I was sixteen myself when my father, a research scientist, was killed in an accident during an experiment with some new electronic equipment. Margo did a lot to help me then, fixing me up at a Y.W.C.A. hostel while I went to secretarial college. Later on, she got me my job with a public relations firm—Margo seemed to know everyone concerned with the publicity game.
My cousin kept up her almost sisterly interest in me. Whenever she could find the time, she’d take me out for the evening. Complimentary theater tickets sometimes came her way, and even if she couldn’t make it herself, she’d often pass them on to me so I could dazzle a friend with the grandeur of front seats.
And then, quite suddenly, Margo was engaged to be married. He came, apparently, from a wealthy Scottish family with a large estate in the Highlands. Margo had been in Edinburgh for a week, modeling Scottish tweeds, and met Craig McKinross at a university party. They had fallen in love almost on sight, and naturally I thought it was terribly romantic.
Within three months the wedding was arranged, and hardly before I could turn around it was all over. Margo went off to live in Edinburgh, while Craig completed his post-graduate studies in agriculture and forestry. I was left in London, consoled by occasional glowing letters from Margo, and dreams of one day finding myself a husband like Craig McKinross.
It wasn’t long, though, before the letters began to tell a different story. The marriage wasn’t working out. Margo confessed that her husband was egotistical and selfish, a thoroughly unsociable man who demanded his own way in everything. As the months went by he grew more and more difficult, denying her any social life at all. And that, to a girl with Margo’s background, was sheer cruelty. In the end she was forced to leave him.
She came back to London, bringing with her the two-year-old Jamie. Full of bitterness, she was utterly determined never to return to her husband.
It seemed to be a total break. Margo never referred to any further contact between them. There must, in fact, have been some sort of communication, if only to settle up the loose ends. But she kept that to herself. It was almost by chance that I discovered Craig had packed up and gone abroad, somewhere or other in the Middle East.
“Mooching around studying his beastly trees, I suppose,” said Margo. “Well, good riddance to him. As far as I’m concerned, the farther away he is, the better.” Whenever she spoke of Craig, there was fierce loathing in her voice.
And now Margo was dead, and I was to deliver her small son to his father. How could I do that without a heavy heart?
I heard a car door slam, and went to the window to look down. A taxi was drawn up outside the house.
“Come on, Jamie,” I cried, making a cheerful bustle. “We’re off now. It won’t be long before we’re up in the air, high above the clouds.”
“But I don’t want ...” he began again. I knew that this was the critical moment. If I could get him out of the flat without tears the battle was half won. It was a battle that I hated having to fight at all, trying to win the boy’s allegiance to his father—a man I despised.
All Jamie’s luggage and my own suitcase were piled in the downstairs hall. I grabbed up the canvas bag stuffed at the last minute with toys, caught hold of his hand, and ran with him down the stairs, laughing.
Hearing our clatter, my landlady popped out from her kitchen, the smell of breakfast bacon wafting after her plump figure. Mrs. Collins knew a whole lot more about the unhappy business than I’d ever told her.
“Poor little lad,” she said, coming toward the front door with us. “It’s not right, the way he’s being pushed around....”
I shook my head in quick warning. “We’re off to Scotland in a great big airplane,” I cried gaily. “It’ll be such fun.”
She got the idea at once. “Yes indeed it will. I wish I was coming too. I’ve never been up in an airplane.”
She came out to the cab and chatted through the window while the driver loaded the bags. Then she stepped back and waved goodbye vigorously.
As we moved off, I noticed the twitch of curtains at neighboring houses down Faraday Road. Mrs. Collins, I realized, had not been idle yesterday.
There was enough going on at London airport to catch Jamie’s interest, beginning with the drive through the long entrance subway. Jets screamed a few feet over our heads, loudspeakers crackled announcements. It was a fantastic new world to him. We were shifted through the various stages of embarkation like a couple of fragile parcels —gently, but with an impersonal efficiency.
But the stewardess, neat and attractive in her dark blue uniform, had a personal smile for Jamie. “We’ll be off soon now, young man.”
“It isn’t a jet,” said Jamie, sorrowfully shaking his head. “I saw the prop ... prop ... ellers.”
In his resentful bewilderment Jamie seemed to have latched onto this one issue, as if it symbolized his fate. Would it be a jet—or not? Would he be happy in Scotland—or not?
And it was not a jet.
Before I had time to react, the stewardess was smoothly gathering up the broken pieces.
“No, not a jet today, dear. But you’re very lucky to be on this particular plane, because we’re giving away souvenirs.”
“Souv’nirs,” exclaimed Jamie. “What’s souv’nirs?”
Fascinated, I watched the girl improvising like mad. She fingered the shiny airline badge on her uniform lapel. “Why, one of these special mascots,” she said, slipping it out and giving it to him.
Jamie stared, much impressed. “Gosh.”
That wasn’t all the stewardess did to help me keep Jamie happy throughout the flight. Without a word of explanation from me, she’d caught on to Jamie’s special need for attention. Even the aircraft’s lordly captain was produced for Jamie’s awed inspection.
