The Wild Island

by Antonia Fraser

  'Miss Shore, perhaps you would prefer to stay in the car, while we sort all this out.'

  It was definitely a command, for all the politeness. Jemima was glad to obey. She walked down the gravel path to Duncan's car. Ahead ofher lay the loch, dark grey, anthracite. Rain was beginning to beat down on the edges of the water. At that moment she narrowly missed being knocked down by a sports car, white, driven very fast. At the wheel she recognized the black beret, fair hair and pale set face of Clementina Beauregard.

  She had kept her word not to attend the funeral of her brother, in the presence of her uncle. What had she said of Charles Beauregard? Dead-but not buried. It seemed-an ominous start to a holiday that was to take place, willy-nilly, in the bosom of the Beauregard family territory

  CHAPTER 6

  Island of Eden

  'No chance of strangers here, you see,' said Colonel Henry. It was half an hour later. By now the estate car was swaying over the narrow bridge to the Wild Island. The bridge had evidently been built of a series of wooden slats. A good many of these were now missing. The remaining slats shifted and seemed to complain under the car's weight.

  It really was an astonishingly narrow bridge. Not even a parapet or a handrail. Two sagging ropes on either side. Hardly sufficient to safeguard a person, let alone a car. Had there ever been a crash here ? Jemima shivered. She shot a look at Colonel Henry's handsome hawk-like profile - how narrow his lips were-and did not like to ask.

  Beneath them the water looked as black as the loch. On the left the cliffs of the Wild Island reared up, enormously high. Below the bridge, forking down to the loch, the river was deep and fast-flowing. A wide river with vast trees lining the edges of it, huge and very dark green trees whose roots must surely be in the river itself as their branches trailed in the water. Jemima thought of trees drawn by Arthur Rackham. These trees too looked menacing. There were no banks to this river, no footholds if an unwary traveller slipped into the dark waters. Something seemed to jump there below. Jump and splash. A fish? A salmon? But Charles Beauregard had said there were no salmon to be caught here, by tradition. The surface of the river recovered its smoothness.

  It was still raining. Jemima looked away from the threatening trees upstream and caught her breath.

  The river above the bridge was no river, but a vast waterfall caught between two rocks, forced through a chasm. The effect was startling, the pounding water as it poured down looking yellow, its spray white.

  Her exclamation had caught the attention of the Colonel.

  "The Fair Falls,’ he said briefly.

  'Fair ?' The falls looked dark, neither fair of aspect nor intention, to Jemima.

  ‘Watchful. The watchers' falls. The guardians, if you like. Guardians of the Wild Island. They are literally its guardians, you see. The falls prevent anyone crossing to the island except by this bridge.' Colonel Henry sounded more complacent than the occasion warranted.

  They could swim...' said Jemima doubtfully. She was fond of swimming herself. She remembered foolishly that she had packed a printed leopard-skin two-piece costume, bought in New York: in fact, to be honest, a bikini. Packing in her London flat, a dip in a Scottish burn from a cottage surrounded by water had seemed quite plausible. It now seemed an utterly ridiculous concept. She could not possibly imagine herself immersed in these black inhospitable waters, so turbulent, so restless.

  Colonel Henry had rattled off the bridge onto the island itself.

  'A Canadian once tried to shoot these rapids,' he said conversationally, 'In a canoe. To prove it could be done. In the war.'

  'I gather it's impossible.'

  'Oh, absolutely. As a matter of fact his head hit a rock on the way down. He's buried in the churchyard. The idea was quite ridiculous from the start.'

  Jemima could think of no comment to make. It was all a very long time ago: during the war, when men were dying

  everywhere. And some of them under the gallant command of Colonel Henry. All the same there seemed a singular lack of regret in the recollection. The fellow had failed-and had been a fool into the bargain.

  She turned her attention to the steep road-if it could be called that-which they were now climbing. It wound upwards, heavily banked by what looked like rhododendrons. Pines, Scotch firs, whatever they were, and some massive oaks poked their heads out of the shrubberies. How beautiful it must look in the spring, if all these green shrubs flowered.

