‘Now there’s a pompous speech,’ Angus MacAllan remarked. ‘Suppose I said I was enjoying Kelly’s company?’ The journey was nearly over. They crossed the Dee and passed the fish market. Ahead was the town hall clock and behind it the high white towers of new University buildings.
‘I suggest we have something to eat,’ Angus said unexpectedly. ‘I could bring you straight to Strathyre, but if we eat first I can pick up Graham en route.’
Given a choice Maggie would have preferred to get to the stables as quickly as possible, but this after all was the city of good fellowship. The car was parked and they walked up Guild Street to a restaurant Angus vouched for. ‘I could bring you to a smarter place, but if you want good unpretentious food this has my money.’
Certainly Maggie had seldom tasted beef as tender or as well flavoured. After lunch, again surprisingly, Angus MacAllan suggested a brief walk round. He was an Aberdonian and proud of his clean light duty. A turn from busy Union Street took them to the University college of nineteenth-century Mareschal and fifteenth-century Kings. It was cold, the air had a bright thinness far removed from the softer Irish atmosphere, but the hard blue sky seen through the creamy gold spires of Mareschal could have made a travel poster.
Angus had graduated from Mareschal. ‘We worked in those days,’ he allowed his eye to linger affectionately on the coloured crests above its high pointed arch.
A small moment but with closeness. Maggie could imagine him soaking up knowledge, a boy who’d ‘get on’. Had he brothers or sisters, or was he literally ‘the one and only’? As lately as the start of this day it would not have occurred to her to wonder. Now she was interested.
‘The harbour lies that way.’ He pointed. ‘And the beach and the airport and the heliport. That’s north. There’s a big golf links to the south. You know what Aberdeen means, of course. It’s the mouth—Aber—of the two rivers, the Dee to the south and the Don to the north. You must go down to the harbour some time and see the trawlers going out to the fishing beds.’ He went on to speak of the recent oil strike a hundred miles off Aberdeen. It had brought a boom to the city and prices of property had gone ‘sky high’. ‘As I know to my cost. We tried to buy some the other day, for expansion. It was a good thing in the end, though. It made me rethink.’
It would be difficult to get lost in Aberdeen so long as you had the use of your nose. The tang of the fish market came to meet them as they walked back. ‘I just want to drop into the plant for a minute,’ Angus stated. ‘It’s on our way to the school. I’ve been away, you see, a week today.’
It figured. The Dublin conference had ended on Saturday night, he had picked the car up in Edinburgh on Sunday and gone down to Roxburgh on business. Maggie remembered the telephone call he had made from her flat. It had been to somewhere near Hawick. It amused her in an idle way to play detective as the long black car eased past Aberdeen’s cream and olive green buses and went down Union
Terrace.
A demanding life and difficult without a wife to look after things at home. Who cooked his meals? Who, for instance, would have his dinner ready tonight?
A wayside sign caught her attention. Its blue field bore the name Mac ALLANS OF ABERDEEN and carried in one corner the head of a Cheviot ram. Some yards further on came open gates, a white-marked drive and the original granite block of MacAllans flanked by two modern purpose-built wings. As Angus braked a uniformed commissionaire came forward to open the door. ‘Stretch your legs if you want,’ Maggie was bade. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’ A quick stride took him through the heavy glass door.
Maggie left the car and took Kelly to investigate a display case holding a life-size model of the ram on the signboard. The factory reception area with its burnt orange carpet, one paisley-papered wall and a dangling metal mobile carried unmistakably the autograph of an interior consultant, the rest of the buildings were functional.
In one place detergent suds dribbled on to a passage. Other windows showed steam presses and whirling rotary driers. The door of a boiler room stood open. A shed-type annexe held piles of finished knitwear. Tumbled in one of the loading bays were huge cartons of yam. Maggie, again wearing her detective hat, worked out from the brand name on the cartons that MacAllans were not spinners. Their wool must come to them finished for needles or machines.
‘Are you interested in this?’ Angus MacAllan’s voice sounded surprised and pleased. He had obviously come in search of them.
‘In MacAllans’ knitwear? Show me the woman who isn’t! I’ll prove it the day my ship comes home!’
