Hope popped the last bit of orange into her mouth and then did as he suggested. He wasn’t being bossy, as Susie might be, just making a sensible suggestion. And he thought she was tough, did he? Hope liked that. She knew Tommy Grainger, and probably Susie and Simon, thought she was too soft, especially in her business dealings. But she felt suddenly that Robbie was right. She was tough when it mattered. May be she was even ready to take some risks.
He took her hand as they walked back down to the Land Rover and began to tell her more about his work and how much he was enjoying the new job.
‘Better than working for you dad?’ she teased.
He flinched and then managed a smile as he said, ‘Definitely better than that. I think we just about came through it still on speaking terms, but it was a close thing.’
‘Did you ever go out for that drink with him?’
‘No, we never did.’
Robbie sighed and they were silent for a while. When he began to speak again he had turned the conversation to her, and he seemed so interested she found herself telling him about all the photographs she had been looking through, particularly the ones of Cleughbrae. Without realising it, she found herself agreeing to go and visit the house again, this time with him. It was about time she got over her silly aversion to the place, wasn’t it?
Hope had wanted to go back to the house where her mother had grown up for a while now, but something made her hold back. She changed the subject whenever Susie tried to speak to her about it. Robbie was different. He wouldn’t push her into anything she didn’t want. His hand was warm and comforting in hers and the track down to the house no longer looked so intimidating.
‘I haven’t been down here for years,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I was friendly with a boy who lived here when we were in primary school, but he didn’t stay long.’
‘Susie said it’s owned by the local estate and was used by them to house various workers. I think there have been a fair few families passing through.’
They rounded the corner and came out of the trees. There was the little house looking isolated in the expanse of over-long grass.
‘Mmm. Doesn’t exactly look cared for, does it?’ said Robbie. But he didn’t seem put off.
He led the way over the grass. He wore jeans and heavy shoes and Hope had also dressed sensibly, in a shorter skirt with thick tights and ankle boots. Now she didn’t have to worry about catching her hem on the undergrowth.
The house was just as small as she remembered, with dirty windows and moss growing in the gutters. But she could see now that it could be quite a pretty place. Over the front door, which stood out from the house in a little porch, was a very fancy stone frontispiece. And although the paint was peeling off the door itself, it was solid, with an attractive heavy brass handle.
‘It could do with a lick of paint, but it’s not bad, is it?’ said Robbie. ‘A bit isolated, of course, but some people like that.’
‘When my grandfather grew up here,’ said Hope slowly, forcing herself to say the unfamiliar words, ‘He was one of five children. I suppose it would have been pretty lively then.’
‘Not to mention crowded,’ said Robbie with a grin. ‘But I suppose that was usual in those days. Do you want to have a look inside?’
They had circled the house once, and he drew a key from his pocket. It was an old-fashioned iron key, at least four inches in length, and seemed entirely fitting for the solid old door.
‘Where did you get that?’
Robbie patted his nose, as though he wasn’t going to tell her, then laughed. ‘It was easy. I mentioned to Mum we were coming to have a look around here. She said Dad had been talking to the estate factor and they’re thinking about putting the place on the market. That being the case, I asked if it’d be OK to look around, and here we are.’
‘You’re not thinking of buying it, are you?’ Hope looked around with new eyes. Would someone their age actually want to live here? It was so secluded, so run-down … and yet there was something appealing about it. It had character. And, for her, it had family associations. She wondered if this was what Susie had been trying to tell her.
‘Not seriously,’ said Robbie easily. ‘Although with the promotion I told you about, I might be able to think about buying somewhere of my own fairly soon.’ He grinned at her and she smiled back.
The heavy door led into a tiny, square porch, and they opened a second glass door that took them into a dimly lit hallway. There were three doors opening off this, and a staircase straight ahead.
‘Kitchen at the back, I presume,’ said Robbie, waving in that direction. ‘Sitting room on one side of the front door. Yes, this would be it. Nice fireplace. And then one bedroom down here.’
