Mrs Cameron bustles in and sits down at her table. ‘Well?’ she says. ‘How was it?’
‘Confusing. It’s a big house.’
‘Aye, you’re right there. And an even bigger garden. But what did you think about it all?’
‘Honestly? I don’t know whether to be terrified or delighted.’
‘That’s quite natural, surely?’
‘I don’t know. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.’
‘Did Cal Galbraith find you? He was asking about you. Said he wondered if you could do with some help so I sent him along.’
‘So you did send him along to find me? Well thanks very much for that.’
Mrs Cameron’s fair, powdery cheeks flush pink. ‘Did I do the wrong thing?’
Daisy has the good grace to be embarrassed by her own rudeness. Her father has never been remotely authoritarian. ‘Don’t tell lies and whatever else you do, try not to be rude,’ were just about the only rules he lived by and expected her to obey. But of these, rudeness, discourtesy, was the thing he hated most. If being kind involved telling a few white lies than that was fine too. She finds herself smiling, as always, at the thought of her father and his ultra-simple codes of behaviour. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry. You didn’t do the wrong thing at all. He seems nice. But you do know he’s an antique dealer, don’t you? And I kind of wonder whether he might have an ulterior motive. They often do. I mean, I should know.’
Mrs Cameron puts her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh!’ she says. She flushes an even brighter pink and now Daisy feels worse. Stop it, she thinks. Stop being so sensitive.
‘My dear – it never even occurred to me, but so he is. The family have a wee cottage at Carraig, way beyond Scoull Bay and Ardachy. Cal is the only one who comes these days, but he spends quite a lot of time here and I’ve known him since he was a lad. I hardly ever think about what he does for a living.’
‘No, I’m sorry. I don’t suppose you do.’
‘He’s Cal, that’s all. His father used to come here to paint all the time. Pictures, not houses. With his wife. Before the children came along. But I believe his parents are still running the shop in Glasgow and Cal does a lot of the buying. Island Antiques, they call it.’
‘He told me. In fact, I know it.’
‘He goes here, there and everywhere. Looking for… oh!’ She halts again. ‘Well I do see what you mean. He has occasionally said he’d do anything to get a look inside Auchenblae.’
Daisy starts to laugh. She can’t help herself. And that clearly includes chatting me up, she thinks. Holding hands. Charming me.
‘He’s got some cheek,’ says Mrs Cameron, laughing as well.
‘Now I feel bad. Maybe he is just being helpful.’
‘Maybe. But I’m not surprised you’re suspicious.’
‘He’s gone to the mainland for a day or two. But he says he’s coming back.’
‘Oh he’s always coming back. Can’t keep away from Garve. I think if he didn’t have the shop and a house in Glasgow he’d be here all the time. He loves it so much.’
‘I pass the shop sometimes, although I’ve hardly ever been in. I live in Glasgow too, you know. Anyway, it’s pretty impressive – one of those gorgeous shops where you just know you won’t be able to afford anything. Everything set out as though it’s in a house.’
‘Like Auchenblae?’
‘No. Nothing like Auchenblae. A much grander house altogether.’
‘So what will you do, when he comes back?’
‘I suppose I’ll ask him what he really wants. Thing is, Mrs Cameron, I’m an antique dealer too. After a fashion. Oh – nothing like Cal’s shop. I sell online, and at fairs. And I used to pay for a bit of space in a big antique centre. Not very good space, as it turned out. Things kept being pinched. But I know how it all works.’ She wonders how she can explain. ‘There’s such a hierarchy in the antiques world. What happens is – I might buy something at auction. I don’t know, say a silver toddy ladle or an old teddy bear. I know I’m going to sell it on, but a lot of the time I’ll be selling to another dealer – maybe a specialist. Then he or she will sell the thing on again. Most of the selling is done to other dealers. I often buy from dealers and sell to dealers. And every time, the price goes up. Everyone gets his or her bit of profit.’
‘I never realised.’
