by Sally Graham
Dear Blake - Not sure if you will be around to get this, but the new owner of Dundrannan will be making a quick visit in the next couple of days. It would be good if she could meet everyone.
All I can tell you is that her name is Carrie Wyatt, and she works for a big London bank.
Yours aye - Iain
Just then Bett arrived with Blake’s order. As she drank her coffee she wondered about her new boss. A woman? A banker? Blake instinctively mistrusted people who worked in banks. The reason her parents had divorced was because of the financial pressures brought about by the bank in Christchurch that chased them remorselessly after four poor summers, forcing a foreclosure on their sheep farm.
Blake finished her coffee and pushed her plate away. A few moments later she was looking at the search results for Carrie Wyatt, deal maker for Frankle, Masters and Joyce, apparently one of the top ten London investment banks. She clicked though several results and felt a rising dislike for the woman profiled on the screen.
Her blue eyes narrowed as she scrolled through a newspaper article detailing Carrie’s involvement in a major shale gas exploration bid which environmentalists insisted would have dangerous consequences for an area of outstanding natural beauty.
She glanced at a business interview which profiled the lawyer’s ferocious work ethic. So she gets up early, Blake thought to herself. The woman ought to join me for the lambing: then she’d really know what an eighteen-hour day was like.
There was more of the same on the following web pages; Blake read enough to realise that there was no way that she wanted to stay at Dundrannan if this woman took over the running of the estate. It had been a good gig for her, but it would be a good time to move on. The season’s lambs were up on the hills and a new shepherd could be found in time for the shearing and next year’s lambing.
Just as she was about to log off, Blake clicked on the Google ‘image’ tab to check what Carrie Wyatt looked like, so she would recognise her if she bumped into her on the estate after she arrived.
But against her instinctive dislike of the person she had just read about, Blake had to admit that the lawyer looked as though she lived up to the description that one tabloid newspaper article had headlined: “London’s Hottest Banker!” There was a shot taken at a business dinner where Carrie was photographed accepting an award.
It showed a tall woman with short blonde hair, fashionably streaked, wearing a simple off the shoulder designer dress. She was smiling as she received her award; Blake couldn’t help but admit to herself that she was looking at someone who, under different circumstances, she might have liked to get to know better. Carrie’s toned arms showed that one journalist’s profile hadn’t been lying when it referred to her 5.30am tennis games. Blake’s eye lingered on Carrie’s tanned shoulders sheathed in the dress that must have been fresh off the cat walk, and Blake wondered, not the for first time, if she would ever be able to bare her arms in public.
She snapped her laptop shut, waved goodbye to Bett, and walked back to her Jeep. The sky had cleared and the small Scottish fishing town looked as though it had been newly rinsed; the tide was out and the River Dee glittered on the far side of the sandbanks, seagulls wheeled overhead and squabbled over fish scraps lying on the quayside.
Inside the cafe, Carrie finished her last email which wasn’t to the office but to a firm of building surveyors in Glasgow who had been recommended by the lawyer in London, requesting an urgent meeting at Dundrannan as soon as possible, ideally that afternoon, if it could be arranged.
She checked the time and decided that she would probably be able to meet the housekeeper who acted as caretaker at Dundrennan. Packing her laptop in her bag, she walked to the cafe exit and followed a woman wearing muddy boots and faded jeans who climbed into a Jeep parked opposite.
As she drove inland back towards Dundrannan, Blake felt her spirits lifting. She loved the rolling, upland hills, the way the drystone walls built by hand over the centuries snaked up the hill contours. Here and there, small streams, swollen by the recent rain, cascaded down gullies and culverts, and tufts of dark green reeds in the fields blew sideways in the light breeze.
And, of course, the hills were dotted with sheep. She wasn’t looking at pedigree animals that graced the great agricultural shows in the South, or the famous New Zealand breeds back home. Her sheep were the hardy, tough strain that had to withstand the heavy snows of winter, graze on the thinnest of grass, and protect their young from the predations of eagles and buzzards that circled lazily in the thermals high above, forever watchful for a weak newborn, or a young spring lamb that strayed too far from its mother.
