The Skylark's Secret

by Valpy, Fiona

  Iain clasped and unclasped his hands on the table before him, seemingly at a loss to know what to do with them. Flora reached over and laid one of her own hands over his, reassuring him.

  Lady Helen cleared her throat. ‘Now then, there’s to be no mention of my husband’s accident. It’s behind us once and for all. Doctor Greig took care of the paperwork and the police agreed there was no need for an inquest. Everyone’s far too busy with more important war work these days.’ She smiled at Iain, who gave a slow nod, unable to voice his feelings of gratitude. ‘I’ve been speaking to my lawyers. I have no desire to keep Ardtuath Estate on now, and I’ve known for some time that the Urquharts have wanted to buy it. It makes sense for them to combine it with their own land. They’re intending to plant trees. Apparently forestry is the way forward. They’ll use the house for shooting parties sometimes, but otherwise it will remain shut up. They’d like you to keep an eye on things here, Iain, although their own factor will be taking on the overall running of the land. The common grazings will be maintained for the use of the community. But I have excluded Keeper’s Cottage from the sale and I am making it over to you. This will always be your home, Iain, and a home for you, Flora, and for my grandchild. My lawyer in Inverness is drawing up the papers.’

  Flora and Iain looked at one another in amazement. ‘But what about you, Lady Helen? Where will you go?’ asked Iain.

  ‘I’ve decided to move back to London. There are too many memories here – good ones of Alec, of course, but they make me sad, those reminders that he’s no longer here. And I have some memories that are not so good, too.’ She dropped her eyes to her lap for a moment but not before Flora had glimpsed the look of pain in them. Then she lifted her head again, arranging her features in a determined smile. ‘So it will be for the best if I go back to London. Thankfully the house there escaped the Blitz undamaged, and I shall enjoy being nearer to my friends and family in the south, too. It’s a lot safer now that the Allies have taken back control of so much of Europe. There’s work to be done there that I can get involved with, helping with the war effort. Don’t worry, though, we will stay in touch. I’ll pop back to visit every now and then. I can even stay in Ardtuath House if I can persuade the Urquharts that I’ll be perfectly all right on my own. And you will come and see me in London sometimes, Flora, won’t you? I want to get to know my grandchild.’

  She stood, pulling on her coat and picking up her headscarf. At the door she took her leave, hugging Flora tight.

  ‘It means so much to me to know that Alec lives on through his child,’ she whispered.

  Then she started to tie the scarf over her head but changed her mind and stuffed it into the pocket of her coat instead.

  And Flora watched her walk away up the path through the pines, the wind from the loch blowing free the silvered strands of her hair.

  Lexie, 1979

  Davy’s come for his supper. He has Daisy in fits of giggles, chasing her round the sitting room on all fours, pretending to be a bear. She allows herself to be caught and then wraps her arms around the bear’s neck before kissing him firmly on the nose.

  ‘Weed a storwy,’ she demands, and the bear obliges, settling her on his knee in the big armchair beside the fire.

  Her eyelids begin to droop after just a few pages of Where the Wild Things Are and she snuggles into the crook of his arm, resting her hand on the sleeve of his jumper. I lean against the door jamb and watch the pair of them, my heart suddenly so full of love that I think it just might burst.

  It’s another new sensation for me, all this love. Something I’ve not allowed myself to feel before. It’s as if I’ve been sleepwalking through life and, now that the story that Bridie and Mairi have told me has fully sunk in, I have suddenly woken up to what has been right there, all around me, all along.

  This community – the village it takes to raise a child – took me into its heart long before I was born, and helped protect me by allowing my grandfather to remain so that he could support my mother and me. My grandmother decreed it, stepping up to protect her unborn grandchild, and the others readily agreed. And they have kept the secret, all these years, weaving around me their web of love.

