by M. B. Shaw
‘On the contrary.’ The young man stepped forward, grinning. ‘The Reverend Michaela is clearly running scared of an imminent, coconut-related drubbing. Unfortunately my prior partner’s been unavoidably detained…’
‘Plastered in the booze tent,’ translated beer-gut man, who probably knew what he was talking about.
‘So I’m in need of a replacement. I’m Jamie Ingall, by the way.’
‘Iris Grey,’ said Iris, shaking his hand.
Leaning in closer, Jamie whispered in her ear, ‘So are you any good at this, Iris Grey? Please tell me you are, because this pair need taking down a peg or two.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Iris, who was starting to enjoy herself. Ian always used to get embarrassed about her competitiveness at games, but evidently in Banffshire it was all the rage. As the little wooden balls started flying, and the coconuts started toppling from their precarious perches, Iris quickly forgot that she didn’t know any of these people from Adam and found herself focusing with wild intensity on knocking more off than her opponents. A quick glance to her right confirmed that Reverend Michaela and Headmaster Donnelly were taking things every bit as seriously, splitting their targets into high and low just as Iris and Jamie were doing. In the end, to Iris’s utter delight, her team were the winners by two points, putting them at the top of the leader board.
‘And you said I’d never come to anything, headmaster,’ Jamie teased John Donnelly good-naturedly, as the latter patted him on the back.
‘Nor would you have, Ingall, had it not been for this young lady.’
‘Wait,’ said Iris, confused. ‘You mean you were his headmaster?’
‘I don’t seem old enough, do I?’ The older man looked at Iris with a twinkle in his eye. ‘To have taught a world-weary trawlerman like this one?’
‘Don’t you believe it. Mr Donnelly’s as old as the hills,’ Jamie quipped back. ‘He’s been head at Pitfeldy School since – when was it now, John, 1886?’
After a bit more banter, the headmaster and vicar retired to the beer tent for a consoling pint of Ossian Ale. Jamie turned happily to Iris. ‘I definitely owe you a drink after that performance. What a throwing arm! I doubt St Kenelm’s fair runs to champagne, but I could maybe rustle us up a glass of Pimm’s?’
‘Or a cup of tea and a slice of cake?’ countered Iris, who inexplicably felt nervous at the idea of having a ‘drink’ drink with a handsome fisherman she’d only just met. Not that he was flirting with her, exactly. But still. ‘It’s a bit early for me.’
‘Even better,’ said Jamie, apparently unfazed by the change of plan. ‘I love cake. Follow me.’
They walked past the pony ring, where Jock MacKinnon was awarding a rosette to a pretty dappled grey, ridden by an immaculately turned-out child with pigtails. Kathy was nowhere to be seen, but Iris noticed the way the little girl bowed her head to the baron as he approached her pony, as if she were meeting Prince Charles. Clearly, whatever ill feeling there was about the fair being banished from the castle, it was directed exclusively at Kathy rather than Jock. Sexism? wondered Iris. Or was it simply that folks in Pitfeldy looked out for their own?
Inside the produce tent, Emma Twomey was judging the home-made jams, gliding regally up and down the trestle tables in her eighties polka-dotted dress like a self-important ship in full sail.
‘It’s all a bit feudal, isn’t it?’ Iris observed to Jamie, as he brought them over a pot of Earl Grey and two doorstep slices of coconut cake. ‘The Lord of the manor and his family judging all the competitions, with the villagers bowing and scraping?’
Jamie laughed. ‘Only if you take it seriously, which nobody here does. It’s just Pitfeldy. Tradition and all o’ that. So what brings you all the way up here?’
Iris explained about her work and her latest commission up at the castle.
‘What do you think about Kathy Miller?’ she couldn’t resist asking him.
Jamie shrugged. ‘I don’t think anything, really. I don’t know the woman.’
‘A lot of the locals seem to disapprove,’ Iris ventured.
‘Yeah, well, not the fishermen,’ said Jamie. ‘We’ve got more important things to worry about than where the church fair’s gonna be held, or who old Jock MacKinnon’s banging from one week to the next. Some folk around here get far too involved in other people’s business, if you ask me. I’ve got nae time for gossip.’
