by Brian Aldiss
He walked uphill, turned off the main road, became lost. He found a long unending road almost free of cars and wandered along it. Thoughts blew through his head like leaves before an autumn storm. The idea of being lost had its appeal. Glimpsing a building in a field, he climbed over a locked gate and went to sit in it, thinking to pass the night there. The building, like the gate, was locked, and surrounded by mud. He conceived a sudden hatred for the miserable spoilt countryside, hostile to humans and animals alike.
He came to a small village with a pub. The pub was closed. On the edge of the village, by a council estate, he found a telephone box, where he rang for a taxi to collect him. It took a half-hour for the taxi to arrive, the driver complaining about rush-hour traffic. He ordered the man grumpily to take him to his hotel.
After ‘the phantasm of the living’, he was still wary of entering his room. Fenella was not there. He packed up his few belongings, went downstairs with the new suitcase, paid his bill, and walked through into the hotel garage for his car. He climbed into it and drove back to Shreding Green down the M40.
He could live without his Friday session with Winter. His duty was with young Malcolm. He could not desert the boy as his mother had deserted him. Not that Fenella had ever been other than kind to her son; that he had to admit. And he would live with the situation as it was; there was always the money game to play; it kept his kind occupied.
Just no more silly lavish parties.
He thought too of Mrs Cameron, realizing how he feared her. He had no doubt that her life-long disparagement of her daughter was at the root of all Fenella’s problems; something vital in her had been killed. And yet – the mother too had an incurable misery, she too was to be pitied. Maybe her problems went back to her treatment as a child. And back and back through generations, a scroll of human misery extending all the way to the Ice Age. Adam and Eve had been unfit parents. Hadn’t one of their sons killed his brother?
Dominic laughed. Maybe he had a half-brother still alive somewhere in the wastes of Poland. Those wastes were nothing to the wastes of the heart.
The great frown of the manor was caught in his headlights. The electronic gates swung open for him. At his coded infra-red signal, the intruder alarm system switched off before it could begin to howl.
The front of the house was in darkness, with not a light showing, though that could signify nothing. The mastiffs barked in their run, and Dominic gave them a word to calm them.
He unlocked the front door and entered the house. Switching on a light, he looked about him. All was silent and orderly; the reception rooms presented a rather ghostly appearance. He thought to himself: The old hag was right, white is a depressing colour. Why have I liked it for so long? It symbolizes ice and isolation. His hours with Winter had given him an uncomfortable awareness of symbolism.
Kicking off his shoes, he prowled through the rooms without switching on more lights. Everything was in order; the catering firm had, as usual, cleared up efficiently after the party, and Arold and Doris had followed to see all was well. An empty magnum champagne bottle stood unobtrusively on the mantelpiece in the rear room, next to a Dresden china pair of shepherd and shepherdess.
He paused before the half-length portrait of Fenella which he had commissioned from Oscar Mellor as a wedding present for his bride. The portrait showed her in a white blouse with a dove-grey jacket over it, looking warily in semi-profile over her left shoulder. Of course, the name Fenella meant ‘white shoulder’. Mellor had painted a background featuring only a misty castle, tall and impregnable. Dominic had never understood its meaning; the Cameron house in Scotland was not at all like that, although he had provided the artist with photographs of it.
Looking up at the canvas, he thought, nodding to himself, Perhaps I’m mad. Could be that’s the reason why I married so young in the first place? Nineteen. Still a child. All that rubbish I spouted to Winter – why did that have to come out? That business of Lena standing in the snow with the kid by the railway line as the train pulled away. It wasn’t my life. I was unborn.
Yet it stands for something in my life …
The ice, the isolation …
He looked about at the white rooms, shrouded in shadow.
Maybe I was traumatized by all that stuff in my early years. Change of country, change of language, change of mother. Traumatized. Still traumatized. The snow represents some kind of freeze on my mentality.
He sat down on the arm of an Italian sofa, the better to think.
That’s why I have this silly preference for white. It’s a miserable non-colour. That old bitch Morna was right. White’s the snow. The snow of coke. The snow of insanity. Oh Jesus … I’m really stuck in some awful infant age. That’s why I can’t help Fenella. Fenny. Not man enough. Still child-sized.