After a few miles, Blake found herself following behind a black sports car on the narrow, single track road that led from the main highway to Dundrannan House. The Porsche was going slowly, and it seemed the driver was worried that the low slung vehicle might not clear the ribbon of grass that always grew down the middle of side roads in the lowlands, and was not entirely sure that the car was taking the right route.
“Get on,” Blake muttered, frustrated at the delay, “bloody tourist!”
But as the wrought iron gates of Dundrannan House appeared round the next bend, the car picked up speed and accelerated towards the main entrance with a throaty engine roar that was utterly at odds with the tranquillity of the glen.
Blake shook her head and took the next turning that led further up the glen to her house.
So she didn’t see the Porsche drive to the front of Dundrannan House, or see Carrie Wyatt get out and walk up the steps to the weathered porticoed entrance doors.
Carrie frowned after she parked her car and looked around. The main door at the top of the steps in front of her had a scrawled note taped to a cracked glass panel telling visitors to go to a side entrance. Weeds forced themselves through cracks in the steps, and she nearly lost her balance when she slipped on damp moss that was spreading across the smooth entrance steps.
She turned and moved back gingerly, not trusting the loose handrail. She walked back to her car to get a better look at the entire building, and squinted up at the roof. The walls were stained with water that had overflowed from blocked gutters, and one drain pipe was hanging loose from its fixing.
This place is a wreck. It’s in no fit state for a sale.
Carrie decided to follow the direction of the hand written note, and moved towards the end of the house that opened into a small courtyard.
Walking along the weed strewn gravelled path that ran around the building, it was clear how much work would needed to be done. Windows needed repainting - in some case the entire frame would need replacing. More drain pipes were hanging precariously, and even her untrained eye could see indications of damp and decay.
She rounded a corner and walked across the cobbled courtyard that once led to the stables. The scene that greeted her was depressing. Some doors were hanging off their hinges, while others were clearly eaten by rot. She peered into one of the stables and saw that it was being used as a tip for rubbish - pieces of furniture, rusting kitchen equipment and broken farm machinery were scattered around, all covered with bird droppings.
Carrie jumped when a pigeon suddenly swept past her; it was clear from the mess underfoot that the stables had become a favourite nesting ground.
She ducked under a wooden beam and walked into what had once been an office. Bales of straw were stacked against one wall; yellowing newspapers still covered dust covered tables and chairs. A faded calendar was several years old.
It looks as though the clock stopped when my Godmother left.
It was a relief to walk outside again and return to the side entrance.
She knocked on the door and walked into a side passage that led through a scullery into a kitchen. A stout, grey haired woman was pouring boiling water into a tea pot and looked startled when she saw Carrie.
“Oh, ye gave me a shock,” she said. “But I was told you might be coming. Is it Miss Wyatt?” She wiped her hands on her apron
and greeted Carrie warmly. “I’m Iza. I was Mrs Buchanan’s housekeeper.”
“Please, call me Carrie. It’s so nice to come to a place I’ve heard such a lot about.”
Iza frowned. “Of course, it was terribly sad news about Mrs Buchanan.” She sighed. “She would be heartbroken to see the house now. Here, let me pour you some tea.”
“What’s been going on, Iza?” Carrie asked as she drew up a chair and Iza poured tea for them both.
“I suppose you could say that nothing has been going on.” Iza lowered her voice and leaned confidentially towards Carrie. “Mr Kincaid does his best, I suppose, but there hasn’t been any direction. I don’t think his heart is in it, to be honest. He’s past his retirement.”
“I’ve just walked around the house. There’s a lot that needs doing.”
“That there is,” the other woman replied heavily. “And the roof is poor too. You’ll get a shock when you look at the ceilings on the top floor. There are buckets everywhere to catch the water leaking through the roof because of loose tiles.”
“I had no idea things were so bad.”
“There’s talk in Kirkcudbright that the place will be sold, lock, stock and barrel. Is that true, Carrie?”
