Fiona was yelling above the engine. ‘Do either of you two like poetry? Mr Jennings? Elena?’
How condescending. Elena answered with impatience. ‘I do not know the English poets.’
‘Poe’s American,’ Peter sneered.
‘I know this,’ she countered. ‘I mean I do not know poems in English.’ She was weary of explaining herself in this alien language.
‘Or Gaelic?’ persisted Fiona.
Elena struggled to rise above a sea of nausea. This was more than idle conversation. Fiona meant the poem in the photocopier, the one by her father. She was exchanging glances with Peter in the driving mirror.
‘No, I have no Gaelic.’
‘What about you, Mr Jennings?’
‘Me? No. I’m useless at languages. Music too.’
‘And poetry?’
‘Definitely not your man, Miss Urquhart. Wouldn’t know Shakespeare from Shirley Bassey. Peter’s the poet in the family.’
‘Whereas Henry’s the pudding-head with all the money.’
‘I offered you your share, but you wouldn’t have it.’
‘He didn’t leave it to me. I wouldn’t touch it with a lavatory brush.’
The dog barked again. They were speeding along a valley between two great mountains, the car bumping on its overloaded springs. The air was far too hot – thick with the smell of dog; why did no one open a window? Elena saw Fiona nod at Peter.
‘You asked why Peter’s here, Mr Jennings. My father has written a few songs in the old language, and Peter wants to meet him. That’s all.’
No, this was not the truth. Or not the whole of it. Elena struggled to think with an aching head as the car swerved to avoid a pothole. Last night in the library: Fiona angry, Peter anxious, both of them agitated about that poem. She turned to Peter. ‘Why?’ she said. ‘Why do you want to meet this man?’
His blue eyes slid away. He addressed the dog.
‘Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore –
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking, “Nevermore.” ’
Fiona was grinning. ‘Peter, stop teasing.’
‘Right you are, Fi.’
He gave Elena another insolent stare. More bully than tease, she knew the difference. She met the stare until he was forced to smile. ‘So. Why?’ she repeated.
‘I’m on a bit of an odyssey. In search of poetic inspiration.’ He told his lies smoothly, this Peter. ‘Back to basics. My Ma sang Gaelic lullabies.’
‘Did she?’ Fiona seemed enchanted.
‘Not to me, she didn’t.’
Elena heard sadness in Henry’s voice. She wished she could touch his shoulder, as Peter had touched Fiona’s. Or could say to him ‘don’t beat yourself’, as Fiona had said ‘don’t tease’. She and Henry had shared secrets, yet still they were too much strangers for such intimacy. Were Peter and Fiona lovers already?
As if to answer, Peter leant forward and squeezed Fiona’s arm. ‘I think Hannah may be a poet,’ he said. ‘Doggerel. That kind of thing.’
Elena did not understand. Was this a joke? Not funny; Henry was not laughing. But Fiona Urquhart began to giggle, and for a while seemed unable to stop.
Peter
Fuck it, he adored this woman; wasn’t she superb? Savvy with subtext, sure in subterfuge, good with grilled bacon, great eyes, okay tits, nibblable ears. And Calum’s daughter! Try to hide it as she might, she liked him, he was in. Grinning at him in the driving-mirror, thrills around the corner, always the way, talk about luck of the devil, his from birth, while pathetic Henry, for all he’d landed Pa’s loot, trundled along totalling columns and clipping his tedious front hedge.
Pain in the arse his turning up, though fucking amazing too, and looking set to seduce the Señorita. Thrills and spills for Henry too, well who’d have thought it? Eyeball to eyeball, Ms Martínez no pussycat, way out of Henry’s previous league.
From urban sprawl and wretched no-man’s land, view out to Beauly Firth, horizon blighted by endless Scottish bridge – tuning forks, bowstrings of wires – and Henry sighing ‘beautiful’, sad git. Then up through tracts of pop stars’ tax-deductible fir-trees, up and up. Past the raven, bless him, Thing of evil, prophet still if bird or devil. Track burbling burn through rocky pass to, turn the corner.
Wowee! Wide-slung valley, walled on three sides by peaks, footed by untroubled loch and ersatz mansion, all wings and turrets, afloat above its own reflection. Excitement rising in his throat like fire. Calum ‘up the hill a way’ said Fi at breakfast, but these were mountains! Best stay shtum on Calum, keep Spanish Inquisition quiet. Though fuck it, afire with questions, not to mention rampant lust. Raring to be alone with glorious woman. ‘So what are your brothers’ names, fair Fi?’
