Due to her crippling arthritis, Margaret was finally moving into the town of Tain, forty-five minutes’ drive from the damp, crumbling cottage we were currently sitting in. On the shores of Dornoch Firth, its twenty acres of hillside land had housed Margaret and her motley crew of assorted animals for the past forty years.
‘Aren’t you sad about leaving?’ I asked her yet again. ‘If it was me, I’d be crying my eyes out day and night.’
‘Course I am, Tiggy, but as I’ve tried to teach yae, all good things must come tae an end. And with the will o’ God, new and better things will begin. No point in regretting what was, you just have tae embrace what will be. I’ve known this was coming for a long time now, and thanks tae you helping me I’ve managed an extra year here. And besides, my new bungalow has radiators yae can turn up when they’re wanted, and a television signal that works all o’ the time!’
She gave me a chuckle and a big smile, although I – who prided myself on being naturally intuitive – didn’t know if she really was happy about the future, or just being brave. Whichever it was, I stood up and went to hug her.
‘I think you’re amazing, Margaret. You and the animals have taught me so much. I’m going to miss you all terribly.’
‘Aye, well you won’t be missing me if yae take the job at Kinnaird. I’m a blow o’ wind down the valley and on hand to give you advice about the cats if you need it. And you’ll have tae visit Dennis, Guinness and Button, or they’ll be missing you too.’
I looked down at the three scrawny creatures lying in front of the fire: an ancient three-legged ginger cat and two old dogs. All of them had been nursed back to health as youngsters by Margaret.
‘I’ll go up and see Kinnaird and then make a decision. Otherwise, it’s home to Atlantis for Christmas and a rethink. Now, can I help you to bed before I go up?’
It was a question I asked Margaret every night and she responded with her usual proud reply.
‘No, I’ll sit awhile here by the fire, Tiggy.’
‘Sweet dreams, darling Margaret.’
I kissed her parchment-like cheek, then walked up the uneven narrow staircase to my bedroom. It had once been Margaret’s, until even she had realised that mounting the stairs every night was a number of steps too far. We had subsequently moved her bed downstairs into the dining room, and perhaps it was a blessing that there had never been funds to move the bathroom upstairs, because it still lay in the toe-bitingly cold outhouse only a few metres from the room she now used as her bedroom.
As I went through my usual routine of stripping off my day clothes then putting on layers of night clothes before I climbed between the freezing cold sheets, I was comforted that my decision to come here to the sanctuary had been the right one. As I’d told Charlie Kinnaird, after six months in the research department of Servion Zoo in Lausanne, I’d realised I wanted to take care of and protect the animals themselves. So I’d answered an ad I’d seen online and come to a crumbling cottage beside a loch to help an arthritic old lady in her wildlife sanctuary.
Trust to your instincts, Tiggy, they will never let you down.
That’s what Pa Salt had said to me many times. ‘Life is about intuition, with a splash of logic. If you learn to use the two in the right balance, any decision you take will normally be right,’ he’d added, when we’d stood together in his private garden at Atlantis and watched the full moon rise above Lake Geneva.
I remembered I’d been telling him that my dream was to one day go to Africa, to work with the incredible creatures in their natural habitat, rather than behind bars.
Tonight, as I curled my toes into a patch of bed I’d warmed up with my knees, I realised how far I felt from achieving my dream. Looking after four Scottish wildcats was not really in the Big Game league.
I switched off the light, and lay there thinking how all my sisters teased me about being the spiritual snowflake of the family. I couldn’t really blame them, because when I was young I didn’t understand that I was ‘different’, so I’d just speak about the things that I saw or felt. Once, when I was very small, I’d told my sister CeCe that she shouldn’t climb her favourite tree because I’d seen her fall out of it. She’d laughed at me, not unkindly, and told me she’d climbed it hundreds of times and I was being silly. Then, when she had fallen out half an hour later, she had glanced away from me, embarrassed by the fact that my prophecy had come true. I’d since learnt it was best to keep my mouth shut when I ‘knew’ things. Just like I knew that Pa Salt wasn’t dead . . .
