by John Burke
He would confront Hannah with that.
But he knew he’d do no such thing. Since the story was impossible, he knew what her blistering response would be. He couldn’t ask. It had to be treated with contempt.
Words echoed on in his head. I don’t want to hear any more. Yet still he was hearing it, and reluctantly he knew he had to hear more, and think about it . . .
Jamie Brown had been gone ten minutes when there was the sound of hoofs somewhere near the end of the street, echoing around the marketplace. That was something else which made no sense today. It was too early for any of the preliminary Ride-outs of the season. He stood up and peered over the lettering of his own name in the window, looking down towards the edge of the square.
*
Hannah was leading the ride, with a motley crew trotting apprehensively behind her. The horses were from Agatha Buchan’s stables. Some of the riders were used to them. Hannah was a bit unsteady after all these years, even though she had taken the precaution of trying a couple of surreptitious rides through Agatha’s grounds and down the lane at the back of the estate. She could at any rate be thankful she wasn’t riding bareback. Fine when she was younger, but now it was quite enough to sit up augustly in the saddle. Her jacket and breeches had tightened since she last wore them, but it would have made no sense to kit herself out with new ones. Later, maybe, when the Guild was in complete charge and had established all its aims, there would be time for new outfits and a new confidence.
They had entered the town at the eastern end of the High Street, and were now pausing to pay respects to the statue of the Bareback Lass in the square. Hannah felt herself transported back through the years to the time when she had bussed the standard before setting out on her circuit of the Common. She looked up at the profile of the Lass, whose stone strands of hair were whitened at the moment by bird droppings. Her own hair had once been a wonderful russet, long and streaming. Nothing could ever rob her of those hours long ago; or of the proud assertiveness of this moment today.
While they were halted at this symbolic spot, the police caught up with them.
The driver leaned out of his panda car. ‘You can’t proceed any further in that direction, Mrs Craig.’
‘Mrs Ferguson,’ she reluctantly corrected him.
‘Sorry, madam. I’d forgotten.’
I don’t blame you, she said silently. Aloud she said: ‘This is a public thoroughfare. We have every right to ride along it.’
‘All processions and demonstrations should be cleared with the borough council and the police first.’
She could hardly claim that this was a peaceful ride and neither a procession or demonstration, since a demonstration was exactly what she had planned. ‘Well, let’s take it that we’ve cleared it now, shall we?’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mrs Ferguson.’
Madge Carruthers, whose husband had been so dubious about her activities, chose this moment to chicken out. Hannah had always been afraid she might. She was turning her horse’s head and making for the entrance to Roxburgh Street.
‘No!’ cried Hannah. ‘Don’t break formation now. Come back.’
The ferocity of her voice frightened both Mrs Carruthers’ mount and her own. The two reared, and the defaulter’s ejected a steaming heap on to the junction of the two streets. Hannah’s mare came down with its foreleg skidding across the damp road into the droppings.
Hannah felt herself sliding helplessly to the left. She clutched the reins, which made the horse whinny more desperately. The world was all at once unsteady and unreliable. The clock tower was leaning at a crazy angle. She could feel herself toppling over, slowly but far from gracefully. As she struck the ground, wrenching her foot from the stirrup, her breeches slithered through the spreading mess towards the pavement.
She looked up to see her husband staring incredulously out at her above the lettering in his window. And he was grinning. Archie Ferguson was grinning in uncontrollable delight all over his detestable little face.
Chapter Six
‘A kilt?’ said Nick incredulously. ‘You expect me to wear a kilt?’
‘It would be considered correct at such a function.’
‘I don’t believe there’s any such thing as a Torrance tartan.’
‘It’s a cadet branch of the Mackays,’ said Dr Hamilton, politely remorseless.