  I’m so ashamed to admit that I was foolish enough to misread it. I interpreted the strands of that web as unwanted ties, pinning me down, binding me to a place that I left as soon as I could, cutting the lines and running as far and as fast as I could go with scarcely a backward glance. But now I see it in a new light. Of course everyone in the community felt they had an interest in me. I owe each and every one of them a debt of gratitude. After all, every day that they kept my grandfather’s secret they were protecting Flora as she faced the challenges of raising a baby alone. And perhaps that baby represented far more to them. Perhaps she represented hope and life to those like Moira Carmichael who had lost so much. Flora Gordon’s baby would have been a flicker of light in the dark months following the loss of Alec and of Ruaridh, and of so many other young men from the small crofting community.

  Everything has changed. And nothing has changed. The truth is a powerful force.

  As Davy turns the final page of the book, Daisy’s eyelids close, her rose-gold lashes fluttering against her cheeks. I set down my glass and step forward to lift her off his lap, the slack warmth of her heavy in my arms. I carry her through and settle her gently in her cot, drawing up the blanket her granny knitted for her and tucking it in, wrapping her in love. She stirs a little, starfish hands spreading as her fingers relax against the strands of soft wool, the drift of finely stitched seashells that will keep her safe until morning comes.

  When I return, Davy is still sitting in the armchair, gazing into the orange glow of the fire. He’s deep in thought.

  I settle myself across from him on the sofa, lost in thoughts of my own.

  He gets up and crosses to sit next to me, and I rest my head against his shoulder. But then he draws back a little and I turn so that I can see his eyes. There is something there, a look of uncertainty mixed with something else that I can’t quite read.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  He hesitates, giving a little shake of his head, and his eyes crinkle at the corners in their usual way as he gives me a reassuring smile. But that something is still there, lurking beneath the surface, and I need to know what it is.

  ‘Tell me,’ I press him.

  He sighs. And then he combs his fingers through his hair, as if trying to put his thoughts in order, and says, ‘Okay.’

  He shifts so that he’s facing me, and I can tell from his expression that this is important.

  ‘I know what Bridie and Mairi have told you of your mother’s story. But there’s one last bit that they don’t know. Nobody knows. I’ve kept it safe for so long, and I’ve been battling to decide whether or not to tell you. But it is your story, Lexie Gordon, so who am I to keep it from you? Besides,’ he adds, ‘I don’t want there to be any secrets between us, ever.’

  I nod, impatient for him to get on with it. ‘I’d know, in any case. I can read you like a book. Tell me.’

  He takes a breath. ‘Okay. Well, on the evening after Sir Charles was shot, Stuart and I heard the Carmichaels talking. They were in the sitting room beneath us, and because it was just the floorboards between us and them, we could hear everything they said. Mr C said the doctor would need to issue a death certificate and that he might have to call the local police as it had been so sudden, whether or not it was an accident. Mrs C was upset at that. “What will happen to that poor lass if she loses her father as well as her brother and her sweetheart? And what about the bairn?” she said. “It doesn’t bear thinking about. Do you suppose Lady Helen will be able to persuade Dr Greig to let it go?” And then Mr C said, “It’ll likely be the death penalty for Iain if she can’t.”

  ‘Stuart and I were supposed to be in our beds. But we got up and crept down the stairs, past the sitting room door which was closed to keep in the heat of the fire, and out the back. We’d done it loads
of times before when we wanted to go looking for nightcrawlers on the beach to use as bait. We took our catapults with us and we ran all the way to Keeper’s Cottage. Our plan was to defend your mum and Iain if the police came. We had our gutties loaded and ready and our pockets full of more pebbles. We were prepared to go into battle for them, after everything they’d done for us.

  ‘We sat for ages in the dark on the steps at the front door. And while we were sat there, we heard your mum and your grandad talking.’ He tails off, his eyes never leaving mine.

  ‘What did they say?’ I prompt softly.

  ‘Well, Iain’s voice was low and we couldn’t catch much of what he was saying at first. But then Flora said, “No, Dad, I’m not going to let you take the responsibility for what I did.” And then we did hear Iain’s words, because his voice was loud and firm: “I’ll not let them take you, Flora. I’ll not let them take my grandchild. You saved me from his first shot. And I’ve no doubt the second one was to be for you.” Then your mum hushed him and their voices were lowered again so we couldn’t hear the rest.’

