by Valpy, Fiona
And, in the end, what had it all been for? Could we ever really have belonged in the world of the Mackenzie-Grants? Mum’s last faint hope of that ever coming to pass died with Alec. She never met anyone else. Many of the men who left their Highland homes to fight in that war never returned, so there was another generation of women, just like there’d been in the aftermath of the previous war, whose prospects of marriage were slim to none. Mum had been one of those single women, living her quiet life in the little lochside community among the hills, bringing me up in Keeper’s Cottage with Grandad, until he died just after my fifth birthday.
I sit in silence for a while, mulling it all over. But at last I ask, ‘What happened to the Aultbea Songbirds?’
‘We never sang in public again, apart from in the kirk, after Alec and Ruaridh died.’ Mairi’s voice sounds softly wistful. ‘But, Lexie, it meant so much to your mum when you won that scholarship to the school in London. She felt then that you were being given the opportunity she’d never had. To share your voice with the world.’
I know her words are meant kindly, but I wince, feeling even worse now that I’ve let them all down. And my mum in particular. She’d been careful never to put pressure on me, but now I can see how much my career must have meant to her – so much more than I’d ever realised.
I pick up the photo of Mum with the wind blowing her hair and the sun on her face, her expression full of a love that was taken from her so brutally. Then I set it back on the mantelpiece with a sigh. As I look round, I catch Bridie and Mairi exchanging a glance.
‘What?’ I ask.
Bridie shakes her head and presses her lips together, as if the words might escape, unbidden, unless she refuses to let them.
But Mairi reaches across and pats her hand. ‘It’s time she knew the full story, Bridie. So she can understand.’
‘Understand what?’ I say, my eyes darting from one face to the other.
Bridie’s expression is wary, closed off as she tries, one last time, to keep the secret that she’s held tight for so many years. Almost thirty-four years, to be precise: my lifetime. But Mairi nods, encouraging. And so, reluctantly, Bridie tells me the rest.
Flora, 1944
Iain glanced over at Flora as he finished his breakfast. ‘You don’t have to come, you know.’
She reached for the teapot and topped up his cup. ‘I’m coming with you, Dad, and that’s the end of it. You can’t manage the garron as well as the guns up there with Sir Charles. You know what he’s like; he has his heart set on his Christmas venison. Even if he hadn’t asked you to bring me along to help with the stalking, I’d have wanted to lend you a hand.’
Her father blew the steam from his tea and looked at her over the rim of his cup. ‘Are you sure you’re up to it, lass? Not still feeling too wabbit?’
Automatically, Flora laid a hand on the rounding of her belly. She was only four months along, but she’d discovered that she’d not been able to button her trousers that morning. She found a belt in Ruaridh’s drawers, which had still never been emptied – neither of them had had the heart yet – that would do to hold them up. ‘I’ll be fine, Dad, honestly. I’m not so sick these days, and I’ll only be sitting quietly with the garron while you go up to the ridge.’
Neither of them needed the reminder that there was no one else now, in any case, with Alec and Ruaridh gone. The Laverock boys, though they had proven themselves dogged and determined beaters on grouse and pheasant drives, were still on the young side to have the patience and the stamina for stalking.
She stood, clearing the bowls into the sink, and then handed her father a newspaper-wrapped packet of sandwiches for his pocket. She pulled on her jacket and threw her plaid shawl over her shoulders, partly for warmth and partly to help conceal the swell of her stomach from Sir Charles. She didn’t want to add to his rage and grief at the loss of his only son with the news that the gamekeeper’s daughter was carrying his grandchild. She’d been tempted to tell Lady Helen, who might have been glad to know a part of Alec lived on, but the last time she had seen her at a meeting of the Rural, Flora had turned away, unconsciously shielding her belly with a protective arm, worried that the dark purple bruise on her ladyship’s cheekbone might be supplemented with worse if Sir Charles’s anger were to be further compounded.