‘But I’m way down at the bottom in the pecking order, just above the boot sale mob, and Cal, he’s right up there with the pricey people, the objects of virtue, so called, the fine art. They sell a lot of stuff with a Scottish provenance, but it’s very good stuff. Wemyss ware, Monart glass, Glasgow Boys, Arts and Crafts. I expect they sell on to London dealers as well. But then they have huge overheads. And even Byres Road can’t be cheap.’
‘Oh, I think they own the building.’
‘Do they? Well that would make a difference. God, they’re not exactly struggling are they?’ She thinks of herself, haunting chilly car boot sales at six in the morning, hauling a ton of boxes out of her car, which always seems to have to be parked half a mile away from the entrance to whatever hall the antique or vintage fair is in this month, unpacking and arranging, only to have to do it all again at the end of a long day spent being nice to the public. She thinks of the hideous free-for-all at the end of the fair, when everyone, weary and sometimes disappointed to have barely made the cost of the stall, tries to escape at once. ‘It must be nice to have a shop like that,’ she concludes, ruefully. ‘I miss so many good things at auction because I just can’t afford them.’
‘William Galbraith, that’s Cal’s dad, he’s very successful as an artist, I believe.’
‘Well, I’ve certainly heard of him and seen some of his pictures, but I don’t know very much about him.’ It strikes her that she has seen the odd canvas displayed on an easel in the window of the Byres Road shop: gloomy urban landscapes mostly. They are not pictures she would ever want to live with.
‘His mum, Fiona, is an art historian. She worked for one of the big auction houses. I think between them they invested wisely and Cal reaped the benefits.’
‘Is he an only child?’
‘No, no. There’s a younger sister, Catriona. She’s married, living on the mainland. Hill farming, I believe. Has kids. Three at the last count. But you know, he’s a nice man. He had a bit of a reputation as a bad lad when he was young but I think he’s managed to live that down. It was mostly mischief anyway. Never sits still for a minute, but I don’t think he’d do you a bad turn.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, but most of the big dealers I know – well, all the dealers really – seem to think that business is business, and their generosity tends to evaporate where a bargain’s concerned.’
There’s still something nagging at her, the renewed sense that she has seen Cal before. But maybe it’s just that she has seen him in the shop, in passing.
‘Are you all right, dear?’ asks Mrs Cameron.
‘Yes. Just a feeling. I keep thinking I’ve met him before, and I’m sure I have, but I can’t quite put my finger on where. Glasgow’s a big place, but you do tend to run into people. Maybe I need another spritzer.’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘Only a couple of biscuits. I’ll just have to wait for dinner now, I suppose.’
‘Oh I think we can rustle up some sandwiches for you. Would ham and cheese do you?’
‘Wonderful.’
Mrs Cameron fetches another white wine spritzer from the bar, and presently the young chef emerges from the kitchen with a round of ham and cheese sandwiches on home-made brown bread, and a bowl of salad on the side.
‘You’re a saint,’ says Daisy. She’s suddenly ravenous.
*
Later, fortified by sandwiches and wine, she decides she’ll have a shower to wash the dust of Auchenblae out of her hair, then a siesta and then maybe a
walk down to the seashore before dinner. Such luxury. On her way back to her room, she suddenly remembers about the curiosity cabinet, the embroidered box that Cal had mentioned, and wonders if it is in the residents’ lounge. She had forgotten to ask Mrs Cameron about it but she ventures in, anyway. This room too is quiet, although there is an elderly man sitting in the most comfortable chair, in a patch of sunlight, ostensibly reading a newspaper. She sees that he is fast asleep, his glasses sliding down his nose and the paper balanced precariously on the edge of his knee. He is at the far end of the room, and she catches sight of a display cabinet, just inside the door, well away from the sunlight. She tiptoes into the room, so as not to wake him.
