And who would follow me? Some Canadian farmer or Canadian farmer’s son, with even less concern than I – if that were possible – for his long and peculiar and narrowly proud ancestry.
Unless I married and had a son. It was at least a laughable possibility.
IV
A long time going to sleep, for the gale was getting worse, and half Loch Broom seemed to be coming in the windows. Not that I would have minded Loch Broom in preference to some of the sick fancies the evening bred. That thing on the second crest was neither a lynx nor a leopard but some man-invented nightmare animal, half real and half imagined, half alive and half dead, smelling like a skunk and a charnel house, snarling a spittle-slime over all it could reach. The beast itself both bright and bold.
When I did go to sleep I dreamed I had a son; I don’t know who the mother was but the fat nurse was bringing it in her arms away from the labour ward and smiling at me as she came up. ‘Be prepared for a shock, Sir David,’ she said with rubbery lips. ‘ It will be a little shock at first, Sir David, but I’m sure you’ll be able to adjust. Your wife is adjusting nicely, Sir David,’ She opened the blanket, and there in her arms dribbling slime was the Beast, fangs bared in a lecherous snarl, little, blind bloodshot sockets where the eyes should have been, fat arms outstretched waiting for me to take him …
I woke with a grunt. Christ, if this wasn’t worse than dreaming of prison or a drunken father and a leather strap! I got up and dragged on my trousers and heavy overcoat and went downstairs, switching on lights on the way, avoiding the old hall with its phantoms and its incubi, made the kitchen and snapped on the kettle. If it was colder than this at the North Pole I didn’t want to go.
With coffee I stepped into the drawing-room and kicked some embers of the fire together, blew on them with the bellows until the glow broke into flame, then erupted all the rest of the wood out of the woodbox and watched it catch.
I sat there for about an hour while the fire blazed and warmed the front two inches of me and the cobwebs of nightmare blew away. Then I went to bed.
I decided this was the last time my ramshackle inheritance would see me. The quicker I sold the place the better. It was curtains for Wester Craig.
Chapter Eighteen
I
When I got back to London a big fencing thing was on, and I went along with Shona to watch Erica. In the morning there were eliminating bouts in which all the competitors had a go. If you got through these, then there were quarter-finals in the afternoon, and ultimately in the evening the last eight contestants fought it out in Seymour Hall before an audience, many of whom were the eliminated fencers.
The French women were particularly good, and the Italians and West Germans not far behind. By the afternoon every English woman except Erica had gone, and she was beaten by a Frenchwoman in the first contest of the evening. She joined us to watch the final bouts, a pink flush of fatigue hollowing her skin. I thought she looked high generally.
‘For Pete’s sake,’ I said, ‘this is an endurance test!’
‘Oh, it’s OK. It’s the same for everyone.’
‘How many bouts have you had today?’
‘Seven.’
‘And if you’d got through to the end it would have been nine. You can’t be expected to have the same stamina as that kangaroo from Marseilles.’
‘They’re going to run it over two days next year.’ She looked at me with her sultry eyes and laughed. ‘It can’t be that you’re feeling sympathetic, David! Shona, something has happened. David is becoming a ladies’ man!’
‘He always was,’ said Shona. ‘Did you not know?’
I suppose Shona had decided to play it cool, see how things went, not press or nag. Presumably she still hadn’t a clue as to what had gone amiss between us, no doubt had come to all the wrong conclusions. I ought to tell her. Some day I ought to tell her, in fairness to myself. Because if it did begin again, even in only the most desultory way, how long could it last?
Knowing made me notice more, or hypnotized me into imagining more. Skin of her face showed puckerings in certain lights, not so much round the eyes as round the mouth and chin. Used spectacles more. Veins of hands becoming prominent. Had she ever had a face lift? Certainly not in my time …
Not that there was any sign of slackening-off on her part. She still moved only a little slower than sound, driving me and others to ever greater effort, chairing our monthly meetings with all her old fire and passion, making public appearances, attending her health farm, fencing on Tuesdays – maybe, who knew, having it off with some new fancy man Mondays and Fridays. (Wouldn’t have liked that if I’d thought she did. Dog in the manger, etc.)
