thank you for telling.”
“Boring, really. Like I said, banal.”
“Not a bit.”
Til recover. I’ll recover from Andreas and I’ll recover from my little cold in the head. Life goes on. I’m here with you. I shall pull myself together and do my best to be cheerful.”
“You don’t have to pretend anything.”
“Will you tell Oscar?”
“If you want me to.”
“Just a quick precis. I’d like him to know. It will make things easier for both of us.”
“All right.” Elfrida sighed deeply.
“Carrie, you mustn’t think this is the end of laughter and loving. Life is so extraordinary. Wonderful surprises are just around the most unexpected corners. From where you’re standing, it may seem a bit bleak and empty, but look at me! I thought I was alone for the rest of my life, in my little geriatric bolt-hole in Hampshire. And the next thing, I’m in the north of Scotland living with Oscar Blundell.”
“Oscar’s not married.”
“No.” Elfrida thought of Jimbo and sighed again, confused by the twists and turns of fate. She said, “The world is full of married men.”
“Not for me, Elfrida. Never again.”
From downstairs there came the sound of the heavy front door being opened and shut, and the cheerful voices of Oscar and Lucy, returning from their shopping.
Elfrida pulled herself together and climbed off the high bed.
“I must go and make fresh tea for Oscar. Shall I tell Lucy to come and see you?”
“Yes, do. I want to hear the adventure of the dogfight from her own lips. And to be told about her new friend.”
“You won’t tease?”
“Oh, Elfrida. As if I would. I still can remember exactly how it feels to be fourteen.”
SAM
They stood at the bar of the Duke’s Arms in Buckly, an austere little pub that had made no concessions to either the tourist trade or trendy decor. The walls were pitch-pine tongue-and-groove, the lighting bleak, the floor worn dark-brown linoleum. The owner stood behind the bar, and did not appear to be enjoying his job. Around the place were small round tables and uninviting chairs, and in a tiny fireplace a peat-fire smouldered. Over the fireplace an enormous stuffed fish, with cold eyes, hovered in its glass case, and all smelt of old beer and whisky.
Fergus Skinner said, “What’ll it be?”
“A half of lager, please.”
“Will you not take a dram?”
“I’m driving.”
Fergus had brought Sam here, crossing the snowy road from the church hall after the meeting. It was, he told Sam, his customary haunt, unfrequented by stray women, and a place where a man could sit and enjoy a peaceful dram without some person approaching and engaging him in conversation.
“Yes, yes,” he said now, acknowledging Sam’s situation.
“Well, that is a pity, but it cannot be helped.” And he ordered a large Bells for himself.
“I’m walking.” But if this was meant to be funny, there was not a gleam of humour in his eye.
He was a tall man, in his early forties, but looking older, with the dark hair and pale skin of a true Highlander. His features were strong-deep-set eyes, a beak of a nose, a long lantern jaw-and his expression sombre.
But his appearance belied him. Fergus Skinner had been foreman at the mill in the old days, and when the McTaggart family broke up, it was he who had rallied the workforce, approached the Local Enterprise Company, and organized the management buy-out. Almost unanimously, he had been voted in as manager of the new enterprise, and the demise of the business, destroyed by the natural disaster of flood, had been harder on Fergus Skinner than anyone else.
But he remained undefeated, because probably the only alternative was to go under, and he was too strong a man for that. When Sam rang him from London, from the offices of Sturrock and Swinfield, asking him to set up some sort of a meeting with the workforce, Fergus Skinner had done his stuff. Put up notices alerting the public and inserted various announcements in the local papers. Because of this, the meeting had been well attended, so much so that latecomers found standing room only.
Now, they carried their drinks to a wobbly table by the fireside. The only other customer was a very old man, who sat in a corner brooding over his glass and a drooping cigarette. He seemed uninterested in either of them. On the wall a round clock, standing at half past five, ticked solidly. The barman, polishing a glass, gazed at a small black-and-white television set, but had turned the sound so low it was scarcely audible.
A lump of glowing peat slipped with a whisper into the embers of the fire. Fergus raised his glass.
“Your good health.”
“And the future.” The lager, un-iced, tasted warm.
“The future.”
It had been a good meeting, held in the Buckly Church Hall because the mill was still in a state of desolation and disrepair; damp and chillingly cold. Sam and Fergus had sat upon the raised platform, and Sam had seen not only men, but women as well, and here and there the odd child, too small to be left alone at home.
