Another Home, Another Love

by Gwen Kirkwood

  He was aware that things had changed between himself and Rosie. He longed for their old youthful camaraderie, but deep down he had realized he wanted her for more than a playmate. He had felt a deep affection for her and a desire to protect her for as long as he could remember but she was no longer a child and the realization that he was no longer the most important person in her life had come as a shock. Both he and Struan admired the transformation she had made to the Stables Cottage.

  ‘If I’d had plenty of money I would have made the large room upstairs into the sitting room with French windows and a balcony opening onto the stone staircase outside.’

  ‘It’s hard to believe this was once a loft and stables. It has a lovely view,’ Tania said.

  ‘It was Paul’s idea for a balcony,’ Rosie said. He had insisted on coming to help carry smaller items into the cottage and they exchanged a warm smile.

  ‘You seem to have an eye for such things, Paul,’ Struan said. ‘Father is pleased with your ideas for our garden. Even Mother approves.’

  ‘Ideas cost money,’ Sam muttered. Rosie and Tania looked at him in surprise, knowing he had plenty of ideas himself in relation to the farm. Sam flushed, ashamed that he was being so churlish to a fellow like Paul Keir, who had had little else but ideas to occupy him during the years spent in hospitals or convalescing. He was making up for it now though, spending every day in Rosie’s company. Like Alex, Sam was beginning to wonder how close they were.

  ‘Tania said you wanted some rustic rails to make a rose arbour, Rosie,’ he said as he was leaving. ‘If you come down on Saturday and tell me how thick you want them and the length, I’ll cut them to suit.’

  ‘That would be super, wouldn’t it Paul? But I can’t come next weekend. Can we arrange it later?’

  ‘OK.’ Sam shrugged. He wondered what Rosie was doing that weekend. He could remember a time when she came to Bengairney every Saturday, Sundays too if she could.

  FOUR

  Rosie enjoyed the privacy and peace of her own home but she made sure the iron gates were locked when Paul and Rodney went home. She would not give Chef Lambert any opportunity to prowl around. She was delighted when her father fell into the habit of dropping in most mornings for a cup of coffee and a chat. If she was busy in the gardens he made the coffee and brought out a mug for each of them, strolling beside her as she supervised the work or discussed her plans. On wet mornings he and John Oliphant made themselves at home in her large bright kitchen and waited for her return.

  Douglas Palmer-Farr often worked late into the night on his translations and Rosie knew he had been busy for months with work for a foreign diplomat as well as his regular assignments. He was good at his job and he often had to turn down work if he couldn’t fit it in. He was well paid for a lot of the confidential work he undertook. He also received a small income from investments left in trust by his parents. He told Rosie the income had increased since decimalization but Catherine insisted nothing was keeping pace with the rise in the cost of living. The turnover for the hotel was on a different scale but so were the overheads.

  Sam eventually arranged a Saturday morning when they were both free to liaise over the rustic poles needed to complete the arbour around John Oliphant’s seat. The days were getting too cold to sit outside for long now so there was no immediate rush to finish it but Rosie was annoyed when she arrived at Bengairney to find no sign of Sam. She knew he was booked to do the relief milking at Martinwold but he had told her he would be home early. The door was not locked so Rosie called a greeting to Megan and Tania. No one answered. Rosie then remembered Tania and Struan had gone up to Edinburgh for a reunion with some of their fellow students; they were spending Friday and Saturday nights with friends. She went through to the kitchen. She was surprised to see the remains of breakfast still in evidence, porridge plates stacked beside the sink. She knew her Aunt Megan’s routine as well as her own. Something urgent must have called her outside to make her leave an untidy kitchen. She closed the door and hurried outside. She met Joe Finkle coming across the yard bringing straw to bed the calves.

  ‘Where is everyone, Joe? Is something wrong?’ Joe had worked for Steven since he was a young prisoner of war.

  ‘Hello, Miss Rosemary,’ Joe smiled at her. ‘Samuel work at Martinwold this weekend. He is not back. Mr and Mrs Caraford, they go off in their car, in great hurry. I was eating breakfast. Maybe something happened…?’

