by Ian Todd
“Now, look here, Saba…”
“No, you look here, Daddy. If you love me, you’ll have me back on a plane to school this week. My education is suffering.”
“Saba, you were expelled from the most exclusive school on the eastern seaboard and the southern one before that. You don’t go to school…remember?”
“So, you’re sticking up for her…against your only daughter?” she’d spat back at him.
“Your mother asked me to look after you this summer. She needs a break. She’s in love and she’s engaged to get married soon.”
“What?”
“I said she’s engaged to be married…you mean, you didn’t know?”
Saba hid felt like the bottom hid just fallen oot ae her world. She hated Antonio Barceló mair than she hated her father. Every time her mother’s back wis turned, he’d sneer at her, rub his crotch and wiggle a darting tongue at her. He gied her the creeps. She’d tried telling her mother, but she’d jist laughed.
“But he’s Spanish, darling. All Spaniards do that. It could be worse. Imagine he was wearing a kilt when he was doing it,” she’d said laughing, and that hid been that.
“But I thought you and Mother had never divorced?” she’d asked, a confused look spread across that face ae hers.
“We’re not divorced…yet. I spoke to your mother on the telephone earlier. I said I would get the lawyers on to it first thing in the morning.”
“You spoke to Mother? Today? Here?” Saba hid gasped, looking aboot, shocked.
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t let me speak to her?”
“The line was bad. We’ve got a problem with the exchange about here. I didn’t think you’d want to speak to her so soon after leaving New York.”
“So, apart from lying to me, you’re now deciding that I can’t speak to my own mother?”
“Saba, darling, of course I’m not deciding who you can or who you can’t speak to. I just thought…”
“I want to go home.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You’re here for the summer.”
“Says who?”
“Myself…and your mother.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“Saba, you wouldn’t get two miles before you were picked up,” The Duke scoffed. “There’s not a bus or a taxi, nor man or beast, would dare take you out of the Kyle of Sutherland without my say-so,” he’d scowled, eyes narrowing, as Jessie, the parlour maid, laid doon a plate ae smoked salmon in front ae her.
“I might be your daughter, but you don’t own me, the way you do everyone and everything else about here,” she’d spat at him, before adding pleasantly, “I would watch what you wish for, Daddy.”
“Oh, and that reminds me. We have a few guests coming for cocktails on Saturday evening, darling. Try and practice that smile of yours before then…there’s a dear.”
“What did you just say?”
“Saba, I know there’s a smile lurking under that face of thunder…I’ve seen the photographs.”
“What face of thunder?”
“Your mother’s.”
“Cocktails?”
“A small gathering to welcome you back to the Kyle, a chance to meet people your own age, make friends, have fun.”
“But I don’t want to meet people and make friends…your friends.”
“Saba, you’ll turn up for cocktails on Saturday evening, even if I have to get my man, Sellar, to hogtie you to a chair. So, I would appreciate a little co-operation from you. How else am I going to get you off my hands?” he’d muttered.
“What? What did you say?”
“I said, I tried to get some fresh water clams, but the salmon will have to do, darling.”
“A minute ago you said you wouldn’t dictate who I could or couldn’t talk to and now you’re doing exactly that. Have you ever had a conversation with anyone without lying? No wonder mother left you.”
“Eat up, darling, there’s a good girl,” The Duke hid said pleasantly, wanting tae run the length ae the twenty feet table and strangle his only daughter and heir.
The sound ae the skirling pipes grew louder as she stepped aff the bottom step and veered aff tae her right. Fur the past hauf an hour she’d heard Riddrie shouting oot the arrival ae the Sutherlands, Vesteys, Westminsters, Moncrieffs, Elliots, Balfours, Bonnington-Woods, Wigans, Roxboroughs and Osbornes, who were aw dragging a gaggle ae spotty offspring, legal or otherwise, in their wake. In the doorway tae the salon stood her father, resplendent in tartan trews, red cummerbund, white shirt and bowtie, wae a Clan MacDonald Glengarry stuck atop his heid.
“Lady Saba Blair Macdonald,” shouted Riddrie.
