The One and Only

by Doris E. Smith

  She watched in some surprise as he opened the door and accompanied her into the spacious common hall. ‘Troy is a most disorganised person,’ he stated suddenly. ‘The trouble we’ve had with her over this flat! She just never remembers. There’s really no excuse this time.’

  I wouldn’t like to be up against this one in court, Maggie thought. However, he seemed to have dried up.

  ‘Why this time?’ she prompted.

  ‘We’re going to the Tattoo.’ For the minute he looked almost like a child.

  She warmed. ‘You’ll enjoy that.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know whether I will or not. This is the first time I’ve seen it.’

  It was ridiculous. Green eyes athwart a small freckled nose were looking at her as minutes ago other green eyes had done. ‘I don’t use words as loosely as you do,’ was the way Angus MacAllan had put it. Graham was certainly his father’s son.

  Maggie, hurrying down Charlotte Square, had only one thought; she hoped she need never lay eyes on the MacAllan combo again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  After the fiasco in Charlotte Square the rest of Edinburgh seemed to go under a cloud. Maggie made a dispirited tour of the castle precincts and the Esplanade with its temporary tiers of seating and returned to the hotel. Shortly afterwards the reception clerk reported that ‘Miss MacAllan’ had called and was waiting for her.

  There was only one figure at the desk when Maggie went down, so it had to be Troy, and in any case she was entirely in character. The tightest of urchin cuts gave almost a ‘skinhead’ look. She was extra tall and very slim and she was wearing a sweater shirt, knickerbockers tying to the leg and over-the-knee socks. All these were navy blue and they were topped by a vest knitted loosely in patches of yellow, orange and navy.

  Maggie went forward. ‘Miss MacAllan? I’m Maggie Campbell.’

  The boyish figure gave a buck of astonishment. ‘You?’ The intensity of the gaze made Maggie feel uncomfortable. Did she in some way fail to measure up?

  ‘ ’Fraid so,’ she said lamely. ‘Is something wrong?’

  There was a second’s pause, then mirth rippled over the piquant features. ‘Quite a lot, I gather.’ The thought seemed to be too much. Maggie’s prospective employer rocked with laughter. Her mouth was huge in her small face and her teeth were beautiful. Her eyebrows, absurd but bewitching, were drawn like tiny horns from the bridge of her nose. You couldn’t look at her without thinking of the Sabbatarian pedant who wanted to marry her money.

  Now she explained the faux pas and took full responsibility. The flat in Charlotte Square was company-owned and had been used as a pied-a-terre almost exclusively by her late great-uncle. Since his death she had wheedled a key out of Angus and had permission to use it when he was not doing so. ‘Of course we’re always getting mixed up. Like now. And, of course, it’s always my fault. He did tell me they were coming down this weekend, but I forgot completely. What was he like? Awful?’

  ‘Forget it. It doesn’t matter a scrap,’ Maggie assured her. ‘And anyway I had his tea.’

  ‘Good for you. He won’t have cared for that,’ Troy beamed. She went on to suggest that they might sit outside until dinner since she’d been cooped up driving for most of the day and everyone didn’t have ‘the one and only bathroom’. The add gleam was a trifle disturbing, but Maggie knew she must not mind being laughed at.

  ‘It was very silly of me,’ she said. ‘But it won’t happen again.’

  ‘Too true. The second time he’d probably give you in charge!’

  ‘I really meant, please don’t Judge me on the strength of that. I’m not as a rule irresponsible.’

  ‘Annoying Angus isn’t irresponsible. Do it as much as you like.’ Wild as it seemed, the voice had a ring of truth.

  Could she mean it? Maggie questioned, and put the thought aside as fantastic.

  Princes Gardens were cool and colourful and music was in the air. At the entrance the floral clock this year was mostly blue and honoured Sir Walter Scott. A band would shortly occupy the flag-decked bandstand in the dell, but at the moment amplifiers wafted famous voices across the triangles of pale pink and pale yellow roses.

  Listening to them and watching the passing crowds had a soothing effect and Troy was marvellous company even if her eyes and words were wicked.

