‘Maybe. But in my experience, archaeologists are keen to get a find verified in every possible way. Do you suppose it’s real gold? I don’t see your maman wearing cheap imitations.’
‘Maybe a museum let them have the originals.’
Gavin snorted. ‘Not unless she has very good friends in the Kremlin. They went to Russia after World War II.’
I laughed at him. ‘Where do you pick up these bits of information?’
‘Quiet night shifts in front of the History channel.’
Maman descended on us once more, sweeping Theseus with her. ‘Cassandre, I want you to meet Caleb. Caleb, my daughter, Cassandre.’
She dropped him in front of us and was gone again, leaving him standing in front of me, staring incredulously. Then he gave me an intense, admiring look and bowed over the hand I’d put out for him to shake. ‘Mademoiselle Cassandre. Enchanté.’
Dammit, I was blushing again. I wasn’t used to this. I did sailing clothes in practical scarlet Gore-Tex with triple-taped seams and wrist velcro, not shoulders-bare evening dress and hair sparkling with little stars. His voice said American, living in France. I switched the conversation to practical English.
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Cass.’ I gestured to Gavin. ‘Gavin Macrae.’
The men nodded at each other, then Caleb turned back to me. ‘Eugénie’s English daughter?’
‘Bilingue,’ I admitted. Part of my embarrassment was because Maman’s Theseus was drop-dead gorgeous, with tousled brown hair, designer stubble, green eyes under level brows, and a straight nose above chiselled lips. He was wasted on the classical tunic and breastplate; he should have been in a topcoat and breeches for some torrid Regency bodice-ripper. Alas for opera directors, he was a bass, which meant his romantic looks were wasted on doctors, lawyers and the occasional god. He was heading for six foot tall, and substantial. Singing, his barrel chest had produced a booming voice which would have carried to the topmast against a force ten. His speaking voice had the same quality, and would be trying in a smaller space. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Canada originally, but my folks moved to Portland when I was a kid. I currently live in Paris – gee, I’ve only been away a week, rehearsing here, and I’m homesick for it already. You seen Paris in the spring? It’s my favourite time.’ His eyes flicked across to Maman. ‘Your mother showed me round when I arrived. That was spring too, and I’d never seen anything so grand. Right now the whole area round Notre Dame’s just filled with cherry blossom. The whole city’s dressed up like a candy store getting wed.’ He returned his attention to me. ‘I never knew Eugénie had a daughter. She doesn’t look nearly old enough. You must be twenty, twenty-two, right?’
I’d been thirty last birthday, but I didn’t want to spoil Maman’s night by giving her age away. ‘Thereabouts.’
‘But you don’t live here in France.’
‘I live aboard a yacht. Just now she’s moored in Shetland.’
He smiled. ‘Ready to meet us during the tour, right?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m finishing my college course.’
For some reason that startled him. He took a step backwards from me. ‘You live in Shetland?’
‘I grew up there.’ His eyes had gone blank, but his mouth moved, as if he was calculating something. ‘My dad was an oil worker, in the early days of the Sullom Voe terminal.’
‘Gee, well ...’ He made a desperate recover. ‘That’s neat. What are you studying?’
‘Deck Officer of the Watch. I’m joining my ship in two weeks.’
‘You’re in the navy?’
I shook my head. ‘A commercial sailing ship, who takes paying passengers.’
‘So you’re from Shetland. You’ll surely know everyone else on the island.’
‘Hardly,’ I said, ‘in a population of twenty-two thousand. I know most of the folk around Brae.’
His green eyes flashed at that, then narrowed, veiling his expression. His smile returned; he spoke heartily. ‘I’m sure looking forward to that part of the tour. I’ve seen photographs, you know? It sure looks pretty.’
‘It’s very bonny,’ I agreed. ‘It’s just starting to be spring. By the time you arrive, there will be crocuses everywhere, and the first daffodils.’
He snatched at the opening. ‘In Paris, they’re out right now, in tubs all along the Seine, and in every little square of grass.’ He grimaced. ‘In Portland, Oregon, it’s warm, but it’s still raining. You know Portland?’
‘I’ve never made it to Oregon.’
‘City of roses, beer and coffee. Our unofficial slogan is “Keep Portland Weird”.’