If he was, I would have known when his soul had left the earth. Yet I’d felt nothing, only the utter shock of the news when I’d received the call from my sister Maia. I’d been totally unprepared; no ‘warning’ of the fact that something bad was coming. So, either my spiritual wiring was faulty, or I was in denial because I couldn’t bear to accept the truth.
My thoughts spun back to Charlie Kinnaird and the bizarre job interview I’d had earlier today. My stomach resumed its inappropriate lurches as my imagination conjured up those startling blue eyes and the slim hands with the long, sensitive fingers that had saved so many lives . . .
‘God, Tiggy! Get a grip,’ I muttered to myself. Maybe it was simply that – living such an isolated life – attractive, intelligent men were not exactly streaming through the door. Besides, Charlie Kinnaird must be ten years my senior at least . . .
Still, I thought, as I closed my eyes, I was really looking forward to visiting the Kinnaird estate.
*
Three days later, I stepped off the little two-carriage train at Tain and walked towards a battered Land Rover – the only vehicle I could see outside the front entrance to the tiny station. A man in the driver’s seat rolled down the window.
‘You Tiggy?’ he asked me in a broad Scottish accent.
‘Yes. Are you Cal MacKenzie?’
‘I am that. Climb aboard.’
I did so, but struggled to close the heavy passenger door behind me.
‘Lift it up, then slam it,’ Cal advised me. ‘This tin can has seen better days, like most things at Kinnaird.’
There was a sudden bark from behind me, and I twisted round to see a gigantic Scottish deerhound sitting in the back seat. The dog edged forward to sniff my hair before giving my face a rough-tongued lick.
‘Och, Thistle, down with you, boy!’ Cal ordered.
‘I don’t mind,’ I said, reaching back to scratch Thistle behind the ears, ‘I love dogs.’
‘Aye, but don’t start pampering him, he’s a workin’ dog. Right, we’re off.’
After a few false starts, Cal got the engine going and we drove through Tain – a small town fashioned out of dour grey slate – which served a large rural community and housed the only decent supermarket in the area. The urban sprawl soon disappeared and we drove along a winding road with gentle, sloping hills covered in clumps of heather and dotted with Caledonian pines. The tops of the hills were shrouded in thick grey mist, and on turning a corner, a loch appeared to our right. In the drizzle, it reminded me of a vast grey puddle.
I shivered, despite Thistle – who had decided to rest his shaggy grey head on my shoulder – warming my cheek with his hot breath, and remembered the first day I’d arrived at Inverness airport almost a year ago. I’d left a clear blue Swiss sky and a light dusting of the first snow of the season on top of the mountains opposite Atlantis, only to find myself in a dreary facsimile of it. As the taxi had driven me to Margaret’s cottage, I’d truly wondered what on earth I had done. A year on, having lived in the Highlands throughout all four seasons, I knew that when the spring came, the heather would bring the hillsides alive with the softest purple, and the loch would shine a tranquil blue under a benevolent Scottish sun.
I glanced surreptitiously at my driver: a stocky, well-built man with ruddy cheeks and a head of thinning red hair. The large hands that clutched the wheel were those of a man who used them as his tools: fingernails engrained with dirt, skin covered in scratches and the knuck
les red from exposure. Given the physically punishing job that Cal did, I decided he must be younger than he looked and put him somewhere between thirty and thirty-five.
Like most people I’d met around here, who were used to living and working on the land and being isolated from the rest of the world, Cal didn’t speak much.
But he is a kind man . . . my inner voice told me.
‘How long have you worked at Kinnaird?’ I broke the silence.
‘Since I was a wee one. My father, grandfather, great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather afore me did the same. I was out with my pa as soon as I could walk. Times have changed since then and that’s for sure. Changes bring their own set o’ problems, mind. Beryl isnae pleased tae have her territory invaded by a bunch o’ Sassenachs.’
‘Beryl?’ I questioned.
‘The housekeeper at Kinnaird Lodge. She’s been workin’ there o’er forty years.’
‘And “Sassenachs”?’
‘The English; we have a load of poncey rich folk from across the border arriving tae spend Hogmanay at the Lodge. An’ Beryl’s nae happy. You’re the first guest since it’s been renovated. The Laird’s wife was put in charge and she didnae skimp on anything. The curtain bill alone must ha’ run intae thousands.’
