A Trick of the Light

by Ali Carter

  Into a large carpeted bathroom we all went.

  ‘Urgh,’ said Lianne, peering into the deep bathtub.

  ‘Oh,’ said Zoe enthusiastically, ‘don’t worry about those stains on the enamel, they’re from years of dripping water. Brown but not dirty.’ Then, holding her hair back with one hand, she bent to give the cold tap a firm twist – it didn’t make the slightest bit of difference; the water continued to drip.

  ‘Look,’ said Zoe, who was now walking towards a china crapper. Honestly it was, Thomas Crapper’s genuine article, the name stamped on the cistern high up on the wall. ‘I want to show you how to pull the chain.’

  Giles’s nose made a noise as he held back a laugh and Zoe proceeded, with no idea what had amused him. ‘You must draw this wooden handle down until the water comes. A little old-fashioned quirk.’

  Once she’d demonstrated the method we left the bathroom and, thanks to labels on suitcases, most rooms and people were quickly paired off. ‘Susie,’ she said, heading for the semi-darkness at the far end of the corridor, ‘here’s where you are.’ Mustering strength, she flung the door open. A great gust of freezing air shot out.

  ‘Oh gosh.’ Zoe rushed in to slam the little window shut. ‘Sorry about that. I’ve been airing the house. I do hope you’ll be happy in here.’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I smiled, longing for her to lend me a blanket.

  But she left, pulling the door shut behind her.

  I put John Buchan’s The 39 Steps on the side table and dumped my suitcase on the floor. I felt lost and cold and low. The wallpaper was peeling at every join, the iron bedstead conjured wartime hospital scenes and the curtains, only moments ago flapping outside, were wet. I took in a deep breath and the pervasive smell of must shot up my nose. That hard-to-grasp-hold-of essence of green shrubbery letting off steam in a particularly damp and lacking-in-daylight part of the garden. Down by the pond, round the back of the boat hut. In I breathed just to make sure. Yup. Damp.

  I kicked off my shoes and then, in the hopes it would warm me up, unpacked as quickly as I possibly could. Bending down and up, down and up, hurriedly hanging my things in the mahogany wardrobe then to and fro the window shelf, arranging my toiletries. All the time telling myself off for acting spoilt. I’m jolly lucky to have a roof over my head.

  Done and dusted I flung myself down on the bed. The duvet bounced up at my feet and something fell to the floor.

  A crusty, marble-eyed teddy bear is now in my hands and my heartbeat is rising. I can’t shake off the horror of Chucky from Child’s Play and those decal eyes. Mr Bear went flying up in the air, landed on top of the wardrobe and disappeared. He’s gone. Phew.

  I rested my weary head on the pillow and looked up at the bubbles of damp on the ceiling. It took me back to my childhood room where often I would make myself dizzy, circling my eyes around the wet yellow rings. Lying here now, doing the same, I suddenly remember I must text Mum. She’d been nervous about my journey today, despite the fact I’ve driven to Scotland several times before. All those trips with my ex, to visit his mother…Mum must have forgotten. No surprise. She’s never given any weight to relationships past. Not her fault. My mother didn’t have any boyfriends before Dad, so how can she possibly understand a broken heart?

  I got out my mobile. There’s no reception. Oh crumbs. I simply must find a solution for getting in touch, I know she’ll have been waiting to hear from me all day – mobile on loud, in her pocket. Mum’s anxiety is a new trait, born from our heart-to-heart at Christmas. As Dad had put it, ‘this is a conversation for you and your mother’. Ever since, our relationship has been sticky. I can’t afford to cause them any worry. I must let Mum know I’ve arrived safe.

  I found the internet. No password – no neighbours, no need, I suppose. Mum refuses to use WhatsApp – ‘Far too many lines of communication these days’ – so I’ll just have to Wi-Fi call her instead.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘Susie, everything okay? Have you arrived?’ Her breath was short.

  ‘Yes, yes. I’m here at last.’

  ‘Oh good,’ she sighed. ‘I got your father to check the weather. I think you’re going to wake to snow. Oh love, I do hope you’re going to be okay.’

