Alec gave me a confused, almost worried look. It reminded me of the look my hairdresser had given me when I told her I wanted her to cut off most of my hair.
‘I’m guessing,’ he said tentatively, ‘this all went bad somehow.’
‘Yes, it did. I was writing a novel about a famous TV personality. Fictional. Someone who was meant to be a household name. I needed someone with a lot of style and charisma, so I based him on a rather glamorous politician. In my story, the household name stunned his fans by coming out as gay and living openly with his partner. Well, after I’d written all that into my plot, the politician on whom I’d based my gay hero came out. I was very surprised but, naturally, I put it down to coincidence. Then when it transpired this guy had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, I got really rattled.’
‘Why?’
‘My fictional character came out because he discovered he was dying of cancer.’
Alec shrugged. ‘Another coincidence. Cancer’s common enough.’
‘Of course. But for some reason, I was consumed with guilt. Even though I didn’t know this man at all, when he died, I sent flowers and a card to his partner. But really I wanted to apologise, to tell him it was all my fault. That I’d killed his partner. I’d actually plotted his death. But I was still sane enough then to realise it was just a massive over-reaction to a distressing coincidence. Nevertheless, I deleted the novel from my hard drive.’
‘That was drastic.’
‘I even burned the print-out. Two years’ work down the drain. My agent and publisher were livid because I was contracted to produce a book a year. That’s what I’d always done. But they assumed it was just… a hiccup. Some sort of creative burnout.’
‘But it wasn’t.’
‘No, it wasn’t. I found I couldn’t write a thing. I had no ideas – or only bad ones. I got into a dreadful state, frightened I’d never be able to write again. Then I realised, that wasn’t the problem at all. I wasn’t afraid I could no longer write, I was frightened of writing, of actually doing the thing that earned me a very comfortable living.
‘By then I think I’d lost it, but my agent persuaded me to see a counsellor. She tried to persuade me it was all just coincidence. When I resisted that, she suggested I see a different counsellor. I found another one but he was a bit alternative. Too alternative. He told me I was obviously very sensitive and suggested I’d tuned in to something, some non-specific cosmic suffering. I decided he was battier than me and stopped seeing him. In fact I pretty much stopped seeing anyone.
‘By now it seemed perfectly clear to me that the drunk at the party had been right. Fiction was just someone else’s reality. But which came first – the fiction or the reality? Supposing everything I wrote happened to somebody, somewhere? Supposing I had the power to create and to destroy?... I’d always received fan letters, you see. Cries from the heart from grateful women I’d never met, telling me I’d written their story. Some sounded like they needed psychiatric help, but others seemed perfectly lucid and claimed they wouldn’t have believed it possible anyone could make up fiction that so resembled their reality. I’d never really thought much about it before – I’d been too busy working – but now everything seemed to make sense. To me, anyway.’
‘Sounds like it was some sort of creative overload. Allied to a very tender heart. What did you do?’
‘Well, I might have been going mad, but I took my new responsibilities very seriously. I stopped writing gritty novels about wife-battering, aids and addiction and started writing books for children. Stories about a family of squirrels who lived in a wood.’ I glanced up at Alec whose face was impassive. ‘You’re allowed to laugh.’
He continued to regard me intently. ‘What did these squirrels do?’
‘Collect food and eat it. That’s all they did. They were unrelentingly nice to each other and to the other woodland animals. The biggest drama was when they ran out of beech nuts – a temporary crisis resolved by the quick thinking of a wise old owl.’
Alec laughed then and immediately looked shame-faced. ‘I’m sorry. I know it’s not funny, it’s just the way you tell it. Could you really not see how… bizarre your thinking was?’
‘No, I couldn’t then, even though I had an agent and a partner telling me I needed help.’
‘Were these children’s stories published?’
‘Yes, but they didn’t sell. I wasn’t surprised. They were crap. Nothing ever happened! Nothing dramatic, nothing violent, nothing bad. The books were sweet, but boring. The first two appeared as novelty items one Christmas, then sank without trace. I didn’t mind. I didn’t really need the money, I wanted peace of mind and a quiet conscience. Money and success hadn’t brought me that. But I knew when I wrote those feeble little animal stories, I was doing no one any harm. Not even bloody squirrels.’
I looked around the room, scanning Alec’s shelves and workbenches. Eventually I found what I was looking for.
‘Could you possibly pour me a whisky? It must be lunchtime by now, surely. I think I’d feel a bit better if I had something to hold. Will you join me?’
Alec picked up a bottle and went over to a battered wooden cabinet. He took out two glasses and poured us both a finger of whisky, then sat down next to me on the sofa. My hand was shaking as I took the glass from him. He registered the tremor and took my other hand in his as he sat down.
‘Jenny, you don’t have to say any more. I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘But I’d rather like you to know. I don’t want you thinking I’ve deceived Sholto. Or the family. Hear me out, then tell me what you think I should do.’
‘If that’s what you want.’
