‘I can imagine.’
‘No you can’t. Nobody can.’ She moved to the bed and touched a pile of cricket jumpers with a rough red hand.
‘Well,’ said Belle. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘If you hurt him,’ Miss McAllister said suddenly, ‘you’ll have me to reckon with. You just remember that.’
Belle turned back to her. ‘I’m not going to hurt him.’
But even to herself, it didn’t sound convincing.
She found Max in the cold, fireless drawing room, kneeling on the window seat and staring out at Loch Ryan. From the hunch of his shoulders she could tell that he was worried.
‘What are you looking at?’ she asked.
He gave a start and nearly fell off the window seat. ‘Um. The rocks.’
‘But there aren’t any, are there?’ The grounds around the Hall were dotted with firs and rhododendrons, and the drive led down to the coast road through Cairngowrie Woods, with the grey waters of the loch beyond. Not a rock in sight.
‘These ones are different,’ whispered Max. ‘They move.’
Belle remembered something he’d said at the tithe cottage. ‘What do you mean? Rocks can’t move.’
‘These do. I saw them. They went into the sea.’
Belle bit back a smile. ‘Max, those are seals. Don’t you know about seals?’
He hesitated. ‘Yes. I read about them in a book. But I never . . . They moved really fast.’
‘I expect they were scared of you.’
‘Oh,’ said Max. Then his forehead creased. ‘But I still ran away. I oughtn’t to have run away.’
‘You’re a child. You’re allowed to run away.’
‘Boy Scouts don’t.’
Belle snorted. ‘Oh yes they do. Where I grew up in Jamaica, there was a Boy Scout pack, or whatever it’s called, and sometimes I used to climb a tree and pretend to be a duppy, and throw mangoes at them. They ran away every single time.’
Max looked wistful, as if he wanted to believe her. He said, ‘Captain Palairet says he was scared at the War.’
‘I expect he was,’ said Belle. She felt a flicker of envy that Adam had talked to Max, and not to her.
‘But he didn’t run away,’ said Max.
‘No, because he’s a grown-up and a soldier.’
‘And brave,’ Max said sadly.
Oh dear. This wasn’t going very well. Belle thought for a moment. Then she said, ‘Come along. Let’s go to the kitchen.’
‘The kitchen?’
‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like kitchens?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen one.’
Belle laughed.
The kitchen was huge and stone-flagged, with an old-fashioned black iron range, and an enormous pine table scoured white by generations of scullery maids. Max was entranced. ‘Are we allowed?’ he whispered.
‘Probably not,’ said Belle.
As it was mid-morning and there would only be three of them for luncheon, Cook had ‘gone for the messages’ to Stranraer, which Belle eventually gathered meant doing the shopping. After some persuasion, Nelly the maid-of-all-work grudgingly agreed to vacate the kitchen, having shown Belle the whereabouts of flour, butter, sugar and eggs.
‘We’re going to make biscuits,’ Belle told Max when Nelly had taken herself off.
‘Make them?’ said Max. Plainly it had never occurred to him that biscuits did anything other than appear on plates at teatime.
‘Special biscuits,’ said Belle. ‘My mother used to make them with us when we were bored. They’re called zoo biscuits.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you make them in animal shapes, and paint them.’
She showed Max how to rub butter into flour, then mixed the ‘paints’ using egg yolk and food colouring – of which, fortunately, Cook had a good supply. Paint brushes proved trickier, until she found some pastry-glazing brushes: a little too thick, but adequate.
The dough was turning grey under Max’s diligent pummelling, so Belle set him to greasing the baking sheets. ‘What are your favourite animals?’ she asked.
‘Birds,’ he said promptly. ‘Then fish.’
‘Birds might be tricky,’ she said, ‘but I can manage fish.’
‘What’s all this?’ said Miss McAllister from the doorway.
They jumped.
‘We’re making biscuits,’ said Belle, feeling absurdly guilty. ‘I asked Nelly. She said we could.’
Miss McAllister gave a disbelieving snort.
Belle said, ‘Max was just telling me how much he likes birds.’