  I scan his face, trying to absorb what his words mean. ‘Mum . . . ?’

  He nods. ‘Soon after that they went off to their beds. But Stuart and I sat there as long as we could keep our eyes open, guarding the door. We nearly froze. Then finally we decided it was too late for the police to come that night so we crept back to the Carmichaels’ and no one was any the wiser.’

  ‘Did anyone else know?’ I ask him. ‘That it was Mum who shot Sir Charles?’

  ‘No one, so far as I know. Stuart and I never breathed a word about what we’d heard. Everyone else took Iain’s word that he was the one who’d fired the shot.’

  The firelight flickers, casting its play of light and shadows over us both.

  ‘Then, in any case, Dr Greig issued the death certificate, no questions asked. So I suppose he was in on the conspiracy, too. I imagine Lady Helen would have been very persuasive. And the doctor must have treated enough of her bruises and broken bones to know what went on behind the grand doors of Ardtuath House. So maybe he was all the more inclined to do as she asked.’

  I sit in shocked silence for a while, anguish tightening my throat. I could cry for my mother, who didn’t hesitate to defend her father and her unborn baby when the moment came. I could cry for the two wee boys who sat shivering at the door of this very cottage, their home-made slingshots at the ready to defend my family. And I feel an even deeper sense of shame for the way I’ve taken so much for granted all my life – a life that I owe to so many.

  Davy wraps me in his arms and soothes me, stroking my hair. When I look at him I see that his anguish mirrors mine, and anxiety flickers in the way his lips have turned down at the corners.

  ‘You were right to tell me. I’m glad I know now.’

  At last he smiles and his sea-grey eyes hold an ocean of love so deep it takes my breath away.

  ‘Everyone’s been so kind all along,’ I say. ‘And I never knew. I’ve repaid them with bad grace and ingratitude. How can I ever thank them?’

  He laughs. ‘You’ve repaid them every day by living your life. How proud you made us all, having your name up in lights in the West End. You have no idea what satisfaction that gave everyone here, feeling like they’d played a part in it.’

  ‘And now I’ve let them all down again, by losing my voice and crashing out of my career.’

  ‘You’ve let no one down but yourself, Lexie,’ he says gently, ‘by thinking of yourself as a failure. You’ve actually done exactly what we all wanted in the end. You came home, bringing Daisy. And it’s here that you’ve found a new song to sing.’

  His words sink in, soothing the pain I feel, and I kiss him.

  And then, with a grin, he says, ‘Although of course I do take most of the credit for the singing thing.’

  ‘Och, would you get over yerself, Davy Laverock,’ I say, kissing him again.

  And then, as the fire’s embers fall in on themselves, sending up one last flicker of flame in the darkening room, I take him by the hand and lead him, tiptoeing past the door to Daisy’s room, to bed.

  Lexie, 1979

  I’m pegging out the washing when the postie’s little red van appears, winding its way along the lochside. Carefully making sure that Daisy’s dungarees are securely fixed – the wind is always eager to snatch the clothes from the line and scatter them into the branches of the pines – I go to meet him at the gate. He hands me a small bundle of envelopes and there’s a familiar sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I take them from him, noticing that most are brown and almost certainly contain bills. I’ve been living off the last of my savings and they’re dwindling fast now.

  ‘I see there’s one from yon lawyers in Inverness,’ he remarks cheerily.

  It’s the postie’s prerogative to inspect the mail thoroughly as he delivers it each day, and so he’s usually up on exactly who has a birthday, who’s received a parcel and – in my case – who’s being sent shameful, red-inked final reminders to pay their electricity bill.

  The lawyer is the executor of Mum’s estate, such as it is, and so this letter could be the news that everything has finally been sorted out. Not that I’m expecting much in the way of an inheritance. Mum always lived quietly, eking out her pennies with the food she grew. I always insisted on paying for her train tickets to London, conscious that I was earning good money in those days and that, although she was skilled at making ends meet, she didn’t have much to spare. But maybe there’ll be a little money to help get me through a month or two more at Keeper’s Cottage before I have to face the inevitable and sell up.