Semaphore was launched at last and, true to Shona’s road sense, didn’t make it big. To my way of thinking the advertising wasn’t explicit enough. What it really should have said was, ‘If you want to lay a bird, this will help you as nothing else does.’ Leo Longford summed up the general feeling: ‘You’re still before your time, David. It has to come, but we’re still among the pioneers. Other people will score later on.’
It was notable among the Shona products for making the biggest loss. This didn’t help to sweeten relations between us.
I did an extended tour of the US, coming again up against a few more prickly obstacles but generally getting the feeling that we were making our way into the big time. If all went well, in another year or two … But we needed to spend more money, and Shona wouldn’t.
A couple of weeks after getting back I was best man at Van Morris’ wedding.
I wasn’t mad about the lady Arthur had finally decided to make an honest woman of. Coral was a pretty little thing with a wilful twist of hair on her forehead and ingrowing blue eyes that were cool with the knowledge of her own importance. Her parents had a tobacconist’s shop in Dulwich and clearly thought themselves a cut above my old friend Essie and her two sisters, who turned up in three-tier gateau-and-sultana-almond hats. However, my presence, I’m ashamed to say, corrected the social balance.
Unexpectedly at the wedding was Derek Jones – though they’d got to know each other pretty well during the Kilclair affair. Over the Sparkling Anjou I asked him about Donald and was told they’d broken up. ‘He was altogether too demanding, too argumentative. We used to get awfully stroppy with each other, and then one day he just walked out on me. We were in a pub and he went for a pee – never came back; just pissed off, as you might say.’
‘When did you suffer this bereavement?’
‘Oh, weeks ago. I’m on my tod at the moment – though there is a young man I met on Sunday; we’ll have to see.’
‘And Roger?’
‘Roger Manpole? I hardly see him, my dear.’
I looked over the top of my glass. ‘I think you really must be fond of me.’
‘Of course, darling, you know. But why so suddenly convinced of it?’
‘You lie to me so badly.’
His blue eyes flickered, and it was as if a hint of malice had crept in by the back door. ‘Of course you don’t like Roger.’
‘That isn’t an overstatement.’
‘I can’t see what’s wrong with him.’
‘Only that he’s alive.’
‘Anyway, you could safely come back to the Cellini; he’s never there. Very much involved in the City these days, you know. In with the nobs now. Royal Enclosure. Garden Parties, the rest of the old carnival. You got rid of your place in the Far North yet?’
‘Not yet. Want to buy it?’
‘I’ll think of it, old dear. But how about offering it to Roger? I know one thing.’
‘What?’
‘He’d give his eye-teeth for your title.’
In fact I went to Scotland twice more that year, in spite of other intentions. The first was to a garden party at Holyroodhouse. Curiosity and a sense of profound irony pushed me to accept this invite. Also the old conman surveying a new scene. It does no harm to meet the best people, whether you’re trying to raise credit for s
ome dubious enterprise or to persuade the public that you have a night cream that induces cellular rejuvenation.
But as soon as I got there I wished I hadn’t come, because who should be strolling by but Tom Martin of Greenock, in the company of a dark plump rosy girl in a picture hat; and of course the usual busybody introduced us. Obviously Tom’s first impulse was to turn his back on me and walk away, but he was too much on his best behaviour in the not-too-distant presence of the queen. Expressions crossed his face like a television weather map.
Then his Adam’s apple wobbled in his tight wing collar and I found myself being introduced to his wife. ‘ David Abden,’ he muttered. ‘ I suppose it’s Sir David Abden now, is it?’
I smiled at the girl. ‘ Tom and I were at school together; but the last time we met was at the Old Bailey.’