He didn’t let go of my hand and I found I was glad. I took a good mouthful of whisky and said, ‘The day I was committed to a mental institution I’d telephoned my publisher, asking, begging them to abandon the latest squirrel saga. I’d been checking the page proofs and had got to a bit where the West Wind blows down The Old Oak which comes crashing to the ground, to the sentimental dismay of all the squirrels. None of them was hurt of course, but as I read on it suddenly struck me… What about the tree? Do trees have feelings? When it was wrenched out of the ground, uprooted by the wind, did it suffer?... No one could reassure me on this point and no one could stop me sobbing with remorse. So my GP sedated me and when I woke up, I found myself in a white room. It was practically empty. I remember being shocked there weren’t any books.
‘I sat in that room, looking out the window, for six months. I watched a family of squirrels in an old oak tree. I didn’t write a single word, I simply watched the squirrels, keeping an eye on them, making sure they came to no harm. I gradually got better but I knew I’d never write fiction again. It was too risky. But I still wanted to write. I still wanted to tell stories. So I decided I would tell other people’s. Stories that had already been lived. Stories over which I had absolutely no control.’
There was a long silence in which I felt very foolish and had to fight an urge to burst into tears. I withdrew my hand from Alec’s and cradled my glass, studying its contents, then said, ‘Will you tell Sholto?’
‘Of course not. Why would I do that?’
‘I thought you might think I’d deceived him in some way.’
‘You think Sholto would mind a bit of deception? He’s a past master himself.’
‘I haven’t lied to him. And I never would. I don’t mind if you do tell him about me. I will, if you like. It’s just… well, it’s just that I prefer to keep things simple now. Imogen Ryan was the novelist. The woman who cracked up. But Jenny is OK. Jenny loves what she does and feels strong. In control of her material. Because it’s all been lived already. It’s become a story. I just have to decide how best to tell it. And that suits me. It’s the part of writing I really love. Telling the story. And Sholto has so many wonderful stories.’
Alec raised an eyebrow. ‘Some of them possibly fictional.’
I managed a weak smile. ‘Oh yes, I’m aware a cert
ain amount of embroidering is going on. But I don’t care. It’s his book. Sholto’s name will be on the cover, not mine.’
‘I’ve heard it said, all biography is fiction and all fiction is biography.’
‘That’s a massive generalisation, but there’s some truth in it. The fact that fiction could become biography was why I stopped writing it.’
Alec set down his empty glass. ‘I wish you weren’t so afraid, Jenny. There’s no need.’
‘I’m not afraid. Not any more. I let the fear go with the fiction-writing. I have absolutely no power now, for good or bad. Jenny is just a channel through which stories are told.’
‘It’s a shame we’ve lost Imogen’s stories. My wife certainly used to love them.’
‘Oh, they wouldn’t have been any good – not once I’d decided I could make things happen. I was so afraid of abusing that power, I refused to wield it. I was crippled artistically.’ I swallowed another mouthful of whisky. ‘So… you don’t think I should tell Sholto?’
‘What would be the point? He’s happy. You’re happy.’
‘And Mrs. Guthrie? Will she say anything? She seems very protective of him.’
‘Och, no – she’ll not say a word. If she did, it might suggest Sholto had been taken in. And by an attractive young woman.’
‘Hardly young,’ I protested, embarrassed by Alec’s second reference to my appearance.
‘To a woman of Wilma’s years, you’re just a wee lassie. But you can rely on her discretion and her devotion to her employer. She won’t say anything. Neither will I.’
‘Thanks. Though I don’t know why I’m thanking you. I don’t believe I’ve done anything wrong.’
‘You haven’t and I wasn’t suggesting you had. I just couldn’t understand how someone as successful as you had ended up at Cauldstane, writing someone else’s life story. It didn’t add up. And that was bothering me. But I’m pleased to hear it doesn’t bother you.’
‘When I came here, I wasn’t sure I wanted the job. I certainly didn’t think I’d get it. But I fancied an autumn trip to the Highlands and I thought it would be fun to meet Sholto. He was paying my travel expenses and offered me hospitality. How could I say no? Then of course, when I got here, I just fell in love. With Cauldstane, I mean. Once I’d seen the place and started to think about spending time here, writing about the family’s history, well, I was desperate to get the commission. As you pointed out, the money Sholto offered was pitiful, but I really didn’t care. I wanted the job so much, I wasn’t prepared to haggle. We compromised on my being allowed to stay at the castle as a guest.’
‘Which wasn’t exactly a big concession. Sholto will find it very convenient having you around. Office hours have never suited him.’
‘Yes, we have a fluid sort of arrangement. It wouldn’t suit everyone, I suppose, but it suits me. It’s so different from how I used to live. All I ever wanted to do was just write, but I became a literary commodity. It all got too big and when things get big you lose control. I mean, in London, before my breakdown, I was completely preoccupied with time. And timetables. Taking taxis, catching planes, living in hotels, giving interviews. I once gave eighteen in one day, starting with breakfast TV and ending with The Late Late Show. When I was on tour promoting a new book, the only time I spent alone was when I went to the loo – and more than one female journalist attempted to follow me there. I was parcelled up for consumption on radio, in women’s magazines, on chat shows. I wasn’t a person any more, I was “product”. I felt as if I was running a race with time and time always seemed to win. I suppose it’s not surprising I went under.’
