Flemyng had spoken as they rose from the table of all the complications crowding in, and Babble remembered his own reply. ‘You never wanted it any other way, Will. Never.’
Before Mungo’s revelation, they had gossiped about some of Flemyng’s colleagues. Babble had never met Brieve, the spiky one, and had heard enough not to want to. He had once spent a happy evening in Edinburgh in Ruskin’s company, when he had been reminded of the sheer exhilaration in some of those who surrendered themselves to political life. Babble wouldn’t easily forget Ruskin’s impersonation of the mysterious Brieve, nor the warmth of his bond with Will. They’d spoken of boyish adventures together, and Ruskin had quoted Kipling with zest. Babble remembered the light that had come into his blue eyes as the words rolled out. He’d thought that Ruskin and Will seemed to read each other’s minds, conversing in a vivid shorthand that had become a language of their own.
Forbes came to mind, too. He’d spent a day and a night at Altnabuie the previous year in the course of an official trip to Scotland, and attracted mixed reviews. He’d entertained well at table, even played the piano without being asked, and Mungo had enjoyed his relish for political history. They had talked of whigs and covenanters late into the night. Outside, it was a different story. Tiny believed that Forbes imagined he could shoot just because he was a defence minister, and on the evidence of one day’s long stalk he had concluded that the armed forces could do better than have this man trying to run them.
Forbes had also boasted about hunting stags with dogs on Exmoor, and Tiny was appalled. By trade he was himself a killer on the river and the hill, but thought it barbaric to set dogs on deer.
Flemyng had defended his friend but enjoyed passing on a Ruskin observation on Forbes that had entered the folklore of the gang: ‘Jay dreams that some day they’ll name a missile system after him.’
Babble replayed in his head the conversation from the previous night. He knew that Flemyng was troubled at the start of the evening, because he had an uncommonly careworn look for someone who’d just been fishing, and his scar seemed to Babble to be nagging him again. But, like Mungo, he’d noticed a change for the better as they talked of their mother, which surprised him because secrets were supposed to be troubling things. Flemyng’s response went against the flow.
In a mood of expectation about the collective mood, Babble thought of the journey ahead and the next few days in London. He’d meet some old friends as well as having fun with the boys. There was The Tablet’s summer party at the Travellers’ Club that was tickling Mungo’s fancy because of the article he’d written for the magazine – and first a promised lunch in a pub that was an old Babble haunt.
He’d be packed up by lunchtime. There was a hotpot sitting in the low oven, and they would spend the afternoon in the garden. Then Pitlochry, and the train. Babble was ready for anything. The streaming sun turned his bronze hair into a glow.
Out on the hill, Flemyng was making his way down. Turning westwards he took in the house and the loch beyond, where he thought he could see Tiny bent over a fence near the boathouse. He stepped forward, the dogs ahead of him, bounding down the hill, Rousseau with a long tassel of sticky willow attached to his tail, flying behind him like a streamer at a party.
They all stumbled and jumped their way down, leaving Flemyng breathless as he took a detour round the house to visit a favourite pool in the burn. Mungo was talking to Babble in the kitchen, and had the kettle on the range.
‘Well, we’ll soon be on our way.’ It was many a long year since they had used names for each other when they were alone, and they were perfectly fitted to each other’s company. At Altnabuie they had found a pace that suited them both, and after Mungo stopped teaching he was relieved to find that his permanent presence in the house didn’t disturb Babble. Three or four times a day they’d sit down together, to eat or talk, and they’d often walk side by side to the woods or the hill, or fish quietly in the burn or on the loch. For the rest of the time they’d go about their business, Mungo in the library or the little estate office at the back of the house, Babble on his domestic rounds. In the evenings they’d usually spend some time together after they had eaten, and in the winter they’d have a hand of cards by the fire as often as not.
Mungo said, ‘Last night was a surprise. But I know you’ve not tried to deceive us, not meaningfully. I’m aware of that.’ Babble said he was grateful for the assurance. Everyone had behaved properly. Life was complicated; that was all there was to it. ‘We’ll talk,’ said Mungo, raising both his hands as if he might clap, and without acknowledging any awkwardness, they jumped ahead.