A car was to collect us at Inverness airport. I didn’t anticipate any difficulty, as obviously the chauffeur would have instructions to look out for a young woman with a five-year-old boy. We were the only ones on the plane remotely fitting that description.
As we walked across the tarmac toward the airport buildings, I breathed in deeply. I couldn’t remember tasting air like wine before, but this was it. Sharp, tangy, a dry bite lingering on the palate. Immediately I felt fortified, ready to cope with whatever lay ahead.
But I soon found I wasn’t ready after all. Jamie, holding tight to my hand, looked up at me puzzledly as I stopped in confusion. I pulled myself together, trying to act normally, entirely without surprise. I had to avoid my agitation communicating itself to him. Somehow or other I had to conceal my true feelings toward the tall, dark-haired man who was walking slowly in our direction.
I swallowed hard and forcibly injected a note of happy excitement into my voice.
“Look, Jamie darling,” I cried. “See over there. That’s your daddy.”
Chapter 2
Craig McKinross was just as I had carried him in my mind, and yet quite utterly different. The leanly handsome face, the jet black hair, the determined set of his shoulders— those things were all still there. But his old carefree way had gone. Lines of strain marked his face and his smoky eyes were glowering.
Well, I thought bitterly, if life has been a disappointment for you, Craig McKinross, whose fault is that? A mite less preoccupation with yourself, a little readiness to treat Margo as a human being, and you could still have been leading a happy married life with her.
If the man had a shred of decency in him, he must be weighed down with guilt—the dreadful knowledge that his wife’s suicide stemmed from his own unspeakable treatment of her.
How I would have welcomed an opportunity to let my anger loose on him! But I had to keep the cork on for little Jamie’s sake. My goal was to foster a good relationship between father and child.
Jamie was gripping my hand, hanging back. As we drew near, Craig McKinross switched his attention from the two of us and focused on his son alone. The set expression eased into a half smile—only a half-smile, but immediately it brought warmth to hi
s face. Then he raised his eyes to meet mine. The trace of a smile had vanished. His face was blank as he held out his hand in perfunctory greeting.
“Good morning, Miss Calvert.”
Before, six years ago, it had been Lucy.
“Good ... good morning.” Jamie was trying to hide himself away behind me, and I pulled him forward. “Say hello to your daddy, Jamie.”
Again I saw the tiny smile hovering. The stern eyes came sparkling to life, and momentarily I was reminded of the Craig I had once known—the man I had mooned over in my private dreams.
Craig squatted on his heels and held out both arms. “Hello, Jamie,” he said softly. I could sense the shyness in the man, the uncertainty—and the hope.
Jamie wouldn’t respond. He buried his face in my skirt.
“Jamie,” said Craig, more loudly this time. “Come on, Jamie....”
“Say hello to your daddy,” I repeated.
The only answer was an even more determined pressure of his nose against my thigh, a more compulsive grip on my fingers.
Craig gave up and rose to his feet. His face was expressionless as he looked at me, but I thought I could detect the hurt behind the mask.
In spite of my revulsion for the man, I felt a flicker of sympathy. To be spurned by his own son. It must be hard.
Trying to ease the tension a little I said hastily, “I’m afraid it’s been a bit too much for him. Such a lot has happened all at once....” I dried up. I didn’t know what more I could have said just then.
Craig nodded somberly. “Yes, I expect so....” He spun around and indicated a rather stately black Daimler in the parking lot. “We might as well get going.”
In silence we walked across to the car. Craig held the door open for me, and I pushed Jamie into the center of the wide front seat, so he would be between his father and myself.
“I’ll just see about the luggage,” Craig said as he shut the door.
While he was gone, I spoke to Jamie quite severely.
“You mustn’t be so silly, darling. Speak nicely to your daddy, or he’ll be very upset.”
“But I don’t like him.”
“Now that’s just nonsense. You must behave properly, or I’ll have to be really cross with you.”
I saw the start of tears glinting in his eyes, and I went on sharply: “It’s not a bit of good your crying, Jamie. If you want to please me, you must be nice to your daddy.”
Craig and a porter were stowing away the luggage. Then I heard the lid of the trunk slammed down, and Craig appeared at the driver’s side of the car.
As he climbed in and fished for the ignition key, I prodded Jamie in the ribs.
“Hello ... Daddy....” he said shakily.
Surprised, Craig turned to look at his son, giving him a quick smile. “Hello, Jamie.”
He reached forward and switched on the engine. Then as we drove off he said to me quietly, staring straight ahead, “There’s no need to use actual force, Miss Calvert.”
“It’s difficult for him ...” I began hotly.
“Of course it is—it’s difficult for both of us.” There was a long pause before he went on in a stiff voice, “I have to thank you for looking after Jamie—and for bringing him to Scotland....” He hesitated, then amended: “For bringing him home.”
“I was glad to.” But that gave the wrong impression. “I mean, I think it made it a bit easier for Jamie, being with somebody he knew....”
That didn’t sound much better. Rapidly, I switched direction. “I was surprised to see you at the airport. I understood you would not be back in this country for a few more days.”
