Dear John,
Your father tells me that you are now back in this country and working in London.
It wouldn’t have been so hard if he had felt that he had anything in common with the young man. Some shared interest that would have provided him with a starting point.
If you are able to get a little time off, perhaps you would think about making the journey north and spending a few days at Benchoile.
He had never been much of a letter writer and it had taken him nearly half a day to finally compose this one, and even then the finished result did not satisfy him. But he signed it, and wrote the address on the envelope and stuck down the flap. It would have been so much easier, he thought wistfully, if only John had shown some interest in the grouse.
* * *
These reflections had brought him halfway home. The narrow, rutted, snow-filled road took a turn and the length of Loch Muie slid into view, grey as iron beneath the lowering sky. There was a light on in Davey Guthrie’s farmhouse, and away at the end of the loch stood Benchoile itself, sheltered by the stand of pines which stood silhouetted, black as ink, against the snow-covered slopes of the hill.
Built of grey stone, long and low, turreted and gabled, it faced south, across a wide sloping lawn, to the loch. Too big, draughty and unheatable, shabby and constantly in need of repair, it was, nevertheless, his home, and the only place, in all his life, that he had ever really wanted to be.
Ten minutes later, he was there. Up the slope and through the gates, over the rattle of the cattle grid, and down the short tunnel of wild rhododendrons. In front of the house the drive opened up into a wide gravel sweep. At the far end of this was an ornate stone arch which attached the house, by one corner, to the old stable block where Jock’s brother Roddy lived. Beyond the arch was a spacious cobbled yard, and at the far end of this were the garages, which were originally built to house carriages and shooting brakes but now contained Jock’s old Daimler and the aged green MG into which Roddy squeezed his bulk when the spirit moved him to make some excursion into the outside world.
Alongside these two ill-assorted vehicles, in a thick gloom occasioned by the dreariness of the day, Jock Dunbeath finally homed the Landrover, pulled on the brake, and killed the engine. He took the folded wad of Sunday newspapers off the seat beside him, got out of the car, slammed the door shut, and went out into the yard. Snow lay thick on the cobbles. The light was on in Roddy’s sitting room. Cautiously, anxious not to slip or fall, he made his way across the yard to Roddy’s front door, and let himself in.
Although it was often referred to as a flat, Roddy’s house was, in fact, a two-story dwelling, converted out of the old stables at the end of the war, when Roddy had come back to Benchoile to live. Roddy, fired by enthusiasm, had architected the conversion himself. The bedrooms and bathrooms were downstairs, the kitchen and the living room upstairs, and access to these rooms was by an open teak stair, like a ship’s ladder.
Jock stood at the foot of these and called, “Roddy!”
Roddy’s footsteps creaked across the floorboards over Jock’s head. In a moment his brother’s bulk appeared, and Roddy peered down at him over the rail of the stairhead.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Roddy, as though it might be anybody else.
“Brought the papers.”
“Come on up. What a bloody awful day.”
Jock mounted the stairs, and came out at the top in the living room where Roddy spent his days. It was a marvelous room, light and large, the ceiling gabled to the shape of the roof, and one wall taken up by an enormous picture window. This had been designed to frame a view over the loch to the mountains, which, in fine weather, took the breath away. But this morning what could be seen was enough to chill the soul. Snow and grey water, running before the wind and capped in white; the hills on the far shore were lost in murk.
It was a man’s room, and yet a room of taste and even beauty; lined with books and cluttered with a number of objects which, though worth little, were visually pleasing. A carved overmantel; a blue and white jar filled with pampas grasses; a dangling mobile of paper fishes, probably Japanese. The floorboards had been sanded and polished and sparsely scattered with rugs. Elderly armchairs and a sofa sagged invitingly. In the cavern of a fireplace (which had had to be specially constructed at the time of the conversion, and had proved to be the most costly item of all) a couple of birch logs sizzled on a bed of peat. The room had an extraordinary and quite unique smell about it. Compounded of cigar smoke, and peat smoke too, and the sharp aroma of linseed oil.
