Sunstroke
Madge Swindells
© Madge Swindells 1998
Madge Swindells has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1998 by Little, Brown and Company (UK).
This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
To my daughter, Jenni, who has helped since she could read and by now is highly proficient in coping with an author mum and all that this entails: sorting out plot problems, helping to create the characters, making sure our friends don’t recognize themselves, and propping me up when I’ve lost my courage.
…So, acknowledgements to Jenni Swindells for her ongoing encouragement and moral support, and particularly for her creative plotting and editorial assistance.
To Jeffrey Sharpe for his invaluable criticism. My thanks to John and Susan Wynne- Edwards for sowing the first seed from which this plot grew, and to Lawrie Mackintosh for his research assistance.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part Two
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Prologue
Cape Town, 30 June 1993
The judge looks bleak and impersonal as he pronounces my sentence. ‘Nina von Schenk Moller, I have taken into account your blameless record and your youth, but I have to take cognisance of the seriousness of your crimes. You have been found guilty on two counts of spying against the state and four counts of fraud. I sentence you to six years in prison.’
Hands guide me out of the dock and down the stairs to the cells. The prison door clangs shut and I stand staring at it, unable to turn away. The tension is like a steel wire running from my heels to my neck, pulling ever tighter. I can bear it, just as I bore the injustice and the betrayal, but my baby’s pain is unendurable.
Where are you, Nicky? Instinctively I know that you’re alive. Are you crying for me? Are you afraid? Dear God, protect my child, my sweet son. God, help me to survive until I’m free and I can find my baby. Help me to stay sane. If only I could understand. Why?
Part One
Chapter 1
There was a time when laughter flowed and the future beckoned like a star to my exploring youth. So I, life’s novice, swept the world with a new broom, living snug in the belief of an all-wise fate watching over me, of the invincibility of my parents’ bond, the inevitability of my adult fulfilment and the wisdom of those who managed the world. Above all, I believed in the all-healing power of love.
I grew up among the mists and mountains of the Scottish Highlands. I knew where the golden eagle built her nest in the inaccessible mountain peak of the Liathach, in the Torridon mountains. I often watched her swooping down over the loch and gliding into the forest for her prey. Then I would hear the shrill keening of a rabbit or a blue hare, swiftly silenced. Sometimes on a spring evening I would hear the eagle’s anguished calls, and I knew that she had young to feed and she must kill, or die.
Summers were the best. I would steal out to play in twilight nights and see the great red deer and wild goats creep down to graze around the loch. Then I grew strong and tanned, scratches appeared all over me, and my dark red hair became sun-streaked, long and wild.
I played hard after school at all the things that beckoned to me, and as an only child in an isolated house I had no knowledge of what was for boys and what for girls. I learned to paddle a canoe in our torrential mountain streams and sail a small yacht on the loch on the stormiest of days. I grew hardy climbing the local peaks, and swimming in ice-cold water. I could handle a catapult as well as any boy I knew, track the poachers and dismantle their snares, chop wood and saw planks, but I never learned to fear. Fear was for the lower orders of mankind, not for Ogilvies. So I grew strong and arrogant in my snug harbour of happiness, in our old home beneath the pine trees, beside the loch.
Winters had their compensations, when a log fire burned in the hearth and the house was fragrant with the scent of burning pine, yew and juniper boughs. Sprawled on a black sheepskin rug by the hearth I read for hours and made new friends: David Copperfield, Tam O’Shanter and Wandering Willie. At night, the fire smouldered beneath great lumps of peat and the warmth was still there at dawn to warm me before I set off for school. Mother was home more often in the winter, and sometimes, Father would sweep in to endure the homage and adoration that returning warriors deserve.
We lived an isolated life in Ogilvie Lodge. Torridon was the only village within bicycle range and it was there I went to school. My mother, who loved company, was often gone for days. She would return in a flourish of bags, hat boxes and tissue paper, her eyes sparkling, her hair set fashionably. Then the house would reverberate to the beat of dance music, and her feet would be tapping in time to it as she showed me her new dresses and jewellery and the useless presents she had brought me.
My mother was a lovely dreamer of dreams, a genie who lived a dozen lives at the same time. I would sit transfixed with awe at this lovely woman, her hair long and burnished red, her large violet eyes gazing longingly out of the window towards the snow-topped mountain peaks, as she spun tales of what might have been.
Why had she chosen Father? Perhaps because he was in British Intelligence. He had been decorated three times by the Queen for services rendered to the Crown. He was altogether special, an athlete, a commander in the Navy, the local squire when he was at home, and the best shot in the district. Fluent in several languages and a perfectionist in everything he did, he was a harsh man who set high standards for himself and everyone else. Nevertheless he was full of fun, and our family was loved and revered in the local village. I adored my handsome father, with his laughing brown eyes and tousled, light brown hair.