‘Oh, come now, we’re not as pricey as all that. And it’s worth buying a good article.’ He sensed her amusement and flushed. ‘Well, I think so—naturally.’
‘I don’t dispute it.’
‘If you’d care to see round some time, not today, I’ll be glad to arrange it.’
‘You’re on. I’d adore to.’
‘Right.’ He still looked pleased. ‘That’s a deal. Remind me if I look like forgetting it.’
‘And this is my friend Jacob,’ he added as they walked past the ram in the front window. ‘So called because he’s made of coats of many colours.’
‘I used to come here when I was your size,’ he told Kelly. ‘Smaller indeed. I was wee for my age. My father used to kid me that Jacob was alive and I believed him.’ His eyebrows drew together. ‘I did surely. Graham now, he’s much cannier. You wouldn’t catch Graham like that.’
No one having met Graham would need the telling, Maggie thought. The fact that Kelly had fairly flown over the hurdle of Graham’s father did not mean that her troubles were over. Back at the car, she guided her niece into the back. ‘In here, Kelly. Leave the front seat for Graham.’ Angus MacAllan had gone round to the driver’s door. He said: ‘Thanks,’ and casual, even absent, as the tone had been, she could not help feeling chilled. A line of some sort seemed to have been drawn.
The school was heard long before the thick round columns of its facade came into view. The junior classes were out and small navy blue figures swarmed deafeningly in the playground.
Graham was standing with another boy at the window of a sports shop on the corner. Grey trousers and a navy blazer were not as regal as Clanranald kilts but decidedly stretching. Maggie realised she must stop thinking of him as a little boy. He swung the door open and slid inside, case in hand and haversack over one shoulder. He did not speak, but his eyes met Maggie’s in recognition and he smiled.
‘Hullo, son,’ Angus MacAllan said sparsely. ‘Got everything?’
The caramel brown head nodded and the car moved forward. ‘You know Miss Campbell,’ Angus MacAllan continued. ‘And this is Kelly she’s got with her. Kelly Gibson.’ Graham’s: ‘Hallo,’ was polite if perfunctory. Kelly appeared too mesmerised to say a word. Maggie suddenly wished she had not tied a ribbon on Kelly’s baby-soft hair. It kept slipping off and it looked ridiculous. Graham’s neat head was enviable.
‘Did you go to Hawick, Dad?’ he asked in an undertone.
‘Yes. On Sunday, after I’d phoned you. I think it will work out. I was there all day yesterday. Some things still to iron out, but by and large we’ve reached agreement.’
‘Does Granddad know?’
‘Not yet. Not till I hear from them again.’
Graham nodded. ‘And Troy?’
‘No. Not at this stage. She’s plenty to get on with at the moment.’
Again that adult nod. ‘If it comes off will we be moving?’
‘From here? Certainly not. Some of the plant maybe, I’m not just sure. The main part stays where it is and so do we.’ Without taking his eyes from the traffic now thickening in—Maggie glanced at the street sign—Holborn Street, Angus MacAllan seemed to see the uncertainty in the enquirer’s face. ‘Why? Were you worried?’
‘I think so,’ Graham said in that judicious tone. ‘On the whole. I might make the team, you see, if I train.’
It might have been two partners talking instead of a man and a schoo
lboy. Maggie had pitied the man and the burden he carried, now she was realising that he did not carry it quite alone. Graham obviously knew what was being discussed in Hawick and had had his own weight to carry.
‘Forgive us, Miss Campbell,’ Angus MacAllan begged. ‘We shouldn’t be talking shop. And we haven’t far to go now, as no doubt you’ll be glad to hear.’ The pleasant suburb, green-shrubbed, with silver grey houses, was spacing out.
‘We live nearly in Milltimber,’ Graham said suddenly. ‘The Dee is down there. I don’t know if you can see it or not. The Dee is a salmon river.’
