Ghost Walk (5 page)

Afterwards I looked out of the rain-streaked window.

‘Oh dear, I could do with a walk.’

Jack’s father came to my side. ‘Ye canna go out in that, lass. Ye’ll catch yer death.’ And shaking his head. ‘Set in till the morn, I’m afraid, lass.’

And so it was. With neither excuse nor opportunity to leave the house I discovered that Jack’s parents obeyed the ancient country laws, bed at sundown to rise with the dawn.

I wasn’t sorry to retire early either, rather than remain sitting idly at the kitchen table watching as Mrs Macmerry attended to the final chores of the day.

My offer of assistance was declined with considerable
embarrassment
by his father, his ‘Bide where ye are, lass,’ managing to indicate that they might both be answerable to Jack for allowing me to get my hands dirty.

I went upstairs, gratefully deciding that I was more tired in Eildon than I ever was in Edinburgh. Something to do with the air, I thought.

I would see Father McQuinn in the morning, get it over with, my mind at rest before Jack arrived. Snuggling down into white linen sheets and snowy pillows smelling of lavender, I realised that Jack knew no such luxury under my spartan roof at Solomon’s Tower.

My last thoughts before I slept were of him. Curiously I dreamed of Jack too which I did very rarely. Opening a door, he was waiting and, smiling, he took me into his arms.

For the very first time, my familiar dream had forgotten Danny.

I awoke haunted by a feeling of guilt that Jack had now replaced him.

Next morning I came downstairs to the sound of female voices in the kitchen.

Mrs Macmerry had a visitor, a neighbour, Mrs Ward.

‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Faro,’ she said with a polite smile that made no bones about looking me over very candidly, so that I had the curious feeling of being well-discussed before I made my entrance. Her subsequent manner indicating that she had heard a lot about me, and none of it very good.

It happened that Mrs Ward was also a long-time friend of the Macmerrys, as she revealed with a somewhat triumphant smile that her daughter and Jack had been friends since they were in the cradle together.

I needed to know no more after that. The drift of the talk I had missed was instantly revealed; that Mrs Ward, her daughter and Jack’s mother had entertained hopes that the cradle would be exchanged in due course for the wedding bed. Hopes that this wretched intruder across the table had blighted.

Mrs Ward had taken all there was to see of me in a glance – wild cloud of hair, a sleepy and dishevelled look – and I knew that once she took her departure, that first meeting would be the
talking
point of the village for a long while to come. It would make no matter how I shaped out in the end, first impressions were what counted and I would never redeem myself in their eyes.

Leaving, Mrs Ward again shook my hand, formally polite. ‘It has been a pleasure, Miss Faro.’

I looked sharply at Jack’s mother whose expression was
impenetrable
. She made no attempt to correct the mistake.

Watching her take Mrs Ward to the door, where they stayed longer than was necessary, I wondered if she had not mentioned that her future daughter-in-law was a widow.

Surely Jack must have told her, I thought desperately, as she
returned and asked with careful politeness how I had slept.

‘You’ll no doubt be wanting just a slice of toast and a wee cup of tea, a mite of porridge, rather than a farmer’s breakfast.’

She couldn’t have been more mistaken. From under covers on the kitchen range delicious smells of fried bacon drifted towards me and, always hungry, I sat down to a hearty farm style
breakfast
, the kind I did not doubt that labourers frequently consumed at a much earlier hour.

Jack’s mother watched, clearly astonished. Having expected a lady-like refusal she was utterly taken aback at my ready
acceptance
of second helpings.

‘For such a wee lass, you certainly have a big appetite,’ she said as I demolished the second slice of thickly buttered toast.

I treated myself to a little mind reading and decided her alarm was justified. She was picturing all Jack’s hard-earned pay going on food. I could hear her telling his father: ‘She’ll be eating him out of house and home.’

I didn’t bother to apologise or to explain the reason why I ate so heartily when food was set before me. So often in Arizona I had gone without eating for days on end. Square meals were not at the forefront of my mind as I trudged across the red desert with a baby, bent on survival and trying to keep ahead of the renegade Apaches. With only a fast-emptying water skin to keep us alive, I knew all about starvation.

‘What would you like to do today?’ she asked, briskly clearing the table and making room for a flour bowl and an assortment of baking dishes.

‘I realise you will be very busy and I don’t want to disturb your routine. I think I shall explore. Or,’ indicating the
appearance
of a bag of flour, ‘perhaps I could make myself useful,’ I added with a brave attempt at a smile at Jack’s father who had just come into the kitchen.

