The Christmas Secret

by Karen Swan

  ‘You’ll be fine – just be careful where you stand. Lochie’s a good teacher.’

  ‘Lochie? But aren’t we . . . aren’t we competing against each other?’

  ‘Ordinarily we do, but with the Quaich on this evening we don’t have the time to push through the night so we’re working in pairs.’

  ‘Right.’ Alex wondered if Lochie had been appraised of the situation yet. He wouldn’t be happy about it. The whole point of inviting her had been to assert his dominance in the field, to beat her. Partnership wasn’t on the cards; if he couldn’t work with her in an office, she didn’t see it working out on the moors either.

  ‘And how are you with a gun?’ Daisy enquired.

  ‘Well, I love shooting but I’ve never stalked before.’

  Max broke his morning’s silence to chuckle. ‘But apart from that, you’re raring to go.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she laughed, just as Lochie walked in looking as rumpled as bed pillows. He hadn’t shaved, his hair was sticking up at angles and he had deflated airbags beneath his eyes. It was clear he hadn’t showered and she could suddenly imagine what he had been like as a hungover housemate at university.

  He – like everyone else – was wearing a shirt and jumper, tweed breeks, thick knitted knee-length socks with garters and chunky brown walking boots, and only the newspapers on the table could have informed a passer-by that the date was 2017 and not 1917.

  ‘Morning, mate,’ Ambrose said brightly. ‘Sleep well?’

  Lochie rolled his eyes in reply and Ambrose chuckled to himself.

  ‘Hungry?’ Daisy asked as he grunted his greeting to the table in general and headed straight for the sideboard where the breakfast was being kept hot on platters under silver domes. Alex didn’t say anything as he came and sat down opposite her but one, beside Jess. There had been a space to Alex’s right side – considerately left by Sam for Lochie’s late arrival, as she was after all his guest, or ‘plus one’ – but it clearly hadn’t occurred to Lochie to go along with the charade that they were friends, or that she was his guest.

  ‘Straining at the leash, I see,’ Ambrose said delightedly as Lochie tucked into his breakfast with silent efficiency, head dropped and shoulders hunched as he tried to wake up. ‘Well, this bodes well for me,’ he said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of victory.

  Lochie arched an eyebrow in reply but didn’t stop eating to speak.

  ‘So, you know the drill for today – we’re breaking with tradition and going in pairs,’ Ambrose said, pouring himself some more tea.

  Alex saw Lochie pause eating for a moment, his eyes swivelling around the group as though checking it was a joke.

  ‘The packs are all ready in the hall – maps, compasses, flasks, the lot. And there’s house waders in the boot room. First back here with fish, bird and photographic evidence of the stag, wins. And remember to make a map reference of the deer kill so that the ghillies can retrieve them after,’ he said, pointedly eyeballing Max. ‘“The tree on the hill past the river” doesn’t cut it.’

  Max groaned. ‘You promised to let that go.’

  ‘Alex was just saying she doesn’t fish or stalk,’ Sam said to Lochie, devilment in his eyes.

  Lochie stopped eating – his fork paused at his lips. ‘What?’ He looked at her in disbelief. ‘You never said . . .’

  ‘You never asked,’ she replied, feeling embarrassed. Oh please, she thought, please don’t let them have another of their arguments in front of all his friends. ‘I didn’t . . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized we were working in teams. I wouldn’t have come if I’d—’

  If she’d known she was going to be such a liability? She could see the accusation in his eyes.

  ‘Oh, but it’s not taken seriously!’ Elise said quickly, looking alarmed. ‘That’s just the boys being competitive. We don’t give a damn, do we?’ she asked the girls.

  ‘Of course not,’ Emma smiled.

  ‘Actually, I do,’ Anna said apologetically.

  ‘Just so long as I don’t get blisters,’ Jess drawled. ‘I cannot wear those heels tonight with fucking great blisters on my feet.’ She shot a warning look to her husband and Sam sighed.