They turned left, twisting through small roads. Black wrought iron gates, beautifully laced, loomed ahead and the car went through. The drive was short, swirling its yellow gravel round an island of green lawn. The house faced them, not new, not palatial and not grey. Its soft red bricks had the glow of embers. Its dark brown roof was a reminder of local slate quarrying. It was Georgian, high-roofed with slender chimney stacks and an all-white pilastered door which was a gem of its kind. The extraordinary thing was that Maggie felt she knew it. Her heart leaped with pleasure like greeting an old friend.
‘Oh!’ she breathed. ‘Is this Strathyre?’
‘This is Strathyre,’ Angus MacAllan affirmed. ‘I trust it meets with your approval.’
‘More than that. It...’ she stopped. ‘Sorry. That’s ridiculous.’
‘What is?’
‘Just that it seems familiar.’
‘Ah well,’ the voice was steady as a rock. ‘You are called Maggie.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s a name not unconnected with Strathyre. With Bonnie Strathyre. You do know the song?’ he questioned as she did not speak.
‘Yes.’ She had blushed. ‘I don’t think I knew it was about a Maggie.’
‘Well, perhaps Strathyre knows it,’ Angus MacAllan said indulgently. ‘And we can take it as a good omen for your stay here. My wife and I were years trying to buy this house. We put our eye on it long before it came on the market. And then they asked a fancy price.’ He pulled himself up. ‘Well, now let me show you your hut and ben. One of those little boxes, I’m afraid, but Jean did her best with it. We hoped her mother would move into it, but that never came off.’ It was another sidelight on what seemed to have been a close-knit happy family.
Meantime: ‘This way, Miss Campbell,’ her host was indicating. ‘Graham, you’ll find Miss Campbell’s cases in the boot.’
A ‘box’, Angus MacAllan had said, and as he piloted them past Strathyre’s beautiful white door a slice of roof could already be seen. A matter of yards later Maggie’s eye fell on her future abode.
It was a doll’s house, narrow as an up-ended carton and brown with darker brown tiles and a plain white door. The three white-framed windows, two up and one down, had grey shutters. A post bore its name Wee House.
Inside, the small rooms, centrally heated, had the minimum of furniture. The bedrooms were twins, each with the same deep pleated white nets at the window, the same peacock blue chair and aluminium bedlight and the same tall headed curtains in a cross-stitch print of grey and peacock. A bold design in tropical greens and yellows hung to the floor in the living-room; in the kitchen the colour scheme was ochre and golden brown.
The rooms were bright and young-looking but not sumptuous. They made the bathroom with its decorative black and gold Paisley wallpaper a breathtaking surprise. There was an expensive-looking black and gold suite and a thick off-white carpet.
‘We got Mac to move to a hotel,’ Angus MacAllan explained, ‘so that Mrs. Kerr—my home help—could get it cleaned and aired for you. I think you’ll find she has bought in some provisions. If she’s forgotten anything please let me know. But you’ll eat with us tonight, naturally.’
Naturally. A week ago it was the last word Maggie would have used or expected to hear. Now, miraculously, things seemed to have changed.
‘Not quite as near to the family as you were in Ireland,’ Angus remarked. It took a second to realise that he was referring to the horses. The stables were ‘that way’. He pointed. ‘And of course we have transport laid on.’ This was a joke. A rusty bicycle with a crossbar lay against the back wall.
‘I don’t know whose it is!’ Graham was declaring with a head shake when his eyes dilated. ‘Look!’ he exclaimed disgustedly. ‘Look—at—that—car.’’ A pale blue Mini was bounding up to the island of grass. ‘Oh, cheese it!’ he went on as the door opened to emit Troy’s slim figure. ‘What’s she coming for?’ Plainly he still felt no closer to his distant cousin; as plainly parental discipline still went.
‘Watch it,’ Angus MacAllan barked with a frown. He strode forward with a wave. ‘Hullo, Troy. This was surely not on the programme.’
Maggie, watching the meeting, could not but think of a State reception. With the head of MacAllans there was invariably an air of limousines and opening double doors.
With Troy the air was one of arms and legs and almost ballet grace. Today dark brown trousers, matching stocknecked shirt and bold herringbone waistcoat made another of the slightly extravagant outfits she wore so well. Short short hair was a test for any face, Troy’s flaring eyebrows and perky nose passed it triumphantly.
