Requiem (25 page)

Dawn began to come at last, a grudging grey murk that seeped reluctantly through the kitchen windows. Chewing on some toast, he pulled on a jacket and, leaving Mrs Alton and the bright kitchen, escaped into the grounds.

The air tasted sweet and damp, heavy with the scent of decaying leaves fused with some indefinable tang – the peaty earth perhaps, or pine resin, or the faint salt breeze off the loch. Whatever, it was like nectar after the dry plasticky smell of aircraft and the stifling air of hermetically sealed service apartments.

Setting off at a cracking pace, he walked up through the park without pausing or looking back, delaying his first view of the landscape as a child postpones for a few agonizing minutes the opening of a present, in anticipation of pleasure, but also half afraid of disappointment.

Clear of the trees, he stopped at last and turned and looked out over the loch. A vast bed of thin mist lay enclosed in the long dark scoop of the hills, obscuring water, trees, everything in a dank grey blur. The murk of the sky was balanced by the gloom of the mist, grey and dark and chill. The very air seemed to be dripping silently with something like foreboding.

Yet in spite of this a sense of homecoming began to creep up on him. There was a comforting familiarity in the reach of the pasture, the pattern of the trees in the park and the sight of the house itself, squatting in its nest of gardens, its lights glowing brightly.

He walked a long way, up through the western woods to the glen, following the cascading river as far as the high moorlands, and returning through the northern woods to emerge at Meall Dhu. The mist was dispersing, and plumes of vapour rose from the loch like steam. Beyond on the hills opposite, bands of snow made white slashes against the dull brown of the winter grasslands.

He picked up the path which led down to the upper paddock. The paddock was empty now; Rona had gone months ago, sold to people near Oban who, after a month, had been forced to put her down. She had pined for Alusha, so they said, had refused to eat. There had been nothing they could do. He had not told Alusha.

He steeled himself to look at the stable. It looked innocent, as if nothing terrible had ever happened there.

As he turned to continue down the hill he paused, his attention caught by a slight movement, a flicker at the periphery of his vision, somewhere across the paddock at the edge of the trees. He stared for a long time, trying to make out what it might have been, but there was nothing, just the dark forest, the phalanx of silent trees and the distant ticking of dripping leaves.

He was about to walk on when something made him look back – an irregularity in the pattern of the trees, a paler shape against the shadows – and then at last he saw it: a man. Wearing countryman’s tweeds so that he almost blended into the background.

Was it Duncan? From this distance it was impossible to tell. One of the foresters perhaps?

The figure was standing perfectly still, yet Nick felt sure the man had seen him.

Maybe it was Duncan after all. Nick waved. For a long while the man did not move, and Nick began to wonder if the man hadn’t seen him after all when, abruptly, the figure raised his arm and waved back, a brief hesitant gesture that was more like a salute. The next moment he turned into the forest and was swallowed up by the trees.

Not Duncan – who then? At the thought of intruders, all Nick’s defensive reflexes returned with a vengeance, and he was tempted to start off across the paddock in hot pursuit. Almost immediately he thought better of it. This was Ashard, for heaven’s sake. The man was probably a rambler who’d strayed off the path, or someone from the next-door estate.

Nevertheless, he set off down the hill in a sombre mood.

Emerging from the vegetable garden, he saw Duncan standing by the kitchen door. Beside him was Alusha. He was both surprised and pleased to see her up so early. It confirmed what he already knew: that coming home had been the best decision they’d made in the whole miserable time they’d been away.

Nick greeted Duncan then turned to Alusha.

‘You’re up early,’ he said, kissing her lightly.

‘I’m going for a walk!’ she announced cheerfully. There was a hint of determination in her voice, like a child who won’t be denied something she’s set her heart on.

‘What about breakfast?’

‘I’ve had it. Thank you for making it for me.’ Her eyes shone firmly, a smile danced resolutely on her lips. She looked transformed; Nick’s heart twisted to see her so happy.

‘Don’t overdo it,’ he said, thinking of the chill air.

At this public show of concern, she raised an eyebrow and ticked him off with her eyes. Then, with a small wave, she set off towards the rose garden. At first she walked briskly but soon the effort was too much for her, as Nick had known it would be, and she slowed to a gentler pace.