All I’ve learned in life is this money game, played out like a video game, the BCT, as Colin Cohen once called it. The Big Computer Trick. Trade swiftly, never let your money leave the bank. I’ve nothing of myself to invest, only money, common currency.
He sank into the sofa.
Let’s face it, I’m really fucked up and done. To hell with shrinks. I’d better go and see Fenella, tell her I’m back. She must have gone to bed early. Drugged, as Lucy Traill said. Who knows what goes on?
Rising, he slipped off his coat and let it fall to the floor before going into the library for a fortifying snort of Great Expectations. With the warmth coursing through him, he went to the door and called softly: not to Fenella. To Arold.
No answer. Jesus, they’re all dead, he thought. Murdered. But in that case, he might have seen Fenella lurking in the shadows, by the long white curtains covering the front windows.
He stood listening, wondering what was wrong.
In his stockinged feet, he padded through to the back hall, to call again, and met Arold coming through from the servants’ passage.
‘Bit dark in ’ere. ’Ow about shedding some light on thinks?’ His mouth looked monstrous, his lips glistening round the protruding teeth. His head rolled to one side. He stood swaying slightly, clutching the door frame for support. ‘You’re back, Mr Dominic, I see. Wasn’t expecting you this late. Doris ’as gone to see a friend, if you wanted summink.’
‘It’s only ten thirty, Arold. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
‘Like a drink or a cup of tea? I was just ringing Aubrey or I’d ’a come earlier. I mean to say, I did hear the car arrive and guessed as it was you. Couple of days ago, I was telling Aubrey, I got the garridge to come and tow the Porsche away. Bloke said it could all be fixed, shouldn’t set you back more nor one K.’
He put his elbow to the door frame, the better to support his head. ‘I still feel very bad about all that, Mr Dominic, like I was saying to Aubrey. Very bad indeed. You took it like a good ’un. Tomorrow morning I’ll get busy sorting out the goldfish pond. Lucky it seems none of them carp was killed.’ He burst into laughter, which turned to coughing. ‘Funny to think of running over a blooming carp, ain’t it?’
Dominic smiled. ‘Very funny. Something not in the Highway Code. Arold, is my wife upstairs?’
Arold looked startled, cleared his throat, and managed to stop coughing and laughing. ‘My Christ, don’t you know yet, suh? I thought you had the info and that was why you was back here. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but truth is the old girl’s dead.’
He lurched forward and patted Dominic clumsily on the shoulder. Immediately the thought flew to him, Now I understand that phantasm – it appeared at the moment of Fenella’s death …
‘Dead, Arold? Dead? When?’
‘Oh, let’s see now, today’s Friday, is it not? No, hang on, Thursday … Yes. Monday, it would be. No, I tell a lie. Tuesday. ’Course, we couldn’t get in touch with you because we didn’t know where you was. I said to Doris, “How the ’ell are we to find the master?” and she said—’
‘Arold! Sober up, will you? Are you trying to tell me that my wife died on Tuesday and no attempt was made to t
race me?’
Arold spluttered in his distress, rolling his huge head wildly. ‘You are in a state, suh. I better get you a tot of grog. It weren’t Mrs Mayor what died, ’course not. Like I said, it was the old girl, the old girl, suh, Mrs Cameron.’
Dominic grabbed his servant by the shirt. ‘Who’s dead? Tell me properly.’
‘I just told you, suh – old Mrs Cameron.’
‘What’s that noise, Arold?’
Arold looked startled and peered back along the passage behind him. ‘Vietnam War, Mr Dominic. I got a video running about the Vietnam War. Rambo. Want a look?’
‘Come and sit down and speak properly. Mrs Cameron is dead? How? Where? Where’s Fenella? Where’s Malcolm?’ He locked his hands together to control his trembling.
As Arold followed Dominic meekly to a pair of chairs, he said, ‘To answer your questions in proper military order, suh, Mrs Mayor’s gone up to Bonnie Scotland, taking the boy with ’er. That’s where the old girl died. Up in Scotland. She was in her eighties, when all’s said and done – had a good run for her money.’
Dominic raised his hands helplessly above his head.
‘She died at Fuarblarghour – on Tuesday?’
