by Sally Graham
Blake swerved to avoid a rabbit. “We had a series of bad spring storms. The birds never hatched, and the deer moved away. Employing the keepers wasn’t viable.”
“I’m trying not to sound negative, Miss Wyatt,” Blake said when she stopped the vehicle so that they could look down on the house and the surrounding countryside, “But this is an estate that has been in intensive care for some time. Since Mrs Buchanan got ill.”
Carrie decided she had nothing to lose by taking the shepherd into her confidence. “Tell me honestly, between ourselves, what advice would you give me? I would value your opinion.”
Blake looked at her steadily for a moment. “Miss Wyatt, you’re asking me the hardest question. To be honest, someone will need deep pockets if Dundrannan is to be maintained.”
“Can it be sold?”
Blake turned away. “The market isn’t good for run down properties,” she answered briefly. “I doubt you’d find a buyer. Not for a viable price. You would have to accept a knock down offer.” She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Carrie noticed her narrow fingers: she didn’t wear a ring, or any jewellery.
Blake turned. “It’s not easy for me to tell you this, right now,” she went on. “And I hadn’t planned to. But you’re going to have to advertise for another shepherd.” She looked away and went on, “This job is not for me any more. I’ll do my best until a replacement arrives, of course, and show him the ropes.” She paused. “I thought it best to tell you as quickly as possible,” she finished sombrely.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Carrie answered, thinking how much more unwelcome news was she going to receive that day? First Iza, then Kinkaid and now the shepherd. Within twenty-four hours the remaining stalwarts of Dundrannan had handed in their notice and announced their intention to leave. She had to leave Galloway in a day’s time with nothing but bad news and every indication that the house and lands would have to be sold.
“How long have you been working here?”
Blake’s profile didn’t alter, and for a moment Carrie wondered if she had heard, but then then she reached down to the gear stick. “Just under three years,” she said, swinging the Jeep off track so that Carrie had to hold on to the side handle. “Sorry,” she added, “I didn’t mean to make such a sudden turn, but I thought you’d be interested to see the timber yard?”
After a mile or so they left the claustrophobic plantation and arrived in a clearing. A low stone building faced them with piles of timber stacked on pallets around the edge of the cobbled yard.
“Why don’t we get out for a moment?” Blake said, and swung her legs out of the door.
Carrie caught the tight blue denim jeans that ended in Blake’s heavy duty boots, and wondered about the contrast between Blake’s faintly butch look, and her strong feminine appeal.
“There’s no-one around,” she said as she walked around the Jeep.
“The crew are working a two day week,” the shepherd replied, walking towards the building. “Like I said, the bottom has fallen out of the market.” As they passed the roughly stacked timber, Carrie noticed small growths of emerald moss on the wood. “These have been here some time, then?”
“You’re right,” Blake said, holding open the door. “Those will probably have to be dumped here, or maybe taken down to the house for firewood.”
Carrie stepped inside the sawmill, and immediately inhaled a heady mix of sawn wood, sap and larch. “My God - it’s like stepping into a parfumier,” she gasped, breathing deeply. “It’s lovely. So fresh and clean!”
Blake looked at her sideways. “I couldn’t say I’ve ever walked into one of those, but I love coming here. You’re right - it’s a strange, lovely place, and such a simple business. It makes me sad that so many small business activities like this can’t be turned around.”
Carrie didn’t answer and walked towards a low wooden platform which carried a tree trunk, ready for sawing. Then she stood in front of the toothed saw, blue-grey in the half light, its teeth flecked with sawdust. “It looks pretty fearsome,” she commented, as Blake stood beside her. She couldn’t escape the incongruity of the cold metal, and the warmth she felt within as she stood next to Blake..
“It’s a beast,” Blake agreed. “When the men are working you’d need ear protectors. You can’t hear yourself above the whine and shriek of the saw.”
They walked back outside. The sun had broken through the clouds, and the cobblestones glistened in the watery light.
“How many people work here?”
“There’s about six full time - the forest needs to be maintained to ensure growth for the future, and then the timber has to be hauled in here, and taken off to suppliers for use in house building. But, like I said, the demand has just fallen away.”
Carrie’s analytical mind was torn between the economies of timber for the housing market - about which she knew nothing - and the vision of Blake as she walked in front of her and bent down to pick up an empty drinks can: Carrie found it impossible not to look at Blake’s butt and the momentary distraction of a narrow strip of bare skin between her shirt and her belt, smooth as new writing paper.
“Is there really no future for a small timber unit like this?” Carrie asked as she swung herself back into the Jeep.
“‘Fraid not.” Blake’s voice was flat. “Economically, this part of the world is a basket case.” She drove the Jeep in a tight circle and headed towards the edge of the wood. “I’ll take you down to the shore and then you’ll have seen most of the sights.”
The fence posts at the end of the field leading down to the shoreline were held together with rusting barbed wire. Here and there tufts of wool showed where sheep had rubbed against it, and flashes of faded orange agricultural twine showed where a farmer had tied one post to another.