‘I’m going to have a look up on the roof at the back, there,’ Babble said, to emphasize domestic continuity. ‘I want to make sure we haven’t got a leak, and I’ll give the gutters a going-over when I’m up there, before I take Abel to the plane.’
Mungo said he should be careful on the ladder. He himself would be going over to Inverlaggan where Father Aeneas would celebrate mass later in the morning. ‘He’s a grand man, you know. And he’s got a Gaelic singer coming. We don’t often have that pleasure. A link to our story in these parts.’ There was a hint of invitation there. The Flemyngs had stuck with the old religion, and Mungo liked the idea of the family’s stubbornness down the years, clinging to a thread that connected them to a distant time.
Babble did make regular appearances at church, although he was no Catholic, and he was all for Aeneas. ‘Aye, he’s grand, right enough. But there’s a lot to take care of. Will has a driver somewhere about the place, and I’ll look after his breakfast if he wants it. And make sure everything is right for Mrs Mac. Just so. Tiny’s having the dogs as usual. They’ve been on the hill with Will. Lizzie has a new lease of life.’
But Mungo, helping to clear up, stuck to his theme. ‘You know why I like Aeneas so much?’
‘Why would that be?’ said Babble, busying himself with the dogs’ bowls.
‘He’s more interested in questions than answers. Much prefers them.’
With that, Mungo got himself ready for a walk. He smoothed down his rich green tweed jacket with a pat on each side, checked that there was enough in his pocket for the collection plate and hung it behind the door in readiness. He slipped on a pair of boots and disappeared for the burn, stick in hand. He met Flemyng on his way back, and they spoke for a minute or two.
Soon Abel was in the kitchen with them, the only one with tiredness in his eyes. Flemyng was preparing to leave, wondering if his brother had slept. ‘I’ll have to be off in less than an hour.’ Abel gestured, without speaking, and led him through the passageway to the front door. They stood on the terrace. No one was near them, but Abel leaned into him as he spoke, and kept his voice low.
‘What can you tell me?’ He looked his brother in the eye, and fashioned a moment of perfect stillness. Flemyng’s face was motionless, dark eyes unblinking.
‘Almost nothing,’ he said. ‘I was going to ask the same of you. I need to put the pieces together. Help me.’ Abel said nothing, and Flemyng added, ‘It’s not my game, it’s yours.’ His brother’s expression changed. He smiled into the light. ‘You think so? I’m not sure.’
‘Come on, Abel.’ Flemyng realized it was the first time that he had used his brother’s name since he’d arrived. ‘I’m caught up in a string of accidents.’
Accidents galore, Abel said, but who could make more sense of them? ‘That’s who owns the game. You learned that a long time ago.’
Then he spoke quickly, as if he’d been prompted by the sound of a hidden alarm. ‘You met Sassi at the opera, I’m told – what a nice life. He’s the lead man in all this, and you two should talk again. You’ll realize that my worry is my dead friend Joe. Not why he came, but what he said after he blew into town. You say he didn’t call you. Did he contact any of your friends that you’re aware of? Anyone been a little knocked off balance of late?’
Flemyng shook his head. ‘As for others, what do I know?’ He pulled back and l
ooked away from the garden to the slopes beyond. The family intimacy of the previous evening had gone, whether they liked it or not. Each was drawing back into himself. Babble broke their silence. ‘There’s a call, Will. London. It’s a colleague of yours.’ He sounded disapproving. Flemyng left Abel.
Back together ten minutes later, and with no explanation from Flemyng about the phone call, Abel said straightaway that he should see Sassi face to face. ‘Start with him. I’m flying down in the afternoon, and I’ll be back in the hotel this evening. You’re seeing Paul Jenner later?’
Abel was now in charge, and Flemyng was giving more than he was getting, elder brother or not. So his tone sharpened as he tried to assert himself.