  ‘Troy is a most demented child!’ she announced, mimicking Graham to perfection. ‘I kid you not,’ she went on laughingly in her much more anglicised tones. ‘I heard him myself. An Angus original, of course. “The One and Only” thinks I’m past saving.’

  ‘Why do you call him that?’ Troy had used the phrase before.

  “‘The One and Only”? It’s his name—Angus. That’s what it means. And doesn’t it suit him?’

  Maggie, remembering the stony countenance of a few hours back, did not dispute it. But time was getting on, soon they would be returning to the hotel, and disappointingly no decision had been made about her own appointment. ‘I hope you consider me suitable for the job,’ she said on impulse. ‘Today has really shown me how much I want to come back.’

  ‘Do you—still? I’ve been wondering.’ The unwonted gravity was unnerving. It recalled that strange look of disbelief with which Troy had greeted her. ‘After all, you’re not unemployed?’

  Unnerving and discouraging. But one had to be honest. ‘No. I have a job and I like it. But it’s not in Scotland and I very much want Kelly to grow up in her own country.’

  The silence seemed endless. She wished she could interpret both it and Troy’s brooding face. At last the other girl spoke.

  ‘Yes, Derek told me,’ she said quite gently. ‘And I like people who take on things. So, okay, you’re on. And don’t thank me. I’m suiting myself. I was just afraid my respected cousin might have put you off. You do realise—’ She paused to dart a smile at a little girl in red pants with a large red apple on the front of her white sweater. ‘He’ll be your next-door neighbour?’

  It was a facer. Maggie stared.

  ‘You know how I got the stables,’ Troy continued. ‘My great-uncle left them to me. He was a funny old bird always doing the unpredictable. He had a coronary a few years ago and the doctor wanted him to retire. Naturally, being my great-uncle than whom they don’t come more cussed, he wouldn’t hear of it, but they did reach a compromise about working shorter hours and taking up a hobby. Uncle Robert translated this into building the stables and buying horses and a manager. And I do mean buy! The poor chap couldn’t call his soul his own. He has his notice in, as a matter of fact.’ Again she paused, this time to pat a West Highland terrier who was trotting importantly past. ‘You probably know all that. The point is, Uncle Robert built the stables on his own land, Strathyre, and when he died the house and most of everything else went to Angus. With luck, of course, you won’t see him every day, but don’t overlook him, he’ll be there!’

  Overlook him? You might as well see Princes Street without the Castle. The woman who could have twelve stone of Calvin on her doorstep and overlook it did not exist. Or, if she did, she was not Maggie Campbell.

  It was a setback and it needed thought.

  At some time in the small hours the floodlights, which had bathed Calton Hill, St. Giles and the Scott Monument in silver, the City Chambers in green, and the Castle—as befitted the city’s crown—in pale gold, were switched off and at dayfall Edinburgh was a city without a festival.

  It was a beautiful morning and Maggie, on her own till lunchtime, found much to enjoy. Sun lacquered the pillars on Calton Hill, in the Canongate the turreted steeple of the Tolbooth had its old Hans Andersen magic, and a backdrop of blue sky sharpened the icing sugar bastions of White Horse Close. She rediscovered a favourite dress shop under a gallery near the gates of Holyrood and window-shopped. A MacAllan royal blue blazer was teamed with a banana polo neck and pride of place had gone to another MacAllan this time a round-necked classic in sweet pea-printed cashmere.

  Church bells were ringing as she turned to walk bac
k to the Castle and in High Street worshippers were heading towards St. Giles. In nearby Lawnmarket, however, two figures beside herself disregarded the call. They were looking in the window of a bookshop, the man in a black blazer, the boy in a green and red kilt. Glad as she would have been to hurry by, politeness demanded she should say good morning. It was received with, at least, surface civility.

  ‘Troy turned up. We told her about you,’ Angus MacAllan said sparsely. ‘I hope she found you all right.’

  ‘Troy would lose her head if it weren’t stuck on,’ Graham observed. ‘She...’

  ‘Now, now!’ Angus shot him a warning look.