‘And are you happy here? Happy in your work?’
‘Oh, yes. I seem to have much more time here. And an acute awareness of history. It must be Cauldstane, I suppose.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Aye, it has that effect on some folk. The sense of history is… seductive. Though I’d have thought the eccentricities of our plumbing might have dampened your enthusiasm.’
‘No, that’s all part of the charm. I like sad, old, broken-down things.’
‘Like Sholto you mean?’
‘No, of course not!’ Alec watched me and I knew he was waiting for me to catch up. Or be honest. ‘Well, maybe that’s partly why I feel so drawn to him. Why I wanted to tell his story.’ Alec still said nothing and I was aware that his silence – or rather the way he listened – was encouraging me to talk. ‘I always buy damaged things in junk shops. Things with cracks and chips, that look like they’ve really been used. And loved. I don’t know why I’m fond of things like that. I suppose it’s a form of salvage. I like rescuing things other people have cast aside and forgotten about.’
‘It’s still sounding like Sholto to me. He’s certainly had a few rough edges knocked off over the years.’
‘He’s in pain, isn’t he? A lot of the time.’
‘He’ll never complain, so you’ll never know what he goes through. It’s not just physical pain. I think he finds the mental stuff harder to bear. He was an adrenalin junkie in his youth and fit as a butcher’s dog. Now he limps from room to room or just sits in a chair, staring out the window. He should be in a wheelchair or on one of those wee electric carts, but he won’t even consider it. On a good day he walks with a stick. On a bad day he walks with two.’
‘Is it arthritis?’
‘Aye. He’s broken so many bones and punished his body for so many years, he pays for it now. Can you imagine how hard it is to dress yourself with arthritic hands? And he lost one whole finger to frostbite, plus the tips of a couple of others. I’ve offered to help him in the mornings – that’s his worst time – but he won’t hear of it.’ Alec scowled and I noticed the resemblance between father and son. ‘If there’s a prouder, more thrawn old man in the whole of Scotland – well, I wouldn’t like to meet him.’
‘Sholto could still travel, couldn’t he?’
‘Oh, aye, he’s able, but he won’t spend the money. When you’re feeling strong, get Fergus to talk you through the Cauldstane finances. I doubt Sholto will want all that included in the book, but if you want to understand Sholto and how things are here, you need to know the trouble we’re in. But even if Sholto had a holiday – somewhere in the south where the sun would warm his aching bones – it wouldn’t provide the thrills he needs, has always needed. I have a wee theory that despite his reputation as a Highland Casanova, he wasn’t really that bothered about women. It was all about the chase. And the risk. Whether his wives would find out. Whether the husbands of the women he was bedding would find out. I think philandering was what Sholto did when he was home from expeditions and waiting for the next. It was just a substitute for what he really wanted to be doing. I suspect my mother understood that, but by turning a blind eye, she thwarted him in a way. She deprived him of some of the excitement he craved, some of the drama. But Meredith certainly made up for that,’ he added grimly,
‘She wasn’t so tolerant?’
‘No, indeed. Meredith was jealous, possessive and controlling. Then when Sholto lost interest in her and looked elsewhere, she got angry. When that didn’t get her anywhere, she decided she’d look elsewhere. But Sholto didn’t even notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care. He’d moved on to the next challenge.’
‘The next woman, you mean?’
‘Aye. Or so Meredith said. My father never discussed his marriage with me.’
‘But Meredith did?’
‘She tried. She wanted to confide in someone, but I wasn’t prepared to enter into that kind of relationship. I didn’t want to have to take sides. But if I had, I’d have taken Sholto’s. Meredith knew the score when she married him. She’d been his mistress for years, so she can’t really have expected an old leopard like Sholto to change his spots.’
There was a knock at the door. Alec glanced at his watch, quickly got to his feet and called out, ‘OK, Wilma. I’m coming over now.’
Mrs Guthrie’s head appeared round the door. She looked startled to see me on th
e sofa. Her sharp eyes didn’t miss the two whisky glasses either.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Alec, but I was wanting to clear away lunch and I wondered if you – and Miss Jenny,’ she added with a deferential nod in my direction, ‘were going to come across? I’ve made quiche lorraine today. Your favourite.’
‘Thanks, Wilma, we’ll be right over. I’ve been bending Jenny’s ear with the family history and I lost track of the time.’ He turned and offered me a hand up from the sofa. ‘Come on, Jenny. You must be famished.’
Mrs Guthrie looked at Alec, then at me. Her smile wasn’t exactly conspiratorial, but I have to say, she looked inordinately and unaccountably pleased.
CHAPTER NINE
As Alec and I approached the dining room we heard raised voices – Fergus and Zelda engaged in what sounded like a heated argument. I hesitated in the hallway, unwilling to move forward. Alec stood beside me, listening, his brow contracted into a frown.
‘Ferg sounds upset. That’s not like him.’
‘Perhaps I should go and eat in the kitchen. I’m sure Wilma will let me make myself a sandwich. I don’t want to intrude.’
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