by Ali Carter
‘So you’d do the same if you were the heir?’
‘Of course.’ He gave an unconvincing grin. ‘I certainly wouldn’t have his hang-up about honouring our ancestors.’
Ewen looked down the table towards Zoe and I wondered if he’d been putting pressure on her? She gave him a glowing smile; there’s certainly no hostility between these two. She seems to be thrilled he’s part of the party. Maybe a wife warms to someone who resembles her husband? In looks at least. Fergus, responsible, and Ewen, footloose, don’t seem to me to be cut from the same cloth.
‘Don’t you respect your brother for being a custodian, not thinking of this house and contents as being his to sell?’ I wanted to get to the bottom of it.
Ewen gave me a go-on-then-argue-your-point look. So I did. ‘Fergus doesn’t want to be responsible for losing this estate. He’s willing, they’re willing, to do all they can to bring in enough money to keep it together and continue living here. That’s huge pressure. Any money they earn will go into it, whereas any money you earn will be yours to keep.’
‘Hmm, that’s a new way of looking at it.’
‘And an unspoilt one.’
‘Oi. You’re pretty blunt, aren’t you.’
‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist.’
Louis, sitting much further down the other side of the table, caught my eye as if to say, I hope it’s going okay with my mate Ewen. I lifted my glass with an it’s-all-great reply.
‘Louis checking up on you, is he?’
I blushed. ‘You met him on a photography course, didn’t you?’
‘Is there anything you don’t know?’
‘Sorry, I can’t help it, I’m interested in people.’
‘I better be careful then,’ Ewen smiled, and promptly stood up to clear the plates.
Pudding arrived on the hotplate and Shane could not get over the name Spotted Dick. He giggled and joked as Zoe and Ewen doled it out. Minty was offered some first and when she refused, Shane, without missing a beat, said, ‘You can always have some of mine if you’d prefer.’ Everyone laughed, except Jane.
I spent the rest of dinner listening to Felicity talk me through her uneventful plane journey here, and as soon as the first people rose to leave I took my cue and got up too. Fergus followed me out and whispered in my ear, ‘The art valuer’s arriving at seven-fifteen tomorrow morning. Best come to the hall five minutes before.’
I smiled and thanked him and said, ‘Good night.’
A day of work and an afternoon out in the cold sent me straight upstairs after dinner. Jane was of the same opinion. ‘If tomorrow night’s burlesque and the following a ceilidh, I must get some sleep in advance.’
‘Night, Susie,’ she said.
‘Night, Jane,’ I called back. Then grabbing my toothbrush from my room, I glanced at the painting of the Annunciation on my way to the bathroom. Twin daughters granted to the Countess who longed for a son just shows our creator at times has a different plan. But I bet you her eldest daughter made a great Countess. A woman in a man’s world. I must try and find a moment to ask Fergus about her.
I stared into the mirror above the sink, watching toothpaste foam in the corners of my mouth. Why had my parents decided I didn’t need to know I’m a twin? I can’t believe they kept this tragedy from me and it upsets me to think they’ve deceived me for thirty-something years.
I plodded back down the passage with heavy limbs and as I changed into my nightie and got into bed I felt drowned in unhappy thoughts. Lying under the covers in the foetal position I imagined myself curled up next to my brother in our mother’s womb.
When I was little I had an imaginary friend, Luke. He kept me company as an only child. I never understood when Mum used to get short-tempered if I insisted on her laying another place at the table, buying two lollipops in the shop or making a bed on the floor next to mine. Now it’s clear, I completely understand, but it makes me so cross they’d lied to me for so long.
I wish I’d been told as a little girl that the person I’d been snuggled next to for nine months had left my side forever more. I think it would have helped me rationalise my emotions growing up, made sense of the total emptiness I’ve suffered. My brother and I were just bones, flesh and blood but I believe an emotional attachment was formed. That’s why twins exist in-sync.
But my double act is never ever coming back. I lost the thing closest to me at birth. It’s no wonder I’m afraid of commitment, unable to go out with someone for any longer than a year.
I blame my parents, I really do, but I don’t want to hurt them. They obviously can’t see how selfish they’ve been. My vulnerabilities are mine to get over; holding it against them simply won’t help.