  The lad went off the air as sharply as though a button had been pressed and Maggie, rather to her surprise, felt sorry for him. At home Kelly did that and it was a sign of deep hurt. The younger MacAllan with his sporran and tartan stockings was seemingly the ultimate in self-possession, but inside he just might be burning up.

  ‘Did you enjoy the Tattoo?’ she asked him, and felt her own cheeks warm. Angus MacAllan, quite definitely, had flicked her a friendly glance. Miracles would never cease. She had done the right thing.

  ‘It was very good. There were over two hundred marching and six different tartans. And then there were fireworks. It wasn’t over until after twelve and some people had to walk all the way to Mayfield Gardens.’

  ‘Knows it all,’ his father murmured, and again they seemed to be on the same wavelength. Incredible but emboldening.

  ‘Miss MacAllan has probably told you what our meeting was about,’ Maggie said on impulse. ‘She’s offered me the job of managing her riding stables.’

  ‘At Strathyre?’ The fact that Angus MacAllan did not raise his voice made it no less masterful.

  She nodded. His face was again a stone wall. ‘Have you accepted?’

  ‘Not yet.’ She was seeing Troy again that afternoon.

  ‘You’d have your hands full. There are six horses there at the moment.’

  ‘That wouldn’t worry me. I like being busy.’ Hanged if she’d let him see her rattled.

  ‘I should think twice,’ he said evenly. ‘No point in taking on too much.’ His eyes were as direct as gunshot. ‘It’s a job for a man.’

  ‘An old-fashioned sentiment, if I may say so.’

  ‘Maybe, but in my experience old-fashioned customs die hard.’ The words, as always, were softly spoken, the look accompanying them was steel.

  What now? Maggie wondered. Without doubt something was ticking over in the mighty MacAllan brain. Its owner, however, had apparently spent all he intended in the way of words.

  ‘Come away then.’ His hand went to Graham’s jacket sleeve. ‘We don’t want to be late for church.’

  As their two figures swung across the road they took exactly the same stride and seemed to be exchanging not one word. Silence, of course, Maggie reflected, was golden and father, at least, was a miser.

  No use pretending. One amenity that Strathyre certainly would not provide was the welcome mat.

  Troy’s parents, as Maggie already knew, lived in Bathgate and their daughter, after being evicted from the flat in Charlotte Square, had nowhere else to go but home. She did this as seldom as possible and last night she had been quite frank about it.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Generation gap, I suppose. We don’t communicate.’

  ‘It can be terrifying,’ she had gone on more seriously. ‘My father wants me to go into MacAllans and my mother’s even worse. She’s got the man picked out!’

  ‘Would I by any chance have met him?’ Maggie had asked slyly.

  Indeed she had, Troy had returned, exploding into riotous mirth. ‘Joke of the century, isn’t it? How silly can parents get?’ Her mother, she concluded, was never off the matrimonial kick and her father refused to be civil to any man with long hair. Since that included most of Troy’s friends she couldn’t bring them into the house at Bathgate.

  ‘Do you think she puts them up in Charlotte Square?’ Maggie subsequently asked Derek. Angus MacAllan’s tetchy reference to ‘my young cousin and her friends’ had come to mind.

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ Derek answered. ‘You weren’t the first Goldilocks, don’t think it.’ He added sharply: ‘What’s it to be, then? Yes or no? Don’t keep me in suspense.’

  It was now Sunday lunchtime. Maggie had returned from her wander, Derek had arrived to stand her lunch, and drive her out to Bathgate and the next meeting with Troy. He did look anxious, bless him, he really did. She said: ‘Yes,’ and could hardly credit the look on his face. It was a face that smiled often—the long mouth had humorous lines and the eyes were puckish. But now it did not smile. A dark hectic pink mounted through cheeks and forehead. ‘Thank God for that! I’ve been worried stiff.’

  ‘Whit way?’ She had to laugh at herself using the old phrase.

  ‘Whit way?’ Derek echoed. ‘Whitn’t way, she asks me? Because I want you, that’s why. Isn’t that enough?’

  She knew how Phyl would have liked her to answer, but it was just not easy to come out with it. For either of them. She knew that too.

  And while she hesitated the moment died.

