The Family Secret

by Tracy Buchanan

  ‘This is my little sister Heather,’ he said. ‘Heather, meet Gwyneth. She nearly died trespassing our land so I thought I’d extend her the courtesy of a warm bath and dry clothes.’

  ‘Did you shoot her like the last person who trespassed?’ Heather asked, eyes narrowing as she looked me all over.

  ‘Not this time,’ Dylan replied with a sigh.

  I didn’t know whether to take them seriously. But then they both laughed.

  ‘Only kidding.’ Heather stepped towards me, putting out her hand. ‘Welcome to the madhouse, Gwyneth.’

  I shook her hand. It felt very small and very cold, a surprise considering how warm it was in the house.

  ‘Gwyneth makes wildlife documentaries,’ Dylan said. ‘You should see her camera.’

  Heather smiled in excitement. ‘Wow, really?’

  ‘Yes, that was why I was on the lake.’ I was in a rush to explain. ‘I wanted to film a bird, a rare one.’

  ‘That’s ace, Mum and Dad would love the loch to be in a documentary.’

  ‘Heather wants to make films,’ Dylan said, smiling affectionately at his sister. ‘She’s doing film studies at Leeds University.’

  ‘That’s cool,’ I said.

  She nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, I want to direct them. Do you know anything about directing?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Excellent, we can talk about it over dinner,’ Heather declared as she went to skip down the stairs.

  ‘Oh, I’m not staying for dinner,’ I called out after her. ‘I’m just going to get out of these clothes then be on my way.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ a deep voice from below said. I looked down the stairs to see a man in his fifties or sixties walk out from beneath the stair balcony. He was wearing an expensive-looking crimson cashmere jumper and dark blue cords. I could see Dylan in him: the dark, mischievous eyes, the handsome face and broad shoulders. I could see he was made of money too. There was something about people who had money; I saw it in the guests at the hotel who stayed in the presidential suite. A hands-in-pockets confidence that came with knowing the zero signs on your bank statement were a sign of good rather than bad.

  Dylan leaned over the banister. ‘Dad, this is Gwyneth. She makes wildlife documentaries.’

  ‘So I just heard. Now this is what I call a welcome visitor.’ Dylan’s father walked up the stairs and put his hand out to me. ‘Oscar McClusky.’

  I looked at his smiling face in surprise as I took his hand. ‘I trespassed on your land, you know.’

  Oscar laughed. ‘As long as you got some good footage of that beautiful ptarmigan I saw gliding across the loch?’

  ‘You saw me?’

  ‘Who do you think told Dylan to go rescue you and bring you to dinner?’

  I couldn’t help but smile, shaking my head in surprise. ‘So it was all part of your grand plan?’

  ‘I was intrigued,’ Oscar admitted. ‘A young lady with a camera like that. I didn’t realise the ice was so thin. We were skating on it only yesterday, weren’t we, Heather?’

  He went to his daughter and pulled her close to him as she blinked rapidly. Then she smiled up at him, nodding. I had a flashback of my own father pulling me close for a cuddle. It was quickly replaced by a memory of us standing outside my aunt’s hotel all those years ago, avoiding each other’s gaze, unsure how to say goodbye.

  ‘You’ll stay for dinner?’ Heather asked me, eyes hopeful.

  I looked at Dylan and he shrugged. ‘You might as well. The next place you’ll be able to grab a bite to eat is two hours’ drive away, as the village has shut down for Christmas.’

  My tummy rumbled, trying to assert itself. Truth was, I was freezing and hungry. The last thing I wanted to do was return to my car. Plus the family intrigued me. ‘Thank you. That would be lovely,’ I said.

  Half an hour later, I walked down the stairs in Heather’s jeans, smoothing down the ice-blue cashmere jumper she’d lent me. It still had its tags on it, the price too: £150! I bought most of my clothes from a cheap outdoors shop I’d found in East London, thick fleeces and trousers ideal for the work I did. I did have the occasional expensive dress for the awards ceremonies and industry events I was sometimes invited to, and the odd date too – when I had the time and felt like company. Expensive jumpers like this were alien to me though.