A bagpiper started up just outside the tent, and for the second time that day Iris found herself thinking of Ian, her ex. He’d always hated the bagpipes. Once, at a Scots Guards’ event in London where they’d both been drunk, a misty-eyed officer had made the mistake of accosting Ian while the pipers were playing.
‘So evocative, isn’t it? The sound of home.’
‘Evocative? It’s bloody appalling,’ Ian had snapped. ‘As far as I’m concerned, every single one of those kilted, caterwauling cunts should be lined up against a wall and shot.’
Needless to say, they weren’t invited back.
‘Dreadful, aren’t they?’ said Jamie, smiling ruefully as he polished off the last of his cake. He seemed to have inhaled his vast slice in the time it took Iris to pour the tea. ‘Ach, dammit,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘I’m afraid I have to go. They’re judging the boats in a few minutes, and I ought to be there. Lovely to meet you.’ Thrusting out a warm, calloused palm, he shook Iris’s hand in a distinctly non-flirtatious way. ‘I daresay I’ll see you around in the village. Enjoy the cake!’
And just like that he was gone, like a Labrador after its next squirrel.
Iris wasn’t sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved. In the end she decided to plump for neither.
What seemed most important right at this very minute was to enjoy every delicious bite of her coconut cake. After all, she’d earned it.
* * *
Half an hour later, Kathy caught up with Iris at the second-hand book stall and announced that she could not stomach any more of the villagers’ ‘aggressive energy’ and was heading back to the castle soon, if Iris wanted a lift. Suddenly tired, Iris decided that she did. Kathy told her she would meet her at the car in a few minutes, and Iris began to make her way back to the car park along with a number of happy but weary families.
She was approaching the path that led to the gate when raised male voices in the coppice to her left caught her attention. Peering through the trees she could make out the unexpected figures of Angus Brae, the castle gillie, and the sweet old headmaster she’d beaten at the coconut shy earlier, John Donnelly.
‘Don’t threaten me, boy,’ Donnelly was saying, although both his tone and his aggressive body language suggested he might be the one doing the threatening. This was a completely different man to the one Iris had just seen joking around with his old pupil.
‘Or what?’ Angus snarled back. He, too, was utterly unrecognisable as the polite, shy young man Iris had met briefly up at the castle. Putting a flat hand on the older man’s chest he physically pushed him, raising the stakes. ‘You’re not untouchable, you know.’
After a bit more pushing and shoving on both sides, and some insults carried off by the wind, both men walked away red-faced and fuming, Donnelly towards the village and Angus back to the fair.
Iris waited at the car for Kathy, and was still thinking about what she’d witnessed when Kathy arrived and they got into the Tesla. What had they been arguing about? Something serious, obviously. Both had acted so jarringly differently from their usual, ‘public’ selves.
‘Are you OK?’ Kathy asked, concerned by Iris’s puzzled look.
‘I’m fine,’ said Iris. ‘How about you? Did people give you a hard time?’
‘No harder than usual,’ said Kathy, starting the engine. ‘But look, I found this under my windscreen wipers just now.’
It was another note, but this one was different, a much more off-the-cuff affair. Handwritten in felt-tip pen, and with no envelope, it simply said: Hands off our history, you stupid bitch
. If you want Disneyland, go back to California.
‘As if Pitfeldy Castle could ever be Disneyland!’ Kathy scoffed. ‘All I’m talking about is converting the old ruined bothy into a visitors’ centre and maybe a gift store. You know, sell some shortbread or, I don’t know, bagpipe CDs.’
‘Do that and I’ll write you some hate mail myself,’ joked Iris, handing her back the note. This one, at least, didn’t seem that serious. Apart from the ‘bitch’ thing.
‘You’d think I was planning to tear the castle down and put up a shopping centre, the way these people are overreacting.’
‘Who are “these people”?’ asked Iris. ‘Who’s objected, I mean?’
‘There was a letter, a petition – “Save the bothy”. Quite a few locals signed it but it was John Donnelly’s baby.’
‘The headmaster?’ Iris sounded surprised. From her brief encounter with Donnelly, he didn’t seem like the NIMBY-ish type.