‘Well, I hope she hasn’t gone to any trouble for me. I’m used to roughing it,’ I said, not wanting Cal to think I was in any way a spoilt princess. ‘You should see Margaret’s cottage.’
‘Aye, I have, many a time. She’s the cousin o’ my cousin, so we’re distantly related. Most folk are around these parts.’
We lapsed into silence again as Cal turned a sharp left by a tiny run-down chapel with a weathered ‘For Sale’ sign nailed lopsidedly to one of its walls. The road had narrowed and we were now driving through open countryside, with drystone walls on either side keeping the sheep and cattle safely corralled behind them.
In the distance, I could see grey clouds hanging atop further mountainous terrain. The odd stone homestead appeared sporadically on either side of us, plumes of smoke belching from the chimneys. Dusk was fast descending as we drove on and the road became pitted with potholes. The old Land Rover’s suspension was seemingly non-existent as Cal navigated a number of narrow hump-back bridges that straddled swirling streams, the tumble of rocks producing a froth of white bubbles as the water roared downwards over them, indicative of the fact that we were climbing upwards.
‘How much further?’ I asked, glancing at my watch and realising it was an hour since we had left Tain.
‘No’ far now,’ Cal said as we took a sharp right and the road became little more than a gravel track, the treacherous potholes so deep that the mud within them splashed upwards and splattered the windows. ‘You can see the entrance tae the estate just ahead.’
As a pair of stone pillars flashed past in the beam of the headlights, I wished I’d arrived earlier in the day so I could orientate myself.
‘Almost there,’ Cal reassured me as we twisted and turned and bumped along the drive. As the Land Rover proceeded up a steep slope, the wheels spun as they struggled for a grip on the loose water-logged gravel. Cal finally brought the car to a halt, the engine shuddering to a relieved standstill.
‘Welcome tae Kinnaird,’ he announced as he pushed open the door and climbed out. I noticed he was light on his feet, considering his physical bulk. He walked round and opened the passenger door for me, then offered his hand to help me.
‘I can manage,’ I insisted as I jumped down and promptly landed in a puddle. Thistle leapt out beside me and gave me a friendly lick, before ambling off to sniff around the driveway, obviously pleased to be back on familiar territory.
I looked up and in the moonlight, made out the sharp clean lines of Kinnaird Lodge, its steeply pitched roofs and lofty chimneys casting shadows into the night, warm lights glimmering behind the tall sash windows that peered out from the sturdy shale-rock walls.
Cal collected my holdall from the back of the Land Rover, then led me round the side of the Lodge towards a back door.
‘Servants’ entrance,’ he muttered, cleaning his boots on the scraper placed outside. ‘Only the Laird, his family and invited guests use the front door.’
‘Right,’ I said as we stepped inside and a welcome blast of hot air hit me.
‘Like a furnace in here,’ Cal complained as we made our way along a passageway that smelt strongly of fresh paint. ‘The Laird’s wife has put in some fancy heating system and Beryl hasn’t learnt how tae control it yet. Beryl!’ he shouted as he led me into a large ultra-modern kitchen, illuminated by numerous spotlights. I blinked to let my eyes adjust as I took in the vast, gleaming centre unit, the rows of shiny wall cupboards, and what looked like two state-of-the-art ovens.
‘This is very stylish,’ I said to Cal.
‘Aye, that it is. You should have seen this room afore the old Laird died; I’d reckon there was a hundred years o’ grime hidden behind the old cabinets, as well as a large family o’ mice. It’ll all fall down, mind, if Beryl cannae learn tae work those newfangled ovens. She’s cooked on the old range for the whole o’ her time here, and you need a degree in computer science tae use those two.’
As Cal spoke, an elegant, slim woman with snow-white hair scraped back into a bun at the base of her neck walked in. I felt her blue eyes – set on either side of a hawk-like nose in a long angular face – assess me.
‘Miss D’Aplièse, I presume?’ she said, her modulated voice holding just a hint of a Scottish accent.
‘Yes, but please call me Tiggy.’
‘Likewise, everyone here calls me Beryl.’
I thought how her name belied her. I’d imagined a motherly type with an over-ripe bosom, reddened cheeks and hands as rough and large as the pans she juggled with every day. Not this handsome, rather stern woman in her immaculate black housekeeper’s dress.
