Wild Mountain Thyme

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  “A very mild one. Nothing to worry about, the doctor said. He seemed to be all right. Never complained. But then, of course, Jock was never a man to complain.…” Once more the sentence drifted to silence. Even for Roddy Dunbeath, thought the lawyer, his thought processes seemed more than usually vague.

  “But Roddy, since Jock died, surely you must have wondered what was going to happen to Benchoile?”

  “To tell you the truth, old boy, I haven’t had much time for wondering. Hell of a lot to organize, you know, when something like this happens. I’ve been waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, trying to remember what it is I’ve forgotten to do.”

  “But…”

  Roddy began to smile. “And of course, half the time I haven’t forgotten it at all.”

  It was impossible. Robert abandoned Roddy’s future, and brought the discussion sharply back into line.

  “About John, then. I’ve written to him, but I haven’t yet had a reply to my letter.”

  “He’s been in Bahrain. I had a cable from him. That’s why he wasn’t here this morning.”

  “I’ve invited him to come up and see me. The future of the property will have to be discussed.”

  “Yes, I suppose it will.” Roddy thought about this. He said, with some conviction, “He won’t want to live here.”

  “What makes you so certain?”

  “Just that I can’t imagine he would have the smallest interest in the place.”

  “Jock didn’t seem to think that.”

  “It was hard to know, sometimes, exactly what Jock was thinking. I never thought he particularly liked Charlie’s boy. They were always so intensely polite to each other. It’s not a good sign, you know, when people are too polite. Besides, John Dunbeath has a career of his own. He’s a clever, cool, successful young man, wheeling and dealing and making a lot of money. Not that he needs to make a lot of money, because he’s always had it through his mother. And that’s another thing, he’s an American.”

  “Half American.” Robert permitted himself a smile. “And I’d have thought you’d be the last man in the world to hold that against him.”

  “I don’t hold it against him. I have nothing against John Dunbeath. I mean that. He was an exceptional boy and extremely intelligent. But I don’t see him as the laird of Benchoile. What would he do with himself? He’s only twenty-eight.” The more Roddy thought about it, the more preposterous the idea became. “I shouldn’t think he knows one end of a sheep from the other.”

  “It doesn’t take much intelligence to learn.”

  “But why John?” The two men looked at each other glumly. Roddy sighed. “I know why of course. Because Jock had no children and I had no children and there wasn’t anybody else.”

  “What do you think will happen?”

  “I suppose he’ll sell it. It seems a pity, but for the life of me, I can’t think what else he’d do with the place.”

  “Let it? Come here for holidays?”

  “A weekend cottage with fourteen bedrooms?”

  “Well then, keep the farm in hand and sell the house?”

  “He’d never get rid of the house unless he let the shooting and the stalking rights go with it, and Davey Guthrie needs that land for his sheep.”

  “If he does sell Benchoile, what will you do?”

  “That’s the sixty four thousand dollar question, isn’t it? But I’ve lived here, on and off, all my life, and perhaps that’s too long for any man to stay in one place. I shall move away. I shall move abroad. Somewhere distant.” Robert had visions of Roddy in Ibiza, wearing a panama hat. “Like Creagan,” he finished, and Robert laughed.

  “Well, I’m glad you know,” he said, and finished his drink and set down the empty glass. “And I hope, between us all, we’ll be able to sort it all out. I … I expect John will want to come here sooner or later. To Benchoile, I mean. Will that be all right?”

  “Right as rain, old boy. Anytime. Tell him to give me a ring.”

  They moved towards the door.

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  “You do that. And Robert, thank you for today. And for everything.”

  “I’ll miss Jock.”

  “We all will.”

  He drove away, headed for Inverness and his three o’clock meeting, a busy man with much to think about. Roddy watched the Rover disappear, and then he was all alone, and he knew that now it was really over. And successfully over, which was so surprising. No small mishaps had occurred, and the funeral had passed in an orderly and soldierly fashion, just as if Jock had organized it himself, and not his singularly disorganized brother. Roddy drew a long sigh, part relief and part sadness. He looked up at the sky, hearing the chatter of greylags high above the clouds, but they stayed out of sight. A thin wind moved up the glen from the sea, and the slate grey surface of the water shivered beneath its touch.