‘Weird in what way?’ I asked cautiously. Opera singers were all weird, I reckoned, due to spending too much time in an emotionally overcharged atmosphere, but not in ways a city would normally adopt.
‘Voodoo doughnut shop,’ Caleb offered. ‘A 24-hour church of Elvis.’
‘Weird,’ I conceded.
‘We opted outa the JTTF also. Back when I was in High School.’
I gave him a blank look.
‘The Joint Terrorism Task Force. Gives the FBI and the CIA and the police and the government the right to spy on everyone. Our city chambers reckoned it was a threat to civil liberties.’
I began to like the sound of Portland, Oregon. The UK government was currently working on proposals that meant anyone leaving the country had to e-mail their plans and port of arrival beforehand, whereas the whole point of sailing was that you departed ‘towards’, but the wind meant you didn’t necessarily arrive there.
He gave that little bow and admiring look again. ‘Forgive me, I need to circulate. All these people are backers, so we artistes got to be nice to them.’
I watched him go, smiling here, bowing there. ‘Well now. What do you suppose that was about?’
‘A Shetland connection he wants to keep quiet?’ Gavin checked a programme left lying on a chair. ‘Caleb Portland. You’d need to find out his real name.’
I reverted to Shetlandic ‘Boy, he’ll be an Anderson, a Georgeson or a Tait. Me pal Magnie’ll ken aa about him, right back to the fifteenth generation. You wait and see.’
Sunday, 22nd March.
My cousin Thierry ran Gavin and me to the station the next morning in his ancient Citroën. We’d have liked to stay longer, but Gavin was due back for the start of a trial, and I had my last days of college and final exams. I was wedged in the front with several bags of dog food, which were stored there to stop them being pre-eaten, and Gavin shared the back with two hen-crates stowed ready for impulse buys at the next Lencloître fair.
We were there first, and watched Maman’s company arrive. The musical director and accompanist were next. I hadn’t met the MD yet, but I knew Charles, who had been Maman’s accompanist for all of her solo career. He was short, with large brown eyes like a spaniel, a drooping moustache, and a harassed expression. Caleb Portland was after them, laden with a scarlet backpack that dangled walking boots and a water bottle, then the soprano who’d sung Oenone/Diana.
Fifteen minutes to go. The tenor, Hippolytus, and Kamilla shared a taxi; I gathered she wasn’t best pleased about that, for her immaculately lipsticked mouth pouted downwards, until she got out of the car, and saw several reporters and a camera waiting. Suddenly she was all smiles. The tenor produced a cellophane-wrapped bouquet, and she posed with it on the station steps, explaining in prettily accented French that she had adored being here in Poitiers, and hoped to return. Well, well, I thought, and wondered how Maman would counter this upstaging. Meanwhile, Hippolytus had brought her bags in – an enormous pink suitcase and matching flight case – and the moment she’d clocked that they were there, she turned her back on him. He looked around, as if he was too busy for her, spotted us, and came over.
Close to, Adrien Moreau was older than his publicity photos suggested. He’d worn a blond wig for Hippolytus, and his own dark hair was starting to recede at the temples, giving him a Shakespeare forehead. I hadn’t quite f
orgotten, as I had with Maman, that he was approaching fifty. Pretty soon he’d lose the battle to keep his flat stomach, and I suspected that if his beard was allowed to grow, there’d be grey hairs in it, although his eyebrows were still dark above his flashing eyes. He had that air of complacency born of knowing that good tenors are rare, and get the best parts.
‘Cassandre! I didn’t manage to speak to you at the party last night,’ he said. He kissed me on both cheeks twice, as if we were old friends.‘Eugénie’s told me all about her sailor daughter.’ He shook Gavin’s hand and went into perfect English. ‘Great to meet you.’ He turned back to me, and returned to French. ‘How did you enjoy the show?’
As a sulky teenager who’d blamed everything theatrical for having torn me from my Shetland home, I’d refused to play this game, but I was on my best behaviour now. ‘It was marvellous.’ It was easier to be enthusiastic in French. ‘Particularly the love duets – those were exquisite. And your scene with Phaedra, where she declared her love, and you renounced your kingdom, that was so dramatic.’
