The conversation was mainly between Hugh and his father, with occasional interventions from Stephanie, who made an effort to include Barbara in their exchanges.
“I’m so interested to hear you’re a literary agent,” she said. “I’ve been writing—”
Hugh did not allow her to finish. “Barbara is not that sort of agent, Mother,” he interjected. “She deals with a very different sort of book.”
Stephanie tried again. “But I thought that—”
Again Hugh interrupted. “For example, she has the most interesting autobiography at the moment. It seems that—”
Stephanie stared at her son. “My own book—”
Sorley cleared his throat. “I’ve been reading the most entertaining—”
And Hugh again: “Please pass the salt.”
Barbara said, “Does Ardnamurchan get a lot of rain?”
At the end of the meal Barbara and Hugh left for their walk. The sun was still quite high above the hills to the west; although it was shortly after eight, at these latitudes, and in high summer, it would be a good two hours before it sank below the Hebridean Sea. “We’ve got time to get to the waterfall.” Hugh said. “Would you like that?”
Barbara looked up at the hillside behind the house. There was a small expanse of cleared grazing and then, beyond that, rough land: heather, bracken, outcrops of granite.
“There’s a path,” said Hugh, taking off his jersey and tying it around his waist. “It’s mild, isn’t it?”
It was. Earlier in the evening there had been a breeze and this had now abated, leaving the air languid, warm on the skin. On impulse, Barbara moved to his side and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I’m so happy,” she said. And then, embarrassed at her sudden show of emotion, “I just am. I normally don’t go round telling people that I’m happy, like some Pollyanna, but I just am.”
“And I’m happy too,” said Hugh. But then he frowned. “Why shouldn’t you tell people you’re happy? Why do people expect you to be miserable?’
“Do they?” she asked.
“Yes, I think they do.” He hesitated, but only briefly. “Sometimes it seems as if people think that misery is the natural human condition. Misery and conflict.”
“For some it is,” said Barbara. “For a lot of people, in fact.”
Hugh’s expression was one of disappointment. “You really feel that?”
Yes, she did; and she explained, “I’m not saying that we have to feel miserable – obviously we don’t. But we can’t ignore the real misery of the world. We’d have to bury our heads in the sand, wouldn’t we?”
Hugh defended his stance. He did not ignore the misery of the world, he said, but it did not dominate his thinking. Why should it? What was the point? “You can know all about suffering,” he said, “and you can still smile, and see the beauty of the world, and experience … experience joy, I suppose.”
She touched his forearm. “Of course. Of course, you’re right. And I’m not ashamed by happiness.” She paused. “You’ve made me happy. It’s you. Meeting you.” Which was true. Before she met Hugh she had been unhappy; she had been plain old Barbara Ragg – which was how she thought of herself – tagging after a man who had little time for her, living in fear of his rejection. And now everything was different. It was Hugh who had brought about this metamorphosis in her life.
All this at the start of the walk, before they set foot on the path that followed the course of the burn and then turned off into the fold of the hills; now Hugh took her arm and led her towards the path, matching his step to hers. “Fine,” he said. “That’s fine, because I’m happier now than I’ve ever been. Ever. I’m not exaggerating.”
She began to say something, but he stopped her, placing a finger against her lips. “We need to start,” he said. “If we’re going to swim, we need to get up there before the sun goes down.”
She shivered. They were going to swim under a waterfall. She looked up at the sky; it was a vast echoing vault of blue, empty apart from a sudden dart of swifts, dipping and swinging on some exultant mission of their own.
Chapter 65: Under the Waterfall
They followed the path along the side of the burn, stepping cautiously over exposed rocks and the tangled roots of gorse. The tumbling water was the colour of whisky – from peat, explained Hugh. “We could drink it if we wanted to,” he said. “I always used to, when I was a boy. I lay down and drank it when I’d been walking across the hills. Lay down and drank like a …”
“Like a snake,” suggested Barbara.
He was surprised. “Why? Why like a snake?”
“Because that’s the image that springs to mind. From Lawrence’s poem. You know the one: where a snake comes to his water trough and sips at the water. You lying on the ground makes me think of his snake.”
He recalled the poem, but only vaguely. “I like Lawrence,” he said. “I like the novels, although I must say that his characters seem to speak so formally.”
He smiled. “Do you think that in real life people have the sort of conversation we’re having? Or do they only talk like this in books?”
She thought for a moment. “No, this is real. This is really how people speak.” She looked at him and returned his smile. “We’re talking like this, aren’t we?”
“We are.”
“Then there you are.”
The path now diverted from the course of the burn, climbing away to the west, crossing a steep stretch of hillside. The way was rougher there, not much more than a track scoured out by the hoofs of animals. “Sheep use this?” asked Barbara.
