by Olga Wojtas
I gave Lord Erroll the traditional Doric greeting: “Aye aye, min. Fit like?”
His eyes widened above the black wool scarf.
He needn’t think he was going to intimidate me into forelock-tugging or my-lording. “Foo’s yir doos? Aye peckin? Fairly,” I added.
“I beg your pardon?” he said, his voice quite muffled, on account of the muffler. Not a hint of an Aberdeenshire cadence. Pure Received Pronunciation. He hadn’t been offended by what I had said; he just hadn’t understood it.
I sighed and returned to my normal accent. “Hello. My name’s Shona McMonagle. I’m visiting from Edinburgh. Can I come in?”
“Welcome to my house,” he said. “Enter freely and of your own free will.”
This was definitely a tautology. But I thanked him politely and followed him into the castle. The small, narrow windows didn’t allow for much light, but there were blazing sconces all around the entrance hall. The huge stone staircase in front of us was lit by antique silver lamps. It looked as though everything would feel cold and smell fusty, but in fact it was pleasantly warm and there was a lovely smell of baking.
I followed Lord Erroll up the staircase and through a large hall into a small octagonal room that had absolutely no windows and only one lamp. It was crammed full of Victorian furniture, including several little tables and high-backed wing armchairs covered in ox-blood leather.
“Do sit down,” he said. I was getting used to the muffling. “May I get you something? A cup of tea, perhaps?”
I tried not to sound overexcited. “That would be very nice, thank you.” Then I got worried. Perhaps he didn’t mean proper tea. “It’s not fennel, or camomile, or anything weird?”
Now he looked worried. “Not camomile. Camellia sinensis. Will that be all right?”
“More than all right,” I said. Proper tea. “Did you know Camellia sinensis was the first ever tea plant to be discovered, in China? And then the botanist Robert Fortune, who incidentally worked for some time in Edinburgh’s Royal Botanic Garden, took some Chinese plants to India to start growing tea there.”
“Yes,” said Lord Erroll. “I knew that.” He made it sound as though it was common knowledge, whereas most people I tell are quite surprised.
“And could I possibly have a wee splash of milk in it?” I added.
He darted a suspicious look at me. “Milk? You think I have milk?”
I tried not to show my disappointment. I had been really looking forward to a wee cup of tea with milk.
“If you don’t have any, that’s all right,” I said with as much cheerfulness as I could muster, which wasn’t a great deal. “I’ll just take it black.”
He was still watching me closely. “You really want milk in your tea?”
Foreigners rarely take milk in their tea, something I find very frustrating. But I didn’t think someone from Aberdeenshire would find it so odd. I’ve had plenty of fly cups in the north-east, always with milk.
“That’s how I prefer it,” I said. “But if you don’t have it, you don’t have it.”
There was a pause.
“I might have it,” he said.
He seemed to be waiting for my reaction.
“Then that would be very nice. I like a drop of milk in my tea.” I felt I had made the same point around four times, but I find the aristocracy can be quite thick, presumably because of the inbreeding.
“A drop of milk. Yes, I think I can manage that.”
And off he went. A few moments later, I thought I heard a moo, but it turned out to be the earl singing “Daddy Wouldn’t Buy Me a Bow Wow”.
He returned with a proper teapot containing a full-bodied Assam. I would have to cultivate Lord Erroll as carefully as Robert Fortune had cultivated the stolen Chinese seedlings. He set down the tea tray and said, “Let me get you an occasional table.”
“That always makes me laugh, an occasional table,” I said. “I wonder what it is the rest of the time.”
There was spluttering through the muffler, which turned out to be laughter. “That hadn’t occurred to me. Most comical.”
It wasn’t that comical, but it was nice of him to make the effort. He brought over the table and set out a fine bone-china cup, and a little plate of shortbread. Joseph Walker had opened his Aberlour bakery in 1898, and bought a horse and cart to make deliveries outwith the area. I wondered how long it took a horse and cart to get from Aberlour to France.