  I stopped in the hallway, hearing the sound of laughter from behind one of the doors. I twisted my long blonde hair around so it fell over one shoulder to look more presentable before I entered the room. Then I pushed the door open to reveal a huge dining area, and several people smiling up at me from a long mahogany table laden with food. I quickly checked it to make sure there were some vegetarian items for me and there was. The ceiling sloped down one side of the dining room, spotlights travelling up it. At the other end was a triangle window that took up the entire wall and looked out onto the stunning snow-topped mountains.

  Dylan stood up, pulling the chair next to him out for me. Heather sat on the other side of my chair, and Oscar was at the head of the table by the window. Next to Dylan were two men who looked like him. Opposite them were two women and the young boy I’d seen earlier. Sitting in front of me at the other head of the table was an older woman with dark hair in a plait down her back. She turned and looked me up and down, no smiles.

  They were all dark, tall and Amazonian apart from one of the women who was petite with blonde hair cut short.

  ‘This is Gwyneth, Mother,’ Dylan said to the woman at the head of the table as I took the seat next to him.

  ‘The trespasser,’ Oscar said with a wicked smile.

  I felt my face flush.

  ‘It’s fine,’ the man next to Dylan said. ‘You had good reason, so I hear. I’m Cole, by the way.’ He was clean-shaven and handsome, wearing a dark suit and sitting straight-backed in his chair. He looked very much like Dylan but had their father’s blue eyes instead of their mother’s brown ones. ‘And this is my wife, Rhonda,’ he said, gesturing towards the blonde woman sitting across from me. ‘And that there is our boy, Alfie.’

  Rhonda smiled at me. ‘I hear you’re a documentary-maker, how fascinating. Did you hear that, Alfie? This lady makes films about animals.’

  The boy looked up from playing with some toy cars and gazed at me curiously. ‘Do you see dinosaurs?’

  Everyone laughed, including Dylan’s mother, whose face lit up. I could see Heather in her now, the more elfin-like features compared to Oscar’s Romanesque handsomeness. Slimmer and more ethereal too.

  ‘She’d have to travel all the way to the land before time for that,’ the man next to Cole said. He looked younger than Dylan and Cole, slimmer and more elfin-featured too, like his mother and Heather. But he was still tall, broad by most standards, handsome too. He was wearing a jumper, but it wasn’t plain like the others. Instead, it was black with primary-coloured blocks around the arms, and his black hair was spiked up. Clearly a lover of fashion like some of the younger editors I sometimes worked with in the States.

  ‘I’m Glenn,’ he said, waving at me.

  ‘The baby of the family,’ Dylan explained.

  ‘My baby,’ his mother said, stroking his arm.

  He jokingly swept her arm away. ‘I’m twenty-five, Mother.’

  ‘Oh, so you don’t want that loan you asked me for this morning?’ she asked, raising a cool eyebrow.

  He leant in towards her, pretending to gurgle like a baby. ‘Yes please, Mama.’

  Everyone laughed.

  ‘I’m Alison,’ the woman sitting beside Rhonda said. ‘One of the sisters,’ she added. She was wearing a long flowing dress and a tribal necklace, henna tattoos on her hands. She looked tanned compared to the others and I guessed was the oldest of the siblings, maybe in her late thirties.

  ‘Nice to meet you all,’ I said. ‘I appreciate you inviting me into your home despite—’

  ‘Illegally entering our land,’ Dylan’s mother finished for me in a cold voice, all the warmth sh
e’d just shown to her family gone.

  Everyone went quiet. It was clear she was the head of this family.

  ‘Mother …’ Dylan said in a low voice.

  ‘But she did, didn’t she?’ she replied.

  ‘For the right reasons, Mairi,’ her husband said.

  ‘No, she’s right,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have done it. I get carried away sometimes. Someone I used to know …’ I swallowed, the memory of my recent loss still so painful. I looked down at my napkin, pulling at it with my fingers. ‘He told me there’s a fine line between determination and rudeness.’ I looked up into Mairi’s eyes, suddenly so desperate for her approval, for all of their approval. ‘I crossed that line today. This is your land, your home. I was wrong and I will leave now, if that’s what you feel is best.’