Maria, our housekeeper, whom I loved as a mother, swore I grew more like a gypsy every day. She and her husband, Mac, reared me in a haphazard manner. They were kind and carin
g. Maria’s kingdom was the kitchen, a vast place that served as a living room when my parents were away. Mac ran the grounds and drove the family car when needed. I never knew him by any other name. Under his careless but benign tutelage, I built a tree house when I was ten and shot my first and last bird, which I cried over for days.
When I was eleven, I found an otter by the shores of Torridon Loch, which bordered our grounds. The poor wee creature was trapped in a snare. Half dead with cold and deep in shock, he allowed me to free his leg and wrap him in my jersey. I carried him up to our home, the tears pouring down my cheeks. My cries brought Maria running. ‘Nina! What’s wrong, my lovie?’
‘Bring a box. Be quick, please. I’ve found an otter… caught in a trap. Call Mac… please. Hurry, hurry, we must get him down to the vet. Maybe he can do something. He’s in such pain, the poor, poor creature.’
Mac rushed me to the village, where the otter was stitched up, bandaged and given a fifty-fifty chance of survival by our vet, Dr MacIntyre. For days, he lay in a basket by my bed, nibbling herrings and trout fillets and hiding when I went to school. After two months, he emerged to take his place in our household and quarrel violently with our Great Dane, Brigit, named after a Celtic goddess.
I called my new friend Otto-the-Brave. On winter nights I would sprawl on the rug by the open fire, straining my eyes in the gloom to read my favourite stories to him: Ivanhoe, Kidnapped and The Wind in the Willows, while Brigit, who was old and felt the cold, would often creep right into the cinders.
One day, when I was thirteen, Otto disappeared. It was autumn and I pushed my way through copses of thorny branches and red berries, tramped across ditches of fallen leaves and bracken and searched around the loch. I saw the elusive red squirrels gathering nuts and the wild goats racing past, splendid in their glossy winter coats. At last, I found Otto’s corpse in a ditch, his head nearly sliced off by a farmer’s spade from the look of things. I guessed it was the work of John Gilmore, our neighbour.
I went straight there, voicing my accusations, with Otto wrapped in my coat. The farmer was having his tea by the fire.
‘You killed Otto. I’ll report you to the RSPCA. You’re a cruel and horrible man.’
The farmer and his wife were distraught. ‘They’re pests you see, lass. I never guessed it was your Otto. Here, let’s give him a decent burial.’
They persuaded me to give up Otto’s remains and they buried him in the centre of their rose garden.
Later, I realized that the farmer’s cruel spade had been a blessing in disguise. Where would he have gone, my poor, tamed Otto?
Within a few weeks, my father had been crippled in a car crash and our world fell apart.
*
Bitter months followed. Father became introverted and dour. Mother fretted and cried, and disappeared on week-long trips. In her absence, Maria would tut-tut her way around the kitchen. Once I heard her say, ‘What would this poor lass do without us? It’s a crying shame.’
A month later, Maria and Mac packed their possessions and told me that they were leaving.
‘I want to go with you, Maria.’
‘You’re not our kin. We’ve been given notice. We’ve found a new place, but we couldn’t take you there, pet, not even if we wanted to.’
From this, I deduced that they did not want to. So love can be terminated with one month’s notice. Mute with despair I tramped around the loch, steeling myself to face this unexpected rejection. Hours later, I went home to confront my mother. She, too, was packing, but she had abandoned her suitcase to gaze in the mirror. I stood beside her, noticing that I was almost as tall as she was. She was so dainty and I was so strong.
‘We’re going to Bristol, Nina, to stay with Uncle Theodore.’ She gazed at my reflection with her astonishing violet eyes. ‘You’ll learn to love him in time and we’ll be happy. The town is full of shops and clothes. You’ll have so many friends.’
‘I don’t like shopping and I don’t need new clothes.’
‘But look how short your dress is. Goodness, how you’re growing, Nina. You’ll never find a husband if you’re taller than all the boys. Don’t pout, there’s a good girl. You don’t look pretty when you sulk and I can’t stand you when you’re moody.’
‘I want to stay at home with Father.’
‘But, darling, Father and I are parting. You’ll have to live with one of us, and your father’s never here. Whom do you love best, your father or me?’
How could I tell her the truth?
Days later, when the dreaded prospect of loss was almost upon me, I took my problem to my father. ‘Don’t send me away. I’ll look after you, Father. We’ll be fine together.’
Father taught me the harsh realities of life when he forced me, with a few bleak words, to confront my world.
‘Nowadays people get divorced. We’re not the first and not the last by any means, although perhaps the first in our family. The children suffer, but remember, you’re an Ogilvie. You’ve had a lonely life here. You’ll be better off with your mother.’