‘James, Owen, William and Gavin.’
‘Older or younger?’
‘Older. I’m thirty-five,’ as he’d guessed, ‘and they’re forty-four, forty-two, forty and thirty-eight.’
‘No letting up till they got a girl, eh?’
Her mirrored smile again. Boy, what a girl they got!
‘And they run this hotel?’
‘Well, it’s Owen and Janet’s business. But James is the chef, and the rest of us often come for weekends. It’s the only place for miles. Fishing and hiking. We’re in the Good Food Guide. We get a lot of Americans.’
Road running out. Rutted gravel track. House swelling in size, odder and uglier on close acquaintance, as though cobbled together from unwanted parts. No trees in sight, just snowy slopes closing in, blocking out the sky.
‘Of course,’ Henry starting up a witter, ‘a hotel. I should have said before, Miss Urquhart. Elena and I, we mustn’t presume on your hospitality. You will let us pay?’
Fiona turning to reply, glancing back and crying, ‘Oh, dear me!’
What’s up? Follow beam of beloved’s eyes to find, oh bloody hell, the Señorita, face like curdled milk, beads of sweat, whole fucking deal, out cold.
Chapter Eighteen
Henry
Oh God! No! Poor Elena! As they guided her inside, her knees gave way, and only his and Peter’s efforts kept her from the flagstoned floor.
What kind of place was this? Henry’s skin shrank a size in horror, though he didn’t know why. The hallway was full of running children, whose shouts echoed up a cantilevered staircase. A few of them stopped running. ‘Who are you?’ ‘What’s wrong with her?’
Henry realised why he was afraid. The hall, the staircase, the odour of wood-smoke and mildew, the children’s shouts and stares, the clattering echoes, all reminded him of boarding school.
‘Oh look, it’s Hannah! Hello, Hannah! The dog had got down to serious bustling, patted by many small hands. There were no dogs at boarding school.
‘Elena,’ Henry said anxiously. He struggled to support her weight. This was his fault entirely. He’d seen how tired and strained she was. He should have insisted that she sat in front.
‘Be more helpful, children. The lady’s unwell.’ Here came Fiona, thank goodness, carrying Elena’s coat. ‘Where’s Owen? Owen’s the chap we need. Jeannie, run and fetch your father, quick now.’
Jeannie set off. She was a nice-looking child, nine or ten years old. There were no girls at boarding school.
More children assembled to stare. Henry counted five, plus Jeannie made six.
‘Sit her here.’ Fiona grabbed magazines from a massive chair – carved oak the colour of ebony – and dumped them on a table. She arranged Elena’s coat like a sheepskin nest.
‘Get a move on,’ Peter growled. ‘She weighs a ton.’
They got her to the chair, then Henry crouched on the floor, tugging at her limp hand. ‘Elena,’ he pleaded.
Her head lolled. Her eyes rolled. Dear God, she looked terrible.
An enormous man arrived. ‘Hello folks, I’m Owen. What’s up?’
<
br /> ‘I think she’s worn out,’ Fiona said.
Owen knelt beside Henry, dwarfing him and exuding an aura of comfort. He had hair like tweed and wore thick green corduroy trousers. ‘What’s the lassie’s name?’
‘Elena.’
Owen’s huge hands drew Elena’s head to her lap. Of course, thought Henry. Why didn’t I think of that? ‘Elena, lassie. Can you hear me?’
‘Yes.’ Her hand was stirring in Henry’s. She tried to raise her head.
‘No, keep your head down. I’ll carry you.’ Owen picked her up and swept her away. She was a child in his arms. Henry battled unworthy feelings of envy. It was easy to be a romantic hero, built like that. He stooped to pick up Elena’s coat.
The hall was emptying. Children, dog, even Peter, all trailing after the remarkable Owen. Only Fiona remained. She seemed anxious, almost secretive. Oh God, of course. She’d be wanting to ask him about Marjorie.
She came close, raising her serious eyes to his and speaking fast in a low voice. ‘You mustn’t worry, Mr Jennings. Owen’s a doctor, she’ll be fine. And please, I won’t hear of your paying. I’ll speak to Owen. You mustn’t be embarrassed, the hotel’s almost empty at this time of year, more family than guests.’
He gathered courage to interrupt. ‘Miss Urquhart – ’
‘Fiona, please.’