They set off for the stable and worked in silence, Flora slipping the halter over the pony’s head and buckling the throat strap, while her father lifted the heavy deer saddle on to its back and fastened the girth. Flora led the garron slowly up the track alongside Ardtuath House while Iain went to collect the rifles from the gun safe and let Sir Charles know that they were ready.
His lordship took his double-barrelled Purdey from her father without a word, scarcely acknowledging Flora as he strode ahead up the track. She walked steadily, if a little more slowly than usual, the pony patiently matching its pace to hers as they crossed the hills above the village. They were headed for the lochan, where Flora would wait with the garron while the two men climbed on towards the higher land where the deer would be sheltering from the blustering December wind. When the path steepened, her father turned back and glanced at her anxiously, raising his eyebrows in a question. She was breathing heavily, but gave him a reassuring nod to let him know that she could manage.
An hour later they crossed the burn just below the lochan, swollen with winter rain, and her father extended a hand to help steady her where the stones were slippery with damp moss. She’d been looking down, making sure of her footing, one hand on the leading rein and the other automatically cradling her belly, the shawl slipping back slightly on her shoulders. When she raised her head again, her eyes met those of Sir Charles. He was watching her coldly, appraisingly, from where he stood on the path above her. She froze as she saw his gaze darken and his face flush claret red with anger as realisation dawned. Then he turned abruptly away and strode on ahead, towards the waters of the lochan that were as black as his mood.
When they reached the shelter of the bothy, her father handed his rifle to Flora for safekeeping and then took his binoculars from the leather case slung at his hip, scanning the hillside.
A small group of red deer hinds, foraging for the scant pickings of the winter ground, raised their heads. They were far enough off not to be panicked by the appearance of the three humans and the white pony, but watched warily from the hill. The lead hind grew uneasy and began to walk away, picking her way along the contour line, the others following in single file behind her before she stopped again. The stalking party was concealed from the herd now by the bothy wall, and Flora let the garron crop the bleached tufts of grass that grew alongside the stones, keeping her quiet. The hind’s ears pricked as she waited, unmoving, muscles tensed for flight. But when the humans didn’t re-emerge from behind the ruin she settled again at last, and resumed her search among the woody twigs of a clump of bog myrtle for any last leaves.
Still watching the hinds through his binoculars, her father said quietly, ‘You might get a shot from here. They’re well spaced and you’ve the hill behind them.’ His words were barely more than a murmur.
Flora glanced towards Sir Charles. But he wasn’t watching the deer on the hill. He was watching her. And an icy fear gripped her when she saw the look in his eyes.
His flush of anger had gone, to be replaced by a look of cold calculation. Very deliberately, he reached into the case on his belt and took out two bullets. His eyes still fixed on Flora, he loaded his rifle. Then he stepped away from the bothy, putting space between himself and the Gordons as he raised the gun to his shoulder.
The deer began to move again, edgy now, and her father lowered the binoculars. ‘They’ll climb higher in a minute, I don’t doubt, now they’ve glimpsed us. Most likely they’ll make for the far corrie beyond the ridgeline.’
The garron shifted, stamping a hoof uneasily on the hard ground.
There was a soft click as Sir Charles released the safety, both barrels of his rifle primed.
/> At the sound, her father turned towards him, raising a hand and saying, ‘You’ll not get a clean chest shot now, the angle’s wrong.’ Then he stopped, his words left hanging, unanswered, on the winter air.
For a moment there was a quietness so profound it seemed that the earth held its breath. The three figures stood frozen in a grotesque tableau, watched only by the red deer and a single skylark that dropped its fluting notes of warning into the silence to break the spell.
And then the air shattered as a shot rang out, echoing off the hills to rebound across the dark waters of the lochan, and in a terrified scramble the deer fled, leaping upwards, away from the kill.
Sure-footed as ever, the garron picked its way down the path. The deer saddle on its back swayed with each step under the weight of the body slung across it, an ooze of blood blooming scarlet against its white flank. As they reached the lochside, the pony’s hooves rang hollowly on the harder surface of the road.
