The Inheritance

by Michael Phillips

  Priscilla never forgave either Ernest or Leith. And though Ernest had done his best to forge what modicum of relationship was possible with Wallace’s wife, on Leith’s part the years since had only strengthened his mistrust of his sister-in-law.

  82

  The Graveside

  The rain held off. The venerable and historic stone church gradually filled.

  Once inside, no more words were spoken. Beside Sally sat Brogan, eldest of the next generation at fifty-two, noticeably graying although tall and stately. With him was his diminutive American wife whose brief sojourns to Shetland were remembered fondly by many in the village. Next to her sat Wallace and Priscilla, beside them Ernest’s only daughter, Delynn, her husband, Jock, and finally the youngest, who occupied the locus of the speculative maelstrom, Leith with his wife, Moira.

  Every man, woman, and child who called the island home was present, not to mention a good number from mainland Shetland, even a few dignitaries from London. The two doors and all the windows remained opened so that when pews and aisles and foyer were crowded to capacity, those gathered in the open air around the church could also hear.

  The first portion of the service did not last long. The vicar moved quickly through the expected remarks and prayer-book formalities. Indicating for the assembly to stand, he then led family and pallbearers carrying the casket outside. He would deliver his eulogy at the graveside.

  The silent shuffling mass left the church and crunched its way across the gravel surrounding the building as the coffin was slowly borne aloft in front of them, then across the wet grass to the iron-enclosed cemetery of ancient date. Through the irregular conglomeration of stones and markers, the vicar and family led the way to the Tulloch family plot. There an open grave lay ready to embrace the newest member of the proud family to be received into his final resting place.

  The casket was set in place beside the dark hole that yawned ominously out of the earth. The family gathered close. The rest of the village spread out around them on all sides, gradually filling most of the cemetery.

  Children clung to their parents, afraid to let their eyes drift toward either casket or grave. Death was too fearsome to look upon. Even a momentary glance sent shivers of dread up every spine of less than ten years, and up not a few spines much older than that. Ernest’s two grandsons, Macgregor and Alexander Tulloch, both in their twenties, cousins and sons of Wallace and Leith, stood together. The younger cousins—Delynn’s three, Leith and Moira’s two daughters, and Wallace and Priscilla’s three younger teens—all stood silently behind their parents.

  The vicar took his place and resumed his remarks. Opening his Bible with suitable solemnity, he read several of Ernest’s favorite passages. He then presented a brief summary of the laird’s life with dates, accomplishments, contributions to the war effort, and improvements brought to the island under his tenure. In closing he mentioned by name all the family left behind, including the ten grandchildren who stood listening and, with the aid of a scribbled addition to his notes from a brief interview with Brogan before the service, Ernest’s eleventh, a grandson, not present, and his single great-granddaughter. He ended the service in formal prayer.

  Led by Lady Sally Tulloch, weeping gently, the family members now filed in a circle around the casket. Some set hands tenderly for a second or two on the shiny wood. Others followed Sally’s example and stooped briefly to kiss the coffin. Most held flowers, which they reverently laid on top of it.

  When they were done, the sexton, aided by Ernest’s three sons, carefully lowered the casket into the ground. What flowers remained were tossed in after it. Sally took several steps back. The rest of the family did likewise.

  Gradually the villagers came slowly forward to pay their own private respects to the dead. A few eyes drifted in Priscilla’s direction, wondering if any fireworks from that quarter might still be in the offing.

  ———

  Sandy Innis looked over at Loni, who was listening with rapt attention. “I dinna mind tellin’ ye, lassie,” he said, pausing to wipe his eyes, then smiling at the memory, “there were again tears in my eyes as I came forward. I paused at the open grave an’ said another prayer for the dear man. Then I stretched oot my hand that I’d kept clasped a’ the time inside the kirk an’ turned over my palm an’ opened my fingers. I can still see the wee sparrow’s feather fall fae my hand an’ drift tae rest on top o’ the coffin wi’ the flowers that had been tossed on it.

  “I ken what the farthing means, laird,” I whispered. “I winna forget.”

  ———

  When the silent parade had completed its processional past the graveside, Ernest’s three sons and daughter stepped forward. A little uncertain as to protocol, the undertaker glanced awkwardly at Brogan, but then handed the spade to Wallace as new laird. With all eyes upon him, the laird’s second son filled it with earth from the pile heaped beside the grave and gently tossed it into the hole.

  A muted thud echoed from below. A stifled cry escaped Sally’s lips at the awful finality of the sound.

  Wallace handed the spade to Leith. A second clump of earth followed the first. Delynn came next, with Brogan, the eldest, completing the ritual.

  Macgregor, the nephew he had met for the first time the day before, now stepped forward. Brogan handed him the spade. As the eldest of the next generation present, Macgregor did his duty with spade and earth, then handed the spade to Leith’s son. Alexander did the same, followed in turn by a few of the younger male cousins, then a line of more distant relatives. As a good number of the village men moved forward to participate in the time-honored rite, the undertaker provided two more shovels. Presently the plops of earth came rapidly. Not a soul left the churchyard until a mound of sheltering earth was heaped high over the dead.