The buzz in the room came tae a staunstill. Only the screech ae the bagpipes wis left tae deafen her. She tapped John Sellar oan the erm, who wis staunin tae the left and slightly tae the rear ae her father, huffing and puffing oan his chanter, while his two sons, George and Cameron, stood like two New York nightclub doormen, oan guard, either side ae him in their dress plus fours, Glengarry hats and wae their erms tucked behind their backs.
The pipes screeched tae a halt.
“Mr Sellar, be so good as to inform PC McTavish’s two daughters, Kathleen and Katrine, that they can move in with their husbands to the semi-detached cottages in Ardgay this coming weekend, please. This is a belated wedding present from my mother, The Duchess and myself. I’ll take care of the deposit with my father.”
Silence.
“I, er, ah…” the bloated, red-faced piper spluttered, looking at Saba’s father, who’d deliberately turned away, tae welcome Lady Paynter, who’d jist arrived and wis made up like a Harlem moneylender.
“Please inform them in person…this evening, please, if you’d be so kind. Thank you,” she said, turning tae be introduced tae the guests in the queue.
Chapter Eight
Paul’s favourite times ae the day in the Highlands wur first thing in the morning and last thing at night. The sunrise and sunsets wur breath-taking. Oan first meeting them, ye widnae think that Innes and Whitey wid be hilariously funny, Paul thought tae himsel many a time. They looked exactly whit they wur…an auld couple who lived oan a run-doon farm. Innes, wae his blue bibbed overalls, wellies and white wire-wool hair that hidnae seen a comb in its life and Whitey, trooping aboot wae a multitude ae different coloured jumpers and cardigans wrapped roond hersel tae keep the wind aff her wee thin-framed body. They never stood still. They wur always daeing something, whether it wis weeding, pulling oot or putting in vegetables in the kitchen garden, making cheese in the kitchen or butter in an auld roond wobbly wooden churn, squeezing Bessie’s enormous big tits sitting oan a stool in the barn tae get fresh milk or trekking aboot tae make sure the sheep and lambs wur daeing okay. It wis never ending. Paul hid never tasted food as good as whit Whitey put doon in front ae Innes and him every day. Everything hid a real taste tae it. It wis like eating food fae another planet and he loved it. The kitchen-come-living room space wis surrounded wae shelves that hid rows and rows ae cans and jars that held dried fruit, homemade jams, pickles, lentils, honey, flour, books oan herbs, flowers that ye could eat, dried this and dried that. You name it, it wid probably hiv been sitting there. Whitey made aw her ain breid every couple ae days. At night, the food she served up wis maistly tumshies, carrots, beans, totties and green stuff that he couldnae remember the name ae, wae chicken, mutton, lamb and sometimes a nice broon trout or smoked salmon. Whitever they hid wan day, she’d make soup oot ae the lefto’ers fae it the next day. Aw the ingredients wur supplied by the croft itsel, except fur the fish and red meat which wis courtesy ae The Duke. Very little grub wis bought in, as far as he could make oot.
At night, Innes wid sit oan that chair ae his beside the range, wae his two drams ae hunner proof whisky, blagged fae wan ae the local distilleries, which he’d get in exchange fur helping oot a distant neighbour. Whitey wid sit opposite him, knitting wae wool that she’d made hersel wae the spinning wheel
she kept in the ‘good room’ when it wisnae getting used or she sat making long nets aboot thirty tae forty feet long and aboot four feet wide. Innes played a couple ae tunes oan the fiddle each night before he went tae bed. It hid taken Paul a couple ae weeks tae get used tae the screech coming oot ae the fiddle and tae make oot that it wis actual tunes that he wis playing. He couldnae understaun how Innes wis able tae tell him the story ae the tune, whether it wis a battle between two different Dukes, fighting o’er who hid the biggest cock or some story that wid tear the arse oot ae yer troosers because it wis so sad. Wance he went at it, he didnae sing the story, bit jist gied it laldy oan the auld scratched and dented fiddle. It didnae take Paul long tae work oot the difference between a lament and a bunch ae reels joined thegither. Whit he really loved wis the stories and tales ae the area. When Whitey telt a story, she wis usually matter ae fact. When Innes telt wan, he put oan a face wae aw the expressions ae the different characters who wur in the tale. Sometimes he wid staun up and make oot he wis creeping through a hedge or the secret sliding door in the castle alang the road efter he’d twisted the base ae a statue tae open it. Paul liked the ghost story aboot the auld gardener who wandered aboot in the night, dressed up, wae a cloak wrapped roond himsel, only showing hauf his face oot ae his hood, in search ae his fourteen-year-auld daughter who’d gone missing in her white nighty two hunner years earlier. The only wans who ever clocked the ghost wur fourteen-year-auld virgins. Apparently, none ae the fourteen-year-auld lassies fae Ardgay or Bonar Bridge wid take a part-time job in the castle. If they did, they usually packed in their job jist before their fourteenth birthday and came back when they wur fifteen, or left aw thegither.