Roddy’s old Labrador, Barney, lay supine on the hearthrug. At Jock’s appearance, he raised his grizzled nose, and then yawned and went back to sleep again.
Roddy said, “Have you been to the kirk?”
“Yes.” Jock began to unbutton his overcoat with frozen fingers.
“Did you know the telephone’s dead? There must be a line down somewhere.” He gave his brother a long, measuring look. “You appear to be blue with cold. Have a drink.” He moved ponderously towards the table where he kept his bottles and glasses. He had already, Jock noticed, provided himself with a large, dark whisky. Jock did not ever drink in the middle of the day. It was one of his rules. But somehow today, ever since the minister had mentioned that glass of sherry, he had been thinking about it.
“Have you got some sherry?”
“Only the pale kind. Dry as a bone.”
“That’ll do very nicely.”
He took off his coat and went to stand in front of the fire. Roddy’s mantelpiece was always littered with undusted bits and pieces. Curling photographs, old pipes, a mug of pheasant quills, and out-of-date invitations, probably unanswered. There was today, however, a sparkling new card propped against the clock, impressively copper-plated, gold-edged and marvelously pretentious.
“What’s this? Looks like a royal command.”
“Nothing so splendid. A dinner at the Dorchester. Television awards. Best documentary of the year. God knows why I’ve been invited. I thought I’d been crossed off all the lists. Actually, apart from the tedium of the after-dinner speeches, I used to quite enjoy those occasions. Met a lot of new young writers, new faces. Interesting to talk to.”
“Are you going to this one?”
“I’m getting too elderly to travel the length of the country for a free hangover.” He had laid down his whisky, located the sherry, found a suitable glass, poured his brother’s drink. Now he retrieved a smoldering, half-smoked cigar from an ashtray, picked up the two glasses and came back to the fireside. “If it were to take place somewhere civilized, like Inverness, I might deign to add tone to what will otherwise be a vulgar brawl. As it is…” He raised his glass. “Slainthe, old boy.”
Jock grinned. “Slainthe.”
* * *
Roddy was nine years Jock’s junior. When they were young, Roddy had been the handsome one of the three brothers, the dallying charmer who had broken more hearts than could be decently counted, and who never lost his own. Women adored him. Men were never quite so sure. He was too good-looking, too clever, too talented at all the sorts of things that it was not considered manly to be talented at. He drew and he wrote and he played the piano. He could even sing.
On shoots he always seemed to get the prettiest girl of the party into his butt, and quite often forgot that the object of the exercise was to slay grouse. No sound, no blast would come from his butt, while the grouse sailed serenely over him in coveys, and at the end of the drive he would be found deep in conversation with his companion, his gun unfired, and his dog wheeking and frustrated at his feet.
Naturally brilliant, he had skimmed through his schooldays without apparently doing a stroke of work, and had gone on to Oxford in a blaze of glory. Trends were started by Roddy Dunbeath and fashions set. Where others sported tweed, he favored corduroy, and soon everybody was wearing corduroy. He was president of the OUDS and a renowned debater. Nobody was safe from his wit, which was usually gentle, but could be barb
ed.
When the war broke out, Jock was already a regular soldier with the Camerons. Roddy, impelled by a deep patriotism which he had always kept to himself, joined up the day that war was declared. He signed on, to everybody’s surprise, with the Royal Marines, on account of, he said, they had such a pretty uniform; but in no time at all, he was training to be a Commando, struggling up precipitous cliffs on the end of a rope and hurling himself from training planes with tightly closed eyes and his hand clenched around the rip cord of his parachute.
When it was all over and the country was at peace again, it seemed to Jock Dunbeath that everyone who wasn’t married rushed to rectify the situation. There was a veritable epidemic of matrimony, and Jock himself had fallen prey to it. But not Roddy. Roddy picked up his life where he had left it in 1939 and went on from there. He made himself a home at Benchoile and started to write. The Eagle Years came out first, and then The Wind in the Pines, and then Red Fox. Fame embraced him. He went on lecture tours, he made after-dinner speeches, he appeared on television.