‘Yes, I thought that went well. I was a bit worried about my top notes beforehand.’ He touched his throat. ‘This season, you know, the last of the winter cold.’
‘Oh, no, you sounded perfect. You and Maman together –’ I ran out of gush, and compensated with a swirl of both hands.
‘And didn’t she look magnificent!’ He gave me the full wattage of his dark eyes. ‘My father created her jewellery, based on Schliemann’s finds.’
‘It looked wonderful,’ I agreed.
‘There’s a family connection there – my own great-grandfather was a friend of his, and even saw Sophia in them, so we’ve always taken an interest.’
I nodded, and dodged further info. ‘Are you looking forward to the tour?’
‘Ah, Scotland!’ He turned back to Gavin. ‘My people used to have a place up there.’ I suddenly realised that in spite of the brooding Russian good looks and French name, he was actually English. ‘We’d go up at the end of the summer, round about the time of the Braemar gathering. Magnificent scenery. I’m looking forward to seeing it again.’
‘It will be wonderful,’ I said. I glanced up at the clock. Ten minutes to. ‘Maybe we’d better ...?’
He nodded and went back to his luggage. ‘I know,’ I soothed Gavin. ‘Ninety per cent of Scotland in foreign ownership. I didn’t realise he was English, did you?’
‘Oh yes. Just the cut of his suit says English wealth and privilege.’ Gavin looked towards Adrien, eyes resting thoughtfully on his golf bag. ‘I’ve never had much to do with singers. Are they all so insecure?’
‘It’s a funny world.’ I thought about it for a moment. At sea, having made it to the right port was your certificate of success. ‘They need to be told how wonderful they were.’ I’d done a year of Maman concerts, before I’d got to my sixteenth birthday, and put my long-planned running away to sea into operation. ‘Tenors are the worst.’
‘I just can’t wait to get to Shetland,’ the dark girl beside me said. I turned to look at her properly. She was the company ‘bit player’, the soprano who’d sung the goddess Diana, and Phaedra’s confidante Oenone. Bryony Blake, that was her name. She was my age, with a pukka English voice that conjured up childhood pony clubs, ballet lessons and Girl Guide camps. Her face would have been a perfect oval except for the pointed chin. She had cat-narrow eyes under the perfectly plucked brows, and her lipstick was neon-pink against her creamy skin. Her clothes were arty, a bottle-green velvet skirt that swirled round her ankles, and an Edwardian jacket, but they lacked the star panache that made Maman so instantly recognisable. I couldn’t have said what was wrong, but the effect was charity shop rather than Chelsea.
‘You know Shetland?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘But I loved the Simon King diaries, on the telly, and the detective stories. Too, too thrilling – so dark and sinister.’
‘It’s spring now. The nights are lightening.’ Some days it was even starting to feel warm, though I was still wearing full sailing thermals on board Khalida, and Cat was showing no signs of shedding any of his thick winter coat.
‘The landscape looked too pretty, in the diaries. Is it true that fishing is still a more important industry than the huge oil terminal?’
I nodded. Between them, the pelagic boats, whitefish boats and salmon and mussel farming brought in three times what Sullom Voe did.
‘I just adore seafood. I must try some while we’re up there. Are there good restaurants?’
‘Several. Where are you eating up in Unst, do you know?’
She shook her head. ‘Darling, I just sing when Per points at me. I don’t need to know anything else.’
I’d seen Maman’s tour folder, with dates, hotels and travel times. It had been issued to all the company, but presumably reading it didn’t fit in with Bryony’s artistic persona. ‘I’m sure they’ll offer you local dishes. Our lamb is wonderful too.’
Seven minutes to go. Just as the MD looked at his watch, and Charles made a soothing gesture with his expressive hands, a long-nosed black Bentley slid to a halt outside the station doors and Maman stepped out, entirely unflurried, and with a bouquet twice the size of Kamilla’s crooked in one elbow. This was her local press: she greeted some by name, kissed others, and gave the flowers to the cameraman, whose wife, I gathered, had just come out of hospital. She kissed him on both cheeks, then came to do the round of bonjours in the station, ignoring the ticking clock. Dad led the procession to the platform; Maman set foot on it just as the rapide drew to a halt, and continued her conversation with the tenor as she walked to the exact place on the platform where our carriage had stopped. ‘But, Adrien, you do not play golf!’