  ‘An accident you mean, Joe? But what’s keeping Samuel?’

  ‘Maybe accident is at Martinwold?’

  ‘An accident to Samuel you mean? Oh no….’ Rosie felt her face paling.

  ‘I not know, but Mr Steven never drive like, z-zoom in the car.’

  The previous evening Murdo Turner had joined Sam in the milking parlour at Martinwold, chatting and discussing treatment for a sick cow which was not responding to the antibiotic the dairyman had given her for mastitis.

  ‘I’ll telephone Patrick Fisher for advice when I go in,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you saw her, Sam. She’s one of our best animals.’

  Ella Turner heard him come into the house via the farm office but when she called him for his evening meal an hour later he didn’t answer. She went to see what was detaining him. She found him slumped in his chair, his face grey. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead.

  ‘Murdo? You’re ill.’ Murdo Turner met his wife’s eyes but the pain was too intense for him to answer. Swiftly she reached for the phone and dialled the home of her daughter and son-in-law, Niven Wright-Manton. He was a heart consultant and he would know how to treat her beloved husband. Natalie answered.

  ‘It’s your father, Natalie. I think he’s having a heart attack. Please ask Niven to come. It’s urgent, I know it is.’ She described Murdo’s symptoms and heard her own panic reflected in Natalie’s voice as she related them to her husband. Doctor Wright-Manton’s eyes narrowed. He did not get on with his father-in-law. He had expected to semi-retire on his wife’s money when he married Natalie Turner, only child of a wealthy farmer and landowner but so far her old man had kept a tight hold on the purse strings.

  ‘Hurry, Niven! Mum says it’s urgent. She doesn’t panic easily.’

  ‘It will be a touch of indigestion,’ he said. Six months before he had recognized the symptoms of heart trouble in his father-in-law but it suited him to keep his knowledge to himself.

  Ella Turner had mentioned niggling anxieties to Natalie several times since and they had confirmed his suspicions.

  As a young man, Niven had been a good doctor and had risen quickly in his profession, but he had begun to indulge in his own pleasures with drink and women, hence the divorce of his first wife. It pleased him to know he could still diagnose illness when he saw it, even though he had no intention of doing anything about it.

  He reasoned he would be better off if Turner died. The farm would have to be sold and Natalie could always get round her mother for money. On the other hand Ella Turner was only two or three years older than himself. She kept herself trim and smart. He wouldn’t mind having a little fling with her or even—

  ‘Niven!’ Natalie shouted, ‘Mum needs you! Dad can’t speak for the pain. She says his face is like putty.’

  ‘I heard her from here,’ he drawled. ‘Tell her I’ll come over when we’ve had our meal.’

  Ella Turner slammed down the receiver. Her hand trembled as she dialled for an ambulance.

  ‘The ambulance will be here soon, my darling. Oh Murdo, you were right about Niven. He doesn’t care for anyone but himself.’ Her voice shook as she put her hand on her husband’s brow and felt it damp and clammy. He was not a man who complained over trivialities. Every instinct told her this was serious. Even if it was not, the least Niven could have done was come over and reassure her. She had always taken his side when Murdo had criticized him. She knew her husband was a good judge of character but she had hidden her own doubts because Niven was their son-in-law.

  The ambulance men were efficie
nt. Ella insisted on travelling beside her husband, holding his hand in both of hers. He was worse now and she wondered if he knew she was there. They were about to leave when Natalie drove up, alone.

  ‘We need to get going, it’s urgent,’ one of the men said slamming the door.

  ‘I’ll follow you in the car, Mum,’ Natalie called, her voice wobbling. She had known her mother was not exaggerating and the ambulance man had confirmed her fears. Niven was too idle to be bothered.

  ‘Damn him, he should have come anyway,’ she muttered aloud. As a consultant he would have known what to do and the staff would have paid attention. She didn’t realize Dr Wright-Manton had become the least respected of any member of the hospital staff. She telephoned from the hospital to say her father’s condition was serious and neither she nor her mother were allowed to see him while the doctors were working on him.

  ‘Please come, Niven. You would know better than anybody how to help him.’