  Jock was dead and Benchoile now belonged to young John. So perhaps this day was not only the end of the beginning, but also, if John decided to sell it all, the beginning of the end. The idea would take some getting used to, but in Roddy’s book, there was only one way to tackle such gargantuan problems, and that was as slowly as possible, a single step at a time. This meant no anticipation and no precipitant action. Life would move quietly on.

  He looked at his watch. It was now half past twelve. His thoughts moved ahead to the remainder of the day, and he suddenly remembered the approaching car, and the young family coming to spend a few days at Benchoile. Oliver Dobbs and some female or other and their child. It occurred to Roddy that Oliver was the sort of man who would always have some female or other in tow.

  They would be arriving at any moment, and the prospect lifted his spirits. The day was a sad one, but, thought Roddy, where God closes a window, he opens a door. What this old saw had to do with Oliver Dobbs, he couldn’t be sure, but it helped one to realize that there could be no time for useless grieving, and Roddy found this comforting.

  Thinking of comfort brought him sharply back to an awareness of the physical agony that he had endured all morning.

  It was to do with his kilt. He had not worn this garment for two years or more, but for the laird’s funeral, it had seemed appropriate to put it on. Accordingly, this morning he had taken it, reeking of camphor, from the cupboard, only to discover that he had put on so much weight that the kilt would scarcely go round him, and after struggling with it for five minutes or more, he had been forced to take himself over to the big house and enroll the aid of Ellen Tarbat.

  He found her in the kitchen, dressed in the inky black that she kept for funerals, and with her gloomiest hat—and none of Ellen’s hats were very cheerful—already skewered to her head by an immense jet-headed hat pin. Ellen’s tears for Jock had been shed privately, decently, behind the closed door of her bedroom at the top of the house. Now, dry-eyed and tight-lipped, she was engaged in polishing the best tumblers before setting them out on the damask-covered table in the library. When Roddy appeared, clutching his kilt about him like a bathtowel, she said, “I told you so,” as he had known she would, but she laid down the tea towel and came manfully to his aid, heaving her puny weight on the leather straps of the kilt, like a tiny groom trying to tighten the girth of some enormous, overfed horse.

  Finally, by brute force, the pin of the buckle went into the last hole of the leather strap.

  “There,” said Ellen triumphantly. She was quite red in the face, and a few stray white hairs had escaped from her bun.

  Roddy held his breath. Now, he let it out cautiously. The kilt tightened across his belly like a pair of tightly laced stays, but the straps, miraculously, held.

  “You’ve done it,” he told her.

  Ellen tidied her hair. “If you were to ask me, I’d say it was about time you went on a diet. Or else you’ll need to take your kilt into Inverness and get the man to let it out. Otherwise you’ll be giving yourself a seizure, and it’s yourself we’ll be burying next.”

  Infuria
ted, Roddy strode from the kitchen. The kilt straps had held, somehow, all morning, but now, gratefully, he realized he need suffer no longer, and accordingly he made his way back to the Stable House, took off his finery and climbed into the most comfortable clothes he owned.

  He was just shrugging himself into his old tweed jacket when he heard the approaching car. From his bedroom window, he saw the dark blue Volvo approach up the drive between the rhododendrons and come to a halt at the edge of the grass in front of the house. Roddy gave a cursory glance in the mirror, smoothed down his ruffled hair with his hand, and went out of the room. His old dog Barney hauled himself to his feet and followed. He had spent the morning shut up and alone, and was not going to risk being left behind again. The two of them emerged from the stable yard just as Oliver climbed out from behind the driving wheel of the car. He saw Roddy and slammed the car door shut behind him. Roddy went towards him, feet crunching over the gravel, his hand outstretched in welcome.

  “Oliver!”