“I managed to get away sooner than I’d expected. I flew into Prestwick last night. As it turned out I could have come for Jamie myself, and saved you the bother.”
“It was no bother.” My casual conventional reply concealed a great deal of feeling. I was thankful indeed that I hadn’t been obliged to hand Jamie over in London. To have put him in the hands of a complete stranger called his father would have been unbearably cruel. Having witnessed the child’s obvious fear of Craig, I was more than ever glad to have brought Jamie to Scotland. I would try to break him into his new life, and his new family, as gently as possible.
Craig still hadn’t mentioned Margo, but to be fair he could hardly say much in front of the boy. I guessed he’d ask for details later on. He must be anxious to know all there was to know about her death. So far his only information would have come through Margo’s father. I imagined Uncle Arthur’s cables would have been brief and strictly to the point.
On the car journey westward I did my best to keep Jamie interested. But for a less than five-year-old brought up to town life, it must have seemed terribly empty and dull. In fact, the growing wildness of the scenery was probably rather awesome to such a little boy.
It didn’t help to inspire confidence that as we penetrated further into the Highlands, the sun began to hide behind gathering clouds. At first a few white puffs appeared, gentle cotton-wool balls which clung lovingly to hillcrests. And then heavy dark rainclouds closed in determinedly.
The narrow road unwound before us, ribboning far away across the rolling brown hills. Ahead, against the threatening gloom of the westerly sky, were the snow-white peaks of mountains.
While I struggled to keep Jamie amused, Craig was driving in a preoccupied way, staring gloomily at the road. At one point he cleared his throat as if about to say something, but he seemed to have difficulty getting it out.
At length, gruffly, almost angrily, he muttered, “It’s very kind of you to put yourself out like this....”
Before I could protest again that I was only too glad to be able to help Jamie, Craig went on hesitantly, “If it means you ... well ... lose anything by it—I hope you will allow me to ...”
“Your aunt sent me a check to cover the fares.”
“But you’ll have had other expenses. Just let me know....”
“Please,” I said quickly, shocked. “Remember, Margo was my cousin. And my very close friend, besides.”
“So I believe.”
The voice was hard as a rock. It came to me suddenly that Craig was not merely showing the indifference one might have expected from a man wholly bound up in himself. His extreme coldness toward me, and the effort he was making to control it, betrayed his active dislike.
But why? What had I ever done to give him reason for feeling so strongly about me? Since the wedding, six years ago, I had not met the man again until today. Never had I asked anything of him. Neither, since her marriage, had I asked anything of Margo. They had taken a large flat in a smart district close to Princess Street in Edinburgh, and before the wedding Margo talked freely of my going to stay with them. Yet the longed-for invitation never came.
Though it had been a bitter disappointment, I had been most careful never to drop hints. I understood the reason only when Margo’s letters began to reveal that all was not well in her marriage. It would obviously not have suited Craig McKinross to have his wife’s young cousin hanging around, even for a brief couple of weeks.
The sky ahead matched the mood of the man beside me in the car—coldly gray, sullenly angry. The mountain peaks had disappeared from view in the menacing cloud blanket. Below us, a long and narrow loch was the deep blue-gray color of slate, the wavelets white-tipped with foam.
And then the rain came. At first no more than a fine wetness misting the windshield, within minutes we were driving through a heavy downpour—a drumming, monotonous rain that obliterated everything. The frantic windshield wipers were fighting a losing battle against the streaming water. I wondered how Craig could see the tricky bends that were always ahead.
We were three people shut up in a little closed-in world, the car our shield against the elements. Though the heater meant we were physically warm enough, the atmosphere was bleak and chilling. Instinctively, I slid a quiet hand behind little Jamie’s back and drew him toward me. I saw Craig’s eyes flicker sideways, noting my p
rotective action. He made no comment, his face showed no trace of expression. But I could sense his disapproval as clearly as if he had shouted a denunciation.
I guessed Craig was thinking I wanted to establish Jamie’s dependence on me. Actually, I wanted the very reverse. I was trying to break Jamie’s tight bond of affection—the only love the little boy could bring himself to give at the moment. I wanted him to begin to feel the tie of blood, the filial tug. From now on Jamie was to live with his father. To come to love his father was his only chance of happiness.
But right now Jamie needed comfort. If I denied him a sense of security, his whole world would have become as desolate as the wild country around us.
I drew him closer to me, hugging him firmly. “Try to go to sleep, darling,” I said softly. “You must be tired.”
The monotonous thunder of rain on the roof, the steady slithering whirr of the wipers, the low voice of the powerful engine—they all combined to help. Slowly, Jamie’s head drooped, and soon I knew from the rhythm of his breathing that he had dozed off.
I began to feel drowsy myself. Actually, it was a bit over-warm in the car, and I wished I had taken off my coat before getting in. But it was too late now, with Jamie slumped against me. I stretched open my eyelids and stifled a yawn. Just to keep myself awake, I began talking.
“You must try to understand, Mr. McKinross, it’s a real upheaval for a small child like Jamie.”
“Thank you for telling me.” His tone was uncompromisingly sarcastic, but I wasn’t going to be diverted.
Call of Glengarron Page 2