‘Oh?’ she said, looking from one to the other. ‘In London, you mean?’
‘Yes. Puzzling case, wasn’t it, Tom?’
‘Very puzzling.’ He glared at me.
‘How long have you been married?’ I asked the girl.
‘Oh, just two years. Are you married, Sir – Sir David?’
‘No. I’m still looking for the ideal,’ I said. ‘Glad Tom found his.’
She blushed. She didn’t look top-drawer but she looked all right. Probably monied. The thought of Tom fumbling his way about her was a disagreeable one. Martin had had some crude and dirty ways when he was at school.
‘What is your name?’ I asked.
‘My name? Susan.’
‘Well, it’s good to meet you, Susan. Any time you and Tom are in the Highlands, please give me a ring. I don’t have a card but my number is Ullapool 41515. Come to lunch.’
‘Thank you,’ she said warmly. ‘We’d love to, wouldn’t we, Martin?’
‘Oh?’ he said, still glowering. ‘Well, yes.’
We went our ways, but not before I’d done my best to win her over. I could see she was taken and would react unpredictably to Tom’s story of my criminal tendencies. I’d given them the wrong telephone number, the number of Lochfiern House, where I imagined they wouldn’t get the warmest of welcomes. Not that I supposed for a moment that Tom would go near the place. He’d want no further truck with his swindler, and in any case would be afraid if he took his wife I would seduce her behind the woodshed, and she a willing victim.
II
The second time I went north was in the autumn. Nothing in law can be hurried. According to Mr Macardle you had to apply – though not necessarily at the top of your voice – to the Court of Session for authority to execute an instrument of disentail in a form provided for by the Entailment Act of 1848. The ‘instrument of disentail’ then had to be recorded in the Register of Entails; once that was done, you were at perfect liberty to try to sell your probably unsaleable property.
The man Macintyre had recommended some estate agents, McSwaine, Heeney and Garvice of Inverness, and, in anticipation of the great event when I came into free possession of the property, they had been up to look at it. They were generally and jointly of the opinion that Wester Craig’s iron-age kitchen would be enough to put most prospective buyers off, and certainly would discourage Americans or others from renting it for the summer months. The cost of rejigging the kitchen was likely to be high, but I didn’t realize how high until the estimates came through; then I told them to forget the whole thing. Lots of telephone buzz followed, in the course of which Macintyre dug out a firm that offered a full replan and refit for 40 per cent less than the first; but he thought I should see and approve what they aimed to do.
So did I. I said to Shona: ‘ Would you like to come?’
‘If you would wish me to.’ I could tell by the way she breathed through her nose that she was pleased.
We went and met Macintyre and the builders and the plumbers and finally agreed the deal. Shona was useful because, aside from being a woman, she had this razor-sharp business instinct which saw through builders’ waffle and plumbers’ moonshine. But as still happened even now, I found myself edgy about the way she took over.
‘It is not beautiful, I agree. It is on the verge of being ugly. But I do not mind the contrast of styles, the asymmetry, the lack of taste; they are all part of an ancient house, are they not, a house which has grown with the years. In Russia we have houses like this – or had – because they have become a part of the family that has lived there. I do not think you should sell it, David.’
‘You observe the board.’
‘Oh yes, but it can be taken down. Is there nothing you can turn to account?’
‘A caravan site?’
‘Heaven forbid. There must be fishing rights. Does none of Loch Ashe belong to you?’
‘One bit. The landing stage. And where the stream comes out.’
‘You shall go into it with Mr Macintyre. You will not wish to live here, of course, but I would have thought somehow the property could be made to pay for itself. You should not cut yourself off so quickly from your own inheritance. Look, the sky is clearing. Let us go for a walk.’
We went as far as the loch, which under the sheepish sun had white water with black rocks reflected in it and two toy boats each propping up a single fisherman. Overhead a few birds circled.
‘It is so quiet,’ said Shona.