They made their way through the rooms. Once their eyes grew accustomed to the light, they could see well enough. The rooms weren’t as small as Hope had assumed from outside. They were plainly decorated, but the deep skirting boards and cornices made them rather quaint. As Robbie had said, the kitchen was at the back, with a very basic bathroom opening off it.
Hope tried to picture her mother here, and failed. ‘I wonder what it was like in the fifties and sixties,’ she said.
‘The main rooms wouldn’t be much different. The kitchen looks like it was fitted in the seventies. I wonder when the bathroom was put in.’ Robbie peered at the functional décor, the black-sided bath and institutional white tiles. ‘Looks a bit bleak, doesn’t it?’
Hope smiled faintly. ‘It was probably quite a luxury when it was first installed.’
She thought of the photographs she had seen of the Calvert family. Mostly they had been outside in the fields but one or two had been in this very kitchen. Before the cupboards had been fitted it had been big enough for a kitchen table. It looked like it had been a happy, family kitchen then. Maybe not so happy, when her mother grew up here? But who could say? Susie seemed to have happy memories of visiting.
‘My grandmother was apparently a very good cook,’ she said. ‘My grandfather grew loads in the garden and my grandmother made it into jams and chutneys and things.’
‘Is that right? I hadn’t heard that. But my mum remembers talk of her sewing. She used to take in jobs from the village. She had a little upstairs room all set up for that. Shall we go and look?’
Hope nodded. When she reached the top of the stairs she felt breathless, and it wasn’t because of the steep steps.
Up here was the perfect sewing room. There were skylights facing north and south so it was very light. The attic was quite a big space, divided into one big and one smaller room. Presumably at one time this floor had been where the children slept. As Elspeth had been an only child, her mother would have been able to use one of the rooms for her work as a seamstress.
‘It’s brilliant,’ said Hope softly, looking around. It was bare now except for a dull brown carpet and some fitted shelves, but she could imagine a long table under one of the windows, a sewing machine under the other …
‘It’d be cold in winter,’ said Robbie. ‘It’s a bit on the chilly side now. No central heating.’
Hope supposed he was right, but that didn’t interest her. It was the sense of connection she felt. She could almost be Jane, sitting quietly in this peaceful room, working with her fabrics.
‘It’s a lovely place,’ she said, following Robbie reluctantly back down the stairs.
‘So it’s not as gloomy as you thought?’
‘No. It’s not. It’s really – not bad.’ Suddenly Hope could picture her mother here. It would have been spic and span, everything in its place. Maybe a little too quiet for a single child of elderly parents. But really, it wouldn’t have been bad.
They went back outside and Robbie locked the door behind him. Hope realised that she was cold, not surprising on a grey autumn day, and she was glad when Robbie put an arm around her. They stood looking back at the little building.
‘There’s something my mother said I should tell you,’ said Robbie.
She glanced up at him, alerted by the serious tone in his voice. The breeze blew the dark curls back from his face. He looked at the house, not her.
‘There was apparently a special arrangement made when the house was sold, around the time of your grandmother’s death. She knew your mother wouldn’t want to live here but she must have hoped someone else in the family might eventually take an interest. It was sold to the estate on the proviso that if it was ever put up for resale, Jane’s descendants would have the first right of refusal.’
He was silent and Hope tried to make sense of his words. ‘And that means?’
‘Before it goes on the open market, it has to be offered for sale to the family. At the going rate, of course, but I understand the estate are quite keen to get it off their hands, so they wouldn’t be asking too much.’
‘And the only member of Jane’s family left is – me.’ Now Hope was sure she knew what Susie had wanted to tell her. She stared and stared at the little house and as she did so a pale sun came out from behind the clouds and lit up the clearing. The stonework shone red. It was as though it was a sign.