  The thought of having to move away to somewhere else dismays me far more than I’d ever have thought possible. Over the past months, as I’ve pieced together my family history, it’s as if roots have begun to grow, slowly, quietly, beneath my feet, binding me to Keeper’s Cottage. This place has become a home for me and Daisy and it hurts to think of leaving. I can’t imagine saying goodbye to Bridie and Elspeth and the other mums in the toddler group. I can’t imagine no longer being able to make music with the next generation of children to grow up in the crofts along the loch, passing on the traditional songs in the way they’ve been passed down to us over the centuries. And, most of all, I can’t bear to think about leaving Davy behind. But he’s managed to carve out a living for himself here, and that’s something I’m going to have to seek elsewhere. Just as so many have done before, I’ll have to leave Ardtuath sooner or later, go and find a job in a city to support myself and my child.

  I thank the postie brightly, trying not to let my problems show, and wave him off on his way before taking the pile of letters inside. I chuck the brown envelopes on to the kitchen table, putting off opening them while I read the solicitor’s letter. It’s not exactly informative, just a brief note asking me to call and make an appointment to come to the offices in Inverness at my earliest convenience. I put it on top of the pile of brown envelopes and busy myself making Daisy’s lunch as she pushes a tractor around my feet, humming to herself.

  Once Daisy’s gone down for her nap and I’ve finished wiping mashed potato off her high chair – she insists on feeding herself these days, and the result is often messy – I phone the lawyer’s office. The nice woman who fields my call tells me she ‘really couldn’t say, dear’ what the meeting was about, but she makes an appointment for me to go and see Mr Clelland next Monday afternoon.

  Then I fetch my chequebook and with a sigh of resignation begin to open the rest of the post.

  The offices of Macwhirter and Clelland Solicitors are tucked into a discreet side street behind the castle. I take a seat, perching on the slippery leather sofa and nervously smoothing my skirt over my knees. After so many months of rural living, it’s been a little nerve-wracking driving into the city and finding a parking space. And I’m anxious to know what Mr Clelland has to say. In my more hopeful moments, I’ve imagined a life insurance policy that would allow me to stay at Ard
tuath for a few more months. On the other hand, lying awake in the wee small hours of the night, I’ve imagined a problem with taxes or death duties that means I’ll be plunged into debt.

  Mr Clelland emerges at last from behind the door with his name on it and smiles at me, his eyes magnified by his thick-rimmed spectacles. ‘Miss Gordon? Do come through.’

  He settles himself on the other side of the leather-topped desk and picks up a sheet of official-looking paper from the pile before him. He glances at me over the top of his specs and says, ‘Now then, I’ll begin at the beginning, shall I?’

  I’d planned to have a bit of a day out in Inverness, popping into Marks for some new clothes for Daisy (she’s pretty much grown out of everything I brought with me from London now), and buying a few exotic bits and pieces for the store cupboard, like curry powder, that the local shop doesn’t stock. But in the end, when Mr Clelland shows me to the door I sleepwalk back to my car and drive straight home. Along the way, I scarcely register the views of the hills and the sea in my haste to return to Keeper’s Cottage and share my news with Davy, and Bridie and Mairi, and Elspeth.

  I left home this morning a poverty-stricken single mum. I am returning a wealthy woman. A woman who could never have dreamed of the opportunities that lie before her now.

  Lexie, 1980

  Davy tops up my glass and the bubbles froth to the very brim before settling again. He raises his own glass in another toast. ‘To Lady Helen Mackenzie-Grant and Flora Gordon, the women who made all this possible.’

  There’s a round of applause before the fiddles and flute strike up again, playing ‘Flora’s Waltz’, the piece that the band have composed especially for my mum. The lilting melody suits her perfectly with its beautifully simple rise and fall, and as I listen I can picture her gentle smile. She is with me here tonight in the big house as we launch the Centre for Traditional Music, which I’ve established in her name. She could never take up her rightful place here in her lifetime, but now the empty rooms will be filled with life and laughter and music. The songs my mum used to sing will resonate from the panelled walls and the corniced ceilings and – at last – Flora Gordon will be mistress of Ardtuath House.