  Oliver smiled. He looked just the same, Roddy thought, with some satisfaction. He did not like people to change. At the television dinner Oliver had worn a velvet jacket and a flamboyant tie. He was now in faded corduroys and a huge Norwegian sweater, but otherwise he seemed just the same. Same coppery hair, same beard, same smile.

  Oliver came towards him, and they met in the middle of the gravel. The very sight of him, tall and young and handsome, gave Roddy new heart.

  “Hello, Roddy.”

  They shook hands, Roddy taking Oliver’s hand in both his own, so pleased was he to see him.

  “My dear fellow, how are you? How splendid you were able to make it. And right on time, too. Did you have any trouble finding us?”

  “No trouble at all. We bought an Ordnance Survey map in Fort William and simply followed the red lines.” He looked about him, at the house, the slope of the lawn, the grey waters of the loch, the hills beyond. “What a fantastic place.”

  “Yes, it’s lovely, isn’t it?” Side by side they regarded the view. “Not much of a day to see it on, though. I’ll have to arrange some better weather for you.”

  “We don’t mind about the weather. However cold it is, all Victoria seems to want to do is sit on beaches.” This reminded Oliver of the other occupants of his car. He seemed to be about to do something about them, but Roddy stopped him.

  “Look … just a minute, old boy. I think we should have a word first.” Oliver looked at him. Roddy scratched the back of his neck, searching for the right words. “The thing is…” But there seemed no way of getting around it, so he brought it straight out. “My brother died at the beginning of the week. Jock Dunbeath. His funeral was this morning. In Creagan.”

  Oliver was horrified. He stared at Roddy, taking this in, and then he said, “Oh, God,” and there was everything in his voice: distress and sympathy and a sort of agonized embarrassment.

  “My dear fellow, please don’t feel badly about it. I wanted to tell you right away, so that you’d understand the situation.”

  “We came through Creagan. We saw all the shutters down, but we didn’t know the reason.”

  “Well, you know how it is. People like to pay their respects in this part of the world, ‘specially when it’s a man like Jock.”

  “I’m so dreadfully sorry. But, when did this happen?”

  “Monday. About midday. Just about this time. He was out with the dogs and he had a heart attack. We found him in the lea of one of the dikes.”

  “And you couldn’t get in touch with me and tell us not to come, because you didn’t know where I was. What a ghastly situation for you.”

  “No, I didn’t know where you were, but even if I had, I wouldn’t have got in touch with you. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you, and I should have been most disappointed if you hadn’t come.”

  “We can’t possibly stay.”

  “Of course you can stay. My brother is dead, but the funeral is over, and life must go on. The only thing is, I’d originally planned that you should sleep in the big house. But it struck me that without Jock there, it might be a little depressing for you, so if you don’t mind rather close quarters, you’ll be staying in the Stable House with me. Ellen, Jock’s housekeeper, and Jess Guthrie from the farm have made up the beds and lit the fires, so everything’s ready for you.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather we just took ourselves off again?”

  “My dear boy, it would make me miserable. I’ve been looking forward to a little young company. Don’t get nearly enough of it these days…”

  He glanced across at the car, and saw that the girl, perhaps tiring of sitting there while the two men talked, had got out of it, and now she and the little boy were making their way, hand in hand, down the slope of the grass towards the water’s edge. She was dressed more or less as Oliver was dressed, in trousers and a thick sweater. She had tied a red and white cotton scarf around her head, and the red of the scarf was the same as the little boy’s dungarees. In such a setting, they made a charming picture, investing the grey, brooding scene with color and a certain innocence.

  “Come and meet them,” said Oliver, and they began to walk slowly back towards the car.

  “Just one thing more,” said Roddy. “I’m taking it for granted that you’re not married to this girl?”

  “No, I’m not.” Oliver’s expression was amused. “Do you mind?”

