Love, Revenge & Buttered Scones

by Bobbie Darbyshire

  Owen and James were there, each resplendent in his way. The first, in massive brown cords and a quilted, sludge-coloured waistcoat, was warming his legs on a lively new log fire. The second sat alert and cross-legged in the same chair he’d occupied the last time Henry passed through this room. But the checked trousers were zipped, and if James remembered being caught in flagrante, it didn’t seem to faze him.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Owen.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ said James.

  Their smiles were genuine, putting him at ease.

  ‘Yes, thanks, I did. And you?’

  ‘Like a Rabelaisian dream.’ James’s grin was shameless. How did one shave around those spikes, Henry wondered, or were they detachable? ‘But Henry, you dear, dear man.

  I’ve been hearing about your heroics.’ Henry found himself returning the grin. ‘A reward of porridge and kippers awaits you in the dining-room. I’ll be on active kitchen duty in two ticks.’

  Following the brothers through passage, hall and passage, Henry’s heart began to beat faster. The boarding-school sounds of children playing tag on the stairs didn’t help. ‘Your guests will be having their breakfasts too, I expect,’ he said nervously.

  ‘They’re long up and gone,’ said Owen. ‘Hiking on Skye today. They made an early start.’

  ‘And the writer?’

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ said James. ‘He left early for Inverness.’

  Henry’s burden lifted. And sure enough, only Fiona and Angus were eating toast and marmalade in the chandeliered tartan Underground station.

  ‘We’re lumbered with you a while longer, Father, I gather,’ said the irrepressible James.

  ‘Aye, lad. And good morning to thee, Henry Jennings.’

  The old man proffered his hand. Henry took it. There was no sign of Elena or Peter.

  ‘Pour yourself some orange juice, Henry. Get stuck into the fruit and so on. I’ll be there in a flash with the hot stuff.’

  At the tartan door James collided with Owen’s wife. ‘Fiona, the phone. A man for you.’

  Fiona looked startled. She set off half-running.

  Henry poured juice and pulled out a chair.

  ‘Would that be the mun, dost thou think?’ said Angus.

  ‘I’d be surprised,’ said Owen. ‘It’s been a good while.’

  Henry pretended to examine the décor.

  ‘Forgive us,’ said Owen. ‘You’re as good as family, Henry, so no more secrets, eh? My sister is in recovery from an unfortunate affair of the heart.’

  They could hear raised voices. It was William and Gavin, of course, bitching before breakfast, red face and red hair appearing round the door. Henry exchanged a smile with Urquhart, surprised how at home he was beginning to feel.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Owen, but they took no notice. In a brood of extraordinary children, there had to be some duffers, Henry supposed. Perhaps William and Gavin were so tediously irascible because they were duff; it was hard to disentangle cause from effect in families.

  ‘The rotten cow,’ Gavin was complaining. ‘No sympathy after all the donner und blitzen, just a load of bloody nagging. Then, blow me if she doesn’t take off in the middle of the night. I wake up and there she is, gone. Not a word, not even a note.’

  ‘Time you got rid,’ frowned William. ‘You can’t let them treat you like that.’

  James had emerged from the kitchen with porridge, brown sugar and cream.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Henry.

  ‘It’s a real pleasure.’

  ‘I wouldn’t give tuppence,’ Gavin was whingeing on, ‘only she’ll have taken the car, the bitch. If Fiona’s full up, I’ll have to bloody well bike it into town.’

  ‘Oh dearie me!’ James exclaimed loudly. ‘Whatever next?’

  They turned to look at him. He was laughing aloud. Good God, was that a spike through his tongue?

  ‘Her car’s still outside,’ he said, ‘so the delightful Kim must surely still be here somewhere.’

  Peter

  Nose prickled by feathers. Clatter of dustbin lids startling him awake.

  Spoon-curled naked around curvaceous woman. Eyes opening in chaos of red-gold hair.

  Inrush of where and who. Loch Craggan, Kim –

  And Calum!

  Peter is ma son.

  Would the thrill never cease?

  Calum his father. Fiona his sister. Elena turned temptress, turned ‘No, think of Henry’. Good old Henry, turned hero, talking Calum from the brink.

  And now, luck of the devil, Kim, stirring and rolling to face him with mischievous eyes.