‘Nay, lass, there’s no need for that,’ he said. ‘You’re here to enjoy yourself, have a nice wee holiday and get acquainted with Jack’s
homeland. You could start by having a look at the Abbey.’

The offer to make myself useful had not gone past the canny Mrs Macmerry. ‘She could always gather a few eggs later, Andrew. That would be a help.’ Clearly she wasn’t rapturous either about the prospect of having to entertain me until Jack arrived.

I said yes to eggs and, their usual hiding-places indicated from the kitchen door, and regretting the absence of my bicycle, I set off down the farm road.

Not for the Abbey but in the direction of Father McQuinn’s church.

The door was open. This was a Friday and I had a fleeting notion that today all good Catholics went to confession.

Greeted by incense, sanctuary lights gleaming on statues of saints, but no Father McQuinn, I decided I would try the house next door. Presumably he had a housekeeper or someone I could make an appointment with.

A rotund, rosy-cheeked middle-aged woman came to the door. Flourishing a duster and scrubbing brush she presented a picture of bustling health and energy.

‘The Father’s out on his morning calls at the moment, dear. He shouldn’t be long. Call back later, a couple of hours, say. He’ll be delighted to see you then.’

She made that sound like an agreeable prospect and I was almost tempted to ask her if she knew Danny. However, at that moment, a young girl with the appearance of a serving maid poked her head out and enquired anxiously about the state of the oven.

I left them to their domestic crisis. The sunny landscape
beckoned
and I decided to wander off and make the further
acquaintance
of these Eildon Hills. Another piece of legend, their mysterious depths and caverns were attributed as a peaceful
sleeping
place for King Arthur and his knights.

I had to admit that the king and his noble lords had a very busy time back yonder in the Dark Ages, they certainly covered a
lot of ground across Britain from Cornwall to Scotland. In a time when travel was no easy matter apparently he and his knights had had as many resting-places as beds royal queens were alleged to have slept in.

Eventually I climbed a path overlooking the village, little more than a sheep track which led up the hill. With the warm sunshine across my shoulders and an abundance of birdsong and shady trees, after wandering another mile, I came to a fence and, across a field, looked down on a large squat mansion nestling in a
picturesque
glen sheltered by the hills.

It was not an imposing building for a noble residence, lacking the fashionable Balmorality that would have immediately rated it as a castle.

Gates and a long drive between trees hinted at local
aristocracy
. A busy scene with a great deal of activity in the grounds,
servants
scurrying back and forth in front of the house. On sweeping lawns, awnings hinted at an important event about to take place. A family wedding or yet another manifestation of the Queen’s Jubilee celebration, perhaps.

I was enjoying the scene. It would make a great drawing from this angle. I took out my sketchbook, balanced it against a post. Then I almost jumped out of my skin.

A growl at my side and a sheepdog bounded towards me. This was no Thane. There was nothing of my mysterious gentle
deerhound
in the bared yellow teeth and the snarl that menaced me.

Where was his owner? Even as I tried placating words like ‘good dog’ and wondered how I was going to convince this brute and get out of his way in one piece, a man materialised from over the ridge.

He had the look of a gamekeeper and demanded: ‘What do you think you’re doing here, miss? This is private property.’

Relieved at the presence of a human being, I apologised and pointed to my sketchbook. ‘I didn’t realise. I came over the stile –’

His angry glare was quite unbending for a moment, then he began looking me up and down with a rather unpleasant leer that registered a change in his approach. As I turned away, pretending to ignore that hot look, he repeated: ‘This is private property.’

I was truly scared now, aware of my danger in this isolated spot. Quite defenceless, miles from any help, faced with a fierce dog who continued to growl at me and a fierce man licking his lips in a very unpleasant manner.

He came towards me, held out his hand. I backed away.

‘Come on,’ he said impatiently, ‘what’s that you’ve been
drawing
? I want to see it.’

‘I haven’t started yet,’ I stammered, pointing to the house. ‘It’s – it’s a rather lovely view.’

The man stared over my shoulder and said: ‘His lordship
doesna
like strangers on his property and he doesna care for artists either, unless he has given them permission.’

‘Indeed.’ I was feeling braver now, eyeing the dog who
continued
to regard me fiercely but had settled down at the man’s side, obediently awaiting his next command. ‘And how does one get permission?’