“No. Deer. We don’t have sheep any more. Just a few cattle. The deer are more important.”
She asked why, and Hugh explained that the ground was too rough to run even the hardy Scotch Blackface. “They survive all right, but there’s not much grazing, and you can’t make much from sheep these days. People come to do deer-stalking in the autumn – that’s much more valuable. It’s the only money we make, I think.”
That was another thing they had never discussed – money. The house was well furnished enough, she had noticed, but everything was old and could have been bought a long time ago; perhaps there had been money once.
“Can’t your father grow anything?” she asked.
Hugh pointed to the ground beneath their feet. “The soil is very thin,” he said. “Rock and peat. Sphagnum moss. Bog. No, you can’t grow anything.” He looked at her with a playful expression. “We’re very poor,” he said.
Barbara was uncertain what to say. He had travelled; there had been that school in Norfolk, which must have cost somebody something; there had been his year in South America. Poverty was relative.
He sensed her disbelief. “No, it’s true. It really is. There used to be a bit of money, but now it’s all gone. We don’t have anything.”
“Except this.” Barbara pointed to the hills around them.
Hugh laughed. “Of course. But we can’t sell this. We can’t.”
She was not so urban as to be incapable of understanding what land meant to those who lived on it. “No, of course not. I understand that.”
They walked on, making for a point where the path surmounted a spur. From there a view of the sea suddenly opened up, and Barbara stopped in her tracks, struck by what she saw. Hugh stopped too, watching her reaction. “Yes,” he said simply. “Yes.”
There was another hill between them and the sea, but it was lower than the one they had just climbed, and they could easily see over it. There was an expanse of blue, silver at some points, almost white at others, and that was the sea; there was an island beyond, and yet others further out, strips of land laid down upon the horizon of water. “Coll,” said Hugh, pointing. “And that’s Tiree.”
Coll and Tiree. She had heard the names in the shipping forecast; amid all the gales and the squalls and the zones of low pressure that the radio warned about there had been Coll and Tiree, reassuring guardians against the Atlantic.
Hugh sa
id to her that they should continue. If they followed the path a bit further, he explained, she would see how it swung back to where the waterfall was. And then they could swim – if she wanted to. “It’s cold for the first few minutes,” he said. “And then you don’t notice it.”
She heard the waterfall before she saw it: a soft, thudding sound, not unlike that of some distant engine. And when they came to the point on the path where it revealed itself to them, again she stopped, and stood quite still in wonderment, her gaze travelling up the wispy column of water that fell, so effortlessly, like the tail of some supernatural white mare. At the foot of the waterfall, a pool had been hollowed out in rock from which all superficial accretion had been washed away; the pristine water was clear enough to show that the pool was deep in parts, deep enough to swim in, as Hugh had promised.
She looked at him as they stood at the edge of the pool. The sun felt warm, even this late, even at this height, and his brow was damp from the exertion of the climb, as was hers too. She half turned to find out whether they had lost sight of the sea, which must be behind them now. They had not; the field of blue was still there, and she saw a boat ploughing a tiny white furrow through it, halfway to the island of Mull.
She glanced over at Hugh, who took off his shirt and tossed it down upon a rock. She turned away, involuntarily, and looked again at the sea in the distance.
“I know that boat,” he said from behind her. “It belongs to some divers from Tobermory. They dive for scallops.”
The remark – made as a casual aside – made it easier for her to turn round. She saw him standing on the edge of the water, his clothes abandoned on the rock. He said, “Am I brave enough?”
She wanted to freeze the moment. “Yes, of course you are.” She paused, her hand upon the buttons of her blouse. “And I’ll try to be brave too.”
It was cold, cold to the bone, as he had said it would be, but they became accustomed to the temperature within minutes, again as he had said they would. She swam beside him, letting her hair float about her on the surface; he held her hand lightly, under the water. The spray from the waterfall was delicate upon her face; touched it, and disappeared.
He said, “I love this place so much.”
“I know. And I can see why.”
He swept his hair back, a wet slick across his forehead. “I want to live here, you know. I have to.”
She spoke without hesitation. “I know that too.”
“My father’s got only one chance of staying here – staying on the farm – and that’s if I help him with the hydro scheme. He can’t do it himself.”
“Then you must do it.”
“And you?”
“I want to be where you are. That’s all.”
How easy, she thought; how easy it was to change a life, to give up everything. A few words could do it.
He pressed her hand. She felt his leg touch hers. He was holding her, cradling her, so that she need not swim. “There’s an old place, a cottage that was used by the shepherd. It’s been empty for years. We could do it up – we could take our time, and do a little bit each year, as we can afford it.”