Duncan was watching her too, a deep frown on his face, and for a moment Nick saw Alusha as others must see her: far too thin, eyes unnaturally large, hair a shadow of its former glorious self. But then Duncan couldn’t see what Nick saw, an Alusha vastly relieved at being home again.

The two men decided on a tour of the estate, and walked round the house towards the Range Rover.

‘By the way, I saw someone up by Meall Dhu, lurking in the trees,’ Nick remarked.

Duncan stopped in his tracks, looking mortified. ‘A stranger?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Well, it couldn’t be one of ours. Joe and Fergus are away by the loch, clearing brush. And the farmhands – well, they wouldn’t be up in those parts.’

That’s what Nick had thought. ‘Oh well. Probably just a rambler.’

They climbed into the Range Rover. Nick added: ‘Or a poacher.’

‘But there’s been no poaching!’ Duncan exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Not a dabble.’

‘No?’

‘Not since you left. Not a net, nor a peg, nor even a cigarette butt to be found. And not a fish disturbed, or I’m a Dutchman.’

‘Well done.’

‘Och, I’m not so certain it was my doing, to be perfectly honest. I rather think our friends decided to give up for some reason.’

Nick thought of the tall man and his partner by the pool. ‘That was kind of them. They’ve reformed then, have they?’

‘Not a bit of it!’ Duncan shot him a guilty but not altogether serious glance. ‘I rather think that those fancy managing agents next door are having their work cut out for them.’ He gestured towards the Fincharn Estate.

‘Oh dear,’ Nick said straight-faced.

In mid afternoon, when Alusha was sleeping and the daylight was fading again, Nick ventured into the studio and tried to get the feel of the place again. He opened a few drawers, glanced at some abandoned songs and tapped out one of his old hits from years before. He remembered having thought it was rather good when he’d written it, but now it sounded flat and glib and rather pretentious.

His drawings looked all right though – the osprey series and some sketches he’d started making of the buzzards that inhabited the upper reaches of Ashard – and the sight of all his books cheered him further.

He wandered down the passage past the back stairs to the estate office, which had its main entrance off the courtyard to the east side of the house, a courtyard which housed Mr and Mrs Alton in a converted outhouse on the far side, and one of the forestry workers in a flat over the stables.

There was a pile of opened letters in the tray reserved for his mail. These would be letters that had come direct to Scotland and which Helen, who did the secretarial work in the estate office, thought he would like to see personally.

There was a letter from a writer friend who’d heard he and Alusha were coming back and wanted to know how they were. There was a note from an acquaintance in television asking about the possibility of making a TV programme about Nick’s solo career. He apologized for not going through Nick’s manager but, if Nick didn’t mind him saying so, the man was totally impossible to deal with, since he never replied to letters or phone messages. Nick thought: That’s David all right.

The next was a letter on Save the Children notepaper, written in a slanting female hand. He glanced at the signature. Susan Driscoll. Ever since his drinking years his memory for names and faces – sometimes even the words of his own songs – had been appalling. But he soon had it: it was Suki Armitage-that-was, organizer of charity concerts, and a touchy lady when she wasn’t instantly remembered. She said she hadn’t realized his wife was so ill. She was extremely sorry to hear about it, and of course quite understood why he couldn’t do the concert. There was a PS. If at any time in the future things changed and he was ever interested in doing anything for her charity, she would of course be delighted to discuss it.

The next letter was also on headed notepaper. It was from the anti-chemical campaign, Catch. The signature was scrawled and it took him a moment to decipher it. Daisy, the eco-freak. He smiled, he wasn’t sure why. He wondered if the realities of a heartless world had rubbed off on her yet.

The letter was short. She’d heard he might be returning. She hadn’t stopped looking into Reldane, searching for evidence that it might have damaging effects, but she’d had no joy. However, she’d had some new thoughts. Could he send some more earth and water samples?

He put the letter on one side. She was a nice girl; he’d drop her a line. No, he’d call her. It would be easier to explain on the phone.

But something made him put it off; perhaps it was the thought of her persuasiveness and enthusiasm, which might prove altogether too powerful.