  GUTSY GUY GETS THE GIRL!

  Though, oh fuck, the bellicose brothers would skin him alive.

  ‘Hi there, Peter.’

  ‘Well, howdy, Kim.’

  Woman stretching and yawning and grabbing his –

  ‘Hey! So this is our secret, right?’

  Grabbing and nuzzling and murmuring, ‘Fine. If you say so.’

  ‘No, really, hang on. What will you tell him?’

  Woman rising, hair cascading, yards of it, grinning and climbing on top. ‘Tell who?’

  Guiding him in. Squeezing with knees. Starting to rock. Lady Godiva at home in the saddle, lifting and twisting her hair. Laughing. Repeating, ‘Tell who?’

  Metamorphosing man into stallion. ‘Gavin, tell Gavin – ’

  Woman rocking and smiling, hair sweeping and drifting, murmuring, ‘No problem. No problem at all. Gavin’s history.’

  Voltage rising, brain melting, from trot to a canter, woman dipping to whisper, hair like a golden mane. ‘I’ve told him, it’s over. It’s over and done.’

  Elena

  The sun fell across her face. She wandered alone among wild flowers and olive trees. But someone was knocking. Opening her eyes, she saw the mountain beyond the window. ‘Come in,’ she called.

  Janet Urquhart closed the door with her shoulder. She carried breakfast on a tray. ‘Good morning. Did I wake you? I hope you like kippers.’

  ‘Very much, thank you.’

  ‘Did you sleep well? Yes indeed, I can see you’re rested. Quite rosy in this rosy room.’ She set the tray on Elena’s lap. ‘Take your time. On Sundays, we go slowly.’

  ‘You are kind, Janet. And Owen also. While I have been discourteous, disagreeable – ’

  Janet touched her hand. ‘With good cause, my dear. That was a terrible story. My father-in-law’s an old devil. You quite put him to shame.’

  Elena shook her head. ‘No, I also.’

  Janet was looking at her suitcase, tipped out on the floor. ‘Dear me, you’ve brought so little. Do you have clothes for today?’

  ‘My suit and one clean shirt. Tomorrow I will be home.’ She looked at the suit. ‘Black no longer pleases me,’ she confided. ‘I will buy colours.’

  ‘Black is smart,’ said Janet. ‘I know what you mean though. Some days, smart doesn’t feel right, does it? Okay, I’ll leave you in peace to enjoy your breakfast.’

  As the door closed, Elena remembered her resolution. Today she would begin to live. ‘Home,’ she had said. It was time to go home. Eating the kipper, mouthful by mouthful, she planned what she would do. It seemed much, it seemed difficult, but it was not. In reality it was small and simple. A few steps, one by one.

  She would return to Brussels.

  She would give notice to the Commission. A month’s notice.

  She would pack or sell her possessions, or give them to charity. She would give her smart black suits; she would buy soft shapes and colours. A pink bathrobe.

  She would find a job in Barcelona. Anything to get started: teaching, or welcoming tourists perhaps. She would find a small place to rent, one room, like Mikhail’s room in Brussels.

  Before she left Brussels, she would return to Mikhail’s room one time more. And to his office. She must be certain he was gone away. She must be certain he had left no message.

  She would leave messages. With the Commission, at his office, o
n his mobile. To help him to find her. If ever he should want to find her.

  And then she would go. She would not run from Brussels and Mikhail. She would leave her messages, and then she would go, calmly, home to Spain.

  She had eaten enough. She set the tray aside. She took a breath.

  Vale. She was ready. It was time to shower. To pack. To put on the black suit. To leave.

  Before she went, she would find Henry. She wanted his address, his number, his email address. Perhaps a kiss of friendship.

  And she would find Peter, for a kiss of laughter.

  Finally she would find Angus Urquhart. She would take his frail hands and tell him adios. She would kiss him also, on his cheek between the white beard and the blue eyes, to prove her forgiveness.

  None of this would take much time.

  She crossed the room to stand at the window. The sun shone brightly. Loch Craggan was brilliant with many reflections. The Land-Rovers had vanished; the gravel was marked by their tyres. Only Fiona’s car, red and yellow, and two others remained, belonging to the family perhaps.