To begin with, the atmosphere had been cautious, and not exactly friendly. These people, out of work for too long, were not going to take any rosy promises for granted. Sam, getting to his feet, had started by introducing himself as the new general manager of McTaggarts, who would be taking overall charge of the reconstruction of the ruined mill and the restart of the business. The response to this was silence, and m 6e knew they probably regarded him as simply a money man, ] sent from London by Sturrock and Swinfield. So he told them a bit about his background. A Yorkshire boy, born and” bred to the woollen industry, and a family mill very like mat of the McTaggarts of Buckly. How they, too, had been faced with financial difficulties, and been rescued by Sturrock and Swinfield, which was why he, Sam, was there today.
The atmosphere relaxed a little. People shifted, settled down in their chairs.
He carried on.
It took a long time. He went through the whole process. The feasibility study and the restructuring. A business built on traditions and good will but moving forward. So, new products. New markets. New machinery.
At the start of the meeting, he had asked for questions. Now hands were held up.
“Will that mean retraining?”
He told them yes. Other questions came thick and fast.
“Would there be redundancies?”
He said yes, there would be. To begin with. But once the new mill was up and going, there would come gradual expansion, and so, new job creation.
A woman rose to her feet and asked if there would be work for her, a hand finisher, or would it all be done with this new sophisticated machinery? Sam told her that with the luxury goods they intended manufacturing there would always be work f
or hand finishers.
The most vital question was, When? How soon would they get back to work?
At the soonest, nine months. At the latest, a year.
Why so long?
There was a great deal to be done. If any person wanted proof of this, plans were already drawn up and the blueprints on display boards at the back of the hall.
The outward appearance of the old mill would remain the same. Inside, it would be gutted and totally rebuilt. There would be a shop to attract tourists, and the architect had, in his plans, made provision for a small tea-shop and refreshment bar, both of which would offer increased employment. fb*ABd who would get the building contracts?
Sam explained that Sir David Swinfield was anxious that 11 tradesmen should come from thereabouts, and that all local builders, plumbers, electricians, and joiners should be approached. So, after the New Year, tenders would be sent out, and subsequent estimates considered.
Finally, it all became something of a general discussion, which was exactly the way Sam wanted it to be. Before the meeting wound up, he came down off the platform, to be amongst them all; to clarify the blueprints, to listen to problems, and to try to reassure. By the end, he felt that he hadn’t exactly made a lot of friends, but that he had won some trust, and hopefully, cooperation.
It was a better start than he had expected, and no worse than he had feared.
Fergus stooped to place another lump of peat onto the dying fire.
“And when,” he asked, “will you be coming up to Buckly to live?”
“I’m here now, Fergus.”
“But you will be going back to London?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll probably be up and down like a yoyo, but I’m based here now.”
“And where are you staying?”
“At the moment, in Inverness, in a hotel.”
“But you will be going home for Christmas?”
Sam hesitated. He was going to be working closely with Fergus, and decided that it was best to be brutally frank with the man and put all his personal cards on the table. That way, nothing would be muddled or misconstrued.
“You know, at the moment, I don’t have a home. My home was in New York. I don’t even have a family. My wife and I are separated. She’s still in the United States.”
Fergus said, “That is a terrible thing. To have no home.”
Sam grinned.
“It’s not so bad. Anyway, with the mill I’ve so much to occupy my time and my mind that I haven’t even thought about Christmas. I could go back to London and be with friends, but at the moment I’d rather just concentrate on the job.”
“You can hardly drive to and from Inverness every day. Even with the new bridges, it’s a long journey.”
“I’ll find something here. I’ll rent or lodge. Til be fine.”
“You would be very welcome in my house. My wife would be delighted and we have space.”
“You’re more than kind, but I’m better on my own.” He had finished his modest drink. He glanced up at the clock.
“I think I should be off. Like you said, it’s a long drive.”
“But you have a good car. A Land Rover Discovery. And a new one, too, it looks to me.”
“Yes, it’s new. I bought it in London when I knew I would be living up here. I drove it north three days ago. It’s a great vehicle.”
“Yes, yes, indeed. My son has a Land Rover.”
“What is your son’s job?”
“He is a gamekeeper. He was not interested in the woollen trade, preferred to be out of doors. He was always mad on the nature. As a boy he brought home wounded birds and sick squirrels, kept them in cages and nursed them back to health. There was always some poor wild animal in the corner of our kitchen. My wife once remarked to me that it was a good thing we didn’t live in Kenya.”
And he said this in such a serious manner that it took an instant for Sam to realize he was making a joke.
They went outside, and it was snowing again. Across the road, outside the church hall, Sam’s dark-green Discovery stood coated in an inch of white.
Fergus said, “I think, before you set off for Inverness, you should telephone the AA. Get a check on conditions. The Black Isle can be a hazard on such a night as this.”
“Maybe. I’ll see how I go.”
“Will I be seeing you before the New Year?”
“Bound to. I’ll call you. Keep in touch.”