  Sally and her son and two stepsons and stepdaughter made their way through the iron gate out of the cemetery and back toward the church. There they spread out and were slowly engulfed by visitors and well-wishers pouring out of the cemetery behind them. Conversations throughout the churchyard gradually resumed. Many now gave voice to their surprise to see Brogan among the family.

  83

  The Village

  A yet thicker gray settled over the churchyard. Almost instantly rain began to fall.

  A few black umbrellas sprang up. Rain, however, was in the nature of life here, so no one was especially bothered. As long as there were coats, boots, and hats, let it rain.

  Slowly the human tide moved out of the cemetery, with innumerable ebbs and flows and eddies of its movements. Most of the islanders sought Lady Sally and the laird’s four grown children for a handshake and few final words of condolence. The rain and size of the crowd made the would-be receiving line more cumbersome than otherwise. The home of the departed would be open for the rest of the day. Rather than stand waiting, a good number said to themselves that they would pay their respects to Lady Sally later in the afternoon.

  As the throng drifted back toward the village, now that the dead had been put to rest, the mood of mourning gave way to an occasion for visiting, small talk, renewal of acquaintance, and that all-important sustaining ingredient to any small community—circulation of the latest gossip.

  For the remainder of the day, Brogan found himself more the center of attention even than the widow or new laird or new chief. His presence presented Whales Reef with a delicious entrée of rumor possibilities. Half of those present had woken that morning without an idea that Brogan was back on the island. Eyes widened to the size of saucers at the apparition seated in the church with his two brothers and sister. Reports and stories and all manner of what the Scots called clishmaclaver had abounded concerning the disappearance of the laird’s eldest son back in the twenties. Suddenly here he was again! Though they had been forced to postpone speculation—like dozens of unspoken dams ready to burst—the appearance of the long-lost elder brother now set tongues to wagging.

  Had he returned to take back the lairdship that had just b
een passed to his brother?

  And what of the chieftainship? If Brogan had come back to claim his inheritance, where did the youngest son, Leith, now stand?

  It was actually a visitor from London who raised the question, though indirectly, to Ernest Tulloch’s eldest son as the funeral train slowly walked through the village.

  “I say, Mr. Tulloch,” said a voice from behind. Its owner came up and fell into stride. “I don’t know if you remember me, but we met some years ago—up there on the hill,” he added, motioning behind and to his left, “at the hotel.”

  Brogan turned to eye the man, taking in his London accent and silvery hair as he quickly scanned his face. “I believe I do remember,” he replied slowly. “An investigator of some kind . . . a reporter, now that I think of it.”

  “Very good!”

  “Just give me a moment . . . it’s coming . . . if I am not mistaken, let me see . . . it would be Mr. Glendenning, I believe.”

  “I congratulate you on your memory,” rejoined the journalist. “You are exactly right. Robert Glendenning, from London.”

  The two men shook hands warmly.

  “I must say, it is most unexpected to see you again,” said Brogan, “especially on such a day.”

  “And may I introduce my son.” The Londoner indicated a boy beside him. “Alexander, this is Mr. Brogan Tulloch, onetime heir of the man whose funeral we have just attended.”

  Brogan smiled and extended his hand to the lad.

  “Ever since I was here,” Glendenning went on, “I have been fascinated with the Shetlands. I confess, your islands became something of an obsession for me.”

  “I am intrigued.”

  “It is as much your fault as anyone’s.”

  “Mine . . . how so?”

  “You were the first native Shetlander, so to speak, I had met. You spoke with me candidly and . . . who can say why, the place began to exert a spell over me. I’ve been back a number of times. I became well-acquainted with your father, wrote a couple pieces about him, actually—during the war, you know.”

  “Really. I would like to read them.”

  “I hope we shall have an opportunity to talk further. But are you . . . are you here to stay?” Glendenning’s eyebrows arched significantly as he emphasized the word.

  “Have I changed my mind about the titles and all that?” asked Brogan.

  “I would not want to put it quite so bluntly on the day of your father’s funeral,” replied Glendenning with a coy smile. His tone, however, carried no doubt about the intent of his question.

  “You need have no worries about offending me,” said Brogan, chuckling lightly. “But no, I made my decision years ago. I remain content. I still believe it was for the best, as was my father’s decision to pass on the lairdship and the chieftainship separately to my brothers.”

  “Yes, I heard about that. Besides paying my respects to a man I considered a dear friend, I admit hoping I might learn the inside story about his will. Perhaps obtain Lady Sally’s permission to write a story about it.”

  “As for the inside story, I don’t know who you will get that from,” said Brogan, thoughtfully. “My father is dead. The only person who might have that information is Sally. I think I know her well enough to be assured she will reveal nothing.”

  “I am certain you are right.”

  “But though I am not privy to his thoughts, my father’s decision seems nothing less than a stroke of genius. What better way to move our small island clan toward the modern era than with a devolution of power—a decentralization that is voluntarily given, not forced upon an unwilling monarch.”

  “The benevolent king?”

  “Something like it, perhaps.”