  Londoners eh. They think snow is a beast come to bring everything to a grinding stop. They see none of the magic, the pure white forming heavy quilts on pine trees, delicate crystals on window panes and billowing sheets across the landscape. To them it is a nuisance, grey slush, ‘ankle dirt, unavoidable ankle dirt’ is what my father calls it.

  ‘I’ll be fine. Please don’t worry. I’m looking forward to the week ahead.’

  ‘We’ll be thinking of you and wait to hear when you’re safely back in Sussex.’

  I’d arrived, that’s what mattered, now she could hang up. Neither of my parents use the telephone for proper conversation. The in-between details could wait until we were next face to face.

  ‘Bye, Susie, have fun. We love you.’

  ‘Bye. Love to Dad.’

  I was glad I’d called. Hearing Mum’s voice brought comfort to me in this strange house. As for them looking up my weather – fancy that. They really are living through me these days. I’m no longer a daughter out of sight, out of mind. What a happy thought, even if it is in a spoilt-only-child kind of way.

  I took in a deep breath, hoping Mum’s finally forgiven me for what I made her do. But I must not dwell on family issues; I’ve come to Scotland for a change of scene. To get away from life down south and take my mind off heartache. Thank goodness my mobile doesn’t have reception, I won’t be wasting time permanently checking if Dr Toby Cropper has been in touch.

  Toby’s a mortuary clerk I hooked up with in Dorset last year. He’s so darn difficult to get off my mind. I honestly thought we were lifetime partners. But then, I found out he had a son. I wouldn’t have minded if he’d been straight with me from the start. But he wasn’t. We don’t communicate any more, one non-committal scribbled postcard in answer to my loving letter put an end to that. He’s frozen me out and I can’t help thinking he’s probably now breaking some other girl’s heart.

  I clenched my fist and punched the duvet…Why do I always fall for the wrong men?

  The dinner gong boomed through the house and I headed downstairs. Pinned up on the music room door was a new notice.

  Daily Timetable

  Breakfast 8.30am to 9.30am

  Morning Tutorial 10am to 12.30pm

  Lunch 1pm (buffet at the house or a picnic on location)

  Afternoon tutorial 2.30pm to 5pm

  Dinner* will be served at 8pm

  Wednesday night ceilidh

  * Paint-stained clothes are not permitted in the dining room, please wear appropriate dinner dress.

  ‘No rest for the wicked,’ came a self-amused voice behind me. Rupert was here. ‘I heard the gong, a fine way to rally the troops.’

  ‘Yes,’ I smiled.

  ‘Let’s go through, shall we?’ He led the way, pinning the doors open so I could walk through first.

  The dining room smelt of gas, the culprit being the non-flued 1970s heater glowing orange in the corner. Mhàiri Bannoch was settling a final bowl of peas on the hotplate, nestling her way between Jane Atkinson, first in the queue, and Giles Chesterton – second.

  Zoe doled out instructions. ‘Susie, Rupert, do join the food line, shepherd’s pie tonight. Fergus and I will take the heads of the table and the rest of you can sit where you like.’

  No one other than me had changed out of their travelling clothes, something I like to do if I’ve driven a long way. The others are clean and tidy and, as for Zoe and Fergus, let’s just say warmth comes before flair. I’m in a dress, no longer feeling the cold. I’ve had a lovely hot peaty-brown bath and with a bit of snooping I came across a blow heater in the broom cupboard; it’s a bit naughty but I’ve smuggled it back to my room.

  My tummy rumbled as I carried my full plate to the table a
nd sat down next to Minty. I waited for the seat on my left to fill before starting, but no one came.

  ‘Felicity’s turned in for an early night,’ said Jane across the table. ‘She’ll be better tomorrow, just needs some time to herself.’

  This could have been a stab at having to share a bedroom but her sympathetic tone suggested Felicity was getting over the likes of a cold.

  Fergus was last in line and with a plate full of food he took the long way around the table, whispering something in his wife’s ear as he passed.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘So’s we can save on washing up please remember the colour of your napkin ring; that way you can use the same one every day.’ Anything to save a penny or two.

  The turned-wooden rings were painted and the linen napkins dark enough to hide a week’s worth of muck. I laid one across my lap and just as I was about to shove a forkful of food into my mouth a great scream came from the kitchen.

  ‘Aagh. Aagh. Aagh,’ hurtled through the wall.