The casket is stunningly beautiful and – she immediately realises – probably worth a fortune. Cal is right about it. She has only ever seen its like in museums. It is a Jacobean box, heavily embroidered in raised work, the colours a little faded, but still good, glowing subtly in this mercifully dark part of the room. It stands on tiny gilded feet and the panels seem to be telling a story. Many of these caskets depicted biblical stories but she isn’t sure which one this is. A woman in flowing blue robes stands amid growing things, a profusion of flowers and grasses and ears of corn. Daisy sees that they are the flowers of this island: primroses, violets, foxgloves, wild roses. All seasons in one. There are birds: swans and seagulls and swallows. She recognises a pair of oystercatchers. Down in one corner, there is even a tiny mouse. And there is a house, embroidered in grey silk with mica fragments for windows. With a start of surprise and excitement, she sees that the house has a square tower with a long rectangular building to one side. It fills one whole panel of the casket. Surely it must be Auchenblae?
Various objects are arranged on shelves in the glass cabinet: a shuttle, a lace collar, a fan, a pincushion. There is a hand mirror and a coral teether, a heap of pebbles and shells and swansdown. There is a scrap of yellowed paper with faded handwriting on it but she can’t read what is written there. She realises immediately that these must be the contents of the cabinet, even though there are no labels, no interpretations, no notices telling her what she is seeing and how she ought to think about these things. She can think whatever she likes. She notices that they are all women’s things, and is excited to realise that this woman must once have lived at Auchenblae, must have sat before its fires, lived her life in its rooms, walked in its garden, and threaded her way down the path to the seashore that she and Cal had walked that very morning. How strange, she thinks. How very strange.
She must have said the words aloud, because the elderly man wakes up with a start and just catches his newspaper in time. It’s Mr Cameron, the hotel owner. He smiles over at her. ‘Caught in the act,’ he says. ‘Sleeping on the job. Don’t tell Elspeth, will you?’
The hotel is a family business, run by the Camerons, their son, George, and his wife Laura. The older couple have a small apartment at the back of the hotel, while George and Laura live in a bungalow next door. Laura is heavily pregnant with their second child, George is perpetually harassed, and the senior Camerons are helping out.
‘We keep hoping to retire, but it never seems to happen,’ says Mr Cameron with a sigh. ‘I think Elspeth likes it that way.’
‘I was just looking at the casket. It’s so beautiful. Aren’t you lucky to have it?’
‘It’s only on loan, lass. Donal McNeill is the rightful owner. But I suspect it did come from your house.’
‘Yes. So I was told this morning.’
‘Were you? Oh – Cal. Aye. Elspeth said he was sniffing about.’
She can see that Mr Cameron is not just as charmed by Cal as Elspeth. Which seems significant. Perhaps Cal is the kind of man women lose their heads over, even older women. He certainly has charisma.
‘It was in the McNeill family for years. They’ve been in that cottage down at Ardachy for about a hundred years, and the wee box was always there, I believe. But I’d lay bets it originally came from your house. They used to call it the “old laird’s house” you know.’
‘Really?’ She’s intrigued.
‘Aye, lass. And this is the new laird’s house, or it was until they turned it into a hotel. Auchenblae was a McNeill stronghold for centuries, but then in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries there were huge upheavals. The house changed hands several times until it was bought by the Neilsons. Viola’s grandfather or great-grandfather maybe. They were industrialists of some sort, seeking an island retreat like so many of those who used to come here. And maybe there was a family connection since the names are similar. McNeill and Neilson. But maybe it’s just coincidence.’
‘I know so little about all this. I must try and find out more.’
‘I don’t know the details, but there are people on the island, people born and bred here, who could tell you all about it. You’ll need to speak to Donal McNeill for one. He knows a lot of the island history. Viola’s father was Hugh Neilson. He was wounded in the Great War but lived for long enough to have a child. They’re all buried in the cemetery at Keill, along the coast. Your forebears.’
‘I’ll have to go and have a look.’
‘You will. Do you have plans for the house?’
She sighs. ‘I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about it.’
‘You wouldn’t consider living here, on the island?’
‘Oh I might consider it, but whether I can afford it is another matter. My grandmother left me the house but not much in the way of ready cash. Not when everything is paid up.’
