A View to a Kilt

by Wendy Holden

  She peered after her torch beam up the driveway beyond. There wasn’t a light to be seen.

  The unearthly owl hoot sounded again, with a scrabble in the undergrowth for good measure. Was there no one around? Laura was beginning to get slightly nervous as to her bed for the night. She prided herself on her ability to sleep anywhere – in the past she had bunked down in Society’s fashion cupboard as well as Caspar’s frankly disgusting pre-fame flat. But ‘anywhere’ did not include under the trees in some remote Scottish forest.

  She tried to recall how the staying arrangements had been arrived at. They had been handled by Demelza, which probably wasn’t the best idea. Laura had been too busy to involve herself with the details – she was doing the Glenravish estate a favour, after all. Now she came to think of it, she vaguely remembered her secretary complaining about mobile phone calls that got cut off, and seeing, waved under her nose, a mangled postcard which looked as if the Hound of the Baskervilles had attempted to eat it before remitting it to the care of the Royal Mail.

  Oh dear. Laura traced a line along the estate walls, using her right hand to steady herself against their rough-hewn surfaces as she went along the uneven roadside. She felt more tired and miserable at every step. For once, even thinking of her indomitable grandmother and derring-do father did nothing to screw her courage to the sticking place. Mimi would never be seen dead in the Highlands of Scotland and her father only made her think of Harry, which doubled her unhappiness at a stroke.

  Just as she was about to give up and give way to tears, she found a small and unexpected gate in the wall. There was only one problem. It was securely locked with one of those 1970s four-digit combination locks, its chain contained within a rotting, rusting plastic sleeve.

  She tried 1234. No. So 4321. No. Then 0000. No. Could it be 9999? No.

  Oh, sod it, thought Laura. She didn’t have the time to attempt all ten thousand permutations. She would have to scale it in the way that she had heaved herself over the gates of the Jardins du Luxembourg when she was growing up in Paris. This one, at any rate, was mercifully free of the main gate’s sharp spikes.

  Risking her shins and her trousers, she clambered up and over the gate, using her holdall as a protective cushion as she squeezed through the gap between the top of the wrought-iron bars and the stone arch surmounting them.

  Her dignity, jeans and ankle all paid the price of what was now a sudden and unguided descent into the Glenravish grounds. But at least she was in. Game on. Laura stood up, wincing, and flashed her phone torch around her.

  There was something unexpected about the look of the gardens. In the dim smartphone glow she could make out huge clumps of bamboo, Oriental gateways, water features with a distinct Far Eastern look about them and beds of raked gravel, into the middle of which she appeared to have landed bum first. Laura flashed the phone light downwards. Two clear cheek prints interrupted the harmonious swirls.

  Dropping to her knees, she made a cursory attempt to re-zen the gravel, before limping off up the path.

  She crunched on through what seemed at least seven different varieties of bamboo, uncertain that she had not heard a rustle amongst them. The wind in the leaves, she told herself, nervously.

  But then a flash of white caught her eye to the left and an astonishing figure leapt into the torch beam of her smartphone, with a yell of ‘Banzai!’ He seemed to be a fully kitted out Japanese infantryman, one pointing a long rifle with a longer bayonet in the general direction of her midriff.

  ‘Err, konnichiwa?’ Laura was terrified but also intrigued. She hoped her stab at Japanese would soften the warrior’s heart. Or stop him stabbing her at least. She felt vastly relieved when he lowered the rifle, smiled and bowed.

  ‘Welcome to Glenravish. I – Koji. Part of Japanese Gardens. World War Two feature, you see.’

  Laura rubbed her face in a gesture that combined relief with incredulity. Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised. Historic gardens were going to increasingly ridiculous lengths to attract attention. Daisy Lovage, Society’s gardens editor, had recently suggested a feature on the subject. According to her, the Chelsea Flower Show was the worst offender; the previous year, veteran socialite Champagne D’Vyne had served as a living water feature, a continuous fountain of Krug showering her pneumatic form as she attempted to get as much into her mouth as possible for seven days on the trot.