The crofters emerged in silence from their cottages as Iain Gordon and his daughter led the garron through the village, making their way slowly towards the gates of Ardtuath House. As they approached the hall, a group of women emerged, and Iain and Flora stopped.
There were gasps and someone whispered, ‘It’s Sir Charles!’
Then every head turned towards Lady Helen, who stood frozen in the doorway.
It was Moira Carmichael who moved first, hurrying to Flora, who had begun to shiver uncontrollably beneath the folds of her woollen shawl.
Iain pulled the faded deerstalker from his head and stood before her ladyship, his eyes downcast. Then he lifted his face, and it was creased with pain.
His voice was rough with anguish, though his words were clear and firm, loud enough for all to hear. ‘I’m sorry. I did it.’
Flora sank to the ground and Bridie rushed to her side, wrapping her in her arms and rocking her as she keened, her cries as wordlessly plaintive as the curlew’s on the shore.
Then Lady Helen took a step towards her husband’s body and Iain hung his head again, unable to look at her.
‘No.’ The word was spoken with a firmness that brooked no dissent. For a moment the only sound was the hush of the waves on the sand, as even the curlew fell silent.
All heads turned again towards her ladyship. ‘No,’ she repeated. ‘There has already been enough loss. There will be no more. This was an accident, Iain. A tragic accident.’
‘But . . .’ he began.
‘No,’ she said again, silencing him. ‘There were two of you there to witness it, you and Flora. His gun misfired. We all understand that, don’t we?’ She looked around at the small crowd that had gathered, the members of the tight-knit crofting community who shared one another’s lives. The bruise on her cheekbone was a dark shadow against the whiteness of her skin. There was silence, then a few faint nods.
She reached down and held out a hand to Flora. ‘Come, my dear, get up off that cold ground. You’ve had a terrible shock. And in your condition you need to take extra care.’ Tenderly, gently, she pulled the shawl around Flora, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. ‘Let’s get you into my car. I’ll drive you home, Iain. Bridie, you come too.’
She drew herself up to her full height and looked round commandingly at the assembled company. Her voice, usually soft and slightly hesitant, was strong. ‘Mr Carmichael, Mr McTaggart, would you be so kind as to lead the pony back to Ardtuath House? And could someone tell Doctor Greig to come as soon as he can? Thank you. I shall be waiting.’
Lexie, 1979
It’s a bright, blustery late spring morning and Daisy and I are visiting the churchyard to inspect the stone with its simple lettering, which is now in its place on Mum’s grave. We’ve gathered a bunch of wildflowers from the hedgerows around Keeper’s Cottage – ox-eye daisies, red campion and meadowsweet – and tied it with a twist of wool from Mum’s sewing box. I think she’d like that. Daisy carries a separate little posy of her own. We set them beside the headstone, next to the one that bears the names of Mum’s father, mother and baby sister. I trace the incised letters, rubbing away a little of the lichen that has begun to encrust the older stone.
Daisy toddles around busily, picking tufts of bog cotton to add to our offerings. I sit on the mossy ground and watch her play, the sunlight setting her halo of rose-gold curls aglow. Among the sombre grey stones in the little churchyard, her vitality is a welcome reminder that life continues.
I extract a few of the daisies from my makeshift bouquet and put one on my grandfather Iain’s grave.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper. ‘She and I wouldn’t be here without you.’
Then I clamber to my feet and take Daisy by the hand to walk across to the Mackenzie-Grant memorial. The stone angel keeps its eyes lowered, praying for the souls of those it watches over.
‘And well you might,’ I tell it. ‘He was a bad ’un, Sir Charles Mackenzie-Grant, even if he was my grandfather.’
Then I take another ox-eye daisy and place it next to the inscription bearing my father’s name. Alexander Mackenzie-Grant, lost at sea. ‘I wish you’d lived,’ I whisper. ‘I wish I’d known you.’