“You get Walkers to send this over?” I asked.
“No, I made it myself,” he said. “I do hope you like it.” He sounded quite nervous.
I took a bite. “Delicious,” I said. “Excellent flavour, nice crunch, all of the biscuits perfectly symmetrical. If ever there’s a Great Scottish Bake-Off, you should go in for it.”
Above the muffler, his eyes twinkled with pleasure.
“And do you prefer the milk in first?” he asked, bringing over the teapot, and scarcely more than a thimbleful of milk. You hear about the meanness of Aberdonians, but this was ridiculous. I was reminded of Chic Murray in a guesthouse, picking up one of those wee jars of honey and saying to the landlady, “I see you keep a bee.”
“I see you keep a cow,” I said.
He straightened up, his eyes widening above the muffler. “No, I don’t,” he said.
“It was a joke,” I clarified.
He started spluttering again. “Ah, another joke! Most comical.”
There was something quite touching about his eagerness to please.
I returned to his question. “Yes, I prefer the milk in first, thanks.”
He poured the tiny trickle of milk, put a silver tea strainer over the cup and poured out the tea. I could have done with about three times more milk, but it still tasted wonderful after my hours of deprivation. I began to worry that I could be a milk addict.
Lord Erroll sat down on the ox-blood leather armchair opposite me, but with no tea or shortbread for himself.
“Are you not having any?” I asked.
He indicated the muffler.
“Toothache?” I asked sympathetically. “It’s horrible, isn’t it? And you’re quite right, hot tea and a sugary biscuit would just make things worse. You know, a really good folk remedy is garlic.”
He made a sort of gurgling noise. I thought he was complimenting me on another most comical joke, even though I hadn’t actually made one, until I saw he was looking astounded rather than amused.
“Really,” I assured him. “The ancient Greeks knew all about it. Cut a clove in two, and rub it on either side of the tooth or the gum, whichever’s giving you the problem, for about ten minutes. And when the pain eases off, chew the garlic. I have to admit, it stings a bit, but stick with it – it’s a really good antibiotic.”
I took another sip of tea and raised the cup to him in salute. His wee eyes glowed in delight, looking positively red in the low light. Even though he was an aristocrat, he was very personable. But despite being a fellow countryman, he wasn’t the person I was here to help. I hadn’t remotely tingled on the doorstep, and when I touched his hand while taking the teacup, absolutely nothing.
Perhaps he could be helpful to me, though. I decided to find out more about him. In Edinburgh, the question to ask is “What school did you go to?” Once you have the answer to that, you can pretty well work out everything else: where they live, value of property, family income, football team, favourite television programmes, voting intentions. It’s not so easy with other parts of the country, but it would still give me something of an insight.
“Did you go to Aberdeen Grammar School?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Gordonstoun? Fettes? No? Not … south of the border? Eton? Harrow?”
“I was home-educated,” he said. “By my mother.”
That explained things. Lord Erroll’s mother was Eliza Amelia Gore, who had been lady of the bedchamber to Queen Victoria. She had obviously picked up her strange ideas from the royals, who traditionally home-educated
their offspring, rather than sending her kid to the local school in the Scottish manner.
But I mustn’t let that colour my view of the earl. It wasn’t his fault that he hadn’t had a decent education.
“I just arrived yesterday,” I said. “Have you been here long?”
“Two years,” he said.
“And what decided you to move to France?”
“The weather,” he said.
This was the sort of ignorant remark you would expect from the English, but not from someone brought up in the north-east of Scotland. Aberdeen gets more sun annually than London.
But the tea and the shortbread were good, so I let it pass. I glanced round the ancient room. “Were you looking for a while before you found this place?”
“I had it built specially.” Even through the muffler, I could detect the pride.
“Sorry? You mean you renovated it?”
“No, I found a suitable site and designed a castle to fit.”
“Two years ago? But it looks ancient,” I said.