  ‘I can’t come. I needed a couple of glasses of wine to keep me company since you chose to desert me,’ he said petulantly. ‘Now I’m enjoying a glass of scotch. Can’t drink and drive.’

  ‘You knew I might need you. You could have resisted the drink for once,’ Natalie snapped. She had not touched her own meal. She felt tense and tired, and disillusioned with Niven.

  The doctors did their best but at three in the morning they had to admit defeat.

  ‘Your husband suffered a massive heart attack, Mrs Turner,’ the doctor in charge said. ‘We did our best to save him but it was not possible. I’m so sorry.’ Ella Turner looked white and strained but she hung onto her composure. It was Natalie who lost control, blaming the doctors for not doing enough, and crying hysterically.

  ‘Perhaps if Doctor Wright-Manton had seen him earlier…?’ the doctor suggested, wondering why the chief was not with his wife now.

  ‘I’d like to go home,’ Ella Turner pleaded, looking at Natalie, willing her not to say any more. It was bad enough that the two of them knew how callously Niven had behaved. Natalie opened her mouth to protest, then closed it with a snap. She took her mother’s arm and guided her to the car. When they reached Martinwold it was Ella who went to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. During the next few hours she and Natalie were as close as they had ever been before, or would be again. Neither felt like eating. As a new day had dawned Ella knew there would be a lot to do.

  ‘I’ll phone Niven,’ Natalie said. ‘He must be up by now.’ The telephone rang a long time before Wright-Manton stirred himself to lift the receiver.

  ‘You’re drunk!’ Natalie snapped in disgust as his slurred voice came over the wire. ‘You’re supposed to be on call at the hospital today.’

  ‘So what? They can manage without me for once.’

  ‘You keep saying that. You haven’t even asked after my father,’ Natalie snapped.

  ‘I’d forgotten about your old man. So what’s the news?’

  ‘You should have been here last night, then you would know. He-he’s d-dead.’

  ‘Is he now?’ Niven Wright-Manton pushed himself upright. ‘I shall be able to retire altogether now then. Once you get the bloody farm sold and get your hands on the money. We’ll enjoy—’

  ‘You’re despicable,’ Natalie put the phone down, cutting off her husband’s bark of laughter.

  Ella Turner was cradling a cup of cold tea and remembering the conversation she and Murdo had had a few weeks earlier after he had been at the stock judging at Bengairney.

  ‘If ever I’m ill and you’re worried about anything to do with the farm,’ he had said, ‘you can rely on Steven Caraford and trust his advice, Ella. In fact you could depend on both Steven and Megan if ever you need help. Megan was always a grand lassie when she lived here with her parents. ‘Ella had always liked Megan and her family but she wondered now whether Murdo had had some sort of premonition that he was not as well as he should be. She had been surprised when he sold his beloved stallion. He had always enjoyed a morning ride ever since he had been able to afford a horse of his own. Other little incidents came back to her. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Never again would Murdo sit opposite her and chat as they ate breakfast together.

  ‘Oh Mother, don’t cry,’ Natalie said. Her mother was always calm and in control.

  ‘I-I’ll be all right.’ Ella struggled to stem her tears. ‘There’s things to do. We need a-a death certificate to register the death. Maybe Niven will—’

  ‘Niven!’ Natalie pinched up her mouth. ‘I need to get home and see what state he’s in.’ She knew he would drink even more if she was not there to try sobering him up. ‘I’ll come back as soon as I can. You try to get some sleep.’

  Even in a situation as serious as this Ella Turner realized she would never be able to rely on her son-in-law. He seemed to control Natalie’s life too. She was on her own. Her world had crumbled overnight. She sat staring into space, thinking of her husband and their life together. She remembered Murdo telling her, years ago, soon after Natalie married, that he had written a letter leaving instructions if he should die first. More recently, he had told her she should consult Andrew MacNicol, their solicitor, if anything happened to him.

  ‘Natalie has never been much use in a crisis,’ he had said without rancour. ‘As for that man she married, he can’t manage his own affairs, even if he is a doctor. You’d need someone reliable like Lindsay Gray or Steven Caraford.’