  Meanwhile, artist Zeb Spaw’s ‘Guantanamo Garden’ had a chain gang of gardeners in orange jumpsuits digging the same barren plot for the duration of the show. ‘It’s like, a metaphor?’ Spaw had drawled to the eager arts show journalists. ‘Or maybe,’ he had gurgled, spotting a pile of gardening implements, ‘a metafork.’

  As Society magazine prided itself on its counter-intuitiveness, Laura had asked Daisy to defend all this horticultural attention-seeking. She pointed out that it had historical precedent. Eighteenth-century estates once hired people to play the part of hermits in grottos, their contracts compelling them not to wash, or cut their hair or nails for that authentic anchorite look.

  Laura felt another great wave of mourning for her beloved magazine. The gardens would have been a great piece. On the other hand, it still could be. Koji, wandering round with his rifle in the dark, could feature in it and she could relaunch the whole idea. Exultation swept through Laura as she realised that Harriet’s economic imperatives and her own editorial priorities could work in sync after all. At least, where gardens were concerned.

  Much cheered, she followed Koji up the garden path. Tomorrow she’d interview him properly. But then, suddenly, all thought of interviews were swept from her mind. As the yews parted, the full splendour of Glenravish Castle was suddenly and dramatically revealed in the limpid moonlight.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was a rambling baronial beast of a building. Conical towers marked each corner, with, between them, castellations standing out like teeth against the night sky. Windows of various sizes and shapes – from arched to arrow slit – glowed yellow.

  The scene evoked in Laura a seamless blend of the sublime – the castle’s dramatic beauty – and the ridiculous. Perhaps there was more than a little of the Carry on Screaming about Glenravish. This was no casual comparison; Laura was an expert on Carry Ons. Mimi’s enthusiasm for the film genre starring Sid James, Joan Sims and Kenneth Williams was almost as great as for Dad’s Army.

  Koji crunched on across the gravel towards a huge, iron-studded wooden door. Hanging adjacent to it was a big iron bell from which a chain helpfully hung. Koji dragged on it mightily, and it responded with all the restraint and understatement of Big Ben. Laura put her hands to her head, literally staggered at the noise.

  Once the last metallic crashing had died away, silence rushed into her ears and echoed there almost as loudly. There was a flicker of batwing overhead.

  As Koji once again raised his uniformed arm to the bell pull, Laura put a hand on it. Her eyes met his in the faint glow from the windows. ‘Can’t we just knock?’

  Koji nodded and raised his fist. It was about to strike the door when the great wooden portal swung open, creaking violently on its unoiled hinges.

  ‘Halloo?’ A sinister bent figure brandishing a candlestick peered out into the night. Laura imagined they made a strange pair, especially with Koji in his historical uniform. Except that, glancing now to the side of her, she saw that Koji was no longer there. He had disappeared without so much as a crunch of gravel. Laura felt a wave of terror, but there were more important matters than the supernatural at stake. She hastened to explain herself to the sinister bent figure. ‘I’m sorry to bother you – I’m Laura Lake, from Society, I don’t know whether you’re expecting me…’ She tailed hopefully off.

  Silence. Either she was not expected or this person was not blessed with the most powerful aural equipment. Dark beady eyes continued to stare at her.

  Then, an exclamation. ‘Och, Laura Lake! Come in, come in.’ The sinister bent figure now straightened and was all smiles. She
was not, it turned out, sinister at all, but a friendly little woman with apple cheeks, a neat black dress and silver hair in a stylish but sensible wedge cut. ‘Welcome to Glenravish Castle,’ she reassuringly continued. ‘I’m Mrs MacRae, the hoosekeeper.’

  Laura stepped into a seemingly endlessly Gothic stone chamber. It was so high that the ceiling disappeared into the gloom and so long and wide that its furthest reaches could be identified only by the distant gleam of suits of armour. Mounted on the stone walls in circles and other decorative arrangements, was an impressive display of cuirasses, greaves, bascinets, spiked bucklers, swords, daggers and an array of pikes with blades so fearsome they looked capable of taking a man apart from his knave to his chaps in a single deft stroke. After which, doubtless, the victim’s disembowelled innards could be hung on the nifty little spike at the end of the shaft.