‘My dear Eugénie, you haven’t seen me play golf, which is a completely different thing. It isn’t possible to go to Scotland and not play golf. We have one gig near St Andrews, remember.’ He motioned Maman before him, then hoicked his golf bag up into the train and followed her. ‘Now, our seats ...’
Gavin gestured me in before him, and we slid neatly into our places, which gave us a grandstand view of Kamilla realising she was beside Adrien, noticing that put her back-on to the engine, and explaining with a flurry of apologies that she would feel sick facing that way, she must change, if Bryony would be so kind ... Bryony shrugged, and obliged, and Caleb made a face at the window while Kamilla was re-ordering her flowers, water bottle and magazines. Her smiling face filled the cover of the one on top, beneath the headline “KAMILLA: my beauty secrets”. I noticed Bryony giving it a sour glance, and sympathised. Luck and blonde prettiness had catapulted Kamilla into star status while Bryony, a few years older, was still just one of dozens of good sopranos in bit-roles. Maman gave her white wool coat and black hat to Dad, to put on the rack, and slid into her place without even looking at the seat number or smoothing down her black travelling dress.
‘Good style takes work,’ Gavin murmured. ‘Your mother must have memorized the coach and seat number beforehand, to sweep in so beautifully.’ His gaze moved to Adrien, then back to the golf bag. I could see him trying to calculate what clubs were in it.
‘But, Gavin,’ I murmured, ‘you do not play golf.’
‘How do you know?’
Fair enough. ‘There weren’t any clubs lying around in your hallway, at the farm.’
‘You’re forgetting my Inverness flat. I’m a member of the Inverness Golf Club.’ He smiled, and conceded, ‘I’m not much good though.’ His gaze went back to the bag, then moved thoughtfully to Adrien’s dark head.
‘Penny for them?’
‘At a guess, I’d say the minimum of clubs, as camouflage, and a metal detector.’
My mouth dropped open. ‘A ...?’
Gavin nodded. ‘Under the dark hood. It’s too big to be anything else.’
‘But why should he bring one of those on a singing tour?’
We found that out once we reached the airport. “Viking treasure found in Shetlands!” scre
amed the newspapers, above a picture of something gold gleaming through earth. “Cache worth half a million! Second Viking cache! Finds of huge archaeological significance.”
Deep ida darkest eart’ I bide
Set dere by hauns lang turned ta bane
Yet haul me up ta light and fin’
A blaze o’ gold and precious stane
... a hoard of treasure.
Monday, 23rd March
Tide Times at Scalloway, UT
Low Water04.44, 0.4m;
High Water11.08, 1.7m
Low Water17.10, 0.4m
High Water23.34, 1.6m
Sunrise06.01
Moonrise07.14
Sunset18.22
Moonset23.10
Crescent moon
What I wis, I amna,
What I am, you ken na,
Dem at loved me, think o’ me;
Yet dem at see me shrink fae me.
Chapter Two
Naturally, my friend Magnie knew all about it. ‘Two Viking hoards,’ he said, as he drove me the five miles from Lerwick, where the airport bus had dropped me, over to Scalloway, on the west of Shetland, where I’d left my Khalida.
He was in his late sixties, Magnie, with fair curly hair and rosy cheeks. He’d been a seaman all his life, starting aged fourteen as a deckhand in the last years of the South Atlantic whaling, then in smaller boats around Shetland before he officially retired and took over running the junior sailing at the boating club. He’d put his best gansey on to meet me, knitted by his late mother in alternate bands of blue Fair Isle pattern and blinding white.
‘Where?’ I asked.
‘Unst. It’s the first treasure they’ve found here since the St Ninian hoard, back in 1958, that they took straight to the Edinburgh museum and never gave back.’ He snorted. ‘Except for kindly “loaning” it to open the new museum here.’
I’d seen the replicas of the St Ninian’s Isle treasure, enamelled silver bowls and belt buckles. ‘Wasn’t the St Ninian treasure Pictish, hidden from the Vikings?’
Ghosts of the Vikings Page 2