His glance suggested a dog considering a very tempting bone. ‘Not from me, if that’s what you’re thinking. You take that up with the estate office in the village. See them about it.’

I felt that my immediate danger had now evaporated and as I prepared to leave the scene with as much speed as dignity would allow, curiosity overcame me.

‘Everyone seems very busy at the moment. Are they preparing for the Jubilee celebrations?’

An angry look. A growl his dog might have envied. ‘None of your business, miss. Just you keep away – keep out of trouble, if you know what’s good for you,’ he snarled and the dog leapt to its feet at this change of mood to add a warning bark of its own.

I needed no more persuasion. I left without another word, my thoughts regarding his lordship of a very uncharitable nature.
What supreme arrogance not to allow anyone to draw a distant view of his home.

But curiosity remained undefeated, one of my particular
failings
, and I resolved to find out all about that pompous gentleman and his grim gamekeeper from Jack’s father.

Making my way back down the hill, with every hedgerow full of the anxious twittering of nestlings, I opened the sketchbook in a determined effort to capture an ancient tree by a picturesque gate.

Above my head a chorus of corbies lent raucous
accompaniment
to the occasional bellowing of a cow or the baa-ing of a
distant
sheep in distress, while below in the world of humans, a horserider clattered along the road. A distant rumble of wheels and a hay cart moved lazily aside to allow access to a rather grand carriage, which I suspected came from the direction of the stately home.

Perhaps this was the carriage I had glimpsed at the railway
station
, returning the young nun to her life in the cloisters. But as always while drawing, I was completely absorbed, the rest of the world abandoned as I lost myself in the task before me.

At last a church clock’s chime echoed up from the village.

I had been absent two hours. Father McQuinn should be back by now. Gathering my pencils and book, ten minutes later I was outside his house. There was no response, no one in the church either.

I would try again later but I was frustrated as my sense of urgency suggested that I should get this matter settled before Jack arrived. I did not imagine him taking kindly just before our
wedding
to anything that remotely involved my former life, my long and happy marriage to Danny McQuinn.

The farmhouse too was empty. Everyone was busy out of doors at this time of day and a note on the table told me to make myself at home. Bread, cheese and milk in the larder.

I wasn’t hungry and in my bedroom I moved a comfortable chair to the window with its splendid view of the undulating
Borders landscape and took out the book I had been reading on the train.

I was quite addicted to the new fashion of daring mystery
stories
by lady authors. Especially as none of them had the remotest idea of what murder was like, of what was involved. Such a messy untidy business in real life, these literary ladies with their genteel female detectives would have wilted away in horror at meeting bloody death head-on at first hand.

I think I dozed for a while and hearing footsteps on the path below the window, I hurried downstairs to see Jack’s father
carrying
an injured sheep across his shoulders.

At my commiseration he said: ‘Found her way up the hill there, far from the rest of the herd. Fallen on her back, poor beast, and couldn’t get up. Poor craiter’s lain there for days.’

‘Will she recover?’ I asked although she looked near death to me.

‘Nay, lass. Bad lambing, too old ye ken, and then a broken leg.’ He sighed. ‘Just brought her back to get my gun,’ he said,
walking
over to a rack above the fireplace.

‘Your gun?’ I echoed, realising what he had in mind.

‘Aye, lass. We’ve known this craiter a long time. Jess fed her as an orphan lamb. I couldna leave her out there, a mile away, in pain –’

A clatter of churns approaching announced Jack’s mother who had been milking the cow.

‘What’s this, Andrew? Another for your hospital.’

‘Too far gone,’ was the sad reply as he went out with the gun and his sickly burden.

I was intrigued by the conversation. ‘You have an animal
hospital
?’ I asked.

Mrs Macmerry laughed scornfully. ‘We havena, but it’s no’ from lack of trying. The man’s daft about animals and folk come from miles around to have him cure their sick beasts. He certainly has a way with them, healing hands they’d call it if they were
treating folk but his gift doesna extend to God’s created human beings.’

This was a new dimension to Jack’s father and having already decided that I liked him very much, one that raised him further in my estimation.

‘He would have liked Jack to go to the university to be a
doctor
but no, the lad had a mind of his own, he didna care for the sight of blood.’

I found this somewhat ironic. The father who saved animal lives and the son who set about pursuing those who destroyed human lives.

That I wasn’t hungry was hardly surprising and declining the offer of soup on the pretext of further acquaintance with the
village
, I set off once again for the Catholic church.