  At the edge of her vision, something was moving. She shaded her eyes to look along the road towards Inverness. A car was speeding towards the hotel. Already it was near. On the roof a sign read ‘TAXI’.

  She grabbed the pink bathrobe and ran from the room, tying it as she went. Along the corridor, down the stairs through a tangle of playing children and across the hall. Fiona was there, pulling open the heavy door.

  ‘The taxi,’ Elena said. ‘Will it wait for me, please? I need to leave soon.’

  She stepped through the open door into a freezing wind. Pulling the robe tight around her and hopping from one bare foot to the other, she waved to the driver across the gravel.

  The driver came towards her. ‘Yes, ma’am?’

  Behind him, his passenger was standing and stretching.

  But no, he was not stretching, he was waving. He was returning her wave.

  The passenger was Mikhail.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Peter

  Count of ten after woman skedaddled in dressing-gown. Then, following holy aroma of kippers, heft rucksack and saunter along basement corridor, up stairs –

  – and straight into snarl up.

  Inrush of iced air through the open front door. Elena, pink-robed and ecstatic at some new arrival. Fiona all smiles, children staring. Other doors opening. Quick, melt into crowd.

  Not a hope, no escape, for here came dear brother Gavin, looming gang-handed from direction of dining-room, eyes locking and switching from suspicion to certainty. ‘Where is she, you bastard?’

  Seized from behind by Will. Trowel on the innocence. ‘What? Who?’

  ‘You know bloody who!’ Gavin’s fist slamming shoulder. ‘My woman, that’s who.’

  Big Owen arriving. ‘Cool it, the lot of you. There’ll be no more scrapping.’

  Calum Calum arriving, surveying him proudly. But William’s grip tightening, Gavin’s fist bunching.

  ‘Hey . . . guys . . .’

  Brother Henry arriving, his eyes passing beyond them and filling with tears. For yes, here was the main event: Elena and stranger, tight in a body-hug.

  Frantically gesture. Yell, ‘Gavin. Look, Gavin. Fuck it, now isn’t the time.’

  Reprieve. All heads turning to gawp at the lovebirds. Shoot stranger a grin.

  Stranger unsmiling, eyes widening, fixing on him – what in hell’s name? – and pointing the finger. ‘It was you!’

  What was he on ab – Oh shit! This was Mick! ‘Who? Me, mate?’

  ‘Elena, this man yesterday answers your phone.’

  ‘Peter?’

  Her face full of happiness. Quick, think on his feet. ‘Yes, it’s such a long story. And a Hollywood ending, right?’

  ‘But Peter, where is my phone?’

  Leap out of Will’s armlock to frisk hanging cagoules. Here it was, in a pocket. Smashed in three pieces. Turn and present them. ‘Don’t know how, but I dropped it. I was bringing it to you. And your message of course, Mick. But then, I don’t know. Something must have distracted me. On the mountain was it, Elena, climbing up in the rain?’

  Home and dry. ‘Yes, Peter, of course. I will explain to Mikhail.’

  ‘Last call for breakfast! Who fancies a wee nibble?’ Excellent timing for James to arrive with his double entendres.

  ‘Me, please.’ Whoops. Here down the stairs came Kim, poured into jeans and a spangly sweater, smirking and brazenly swinging her bag.

  Gavin growling, ‘Don’t think you can fool me. I know where you’ve been.’

  ‘But I thought we’d agreed, Gavin.’ Portrait of innocence. Essence of cool. ‘I thought we’d agreed we were through.’

  Elena

  There were so many people, but she could see only Mikhail. And feel him, his arms strong around her, his rough cheek against hers, his familiar smell wrapping her in safety and peace. There was so much noise and argument. She wanted only to be alone with Mikhail.

  ‘Tell me, how did you find me? My messages, why do you not answer?’

  ‘When you leave, so angry, I too leave Brussels. I have interview for job, which I not tell you. I not take mobile. I return yesterday, Saturday. I listen your messages, read your note, ring your mobile. I speak this man, Peter. But then your phone is dead. I very afraid.’

  ‘But, Mikhail, yesterday evening, still you do not answer.’