‘I couldn’t possibly buy it,’ said Hope quickly. ‘I don’t have the money and I’m not planning on staying in St Ann’s Bridge and …’ There were lots of other reasons why this made no sense at all, she just couldn’t think of them all just now.
‘You don’t need to decide yet,’ said Robbie. ‘Come on, you’re shivering. Why don’t we head back and get a coffee?’
As they walked back up the road, Robbie gave a long sigh and then said, his voice serious, ‘There’s something else I should tell you.’
Hope glanced at him, immediately worried. This sounded personal. ‘Ye-es?’
‘I’ve got to go away on Monday. It’s a training course for work, down in Wales and it lasts two weeks. Initially it wasn’t supposed to be until after the New Year, but yesterday they phoned to say they have a vacancy on the course that starts on Monday and my boss is keen for me to take it.’
Hope was silent for a moment. She hated the idea of not seeing him for two whole weeks, but it could have been worse. She had feared he was about to say he didn’t want to see her again. She swallowed. That was just too awful to think about. She said brightly, ‘It’s good your boss is keen to send you on training courses.’
‘I’ll miss you,’ he said. ‘But no doubt you’ll be busy with Mr Jackson’s family arriving. I’ll try to phone.’
‘That would be good,’ said Hope. She wanted to say she would miss him too, but it seemed so forward. By the time she had plucked up the courage, the moment had passed.
Chapter Twenty
Robbie had a couple of hours spare on Sunday morning and decided it was about time he did some serious fiddle practice. His bedroom at Holm Farm was on the ground floor at the back of the house, so he wasn’t likely to disturb anyone. Abhainn had asked him to play with them at a special event in a few weeks’ time so he had better get stuck in.
He was in an excellent mood. One week into his new job and he was loving it. Even better, things were going well with Hope McIlroy. She had coped splendidly with the visit to her mother’s old house. Thank goodness she no longer seemed so upset about family issues. She had even agreed to go out with him again one evening during the week. Today she was busy with the arrival of Mr Jackson’s son and grandson so it was an ideal time to get back into his music. It was a pain he had to go away on this course, but the two weeks would fly by, wouldn’t they?
He started with twenty minutes of finger exercises and scales. His old violin teacher would have been proud of him. Then he began to work his way through some new material Abhainn had given him and was so lost in joy of them he almost dropped his bow when he heard someone clearing their throat right behind him.
He swung round to find his father standing at his shoulder. They both took a step back.
‘I knocked. You didn’t hear me.’ This might have been meant as an apology.
‘I was well away with the music.’ Robbie paused and when his father remained silent he said, ‘Did you want me? Or was I making too much noise?’
‘The music’s fine. Nice to hear you playing again.’
Robbie waited. After the compliment there was bound to be a criticism.
‘I don’t know if I ever said, it was good of you to help out the band at the wedding.’ Robbie wondered if he was hearing things. His father hurried on, ‘I was, er, thinking about going to the Market Inn for a pint before lunch. I wondered if you’d like to come.’
Robbie had been resting the fiddle on his shoulder. Now he let it drop to his side and stared. His father was being nice to him. Suggesting pleasure rather than work? And in the middle of the day, albeit a Sunday? And inviting him, Robbie, to go along?
‘Is Luke going?’ he asked. It was the only explanation he could think of. They had been invited a couple of times to have a Sunday lunch with Luke and Clare. Maybe these family events were going to become routine.
‘No. I don’t know what Luke’s doing. I thought you and I could have a drink before you go off gallivanting again. But if you don’t want to that’s fine.’
It sounded like his dad had already changed his mind and Robbie was tempted to let him. What on earth would they talk about? But he couldn’t refuse when his dad had made so much effort.
‘That sounds, er, good. Is it OK with Mum?’
‘She says, as long as we’re back for one thirty.’
‘Well, that’s, er, great then.’