  Laura swallowed nervously. In the centre of the wall, she noticed, was a fireplace big enough to park an articulated lorry in. One as big as the deliverer of Roddy’s champagne. The thought of Scotland’s most obviously super-successful estate agent stiffened Laura’s mettle. She thrust away the last of her apprehension and forced herself to think positive.

  Friendly Mrs MacRae was speaking to her, she now realised. Something about trousers. Laura smiled. Perhaps this was a test. Back in Cod’s Head Row, Bill and Ben had assured her that it was practically the Scottish national anthem. Laura took a deep breath and began to sing ‘Donald, Where’s Your Troosers…’

  She finished to see Mrs MacRae shaking her head and chuckling. ‘Och, ye’re a card, Miss Laura!’

  There was something familiar about her voice, but Laura could not place it.

  ‘But yes, yoor troosers. What the de’il hae ye done to ’em?’

  Laura looked down. She had forgotten about the damaged state of her jeans. A flash of thigh was the most obvious result of the unexpected fashion adjustment resulting from tumbling into the estate. There were some large green stains too.

  Mrs MacRae gave her a comforting smile. ‘Dinna fash aboot that, lassie. I’m very handy with the needle. We’ll get it fixed up for you in no time.’

  Laura was about to thank her when a sudden loud crackle and a spark interrupted her. The lights dimmed, went out and relit in a crazed sequence.

  ‘Wh-what was that?’

  Mrs MacRae beamed reassuringly. ‘Och, that’ll just be the ghosties. The electric’s no too good with us up here at Glenravish and they like to play their games, so they do.’ She gave an indulgent shake of her neat wedge-cut. Laura thought of the suddenly disappearing Koji and swallowed hard.

  Her heart was still hammering by the time Mrs MacRae took her to her room.

  ‘Shouldn’t I meet Sandy McRavish?’ Laura faltered, longing even more than before for the sight of a strong man to protect her. While she was a strong woman with a flourishing career, no hang-ups and bags of self-esteem, there were limits. A spooky castle in the dead of night might well be one of them.

  Mrs MacRae turned and smiled. ‘Och, plenty of time for that, lassie. Ye’ll be wanting a bath first, I’m thinking.’

  Laura suddenly imagined being up to her neck in hot scented bubbles. Perhaps the hunky laird could wait after all.

  ‘A bath would be wonderful.’

  It seemed to be a long way to her room. The housekeeper led Laura down a series of rush-matted corridors whose plain white walls were lined with stags’ heads on wooden shields and prints of shoots and fishing expeditions being undertaken in ample tweeds accompanied by profuse facial hair.

  Laura was finding it hard to see the appeal of Highland pursuits. They looked cold, itchy and over-energetic. She couldn’t for the life of her see how she was going to sell this to the sybaritic readers of Society. Laura thought of the bath to keep her spirits up. A nice cold glass of Sauvignon Blanc on the side would be just the thing, but she didn’t quite like to ask.

  ‘Here’s your room, lassie.’

  Laura had been expecting a smaller version of the Great Hall. Something stony with plenty of military hardware on the walls, and a four-poster bed with scary drapes in the middle. To her surprise, she found herself looking into the dearest, sweetest little room. A deep-silled window was hung with flowered curtains. A cosy, old-school gas fire blazed in the fireplace. A posy of sweet peas stood on the mahogany dressing table along which a delicate lace runner had been spread. The bed, which was thankfully postless and therefore curtainless, looked big and comfortable. It was covered with the sort of pink candlewick bedspread that cost a small fortune in Mrs Keppel’s Vintage Linen Emporium. The thought made Laura homesick for a second. Then she reminded herself that she had work to do: a magazine to save, along with a considerable number of jobs.

  With Mrs MacRae gone, instructing her to be downstairs for a midnight kitchen supper with Sandy in half an hour, Laura went happily off to inspect the en suite.

  Perhaps it was slightly less sweet and dear than the bedroom. The bathtub was vast and ancient but probably just the thing if you had spent all day being soaked on some midge-heaven hillside. And the bathwater was hot and plenteous, even if it was peaty brown, drawn, doubtless out of a nearby tarn. But it was sure to be full of rejuvenating minerals, even so.