Carrie paused for a moment, taking in the other woman’s anxious expression. “I just don’t know, Iza. I know that my Godmother loved this house and everything in it. I can’t believe she would ever have wanted to see Dundrannon sold. But there comes a point - ”
“Oh, excuse me.” Iza got up and to answer the telephone whose sudden ring cut across their conversation.
“That was Mrs Kinkaid,” Iza said. Her face was anxious, and she looked uncertain about what to say about the conversation.
“What’s the matter? Is there a problem?”
“He’s not been well these last months. That was his wife. He’s still abed, and won’t be in today.” She dropped her voice. “He’s been poorly these last months, Carrie. He wouldn’t want you to know, but he doesn’t feel he can continue here.”
Carrie sat down at the scrubbed kitchen table. “That’s not good news,” she said. “I’m sorry to hear that. You must give me his number and I’ll be sure to telephone before I go. He mustn’t worry about Dundrannon.”
“That would please him, Carrie. He was worried that he was letting you down.” She paused. “But I was forgetting. He was going to drive you around the estate, and now there’s no-one to do it.”
Carrie looked at her. “Would you be able to take me?”
“Heavens no.” Iza burst out laughing. “I’ve never learned to drive. I suppose you could drive and I could come with you,” she added doubtfully.
“I’d love that,” Carrie answered, “But I’m afraid my car isn’t up to the tracks around here. It’s only good for city roads.” She paused. “Is there anyone else?”
Izzie shook her head, but then smiled as a thought struck her. “Why, of course, there’s Blake. I saw the car back from Glasgow. There’s your answer. I’ll make a call.”
She got up as Carrie called after her, “Who’s Blake?”
“Why, the shepherd. From New Zealand. Maybe there’s a chance you can see around the estate before the sheep need seeing to.
Carrie wondered if a shepherd was going to be much help to her in understanding how the estate worked, but before she had time to change her mind Iza bustled back into the kitchen.
“That’s sorted, then. You’ll hear the jeep on the gravel - shouldn’t be longer than a quarter of an hour to get down from the bothy.”
“The bothy?”
“Och - it’s an auld word for tiny dwelling. You’ll see bothies all over the hills, used by the shepherds especially in winter or spring when there’s lambing. And one or two make fine little houses. Not that there’s much comfort. Electricity comes from a generator, or a hydro if there’s a burn nearby. And it’s a long way down to town for provisions. Still, shepherds are solitary folk.”
“How long has the shepherd been with Dundrannon?” Carried asked.
“Oh, now, let me see.” Iza wiped her hands. “Nearly three years next spring. The lambs have been fetching good prices too, in spite of the poor weather.” She dried her hands and undid her apron. “The shepherd’s too guid for round here. Our lambs take all the prizes at the fairs. The locals can’t believe it. They don’t understand how - ”
Just then they heard a vehicle on the gravel outside the kitchen.
“That’s your chauffeur,” Izzie smiled. She walked across the stone-flagged kitchen to the window and waved. “And there she is.”
For a moment Carried wasn’t sure she had heard correctly. “I’m sorry? ‘She’?”
Izzie looked at her blankly as they heard a door slam. “Why, yes. Blake - the shepherd.” Then she laughed. “Oh - my goodness? You didn’t know? Blake’s a girl who grew up on a sheep farm in New Zealand. Och aye - she’s probably the only lady shepherd in Scotland. And certainly the prettiest!”
Carrie tried to hide her surprise at this unexpected information, but turned as the door opened and and a tall, fair haired woman wearing a dark green storm jacket and faded jeans walked into the kitchen.
Carrie blinked, not sure how to react as she took in the startling blue eyes framed by dark eyebrows, the chiselled cheekbones, the pale, lightly freckled skin, a mouth that cried out to be kissed, and legs - long legs - that seemed to go on for ever.
Carrie was used to making quick decisions about people. Her negotiating skills depended on being able to assess someone’s likely approach to a deal. One glance told Carrie that if Blake had been in a boardroom in London, she would be a formidable opponent. The woman coming forward to shake her hand combined self assurance, eye-catching looks and an indifference to Carrie. As she shook Blake’s hand, she couldn’t avoid the clear blue eyes that met hers unsmilingly.