Miss McAllister turned to Max and her eyes narrowed, as if she suspected him of trying to humour her. ‘What kinds of birds?’
He gulped. ‘Ostriches and seagulls. And the black ones with green eyes.’
‘Cormorants,’ said Miss McAllister.
‘Oh,’ said Max. ‘Thank you. Yes. Those.’
Another sharp look. Then to Belle, ‘See that you clear up afterwards. I won’t have Nelly overburdened on a whim.’
Belle bristled. ‘I was going to anyway.’
‘Well, see that you do.’
When Miss McAllister had gone, they worked in silence. Belle rolled the dough flat, and cut out a series of fat fishes, then painted the first one to give Max the idea. ‘Red and green,’ she said. ‘A parrotfish. Sort of.’
Max caught on faster than she’d expected, and painted several orange goldfish with large eyes and tense, unsmiling mouths. Then he got bolder, and painted on some red scales. For the last one, he cut away the lower jaw, then stuck the cut-off piece to the fish’s back.
‘What’s that on its back?’ said Belle.
‘The dorsal fin.’
‘Gosh, that’s clever.’
Max went pink. Then he said, ‘Can it be striped?’
‘Of course. It can be anything you like.’
While the biscuits were in the oven, they washed up. Emboldened by Belle’s compliment, Max asked her about Jamaica, and soon she was telling him how to chew sugar cane and spit out the trash, and what bananas look like when they’re growing on the tree, and how to attract hummingbirds. It reminded her of the twins, and she felt a wave of homesickness.
‘Captain Palairet knows about Jamaica, too,’ said Max, polishing the mixing bowl with a corner of the tea towel. ‘He used to visit his relations in the holidays, and once he fell out of a breadfruit tree and knocked himself senseless.’
As Belle removed the last baking sheet from the oven, she gave him a curious glance. ‘When did he tell you all that?’
‘Sometimes he lets me read in his study, and I ask him things.’
Belle was going to ask what sorts of things, when Miss McAllister reappeared in the doorway.
‘Still not finished?’ she said.
Belle opened her mouth to retort, but Max got in first. ‘Look,’ he said shyly to Miss McAllister. ‘I made you a biscuit.’
‘What?’ snapped Miss McAllister.
Max’s shoulders went up round his ears. ‘I hope you like it.’ He pointed at the striped fish with the overbite and the dorsal fin. ‘It’s a tiger shark.’
Miss McAllister seemed oddly flattered by her shark, and told Max that she would have it with her morning tea. She also lent him a book on birds – ‘just lent, mind, and you must look after it’ – and told him that he might accompany her to the House to meet Julia.
Belle had a shrewd idea that she was being nice to him to spite her, so she asked to come too.
‘No,’ said Miss McAllister.
Remembering Adam at breakfast, Belle ignored the rebuff. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘I really would like to come.’
Miss McAllister scrutinized her for signs of mockery. ‘You’ll have to be quiet,’ she said, ‘and do exactly what I say. Julia doesn’t care for strangers.’
Cairngowrie House was a solid, double-fronted Victorian dwelling which didn’t look as if it had changed since the old Queen had died. The furnishings were heav
y mahogany upholstered in faded plush, the blinds and drapes of thick damasks in strong colours: purple, forest green, navy blue. Belle found it hard to picture her mother living here as a child, but when she started to ask about that, Miss McAllister silenced her with a look.
‘Julia is in the kitchen,’ she said, as if to remind Belle of the purpose of their visit. Then to Max, ‘Once we’re inside, stay by the door or you’ll startle her.’
He gulped, and his shoulders rose. Belle took his hand.
An unearthly shriek rang through the house.
Max shrank closer to Belle.
Miss McAllister opened the door, and they entered the kitchen.
Max gasped.
Belle broke into a smile.
‘Time for tea,’ said Julia, flapping her wings.
She was a good three feet from crown to tail-tip, and her small black eyes were bright with intelligence. Her head and breast and her magnificent tail were a throbbing crimson; her wings were a bright cerulean blue, segueing to emerald and topaz at the shoulder.