‘He’s not the only one. But he was kind of the ringleader in the village, I guess. And of course Rory and Emma are against everything I suggest. But Jock agreed with them on this one. Even Angus. It just makes me so frustrated, you know? Can’t they see we need to adapt in order to survive? I love Pitfeldy as much as they do.’
I doubt that, thought Iris. Or rather, if Kathy did love the castle, it was in a different way to the villagers. To her, no doubt, it was a grand and beautiful house and a part, one assumed, of her attraction to Jock MacKinnon. But to people here the Pitfeldy estate was a piece of their birthright. It was in their blood, in a way that Iris suspected Kathy neither respected nor really understood. That would have to change if she were going to find a way out of her present troubles.
There was clearly plenty of trouble brewing in picture-perfect Pitfeldy. And it wasn’t just confined to the MacKinnon clan.
Chapter Four
Kathy Miller sat at the breakfast table, pushing the remnants of her avocado toast around her plate with a fork and sighing heavily.
‘What’s the matter, darling?’ Jock asked, forking a dollop of marmalade onto his venison sausage. The question was put lovingly, but there was a hint of fear to it, as there always was when he suspected she might be unhappy. Jock may have played the heartless lothario in his youth, but deep down women’s sadness had always frightened him. He didn’t understand it and that made him feel weak.
‘Oh, nothing, my love.’ Kathy sighed again. In a faded, buttercup-yellow slip dress and no make-up, she looked even younger than usual this morning and could have passed for a schoolgirl. ‘I think the long weekend took it out of me a little bit. All the tension, you know? I’m glad it’s just the two of us again.’
‘As am I,’ said Jock with feeling. He preferred this softer, more vulnerable version of his fiancée, although he knew full well that without the other, steelier side they would never have ended up together. ‘Rory’s about as much fun as a wet weekend. Always on at me about the damned prenup.’
‘Then sign it,’ Kathy replied breezily. ‘You know Rory won’t rest easy till you do.’
‘None of his bloody business,’ muttered Jock.
‘He’s your lawyer, honey, as well as your son,’ Kathy said gently. ‘That makes it his business. Besides, I couldn’t care less about your money. You know that.’
‘I do know it.’ He squeezed her hand gratefully. ‘But you still need to be provided for.’
‘And I am,’ she reminded him. ‘In your will.’
‘Yes, yes, in that sense you are. But if we ever did divorce…’
‘We won’t,’ Kathy said firmly.
‘Well,’ said Jock, changing the subject, ‘I’m glad to see the back of him – and his sister too.’
‘Jock!’ Kathy grinned.
‘Oh, come on, you know I’m right. Emma may be less trouble than her brother, but she can moan for Scotland. And as for that bloody bore she married… Fergus’ – he spat out the name like a rotten grape – ‘even his name sounds like a germ.’
Kathy laughed out loud.
‘At least this time they didn’t bring their ghastly children,’ Jock went on, pleased to have pleased her.
‘Jessica and Wilfred are your grandkids, honey,’ Kathy reminded him.
‘I daresay. They’re still ghastly.’ Jock grunted. ‘The girl’s a pudding like her mother, and the boy’s a whinger. I really can’t abide a whingeing child. Anyway, I must be off.’
He pronounced it ‘orf’, much to Kathy’s amusement. When she’d first contemplated marrying a British aristocrat she’d wondered whether the accent would end up grating on her, but somehow with Jock it had always been endearing.
‘Angus wants to show me some problems with the herd over at Yeoman’s farm.’
Kathy did her best to feign interest.
‘Vet’s out there today testing for Johne’s disease’ said Jock. ‘Old man Finlay’s twitchy, apparently. Said I’d show my face. Just to keep the tenants happy.’
‘Well, good luck.’ Getting up, Kathy kissed him softly on the mouth. ‘I’m going to be spending my day talking to designers about my wedding dress. And I have my first sitting with Iris Grey.’
‘Already?’ Jock sounded displeased, pulling on his jacket.
‘Sure,’ said Kathy. ‘Why wait?’
‘No reason, I suppose.’
‘I really liked her, when she was staying here. Didn’t you?’