‘Creck. According to my intelligence, she decided to drive back up to the estate after the party last Saturday night – rashly, in my opinion. Stopped somewhere on the way. Reached Fuarblarghour afternoon of Sunday, feeling a bit dickey. The bailiff called the doctor Monday, but she had two heart attacks Monday night, the house being that cold, lapsed into unconsciousness. Mrs Mayor was called then, flew up by plane with the kid early Tuesday – I drove ’em to Heathrow Terminal One to get the shuttle flight. Very upset I was, and Doris, though I never liked the old girl, suh, to tell truth. In fact, I did offer to fly up with ’em, but offer was rejected out of hand.
‘Anyhow, to cut a long story short, apparently when your missus got to the bedside, Mrs Cameron was in a coma and sinking fast, and never a word more she spoke – except one.’
He paused for dramatic effect, and then said, ‘“Shame it is …”’ He repeated the phrase, adopting a Macbeth-like voice. ‘“Shame it is.” That’s what she said, as I learned from your wife’s lips over the phone. Though exactly what was a shame we shall never know. A tragic end, suh. Doris and me, we offers our condolences.’
‘So my wife is still at Fuarblarghour?’
‘Creck. Where I assume you’ll be joining her?’
‘I’ll catch that same early Glasgow flight tomorrow, Arold.’
‘I’ll be delighted to drive you over to the airport, suh. My pleasure. Now perhaps a cup of tea, or maybe summink a bit stronger? You’re looking very pale, natural in the circumstances.’
‘Tea, thanks, Arold. Would you mind bringing it up to my room?’
‘Pleasure, Mr Dominic.’
At Glasgow airport he hired a car and drove north rapidly on the A82 along the western shore of Loch Lomond. The rain, falling in curtains, rendered the loch all but invisible. Cloud lifted slightly as he rolled down towards the long narrow gash of Loch Awe. He slowed, turning left along the southern shore.
At Heathrow, Arold Betts had begged to escort him on the trip. ‘Sort of a back-up unit, Mr Dominic, you might say.’ With some regret, Dominic had ordered the man to stay behind and look after the manor. He put out one of his small neat hands and clasped Arold’s large puffy paw. Arold and Doris were irreplaceable.
On reaching the village of Blarghour, Dominic turned up a gravel track which bore a sign saying ‘Fuarblarghour House only’. Climbing above the loch, the way led at first through wooded land, followed by stretches of moorland with wide views. A whitewashed cottage stood sentinel as he entered the Fuarblarghour estate. Lines of cloud were sweeping away over the distant Firth of Lorn, admitting patches of blue sky overhead.
Fuarblarghour House perched on a granite shoulder, looking towards Loch Awe and the opening to Loch Avich. The heights of heather-covered Beinn Breac loomed in the distance behind it. The inhospitable Cameron manse was a tall grey building, constructed of local granite; through one of the windows of its tower could be seen the distant ruins of a castle which had once guarded or failed to guard the loch against the depredations of the Campbell clan.
Malcolm was playing in the wide hall, running a fire engine up and down the parquet flooring. He took his father out to a back scullery to see a cat which had given birth to four kittens. While they were admiring the little blind animals, Fenella appeared.
Dominic was on his knees. He jumped up to embrace his wife and kiss her pale cheek. This she took in good part, saying that she was glad to see him because there was much to be done. No reference to his earlier absence; no reference, for that matter, to her dead mother lying upstairs.
‘Trixie will get you something to eat,’ she said. ‘I expect you’re hungry.’
‘Mummy, poor Tibbs is starving. Can we give her some milk?’ Malcolm asked.
Dominic felt sorry for the cat, and for the small lives she had brought into the world. Above her bed – a grocery box – loomed an enormous weight of masonry and ponderously empty rooms, all loaded with Rob Roy furniture. Following the death of the elder Malcolm, Fenella’s father, Morna had hired the manse out for holiday lets. British, American, and even Japanese visitors had come. But the building had never been adapted for such purposes; the kitchens were inconveniently old-fashioned, and overseas guests demanded heated swimming pools. The enterprise had died a natural death, under the stern eyes of Denis MacManus and his sister Trixie, Mrs Cameron’s northern substitute for Arold Betts and his wife. Morna Cameron had become the sole and intermittent denizen of her property.