‘She’s beautiful,’ breathed Max. ‘She’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.’
Miss McAllister tightened her lips and tried not to look pleased.
‘I never guessed she was a parrot,’ said Max.
‘She’s not,’ said Miss McAllister. ‘She’s a scarlet macaw. Now sit at the table and don’t move while I change her water. And when I let her out for a bit of a fly around, don’t try to touch her. And don’t open the door or she’ll be out. I’m always telling Susan – she’s the girl who does the rough. But she never remembers.’ She was talking far more than usual, and Belle saw with surprise that she was nervous.
The kitchen appeared to have been pretty much given over to Julia. Presumably food for human beings was prepared in the scullery, but in here the windows and the range had been boxed in and framed in chicken wire, to prevent the macaw from injuring herself. One half of the room had been partitioned off into a walk-in netting enclosure, containing what seemed to be half a tree, a bowl of fruit, and a porcelain baby bath.
Miss McAllister caught Belle looking at the bath. ‘She likes to bathe,’ she said. ‘Every morning. Creature of habit.’
‘Does she ever go out into the garden?’ asked Max.
‘Oh yes, but only when I’m there. She had a bad time of it when she was a young one. Rooks mobbed her. They do that.’ Her thin lips twitched with disapproval.
‘Have you clipped her wings?’ asked Belle.
‘Good heavens, no.’ She sounded outraged. ‘You should see her fly. They swoop low, macaws. It’s quite a sight.’
As soon as Miss McAllister undid the padlock, Julia flew out, circled the kitchen, then came to rest on top of her enclosure, watching Miss McAllister with her head on one side. ‘Up we get,’ she said.
‘She’s awfully clever,’ said Max.
‘Yes,’ said Miss McAllister, ‘she is.’
‘How did you come by her?’ asked Belle.
Miss McAllister carried the baby bath to the sink and emptied it. ‘Adam,’ she said at last. ‘Two years ago, on leave. He said he had a surprise for me, but that if I didn’t like it I had only to say, and he’d find it a good home.’ She shook her head as she remembered. ‘My heart sank. I thought he’d bought me a cat.’
‘I hate cats,’ said Max.
‘So do I,’ said Miss McAllister. She stopped rinsing the baby bath, and gazed at Julia over her shoulder. ‘That he should think me worthy of something so beautiful . . .’ She scowled, as if she’d said too much.
‘May I stroke her?’ said Max.
‘No,’ Miss McAllister said firmly. ‘Not for a long while. Weeks. Maybe months. You have to just sit, so that she can get used to you. You have to let her come to you. That’s the rule with them. Always let them come to you.’
Max nodded, drinking in every word. Belle could see that he’d found a new cause.
Miss McAllister washed her hands, then squared her shoulders. ‘Now out into the garden and play,’ she told Max. ‘I want to speak to Miss Lawe.’
Belle’s heart sank. What had she done wrong this time?
Max drooped. ‘But can’t I—’
‘No. You can come in when I say. Mind you leave quickly, so you don’t let her out. And don’t forget to wrap up.’
Max gave Julia a last adoring look, and went.
When he’d gone, Belle braced herself.
Miss McAllister, too, squared her shoulders, as if she had an unpleasant task ahead. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that I ought to apologize.’
Belle stared at her. It was the last thing she’d expected.
‘I spoke unkindly of your mother, and it’s been troubling me. It was wrong. When I knew her she was a brave little thing.’
‘Oh,’ said Belle.
The older woman came to the table and sat down heavily. ‘What these walls could tell,’ she murmured.
‘What do you mean?’
Miss McAllister raised her eyebrows. ‘But surely you know?’
Belle shook her head.
Miss McAllister sighed. Suddenly she looked old and sad. ‘It was a bad business. It was winter, and Rose Durrant was here alone with only her little daughter – your mother – when her baby was born.’
Belle gasped. ‘I – didn’t know. Mamma never talks of Scotland.’
‘Well. Perhaps that’s why. Perhaps you should ask her about it.’
Belle thought about that.