Having given his agreement that the Pipers’ Ball should be held as of old in the great hall of Black Knowe, Nick had assumed that he could leave most of the arrangements to those steeped in its history. His own contribution should be purely a musical back-up if needed. Still not sure how long he would be staying here, he had ordered the shipment of a minimum of equipment, including editing and remixing decks. He was none too happy with the aged power points in the hall, but they would have to do. For the night of the Ball he proposed to allow the use of no more than his tonebank keyboard. Once that was settled, he waited for some expert to fill him in on procedural details.
Instead, it was taken for granted that he would adjudicate on a dozen matters almost as debatable as the correct way of phrasing a baroque partita. After three days of flitting to and fro between Dr Hamilton, Professor Makepeace, and the Robsons, he began to contemplate a swift withdrawal. An urgent recording date in London. Or Paris. Or the need to consult the Government Chief Whip about some loose ends left by the late Sir John. If these folk couldn’t summon up the energy to sort out rituals which were supposed to have been in their blood for hundreds of years, he couldn’t see why he should carry the can.
But it was obvious that if he slunk away, the entire proceedings would degenerate into a shambles.
‘The full pipe band has always been in attendance,’ pronounced Dr Hamilton.
‘It’d be deafening in that confined space,’ said Professor Makepeace. ‘As bad as one of your pop groups.’
Nick was tempted to deny any personal possession of a pop group, but let it pass.
‘But how d’ye have a Pipers’ Ball wi’ too few pipers?’ an aggressive Committee member accosted him. ‘Makes no sense.’
‘Och aye, always had the full band,’ MacKenzie confirmed.
It turned out that his memory of ‘always’ was inaccurate. When the Pipers’ Ball had been banned from Black Knowe and forced to take to the Town Hall, it had been customary to have the full complement. ‘But not back in the old days,’ asserted Mrs Robson. ‘When we did have the Ball here, there was ne’er more than four pipers. Place wouldn’t have taken more than that.’
Her son tackled Nick at the top of the winding steps within the stair turret. ‘Sir Nicholas, why don’t we have a rave? There’s mony of us would like it better that way.’
‘A rave?’
‘Aye, oot there.’ Colin gestured through an arrow slit in the turret wall. ‘On the heugh. The pipe band plays for ten minutes, we have a disco for nigh on an hour, then –’
‘I don’t think it would be quite appropriate.’ Nick realised how stuffy he sounded. Was he already sloughing off his past and assuming the trappings of a new pomposity? On the spur of the moment he said: ‘You wouldn’t happen to play an instrument yourself, like your sister?’
Colin looked reluctant to admit this. ‘Well . . . I’ve played the accordion.’
‘And still do?’
‘Well, it’s no the kind of . . . I mean, I’d rather listen to some good rap.’
‘Not easy on the accordion.’
‘No, that’s why I don’t bother these days.’
‘You can start bothering.’ Nick made himself sound as lairdly and commanding as possible. ‘Got any friends who could make up a band? Play some authentic dance music?’
‘I could be asking around.’ Colin sounded more reluctant than ever.
‘Good. You do that.’
Nick went down into the town to check with Ian MacKenzie on food for the buffet, and was treated to another disquisition on the long-standing traditions of the pipe band, which would have won the B
orders contest last year if the judges hadn’t been gey prejudiced in favour of some Tweeddale skirlers.
People kept bobbing out at him from odd corners to suggest this and firmly declare that. One of them was the persistent Jamie Brown, scurrying round the statue of the Bareback Lass to cross his path. ‘Ah, Sir Nicholas. I’m hearing you’ve been installing a deal of electronic equipment in the tower.’
‘Various bits and pieces, yes. I didn’t know it had run wild and started transmitting news bulletins.’
Brown smirked obsequiously. ‘As I’ve told you, Sir Nicholas, things do travel fast around this borough. But seriously, if you’re installing apparatus of that kind, you really will have to consider adequate fire insurance. If you’d allow me to draw up a prospectus –’
‘Later,’ said Nick.
He admitted to himself that he had already had worries about the state of the wiring, and if it had been anybody else but that odious little man he would have agreed on prompt action. But Jamie Brown made his flesh creep.