It occurred to Dominic, not for the first time, that someone had to inherit the estate, and it was not difficult to guess who that might be, if not the local cats’ home. Unless Morna had had one last attack of spite, it was more than likely Fenella would be her heiress; which, he foresaw, would bring a new series of problems.
Trixie MacManus was a small, gaunt woman plainly without tricks. An immense jaw gave her an aspect of immutable seriousness. To distract attention from this feature, she confined her brown hair in two large buns, which hung on either side of her face like earphones. She entered the chilly dining-room, greeted Dominic politely, and set a large cold ham before him. While he carved, she brought in reinforcements of vegetables in two tureens. ‘The cabbage is local-grown,’ she told Dominic.
‘All is arranged,’ Fenella said, not without complacency, as they ate. ‘The doctor has been and provided a certificate. The wee woman has been and laid out Mother’s body. The undertaker from Inverary has been.’ She ticked these items off on her fingers. ‘The funeral will take place on Monday, conducted by the Rev. Nickerman, who was a friend of Mother’s. We can stay up here over the weekend. And the Will has been read.’
‘Oh? Who read the Will?’
‘Our solicitor, of course. Bruce Dower, of Stirrup and Dower, London Wall. You have met him.’
‘Dower flew up here to read the Will?’
‘Certainly. Stirrup and Dower have a branch in Edinburgh, but Bruce flew up here as an old friend of my mother’s. His father was my grandfather’s solicitor.’
He would not ask the question on his mind. He took more mustard and ate his ham. After a silence, Fenella answered the unspoken question, ‘I am not my mother’s sole beneficiary. She left you a cut-glass decanter, together with small bequests to the servants. Everything else, the entire estate, devolves on me.’
‘A cut-glass decanter? Why a cut-glass decanter?’
‘I suppose she thought you would like it, Dominic. What a funny question. She left you nothing else – if that is what you are thinking – because she assumed you were rich enough already, I suppose.’
‘You mean no sentiment was involved.’
‘Mother merely did what she thought was right. She was not sentimental. I see you think she was not generous enough.’
He asked in lowered voice, ‘What pro
vision did Morna make for her grandson?’
There was a pause. Before Fenella replied, Malcolm asked if his grannie had left him the toys in the house.
‘You’re a bit too young to be mentioned in a Will, dear,’ Fenella said.
‘Of course he’s not. Even the unborn are mentioned in Wills by those who care about them,’ Dominic said.
‘Not in Mother’s Will.’
Nothing more was said until Trixie brought on bowls of prunes and custard.
‘And your brother, Fenny,’ Dominic said, striving for a relaxed tone of voice. ‘Jamie. Did Morna leave anything to James?’
She smiled at the idea. ‘Mother disowned James long ago.’
‘And how do you feel about James?’
‘As I say, the trouble is Mother disowned him long ago.’
He put his spoon down. ‘Fenny, I don’t understand. James is or was your brother, your only brother. You must have played together when you were small, perhaps you were bathed together, slept in the same room, cuddled each other, loved each other. Don’t you feel anything for him?’
‘James went off to the United States long ago. It was his decision, and that’s the end of it.’
‘No, it’s not. Maybe you’d like to see your brother again. Maybe Malcolm would like an Uncle James. The United States isn’t the end of the world, you know.’
She looked down into her prune bowl. ‘Can we leave the subject, thanks. James is nothing to do with you. Or with me.’
Dominic leaned across the table towards her. ‘Then I want to ask you another question. What did your mother say just before she died?’
‘Oh, these questions! She began a sentence but was unable to finish it. In any case, the words were indistinct … I think she said, “The shame it is …”’
‘Or maybe just “Shame it is …”’
‘Possibly, yes. It means nothing. Her mind was wandering.’
‘Suppose that what she said was “Jamie is …”, yah? but was unable to complete the sentence. Didn’t you tell me she called him Jamie in the Scottish way? Couldn’t it have been that at the last moment before she died that grim old lady repented of her treatment of her son, the way she never repented of the treatment of her daughter, and wished – who can say? – to make some amends, perhaps even to summon him home, perhaps even to permit you to be a sister, a loving sister, as you could be, to this exiled brother, Jamie Cameron?’