Encounters

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘I never eat steak,’ she managed finally, with commendable restraint.

  ‘It shows. With your colouring you should have glowing cheeks and shining eyes without dark circles round them.’ With a raised hand he traced a line above her cheekbone, not quite touching her face. ‘You are what our Scots compatriots call peelie-wally. Good hot soup and a steak is what you need. Why do you work in London?’

  His directness was unnerving. ‘Because my job is here.’

  ‘Your family is in Scotland?’

  ‘My grandmother is in Scotland.’ She could feel all her muscles tighten warningly. The conversation was getting too personal, to the point where she usually began to withdraw; to raise the barriers. ‘I go to see her as often as possible.

  ‘Which isn’t often enough. She is very lonely.’

  ‘How could you possibly think that?’ She stared at him, genuinely astonished.

  ‘Because she told me. I suspect that note of hers,’ he looked pointedly at her bag lying on the table, where the envelope lurked, still unread, ‘was an excuse to have me speak to you. And I think she wanted me to tell you that. I could think of no way of saying it covertly. I don’t know you well enough yet. And I was never very subtle.’ He grinned.

  You can say that again, Margot thought. With a hard look at him she extricated the letter and tore it open: ‘Forget all that feminist nonsense and hang on to this one. He’s perfect.’

  Her grandmother had written it in bold black letters across the page.

  Blushing furiously Margot glanced up. He could easily have read it from where he sat.

  ‘I think you are mistaken, Mr Macdonald,’ she said coldly, when at last she had recovered her composure. ‘My grandmother could not possibly be lonely.’

  He looked at her for rather longer than necessary. And you?’ he said. ‘Are you lonely?’

  ‘Of course not. I have London.’

  She wasn’t sure how he had managed to get hold of the theatre tickets. The play had been sold out for months. That was the only reason she went, of course.

  It was in the rustling auditorium, expectant and hushed with excitement before curtain up, that she remembered to ask him the question that had been bothering her. She turned to him as the lights dimmed. ‘Were you on holiday in Scotland?’

  He closed his programme slowly, his eyes on the heavy red curtain with its swags of gold. ‘Not a holiday,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ve taken over as manager for the trustees of the Inverglen estates.’

  My land.

  As the house lights went down she put her face in her hands.

  ‘Perhaps we can go for a ride together next time you come up north,’ he said quietly in the darkness. ‘I know somewhere I can hire a horse, too.’

  It was nearly a year before she went to Inverglen again. And Moonlight had been sold.

  Miserably she went for a walk, hands deep in the pockets of her jeans, down the lane, over the burn and on to the moor where it led towards the cliffs. A westerly gale was bringing the long, white-tipped breakers rolling into the bay where they crashed onto the rocks. White horses, she thought sadly as she turned away.

  Alan Macdonald had gone, too. Thea had told her that before she had even unpacked her case the night before. To a desk job in Glasgow. She felt oddly bereft. Fart of her had, she secretly admitted, been counting the days until she saw him, until they could go riding together over the moor. Purely for the company of another rider, of course …

  But the dream had gone with the horse, and these were no longer her woods, her moors, her cliffs. She was just another Londoner now, on holiday, on foot and lonely.

  She spent the days walking, feeling the heavy Highland sun baking her pale limbs brown, fighting off the vicious horseflies which lurked on the moors, staring down from the cliffs and walking on the rocks at the sea’s edge.

  Then she found his number. It was written in large figures on a card beside the phone, with the Glasgow code beside it. It hadn’t been there the day before. Slowly, she dialled.

  ‘I just wondered how you were,’ she said.

  ‘Fine.’ There was a pause. He wasn’t going to make it easy.

  ‘How do you like Glasgow?’ She was furious with herself now for having rung.

  ‘Very much.’ There was another silence. Then he relented. ‘You are up until the end of the month, I hear.’

  ‘That’s right.’ So Thea had told him she was coming.

  ‘Good. The course will be over long before that.’

  ‘The course?’ she echoed.

  ‘Didn’t Mrs Locke explain? I’ve been on a month’s course here.’

  ‘No. She didn’t explain.’