She’d had her hair cut differently for this trip. Shorter at the back, with the front hair dyed and graded a lighter brown, and a wispy fringe. It suited her, made her almost pretty, and outrageously young.
Next morning it was pouring with rain again, but I drove her up north, further than I’d been before, past Loch Assynt and Loch Glencoul. The traffic didn’t exist, the road was wide enough only for a single car, with passing places; one loch after another, no end to them; you could hardly have seen better in Norway.
Shona said: ‘This is a deserted land! Why is there no one about? And all these fences! I do not understand.’
We crossed a loch by a ferry big enough to take only two cars. Twenty miles further on we stopped and picnicked in the car off things Mrs Coppell had made up for us, the rain fairly drumming on the roof. After lunch we decided it was far enough, the weather being what it was, and turned back, whereupon the clouds split their sides with laughing and the sun came out.
She was quiet beside me on the way home, watching the land and the lochs being brought out in discreet technicolour. Water was spouting from the hillsides like burst water mains; mountains were the colour of a soldier’s camouflage tunic, reeds in the shallower lochs grew out of ink-blue water. I could see she was liking it. As I suppose I was too.
III
She insisted on going to Lochfiern House – or insisted as near as she could without actually getting out the thumbscrew. When we arrived Alison was out.
So a long talk with Lady Abden, and to my surprise the women got on. Shona’s reputation and her elegance and personality made her a woman to be reckoned with, and I guess Aunt Helen recognized a kindred and formidable spirit. I wondered how the family would have reacted if my father had wanted to marry a Russian.
One thing I handed to Shona: however much she liked to be boss, she never by so much as a whisker showed any proprietorial attitude towards me. In the early days when we’d been trying to hide it from John she had hit on a style which implied we were simply business colleagues and that still went. But I expect my aunt with her cold clear eyes perceived the cloven hoof.
After a while Shona said: ‘Yesterday we went north, almost as far north as we could go. Why is there no one about? Why is it such a deserted country?’
We were in the upstairs sitting-room again, with the inevitable Lucie squatting like a broody hen by the window; but present today also was Cousin Mary, raffishly dressed in stained tartan but less lubricated than when I’d last seen her.
Lady Abden said: ‘The land has always been deserted, ever since the clearances.’
‘What are those? I do not understand.’
‘At the beginning of the last century it wa
s decided it was profitable to raise sheep in the Highlands. At first they were put on the hills, but when it was found that they could not stand the winter, the glens were cleared to accommodate them and the people driven out.’
‘Driven where to?’
‘To the coast, where they lived in hamlets on the edge of the sea, to the slums of Glasgow and Edinburgh, or to emigrate. All the Highlands were depopulated and have remained so ever since.’
‘And who did this?’
‘Oh, it is a long story. The English. Perhaps more the Lowland Scots. It all goes back to Culloden.’
‘Whist now,’ said Mary. ‘ It was Sutherland who started it, and it was all done in the name of progress and reform.’ She hiccupped. ‘Since then the deer forests have followed. But the crofters were a shiftless lot, living in squalor, hard to get on with. Unwilling to be helped.’
‘Helped indeed!’ said Lucie. ‘You do not help a family by burning the roofs over their heads.’
I said: ‘And what was our part in all this?’
My aunt said: ‘Sir Charles Abden risked ruin to keep his crofters housed and fed. There were others, Protestants as well as Catholics, who did the same. But it did not stop the march of progress, as my daughter calls it. Who was it said: ‘‘Four shepherds and three thousand sheep now occupy the land that once supported five hamlets’’?’ She rubbed a bony hand across her face. ‘I forget.’
‘And so many fences,’ said Shona. ‘They are to keep people out?’
‘To keep animals in,’ said Mary. ‘ That’s natural enough, ain’t it?’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Pardon. But, Mother, the clearances are way back in the past, so far as to have no relevance any more. The land is empty because it can support so few – not up to any modern standards. If the clearances had never happened the Highlands would have depopulated themselves!’
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