Carrie looked across the firth which was flashed blue-green in the sunshine as the wind blew in chaotic gusts across their faces. On a rock jutting out of the water a solitary cormorant was poised, waiting darkly, watching for prey. Carrie gulped a lungful of the clean, sea air and turned to Blake, who was watching her.
“Does the estate own this land too?”
Blake nodded her head. “The actual beach is owned by the Crown.” Then she pointed to the dark line of dry brown bladder-wrack seaweed that marked the topmost advance of the last high tide. “The English monarchy has always had the rights to anything below the high water mark.”
“But this part, and the land behind us,” Carrie pointed behind them to the small fields. “All of this belongs to the estate?”
Blake nodded again.
“The view is marvellous,” Carrie continued, turning back to gaze across the rippling water. “Just marvellous.” She turned. “Is there a gate anywhere? Can we walk along the beach?”
Blake shook her head. “There’s no gate, but I can hold the fence wire down for you with my foot so you can get through that way, if you like?” She put one boot on the lower strand of wire and pushed it down, and lifted the strand above it so that Carrie could bend down and squeeze through the gap.
“Thanks,” Carrie nodded, bending down, suddenly acutely aware of Blake’s legs, her thigh only inches from her face as she crouched down and wriggled through the gap on the fence.
“Here, let me do the same for you,” Carrie offered as she straightened up on the other side, putting her foot onto the lower strand of wire to hold it down again.
As Blake bent forward, half in and half out of the barbed wire, Carrie reached down and steadied her shoulder. She wondered if Blake noticed that she held her just a little bit longer than she needed to?
They turned and walked slowly along the shore, their feet scrunching on the pebbles. Here and there were small shells which caught Carrie’s eye.
“Look at this one,” she exclaimed, picking a dark blue mussel shell. “Look at the range of colours.”
“The water’s very clean here,” Blake answered. “No pollution. If we had time to walk to the foreland over there you
could look down through the water and be able to pick out starfish and sea urchins as clearly as if they were only just beneath the surface and not twenty-five foot down.
“Bet the water’s cold?” joked Carrie.
“You’re right; I won’t be inviting you to come skinny-dipping,” Blake answered.
Skinny-dipping? Carrie’s imagination was distracted as they made their way back to the vehicle. But she hadn’t been able to read anything into Blake’s neutral tone.
Carrie turned to Blake as she drove back through the field towards the main track. “Did you ever meet my godmother? Mrs Buchanan?” For a moment she wondered, again, if the shepherd had heard her.
“I did meet her,” she said. “But she was in her nursing home.” She paused. “I liked her.” Her voice trailed away. “I felt I knew her very well, actually.”
Carrie was an adept at reading people’s voices and interpreting their expressions or choice of words as they negotiated deals, but she found Blake was defeating her. “How did you get to meet her?”
Blake’s voice was toneless. “My parents came from round here before we emigrated to New Zealand. I was very young - scarcely a couple of months old, actually. Later on, after things got bad on the ranch, I decided to find work over here.” She paused. “My parents didn’t know if she was still alive, but she had been good to them when they lived here, so they suggested I made contact.”
By now they were cresting a hill, and Blake pulled into a clearing at the side of the road. “My place is further up the glen,” she said, pointing towards the low, rolling hill that stretched ahead of them. “I’ll probably take you back to the house now as I need to catch up with stuff later on.”
“That’s fine with me,” Carrie answered, wondering how she could spend more time with the attractive woman sitting next to her. If she was in London she would have had no hesitation if fixing lunch, or dinner, or exchanging emails, and making it clear that she wanted to meet up at a bar. But she felt a chilly reserve between her and the shepherd: there were no reciprocal glances, no shared smiles or laughs. Carrie wondered why the woman disliked her? And, where could they meet anyway?
As the jeep jolted along the rough track, Carrie attempted some more small talk.
“So what does it take to be a shepherd? I mean, is it something you learn? Are some people better than others?”
Blake didn’t answer, and concentrated on negotiating a narrow stone bridge across a burn. Then, “The weather can be awful. And sheep have a death wish. If they can do something stupid, they will. Without Romy I’d be lost. The key thing, maybe, is being able to be on your own.”
Carrie considered this as she looked out of the window at the undulating ground with sheep sheltering from the wind against small rocky outcrops. A life like this was a total contrast to her own.
“Don’t you miss people?”
“I get into town. And there’s people back home I can email.”
“But what about guys?”
Blake paused again as she turned the jeep into the main drive leading to the house. “Being a shepherd doesn’t lend itself to socialising, you know. There isn’t time for guys. Besides, most the men around here are farmers and they all think they know how to look after sheep!” She laughed suddenly, as if she was remembering a private joke, and Carrie joined in, pleased to share the joke, even if she didn’t understand it.
Forty-five minutes later they arrived back at Dundrannan.The jeep made a half circle outside the front entrance and Carrie turned to Blake. “Thanks for the tour. You’ve given me a lot to think about. Will I see you again? I mean, are you intending to leave soon?”
The blue eyes turned to her again. “I won’t leave the place without a replacement, if that’s what you mean.”
“I guess I was wondering about that. But I hope our paths might cross again anyhow?”
“I’m not sure how that might be,” Blake answered, “unless you take up shepherding?”