*
Later, after a deep and dreamless nap that leaves her feeling unreal and vaguely disorientated, she sits in the comfortable armchair, gazing out at the sea, and phones her father. The mobile signal isn’t too good and he’s in a pub somewhere. She can hear people laughing and talking in the background, the sound of somebody tuning up a fiddle. She can tell immediately that he’s excited. She needs advice, reassurance, maybe even wants to ask if he can come and give her some moral support, stay in the house with her for a few days, but he has news for her. His agent has been in touch. There’s the possibility of a string of gigs: late spring and summer folk festivals. Nothing major and it isn’t going to make his fortune. He’ll be playing for a popular singer. He’s too old and too experienced for overnight success. But the star has specifically asked for him – and his fiddle, of course.
‘It’s nice to be asked,’ he says. ‘A couple of months. Not so much a tour as a few good gigs. I suspect somebody else dropped out and they could only think of me!’
‘Don’t put yourself down, Dad! You’ll do it of course.’
‘Do you think I should?’ he asks and she can hear the uncertainty in his voice.
‘Of course you must!’ She’s seized with the feeling that their roles have been suddenly reversed. For years, she has asked for his support, his advice. Come running to him when things didn’t go her way. Or when there were choices to be made. Now, he needs reassurance that he’s doing the right thing. He is so much in the habit of putting her first that it’s hard for him to remember that she’s all grown up. For years she has accepted the way he has always prioritised her, but now her conscience is pricking her. It’s his turn. He has given up so much for her, so many opportunities. Never once complaining. Never letting her see that he wouldn’t rather stay with her. And perhaps that has been the truth. He has always loved her unconditionally. Always put her first. But she can’t go on demanding that forever, can she? Or at least not all the time.
‘I really think you should go, Dad,’ she says.
‘Do you? Do you really?’
‘Absolutely. In fact, I’ll be angry if you don’t.’
‘But what about the house?’
‘I don’t have to make any immediate decisions.’
‘Is it a wreck?’
‘No. It’s in surprisingly good condition. I haven’t even seen all of it yet.’ The tower
pops into her mind, the grim, forbidding bulk of it. ‘There’s a lot of stuff. Furniture. Antiques of all kinds as well as quite a lot of rubbish. And who knows what’s going on beneath the surface.’
The light-hearted remark gives her a small frisson. Who knows indeed.
‘Are you going to stay there? I mean sleep there?’
‘I’ll maybe give it a try till the end of the week. This hotel is very nice but it’s quite pricey when I have a big house of my own a few miles along the road.’
‘That’s true. But won’t you be lonely?’
‘A bit. But there’s no crime here to speak of, Dad, and after all, any ghosts will be relatives. So they’ll probably be friendly.’ Once again that little frisson. Don’t tempt providence, she thinks.
‘Well. If you’re sure. I was going to suggest coming up there for a wee while, but now I’ll have things to do. It’s exciting, though. As long as you’ll be OK.’
‘I’ll be fine. Honestly. I’m coming home at the weekend anyway. I have a fair, remember? Although my stock’s a bit low.’
‘You could bring some of the stuff from Auchenblae.’
‘Maybe I could. But I want to take it slowly. I’m pretty sure I’ll come back here next week and try to stay a bit longer. Which is why I want to stay in the house. There’s so much to sort out. I need to do it properly. I don’t want to let something go and then find out it’s really valuable. I need to do my homework.’
‘Well, I’ll help you this weekend, anyway. Haul a few boxes for you.’
‘That would be nice.’
‘Keep the villains at bay, eh?’
‘Oh yes.’
The dealers who frequent these low-key fairs and boot sales can sometimes be intimidating, especially if you are a young woman manning a stall on your own. They come very early, sometimes even gaining admittance via the back door, or hopping over gates at outdoor sales, and gather around as you are unpacking boxes. They push and shove, handling things, grabbing, snatching, making unreasonably low offers for items. It has happened to her more than once, leaving her feeling intimidated and somehow violated. Now, she has taken to carrying a walking stick or a big golfing umbrella or at least leaving one close at hand, so that she can fend them off if need be. She hasn’t had to use it yet and isn’t sure that she ever would, but its proximity gives her confidence.
The Posy Ring Page 8