She looked up at the sky. Under which I shall live, she thought; and her decision was made. “We can do it right away. I can sell my flat in London and we can use the money to do up the cottage and live on the rest for … well, for ages, I expect.”
“If you find a buyer. It can take some time, can’t it?”
“I have a buyer.” She would sell it to Rupert. He had always wanted it, and now she would give it to him. She did not want to leave London to begin her new life in anything but a state of grace, which was what this place, this holy place, now asked of her, and would be given.
Chapter 66: Eddie Upbraids William over Freddie
William French’s son, Eddie, had been an utter disappointment to his father, and to his late mother, his teachers, his scout leader, and most of his friends – except, of course, the loyal, uncritical Steve. His failure to achieve anything had begun early – at nursery school, in fact – and had continued throughout his brief period of tertiary education, when he had been given a last-minute place on an under-subscribed course at a struggling university in a remote part of the city. The course in film studies was not unduly onerous, requiring not much more than the watching of a certain number of films each week, but even that proved a strain of Eddie’s staying power, and he had dropped out. After that he had taken to spending the morning in bed in the flat he shared with his father in Corduroy Mansions.
Eddie had ignored his father’s frequent hints that he should find a place of his own. These had become more and more direct, and had eventually included offers to help with a mortgage. But why move? If one had a comfortable, reasonably central flat with porterage (father) and all meals provided (father), then why rough it in a shared flat where cooking would have to be done (Eddie) and contributions made to electricity (Eddie), gas (Eddie) and telephone (Eddie) bills? No, in common with many contemporary twenty-something-year-olds, Eddie saw no reason to leave the entirely comfortable nest that his father so thoughtfully provided.
Eventually the worm had turned, and Eddie had been driven out of Corduroy Mansions by William’s friend, Marcia, who had stood up to him in a way his father had singularly failed to do. Smarting, Eddie had moved into a flat with his friend, Steve, a move that would eventually have resulted in trouble over unpaid bills had it not been for a singular stroke of luck in meeting Merle. She was ten years his senior, but endowed with an overwhelming advantage that would cancel out any drawback in age: she had a beach house in the Windward Islands, where she owned a thriving marina and yacht chandlery. Eddie liked Merle, and she for some inexplicable reason reciprocated his affection. They set up home together, spending six months each year in the Windward Islands and six months in London. Eddie thought the arrangement ideal. He took to wearing an ex-Greek merchant navy captain’s cap, and spending his mornings at the marina telling the staff what to do.
“Sure thing, Captain Eddie,” they replied. But they never did what he asked them to do, and Eddie never noticed. So everybody was content.
Eddie and Merle were now back in London, and Eddie had decided to visit his father, whom he had not seen since his return. William had hoped that Eddie would bring Merle – he had never met her – but apparently she had business to do in Southampton and was unable to come.
“Next time, Dad,” said Eddie. “Merle’s not going anywhere.”
William thought this remark applied very aptly to Eddie, but did not say so. Instead he said, “I look forward to meeting her. She sounds very … very nice.” The trite praise was lame, but he wondered what else he could say about a person whom he had never met. She would probably be blowsy, he thought, a bit like a younger version of Marcia … He stopped himself. That was a disloyal thought. Marcia was not blowsy, or perhaps only a little bit. It was disloyal to think such things about a woman who had offered him nothing but friendship, and brought round to the house all those marvellous surplus snacks from the diplomatic receptions for which she catered.
“So, what are you up to, Dad?” asked Eddie cheerfully. “Same old, same old, I suppose.”
William drew a deep breath. He would not allow his son to condescend to him. He should point out that at least he worked, whereas Eddie did the same old, same old nothing. But he did not say it; he simply replied, “The usual. You know how it is.”
“Yes,” said Eddie. “It must be pretty boring.” He paused, looking around the room. “Where’s the dog? Where’s Freddie de la Hay?”
William looked out of the window. “He’s …”
He broke off. What could he tell Eddie?
Eddie looked suspicious. “Yeah? He’s what? Has he kicked the bucket?”
“No, he hasn’t.” William glared at his son. “He’s serving his country!”
“Come again?” said Eddie. “A dog? Serving his country?”
“I’ve lent him to MI6,” said William softly. �
�They asked whether he might help them with surveillance duties. They put a transmitter in his collar and he was passed on to a group of Russians—”
He did not finish. Eddie leaped to his feet. “You lent him to MI6? Have you gone off your rocker? What happens if …”
It had already happened, and William confessed to Eddie that Freddie de la Hay had been exposed and gone missing as a result. Eddie listened with growing horror.
The Dog Who Came in From the Cold Page 26