I stuck a leg out from the duvet, I was hot and fed up. In our family, supposedly, nothing is brushed under the carpet and left to be trampled on. When issues arise, we gather round the kitchen table and try to come to an understanding before causing too much emotional hurt. But, right now, an only child, out on a limb, I’m feeling lonelier than ever before. I bet my parents have other secrets under their roof.
My eyes stung with tears as I shut them tight and began to recite my night-time prayers. Hail Mary, full of grace, another in Latin, followed by a Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me for old times’ sake. I usually drift off to sleep midway through, but getting to the end of Our Father, Amen, I felt wide awake.
Drat. I sat up in bed, flicked on the light and stretched for The 39 Steps. I curled back the cover of an old friend and pleaded with John Buchan to take me on an adventure far away from here.
At last I was in someone else’s imagination. Time passed, my eyes began to droop, then, as always, I felt the need to go to the loo.
Tiptoeing to the bathroom as silently as I could along floorboards that creaked with my every other step, I noticed a light shining out from under the door of the closed wing. Zoe’s words came to mind: ‘This wing is locked as it isn’t used.’ But I now know four valuable paintings are in there.
I looked at my watch: 1.04am. Presumably the light is a security measure, set to a timer as mine are when I’m away from home. Nevertheless, as I sat down on the cold china seat, I thought, wouldn’t it be exciting if someone’s up to something in there?
I stood in the unlit corridor listening for a sound, and when the locked wing door creaked against the wooden floor I stared at who was coming out.
Zoe couldn’t see me – I was hidden in the dark. But I caught her leaving all right, wrapped up in a dressing gown, maybe just checking the place out, but even so, why now? She flicked off the light and then with a click something opened on the landing wall. I couldn’t tell what but it was just to the right of the door. Suddenly a key pad lit up and I followed her fingers as they pressed a few buttons. The pattern they had taken lodged in my mind. She then closed it up and disappeared.
I lay in bed stock still, hoping to hear more. But nothing came: the house now slept in silence, and not even the wind blew. No chance of sleep though, too many thoughts buzzing.
Could Mhàiri have been right – has Jane really been here before? How odd she wouldn’t say, but perhaps Zoe warned her not to, didn’t want people thinking that’s how she got on the course. Or for me to treat her any differently, for that matter.
I got out of bed and slipped on a pair of socks. I have a plan. If Jane has been here before, her name is bound to be in an old visitors’ book. I need to find the one from forty-plus years ago. It can’t be that hard, these big books take time to fill. Auchen Laggan Tosh must have a collection, a detailed account of every person who’s ever been to stay. Even people who forgot to sign will have been pencilled in by the host. Everyone does it, no one is ever missed.
Now’s a good time, John Buchan will be my cover: ‘I can’t sleep, I came to find another novel.’
I made it to the library door without a sound. No one was around and no lights were on. My hands trembled as I pushed it open. Eeeek, the blasted hinges let out a squeak.
Ru
ff, ruff, came Haggis’s bark. He was somewhere nearby. Why wasn’t he sleeping with Fergus and Zoe? I froze with my fingers crossed, pleading him not to do it again. Silence. My shoulders relaxed. Haggis had kept his trap shut.
I flicked the brass switch and the book cabinets lit up. Then scouring every row for the distinctive navy blue, claret red or racing green leather-bound books, a couple of hundred quid a pop, I realised no, no, no. There are none and what’s more my hunt is in vain – I don’t have a clue what Jane’s maiden name is.
If Atkinson were aristocratic I could look it up in The Big Red Book. There’s one of them there on the shelf, a sort of telephone directory for toffs. No addresses and numbers, just titles, names and lineage. I’d look up Jane’s husband and find their marriage date and her maiden name. But no, a surname like Atkinson won’t be in there, too ignoble to be part of the pack. My hunt has come to a grinding halt.
I put John Buchan back in place and took Edith Wharton’s Summer down off the shelf. I haven’t read this one of hers before, and it’s slim enough to finish by the end of the week – a much better choice. My work here is done. I flicked off the lights and crept back to bed. Thankfully without another ruff from Haggis.