‘Thank you for having me to stay tonight. I hope it’s not too much trouble whilst you’re so busy,’ I said, feeling tongue-tied, like a child addressing a headmistress. Beryl had an air of authority about her that simply demanded respect.
‘Are you hungry? I’ve made soup – about all I can manage safely until I’ve worked out the programmes on the new ovens.’ She gave Cal a grim smile. ‘The Laird tells me you’re a vegan. Will carrot and coriander suffice?’
‘It will be perfect, thank you.’
‘Well now, I’ll be leavin’ you both,’ said Cal. ‘I’ve some stag heads tae boil in the shed from yesterday’s shoot. Night, Tiggy, sleep well.’
‘Thanks, Cal, you too,’ I said, stifling an urge to retch at his parting words.
‘Right then, I’ll take you upstairs to your bedroom,’ said Beryl brusquely, indicating I should follow her. At the end of the corridor, we turned into a grand flagstone-floored entrance hall, containing an impressive stone fireplace, over which hung a stag’s head, complete with a magnificent set of antlers. She led me up the freshly carpeted stairs, the walls lined with portraits of Kinnaird ancestors, and along the wide landing above, then opened a door to a large bedroom, decorated in soft beige hues. An enormous four-poster bed draped with red tartan took pride of place; leather chairs with plump cushions sat next to the fireplace and two antique brass lamps standing on highly polished mahogany side tables gave off a soft glow.
‘This is beautiful,’ I murmured. ‘I feel as if I’m in a five-star hotel.’
‘The old Laird slept in here until the day he died. He’d hardly recognise it now, mind, especially the bathroom.’ Beryl indicated a door to our left. ‘He used it as his dressing room. I put a commode in there towards the end. The facilities were at the other end of the corridor, you see.’
Beryl sighed heavily, her expression telling me her thoughts were in the past – perhaps a past she yearned for.
‘I rather thought I could use you as a guinea pig; test the suite for problems, if you like,’ Beryl continued. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d take a shower and let me know how long it takes fo
r the hot water to come through.’
‘My pleasure. Where I live at the moment, hot water’s a rare thing.’
‘Right then, we’re still waiting for the dining room table to return from the restorer, so the best thing is that I bring a tray up to you here.’
‘Whatever’s easiest really, Beryl.’
She nodded and left the room. I sat down on the edge of what felt like a very comfortable mattress and mused that I couldn’t quite work Beryl out. And this lodge . . . the luxury surrounding me was the last thing I’d expected to find. Eventually, I raised myself from the bed and went to open the door to the bathroom. Inside I found a double marble-topped sink, a freestanding bath and a shower cubicle with one of those huge circular shower heads that I just couldn’t wait to stand under, after months of bathing in Margaret’s chipped enamel tub.
‘Heaven,’ I breathed as I stripped off and turned on the shower, then spent an indecently long time beneath it. Stepping out, I dried myself, before putting on the gloriously fluffy robe that hung on the back of the door. Towel-drying my unruly curls, I went back into the bedroom to find Beryl placing a tray onto a table next to one of the leather chairs.
‘I brought you some homemade elderflower cordial to accompany the soup.’
‘Thank you. The water came straight through and was piping hot, by the way.’
‘Good,’ Beryl replied. ‘Right, then I shall leave you to eat. Sleep well, Tiggy.’
And with that, she swept out of the room.
2
Not a glint of daylight appeared through the heavy lining of the curtains as I fumbled for the light switch to see what time it was. Surprisingly, it was almost eight o’clock – a real lie-in for someone who normally rose at six to feed her animals. I clambered out of the enormous bed and walked across to open the curtains, letting out a gasp of delight at the beautiful vista beyond the window.
The Lodge was set on a hill overlooking a glen, the terrain falling gently down to a narrow, winding river in the flat valley bottom, then rising again on the other side to a range of mountains with an icing-sugar dusting of snow atop them. The whole landscape shimmered with frost under the newly risen sun and I opened the freshly painted window to breathe in a lungful of Highland air. It smelt pure – scented by the merest hint of peaty autumnal earth as grass and foliage decomposed in order to fertilise the new growth next spring.
The Moon Sister Page 2