  Now in high summer everything was green; green and heavy. Dank even, in the rain. And so many different greens, the black green of the firs; the light pretty feminine green of the larches; the grey green of the oak trunks. But always green. It might have been some tropical scene in a Rousseau picture, except for the cold. There was nothing tropical about the temperature. Jemima was genuinely shivering now and longed for her faithful white Burberry raincoat.

  There was no heather here, no stone, no flowers. Only green. Tigers or leopards might come forth from this jungle. And at that moment, even as the thought crossed her mind, a small deer broke out of the undergrowth on her left. The perfect miniature bounding creature had a Walt Disney quality.

  To her amazement, Colonel Henry immediately and purposefully drove straight towards the deer.

  'Little bugger,' he said, missing it. Then by way of explanation : 'Roe deer, you know. They eat the tops of the trees.' To Jemima, frankly, it did not seem sufficient explanation. She wondered suddenly if Colonel Henry was prone to the elimination of young animals. Those which stood in his way, that is.

  But at that moment the sight of the house stopped her voice, and her thoughts. It was all so totally unexpected. Hardly a house, certainly not a cottage, more like a church. It was built of louring grey stone, in contrast to the rich red of Castle Beauregard, with long high arched windows.

  And below the house, equally surprising, falling away, stone terraces, overgrown with grass, but still showing traces of magnificence; more rhododendrons, and a view. A view which was open and grandiose: the river below them, the mountains beyond. Above their heads loomed another mountain. Beyond them, the chasm. And at that very moment, as they arrived, the sun came out. The rain did not stop. So that when Jemima first saw Tigh Fas, with its stone porch, church-like aspect and all, it was framed in the halo of a rainbow.

  'It's so absolutely - surprising,' she said after a moment. She was aware of the banality ofher comment. But she could think of nothing more appropriate to say.

  'We get a lot of rainbows round here,' replied Colonel Henry. Once again he sounded complacent, as though he were personally responsible for them.

  'I meant the house. Is this the house? This is Tigh Fas? You see, I had expected a cottage.' Her own letter. Cherry's letter, had specified a cottage. She had wanted a cottage.

  'Of course this is Tigh Fas,' Colonel Henry sounded surprised. 'I must say it's not exactly my idea of a cottage. Don't know what your standards are in television of course.' He shot her a doubtful look as if anything was to be expected from this unknown medium. 'As a matter of fact we'd call it a shooting lodge up here. My grandmother built it, when she first came to the Glen as a bride, before she got around to rebuilding the Castle. But there's always been some kind of dwelling on Eilean Fas: natural defensive position. Bonnie Prince Charlie is said to have rested up here after the fiasco of the '45. Believe he had a thoroughly good time.' The Colonel spoke as though the Prince had been a recent tenant.

  Bonnie Prince Charlie may have been happy about his let, thought Jemima crossly, but I am not. Besides, the house looked threatening. Like the river, Like the waterfall. It was not even the size of it, so much larger than she had expected. Nor the greyness. Nor the large apparently curtainless bleak windows. It was something else: the product ofher own instinct. At that moment Jemima Shore felt the straightforward impulse to flee; to turn the wheel of the estate car and immediately go back. Back to civilization, away from Paradise and this island of Eden.

  She recovered herself. Then she saw a tall grey figure, gr
ey dress, grey hair, waving enthusiastically on the steps of the house. In its own way, that did nothing to encourage her. Not a ghost. An occupant.

  'Someone lives here. I didn't know—' she began.

  'No, no one,' he answered with surprise. 'Oh, that. That's Bridie. Only Bridie. She cleans for you. Cooks for you. Whatever you want.'

  'Would she do nothing for me’ Jemima's voice, even to her own ears, sounded slightly neurotic. Colonel Henry shot her a look of amazement.

  'Do nothing for you? Well, yes, I suppose so. She's always worked for us. Now she lives in the old Beauregard Lodge, the one we call the Black Lodge. Doesn't sleep in. Comes to work on a bicycle over the bridge.' He paused. 'Besides, she'll keep the Red Rose under control.'

  It was said with a faint snort, not quite a laugh, still amused. It was the very first allusion he had made to the recent dramatic events in the church.

  'It's just that I do so much need to be alone—' she began to sound like a hysterical child.