‘Yeah, at eight. He says he has more on Manson.’ Abel’s eyes were on him, and Flemyng reacted with an abrupt change of tack. He stiffened, showing something of the tension that Abel had felt on Saturday before dinner, and his voice rose. ‘Can I ask you something?’
For Flemyng, who had spent the time before sleep calculating when he should make his enquiry and precisely how it should be worded, the stillness in the air was a bonus and an encouragement. He was ready.
‘I got a bit of a warning from an old friend that there’s a worry over someone. A minister. Could even be me.’ A chill settled over the conversation, as he’d known it would. Flemyng tossed his head in a show of amusement, but didn’t laugh.
‘That’s not a question,’ Abel said.
‘Don’t avoid the point,’ his brother said, and shook his head again. A disturbing current ran between them for a moment, and they both felt the shock of it. Lines appeared on Flemyng’s brow. ‘Have you heard anything about me? That’s definitely a question.’
‘I haven’t. And that’s an answer.’
‘Quite sure?’ Flemyng said, making it certain that the edginess would remain.
‘Positive. I’d tell you otherwise. And you can take it from me that I do know a few things about what goes on around you. But others know more.’
‘Quite,’ Flemyng said. ‘I’m told there’s a watch on.’
‘Not on you.’
‘So you’ve picked something up?’
Abel said, ‘Second-hand. Maybe third. But if it’s true, which I can’t say it is one way or the other, you aren’t the target.’
Flemyng, a flash of anger shot through his embarrassment, said he didn’t know whether or not to be grateful to his brother. ‘If I were you,’ Abel said, ‘I’d take it as an unexpected homecoming gift. That’s all.’ Before Flemyng could reply, he moved on.
‘What have you learned? Last night, you didn’t say much. Almost nothing,’ Abel pressed.
Flemyng steadied himself, aware of the danger of being caught off balance, and held back his knowledge of the first discovery of Manson’s body. ‘The police who found Manson have come up with some stuff that wasn’t found at the scene.’
Abel looked surprised. ‘Why only now?’
A stab in the dark. ‘He’d put it in the hotel safe, and it was checked later on, after the first panic.’ And, for all Flemyng knew, it might even be true.
‘OK. And this is what, exactly?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Flemyng, slipping back happily behind the veil. ‘I’ll find out from Paul. And you?’ Abel said he’d be meeting Jackson Wherry, and they found common ground again. With a speed that was becoming familiar to Flemyng, the mood changed.
‘A good guy,’ said Abel. I hope you found that out at the opera. Decency is his business, especially when it’s in short supply. If anything comes up, I’ll say. And you talk to Guy, OK? Then we can move.’ With unspoken understanding they entered the house together. Each of them found something to do in the kitchen, and they moved apart. Flemyng fiddled with the line of boots and shoes inside the back door, and Abel washed his hands.
Babble arrived. He’d driven a mile to the shop to get the newspapers, a Sunday ritual when there were guests. ‘All quiet on the western front,’ Flemyng said, glancing at the front pages. He delved inside a paper at the table and smiled at Abel as if nothing of significance had occurred between them, opening a new scene. ‘Jay Forbes is in full flow here – end-of-term interview. Great stuff.’
He was pictured beaming, pulling on his beard. Even in a black-and-white picture, they could see the glistening of his moist, full lips. A caption referred to the generosity that was still to be found in politics. ‘We’re going to get away this week ready to be refreshed. All of us, and the opposition too. That’s important, isn’t it? I hope people will be able to forget about politics for a while.’ Perfectly judged, Flemyng said. Forbes had listed the books he would read on holiday in the wilds of Crete, and said he had told his office only to ring in the event of catastrophe or war.
‘I guess that’s the way to do it,’ said Abel.