  Lochie didn’t say anything but resumed eating in even louder silence. Alex smiled benignly to no one in particular but she felt his irritation across the table. Different crowd, different place, but it was Groundhog Day once again.

  They were the first pair to stride out – Lochie finishing his breakfast at speed once he realized how hindered they were going to be by Alex’s novice status – Jess and Sam looking to follow soon after with Ambrose left hamstrung by his hosting obligations and unable to crack on until Max and Emma, and Anna and Elise, had left too.

  ‘We’ll start with the shoot; you should be quick with that at least,’ Lochie said ungraciously, taking long strides over the lawn and heading towards the open countryside with easy familiarity – over breakfast she had learnt they had done the MacNab every year but two since graduation thirteen years earlier.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, grateful they weren’t going straight into standing waist deep in freezing waters as Max and Emma had planned. She pushed her gun further back on her shoulder and glanced around, seeing the dark, deep impressions of their footsteps sunken into the frosted lawn. Their packs were light but it was an unwieldy process as they had to deal with shotguns, rods and rifles.

  They walked for the best part of an hour, Lochie leading as if by instinct over the moors. Alex didn’t bother asking where they were. It was beautiful here but after the first hundred acres or so, it all started to look the same. For the most part, they didn’t talk; Lochie had insisted on it in case they spotted any deer. The hardest part of stalking was actually tracking the beasts in the first place – a tall order with only a few hours to play with – added to which, they were going to need the wind on their side; if it came in when the animals were downwind, they’d be gone before she and Lochie could even unslip the rifles.

  ‘I bet you wish you’d got Rona here, don’t you?’ she asked, breath coming hard as they trekked up a particularly steep hill.

  ‘I usually do. She loves it. This is the highlight of her year.’

  ‘So why not this time then?’

  ‘Because it’s Skye’s weekend to have her, for one thing.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have asked her to change it?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he shrugged.

  ‘Surely she wouldn’t have minded having her next weekend instead?’

  There was a short pause. ‘She’s away next weekend.’

  Alex thought – and then realized. Honeymoon! This time next week, she’d be Mrs Alasdair Gillespie. ‘Oh. Yes.’

  They were silent for a few moments and Alex stole a glance at his profile but he was looking dead ahead, eyes reading the landscape.

  ‘Besides, I’ve not taken her in the chopper yet. I’m not sure she’d like it. And until I can be sure I’m not going to kill us both . . .’

  Alex chuckled at the intimation that it was fine to take the risk with his – and her – life, but not the dog’s!

  ‘What?’ he asked, seemingly baffled by her amusement, which only made her laugh harder.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’ Maybe he really hadn’t been winding her up during the constellation session when he’d said the dog was his confidante.

  He stopped walking and looked around them. She realized that the ground beneath their feet was blackened, with young shoots pushing through, yet fifty metres away, the heather was bushy and thick. ‘See that?’ he said. ‘It’s muirburn, the heather-burning that stimulates new growth and protects the birds’ habitat.’ His eyes keenly scanned the variegated moorland around them. ‘Which means this is an active grouse moor.’ He shrugged off the backpack. ‘Shall I beat first?’

  ‘If you like,’ she said, pulling her shotgun out of the slip and grabbing a couple of cartridges from her coat’s deep pockets.

  ‘They fly fa
st and low so be ready,’ he said. ‘And bag only one. Wait for my whistle,’ he said, walking away, carrying just the carved-headed cane.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said under her breath as she put on her ear defenders, broke, checked and loaded the gun. And waited.

  It took him several minutes to reach the spot he wanted but soon enough she heard the whistle. She stood ready, weight forward, gun down as he beat about the long grasses, issuing warbling whistles and cries, anything to agitate the birds from their roosting spots.

  Nothing happened for a while and she was beginning to think they’d chosen the spot unwisely when a sudden flurry of squawks and wing flaps brought the gun stock instinctively to her cheek. She slowed her breath, took aim and fired.

  And missed.

  What? She barely ever missed! But these birds were fast. Faster than the pheasants she was used to bagging.

  ‘Dammit,’ she muttered under her breath as she saw Lochie clock her fail and begin beating again.