  “Your father may indeed have been a genius,” agreed Glendenning. “Far-seeing, certainly. Though his kind of genius, if I may call it that, is not usually perceived by those who look for greatness as the world judges it.”

  “Spiritual realms, you mean?” asked Brogan.

  Glendenning nodded. “His impact upon my life lay in those regions more profoundly than any other.”

  “That is a story I am eager to hear!”

  “So how long will you be staying?” asked Glendenning.

  “Unfortunately, only a week. Then my wife and I will return to the States.”

  “Is this your first time back since you left—when was it, in the twenties?”

  “Actually, I returned for a visit after the war. I had a wonderful reunion with the whole family, especially with my father. We had the good fortune to be assigned together for a time during the war as well.”

  “Anything dangerous and exciting?”

  “Parts of it, yes. Do I detect another story brewing in your head?”

  “Always! Did you and he ever talk about his legacy and the inheritance?”

  Brogan smiled. “Perhaps. But those conversations will remain between myself and my father.”

  Glendenning nodded. “I respect that. Do you have family in the States?”

  “Yes—one son, Grant. He and his wife gave us a granddaughter three years ago.”

  “Congratulations. And her name?”

  “Alison.”

  “You are staying at the ancestral home, I take it?”

  Brogan nodded. “Many memories,” he said. “The place is as full of life and energy as ever, though obviously that will change now with my father gone.”

  Sally and Brogan’s wife walked up to join the two men and the younger Glendenning. Greetings and introductions followed.

  “Welcome again to Whales Reef, Mr. Glendenning,” said Sally. “Thank you so much for coming.”

  “My condolences, Lady Tulloch. Your husband was a great man.”

  “Thank you. He was indeed. But the funeral is past. This is no time for formality—you have always called me Sally. I see no reason to change that. Will you join us at the Cottage? The villagers will be coming and going all afternoon.”

  “With pleasure.”

  “If you are staying over, it would be a privilege to extend our hospitality for as long as you are in the Shetlands. We would love to have you stay with us. Indeed, I insist on it.”

  “Even in grief, you are the perfect hostess.”

  “Nonsense. You are as good as family. Besides,” Sally added, “I will not be mistress of the place much longer.” A hint of irony crept into her tone. “I may not have many more opportunities to freely extend invitations to my own guests.”

  “You’re not leaving the island?”

  “Nothing like that.”

  “What then?”

  “I only meant that Wallace and Priscilla will be moving over from the Auld Hoose and taking up residence in the Cottage. He has succeeded to the lairdship, you know.”

  “Yes, I heard. And you anticipate . . . some awkwardness?” probed Glendenning, the investigative reporter subtly surfacing.

  Sally glanced toward him with a wry smile, but was silent.

  “What my stepmother is reluctant to say,” put in Brogan, “is that she will soon be relegated to the role of dowager Lady Tulloch, while the new laird’s wife, shall we say, makes herself at home.”

  “Surely the house will remain yours? Your position will be honored no less than before.”

  “Not exactly,” said Sally, replying with cautious candor. “Wallace will be laird now. The house therefore goes to him. Times have changed. I will have to adapt, even if it means moving to an apartment in the south wing. Priscilla has had her eye on our quarters on the east side for years.”

  “And you are in accord with such changes?”

  “I will be a dutiful and cooperative mother and mother-in-law. It is time for me to be a grandmother and not a laird’s wife.”

  “What about Leith, Sally?” asked Brogan.

  “Leith and Moira and their family will move over to the Auld Hoose when Wallace and Priscilla come to the Cottage. It will be a great chaotic shift of residences!” she added, laughing. “Two families moving in opp
osite directions across the island, each to take up residence in the other’s home.”

  “When do you expect all this to take place?”

  “No doubt as soon as Priscilla can manage it,” said Sally. “At the moment she is none too pleased with me. It would not surprise me if they begin tomorrow.”

  84

  The Reunion

  “From the looks of it, we already have a full house,” said Sally as they walked up the driveway toward the Cottage.

  They walked inside. No hint remained of the somber viewing in the entry hall of two days earlier. Light and life had returned.

  Most of the family had already arrived. Sally’s daughter-in-law Moira, hostess for the day, was scurrying about in the kitchen with her two daughters, housekeeper, and cook, pouring tea and setting out platters of sandwiches and sweets. Already the villagers had begun to trickle in. Every woman who arrived carried something edible to contribute, whether casserole or oatcakes or plate of turnips. By day’s end the Cottage would be filled with enough food to feed the island for a week.

  Two notables who were not present were Wallace and Priscilla. They had taken the western road home from the church in their car to the Auld Hoose. With the titles now split, it would become the chief’s new residence.

  A young man in his mid-twenties, tall, ruggedly built, and handsome, came forward to greet Brogan and his wife.

  “Hello again, Uncle Brogan,” he said with a smile.

  “Macgregor,” said Brogan, shaking hands with the son of his brother Wallace.

  “My father wanted me to tell you that he will be over later. He very much wants to talk to you.”

  “And I him! I must say, seeing you walk up just now,” Brogan added with a light laugh, “if I didn’t know better I would think I was talking to him! Your resemblance at the same age is striking.”