Time to go. Flemyng joked about Abel’s promise to attend mass with Mungo. He knew that in New York his brother’s only religious oblations involved a happy acquiescence in Jewish holidays with Hannah and a cultural absorption in their Friday night suppers which gave him a mysterious joy. To his brothers’ surprise, he’d come to look forward to Passover. ‘I’ll be supporting Mungo, never you fear,’ he said. The driver had returned, knocking quietly on the open back door to suggest that it was time to be off. In the spirit of a weekend of atmospheres that changed in the blink of an eye, the two brothers clasped hands, and Flemyng got his bag ready for the car, giving the red box to the driver first. It was placed in the boot like a trophy. He caught up with Mungo in the garden to wish him well.
‘See you in London tomorrow.’ Their eyes met, and Mungo raised an arm in farewell as his brother turned back towards the house. ‘Please don’t worry.’ A few minutes later Flemyng left, watching Abel waving from the front door as the car rounded the bend in the drive.
*
The church door was open because the day was fine. Looking west from inside the porch, where the marbled granite kept the atmosphere cool and the sun never had a chance to work on the dusty, musky smell of the place, a loch stretched away ahead between two steep hillsides – one rocky and topped by overhanging crags, the other wooded from lochside to summit, the water fringed with birch, hazel, larch and fir. Looking from inside, the doorway framed a wild but settled landscape. The loch was flat calm, the trees still on a wind-free morning, yet the scale of the hills and the sweep of the water into the distance, towards the soft outline of the mountains beyond, hinted at a rampant energy lying underneath, forces that had once split the land and left for all time a majestic landlocked fjord.
A picture of peace, free from any trace of hurry.
From inside the church, and carrying down to the lochside on the stillness, came a single voice, carrying an old tune.
‘Is e an Tighearna mo bhuachaille
Cha bhi mi ann an dìth…’
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…
As it started a new line, one or two other singers joined in behind, quavering and soft at first, but carrying through the doorway of the little church, a gentle sound that soon melted into silence. There was no organ, only the words.
‘Ann an cluaintean uaine bheir E orm laighe sìos
Làimh ri uisgeachan ciùine treòraichidh mi…’
He makes me to lie down in green pastures
He leads me beside the still waters…
In the midst of a mostly silent congregation could be heard some voices let loose in the old style still practised in a few of the Scottish islands, in improbable improvisations that an old blues man might have recognized, or an Appalachian fiddler who’d picked up tunes his forebears had carried from the old country. Abel, sitting in the back row, the door open behind him, was electrified. He couldn’t remember when he had last been so stirred. Mungo, beside him, was quiet, but Abel could sense the power of his response to the setting and the sound. For a few minutes they felt the old ties restored, to each other and to home. Abel also recognized in himself a surge of envy, and Mungo, sit
ting so close to him in the pew that they touched, could feel it.
The church was full, which meant there were a mere ninety people, and they had come from a long way round about because Aeneas MacNeil had spread the word about a singer and some friends visiting from his home island of Barra. Preceding mass they would sing, and sing they did, in the language that held the echo of old times in these glens, reviving the past. No one else in the church was a native Gaelic speaker, generations having grown up without it, but they enjoyed the backward journey.
Aeneas was priest to a string of tiny communities across the central highlands, rattling from one to another in his elderly Land Rover, which the congregations had clubbed together to buy for him, second-hand, as an act of appreciation to a man who carried his burden across the high hills. Alms for their history.
Mungo loved the story that was conjured up every time he came through the church door. The Catholic line among the locals was sustained by a handful of families who could trace themselves back to the days when the hills around were the last redoubts of the Jacobite cause, echoing to the hopeless call of Bonnie Prince Charlie and his raggle-taggle army. He’d been writing about the Flemyngs’ loyalties in that tumult, and their subsequent travails, and was surprised at The Tablet’s interest. He enjoyed its questioning tone, and had recently been adopted to its advisory board.
The ritual over, he shook hands with Aeneas after the blessing and benediction, when the last rhythmic responses in the mass had died away. ‘Well, wasn’t that some cracking singing?’ said the priest.
‘I loved it from start to finish. Mind you I only got one word in ten, even with the book,’ said Mungo. ‘My brother Abel.’
The Madness of July Page 22