“I couldn’t live here myself,” Carrie said. “But perhaps I can see why you like it here. I’ve noticed that there is something about the space, the quiet, the beauty of the place - I hadn’t expected it.” She looked across at Blake who was listening intently. “You can’t avoid it, can you?”
“It’s getting to you, isn’t it?” Blake paused. “So how will you handle Dundrannon? Are you going to sell to the highest bidder?”
Carrie paused. He could feel her professional caution asserting itself, a caution that never revealed her bargaining hand or intentions around a business deal. But the woman sitting across from her wasn’t competing for Dundrannon, or even interested. “To be honest, from what I’ve seen so far, I don’t think there would be enough interested parties to even identify a bidder,” she said carefully. “The house is a wreck. The estate is too small for today’s commercial markets. The investment required for any kind of development would be exorbitant.” She paused. “The only thing its got going for it is the quality of the lambs. There aren’t many of them and you’re going to up sticks and leave!”
“How can you make that kind of decision so quickly?” Blake asked. “You’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and the die is cast?”
“It’s my job. That’s what I’m paid to do. It’s what I’m good at,” Carrie replied, her voice flat.
“But you haven’t really seen what Dundrannan’s about. Not really. I gave you a quick tour, but you need to see more.” She looked at her watch. “Why don’t you give yourself one more day? Then you’ll see what I’m talking about.”
Blake’s voice was urgent, insistent, but Carrie had heard too many pleas for second thoughts to be swayed in favour of a business that was going down. If an organisation was performing poorly, tough decisions need to be taken. She shook her head. “I’m tempted, but it wouldn’t affect how I’m thinking at the moment. I’ll make sure that everyone is taken care of,” she added quickly.
“That’s all you think about, isn’t it?” Blake’s eyes bored into Carrie’s. “Move in, move out. Job done.”
“We’re both completely different,” Carrie said. “My world - my life - is so far removed from yours. I mean, I deal in money and deals and - ”
“And I’m just a simple country girl who doesn’t know about such things?” Blake finished. “I find that patronising, you know. It’s just what I’d expect from someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” Carrie felt she was losing it already. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Really? The hot shot banker who works for a firm known for its greed? The deals that leave shareholders penniless?” Blake’s voice was cutting.
“I don’t have to take this,” Carrie said angrily.
Blake didn’t say anything as Carrie grabbed her coat and climbed out of the jeep. There was a spurt of gravel as the jeep accelerated away. Carrie sighed and looked at her watch. It was only a little after two o’clock, and the watery sun added a gleam to the lead flashing on the roof and a glisten to the hard granite steps.
Carrie walked around the silent house. So much information, and all of it bad. She needed to clear her head, gather her thoughts and consider her options.
As she approached the side door, Iza came out. “Och - I’ll be leaving now, Carrie. I only come in for an hour or so, but there’s a man at the back of the house. He says he has a meeting with you? He’s been walking about the whole house, scribbling notes and all.”
Carrie frowned. “I can’t think who that can be. Thanks, Iza - and thank you for your welcome. I’ll be going back to London tomorrow, but I’ll see you soon, I hope.”
The elderly woman smiled. “I hope so, Miss Wyatt. I do hope so.”
“Just one thing Iza - do you have the shepherd’s mobile number? I left something in the Jeep.”
“Why, yes, it’s by the phone inside.” Iza bustled away, and returned with a scribbled number on a scrap of paper.
“Thanks, Iza - and tell Mr.Kinkaid to get better.”
Carrie
walked back to the front of the house and passed a small red estate car parked near the main door.
“Miss Wyatt?” A stocky man carrying an iPad walked towards her. “Jamie Ardoyne, from Ardoyne and Sons. You called the office this morning.”
Carrie smiled at the stocky, ruddy faced architect. “Thank you for responding so quickly,” she said, shaking hands.
“Well, I had spent the weekend with my cousin who lives in Gatehouse, so I managed a quick assessment of the house before returning to Glasgow.”
He glanced at her. “I can give you a quick summary, if you like?”
“Please do, Mr. Ardoyne. I hope it isn’t all bad news?”
The architect looked at his yellow pad. “Well, I’ll be frank, Miss Wyatt. There’s a hell of a lot that needs doing if the house is not going to have to be demolished quite soon. I would say that there are one or two - perhaps three, to be precise - areas that are structurally unsound and in urgent need of repair.”
Carrie was shaken. The assessment was worse than she expected. “Is it - is it that bad?”
Jamie Ardoyne caught the anxiety in her voice. “I wouldn’t be honest if I didna’ tell you the worst news, Miss Wyatt.”
“Call me Carrie, please. And go on - I really need the information - good and bad.”
“Let’s get the bad out of the way then,” the agent continued, his voice brisk as he slid into his professional tone of voice. “The roof is bad. Getting that fixed is going to cost a lot of money. I haven’t had access to the attics, of course, but I wouldn’t be surprised if much of the timber needs replacement. The damp, you see, after all these years.”
Carrie nodded, any enthusiasm for the house draining away.
“Then the general external fabric - windows, stonework. Well, most of the windows are beyond repair. And much of the stone exterior will need work.”