  I went to get up but she raised her hand to stop me. Then she gestured towards the candles that flickered on the sill of a small window above. ‘Each Christmas, we place candles in our windows to let strangers know they are welcome. You are welcome,’ she said, gesturing for me to sit back down. I did so hesitantly. ‘Just don’t trespass again,’ she added with a wink. The tension in the room suddenly dispersed. She turned to her family. ‘Shall we eat?’

  Over the next two hours, we ate dinner, drank wine too, lots of it, served by a middle-aged woman with white hair who I presume was their housemaid.

  I learnt Oscar had worked his way up from being a builder and woodsman to run a multi-million-pound building company that supplied many business and private owners with wood-clad buildings like this. His oldest son, Cole, was the managing director, Oscar taking a back seat for a reason nobody made clear. But I guessed from the fact he didn’t drink more than a glass of wine and resisted second helpings that it might have something to do with his health, despite how fit he looked.

  Glenn, the youngest brother, wrote and illustrated children’s books that could be found in bookstores around the country, and Dylan’s older sister Alison, after ‘the most God-awful divorce’, as she described it to me, was trying to figure out her place in life, travelling and taking photos for a book she was planning. Cole’s wife Rhonda dedicated her time to volunteering and being a mum.

  Despite their clear advantages – the apparent wealth and freedom with which they were able to live their lives – they seemed very down to earth. Maybe it was because of Mairi, who clearly kept a tight rein on them, scolding them with a look if any of them said something out of turn.

  As they all talked, I watched Dylan at times. He could be playful and charming like his father, but I could see a hint of the serious intent his mother possessed. I thought of what he’d said earlier – ‘You’re beautiful’ – and realised he was simply stating what he thought, as his mother seemed to do. There really was nothing seedy about it.

  ‘Where’s your next shoot, Gwyneth?’ Oscar asked me.

  ‘Iceland. There’s a beach there made of ice where seals like to flock. It’s in the southeast on the Jökulsárlón glacial lagoon.’

  ‘I know it,’ Oscar said with a smile. ‘In fact, the first lodge Dylan ever worked on is based an hour or so away in Kirkjubæjarklaustur.’

  Dylan looked up, eyes alight. ‘God, I loved working on that place.’

  I smiled at his enthusiasm. Maybe he did enjoy his job?

  ‘How did you get into making documentaries, Gwyneth?’ Cole asked.

  ‘I had a mentor, Reginald Carlisle.’

  ‘That man’s a legend,’ Oscar said. ‘In fact, I have his book upstairs.’

  Surprise registered on Mairi’s face. ‘He passed away a few months ago, didn’t he?’

  I nodded. It still hurt to think of it, holding his frail hand as his ninety-year-old body finally gave in.

  Mairi fixed me with her dark gaze. ‘He clearly meant a lot to you.’

  Dylan watched me, the whole table silent.

  ‘He did,’ I whispered.

  I thought back to the first time I met Reg. Some of the wildlife documentary-makers at the hotel I worked at would talk of one particular man with reverent awe. I looked out for him and eventually discovered who he was, a man in his sixties who would always be the first down for breakfast at 6.30am. He barely said a word and would often be reading a wildlife book, hardly looking up as I served him his breakfast, thick silver eyebrows knitted in concentration.

  One day, while I was at the library borrowing one of the books I’d seen him read, I was shocked to find one with his face on the back. In the Deep Alaskan Winter by Reginald Carlisle. It turned out he was one of the pioneers of wildlife filming, a legend in the documentary-making community. I read that book every night, disappearing into the beautiful but savage Alaskan landscape he described, a landscape that nearly claimed his life when he was trapped in heavy snow there for two weeks while making a series for the BBC.

  When I saw him again, I placed the book on his table as he ate breakfast. He paused from his reading, his blue eyes rising to examine my face.

  ‘I was wondering if you could sign it?’ I said, trying to keep the stammer from my voice. The truth was, he’d become a hero of sorts to me. Other teenagers were into John, Paul, George and Ringo, but my rockstar was a wildlife documentary-maker. No wonder the other girls at the hotel didn’t talk to me!

  Reg opened the book and after a brief pause, scribbled on it before snapping it shut and handing it back without a word, his attention quickly returned to the book he was reading. Only when I got back to my little room in the hotel’s attic that night did I see what he’d written.