  ‘All right,’ Derek said understandingly. ‘Let’s go and let Troy off the hook.’

  It was a half hour’s drive. The house stood in its own grounds and a long silver coup£ was parked in front of it. Not at all the car Maggie would have expected Troy’s father to drive. He had sounded so stuffy and this was a mover; its famous non-British name told her that.

  ‘How much would it do?’ she asked, looking at it with reverence.

  ‘Anything!’ Derek answered, his finger on the bellpush. ‘They cruise at eighty and you’d hardly know it.’

  Definitely not the car for the household she had expected, but there inconsistency ended. Maggie had expected Troy’s mother to be older than the average parent of a twenty-year-old and she certainly looked as though she were in the late fifties. As well, she had a querulous mouth.

  ‘It’s Miss Campbell, isn’t it? Troy’s expecting you. She’s got someone with her just now, but will you come in and wait?’

  Cordial enough, but she did look at Maggie rather oddly. ‘It’s about the job at Strathyre, isn’t it? Oh, aye. I thought that’s what it was.’

  Now what? Maggie wondered. It had not been an effusive glance. Nobody likes the look of me except Derek, she thought flippantly. A pity, because she had put on her second new outfit, a tunic and pants suit in poppy red with paisley-patterned sleeves. It was a good colour for a Nordic blonde and, not to give the impression that because you loved horses you had necessarily to look horsey, she had brushed out her hair to a fall of primrose.

  Her hostess’s shrewd eyes resting on all this made Maggie feel as though she were under a microscope. Derek, however, was greeted cordially and Mrs. MacAllan’s smile broadened even more as she ushered them from hall to sitting-room. ‘And here’s a young man I don’t think you’ve met, Mr. Grant. My nephew, Graham.’

  For the minute Maggie had to stop herself exclaiming.

  Bad enough to spend the future on MacAllan territory without bumping into them twice in one day of the present. The hope that Troy’s mother might have another relative named Graham was instantly dashed.

  ‘Cousin,’ a familiar voice was saying awkwardly. He had his father’s soft tones and the remark went unnoticed. ‘Er—cousin,’ he said again, clearing his throat.

  ‘All right Mr. Computer—cousin,’ their hostess said playfully. She had kept her smile, but Maggie thought she was not too pleased about it.

  Derek had mentioned en route that he wanted a word with Troy’s father whose firm was one of his clients. He chose that moment to request it.

  ‘We keep on meeting, don’t we?’ Maggie, abandoned to Graham, decided to make the best of it.

  As a conversationalist, however, he did not shine. He said: ‘Yes,’ and looked out the window as though something of great import was happening on the lawn.

  She tried again: ‘Are you on
your way home now?’

  Again he said: ‘Yes,’ but this time more readily, so she went on. Was there a pet at home? A dog or a cat?

  The light brown head shook. ‘A pet would be a bit difficult. We’re out all day.’

  It made her feel stupid. Such a sensible outlook, and completely detached. ‘What about horses? I mean—the riding stables. Do you like having them so near?’ Kelly for all her shyness was so involved in the running of Fairley Hall. Could any youngster in similar circumstances fail to react?

  Graham could. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. I don’t really have the time.’

  Years flashed back to the moment when she was eight and watching village boys torturing a stray cat. ‘Now you know what boys are like, keep away from them,’ her aunt had cautioned. Her aunt was doing her kind deed by looking after Maggie and her twin now that their mother was dead, but she found them a trial at times and she’d scared them, whiles, to get them docile. She had scared Maggie over the boys and now Graham MacAllan aged about eleven was scaring her again.

  Mrs. MacAllan came back into a room of total silence. She was not long about breaking it.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid Troy’s still not free. Angus MacAllan, her second cousin—well, he’s no relation at all really—dropped by for a word.’ An obvious fear of contradiction caused a wary glance towards Graham. It was unnecessary. Bare knees spread and kilt dipping, he was immersed in a supplement from one of the day’s papers. ‘I’m sure you’ll not mind waiting, Miss Campbell. They have a lot to discuss, I know.’

  It was one thing to have a silent companion, it was worse to have a garrulous one.