  ‘Ah.’ She could hear the smile. ‘I’ll ring you as soon as I get back and we’ll go for that ride.’

  She had no heart to tell him Moonlight had gone.

  But when he arrived it was on horseback, a second animal beside him. They were both bays. She met him at the door. ‘So you know.’ Miserably, she stroked the horses’ soft noses.

  ‘About Moonlight? I’m sorry. He leaned down and handed her the spare rein.

  Her horse was smaller, naturally.

  He rode well and fast, but for the first time even on horseback she found she was her London self still; prickly, inhibited, resenting him. Resenting the fact that he had arranged everything without consulting her; taken the bigger horse; led the way.

  When he reined in at last near a clump of larch and turned to wait for her, she found she was seething.

  ‘Sorry. Did I go too fest?’ He slapped his horse’s neck gently. She could see the amusement in his eyes as he provoked her and suddenly she was laughing, too.

  ‘You should know. You chose the fester horse.’

  ‘And the bigger?’ It was as if he could read her mind. ‘I was always brought up to believe the lady rode the more delicate, the more beautiful, animal.’ He raised an arm quickly as if to ward off her blows, mocking.

  They both looked at the sturdy cob she was riding and laughed again.

  ‘I am taller,’ he went on conciliatorily. ‘You have to concede that, Ms Kinnaird.’

  ‘This animal could take ten times your weight.’

  ‘Do you want to swap, then?’ Already he was dismounting.

  Suddenly, she didn’t want to any more. She didn’t want him to mock her. She wanted him to like her and she didn’t want to see him on the ungainly cob.

  He had tethered his horse to a tree and now he came to stand at the cob’s head. ‘Come on, get down.’ His eyes were on hers, challenging. No longer amused.

  Behind them she could hear the crash of waves at the foot of the high cliffs. The wind tore at her hair and the two horses had begun to fidget restlessly, mouthing their bits. The humour and banter had gone. Now there was real tension between them.

  She didn’t know what to do. If she obeyed her instinct and rode away from him she would look childish and spoiled. If she obeyed him and meekly changed horses, it would be not the victory she had intended, but some kind of defeat.

  She met his gaze as squarely as she could and knew he was reading her thoughts, enjoying her dilemma. His expression spurred her into action. She slid quickly from the saddle, then, leaving him standing there, she took the path down towards the rocks where the sapphire water creamed in from the west, casting clouds of spray against the wind. She knew he was following her, but she didn’t stop. Suddenly she was afraid of what would happen if she did.

  But she had to. The narrow cove was beneath the tide, and at the edge of the rocky path she could go no further. Slowly, she turned. He was standing several feet from her.

  ‘OK, point taken.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The spray was cold on the back of her shirt.

  ‘The choice of horses is yours.’ He gestured back up the path.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t make any difference.’

  ‘Oh, but it does. It makes a lot of difference to you.’ He took a step towards her. ‘Just wha
t exactly is bugging you, lady? Why the need for all this independence?’ He was very close to her now. ‘What are you trying to prove?’

  Suddenly, his hands were on her shoulders and he was pulling her against him. Instinctively, her arms went round his waist. She could feel the warmth of his body beneath the plaid shirt, the hard muscles of his back as she looked up into his eyes. She was paralysed by the conflict of emotions which seized her. Longing, fear, desire – and panic.

  More than anything, for a moment, she wanted him to kiss her – then it was over. Her fear and resentment returned and, pushing him away, she stumbled past him over the rocks and began to run back to the horses. This time he didn’t follow her. He stayed staring out at the sea.

  The office manager approached Margot’s desk a week later. ‘Miss Kinnaird? There is a visitor for you. I’ve put him in the conference room.’ She was obviously impressed.

  He was sitting in one of the leather-upholstered chairs, staring out of the high window at the distant dome of St Paul’s. Rising as Margot appeared, he inclined his head slightly.

  ‘I am here in my accustomed role of courier.’

  ‘Courier?’ she stared at him. Her heart had begun to beat faster.

  ‘Your grandmother asked me to bring something for her.’ He lifted his case onto the large oval table and opened it.