  Next time, buy a book instead of stealing one from a library.

  The next morning, as I poured him his tea, I battled over whether to talk to him again. ‘I didn’t steal the book,’ I eventually managed in a small voice.

  He gave me a silent look.

  ‘I extended the loan,’ I continued.

  ‘Then gave it to me to desecrate.’

  I dipped my chin to my chest. ‘I know. I’d buy a copy except—’

  ‘You’re a poor waitress. How old are you anyway?’

  ‘Sixteen,’ I lied. Truth was, I was fifteen, just. And while it was fine to work at that age, my aunt didn’t like me broadcasting it. ‘I don’t get paid much.’

  ‘So? I used to be like you once, didn’t have two pennies to rub together,’ he said, fire in his eyes. ‘But I did something about it. And you can too if you set your mind to it.’

  The next day was a rest day. I got one day off a week and usually spent it walking around London alone, visiting the free museums and attractions. But that day, I pulled on my hand-me-down winter coat and stomped out into the cold armed with a wood-effect Filmo camera I’d ‘borrowed’ off a documentary-maker. He’d been so distracted drinking the night before he didn’t notice me sneak it from his side. I was planning to return it to him when I finished. Well, to the hotel’s lost property anyway, in the hope he’d mention its loss to reception. Sure, I felt slightly guilty. But at least he’d get it back. There were many things in my fifteen years I’d loved and lost, never to be seen again.

  The night before, I’d barely got any sleep, playing with the damn thing and trying to figure out how it worked until I finally cracked it at 3am.

  As I stepped out of the hotel with it in my bag, I thought of the techniques Reg had mentioned in his book:

  Shoot tight. Zoom in on a stabbing hoof. A pecking beak. Two stark wide eyes. These shots can be used to create a story in the editing room.

  Get down to the animal’s level, even if it means lying in dirt on your belly.

  Film with the sunlight on your back if you want to see the animal’s true colours.

  I must have looked a right sight that morning, lying belly down on London’s grimy paths, camera pointing out towards the Thames as I filmed a grey heron diving into water. Or lying on a bench and looking up to the sky to film pigeons in flight. Of course, I wished I was in Alaska instead, filming polar bears, but this would need to do. As I made my way back to the hotel,
I walked with my head held high despite the grime all over my skirt. This was the most exciting thing I’d done since leaving home.

  I found Reg seated at his usual spot in the hotel’s restaurant at lunch, sipping tea as he read another book. I don’t think he recognised me at first without my black and white waitress uniform on, my long hair down when it was usually up.

  I nervously placed the camera on his table. ‘I set my mind to some filming, like you advised.’

  ‘I did, did I?’ He looked down at the camera, face expressionless. ‘Where did you get this camera? Looks a lot like the one Gerald over there has lost,’ he said, gesturing towards the cameraman I’d borrowed it from who was talking frantically to the reception desk.

  I swallowed, twisting a button on my coat between my fingers. ‘I plan to return it.’

  That was the first time I saw Reg smile. ‘I’m tempted to say don’t bother; I’ve never liked the man. What do you want me to do with this then?’ he asked, gesturing to the camera.

  ‘I thought you might have some way of viewing it to see if what I’ve filmed is any good?’ I asked tentatively.

  As I said that, I felt a presence behind me. Reg quietly slipped the camera into the bag at his feet and I turned to see my aunt smiling tightly.

  ‘Is this young lady bothering you, Mr Carlisle?’ she asked, flashing me a hard look.

  ‘Not at all,’ Reg retorted. ‘She saw me drop some money earlier and was kind enough to return it to me.’

  My aunt relaxed. ‘Good, we ensure all our staff hold the highest of moral standards. Now come away, Gwyneth, let Mr Carlisle finish his lunch in peace.’

  As she marched me off, I glanced over my shoulder at Reg who winked at me. I turned back, suppressing a smile.

  I barely slept again that night, wondering if Reg had managed to watch the footage. When I walked downstairs, pulling at the stiff collar of my uniform, he was waiting for me in reception.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said.

  I peered into the breakfast room. I was already running late.

  ‘Just five minutes,’ he said. ‘Come on.’