It’s five past seven. I’m in the hall, ahead of time as always, but I’m far too excited to wait in my room. Spring light is flooding through the cupola showing up dust everywhere. I have a tissue in my pocket and as Fergus isn’t here yet, and I like a job – I’m not very good at sitting still – I wipe the surface of the table.
‘Susie,’ said Zoe, swanning through the arch, her damp hair wound up into a bun, Haggis at her heel. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing.’ I stuffed the tissue in my pocket – it’s actually rather rude to be cleaning someone else’s house.
‘It is so early,’ she said. ‘Fergus is sleeping. I didn’t want to wake him so if you want to change your mind and go back to bed he’ll never know.’
I tried to catch her eye. Has Zoe gone mad? Why would I ever turn down going around four great paintings with an expert?
She ruffled her damp hair and looked down at the dog. ‘Landseer’s pictures are out of fashion, aren’t they, Haggis, I’m sure they’re not Susie’s kind of thing.’
‘I definitely want to see them, please.’
Zoe shrugged her shoulders. ‘Your choice,’ she said as she flung open the front door.
Haggis wagged his way out beneath the Corinthian portico. Donald’s pickup was leaving the yard. He raised his hand from the steering wheel to say hello. No sign of Mhàiri so I guessed she’d scampered in through a servants’ entrance.
‘Susie,’ said Zoe, looking at her watch, ‘I must take Haggis into the garden to do his business, but I’ll be back before our visitor arrives.’
‘Okay.’
It would have been nice if Zoe had asked me to accompany her, but I suppose I should wait here in case the man arrives. I stood on the top step breathing cold air up my nostrils until they stung. I wanted the shock to wake up my senses, help me get my head around why Zoe was up late last night, why Fergus had overslept and why Haggis was sleeping downstairs.
Fergus came storming out the front door wearing a scowl and rocking a bed-head do.
‘Susie, thank goodness you’re up. I don’t know what happened, slept straight through my alarm, and as for Zoe, where is she?’
‘Coo-ee, angel, morning.’ Zoe was coming around the side of the house and no sooner had she greeted her husband, than a racing-green Volvo swept into the yard. The driver grinned and waved as if we were his audience in the gallery. I felt rather embarrassed on his behalf.
Fergus marched down the steps, making no attempt to stop Haggis racing across the yard. The young man (he couldn’t be more than late twenties at the most) was too busy patting down his side-parting to stop the rascal jumping up. But totally unbothered by the paws on his off-the-peg suit, he seemed perfectly au fait with dogs and proceeded to greet Haggis as amicably as he’d greeted us.
‘Come, Susie,’ said Zoe, reaching the top step. ‘It’s freezing out here, let’s go inside.’
We waited seconds in the hall and as soon as the door opened Fergus introduced us. ‘This is my wife Zoe and this is an artist we have staying, Susie Mahl.’
‘Hello, I’m Oliver Raylet.’ He shook us both enthusiastically by the hand.
‘Would you like some coffee, Oliver?’ said Zoe.
‘No thank you.’ He turned to Fergus. ‘If it’s okay with you I’d like to get straight to it. I must make it back to Edinburgh this afternoon and the weather’s not in my favour.’
‘Is Edinburgh home?’ said Zoe.
‘Yes and no. I live and work there but I grew up in Bucks.’
‘Buckinghamshire?’
‘Yes. Although my great-great-grandfather was Scottish and so I’m trying to reignite the connection.’
‘How lovely,’ Zoe smiled, and Fergus chivvied us into the body of the house.
‘Come, Oliver,’ he said. ‘As I explained on the telephone the house is full and I don’t want our residents knowing you’re here. We must keep our voices down.’
‘Yes,’ said Zoe. ‘It’s very important.’
‘I understand,’ whispered Oliver.
‘Let’s all go upstairs then and I’ll show you the pictures.’
‘Thank you, my Lord.’
‘My Lord. For heaven’s sake call me Fergus.’
‘Fergus,’ Oliver repeated, and I only just managed to suppress a laugh.