“It has been a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s mine, Fergus.”
They said goodbye, shaking hands. Fergus walked away, down the long narrow street blanketed in heavy snowflakes,
I tod leaving a line of fresh footprints behind him. Sam saw him go, and then climbed up into the big car, slammed shut the door behind him. He reached into his coat pocket for the ignition key, and brought out two keys. The one for his car and the big, oldfashioned key to Hughie McLennan’s Estate House, attached to its label with a knot of string.
For a moment, Sam debated. The meeting had been something of an ordeal, taking much of his energy, but it was safely over, and he felt elated rather than tired. It would be good to get back to base, to a bath and a drink in the bar, and dinner. But on the other hand, surely, while he was so close to Creagan, it would be worthwhile taking the short detour to the town and casting his eye over the place; orienting himself, locating Hughie’s house. No need to go inside. Just discover how it looked, assess its possibilities, decide if it would be worth returning, to inspect, with an eye to buying.
For a bit he sat and vacillated, and then decided to toss a coin. Heads, he would head straight for Inverness. Tails, and he would call in at Creagan. He found a ten-pence bit and tossed it, then took his hand away-it was tails. He stowed the ten-pence bit and the Estate House key in the cubbyhole on the dashboard, started up the engine, and switched on the lights.
The strong, long beams danced with falling snowflakes.
He felt adventurous.
Creagan, here I come.
There was, oddly enough, quite a lot of traffic on the road. Heavy transport driving north, churning along through the snow with windscreen wipers going full-tilt. Huge lorries stacked with timber; oil tankers and cattle floats. Cars returning home from work at the end of the day; a tractor, its warning light blinking like a star. Sam got stuck behind this for half a mile or more, and then it turned into a farmyard and he was able to pick up a bit of speed again.
The snowfall abruptly ceased. The shower blown away. There showed a scrap of clear sky, the curve of a crescent moon. He crossed a long bridge over a firth, and a couple of miles after that, his headlights touched the In road sign.
TOURIST ROUTE CREAGAN. 2 MILES.
He took the turning, and the single-track road alongside the shores of the sea loch. It was half-tide, and I saw the black gleam of water, and the mud-flats were wh with snow, and the impression was surreal, dreamlike. Farl away, a prick of light showed from a small house on the farther shore. After a bit, the road swung right, and he topped a hill of conifers, and then there was open country beyond, and in the distance the lights of a little town.
The sky darkened and it snowed again. He came into the town by way of a tree-lined road, and in the light of street lamps saw the church and the square and the old walled graveyard. He thought of Christmas cards. All that was missing was a crinolined lady carrying festive packages. He drove very slowly around the church, trying to get his bearings, wondering which was the empty, untenanted house that belonged to Hughie McLennan. Having accomplished a complete circuit without any satisfaction, he decided to ask for directions and drew in at the pavement edge. A couple were walking towards him arm in arm, clutching a number of carrier-bags and baskets. He rolled down the window.
“Excuse me.”
They stopped.
“Yes?” the man asked obligingly.
“I’m looking for the Estate House….”
“You’re there.” The man, amused, grinned.
&nbs
p; “You’re here.” He jerked his head, indicating the house behind him.
“Oh. I see. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” They set off on their way.
“Good night,” Sam called.
“Cheerio.”
They had gone, and he sat, still in his car, and stared at the house, which he had noticed but passed by, because he knew it could not possibly be Hughie’s house. Hughie had said his house was empty, untenanted. He had said so. And this house had windows which, behind carefully drawn curtains, were filled with light. It was occupied, lived in?
Sam told himself that he should simply drive on. Leave it. A busted duck. But he did not like mysteries, and knew that this one would niggle at him unless he found out what was on. He reached into the cubbyhole for the key, turned off his lights, and climbed down from the Discovery into the falling snow. He crossed the pavement and opened the heavy wrought-iron gate and walked up to the front door. There was a bell, and when he pressed it, he heard a buzzing from somewhere inside the house.
He waited for a bit, with snow seeping down the back of his collar, and then pressed it again. All at once an outside light came on, and he stood there as though caught in a searchlight. Then there were footsteps, and the door was opened.
He was not quite sure who or what he had expected. An elderly pinafored lady, perhaps? Or a man in a V-necked pullover and bedroom slippers, resentful because some caller was disturbing his favourite television programme? What he didn’t expect was a tall, dark girl in jeans and a thick pullover. A sensationally good-looking girl, one who would have turned heads on Fifth Avenue.
They stared at each other. Then she said, without much enthusiasm, “Yes?”
“I’m sorry. But is this the Estate House?”
“Yes.”
“Hughie McLennan’s Estate House?”
“No. Oscar Blundell’s Estate House.”