“Thanks for standing in for Mr. Kinkaid at short notice,” Carrie said.
“It’s not a problem,” she heard, a faint New Zealand accent still noticeable. “It isn’t too busy a time of year right now and I can give you a quick tour.” She smiled at Isa and turned to Carrie. “Shall we make a move?” she asked briskly.
Carrie nodded, grabbed her bag and phone, and followed Blake to the jeep, feeling for the first time since she left London a familiar stirring within. She couldn’t ignore how the shepherd’s faded jeans clung to her firm bottom, or the way that her shoulder length blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail bobbed with each stride.
As they walked across the gravel a black and white sheepdog ran up to them, barking and tail wagging.
“Shut up, Romy. Get in the back.”
But the sheepdog circled Blake’s ankles and then ran to nuzzle Carrie, who stood apprehensively.
“It’s OK,” Blake said. “Meet Romy, my sheepdog.”
Carrie bent down to stroke Romy’s head and neck. “You’re very honoured, she normally doesn’t take any notice of visitors.” Then Blake spoke sharply to the dog who was still enjoying Carrie’s stroking. “Come ON, Romy!” The dog backed away reluctantly and leaped into the back of the jeep. “I try not to let her get too close to visitors - she’s a working dog and she won’t listen to me so keenly when we’re gathering in the sheep on the hill,” she said.
“Throw your bag in the back,” Blake went on, and turned to Carrie, her blue eyes impassive. “So what would you like to see?”
Carrie paused, unsure about what she did want to get from the tour, and trying to gauge Blake’s neutral tone. She was disconcerted by the shepherd’s evident coolness. “I’d like it if you could just give me a guided tour of as much of the estate as I can see in a couple of hours. I go back to London tomorrow, and I want to get a feel for the place. And thanks for sparing the time,” she finished, wanting to make some connection.
Blake looked at her in surprise. “My time is your time,” she said, her voice neutral. She paused for a second, then, “Ok - I’ll take you down towards the firth, and then we’ll cut up the glen, an
d take a break where you will get a bird’s eye view of the estate. On the way I’ll point out anything that’s of interest.”
As she reversed the jeep out of the courtyard and turned into the main drive, Carrie’s sense that the shepherd didn’t like her deepened. There was no small talk. No eye contact. No body language that suggested friendliness. Not that it mattered, of course. In her business, being liked was an unexpected bonus in the cut and thrust of high-profile deal making. But up here, miles from London, she had no back story, no information about herself that went before her. There was no reason for the woman sitting next to her to behave strangely.
Blake glanced at her passenger as they left the main gates behind them. The visitor was different to what she’d expected to meet. She looked like someone who could be tough, someone who wouldn’t take prisoners. Someone who would probably sell Dundrannan and what it stood for as quickly as it took to accept the best offer. But there was still something else, something indefinable that Blake couldn’t pin down. She’d noticed the ease between Carrie and Izzie, and she hadn’t been immune to Carrie’s polite attempt to be friendly, but a sixth sense warned her about the way that Carrie looked at her.
As they drove along the estate tracks, Blake pointed out the various buildings that had once marked Dundrannan as a major employer in the area. They passed the milk parlour, its sagging roof a bleak silhouette against the rain clouds. Above the burn was the road to the sawmill. “It was one of the first things they had to close down,” Blake explained. “There was no price for timber anymore. Eastern Europe was flooding the market with cheap wood.”
They passed a white washed cottage surrounded by a rusting barn and pieces of farm machinery. “That’s Willie Mackintosh’s farm, one of the tenants. He’s struggling. There’s gossip that the rent has been late for months. He’s trying to run it on his own but he’ll have to give up soon.”
They began to climb up the hill away from the house, and Carrie noticed a line of low, protective walls covered with turf. “Are there shooting rights?” she asked as they passed the butts that hid shooting parties from the grouse being driven across the heather towards them. “I read there used to be large parties that came up from London?”