‘When will I see you?’ It was a cry of pure anguish.
‘Me?’ He seemed genuinely taken aback. ‘Listen, Nina. Life seldom works out exactly as you had in mind. The trick of surviving is to accept change and make the most of what you have. Enjoy school and try to get on with your stepfather. Soon you’ll be grown-up and you’ll be free.’
‘But I love you, Father.’ I reached forward and grabbed his cheeks, pressing hard with my open palms as I struggled to batten down the worst of my rebellion.
I remember how he looked at me, so strangely. ‘You’re female, so you’ll soon forget.’
How cold he was. At that moment, I hated him.
I insisted on going to boarding school. Occasionally I saw Father, but he was walled into his own unique hell and could not reach out, least of all to a young woman who so strongly resembled her mother. I became inviolate. At school, I organized all kinds of mad adventures until the headmistress flinched when she saw me coming.
My father took up painting and became a recluse, living in three rooms of our old house, with a neighbouring couple to clean, cook and drive for him. I went to see him once a month, but our meetings were always painful. We could never get through to one another, but I was always sad to leave.
By then I knew that the world was for winners. Whatever kind of God had created life, He had no mercy for the weak or maimed of whatever species you’d like to name. Hadn’t He created a system where living creatures fed upon each other and lived or died according to their strength, or cunning or brains? Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, win or be beaten. It was a world I understood, where logic reigned and all false sentiments were banished. It was a world where I could win.
So, like the golden eagle, I searched the highest mountain peaks for my own special niche, and found it.
Chapter 2
FINANCIAL TRIBUNE,
London, 15 December 1989
Those who wield the pension funds have become key financial power players in the city, the most frightening beasts in the corporate jungle, and Nina Ogilvie, vice-chairman of Bertram Merchant Bank’s Asset Management Division, is the deadliest of them all. At 28, Ogilvie controls the investment capital of 500 pension funds, amounting to over fifty billion pounds. The most powerful of corporate entrepreneurs quake when she queries their profit performance.
Witness her latest financial coup – the takeover of the national Sidor supermarket chain. Ogilvie considered Sir Reginald Sidor incompetent. She decided to back Cedric Jedrow’s proposed takeover bid. Jedrow is no fool. He leaked the news that Ogilvie was backing him and from that moment the deal was as good as done. Sir Reginald, raised from the cradle to run his father’s business empire, found himself out of work overnight…
*
‘Fuck!’
There was plenty more. I could not believe the media could write this trash about me without my permission.
Briefly, my eyes skimmed the press column
s. Moments later, I reached for the intercom and rang my boss, Eli Bertram.
‘Nina?’ Eli’s voice. ‘I was just going to call you…’
‘And I know why.’
‘Come right over if it’s convenient.’ He sounded agitated.
‘Be right with you.’ I replaced the receiver.
I hurried into my private bathroom. It was eight a.m. and I had only just arrived. Outside, the bitter south-east wind was gusting up to 50 m.p.h. and my hair stood up as if I’d had an electric shock. I gazed at myself in despair. I had everything I detested: tightly curled dark red hair, a pale skin and green eyes. Today, I looked even paler than usual and my eyes were glittering with anxiety. I had a gut feeling that bad news was hovering about me. All this because of a newspaper report?
‘Calm down, Nina.’
As I ran downstairs to the first floor, I thought about Eli and my job, and this highly prejudicial personal publicity. Eli Bertram was a man I admired for he was motivated only by logic. Once a refugee from Hamburg, the only survivor of a Jewish banking family, he had fled through Europe and reached Britain where he joined the RAF and fought as a rear gunner until the end of the Second World War. In the bitter post-war years, he had succeeded in re-establishing Bertram’s Bank, this time in London, and in the late sixties launched his Asset Management Division. I’d joined him seven years before as a raw novice when I graduated with a degree in business economics, but I’d thrived on the cut and thrust of pure reason. Yet I relied heavily on my intuition, too, and right now my hunch told me this story was big trouble. As I strode in, I could feel my cheeks burning.
Eli leaped to his feet. At seventy-three he was still athletic, and a handsome man with his burning black eyes and mop of thick white hair.
‘I won’t deny we have a problem here, Nina. Now that the media have discovered you, we could have the whole pack round our necks.’ Eli’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘Because you’re photogenic they’ll want to publish your picture, and they’ll be sniffing into your private life. Dinner with Neville Wimpey, for instance, could push up his shares to absurd heights and crash them down twice as hard. I know you never give interviews but they have ways and means, as they’ve demonstrated here.’ He leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head and stared quizzically at me. ‘We’re going to foil them, Nina. I suppose you know you’ve made a dangerous enemy in Sidor.’
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