  The inference that Roddy Dunbeath’s attitudes might well be out of date and out of touch made Roddy feel mildly indignant. “Heavens, no. I don’t mind in the very least. Anyway, it’s nothing to do with me, it’s your affair entirely. There is just one point, though. It would be much better if the people who work at Benchoile believe you to be married. It sounds old-fashioned, I know, but people are old-fashioned up here, and I wouldn’t want to offend them. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Ellen, the housekeeper, would probably have a heart attack and pass out on me if she knew the wicked truth, and God knows what would happen to Benchoile if that happened. She’s been here forever, longer than most people can remember. She arrived in the first instance, fresh from some remote Highland croft, to look after my younger brother, and she’s remained, immovable as a rock, ever since. You’ll meet her, but don’t expect a devoted, smiling, gentle old dear. Ellen is as tough as old boots and can be twice as unpleasant! So you see, it’s quite important not to offend her.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs, then?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs,” Oliver agreed.

  * * *

  Victoria, with Thomas’s fat hand held firmly in her own, stood by the reedy margins of Loch Muie and struggled with a terrible conviction that she had come to a place where she had no business to be.

  It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive. Arrival, it seemed, had brought nothing but a sense of desolation and disappointment. This was Benchoile. But the Benchoile that Victoria had imagined was the Benchoile seen through the eyes of the ten-year-old boy that Roddy Dunbeath had been. The Eagle Years was a saga of summertime, of blue skies and long golden evenings and hills purple with heather. An idyll that bore no relation to this windswept and foreboding scene. It seemed to Victoria unrecognizable. Where was the little rowing boat? Where was the waterfall where Roddy and his brothers had picnicked? Where the children, running barefoot?

  The answer was simple. Gone forever. Shut away between the covers of a book.

  This now, was Benchoile. So much sky, so much space, so quiet. Only the sough of the wind in pine branches and the lap of grey water on the shingle. The size and the silence of the hills was unnerving. They enclosed the glen, rose sheer from the opposite shore of the loch. Victoria’s eyes followed their slope, upwards, past great bastions or rock and scree, over swelling shoulders dark with heather, to distant summits veiled in the scudding grey sky. Their very size, their watchfulness, had an obliterating effect. She felt shrunk, dwarfed, insignificant
as an ant. Incapable of dealing with anything, least of all the sudden deterioration of her relationship with Oliver.

  She tried to call it a silly quarrel, but knew that it was more than that, a breach both bitter and unexpected. That it had blown up at all was Victoria’s own fault. She should have kept quiet about sending the stupid postcard to Mrs. Archer. But at the time it had seemed important, an issue worth fighting for. And now everything was spoiled, and not a word had either of them spoken since Oliver’s last violent outburst. And perhaps that was Victoria’s fault too. She should have stood up for herself, given threat for threat, and, if necessary, threatened blow for blow. Proved to Oliver that she had a will of her own instead of sitting mesmerized like a rabbit, and with her eyes so full of tears she couldn’t even see the road ahead.

  She felt overwhelmed. By the quarrel, by Benchoile, by a physical tiredness that made her ache, by the uncomfortable feeling that she had mislaid her own identity. Who am I? What am I doing in this outlandish place? How did I ever get here?

  “Victoria.” She had not heard them approaching across the grass, and Oliver’s voice startled her. “Victoria, this is Roddy Dunbeath.”

  She turned to face a man huge and shabby as a much-loved teddy bear. His clothes looked as though they had been thrown at him, his sparse grey hair blew in the wind, his features were lost in fat. But he was smiling at her. His blue eyes were warm with friendliness. Before them, Victoria’s depression, her first fearful impressions of Benchoile, abated a little.

  She said, “Hello.” They shook hands. He looked down at Thomas. “And who’s this?”

  “This is Tom.” She stooped and lifted him up to her shoulder. Tom’s cheeks were intensely red, and he had mud on his mouth where he had been tasting pebbles.

  “Hello, Tom. How old are you?”

  “He’s two,” Oliver told him, “and you’ll be delighted to hear that he scarcely ever utters a word.”

  Roddy considered this. “Well, he appears to be quite healthy, so I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to worry about.” He looked back at Victoria. “I’m afraid Benchoile isn’t at its best today. There’s too much cloud about.”