Someone had to make the decisions. Nick found himself making them. The Pipers’ Ball would not be a free-for-all. There would be four pipers, no more. And they wouldn’t play for the entire evening. There would also be music for dancing, provided by Colin Robson and two fiddlers. And some songs to accompany the food.
The next to cross his path was Fiona Robson, smiling her most reticent smile yet alert for the question she knew in advance she’d be asked.
‘You’ll sing for us?’ said Nick. ‘And play the clarsach?’
She nodded. ‘If you wish it.’
She knew he wished it. He wondered if she would have been hurt if in fact he had not asked; or whether she would have philosophically regarded it on a par with her exclusion from the choice of Bareback Lass.
He set about arranging discreet amplification for the evening. Not for any blasting assault by a hyped-up rock band, but enough to bring out notes from the clarsach which would otherwise be drowned by chatter and the rattle of plates and glasses. Even so, his metal cone speakers looked incongruous with their gold wire mesh garish against the ancient stonework.
He had a cowardly feeling that his kilt and bare knees would look even more incongruous.
He could still flee.
No, he couldn’t.
All he could be thankful for was that none of the old gang of folk singers, pop singers, and three-chord plonkers would be around to laugh their ruddy heads off.
The gap closed remorselessly, and the evening of the Ball was upon him.
*
In the ante-room two fiddles were tuning up, and there was an occasional tentative groan from Colin’s accordion. The clarsach stood unattended beside the quaich in its glass case. When Fiona came in, she moved so quietly that it was like a ghost drifting out of the voluptuous painting. But a ghost coming to life. She wore a full-length tartan skirt with a huge brass clasp, a black waistcoat with gilt buttons, and a crisp white blouse with a starched ruff at the neck. She was as elegant as any richly dressed lady of the manor could ever hope to be; yet ethereal – the phantom of such a lady still haunting her old domain.
The four pipers arrived and lined up to pipe the guests in.
Nick became Sir Nicholas Torrance and shook hands with each arrival. When they had all gathered into knots about the hall, he nodded to the pipers to play another flourish, then walked solemnly towards the quaich in its glass case.
There was a puzzled hush. This was something new in accepted procedure. Dr Hamilton watched mistrustfully as their host unlocked the case, took out the quaich, and laid it on the table while reaching for a bottle of Glendronach.
‘I am told that the year’s most important function starts with a drink from this loving cup. Let’s give it a kick-start now. May I welcome you all to Black Knowe.’ He filled the quaich, and held it out towards the Convenor and his wife. ‘Perhaps you and your good lady will put the seal of your approval on our gathering, sir.’
And if Hamilton dared to look even mildly disapproving of the contrast between this luscious distillation and his own firewater, Nick would lay the Torrance curse upon the man – assuming that there was a Torrance curse, of which there was every likelihood in this weird backwater of the world.
Dr Hamilton in fact went faintly pink at the honour offered him. Close to his side like a shadow incapable of drifting away on its own, his wife was indeed shadowy, as thin and almost transparent as dust-laden cobwebs, her pallid complexion relieved only by eyebrows as dark and bushy as his.
Solemnly they drank from the quaich.
Somebody at the far end of the hall stamped his feet; somebody clapped. There was a faint, uncertain murmuring.
‘And now,’ said Nick, ‘some young ladies will have to take me through the steps of . . . what shall it be?’
At his signal, the fiddles and accordion struck up for dancing.
A cluster of girls giggled; argued; and then nudged one of their number forward. She was the youngest and shyest, a supple girl who moved like a dancer even as she put out her hands to his, her flaming red hair tied back in an emerald green ribbon.
She led him into a strathspey at a lilting, gently swinging pace. He found himself counting with professional interest the heavily dotted rhythm before abandoning himself to the easygoing sway of it, concentrating on the steps and on his partner.