‘Oh, it was a bad business,’ Miss McAllister said again. ‘As ill luck would have it, the Hall was empty that winter, for the family was from home . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
Belle waited for her to say more, but she seemed lost in thought. Then she placed her hands on the table and pressed down hard, as if to contain the memory. ‘So there now,’ she said in a brisker tone. ‘I’ve said my piece. Told you I’m sorry. Let bygones be bygones.’
Belle gave a slow nod.
There was silence in the kitchen, broken only by the sound of Julia nibbling at an apple.
At last, Belle cleared her throat. ‘Miss McAllister—’
‘Maud.’
Belle met the sharp grey gaze. ‘Maud. About Adam. I’m not going to hurt him, you know. I would never do that.’
The older woman gave her a small, sad smile. ‘But that isn’t entirely in your control, now is it?’
Belle did not reply.
‘The thing about Adam,’ said Miss McAllister, ‘is that he’s no good at showing his feelings. Or else he’s very good at hiding them. I’ve never worked out which, and I don’t think it matters. The point is, the feelings run deep.’ She frowned. ‘He has lost so many people in his life. It’s easy to forget that, because he’s so good at coping – or at seeming to cope. But it’s changed him. I’ve watched it happen.’
‘How has he changed?’
She did not reply at once. ‘After the divorce,’ she said, ‘I told him something foolish. I said, “Don’t worry, you’ll marry again.” He just looked at me, the way he does, very calm and reasonable, and he said, “People make out that the benefits of loving outweigh the pitfalls. But that’s not been my experience. Not at all.”’
Anxiously, she peered into Belle’s face. ‘Don’t prove that to him all over again.’
Adam returned just before teatime, but Belle didn’t know he was back until she passed the study door and saw him sitting at his desk, staring into space.
His face had the unguarded look of someone who doesn’t know he is being watched. Then he became aware of her, and forced a smile. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Hello,’ she replied. Feeling self-conscious, she took one of the easy chairs by the fire.
‘So you and Maud managed to get by for a whole day without murdering each other.’
‘Actually, we did.’ She told him about the tiger shark, and being introduced to Julia. ‘And after lunch, she gave me an old snapshot camera that had been her brother’s. She said my grandmother had had a tal
ent for photography, so she thought it might amuse. I was quite touched.’
He nodded, and she wondered how much of what she’d been saying he’d actually taken in.
‘Was it awful?’ she said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Castle Garth. Erskine’s fiancée.’
‘Oh. Yes. Yes it was, worse than I’d expected.’
She waited for him to go on.
‘She kept asking me to tell her what it was like at the Front. What could I say?’
‘What did you want to say?’
He ran a hand over his face. Then he looked at her for a moment. ‘It’s all just meat,’ he said. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Hardly a profound epiphany, is it? But that’s what struck me most forcibly out there. That when someone dies . . . One moment they’re a person, and then they’re just a lump of meat. It’s really no different from in a butcher’s shop.’
Belle thought about that. ‘Is that how you see us, too?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When you came home. When you were in London. Now. Does it feel strange to see people walking around, and to be so aware that that can happen to them? I mean – that they can just die.’
He studied her. ‘In a way, yes. It’s hard to explain, but sometimes everything feels so confoundedly odd. At first, I couldn’t get used to it at all. Sometimes I still can’t. I’ll be walking down a street, or talking to someone, and suddenly it hits me. The strangeness of it. The narrowness of the gap between the living and the dead. How easily it can be snuffed out.’ He paused. ‘And it’s still going on over there.’
‘Do you mean the fighting?’
‘Everyone’s saying that the War can’t possibly last much longer. But they were saying that back in March. It’s still going on, and I can’t help feeling that I ought to be there.’ He shook himself and gave an embarrassed smile, as people do when they think that they’ve been speaking too much about themselves.
‘Do you have nightmares?’ she said.
‘Of course.’
‘Different ones, or the same?’
He put his head on one side. ‘What is this, a question and answer session?’
‘It’s what you do to me. It seems to work.’
A corner of his mouth lifted. ‘So now you’re turning the tables.’
The Daughters of Eden Trilogy Page 102