  Margot swallowed. ‘I’m sorry. It’s unfair of her to bother you …’

  ‘Not at all.’ He smiled at last, his eyes brilliant in the tanned face, as he handed her a large envelope. ‘I wonder if the advice is still the same as in her last note.’

  She could feel her cheeks going scarlet as she looked up at him. ‘My grandmother has a very strange sense of humour,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘She is also a very shrewd lady,’ he retorted.

  Margot snatched the letter from him and turned away towards the window. Tearing open the envelope she drew out a single sheet. Once again, the large, black felt-tip letters confronted her.

  This is your last chance.

  In spite of herself, Margot smiled. Shrugging, she held it out to him. ‘As you obviously read the last one, you’d better see this.’

  He scrutinized it solemnly.

  ‘What do you think I ought to do?’ she asked after a moment.

  ‘Why don’t you ask me out to lunch again, then we can discuss it.’ He grinned.

  ‘I can’t afford to take you out to lunch again,’ she said sharply. Not the way you eat.’

  He laughed out loud. Then may I take you? It’s quite fair that way. One round all.’

  ‘Now you’re making fun of me.’ Strangely, she didn’t mind.

  ‘What on earth makes you think that?’ he answered.

  She was out of her depth. Disorientated. He was not a London man, he was part of Scotland, part of her fantasy world. But this – the briefcase, the dark suit, the assured way he ushered her into the expensive restaurant and commanded a prominent table – none of it fitted. Nor did the meek way she found herself deferring to his opinion as he ordered the wine – he did, she noted, know about wine.

  ‘So.’ Settling back into the chair he looked at her at last. ‘What are you going to do about me?’ She thought there was a smile behind his eyes.

  ‘Is there anything I should do?’ She managed an ascerbic tone.

  ‘Oh yes. A great deal. You must try and relax. Enjoy my company.’ He grinned. ‘I’m quite safe, you know. House-trained. Good with animals. Some people even like me.’

  She found herself smiling. ‘I’m sure they do.’

  ‘And I’m very persistent.’ His eyes were fixed on her face. ‘Will you come riding with me again?’

  The sudden swing of subject nearly threw her. ‘If I do, do I get the choice of horses?’

  ‘You can ride a bicycle if you wish. I don’t care.’

  She looked down. ‘I did quite like the old cob.’

  He grinned. ‘I suppose we could draw up a rota,’ he said, half-serious. ‘Then we’d know where we stood.’ His hand was on the table, very close to hers.

  On the defence at once, Margot glared at him. ‘I hate it when you patronize me!’ she cried and he let out an infuriated groan.

  ‘I am not patronizing you! For God’s sake, stop being so prickly, I am trying to accommodate your every whim.’ His hand hadn’t moved. She stared at it.

  ‘Are you?’ she whispered.

  He leaned forward. ‘I know how important your dreams are to you,’ he said gently.

  She stiffened. ‘Dreams are stupid!’

  ‘No!’ His eyes were on her face. ‘Dreams are important. I don’t want you to lose them. They are part of you. But only part. Reality must count as well. Even if it means compromise.’

  ‘Compromise?’ She looked up.

  He laughed then. ‘Not a word you tolerate with ease, I know. But it’s one you must learn to use. I’m real, Margot. But I want to be part of your dream as well, if you will let me. You must find a way to make the two worlds come together. You must if you want to be happy. But only you can make it work.’

  ‘But I don’t know how.’

  ‘Yes you do,’ he said firmly. ‘But if you get it wrong now and again, I shall be there to help you, if you want me.’ Gently, he put his hand over hers. ‘It’s up to you. You must decide.’

  For a moment she didn’t move – tensely waiting for the usual emotions to swirl round her, building the barriers which would keep her safe from the world. But nothing happened. To her surprise she found she was smiling.

  Without a word, she returned the pressure of his fingers.

  ‘We’d better draw up that rota,’ she said at last.

  A Fair Revenge

  The Lady Bird swung easily to her moorings. I knew he wasn’t there, for no dinghy bobbed behind her and all was quiet. Gently I rowed closer and tied my painter to the rail. It was Friday but still early. Practically no one was about on the estuary. I doubt if anyone saw me climb aboard.