He nodded. “It’s been done well.”
It would have been impossible for builders to carry masonry and everything else along the route by which Madeleine had brought me.
“How did the workforce get here?” I asked. “I thought the forest was out of bounds.”
“So I believe,” he said. “But that’s recent, and doesn’t affect me.”
I wasn’t sure whether he meant he didn’t go through the forest, or whether he meant the ban didn’t apply to him. The upper classes can have a sense of entitlement that is totally unjustified.
“It still must have been a very complicated undertaking,” I said.
“I couldn’t say. I took no part in the construction.”
Just when I’d started think he was a good guy, he’d confirmed my view that the landed gentry expected simply to snap their fingers and have their whims fulfilled.
“This is my favourite room,” he said. “It’s exactly like the one I had at Slains.”
It was an odd room to have as a favourite, with absolutely no daylight getting in. But the aristocracy are so inbred that they can turn quite odd. When the third Marquess of Queensberry fancied a snack, he roasted a servant boy on a spit, so in the great scheme of things, liking a windowless room was quite an acceptable quirk.
“I’m very fond of Aberdeenshire,” I said. “Shortbread, rowies, the Turra Coo, the poor monkey.”
“I beg your pardon?” he said.
These aristos are the limit. I’m not surprised the French got rid of theirs. Not the faintest idea what goes on outside their elite circle.
“Shortbread you already know,” I said, gesturing to the plate. “Rowies, also known as butteries, Aberdeen breakfast rolls, great with butter and marmalade.”
He looked at me blankly.
“The Turra Coo, a white dairy cow that starred in a protest in Turriff over the introduction of compulsory national insurance by Lloyd George.” I suddenly realised that Lloyd George wouldn’t become chancellor of the exchequer until 1910, and hastily went on to my final example.
“Over a hundred years ago, fishermen from Boddam went out to get salvage from a shipwreck, and found a monkey. They weren’t entitled to salvage if any living thing was on board, so I’m afraid they hanged it. Hartlepool has nicked the story and claimed it was during the Napoleonic Wars, and they hanged the monkey because they thought it was a Frenchman.” I was quite glad I was telling the story to a Scot rather than the villagers. “But the Aberdeenshire story was definitely first. There’s even a song, ‘The Boddamers Hanged the Monkey-O’ – I can sing it for you if you like.”
The muffler moved a bit and I was absolutely sure that the earl had just yawned.
“Not boring you, am I?” I asked a little acerbically.
“Please excuse me,” he said. “I don’t sleep well. That is, I used to sleep well until…”
He broke off and the eyes above the muffler looked suddenly wary.
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” he said, “but would you mind awfully if I asked you to leave? I really feel very sleepy all of a sudden. Absolutely nothing to do with your fascinating disquisition on monkeys, I assure you.”
Those were not the eyes of someone who felt sleepy. He was just trying to get rid of me. However, I couldn’t see what else to do but comply. I wasn’t going to get any more information out of him. I followed him back down the spiral staircase. He opened the front door and seemed to shrink back into the shadows.
“That was very nice tea, thank you,” I said. “Perhaps I could come round again?”
“I might not be in,” he said. “Or I might be asleep.”
“I’ll just have to keep trying, then,” I said and his eyes flickered in unmistakeable apprehension.
I stepped over the threshold and immediately the door slammed behind me. And this time, there was the sound of rattling chains, the clanking of massive bolts, and iron keys turning in locks. He definitely didn’t want me back.
I retraced the route Madeleine had taken me, avoiding the forest with its dangerous wild boar, and instead edging my way along cliff faces and navigating fast-flowing torrents.
I was clambering over a particularly tricky bit when a sudden dreadful realisation came to me, and I missed my footing. Had it not been for my excellent reactions, seizing hold of tiny crevices in the rock, and painfully hauling myself back up, I might have plummeted hundreds of feet to my doom.
