Secrets and Shadows, page 21
She had been amazed when he said that it was no longer enough for him, and when he told her about the book he had written in prison she had looked at him in horror.
‘You’d have thought the last two years would have brought you to your senses,’ she said. ‘You’re such an impossible romantic. All right, maybe you might be able to get your thriller published – I can see that your prison sentence could make great publicity’ – Christopher winced – ‘but as for poetry,’ scoffed Nicola, ‘forget it! Where did that ever get anyone? Why can’t you stick to what you’re good at and let me do the same?’
‘How do you know I wouldn’t be a successful writer?’ he demanded, unnerved to feel his temper beginning to rise again. Nicola had shrugged.
‘I don’t know, but I can only say that if you choose to chuck away your flair for economics and throw up a highly profitable and exciting career – which you could easily get back – to satisfy a schoolboy daydream, then don’t expect me to hang about for you.’
‘Expecting you to hang about is the last thing I’m likely to do,’ he had said furiously. ‘Experience has shown me that the minute things go wrong for me, you’re off like a rocket with another man.’
‘And you’re becoming a pompous prig,’ she flashed. She’d gone on to tell him that he always wanted everything his own way and took himself far too seriously.
Thinking of this exchange now, Christopher was inclined to think she had been right on the last score, anyway. He also thought, uncomfortably, that after accusing Nicola of falling into the arms of the first man who came her way when he was behind bars, he had been far from averse to the company of both Marnie and Louisa, the first two women – other than prison officers – who had come his way for a long time. Despite these disturbing reflections, his mood of optimism persisted and he decided that if there were no objections from his probation officer, he would stay on at Glendrochatt for the second week.
As he walked across the garden to the Old Steading, he could see a light still on in one of the upper windows – Marnie’s. He wondered how she would react if he tapped at her door, offered an apology and asked if she felt like taking a moonlight walk round the garden. He could ask her about the vanished castle that Isobel said she was looking for, which sounded intriguing, but even as it occurred to him, the light went out and he thrust the thought aside. It was a stupid idea anyway. It was far too late and she’d probably think he had lecherous intentions. As she clearly took offence extremely easily he didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot a second time.
He didn’t know that when she’d turned her light out, Marnie had looked out of her window and seen him walking across the courtyard, illuminated by the security lights. She thought of calling out to him but was afraid he might misinterpret it as an invitation to something more, so she stayed silent while foolishly hoping he might look up and see her. She watched as he let himself in at the door.
And he did indeed look up, but an old habit for concealment made her step back so he didn’t see her. She heard him come quietly up the stairs and then go on down the passage. There was the sound of a key turning in a lock and a door opening and closing and then silence. Stupid of her to think he might want to see her. She would have loved to talk to him about her proposed search for Luciana’s childhood home – the house that had so lit up the imagination of a lonely little girl in the West Indies all those years ago. She felt instinctively that Christopher would understand and appreciate her romantic folly in looking for this castle-in-the-air and, as so often in the past, she cursed the inbuilt lack of self-confidence that prevented her from making approaches to other people. She would have liked to wish him luck for the following day when the manuscript of his book, which was clearly so important to him, was to be handed to Jonathan Mercer. It’s such a little thing to wish someone luck, thought Marnie. So natural; so easy. Why can’t I do it? Louisa, she felt sure, would have had no such inhibition.
Isobel rang Evelyn Fergusson the following morning. The old lady sounded pleased to hear her, and was enthusiastic about the idea of a small group coming over to see the house and garden the following week, especially when she heard that one of them was a gardening correspondent. They fixed a day and discussed the timing.
‘Oh, and there’s another thing I want to consult you about, Evie,’ said Isobel. ‘I’d like to enlist your help for a young American woman in the group whom you’ll meet. She’s trying to look up old roots and wants to locate a particular house in these parts. I’m not quite sure whether it’s a fortified house or a proper castle – or even if it still exists – but you’ve got such a vast knowledge of historic buildings and such an encyclopedic memory for all the ins and outs of old Scottish families that I thought you’d be just the person for her to talk to. She’s rather unusual, a bit of a one-off. She’s quite reserved until you get to know her, but I think you’ll like her. We do.’
‘Then I’m sure I shall like her too and I’ll certainly do my best to help – but that isn’t what I thought you were going to say. I thought you were going to ask me about something quite different.’
‘Like what?’
‘There’s something I need to discuss with you and Giles that I don’t want to mention on the telephone. I’ve been thinking about it for quite a bit and I’d had it in mind that it might be a good moment when you brought your next Glendrochatt group over. You and I can have a blether over a cup of coffee while Hamish takes your visitors round the garden.’
‘I’m not sure that Giles was planning to come,’ said Isobel. ‘Do you need him too?’
There was a pause, while Evelyn considered for a moment. Then she said: ‘Perhaps not. In fact it might be better if it was just you and me.’
‘That sounds mysterious. Ought I to know what it’s about?’