  The bathside offered a choice of Radox bath salts or Cif. The Cif, Laura imagined, was for the exceptionally dirty and leathery skinned guest after a day of blasting seven bells out of the local wildlife. She opted for the Radox, hoping it would not strip her young skin of all available suppleness and moisture. She was going to need all her youthful glow to impress Sandy.

  Drying herself off, Laura strapped herself into the most fetching of the underwear she had brought in her trusty brown holdall. Lacy, French – mais bien sûr – and with the naughtiest hint of the dominatrix about it, it reminded her suddenly of Caspar. Was this the sort of ill-fated present he had innocently given Margo, only to invoke the wrath of every woman in Hollywood?

  Laura dismissed the thought and imagined Sandy McRavish peeling it off her later. If she felt guilty about Harry, she pushed that thought aside as well. What he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. And he had hurt her enough recently, the bastard. Men! Who needed them? Laura fanned the mental flame of resentment. Down with the patriarchy. Time for some equality. Hashtag Times Up.

  She completed her tenue de soirée with a dab of Chanel No 5 on each wrist – ‘no woman is properly dressed without it,’ according to Mimi. Then she headed downstairs to meet Sandy McRavish for the kitchen supper.

  Minutes later, she was wandering the labyrinth of corridors with a flutter in her belly. This was not just in anticipation of the upcoming encounter with the laird, but because of the renewed flickering of the lights. They were fizzing and crackling again and what felt like cold gusts were inexplicably whiffling down Laura’s neck.

  Whimpering slightly with terror now, she hunched into the tongue and groove panelling as she approached some small back stairs. These were particularly eerie – the sort of place where dogs cringe and bark and refuse to go. Laura took a deep breath, put her best Chelsea boot forward and picked her way unsteadily downwards in the deepening gloom.

  She reminded herself that, as she had lain in the bath and felt the mineral-rich water work its magic on her muscles, she had wondered what would happen if she and Sandy got on particularly well. It wouldn’t just be a night to remember in his tartan-draped bed beneath the crossed swords of his ancestors. It could be the start of a whole new life.

  Whether or not she fell in love with the laird, she had certainly fallen in love with his surroundings. Until now she had been a city girl – Paris, London – but that, she now suspected, was because she had never seen scenery like this before. It was strangely easy to picture herself retiring to the Highlands. Living in Scotland and seeing the incomparable beauty of the place every day of her life.

  After all, what would she be leaving behind? Perhaps she was deluding herself, thinking she could save Society and her colleagues. With the advent of Be
v Sweet, what professional satisfaction was there left? Only the hope of seeing her plunge past the window, having accidentally fallen from her top-floor office.

  Laura pictured herself, married to Sandy, getting involved in the local community: making personal appearances at village events, appearing elegantly in the pages of Country Life and speaking on the key issues of the day in Scotland – land reform, sheep farming, alternative energy. She could even enter the House of Lords. Baroness McRavish had an appealing ring to it…

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lulu was pleasantly surprised by the chief of the clan McBang. She had half-expected some grasping old ghoul but he was handsome, civilised and relatively youthful. She liked his blue velvet jacket and smart white shirt and his directional trousers especially. Possibly he was slightly on the smarmy side; Lulu preferred more attitude. But oleaginous men were two a penny in Lulu’s world and she more than knew how to deal with them.

  Bangers, too, lived up to her highest expectations. It was extremely hot, for one thing. For another, its decor was daring. Lulu liked to mix things up, interiors-wise, and the mixing up here was clearly the work of a master.

  Lulu had now examined every room in the former hotel, from the ‘Classic Doubles’ scattered with remaindered cushions from Dunelm and discontinued widescreen tellies from Argos, to the suites whose decor had a more exotic provenance.

  Chief among these was ‘Runrig’, a reference, Torquil explained, to the farming practices of dispossessed crofters. Runrig’s wallpaper was a repeat-print of eighteenth-century emigration documents and the ropes, glass buoys and ship’s wheels in the room were meant to suggest the several months’ journey to the New World. The vast rectangular bath in the en suite, meanwhile, was built to the exact floorplan of a former crofter’s hut and the suite’s sisal carpet and sheepskin rug were meant to evoke an atmosphere of sheep-nibbled grassland. It even had a slate-effect door key.