When after a week he still hadn’t got round to calling, he finally scrawled her a note.
It’s good of you to keep trying, but my wife and I really need to leave the past behind. That may seem selfish and irresponsible to you – and maybe it is – but it takes everything we have just to keep going. Hope you understand
…

He meant to finish there, but felt he owed her more of an explanation.
We’ve been making the rounds of the doctors and clinics for months now. The medics tried everything they could think of, and I know we should be grateful for that, but nothing helped. In fact, I don’t think any of them really had the faintest clue of how to treat my wife. All they did was pump her full of drugs, which seemed to have terrible side-effects and to make her worse.

He thought: I’m sounding bitter. I really mustn’t.

Though it’s impossible to know how she would have been without the drugs, of course. The same, maybe even worse. Impossible to tell. Anyway, it doesn’t seem to matter now, because
…

But he couldn’t go on. How could he put the rest down on paper, and to a virtual stranger, when he couldn’t even voice it to Alusha?

He crossed out the unfinished sentence, scribbled some best wishes and put it out for posting.

Concern over the cause of Alusha’s illness seemed to be surprisingly widespread because two days later Nick got another letter on the same subject. This time the signature, which was small and childish, read A. Campbell. The address was Inveraray. Nick didn’t know any A. Campbell, either male or female, but whoever it was, he or she thought Nick would be interested to know that some other people in the Argyll area had been suffering a mysterious illness, just like Mrs Mackenzie’s.

For a moment Nick considered the wild possibility that Alusha’s illness might be contagious, but immediately dismissed it. If it had been catching, someone else would have got it by now.

He skimmed on through the letter. Mr or Mrs Campbell knew a young lad who’d been fit and well but was now unable to leave the house. The boy slept all day, couldn’t eat, had lost weight, had an aversion to sunlight and suffered badly from ‘weeping attacks’.

Nick began to lose interest. This wasn’t the same illness at all. He felt a curious almost guilty relief; he was glad to be spared the complications of other people’s problems.

The letter ended with the description of another case further down the loch at Lochgilphead. But again, the symptoms didn’t tally. Along with a number of vague-sounding problems, this man apparently suffered vertigo, skin rashes and panic attacks.

Nick had the picture: here were the local nutters and hypochondriacs and depressives coming out of the woodwork, trying to win respectability and attention for their illnesses, and finding a champion in the well-meaning but deluded A. Campbell.

He scribbled a pencilled message across the letter, asking Helen to thank A. Campbell for his interest, etc. Then, chucking the letter thankfully into the out-tray, he forgot about it.

The driving rain and gales came first, over Christmas and the New Year, then, almost as a welcome relief, the snow. Wet, slushy, damp stuff to begin with then, in late January, crisp dry snow that fell and fell, forming a thick blanket over the lower slopes of the hills and forests so that the trees groaned and creaked with the weight. After a few days a salty sou’westerly roared up the loch from the Gulf Stream waters and shook the trees free, blowing the snow into drifts and melting the surface into a heavy crust.

At Ashard House the days varied little. A few friends came to stay around Christmas, but after that, while no one was actually discouraged from coming, no one was openly invited either, and the trickle of company dried up. Nick was glad. Alusha wasn’t up to it, and he wasn’t sure he was either. People were very kind, but, being kind, they were also very wearing. Everyone was careful not to mention Alusha’s appearance and to pretend she looked just fine, and questions about her health, if asked at all, were blatantly tactful. But they knew, and the worry and pity showed in their eyes, and it was like a ghastly game.

In the end it was easier to be alone, just him and Alusha, wrapped in the cocoon of the Glen Ashard winter. Being alone also gave Nick the opportunity to work again, or at least to attempt some sort of routine. Every morning at seven he crept out of bed and went down to the studio for a couple of hours’ thought. In the old days thought itself, in enough quantity, had always resulted in a song or two but now, though he tinkered with a few ideas, nothing came. Even his great indulgence, the choral work that he’d been working on spasmodically for the past four years, didn’t respond to this or any other approach. He gave it time – no point in forcing it – but even that didn’t seem to do the trick. It was a situation he’d never encountered before and he began to feel a corrosive frustration. He was well aware that frustration itself could be highly counterproductive, and did his best to ignore it, but it ate slowly away at him, paralysing his will and deadening his mind.