“Ye don’t think it’s jist the randy auld Duke, dressed up like a dirty auld man, who gets aff oan chasing fourteen-year-aulds aboot the place in their nighties then?” Paul hid asked Innes and Whitey.
“Och no, Paul…he’s been spotted many times over the years and some of those sightings were well before the present Duke’s time,” Whitey hid replied seriously.
“So, whit’s the score wae that Tim wan then, Innes?” Paul asked.
“Tim? What about him?”
“How come ye don’t take yer sheepdug up wae ye when ye go up tae check oot the sheep and lambs?”
“That’ll probably be because he’s not a sheepdog,” Innes replied.
“Well, he looks like wan and he walks like wan, even though he disnae bark like wan,” Paul said, remembering that every time a van or a truck whizzed by the gate, the collies in the back ae them wur always barking.
“That’s probably because he’s not allowed to bark,” Innes said, taking a puff ae his cracked white clay pipe, remembering tae cover the crack oan the stem wae his thumb and forefinger.
“So, ye’ve goat a sheepdug that’s no a sheepdug, who’s no allowed tae bark, bit who sleeps in the barn because he farts like a trooper. Whit is he? Some sort ae croft mascot then?”
“I never thought about that before. I like that…Tim the mascot,” Whitey said, smiling, a wee glint in her eye.
“Right, okay, don’t tell me he’s the wan that makes the porridge in the morning before we aw get up then?” Paul asked, laughing alang wae them.
“Och, c’mon Innes, don’t keep the laddie in suspense.”
“Aye, hurry up, Innes, and this better be better than yer last Jackanory tale,” Paul retorted laughing, wondering whit wis coming next.
“Tim earns his keep here, just the same as the rest of us. He’s not a sheepdog because that would be a waste of Tim’s skills. Tim and I work in…in a kind of partnership, you might say. Aye…a partnership…that’s it. When we head out hunting in the fields, forest and hills, Tim’s by my heels, watching out for what’s going on all around me. For example, I can send him after a rabbit and he’ll get it every time. When I’m netting for a good hoard of rabbits, I’ll be at the end of the net, waiting for the rabbits to crash into it after being chased up the field by Tim. When I feel the net shuddering, I dash out and give them a quick whack on the head with my rabbit head-slapper before tossing them in my sack. It’s that easy. Once the rabbit hits that net headfirst, its head goes through the hole and it can’t get it back out before I’m onto it. Just before Tim gets to the net, he always knows to veer off to the side before crashing into it,” Innes said, as Whitey leaned o’er the side ae her chair, picking up a hauf made net, shaking it at Paul, a wee knowing grin appearing across that coupon ae hers.
“So, that’s whit the net’s fur? Here’s me thinking it wis fur fishing wae that boat Innes his been building fur the past twenty years, twenty miles fae the nearest ocean.”
“Aye, and as soon as I get what I need and can carry, I let oot a wee whistle, and Tim’s off back home to the croft, ready to earn his keep another day.”
Silence.
“Okay, Innes, Ah gie in. Why wid yersel and Tim no walk back haun in haun then?”
“If I get caught by John Sellar or his boys, I’ll get a fine. If Tim gets caught, he’ll get a bullet. There’s no mercy for a poacher’s dog about this strath or anywhere else in the Highlands. He’s worth his weight in gold, hares, rabbits or pheasants,” Innes said, smiling.
“So, he heids fur hame every time ye blow oan that whistle ye’ve goat roond yer neck?”
“Every time, no questions asked.”
“Whit else dis he dae then?”