  She was successful on the fourth attempt. Creditable for some, perhaps, but not her, and as her chosen grouse hen plummeted to the ground and she cocked the gun, Lochie raised his arm in some sort of command.

  She didn’t know what he was intending to convey, but then she saw his own gun – already out of its slip – point to the sky.

  ‘Do you want me to beat for you?’ she called.

  He didn’t reply as he inserted the cartridges into the barrels, before kicking his legs through the grass.

  Infuriated by his arrogance that he could single-handedly rough-shoot without either a dog or beater, she watched him work – instinctive and sure-footed. She knew the point he was making – by driving the birds for her, he had given her ‘easier’ shots, making his own trickier by comparison and thereby edging his points against her where he could. Winning in the very field in which he knew she excelled.

  She saw a rock nearby and went and sat on it, her arms folded across her chest. Even though she heard the gun crack not two minutes later, it was still going to be a long day.

  They walked for several miles without stopping, the river tumbling alongside them for at least two of those miles, as Lochie scrutinized and examined and judged a stretch before moving on with a tut or a stern shake of his head.

  ‘What exactly are you looking for?’ she asked finally, beginning to feel delirious for a coffee. Elise’s advice to fill their stomachs at breakfast had been wise indeed and she was beginning to wish she’d had extra toast.

  ‘I know the beat I’m looking for,’ he said distractedly, never taking his eyes off the water. ‘The dry autumn means water levels are low and the fish are late this year. I remember there’s a deeper pool somewhere near here – there’s a chance they’ll be more likely to take the fly there. It had a . . . like, a split tree by one of the rocks. You could push your arm through the trunk . . . Dammit, I know it’s near here.’

  Alex looked around them. There were trees everywhere, of course – some bent double, drooping their branches towards the water, other clinging to the banks . . . ‘Like that one?’ she asked, pointing ahead to a small ash tree where the trunk had cleaved a third of the way up, creating a sort of porthole.

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ Without a word of thanks, Lochie marched over, scrambling over the rocks and clearly expecting her to follow. He stood with his hands on his hips and inspected the beat. ‘Aye, this is it. Drop the pack on the bank there and get the waders on. I’ll attach the fly for you.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to instruct me? Surely it would be better for me to learn how to do it myself?’

  ‘There’s no time.’

  ‘But wouldn’t it be time saved in the long run, to show me once and then I won’t have to keep bothering you?’ She smiled. ‘Remember, it’s called delegation, not abdication.’

  It was intended as a joke but he shot her an unimpressed look. ‘This is not a workshop and you are not in charge.’

  ‘Well,’ she said under her breath, watching as he pulled his waders from the backpack. ‘That’s me told.’

  She copied his every move, climbing into the supplied waders – not a good look – and standing in silence as he coupled the fly to the rod.

  ‘We’re going to be Spey casting. Heard of it?’

  She shook her head, looking warily at the broad, fast-flowing expanse of water. Did they really have to stand in that? ‘Can’t you catch two salmon and we’ll just say I caught one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? I’m clearly nothing but a hindrance for you.’

  He didn’t disagree. ‘It’s called principles. I’m not sure if you’ve come across them before?’

  Alex sighed at his sarcasm as he finished with the fly and handed the rod to her. ‘Come and stand over here.’

  She made her way uneasily to the edge of the water, following him in to knee depth. She could immediately feel the coldness of the water against the rubber of the waders, even though she remained dry. The current was strong, pushing against the backs of her knees.

  She felt scared but she didn’t say anything.

  ‘Now watch me,’ he said, wading deeper out to waist height. ‘We’re fishing right shoulder out, parallel to the bank, and we want to be landing the fly in that pool of still water over there. See it?’

  He pointed to a calm area, sheltered just beyond some rocks, and she nodded.