He shrugged. ‘What matters is that you like her. And that she produces a damned decent portrait at the end of all this. The money she’s charging me!’ He rolled his eyes indulgently. ‘See you tonight.’
After he’d gone, Kathy moved over to the window seat, curling her lithe legs up beneath her like a cat. The late summer heatwave continued, but the sky was greyer today, heavy and muggy and oppressive. The weather reminded Kathy of the East Coast summers of her childhood in America and, for a moment, she felt a stab of homesickness, so sharp it made her clutch at her chest. Just then she saw the odd, diminutive figure of Iris Grey bouncing up the drive with a spring in her step.
Kathy had meant it when she’d told Jock she liked Iris. She’d chosen her because she loved the idea of having her very own Miss Marple in residence to help her figure out who was sending those horrid notes. Despite playing it off as a joke to Iris, and somewhat to herself, there was a part of her that did feel threatened and would like to know what was going on. But over the weekend she’d decided that Iris could become more than just a partner in crime. She could end up being a real friend. She found her refreshingly direct and open-minded. Iris was fun, not like the rest of the stiffs Angus invited to the castle; a dreary array of chinless porridge eaters. Kathy hadn’t realised till Iris came along just how much she’d missed having fun, having someone besides Jock to talk to and pal around with. The portrait would give her something else to do with her days besides planning the wedding. With so much local opposition, Kathy had agreed grudgingly to put her ideas for opening up the castle to the public on hold until after the wedding. But there were only so many fabric swatches and flower arrangements one could look at in a single day. Apart from walking Milo and Sam Sam, the wedding had become her life, and that wasn’t healthy.
‘Iris!’ Flinging open the kitchen window, Kathy leaned out and waved cheerfully. ‘I’ll be right out.’
Ten minutes later, the two women were walking through the castle searching for a suitable room to paint in. There were certainly enough to choose from. Kathy led the way with her little toy dogs trailing excitedly at her heels, while Iris followed behind, taking in all the corners of this remarkable building that she’d managed to miss during her stay.
‘It’s a labyrinth, isn’t it?’ she observed to Kathy, following her through the ballroom to a little wooden door that looked like a cupboard, but actually led to yet another narrow spiral staircase. ‘It just goes on and on.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Kathy. ‘When Jock first brought me here, I got lost every day. It’s like a maze. But, you know, that’s all
by design.’
‘Really?’ Iris asked. ‘How so?’
‘It was to protect the occupants from invaders,’ Kathy explained. ‘To give them the best chance of fighting back. You have to remember this place was built as a fortress, not a home. That’s one of the things I love about it, actually.’
‘That it’s a fortress?’ Iris raised an eyebrow.
‘Sure,’ said Kathy. ‘No one can hurt you in a fortress, right? You’re safe.’
While Iris digested this revealing comment, Kathy ran on ahead, eventually flinging open the door to a room at the very top of the stairs.
‘How about in here?’
‘Oh my.’ Iris gasped.
In front of her was an oval room, ringed with arched windows. It wasn’t large, perhaps only sixteen feet across, but it was as rich and warm and alive as the rest of the castle was cold, silent and forbidding. There was a low couch under one of the windows, strewn casually with furs and pieces of silk brocade. The floor was covered with a patchwork of antique Persian rugs, and all around beautifully bound, gilt-edged books seemed to tumble out of bookshelves stuffed to bursting. An eclectic collection of knick-knacks and treasures was dotted here and there, everything from ethnic tribal masks to a group of Royal Doulton china milkmaids in gorgeous shades of grey and blue. All sorts of paintings hung on the walls, from simple watercolours, to darker, more elaborate oils, to charcoal sketches, including one dazzlingly good reclining nude. And in pride of place beneath the central window was a desk, prettily made of turned oak, but at the same time scratched and battle-scarred with age. It was the sort of desk that greeted you as an old friend, inviting you to sit and create, and not to worry if you spilled a cup of tea.
‘This is lovely,’ said Iris. ‘So full of life.’
‘Isn’t it?’ said Kathy.
‘The light is perfect. And that couch…’
Skipping across the room, Kathy sprawled out on the furs in reclining-goddess pose.