Oliver Raylet has the manners of someone who overthinks and underplays their sophistication. I blame it on his job. If you come, as I assume he does, from minor English public-school stock and are plunged into a sales role in a high net-worth department, it shapes you. Assuming the role of art valuer, you’ve become conscious of the price tag on things that were previously just stuffing in your parents’, friends’ or relations’ houses. And like those before him – and car salesmen, estate agents and antique dealers too – Oliver has an inclination to dress up and flirt with his subject.
This performance began as the three of us, plus Haggis, which made four, trotted upstairs after Fergus, and Oliver said quietly under his breath, ‘There’s a rare harmony between the exterior and interior of your house, it’s a delight.’
But Fergus wasted no time exchanging pleasantries, and it wasn’t until he pulled a key out of his pocket and opened the door into a vast space, stretching the length and width of one entire wing, that he spoke. ‘In we go,’ he said, standing back. ‘You first, darling, yes there you go, Oliver and Susie. No, not you, Haggis.’
‘Haggis!’ said Oliver and before Fergus could stop him the dog scurried into the room. ‘What a fantastic name.’
‘It amuses us, yes. But, come on, Haggis, here boy.’ The poor dog was grasped by the collar and shoved out of the room. ‘Off you go, no four-legged friends in here.’
Oliver giggled quietly as he took off, sliding in his penny loafers across the sprung wooden floor. He was headed for the first of four paintings, hanging one after another down the longest stretch of wall. Natural light flooded in through the handsome floor-to-ceiling windows opposite. Zoe must have come in earlier to draw the curtains.
Each painting was about five by three feet, maybe more if you included the frame, and all depicted stags, dogs or horses in various country settings. They were hanging from rails on brass chains, a lovely old-fashioned way to display a painting. Landseer, as is his wont, had encapsulated the grandeur and majesty of Scotland. Each one, I’d bet, would give The Monarch of the Glen a run for its money.
‘What a spectacular room,’ said Oliver.
Hey, I thought, why didn’t he remark on the paintings first?
‘It was in its day,’ said Fergus, moving towards him and leaving Zoe hovering alone. She’d clearly seen these paintings many times before. ‘Deemed the acme of taste. But now the parts that made it so, the panelled silk walls, the plaster ceiling, the gold leaf,’ Fergus’s ha
nds dashed about above his head, ‘the cornice, the paint, the velvet curtains, the ragged pelmets, all let it down.’
‘But one can imagine the splendour,’ said Zoe, turning to me, her friendlier self back with us.
‘Yes,’ I smiled; she was right, those three magnificent chandeliers spoke for themselves.
I wanted to comment on the perfect symmetry and how much I liked this particular element of Adam style. But now was not the time. Fergus was back on point. ‘Rest assured,’ he said to Oliver, who had his face right up close to a canvas, ‘these paintings have been well cared for.’
‘Much better seen from afar,’ said Zoe. ‘Come here, Oliver, stand back.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said, sliding backwards across the floor. ‘So majestic, you’re right, power really resonates from this perspective.’
Zoe beamed and Fergus put his arm around her shoulder.
I gave them a little bit of privacy and went to look at the painting furthest away. But without carpets in here sound travelled the length of the wall and I heard Fergus ask Oliver, ‘When did you say the exhibition’s going to be?’
‘It starts at the end of July, and it’ll run throughout the festival.’
‘Marvellous, how many pictures in total?’
‘I don’t know, I’m afraid.’
‘Aren’t you involved in the show?’ said Zoe.
‘No, no. I just value Scottish paintings on loan for insurance purposes. That’s the extent of my involvement.’
‘Who else are you visiting?’ Zoe wanted to know, and I felt a pang of jealousy for Oliver’s free pass into other people’s houses. Given my fascination with who people are and how they live, if I were Oliver I would have asked to visit the loo as soon as I arrived and certainly have accepted the offer of coffee – people’s choice of china can tell you many a thing. But the opportunity to pry was wasted on Oliver. He’d come to do a job and stuck to it.
‘We’re trying to get the McMurray Jigs to lend some,’ he said, moving back up close to a painting.
‘Splendid name that,’ said Fergus. ‘In full it’s actually Jig McMurray Jig.’