  'She'll certainly keep away if you ask her. Ask her first, mind you. All the Stuarts are famous workers. She won't like doing nothing.'

  'Stuarts—'

  'Bridie Stuart. Born a Stuart on the Estate here and married Willie John Stuart from the west coast.'

  'It's a common name round here, I suppose. No relation to—' She swallowed. She had nearly said-Captain Stuart. 'She's his mother, as a matter of fact,' answered Colonel Henry in his cheerful voice. His tone alone made it clear that Bridie was not a supporter of the Red Rose. But he added all the same:

  'She doesn't hold with her son's weird ideas, naturally, any more than the rest of us do Bridie's got a good head oh her shoulders. I can assure you that the very last thing she would like to see is the Wild Island taken over by a lot of cranks, or whatever it was that my nephew had in mind.'

  'Could you explain to me just what it is they want? Just for my own interest,' asked Jemima in her most tactful interrogator's manner.

  'Utterly ridiculous,' was all Colonel Henry replied, without deigning to explain what it was that was so utterly ridiculous. Then he relented: 'A Royal Memorial Island!' he exclaimed with another snort, giving the words ludicrous emphasis. 'In honour of the late and totally unlamented Bonnie Prince Charlie-of all people. Why, the fellow was a disaster for the Highlands in every way. No sense of military judgement whatsoever and finally left his own men in the lurch while he went off to France. Doesn't deserve all the attention given to him at Culloden, in my opinion, let alone another memorial up here in the Glen. At least my nephew's death put a stop to all that.*

  'And now?' enquired Jemima in dulcet tones.

  'Oh, these men calling themselves the Red Rose, Lachlan Stuart is just one of them, they actually want me to set up the Memorial Island all the same as a kind of Red Rose wasps' nest. With the house as a museum, as Charles had planned. Had the impudence to tell me that I ought to carry out my nephew's wishes. I sent them pretty sharply about their business, I can tell you. Told them I didn't want to hear any more about it. What with that and Father Flanagan: he thinks I ought to make

  the whole island over to his church, found a mission there

  However, that's another story.' They had reached the house; the Colonel pulled on the hand-brake firmly. Then most courteously he helped Jemima out of the car. Bridie advanced down the steps. She was, even with her grey hair, handsome. Jemima could see the resemblance to her son. Unlike Captain Lachlan - when last seen - she was in fact smiling radiantly.

  'Miss Shore, Miss Shore!' she cried. 'Welcome to Eilean Fas. And I was seeing you on the television last night. How clever you were. That terrible man and those terrible questions. And how pretty you looked—' She paused and looked extremely sharply and critically at Jemima. Her eyes, like her son's, were blue. They were extremely shrewd eyes.

  'Aye, you look a wee bit older in the flesh. Mebbe it's the journey ? Well, we'll soon feed you up, get some colour in the cheeks.'

  'I think Miss Shore would probably like to be alone—' began Colonel Henry.

  'Of course she would. You be off now, Colonel. I'll be looking after her.' There seemed no way of diminishing Bridie's enthusiasm.

  Tlljusthaveadram then,' said the Colonel. Jemima noticed it did not occur to him to ask her permission. 'Funerals, you know, an awful strain. What with my niece making an ass of herself. And young Lachlan. And having to shin up that dashed mountain when those absurd nincompoops tried to stop me from getting to the church. In my London shoes! What would Mr Carter at Lobbs say? Still quite fit, you know. But the shoes were a bore.'

  Jemima looked down at the once handsome shoes on his long narrow feet, scuffed and scratched; no wonder Ossian Lucas had refrained from joining the mountaineering expedition. 'Nothing like a little malt after a funeral,' ended the Colonel. 'And then I'll be off.'

  'Of course. Do have a drink,' said Jemima sweetly. 'But I'm not sure if- my secretary sent a list - but I don't drink whisky.'