Isobel paused encouragingly, hoping the old lady might elucidate a little, but Evelyn Fergusson was not to be drawn and just said: ‘Perhaps you know, perhaps you don’t. I’ll look forward to seeing you next week then, Izzy. Do make sure all your group have sensible footgear this time. There are quite a few boggy places even after this dry spell and if we get any rain before they come the dell could become a quagmire. We don’t want any more disasters like the time you brought that silly woman who came in stiletto heels and sprained her ankle.’
‘I’ll try to see they’re all properly kitted out,’ promised Isobel meekly, thinking that Morwenna, at least, would be suitably shod. She resisted the temptation to question her robust old relative any further because she knew it would not be the slightest use trying to pump Evelyn Fergusson for information once she had made up her mind to say nothing more.
Evelyn, who was her father’s first cousin, had been an important part of Isobel’s life for as long as Isobel could remember. Since she had no children of her own, Evelyn had regarded her favourite cousin’s daughters with special affection, and though she had actually been Lorna’s godmother, not Isobel’s, she had always treated the two girls with the same interested generosity. As they grew up, however, it had been Isobel to whom she had become closest and over the years a special bond had formed between them – something that was yet another bone of contention for Lorna to add to the great pile that she was constantly collecting. Lorna was not one to be bothered by elderly relatives – unless there was something in it for her – but she greatly resented her younger sister’s easy intimacy with her godmother.
Isobel was too busy for the rest of the morning to give any further thought to Evelyn’s words. There was the lecture by Jonathan Mercer to prepare for, and last-minute arrangements for the concert on Saturday evening to organise. Amy, who was to be the chief performer, was coming up from school the following day so that she would be able to rehearse, and Edward was coming home for the weekend too.
It was another gloriously sunny morning. After her tutorial with Catherine the day before, Bunty, newly fired by the idea that self publication might be the best route for her to follow and full of unfounded optimism about her future career as the Beatrix Potter of the twenty-first century, had popped into Blairalder for a little shopping spree. She rather hankered for a genuine St Columba’s teardrop brooch (as wept, a label assured her, by the saint) to put in her new tartan tam-o’-shanter. She had also found, in the chemist, some high factor sun-cream advertised as specially designed for children – safe but fun – and therefore, to Bunty, an irresistible purchase. She had been much taken by the prettily decorated, easily applied little push-up sticks and bought several of them; after breakfast she had anointed herself liberally with this protective potion before sitting on one of the stone seats, eyes closed, confidently soaking up the ultra-violet rays outside the conference room, preparing to ‘tan without tears’ before the first session.
Christopher and Marnie, who had avoided each other at breakfast, came across the courtyard at the same moment and gazed at her in astonishment. Then they looked at each other and constraint between them was instantly banished as they both doubled up with laughter. Bunty presented a very strange sight. Not only was she wearing a skimpy little sundress quite unsuited to either her age or the uncertainties of the Scottish climate, but all areas of flesh – of which there was much on display – appeared to have been decorated with brightly coloured green and blue squiggles like a cross between urban graffiti and Red Indian war paint. Bunty’s face was especially arresting.
‘Do you think she knows?’ whispered Marnie, awe-struck.
‘I wouldn’t put anything past her,’ said Christopher, ‘but it can hardly be an accident. Let’s find out.’
As they approached, Bunty opened her eyes and beamed at them, favouring Christopher with a specially cosy smile to reassure him that he would not find her censorious about what she privately thought of as his sad past. All her years in teaching had made her aware of the importance of encouragement rather than censure and she felt a great urge to give Christopher the full benefit of her support no matter what he might have done.
‘Good morning, Bunty,’ said Christopher, feeling he was about to get his own back for her nosiness. ‘I do admire the rococo decoration. Does it have special significance? Runic writing perhaps? Messages for the fairies?’
Marnie gave a muffled snort but Bunty looked nonplussed – until she caught sight of her arms. ‘Well, silly me!’ she said brightly, ‘It must be the Fun-in-the-Sun-for-Kids cream I bought yesterday – I had no idea. Perhaps I’d better go and wash my hands before our class. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was eccentric.’
‘Then I think you might need to take a look at your face too,’ suggested Marnie trying unsuccessfully to keep her own face straight.
Bunty opened her bag and peered at her reflection in her make-up compact. ‘What a lovely idea for children!’ she said delightedly. ‘Whoever thought of that must really know what they enjoy. How clever! It restores my faith in the pharmaceutical companies. I’ve always feel they’ve got a bit too big for their boots. I shall give it to Isobel for little Rory,’ and Bunty, not at all put out, heaved herself to her inadequate feet and pattered happily off to remove her war paint.
‘I bet she’d still have bought it even if she’d realised what it did. You can’t help admiring her,’ said Marnie when she and Christopher had finished laughing as they watched her go tap-tapping blithely over the cobbles in her kitten heels. ‘She’s so completely herself.’
‘Unique, I should think,’ grinned Christopher. The clock over the theatre struck the half hour, but neither of them felt ready to go inside yet.
‘Marnie . . .’ he began, but she interrupted him.