I slithered along to safety and sat there, getting my breath back. It was so obvious. Why hadn’t I thought of it, the minute I heard the words “Slains Castle”?
Vampires. Bram Stoker’s Dracula. People think it was inspired by Whitby, but Stoker started writing the book when he was on his holidays in Port Erroll, just along from Slains. Lord Erroll had been so proud of his windowless octagonal room that he had copied it in France. He wasn’t the only one to have copied it. Stoker must have seen it when he went round to take tea with his lordship, and featured it in Dracula’s castle in Transylvania. I wondered if he had asked Lord Erroll’s permission.
But back to my shocking realisation. Vampires. I had thought the villagers were oddly pale. Of course they were. They were all vampires. They couldn’t abide sunlight, and that was why they had chosen to live in Sans-Soleil.
But Madeleine, with her healthy suntan, she wasn’t from Sans-Soleil. She wasn’t part of this diabolical set-up. No wonder she wore a crucifix. It wasn’t just to accentuate her cleavage (although I was pretty sure that was a major motive); she was avoiding becoming one of the undead.
It seemed unlikely that she would develop a sudden passion for a vampire, although I seemed to remember quite a lot of sudden passion in the book. Perhaps Sylvain had gone out one day without a crucifix and been bitten. Perhaps Madeleine shouldn’t be so keen on getting him back.
If the villagers were vampires, that explained how they had managed to build a castle in the middle of nowhere. From the book, I knew vampires were cunning and had all sorts of illicit ways and means of doing things. And they would just ignore a prohibition on going into the forest.
I wondered if I should go back and warn Lord Erroll that he could be in terrible danger. He was such a frail wee soul that he wouldn’t stand a chance against a ruthless blood-sucker. But then, he had lived there for two years without any problems, and according to Madeleine, he was seldom in the village, so there was no point in scaring him unnecessarily. Also, this was a very hazardous path and I was probably about halfway to Sans-Soleil by now. As Macbeth said, “Returning were as tedious as go o’er”, so I decided just to continue.
And although I was returning to an extremely risky situation, I really felt quite cheerful, having discovered the purpose of my mission at last. It was up to me to rid the village of vampires. That would be to the benefit of everyone who wasn’t a vampire, and explained why I hadn’t felt the tingling associated with the person I was there to help. I was helping all humanity, and the very slight tingling I
felt from Madeleine was because she was human, but just one individual. I wondered why I hadn’t felt a similar tingling from Lord Erroll, but there was sure to be some technical reason Miss Blaine hadn’t had time to mention.
Miss Blaine. The Founder had once warned me that I must never assume. It seemed crystal-clear that the villagers were all vampires, but I should still double-check. Meticulousness and accuracy are the hallmarks of a Blainer.
I was pondering how to go about this as I arrived in the village, and the first person I met was the mayor, strutting around in his white sash of office.
He hailed me cheerfully. “Madame–” Then he remembered about not wearing my name out. “Madame Maque! Enjoying this fine day?” He gestured to indicate the greyness that enveloped us. His expression changed to one of unease. “I hope you haven’t been wandering near the forest.”
“No,” I said, “Madeleine’s explained all about the forest being out of bounds.”
“Ah, Madeleine!” he breathed.
I was even less impressed than I had been the previous day. The men’s tongues were hanging out because they wanted to sink their gnashers into her. And then I realised it had just been the men. The women didn’t care for her at all. In Bram Stoker’s book, Dracula went after females, and the female vampires went after Jonathan Harker. It was disappointing to see such traditional gender stereotyping, but I had to remember it was only 1900 and we still had a way to go.
“Yes, Madeleine. So, I went all the way round the forest to get to the castle.”
“The castle?” He looked shifty. “You have seen the English milord?”
“No,” I said, and he relaxed.
“I’ve seen the Scottish milord, the gentleman who lives in the castle,” I told him.
He looked shifty again.
“We had a very nice chat over tea and shortbread,” I said.