“If you’re stalking, you have to take your time, scan the skyline, sit and watch a thicket and constantly ask yourself was it the wind or a deer that made that bush move? Patience is a virtue if you’re out poaching. If you’re there, then there’s a good chance that the estate keepers are there too. It’s only a matter of who can be the most patient. I don’t have to speak my orders to him as he watches my hand signals and he knows what to do. If a keeper appears, he’ll give a small, almost silent growl of warning. There’s been many a day when I would have been in PC McTavish’s warm cells with John Sellar’s boot up my arse if it hadn’t been for Tim. The pup was going to be his apprentice.”
“Amazing.”
“Apart from the danger of getting shot, Tim also has to watch out for the estate dogs. They’ve got three Irish Wolfhounds that the keepers take out with them when they patrol. Those three have practically cleared the Kyle of Sutherland of good working dogs like Tim. A couple of months back, he lost about an inch and a half off his tail. I was sitting in a thicket watching it. Two of the hounds were behind him, catching up fast. The third one came crashing out of the very wood that he was heading for. He just managed to whizz by the one coming towards him. Its jaws were snapping away at him on the way past as one of the back two caught him by the tail. It was the speed they were all going that saved him. The two behind Tim crashed straight into the one that was heading towards him and this sent them all sprawling and rolling. Tim never broke speed. He shot into the wood like a musket out of a long barrel. You should have heard the howls of rage as the three big brutes crashed into the woods after him.”
“Aye, and to make matters worse, one of the poor things got caught on one of Innes’s snares whilst chasing after Tim. Innes thought it was funny, but cruelty to animals, whether they belong to the estate or us, is unacceptable,” Whitey said, sympathetically, gieing Paul a warning wae they eyes ae hers.
“Aye, if it wasn’t for that, Tim would surely have been run to ground and torn to shreds. Willie Picket, over in Lairg, lost two good dogs on The Duke’s land earlier this year. One was their family pet and the other was a younger brother of Tim. Willie said you wouldn’t have known that they’d been dogs by the time they’d finished with them. As soon as the Sellar boys heard their hound howling in distress when it got snared, they called the other two back. I heard that the poor thing nearly took the hand off Cameron as he was trying to free it from the trap. While the furore was going on, I managed to slip away. By the time I got back here, apart from a missing clump of tail, Tim was quite the thing and was just sitting there, scratching fleas from behi
nd his ear. Later, George and Cameron skidded to a stop at the top of the brae, jumped out and started hurling abuse at me, screaming what they were going to do to Tim if they got their hands on him. The big hound was lying in the back of their Landy with its front left leg sliced through to the bone. Willie sent me over a fine bottle of Old Balblair malt. Imagine what I would have got from him if the snare had taken its leg?” Innes cackled.
When Paul wis in the nut-hoose he’d become so bored that he’d started running roond the grounds before his breakfast every morning. If he’d been up aw night, screaming the ward doon wae his nightmares, he felt better gaun fur a run. It gied him a chance tae collect his thoughts and tae recover fae his embarrassment. Wan morning, wan ae the other patients, a big six feet solid lump, hid pranced o’er tae Paul’s bed, jist as he wis changing oot ae his running gear and hid started making noises like a ghost. Paul hid swiftly landed his right fit squarely oan they hee-haws ae his. While it served its purpose in that nowan else came near him tae take the mickey, he’d felt a bit guilty efterwards. Efter that, when the staff arrived and put oan the lights tae get everywan up, he wis awready dressed and heiding oot the door, pounding roond the inner fence. When Innes hid shown him aboot the area, he’d mentally mapped oot a running circuit.
“Are ye watching what I’m doing, Paul?” Innes hid said tae him, teaching him how tae set up a snare.
When they wur oot walking, Innes wid explain the best place tae set wan up. He preferred it tae be in amongst the gorse and stony ground, well away fae sheep or badgers. He wid point oot the crisscross ae the rabbit runs. He could tell which wans wur used mair than others. Wance he chose his spot, he wid set up the snare by pegging it intae the ground using wooden pegs he’d whittled doon while sitting beside the range in the croft at night. Efter making them, he’d bury them in the ground fur a week or two tae age them. He said a rabbit wid spot the freshly whittled peg at twenty paces and wid avoid it. Wance he pegged in the snare, he wid leave a three or four inch gap in the noose. Wance Bugs Bunny hopped or ran through, it wis deid in under a minute.