  The cabin door was padlocked. That was new. In the old days he never used to bother. I hadn’t wanted to do any damage – not to the boat – but there was nothing for it if I wanted to get in. I found a screwdriver and levered off the lock with a horrible splintering noise which echoed across the placid evening water.

  The cabin was untidy. That too was different. ‘Leave her shipshape, Zoë,’ always used to be his final comment every time we left.

  There were signs of this new moll of his everywhere. Clothes; make-up; cheap novelettes; a tin of scented talcum powder standing on the chart table. Poor, poor Alec. What I was about to do was undoubtedly for his own good!

  It took me about ten minutes to make a really good job of it. Every darn thing went into that canvas sail bag of mine. Bikinis – three of them, would you believe; shorts – the skimpy kind Alec always said showed just what a girl was bad for; sun tan oil – Alec never bothered with that; talc; books; everything I could be sure wasn’t his. Carefully I tied the neck of the bag and stood back to survey my handiwork.

  The boat was a little tidier, but not tidy enough. Shipshape Alec used to like her. Shipshape I would leave her, just to show him what he was missing!

  That took me a lot longer. The tiny galley was filthy and some of the pretty coffee mugs I had chosen as a present for the boat were chipped. ‘Silly cow,’ I muttered. ‘Can’t she do anything properly?’ What the hell did he see in her anyway?

  It was just as well I had found out what he was up to. If I hadn’t seen him with Patricia a couple of times and someone hadn’t told me he was bringing her down here for weekends I might never have suspected. I might have gone on believing his story that he had sold the boat and was studying in every second of free time.

  With a cautious look round from the cockpit I lowered the bag into my dinghy and climbed in after it. I had half a mind to chuck the bag overboard, but thought better of it. For a start it might float. I tied up to the jetty and humped the bag up onto it. Where could I hide it then? I glanced around. T
he boat house? The churchyard? The bushes round the pub?

  ‘Hello, Zoë!’

  I leaped round and saw Alec watching me from behind a pile of timber.

  ‘Hi.’ I could feel my face colouring.

  ‘I didn’t know you still came down here,’ he said. I could see him looking at me closely, puzzled. He knew damn well I had never been without him before.

  ‘I like to keep an eye on the old place from time to time,’ I murmured. ‘I miss it.’

  To do him justice he did look a little bit taken aback at that.

  ‘Where’s the lady friend?’ I went on sweetly. ‘I hear you have a new crew for the Lady Bird.’

  He glowered. ‘I told you, Zoë. I sold that boat months ago.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘of course.’ The sail bag was resting solidly against my legs. I shaded my eyes in the evening sun and looked across towards the moorings. I could see the boat clearly.

  ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he asked casually, obviously trying to distract me.

  ‘Why not?’ I grinned, humping the bag up onto my shoulder. ‘Can I dump this junk first? It’s going behind the tomb in the crypt. A friend of mine is going to collect it – sometime.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Strange place to leave it?’

  I nodded gravely. ‘I’m not sure when she’ll be down again. No one will find it there.’

  He waited in the church as I felt my way down the worn steps and stuffed the bag down into the dark corner behind the cold stone tomb of the duke of somewhere or other. Then we went to the pub. I felt enormously happy and not the least bit guilty.

  We had a super evening. The drink became several, followed by dinner at the bar.

  ‘Well, Alec,’ I said at last. ‘You haven’t told me why you’ve come down here if you’ve no boat.’

  He glanced at me sideways. ‘I didn’t say I had no boat, Zoë,’ he said, chuckling. ‘I said I’d sold the Lady Bird. I bought another – a Folk Boat this time. Do you want to see her?’

  I went cold. ‘You really sold the Lady Bird?’

  ‘Yes. I told you.’

  ‘And she’s not yours any more?’

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Zoë? I sold her to some people called Gill and Harry. In fact they’re over there.’ He waved across the bar and a man and woman came over. She was tall and slim and attractive and now, did she but know it, without a stitch of clothing to her name.