Then there was a reel, first with two couples, then three, then four. The tempo quickened. Arms were linked, hands touched and let go, and Nick found himself being passed from one dancer to the next, weaving in and out, virtually tossed to and fro as if they were testing him before comparing notes; or waiting for him to make his own choice. There were skips and curtseys, linking of arms and then abandonment while another man, another girl, moved into position, feet sketching a sword dance without swords, and moved on as if vainly seeking life’s ideal partner.
Mr and Mrs Ferguson stood well back against the wall, like strangers trying to work out the measures. Yet Hannah Ferguson had always claimed to be the expert on anything and everything connected with local customs. Her daughter Kirsty stood with a couple of the other girls, not dancing because the only man she wished to dance with was playing the accordion. Every now and then she smiled greedily at Colin. The wider her smile, the more her mother glowered.
Hannah was resplendent in a red and green dress swirling about her ankles. Looped over her shoulder like an all-embracing blanket was a shawl as voluminous as an old-fashioned plaid. But instead of some tartan or a heathery mix of moorland colours it was patterned with elephant figures, whorls, and Z-rods taken from Pictish motifs.
As it grew warmer, she slipped the shawl from her shoulders and handed it peremptorily to Archie. ‘Here, put this somewhere safe.’ He looked vaguely around the hall. Coat-hooks had not been installed by the original builders, and no one had seen any compelling need to add them since. Archie folded the shawl neatly and deposited it on the table in the window embrasure.
At the same time Hannah hobbled across to her daughter. She was still in some discomfort from her fall from that horse. Unceremoniously she seized Kirsty’s arm and dragged her towards their host.
‘Sir Nicholas. It really is time we got to know one another properly.’ She thrust Kirsty forward. ‘Your cousin Christine. My daughter. David Torrance’s daughter.’ As Nick made a big act of bowing over Kirsty’s hand, she went doggedly on. ‘If fate had been just that little bit different, of course, we would be at home here. Strange what tricks fate plays on us, isn’t it?’
‘Very strange.’
‘And now, because of the forwardness of your housekeeper’s son, you’re faced with the unenviable task of choosing a poor second-best for the Lass.’
Nick stared over her shoulder, longing for someone to interrupt. But when Hannah was holding forth, no volunteer was likely to step in.
She was off on another tack. ‘However, since the stupid girl seems set on marrying that rapist –’
‘Mither, please!’
‘You will need some advice on your choice of her replacement.’
Through the lively six-eight pulse of the fiddles, Nick heard London calling him. Or Paris. Or Chicago.
‘I think we’re about to have some refreshment,’ he stalled.
Mr Robson was superintending the laying out of food on trestles along the wall, and moving a few smaller tables into the body of the hall. Quiet background music and a few sentimental songs took the place of the dance strains. Fiona sang Auld Robin Gray and then went on into the hypnotic repetitions of the Righ na Dul, the peat-fire smooring prayer. Finally she plucked from the lower strings the dark pentatonic tune of I Long for the Wedding. raising her head only to look fleetingly at Nick. And gently her brother began insinuating the chords from his accordion until they were virtually waltzing together.
‘They have no idea,’ said Hannah Ferguson. ‘Caterwauling. Now, when I gave my interpretation of our genuine old songs in the St Andrew’s Day concert two years ago . . . well, everybody’s still talking about it.’
Nick was amazed by the daring of Mr Robson, who came between them and said with an authority that brooked no delay: ‘The refreshments are ready, Sir Nicholas. If you wish to make an announcement, or prefer me to do so . . .’
Hannah had clutched her daughter’s arm again as if to withdraw her from possible contamination, and took her leave of Nick with a promise which sounded more like a threat. ‘We’ll have a word later. About the choice of Christine’s substitute. I know I can take some of the weight off your mind.’
Nick saw that Robson would feel flattered if the invitation to start eating came from him, and was happy to let him go ahead. There was no pretence among the guests of holding politely back and continuing to chat for a few more moments. As they jostled towards the tables, Professor Makepeace came up with his usual stolid determination and introduced ‘My son Jeremy, whom you were kind enough to invite.’ Nick had no particular recollection of inviting young Makepeace, but was happy to accept that he had been on the list.