  ‘We start with the forward cast so you need to hold the rod with both hands wide apart, right hand uppermost, left hand at the bottom of the rod,’ he called, having to raise his voice to be heard over the water. ‘Energy comes from the hands, okay? The top hand has about sixty per cent of the power and the bottom forty per cent and if you snap them at the same time – locking the right elbow too – you get a push-pull tension and maximum power for the cast. Yes?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now you need to get a forward casting motion – you’re aiming for a flat straight path with the rod tip directed at the target.’ He pointed towards a clump of trees on the opposite bank. ‘Cast out, trying to get a big D loop – that’s the shape you get between the straight rod and the line as it bellies over the water. The bigger the D, the less amount of line is in contact with the water – or water stick as we call it – and you get a more efficient cast because you’re not having to rip it off the water film. So, a big D, then lift the rod to put tension on the line.’ She watched as he threw the line overhead, the fly landing in the water downstream. His enunciated intonation reminded her of Skye when teaching her how to drink the whisky. ‘Then sweep it back upstream over the right shoulder and rotating the body, launch the line,’ he said, moving his body and line as one in a gentle, rhythmic, fluid movement. ‘Remembering to stop the rod high.’ He looked across at her. ‘Got it?’

  ‘Sure.’ It had to have been the quickest fishing lesson ever but he made it look easy enough.

  She took a deep breath and tried to repeat what he had just shown her – except that as she flung the rod back for the first cast, the fly got caught in the branches of a tree behind her. There was a loud silence and then she could hear his curse under his breath as he waded over to her.

  ‘Wait! Don’t try to pull it!’ he demanded crossly as she tried to rattle it free.

  She handed the rod to him. ‘Sorry,’ she winced, feeling uncharacteristically useless.

  He glanced at her. ‘No. It’s fine,’ he sighed heavily. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well.’

  She watched him as he cut the line and began fiddling with a new fly he’d got in a box in the chest pocket of his jacket.

  ‘You mean because of the fire?’ He surely must have been having flashbacks, if not nightmares, of that burning building. She certainly had.

  ‘It hasn’t helped. There’s just a lot on at the moment.’

  Skye. She knew he was referring to her, even if he wouldn’t say it. Up close, she could see the tension in his jaw; he looked hard-wired with stress.

&nb
sp; ‘There, try again,’ he said, handing the rod back to her. ‘But maybe come in a bit deeper and keep the line shorter.’

  He held out a hand to help steady her as she walked deeper into the water, her fear ratcheting up another level. His grip tightened around her fingers as she gave a small gasp, her foot slipping on a loose rock. His hands were warm compared to hers and significantly bigger.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve got you. Try to get to that bigger stone there. It looks pretty flat,’ he said, directing her as best he could with his own foot.

  She settled herself on the rock and he moved out of the way again, wading back towards the bank.

  ‘Now just remember what I showed you: cast the line, lift up, sweep upstream and launch. The whole point of the Spey is that it allows you to cast when there’s no ground area behind you to get an overhead cast. You can go to the side so it doesn’t matter if you’ve got high banks or trees. But you must rotate the body. It’s called the hundred-and-eighty-degree principle.’

  Alex arched an eyebrow. She had one of those herself.

  ‘Point yourself to where you want the fly to cast. Remember, it’s an art form, not a science. You’ve got to feel it.’

  And she did. ‘I did it!’ she cried excitedly, jiggling in the water a little, as the fly landed without mishap downstream.

  He watched, bemused. ‘Although you might want to give the river dance a miss. The fish aren’t fans, apparently.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she laughed, biting her lip excitedly. ‘And so I just keep doing this?’

  ‘Yep,’ he said, watching her do it a few times before beginning himself.

  ‘This is quite relaxing, actually,’ she called after a little while, feeling proud of herself as she found a rhythm.

  ‘Stop talking!’ he scolded. ‘You’re scaring off the fish!’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Right.’ She bit her lip and concentrated again, casting forward and—

  The line resisted and she tugged again, feeling the tension carry through the rod. Rigid. Immovable. It was caught on something. ‘Oh God,’ she murmured, a rip tide of panic flooding her as she looked over at Lochie moving in an unbroken rhythm, looking perfectly at peace for once. ‘Um, Lochie . . . !’