Now that Mum’s stone is in place, his name and hers face each other across a sweep of windswept hillside above the silver loch that was their home. The place where they shared the happiest days of their lives. It’s not much, but at least it’s something. And I know their story will be kept safe here, among the community that nurtured them as it nurtures me and my child.
I remember Mum putting her flowers on this grave. I’d always assumed they were for Alec. But perhaps they were for Sir Charles as well. Perhaps they were her way of saying she forgave him. Iain and Sir Charles’s names face each other, too, I realise, just as the two fathers faced each other up there on the hill that day for a split second, before Iain fired the shot that saved my life before it had properly begun.
Daisy hums to herself as she continues to toddle between the stones of the graveyard, laying strands of purple vetch and heads of bog cotton on each one.
I wonder where Lady Helen’s memorial is – my grandmother. Mairi and Bridie have told me that she was killed at the very start of 1945, in the final months of the war. With the Allies in Europe by then, I suppose everyone assumed that London would be a safer place. But they hadn’t reckoned on the final desperate acts of retaliation by the Nazis, who had developed deadly V-2 rockets that could be fired into the heart of England’s capital from Germany, with devastating effects. On the morning of 3rd January, Lady Helen Mackenzie-Grant had just arrived to start work as a volunteer at the Royal Hospital in Chelsea. She was one of those killed when a rocket struck the north-east wing of the building without warning.
As I trace my father’s name chiselled into the polished granite memorial, I think that Lady Helen’s name should be here as well, rather than – presumably – on a headstone in a lonely graveyard somewhere in London that no one ever visits. I vow that next time we come I’ll bring a proper posy to lay at the feet of the angel, in her memory. I wish I’d known her, too.
Flora, 1944
The funeral procession wound along the road, following the hearse that drove slowly from Ardtuath House to the churchyard. Dressed in their sombre Sunday best, the community watched in silence as Sir Charles’s coffin was lowered into the grave at the angel’s feet, the minister reciting the words that had become all too familiar to so many families these past years.
Lady Helen stood straight-backed at the graveside, her black hat and coat emphasising the whiteness of her face. As the crowd filed past her, paying their respects, Flora and her father hung back, waiting until everyone had gone, bar the gravedigger, who stood to one side, leaning on his shovel. Lady Helen stepped towards them and folded Flora into her embrace.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’ she asked, her dark eyes solicitous.
Flora nodded, unable to speak. Iain looked wretched, his hat in his hand, finding no words, either.
‘Now then,’ she said bris
kly, ‘I’ve been sorting a few things out. I’ve had a few decisions to make, as you can imagine. I’d like to come and see you tomorrow, if I may?’
‘Certainly,’ said Flora, looking up in surprise. ‘We could come to the house, if you prefer?’
‘No, I think I’d like to come to Keeper’s Cottage. I know how welcome you always made Alec feel there. It will do me good to visit. Shall we say ten o’clock tomorrow morning? No need to go to any trouble.’
The keeper and his daughter watched as her ladyship got into the gleaming black car and was driven home. Then the pair of them followed, on foot, to change out of their good clothes and get on with their work.
Lady Helen knocked at the door of Keeper’s Cottage at ten o’clock sharp the next morning. She wore her black coat and a silk headscarf knotted beneath her chin.
‘Please, take a seat, your ladyship.’ Flora’s father motioned towards the sitting room, where three chairs had been set out in a row.
‘The kitchen looks far cosier, I think. Let’s sit at the table instead.’ She pulled off her scarf and smoothed her hair into place, shrugging her coat from her shoulders as she drew up a chair.
Flora had never seen her looking so relaxed. It was as if she’d had to carry herself carefully, self-consciously, at Ardtuath House whereas here, in the cottage, she could be at ease. Just like her son before her.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea, Lady Helen?’ Flora asked.
‘No, thank you, dear. I’ve only just had one. Please, sit down.’ She gazed around, taking in the range and the shelves stacked with gleaming pots and pans and floral cups and saucers, and nodded her approval. ‘No wonder Alec liked spending time here. It feels so homely.’ She smiled.