  Zoe and Fergus took off and as they burst open the swing door Mhàiri Bannoch’s wail came to a grinding halt.

  Shane and Lianne began to giggle and across the table a discussion began: ‘Was it a burn?’ ‘Was it a dropped pot?’ ‘Was it an intruder?’ ‘Was it a ghost?’

  ‘No,’ said Zoe, re-entering the room. ‘I’m sorry about that, Mhàiri just got a fright.’

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Fergus, coming in behind her. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘What was it then?’ said Lianne.

  Fergus looked at Zoe and without a moment of doubt she told us, ‘There was something in the kitchen but we’ve got it out now.’

  ‘Like what?’ said Shane but Zoe ignored him.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘eat up, the food will be getting cold.’

  ‘You not hungry?’ said Lianne, looking at Minty’s spot of shepherd’s pie and tiny portion of veg.

  ‘I don’t like to eat much before bed.’

  Looking at her I don’t think Minty likes to eat much most of the time. Although I do remember that age when things grew outwards, no longer upwards; puppy fat was hard to shed and Mum coined the phrase ‘Rubensian beauty’.

  Lianne, in contrast to her neighbour, had embraced the hormonal flux. Her curves, full cheeks and soft, fleshy figure had sex-pot written all over them – à la Titian’s Venus Anadyomene. And as Rupert filled a glass with red wine I hoped Lianne could hold her drink.

  Giles took it upon himself to take the bottle round the table.

  ‘None for me,’ said Minty.

  ‘Fill it up,’ said Shane, and so it went on, most people tucking into the free alcohol on offer. Getting their money’s worth, this week costing an arm and a leg.

  ‘Berry Bros. and Rudd,’ lorded Rupert while tapping the label. ‘They provide a good bottle of plonk.’

  Louis’ eyes rose to the ceiling.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fergus. ‘We’re drinking the remainders from the shooting season.’

  ‘Marvellous to have some left over.’

  ‘Well, with drink-driving laws so strict nowadays, far less is drunk.’

  ‘I thought that didn’t apply in Scotland,’ said Giles.

  ‘Scotland’s worse than England,’ said Rupert. ‘They’d fine you on cough medicine here, wouldn’t they?’ He looked at Zoe, who charmed him with a chuckle. ‘Do you let any days?’ he asked, turning back to Fergus. ‘Shooting’s a frightfully expensive business in the twenty-first century.’

  ‘It’s all gone to a syndicate, grouse and pheasant. We provide lunch in the bothy and tea in the house.’

  ‘Bothy?’ snorted Giles.

  ‘It’s a small hut on the moor.’

  ‘Letting your shoot is probably a nice little earner,’ said Jane, hinting she was familiar with country pursuit sums.

  ‘Yes,’ said Zoe. ‘But I’m full of ideas for making the most of living here.’

  She proceeded to reel off endless suggestions: yurts, a plant nursery, craft courses, cookery demonstrations. When she mentioned ‘spinning classes from local sheep’s wool’ Fergus’s face fell. His wife was irrepressible in her ideas for making money, and as he subconsciously patted his tummy, one could sense him begging for a baby that would calm her down.

  Loyally he said, ‘Zoe’s done wonders at thinking of all sorts of innovative ways to sustain living here. She’s even taken the estate’s accounts in hand. But, darling, we must remember limited internet in these parts will restrict the extent of what we can and can’t do.’

  ‘My husband,’ Zoe teased, ‘insists people expect to be permanently logged on.’

  ‘He does have a point,’ said Louis.

  ‘You must have a book festival,’ said Jane. ‘They’re terribly popular in the south.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Rupert. ‘My wife simply loves our local affair. Makes her feel part of the intelligentsia.’

  ‘Weddings?’ suggested Minty, and Zoe answered before her husband could.

  ‘No, no, that works in the south but here in the Highlands the weather’s too unreliable.’

  ‘Of course,’ Minty giggled at her mistake.

  ‘What about a film location?’ said Giles.

  ‘Our friends put us off that.’ Fergus shook his head. ‘Their Dorset estate featured in the adaptation of Jane Austen’s Love and Friendship – they’d never do it again.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Lianne.

  ‘They had to leave home for a month, no contact, and when they returned the place was a complete tip. That’s enough to put anyone off.’