  ‘I am in aeroplane. Your note say Scotland. The computer, it show Inverness. Angus Urquhart, Inverness. I ring many people name Urquhart. They explain me how to say “Er-cut.” ’

  He was laughing and kissing her. She tightened her arms and pressed her face into his neck, hearing his wonderful voice in her ear. ‘So I am arriving Inverness. I am afraid for you, not knowing what to do, but I switch on my mobile. And yes, you are phoning. No message, but I have number. I ask for you. You are sleeping. I speak Janet Urquhart. I speak Fiona Urquhart.’ He turned her to see Fiona’s smile.

  One more question. ‘But, Mikhail, on Thursday someone is in your room.’

  ‘Ah, I give key to Boris. For if I take job. For if Boris want my room when I take job.’

  Of course. A new job. He was saying goodbye. ‘It is true then? You leave Brussels?’

  ‘Yes, Elena, already. I start work Thursday.’ He held her apart from him and spoke with sadness. ‘I try to explain, many times. But you are too angry. You say, “No, Mikhail, no.” His fingers gripped her shoulders. ‘Elena, now I take job. Is for you I take it. And I want for you to come with me, but I think you will not.’

  She understood. The fear lifted. ‘I will, Mikhail. Wherever it is, I will come.’

  He began to smile. ‘Madrid? You will come to Madrid?’

  Madrid, not Barcelona. She nodded. His smile grew. ‘This is true? You will come to Spain?’

  ‘Yes. Truly, yes.’ His smile dissolving all problems. There was no problem, there is no problem, there will be no problem. She hugged him tightly and whispered in his ear. ‘I was wrong, Mikhail. Completely wrong. About Spain, you always were right.’

  Henry

  Hannah nudged his hand with a wet nose, asking to be petted. He bent to give her ears a good rumpling. ‘Poor old girl. Is no one making a fuss of you?’

  He was trying hard not to feel sorry for himself. He was trying to feel pleased for Elena. She smiled so humbly at him as she went by in her pink bathrobe on the arm of her lover. He could see she knew how lucky she was, how the cards could so easily have fallen differently. Like no one else he’d met, she understood what this damned loneliness was like.

  They were trooping off to the dining-room in quest of kippers and another good story, but he’d had enough to eat and, truth be told, a bellyful of stories too. ‘Come on, Hannah,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a look in here.’ He wandered through the stone archway into the deserted guest-lounge.

  He should be heading back to Guildford, but the prospect depressed him. He would be sad there without
his ghosts. Trevor’s new leg tomorrow would seem tame after this adventure.

  What would he normally be doing on a Sunday morning in February? Some chores. Ironing his shirts perhaps with the radio for company, before toddling to the pub for a bit of oblivion.

  There was a radio here on the table by the great glass wall. He switched it on and heard Sue Lawley’s voice. Desert Island Discs – good lord, it was late, he must get going. He stared glumly through the glass at the road to Inverness.

  The castaway was no one he knew. Some old lady who had once been famous, relating how she’d met her husband, with whom she then spent ‘so many happy years’. Did Henry believe this? He didn’t know. But at least the old lady seemed to believe it.

  ‘And record number two?’ prompted Sue.

  ‘Ah yes,’ she said. She had to have this one, to remind her of their meeting.

  The violins faded in. Henry recognised the tune. It was one of the songs his mother used to sing, in the days before Urquhart stole her away, in the days before Gaelic lullabies.

  I wonder who’s kissing her now

  Damn it, the music was bringing tears to his eyes. In his mind he was dancing again, down the soft-carpeted stairs of the Royal Highland Hotel towards his destiny, or in the sun-splashed arcade with Elena on his arm.

  Someone touched his elbow. He turned, blinking, ready once more with the brave smile, and with the thought that he really must leave.

  It was Fiona.

  I wonder who’s kissing her now

  The desire to dance overwhelmed him. And it seemed that Fiona wanted to dance too, because his arms were around her and they were gliding over the polished floor. It felt enormously good. She had her head against his chest, and he allowed himself, just for a moment, to imagine that this was his woman.

  All too soon the song faded out and Sue Lawley resumed the interview.

  ‘That was magical, thank you,’ said Henry. ‘But sadly, I must . . .’ He stopped, disconcerted, because Fiona was wiping her eyes. ‘Oh dear, have I upset you?’