By now he was putting on weight. While Jock stayed thin and spare, Roddy became stout. Gradually his girth spread, his chin doubled, his handsome features were lost in heavy jowls. And yet, he was as attractive as ever, and when the gossip columns in the daily papers ran out of tidbits about the nobility, they would print blurred photographs of Roddy Dunbeath (The Eagle Years) dining with Mrs. So-and-So, who was, as everybody knew, a champion of wild life.
But youth had gone, lost somewhere over the years, and at last even his mild fame began to slip away. No longer feted in London, he returned, as he had always returned, to Benchoile. He occupied himself in writing short articles, the scripts for television nature films, even small items for the local newspapers. Nothing changed him. He was still the same Roddy, charming and witty, the engaging raconteur. Still willing to squeeze his bulk into his velvet jacket and drive himself for miles down dark country roads to make up the numbers at some remote dinner party. And—even more astonishing—somehow getting himself home again in the small hours of the morning, half-asleep and awash with whisky.
For he was drinking too much. Not uncontrollably nor offensively, but still he seldom seemed to have a glass out of his hand. He began to slow down. He, who had always been physically indolent, was now becoming chronically idle. He could scarcely make the effort to get himself into Creagan. His life had become encapsulated at Benchoile.
* * *
“What are the roads like?” he asked now.
“Passable. You wouldn’t have got far in the MG.”
“No intention of going anywhere.” He took the cigar from his mouth and aimed it at the fireplace. It made a tiny flame. He stooped to lift more logs from the great basket that stood by the hearth, and toss them into the grey ashes of the peat. Dust rose in a cloud. The fresh logs flickered and caught fire. There was a small explosion, and one or two sparks flew out onto the aged hearthrug. The smell of burning wool filled Jock’s nostrils, and Roddy trod them out with the sole of his brogue.
“You should have a fireguard,” said Jock.
“Can’t stand the look of the things. Besides, they keep all the heat in.” He gazed thoughtfully down at his fireplace. “Thought I might get one of those chain curtains. Saw one advertised the other day, but now I can’t remember where I saw it.” He had finished his drink. He began to drift back towards the bottles on the table. Jock said, “You’ve hardly time for another. It’s past one o’clock already.”
Roddy looked at his watch. “Well, bless my soul, so it is. It’s a wonder Ellen hasn’t yet given us her weekly screech. I suppose you couldn’t persuade her to use the old gong. She could bring it out into the stable yard and ring it there. It would be so much more in keeping if I could be summoned to Sunday lunch in the big house by the dignified rumble of a gong. Gracious living and all that. We mustn’t let ourselves go, Jock. We must keep up appearances even if there is no person to appreciate our efforts. Think of those old empire builders, dining in the jungle in their starched shirts and black ties. There’s backbone for you.”
The glass of sherry had freed Jock’s inhibitions a little. “This morning the minister told me that we need some young company at Benchoile,” he told Roddy.
“Well, what a pretty thought.” Roddy hesitated over the whisky bottle, thought better of it, and poured himself a small sherry instead. “Handsome lads and pretty lasses. What happened to all those young relations of Lucy’s? The house used to be running with her nephews and nieces. They were all over the place. Like mice.”
“They’ve grown up. Married. That’s what happened to them.”
“Let’s stage a grand reunion and get them all back again. We’ll put a notice in the personal column of the Times. ‘The Dunbeaths of Benchoile require young company. All applications will be given consideration.’ We might get some rather amusing replies.”
Jock thought of the letter that he had written to John. He had not told Roddy about that letter. Cautiously, he had made up his mind that when a reply came from John, and not before, he would take Roddy into his confidence.
But now, he found that resolution wavering. He and Roddy saw so little of each other, and it was seldom that they found themselves on such easy and companionable terms as they were at this moment. If he brought the business of John up now, then they could discuss it over Sunday lunch. After all, sometime, it all had to be thrashed out. He finished his sherry. He squared his shoulders. He said, “Roddy…”
But was interrupted by a banging on the door downstairs, and then a blast of icy air as it was opened. A voice, shrill and cracked, rose from the foot of the stairs.