  Ella pushed back her chair and went upstairs to their bedroom to get Murdo’s keys. He had always been methodical. She knew the letter was in a file in his desk. There were the birth and marriage certificates, even a list of his favourite hymns. She bit back a sob and tried to hold her tears in check as Murdo’s words echoed in her mind.

  If you read this letter, my dearest Ella, remember everything is in here and my will is with Andrew MacNicol and Son.

  However long we live, my love, it doesn’t look as though we shall get a grandson, or even a granddaughter, now Natalie has married that man. If Lint had been our son-in-law, as we hoped, I would have had faith in him taking care of everything. I confess I can’t look ahead and visualize giving up the farm as long as I’m able to carry on. Forgive me, Ella, if I’m selfish but you know it is my life. I do not want to burden you with it but if that should happen Steven Caraford is the best man to help you. He has integrity and he’ll never let you down.

  Steven had returned from the war and was farming a smallholding at Gretna when the letter was written, Ella reflected. He and Megan were newly married. Even then Murdo had respected and trusted Steven.

  She remembered when Steven and Sam Oliphant had played together at Martinwold as boys before they had been forced to join the army. It had amused Murdo the way he was always asking questions, eager to learn and desperate to farm. Ella rubbed her eyes. She felt exhausted. Shock and lack of sleep, she supposed. She shuddered. How could she face the future without Murdo? He’d been her rock. He had made the decisions. She began to tremble with dread for the future and all the things which would need to be done. The animals would have to be sold, and the land. Their workers were all in tied houses; they would lose their homes. They would be shocked and unsettled too. Would they continue to work for her until a sale could be arranged? How would she know if things were being done properly?

  ‘Oh Murdo,’ she moaned, ‘if only we’d finished our bungalow and moved—’ She stopped short. Had that been another premonition? Six months before she had been surprised when Murdo arrived home with three sets of plans and asked what sort of house she would like when she retired. He had given her a hug and kissed her gently. The tears started again. They had spent weeks deciding which of the plans they preferred. She would move there alone now. Her tears made damp splotches on the letter. She found her handkerchief and blew her nose hard. It was no use. She couldn’t sit here and cry all day. It was almost eight o’clock and the men would be getting on with their work. They would have to be told of Murdo’s death. She shivered. Death was
such a final word. She rarely went into the farmyard; she had left all of that to Murdo. She didn’t even know which of the men would be working that weekend.

  Almost of its own volition her hand reached for the telephone. It was Megan who answered. Ella had intended to be calm and in control. She was not going to cry, even though she felt as though her heart was breaking, but the words tumbled out; she could almost feel Megan’s shock and dismay coming over the wires.

  ‘Oh Mrs Turner,’ Megan whispered. ‘I’m so sorry, so very sorry. C-can we help? Is there anything we can do?’ The instant sympathy, the spontaneous offer of help affected Ella and tears streamed down her face again.

  ‘I-I feel so – so useless,’ she whispered. ‘C-could you and Steven c-come over? Please, Megan…I—’

  ‘Of course we’ll come, Mrs Turner. We’ll come right away.’ Megan said. She was shocked herself and she could understand that Mrs Turner would be shattered. She had wanted to ask, When? And where?

  Steven was finishing his breakfast. He stared up at her in disbelief.

  ‘Surely Natalie will be with her mother,’ he said, but he jumped to his feet. ‘Mrs Turner would not have phoned unless she needed us, Meggie. I’ll change my clothes. We’d better get over there. Sam will be finishing the milking at Martinwold. I don’t suppose any of the men will know yet. We must help all we can for Mr Turner’s sake.’

  Megan was shocked at the sight of Mrs Turner’s white face and red-rimmed eyes. She always looked serene and well groomed but today she looked haggard with fatigue. She recounted the events of the previous evening. ‘Niven refused to come,’ she repeated twice. ‘Natalie had to go back to him. M-Murdo thinks…thought, he was drinking too much. She said I should go to bed but I c-can’t do that. Will you help me, Megan?’ She looked up with childlike trust. If it had been anyone else Megan would have hugged her, offering comfort and reassurance, but the Turners had been her parents’ employers for years and Megan had grown up in awe of them.