‘Fiona, I haven’t yet thanked you.’ He stalled.
‘Thanked me?’
‘For not mentioning. You know. About last night.’ He could feel himself blushing crimson. She seemed at a loss. He blundered on. ‘You can’t imagine. And Peter. My brother. He would laugh mercilessly.’ She must think him some kind of lunatic.
‘No, no. I can. And I know he would. But really, you mustn’t thank me. I’m so sorry. When I saw you this morning, I . . .’ She stopped short. Then continued. ‘But it’s all right, thank goodness. And of course I wouldn’t. I mean I won’t.’ She looked as flustered as he felt.
‘Hey. Fi. What are you two yakking about? Come on.’ Peter stood framed in the stone archway through which the procession had passed.
Owen was there too. ‘Henry, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re wanted. The lassie’s asking for you.’
Elena
She was in Angus Urquhart’s arms. He was spinning her as he had spun Marisa, the pleats of his kilt whirling like knives. He bore her away, fast, beneath a stone lintel into bright light.
The village square! She struggled to fight his strength and speed, but it was useless. ‘No, lass, no.’ His false care crushed her protests. He was carrying her to the well. To throw her in! She tried to scream, but her throat was dry. It was too late. She was falling, falling.
Into cushions.
She opened her eyes. He was here still, gigantic and falsely smiling, but so too were children, and a dog. She remembered the dog’s name. ‘Hannah?’
It pushed a wet nose into her hand. Through the crowd she glimpsed a young man with impatient blue eyes, and heard his voice. ‘What’s keeping Fi?’
Henry’s brother. The world reassembled itself. ‘Henry. Please. Where is Henry?’
‘I’ll fetch him for you.’ The gigantic man strode off, followed by Henry’s brother.
How stupid to be like this, scarcely able to think or lift her head. She stared about her, trying to breathe more calmly. She was alone with a dog . . . two dogs, and many children. She was lying on a grand sofa whose cushions smelled of smoke. The room was panelled floor to ceiling with books, the doorway was an arch of stone, and yet the light was bright as day. Turning her head, she was amazed to see a wall of glass, beyond which lay snow and water and blue sky. The glare hurt her eyes.
‘Hello, Lena.’ She turned back in alarm. ‘Do you play Snap?’ A small boy was offering a pack of cards.
‘Not just now, Georgie. The lady’s ill.’ A new voice. She swung towards it, terror draining blood from her head and sight from her eyes. She clung to consciousness, struggling to identify the figures in the archway. Fiona Urquhart, luminous as an angel in the bright light, was returning with the giant and Henry’s brother.
Beside them, almost running, carrying her coat, came Henry. ‘Elena, here I am. Are you all right?’ He sat next to her and squeezed her hand. ‘Well I’m blowed!’ His eyes had found the glass wall. ‘How bizarre.’
She must not be ill like this. At any moment an old man with a white beard would appear. She tried to sit up. ‘I am so sorry. I cause much trouble.’
‘Hush.’ The giant’s cheeks glowed red, his eyes were blue as the sky spilling through the glass wall. ‘It’s food you’re needing and then sleep. Let’s ask James what he can whip up for lunch. Come along, Georgie.’
The boy’s head barely reached the giant’s knee. They left together hand in hand.
‘Fiona. Please. Your father?’ Elena hardly dared to ask. She dreaded his coming. ‘He is here?’
‘No, he’s fucking not.’
‘Hush, Peter,’ said Fiona and Henry.
Elena moaned with disappointment. She could not help herself.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Fiona. ‘I should have explained better. He lives up the hill. After lunch, while you have a nap, I’ll go and tell him you’re here.’
Peter
‘And I’ll go with you.’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Why not?’ Pull face at fair Fiona, why delay? Calum here but not here. Telephone him, get him here, get fucking finger out!
‘Peter, I need a word. Come with.’
At last. Abandon Henry to his fancy woman. Pursue FU from human aquarium into baronial hall. Track her white sweater through the gloaming. ‘In here.’ Small, leathery room, dust-covered computer, ledgers. Fiona spinning on her heel to face him, brow furrowed, fluffed up with fucking secrecy.
‘What? What, Fiona? What’s the deal? I don’t need lunch. I don’t need a sodding siesta. Why not take me straight to Calum?’
‘Hush, Peter. Calm down. And please, don’t call him Calum.’
‘Why are you whispering? Why not?’