His father raised an arm as though to slap him on the shoulder in the friendly way Robbie had seem him use occasionally with Luke. Then he hesitated and let his arm fall. ‘I’ll let you finish your practice.’
To begin with, conversation was as difficult as Robbie had feared. Any discussion of the farm was bound to end in argument. They managed a couple of sentences about how well Luke and Clare had settled into their new house. What were they supposed to talk about next?
Whilst his father was at the bar collecting their drinks, Robbie searched his mind for something to say. He could do this. Didn’t he deal with all sorts of people as part of his job? Especially now he had more responsibility. Which reminded him.
‘I met up with someone last week who knows you. He farms up by St Mary’s Loch. He’s an old fellow but spritely on his feet.’
His father looked interested for the first time since they had left home. ‘I mind who you mean. Cannae think of his name just now but he was a great friend of Uncle Arthur’s. Runs a big hill farm up there, doesn’t he? How’s the farm doing?’
‘They put quite a lot of it under woodland, I suppose that saves him some work …’ Robbie found the conversation flowed after that. It seemed it was fine to talk about farming, as long as they didn’t discuss Holm Farm. And his father even seemed interested in the work Robbie was doing, how he got on with the old hill farmers.
It was way after half one when they arrived back at the farm, but his mother didn’t complain. She smiled happily to see them chatting together. Robbie could guess whose idea it had been for them to go out for a drink. But, amazingly, it had worked out well, so he didn’t really mind.
Hope was taking Lucy for one of her slow walks. She had decided to go down to the graveyard. Mr Jackson’s grandson had offered to go with her, but fortunately his father had wanted to take him off to see an old acquaintance. The younger Jacksons were very pleasant but she had the feeling that Mark wanted to spend more time with her than she did with him, which made her uncomfortable.
She took a notebook with her. She had been meaning to do this for a while. To see if she could trace all those supposed ancestors buried there. With Robbie’s words about the possible ownership of Cleughbrae still ringing in her ears, she felt now was the time to do it.
Initially she began to look for Calvert gravestones. She found one or two. The one that made her pause was a simple stone erected in memory of Elizabeth Calvert, daughter of Joseph and Elizabeth Calvert, who had died in 1903, ag
ed two years. Safe with God. This must have been her grandfather Joseph’s sister. The only girl in the family, who had died so young. There had been no mention of her in Susie’s reminiscences – was this yet another secret? Hope read the gravestone a number of times. Joseph Senior and Lizzie were buried in the same grave. They must never have forgotten their little daughter. For some reason this made Hope want to cry.
Without really meaning to, she found herself tracing the Irving family. She found a Jane Davidson Irving, who must be Hope’s great-grandmother. She had died young. Working out the dates, Hope reckoned she had died when her daughter, the Jane who had gone to Glasgow to hide the birth of her illegitimate daughter, had not yet been in her teens. What had it been like, being brought up by your father in the 1920s and 30s?
The father, Matthew, had lived a long life. He was the one someone had referred to as reclusive. Hope bent to read his gravestone, the words added on below those recording the death of his wife. Matthew, it seemed, had died in 1953. He had been living at School Cottage in St Ann’s Bridge. And he had been a tailor.
Hope shook her head in amazement. Was this where it came from, her fascination with sewing? Her grandmother, the stern and beautiful Jane, had been a very competent seamstress. And Jane’s own father had been a tailor. Somehow, that pleased Hope. This was her family and she was beginning to feel a connection with them.
When she returned to Kirkside she showed Mr Jackson the notes she had made. He had encouraged her more than once to seek out her roots.
‘I knew you’d find them,’ he said, nodding his bald head. ‘You’re having fun, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose I am. More than I would ever have thought.’ Hope poured tea for them both from the pink Wedgewood teapot. ‘You must have known some of them. My great-grandfather Matthew Irving only died in the 1950s. Do you remember him?’
‘Aye, I do. Secretive little man, he was, lived in one of the cottages up by the school.’
Family Matters Page 12