  Shane’s eyes lit up. ‘I bet the money was good.’

  ‘Still, it doesn’t sound worth it to me.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Jane and I wondered if she lived in a large house herself.

  ‘Being a land agent, as I myself am,’ said Rupert, ‘one can imagine this place is very expensive to run.’

  ‘Why don’t you sell it then?’ said Shane. ‘You’d make millions.’

  ‘No, no.’ Zoe shook her head vigorously, and Fergus explained, ‘This house has been in my family for over two hundred and fifty years, never been bought or sold, passed down through the generations by inheritance since 1761. I’d hate to lose hold of it. Zoe and I are one link in a larger chain and our primary aim is to pass it on to the next generation in good condition.’

  ‘I have enormous respect for your ambition,’ said Rupert.

  ‘Do you have brothers and sisters?’ asked Minty.

  ‘One brother living down the back drive.’

  Wow, I thought, if he’s living bang next door, they must get on very well. I’d find it tough to see my sibling (if I had one) inherit all this.

  ‘You have a brother?’ exclaimed Rupert. ‘Terribly unlike me but I never thought to ask. He must be the younger?’

  ‘Yes,’ Zoe gloated, clearly proud of having bagged the elder.

  ‘I bet he’s jealous of you,’ Shane stared at Fergus and Louis smirked. I think we share a sense of humour.

  Zoe diverted the conversation. ‘We’re adapting to the contemporary world.’

  ‘Exactly, we no longer see Auchen Laggan Tosh as a private home,’ Fergus declared.

  ‘Really?’ said Giles.

  ‘Yes, this place is something we must share in order to afford living here.’

  ‘That bloke,’ Shane was pointing at a portrait of a general in full Blues and Royals rigmarole, ‘has money plastered all over him.’

  The colour drained from Fergus’s cheeks. ‘My grandfather,’ he said.

  I stared at the picture. I hadn’t seen a portrait composition like it before. The head was in profile and the body was face on, and in my opinion they didn’t meld together very well. The only quick explanation I could think of was that the sitter had a scar down one side of his face and decided halfway through the process to turn his head.

  ‘Would anyone like second helpings?’ said Zoe and when no one accepted she began clearing the plates. Minty and I jumped up too.


  ‘Sit down,’ she said with a kind but firm smile. ‘There’ll be plenty of opportunity for everyone to muck in. Fergus and I will do this course.’

  ‘No, no,’ I said, ‘it’s the least I can do.’

  ‘Angel,’ said Zoe firmly as she beckoned him with her free hand.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked without getting up.

  ‘Please,’ I said, ‘let me help.’

  Zoe had no choice but to accept, and with a handful of plates I grasped the opportunity to enter the kitchen.

  Good Lord. There was a shattering of glass on the linoleum floor and the stout woman standing amongst it looked utterly terrified on seeing me.

  ‘Thank you, Mhàiri,’ said Zoe, as she breezed in. ‘That was delicious and how you knock it up in this restrictive space I’ll never know. My mother-in-law’s kitchen is the next step in our modifications, I promise. In the meantime, we must attach a blackout blind to that window.’

  Mhàiri’s hands trembled as she made space for the plates.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, with a sympathetic smile, realising a bird must have come in from outside, flying into its reflection and breaking the window as well as its neck.

  ‘This is our tutor for the week,’ said Zoe.

  ‘Yes, I’m Susie, Susie Mahl.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘So Susie,’ said Zoe, with a matronly tone, ‘now you see why I didn’t want you in here. I’d hate for you to cut yourself.’ She turned to Mhàiri and asked, ‘Have you called Stuart?’

  ‘Aye and me husband, they’re both going to come and patch it up. I’ll see to it all.’

  ‘Oh good. Thank you. Come along now, Susie, we must get out of here before the men turn up. Mhàiri…’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Pudding?’

  ‘Oh aye, I made youse all a wee trifle.’

  She thrust a Pyrex bowl of colourful layers into my hands and Zoe pushed me back through the swing door. Yuck. I really dislike trifle. This one had a discoloured crust on top and when Zoe sunk a spoon into it – deciding it’d be easier to serve people than have everyone get up – the mixture didn’t wobble like it normally should. Unfortunately, I had to accept some. This food was made specially for us, and I hate to see things going to waste.