  The conversation had distracted her from taking in the equally extraordinary nature of the interior of the house. There were antlers and heads galore, some tiny stuffed Disney-like faces, close at hand, some vast animals looming out at her from overhead; most of them accompanied by brass plaques stating when and where and by whom they had been shot. The hall itself was high and arched, probably the same date as the rest of the stone-built lodge, mid-nineteenth century at a guess. But there was an astonishing lack of furniture or even carpets in the hall, and in the rooms leading off it which she could glimpse through the heavy doors. Apart from the surfeit of taxidermy, old fishing rods in mouldering covers, a stringless tennis racket and what looked like a couple of croquet mallets constitued the main decoration of the hall.

  'Oh, you have to drink whisky in the Highlands,' announced the Colonel airily. 'I'm sure Bridie's got something in her cupboard.' He led her into the dining room.

  Bridie beamed. Jemima gazed at the same time at the tattered long curtains in the so-called dining room and at the sparse furniture-one large very stained wooden table and three chairs, two broken. If she had not been so firmly accompanied by Colonel Henry, she would have believed that she had stumbled on a forgotten house, some dwelling unaccountably deserted which had fallen into gradual ruin. But of course Tigh Fas was not deserted: she began to wonder helplessly whether she was ever, ever actually going to be alone since Colonel Henry was bound to stay on and on...

  In the event she was wrong. Colonel Henry drained his dram very quickly, and speedily he was in the car again and away down the steep track.

  'Come to dinner on Tuesday,' were his last words. 'Give you a few days to recover. Bridie will explain everything. She knows it all. No, you can't refuse. No telephone. One of my idiot sons will come to collect you. I should add that we've got the little Princess coming. Asked herself. But that needn't bother us.' He sprang into the driver's seat as though he was mounting a horse.

  Bridie gazed admiringly after him. To her slight annoyance, Jemima found her own gaze was not totally unringed with feminine admiration. It must be the Scottish air-or even the very small deceptively pellucid dram of malt whisky she had been persuaded to taste. But she had felt first protected, then unprotected by the Colonel's disappearance. Come back for one moment, she longed to cry after him.

  All her fears rushed back with his departure. The house no longer seemed welcoming. It had returned to its original sullen, rather sinister aspect. His voice no longer filled it. But at least she could be alone - once Bridie had gone.

  In the meantime Bridie guided her gently into another large room where there was a fire. It was still rather cold. There were engravings of lochs and stags on the walls. The engravings were mottled with damp. The ancient patterned wallpaper, equally mottled, displayed an area of green and red and blue flowery undergrowth punctuated by birds, not unlike the vegetation she had noticed on her way up the island drive. There was still very little furniture, although the single sofa, like the dining-room table, was enormous. A bookcase w
ith a glass front had lost two of its panes. The sparse collection of books inside, although distinctly Scottish in origin, did not look as if they would appeal either to Dr Marigold Milton or Guthrie Carlyle.

  ‘I’ll be leaving you now for a wee while,' said Bridie gently. 'And then I'll be making your lunch.'

  Jemima turned to protest. But she felt too tired. It had been a long time since that early-morning awakening in the sleeper outside Inverness Station.

  At least she was alone.

  She wondered what on earth had induced her to choose a Highland holiday, this northern Eden already proved so full of serpents. She had better enjoy her solitude while she could.

  A few minutes later, or perhaps more, perhaps she had closed her eyes, there was a winching and cracking sound at the French windows which led to the grassy overgrown terrace. Someone entered.

  ' W ell no w, Miss Shore,' said the now familiar voice of Lachlan Stuart. 'And how did you enjoy the funeral ?'

  CHAPTER 7

  There's tragedy enough

  'Look, I've brought you these,' said Lachlan Stuart. In his hands was a bunch of wild roses. Their colour was more pink than red. But the symbolism remained clear. Jemima felt herself to have conceived a hatred for all roses, since her arrival in Scotland. In any case she had always hated red roses: a violent assault on the senses. She preferred bunches of white flowers: jonquils, narcissi in spring, with perhaps a touch of yellow permitted. White flowers suited the cool blues and pale greens ofher flat overlooking the trees of Holland Park where Colette was now keeping watch. Spring flowers smelt actually erotic to Jemima. People who courted Jemima Shore quickly learnt not to send anything as crude as red roses.

  In any case she decided she had had enough of Captain Lachlan and his problems: it was time to strike now if her whole holiday was not to be ruined.