“It’s past one o’clock. Did you know that?”
Roddy looked resigned. “Yes, Ellen, we did.”
“Have you got the colonel with you?”
“Yes, he’s here.”
“I saw the Landrover in the garage, but he’s not been near the big house. You’d better both come over now, or the bird’ll be ruined.” Ellen had never been one for much formality.
Jock laid down his empty glass and went to collect his coat. “We’re coming now, Ellen,” he told her. “We’re coming right away.”
6
MONDAY
The fact that the telephone lines were down and the phone not working was of small concern to Roddy Dunbeath. Where others tried six or seven times in a morning to make outside calls, jigged the receiver in empty exasperation, and finally trod out into the snow to the nearest functioning call box, Roddy remained unperturbed. There was no person with whom he wished to get in touch, and he actively enjoyed the sensation of being undisturbed and unreachable.
And so, when the phone on his desk suddenly began to ring at half past eleven on Monday morning, he was at first startled out of his skin and then irritated.
During the night the wind had died, having first blown all the clouds out of the sky, and the morning had dawned, late and clear and still. The sky was a pale, arctic blue. The sun, rising over the foot of the loch, turned the snowclad countryside first pink, and then a dazzling white. The lawn in front of the house was patterned with the random tracks of rabbits and hares. A deer had been there, too, feeding off the young shrubs that Jock had planted at the back end of the year and tree shadows lay like long, smokey blue bruises. As the sun climbed over the rim of the hills, the sky deepened in blue, and this was reflected in the waters of the loch. Frost glittered, and the icy air was so still that when Roddy opened his window to throw out a handful of crusts for his birds, he could hear the baa-ing of the sheep which grazed on the slopes at the far side of the water.
It was not a day for much activity. But, with a certain resolution, and a deadline hanging over his head, Roddy had managed to finish the first draft of his article for the Scottish Field. With this behind him, he succumbed once more to idleness and was sitting at his window with a cigar and his binoculars at the ready. He had seen greylags feeding on the worn stubble of the arable fields beyond the pines.
Sometimes, in hard weather like this, they would settle in the thousands.
The telephone rang. He said, aloud, “Oh, bloody hell,” and at the sound of his voice Barney raised his head from the hearthrug. Thump thump went his tail. “It’s all right, old boy, it’s not your fault.” He laid down his binoculars, got up, and went, reluctantly, to answer it.
“Roddy Dunbeath.”
There came strange peeping sounds. For a moment Roddy felt hopeful that the tiresome instrument was still out of order, but then the peeping sounds stopped and a voice came on, and hope died.
“Is that Benchoile?”
“The Stable House, yes. Roddy Dunbeath here.”
“Roddy. This is Oliver Dobbs.”
After a little, Roddy said, “Who?”
“Oliver Dobbs.” It was a pleasant voice, young, deep, vaguely familiar. Roddy dug about, without noticeable success, in his unreliable memory.
“I’m not with you, old boy.”
“We met at a dinner in London a couple of years ago. Sat next to each other…”
Recollection dawned. Of course, Oliver Dobbs. Clever young man. A writer. Won some prize. They’d had a great crack together. “But of course.” He reached behind him for a chair, settled himself for conversation. “My dear boy, how splendid to hear you. Where are you calling from?”
“The Lake District.”
“What are you doing in the Lake District?”
“I’m taking a few days off. I’m driving up to Scotland.”
“You’re going to come here, of course.”
“Well, that’s what I’m calling about. I tried to ring you yesterday, but they said the phone lines were down. When we met, you issued an invitation to come and see you at Benchoile, and I’m afraid I’m taking it up.”
“Nothing to be afraid of. I couldn’t be more pleased.”
“We thought perhaps we might be able to come and stay for a couple of days.”
“Of course you must come.” The prospect of a couple of days in the company of that lively and intelligent young man was quite stimulating. But, “Who’s we?” asked Roddy.
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