‘I know you must be mad at me, but don’t say anything,’ she said. ‘Not until I’ve apologised for being so dumb yesterday . . . and not until I’ve wished you luck for this morning about your book. I really hope this thriller writer likes it.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, guessing the effort this speech was for her. ‘But there’s nothing to forgive. It was entirely my fault and I was the spiky one. And you helped me so much just by listening to me. You’ve no idea.’ He looked down at her. ‘Friends?’ he asked, suspecting friendship was something she had always felt short of; something, he thought, that he had taken for granted for most of his life but had recently come to realise was the most important possession one could have.
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘friends,’ and this time she gave him the brilliant smile that so transformed her whole face and which, on the first day, he had wondered how to earn.
Then, hesitantly, she held out both her hands to him and he took them in his.
They were standing gazing at each other when Louisa came through the archway.
Chapter Sixteen
The first impression of Jonathan Mercer, whose bestselling crime novels were occasionally erotic, usually dark and often violent – though never without a certain black humour – was not what most of the students at Glendrochatt expected. Joyce and Marnie were the only two who had never read any of his books. Christopher, Win and the Colonel pronounced themselves ardent fans, while Bunty said disapprovingly they weren’t at all her sort of thing and she couldn’t see why they were so popular but she had just dipped into the odd one occasionally to keep herself informed of the current literary scene.
‘Just reading all the juicy bits more likely – the old hypocrite,’ muttered Louisa to Isobel.
Morwenna admitted that she could easily become addicted to them, but found them so scary that she could only allow herself to read them when staying in other people’s houses and had to forgo them when alone in her isolated Cornish cottage.
‘He’s the sort of writer who makes you jump at the sound of a falling leaf, and hesitate to pass your own totally unalarming broom cupboard under the stairs,’ she said. Morwenna might look stolid and unimaginative but her new acquaintances were discovering that her facade of stodgy practicality in no way corresponded to the gentle and vulnerable character who lurked inside. They were all becoming very fond of the gardening correspondent – especially the Colonel. Beady-eyed Win had noticed that he usually managed to seat himself next to Morwenna, though Bunty always rushed for the chair on his other side, making the seating of the class resemble a competitive game of musical chairs.
Tickets for Jonathan Mercer’s talk had sold out weeks before and the little theatre was full. Daniel Hoffman’s delightful backdrop, which depicted not only the romantic setting of Glendrochatt and the immediate Grant family members, but one or two of the arts centre’s chief patrons as well – wittily representing their various quirks and enthusiasms – had been let down at the back of the stage. Isobel had done two spectacular arrangements of young beech leaves, ‘pheasant eye’ narcissi and the yellow mollis azaleas that grew, semi-wild, all over the garden. She had put the two big urns she kept for these occasions on pedestals at either side of the stage and the whole theatre smelt delicious. The buzz of conversation stopped as Giles and Isobel came into the theatre accompanied by a small, round teddy bear of a man, with thick pebble glasses and an ill-fitting jacket of a peculiarly unbecoming shade of ochre. He shambled on to the stage with the absentminded look of one who has mislaid his car keys, is finally driven to searching for them in rather an unlikely place, and then can’t remember how he came to be there.
After an affectionate introduction from Giles, who clearly knew him well, he proceeded to hold his varied audience of hundred and fifty spellbound for an hour, without any assistance from notes, slides or other visual aids. Fascinated silence was interspersed with gales of laughter and when he finished speaking the applause was extremely enthusiastic. In answer to a question as to why he had given up his career in forensic medicine he had scratched his bald head and said he supposed he’d got a bit tired of dead bodies, which made everyone laugh. ‘And of course by then, I’d started to make money from my novels,’ he admitted. ‘That helped the decision along no end, but it wasn’t till after my third book that I dared to rely on my pen as a source of income. My wife and I have five children. She’s a doctor too but I don’t think she’d have been very keen on me giving up my medical career unless I could help her put some bread on our table.’
‘What qualities do you think you need to be a successful writer of fiction?’ someone asked.
‘Luck, timing, perseverance and a sense of enjoyment,’ he said promptly. ‘Don’t go into it to make money – go into it because you can’t help it. You may make money. I’ve been very lucky, but it took a little time. Perhaps, above all, you need to be a bit backward.’ He smiled benignly at his audience. ‘Most of us who write fiction haven’t outgrown the childish ability to live in an imaginary world and have constant companions unseen by anyone else.’
The questions came thick and fast and eventually Giles, who had successfully managed to ignore Bunty’s wildly waving hand, decided to call a halt and carry his popular speaker off for drinks and lunch in the main house. But Bunty, seated in the front row, was having no such brush-off. She got to her feet with surprising agility and called out, ‘I have one more question for Mr Mercer, Giles dear. I don’t think you’ve noticed my signals.’
‘One more question then,’ said Giles resignedly, ‘but I’m afraid it will have to be brief.’
‘I just wanted to know,’ said Bunty ‘why it is that Mr Mercer who seems such a nice man should write such horrid books?’
‘What an excellent question,’ said Jonathan Mercer, beaming kindly at Bunty. ‘I’ve always wanted to know the answer to that myself. If I ever find out, I’ll let the lady know!’ and he followed Giles off the stage to more applause.