‘Because, I’ve told you, it’s a family secret. I mean it, I’m not joking.’
Fuck it, small was beautiful. Grab her hand, and swoop down for a snog.
‘Stop it, Peter!’
‘Why? You know you like me, don’t pretend you don’t.’
Struggling and smiling like a virgin. ‘Yes. In spite of everything, I do.’
‘So kiss me then.’
‘No, stop it. Stop it, no! Sit down. Sit right down here, and listen.’
Do as she said. Fucking wonderful, masterful woman. Rush of blood to head and hard-on.
‘You have to wait. I have to see my father. He’s been in low spirits awhile, shutting himself away from us. I have to break it to him gently that you’re here, that you know he’s Calum. Ask him if he’ll see you.’
‘Ask him? He fucking has to see me!’ Telephone on desk. Grab receiver, toss it to her. Neat catch, Fi. ‘So ask him. Now!’
‘He has no phone up there. I think he will agree to see you. But first he’ll be upset – and cross with me. I have to talk to him, okay?’
‘Okay, okay. But you do like me, yes?’
She smiled, she couldn’t hide how much. Those great, grave eyes could only speak the truth. Must be a handicap. ‘We’ll talk about it later. After you’ve met him. After Elena’s met him.’
‘To hell with Elena. Mañana, mañana.’
Taking his hands, preventing them from wandering. ‘Peter, I promise. Whatever happens we will talk. So please, just now, be patient.’
Chapter Nineteen
Peter
‘So will you help me with the luggage?’
Sure thing, slave for the day, anything for fucking Fi. Except he fucking wasn’t. And not alone in servitude, in model canine company, for here came Hannah, plus moth-eaten lookalike last seen comatose, sprawled on hearthrug, now engaged in stiff-legged scuffing of hall flagstones, wagging and sneezing at embraces
denied to bad dog Peter.
‘Meet Mabel. She’s Hannah’s mum.’
A stickler for introductions, Fi. ‘Well Mabel, how do you doggy do?’ And off we go. Strait-laced Red Riding-hood and three panting wolves. One mutt and three bitches, out into the midday thaw.
Porch-ice adrip like glass-bead curtain, parting to reveal Highland amphitheatre, set for a slave sacrifice. Marble-white crags, footed by glittering loch and gravel arena where – splash of blood and bile – red and yellow Dinky toy, roof festooned with entrails. Ban-the-bomb rucksack, Red Ridinghood’s casket, and fucking Henry’s fucking Gladstone bag. Unhook bungee ropes and yank them down. Wrench boot open, tip out Spanish wheelie. Seriously pissed off.
‘Oh good. My blanket.’ Fiona opening Gladstone, extracting tartan and stowing it in car. Exposing Henry’s smalls – oxymoron if ever one was – in M&S grey, stacked like cucumber sandwiches, not a crust in sight. And, wouldn’t you know it, blue-striped jimjams and some naff novel.
‘Oh dear! Ow!’ Fiona in sudden boomerang from car, horrid clunk of her skull on doorframe. But barely pausing, snatching Henry’s bag and dumping it on wet gravel, fighting to refasten it, hand closing on paperback, shoving it from view.
Oi oi, in Chin’s immortal words, what new game afoot? Zoom in to help. Fi’s grip tenacious, eyes aslide, untouchable cheeks afire. Not content till Henry’s modesty restored.
‘Hey, slow down. What’s with you, FU?’
‘Nothing.’ Inane grin and slippery eyes. ‘Let’s get these things inside.’ Raising hand to head.
‘Nasty crack you dealt yourself.’
‘Yes. No. I’m fine. I’ll carry these. Are you okay with those?’ Fi charging off through sea of dog-flesh, superglued to Henry’s handles, and hefting Señorita’s suitcase, wheels or no wheels.
Close car door thoughtfully. Swing half-empty rucksack to shoulder, scoop up Fi’s bag and follow, back through glass-bead curtain and massive, iron-studded door.
‘Come on.’
Heel, boy. No let-up in obedience training. Drop bags in hall, track unfair mistress into crazy living-room. Human aquarium as busy as Barrier Reef: all the small fry plus shoal of bigger fish seething round the Spanish Main Attraction, with Henry billed as Francis Drake. Colossus Owen here again, plus more Rob Roys and two of their harem. One quite doable at first shufti. Legs a mile long, explosion of red-gold hair, shoulders and arms bare above pink boob-tube. So watch it Fi, the name ain’t Fido.
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