‘No way of getting in touch, Angus,’ she said carelessly. ‘I didn’t know where you were.’ She looked past him to Maggie and waved. ‘Great to see you, Maggie! Was I glad to hear you were coming. And Kelly.’ She had reached them now and was smiling charmingly at the wide-eyed child. ‘Cheers, Kelly. I’m Troy.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Troy’s arrival was the signal for Angus to seize his freedom. He went briskly after Graham who was already inside the house.
‘We’d better go straight down and see Mac,’ Troy decreed. She gave Maggie a searching glance. ‘How was the endurance test? I bet he lectured you all the way.’
‘Mr. MacAllan was very kind,’ Maggie said firmly. ‘He gave us lunch in Aberdeen and told Kelly lots about Scotland.’
‘I can believe that! I’ve suffered too,’ Troy groaned. ‘Look, he’s talking about dinner or supper or something tonight. It’s not necessary. I’ll get you off the hook.’
Maggie laughed. ‘It’s not as bad as that. I’ll survive.’ It seemed a sort of treachery to look forward to the meal. Like wanting to cross into the opposite camp. Yet looking forward to it she was. She had even decided that the occasion warranted a dress, and that meant new tights, buckled shoes and a bath if there was time. Kelly must wear a dress too. She had that petunia pink pinafore and a new white sweater. It was a long time since Maggie had put on a dress and gone to eat at a friend’s house, and besides, she made no bones about it, she was longing to see inside Strathyre.
‘Well, frankly, I don’t think I will,’ Troy quipped. ‘They got food in for you, didn’t they? Let’s eat at your place. You and me, I mean. We’ve loads to talk about.’
It was appalling to feel so disappointed. Maggie looked hesitantly at the vivid face. ‘You don’t think Mr. MacAllan might be upset?’
‘Upset? Angus?’ There was a peal of laughter. ‘He’ll feel he’s lost five pence and found ten. You don’t think he wants us, do you?’
The sense of it echoed coldly. ‘I suppose not.’
Troy’s eyes slanted at the corners. They were attractive eyes—eyes a man would find it hard to forget. And now they were shrewd as well.
‘I’ll allow his disguise isn’t bad at times. If he’s feeling mellow he can put on quite a show. I’ve had that too. But take the word of an expert, he hates company—except, of course, when it suits him. So don’t worry about tonight, we’ll be doing him a favour. The stables are there—see!’ She pointed. ‘I hope you’ll think they’re all right.’
There was not the slightest danger that Maggie would do otherwise. If Strathyre Riding Stables had been an old man’s toy, he had shopped in a millionaire toyshop.
Facing south and stone-built, they made an L-shaped block, pleasantly brightened by green doors and roof tiles an
d crowned excitingly by a steeple with a training clock. Outside, each door had its wall catch and was grilled for ventilation. Inside, all quarters were airy, bright and draught-free. Water to the loose-boxes was laid in a way that Maggie had read about for modern stables. A horse lowering its head into a bucket would automatically turn on the tap.
‘Mac,’ otherwise McKenzie, was fortyish with Celtic darkness and not as polished as she had expected. Undoubtedly, he and his helper Rob McIntyre, who incidentally was staying on, had done their work impeccably—the spotless boxes with their clean-swept concrete floors and the apple pie order in the tack room, food store and office were evidence enough—but he treated Maggie’s compliments like insults. ‘Why should they not be? They’re my job.’
He went through the books with the same taciturnity. Lessons, hirings and limited trekking expeditions comprised the curriculum. Charges were a little higher than those obtaining at Fairley Hall, but Maggie knew that riding in Ireland was generally less expensive. An attempt at conversation on this point, however, was not encouraged.
‘It’s none of my concern what goes on over there,’ her predecessor said uncompromisingly.
‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ he said as flatly when she commented on the small number of animals—five horses and one Welsh pony. ‘I do the work I’m paid for. It’s no’ my place to interfere.’
The same cold eye showed her the residents. One horse, a grey, had fine quarters, the others were good ‘rides’ with the best in the forehand. The last box was occupied by a liver chestnut geld. He stood quietly not taking much interest.
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