The Christmas Secret

by Karen Swan

  ‘And what is wrong with that?’ she demanded, trying to sound haughty – imperious – but she couldn’t pull it off when her head had to be supported by the wall as she watched him, both of him.

  He looked up at her but his eyes didn’t glitter with their usual contempt. In fact, he looked worn out. ‘I knew you were trouble the second I set eyes upon you,’ he mumbled, shaking his head.

  ‘I could say the same about you.’

  ‘You didn’t know who I was when you set eyes on me.’

  ‘Yes, I did. Somehow, I knew. I felt it here,’ she said, punching herself in the gut. ‘You fit the brief. Callum was too . . .’

  ‘Dumb?’

  ‘Flirty.’

  He stared at her. ‘So you’re saying I should have flirted with you to get rid of you?’

  She looked back at his Libran face: two of him, double the handsome, double the trouble. ‘No. Flirt, lie, run – there’s nothing you could have done; I’d have found you. Body language always betrays what the mind won’t.’ The words ran into each other, no commas, no pauses.

  ‘I think you actually believe that.’

  ‘It’s a proven fact . . . What? Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘I was just thinking it’s amazing how you’re almost catatonically drunk and yet you’re still holding forth on your corporate claptrap like you’re the keynote at a conference. I can’t decide if you’re brilliant or just brilliantly arrogant.’

  ‘The ffffirst one,’ she said, jabbing her finger authoritatively.

  He said nothing and she realized he was still holding her ankle, her bare foot resting on his knee.

  The sound of the door knob hitting the opposite wall made him look back as Mrs Peggie came in carrying what looked like a cottage hospital’s matron’s kit – hot-water bottle, hot toddy, blankets and a bucket. ‘There now, we’ll soon have her sorted. Och,’ she said in a scolding tone as she saw them sitting there. ‘Is she still in those wet clothes? She’ll catch her death.’

  ‘I think you had better deal with that, Mrs P.,’ Lochlan said, getting to his feet.

  ‘Aye,’ Mrs Peggie said after a hesitation. ‘You’re probably right. Will you stay for a bath, Lochie? You’re drenched too. I can have it run in a jiffy.’

  ‘No. I’ll get out of your way. I’ll be home in a few minutes anyway.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll have a hot bath when you get in. Don’t let the cold get to your chest.’

  ‘I promise.’

  Mrs Peggie sighed, satisfied he wouldn’t let himself die of pneumonia. ‘Well, I’d best get her undressed and into that bed somehow.’

  ‘Are you going to be able to manage it? Is Mr P. around?’

  ‘He’s tucked up in bed and I’m not sure, anyway, that this is a sight he’d be much help with.’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘Now you get along. Thank heavens you picked her up. I don’t like to think what might have happened if she’d attempted making her own way back.’

  Lochlan glanced down at her again. ‘No.’

  In the silence that followed, Alex was vaguely aware of the two of them looking at her and she wondered if she was supposed to say something. But where was her voice?

  ‘She’s a funny wee thing,’ Mrs Peggie said quietly. ‘I cannae place her. She turns up here all Miss Uppity Pants but take away the fancy clothes and she’s like a lost child.’

  ‘Mm.’

  There was another silence and Alex groggily looked up again. They definitely wanted her to say something.

  Mrs Peggie bent down and began tugging gently at the sleeves of her jumper.

  ‘I’m off. Good luck, Mrs P.’ Lochlan’s footsteps retreated across the room.

  Alex tried lifting her head, catching his eye as he turned for the last time. She had to thank him. He was a complete arse but she still had to thank him. She opened her mouth to speak.

  ‘. . . See you tomorrow, Farquhar,’ she slurred. ‘And don’t be late.’

  Chapter Eight

  British waters, 5 February 1918

  Water coursed across the engine-room floor, the power sputtering as the sea hit the steam pipes with a vicious hiss. The emergency lights had come on and he could now see the pale, twisted faces of his menfolk as they headed past him for the ladders and the lifeboats on deck – friends, men he had played cards with not two hours before, barging past in a frenzy of brawn and staring eyes. It was like the buffalo stampedes back home: the mightiest won through, the meagre and meek were trampled over and left. Self-preservation beat civilization, no question.

  On any given day, Ed would have been at the front with the best of them; he was tall and strong for his age thanks to a lifetime logging with his father. But today his head was fogged, the shock slowing down his reflexes, and he had a sense of being suffocated, the air being sucked from the spaces as the water rushed in. It wasn’t fear he felt, for he had experienced that several times before in his twenty years; rather a sense of futility that there wasn’t a thing to be done. There was no recourse, no way to hit back.

  He was alone in the passage when a voice behind him shouted out. ‘We’ll float for hours, man! Tie a hard knot in your lifebelt and tell the others to keep a cool head.’ He turned and saw it was the chief, leaning one arm against the stairs in an almost languid manner.

  The words, as well as the way in which they were delivered, stirred him to action and he climbed the stairs, having to hold both handrails to heave himself up as Tuscania continued to list. He no sooner stepped through to the main hall below the exit to the deck than the hatch was closed shut behind him, and the crew began to dog it down so as to make the bulkhead waterproof.

  The mob had congregated here, thrashing and pleading and fighting as the lifeboats up on deck were launched but as Ed watched, he feared they’d kill each other before the water even touched them.

  ‘We’ll float for hours, men!’ he shouted as loudly as he possibly could, echoing both the captain’s words and his confidence, hands cupped at his mouth. ‘Tie a hard knot in your lifebelts and tell the others to keep a cool head.’

  His call was met with the same reception as the chief’s, the firm manner of experience and authority quelling their panic like water over flames and as the word was passed on, order came out of nothing. The men began to assist one another, calling the names of their bunkies and assembling at their designated exits so that by the time Ed got up on deck himself, the auxiliary lights had come on and he could see them all standing quietly in their assigned meet zones, waiting for rescue. The lifeboats had been launched in the very first moments after the impact and men were shinning down the ropes to the vastly overloaded vessels. He saw the two nurses, the only women on board, being hauled to safety.

  The lifeboats pulled away, carried by the current from the failing vessel, her prow already nosing the icy water. A short series of explosions made them start as flares were launched from the bridge and the sky shone a galactic red, illuminating the sea all around.

  It would have been almost beautiful were it not for the inky scenes of devastation it highlighted in the black sea – bodies floating, men drowning each other as they fought for scraps of driftwood from those shackled lifeboats that had taken the direct hit of the torpedo.

  Ed felt his field of vision contract down, his legs buckle at the knees. It had been only an hour since the strike but he felt aged by it. Changed.

  And then suddenly from the gloom, he saw the hulk of one of the British destroyers in their convoy drawing alongside. Multitudes of ropes were sent from the Tuscania onto her deck, troops sliding down the line, each helping the man after him and making way for the next. The training drills proved their worth as hundreds were offloaded, Ed watching, huddling for warmth by the stack, just behind the bridge. He was sweating and shivering at the same time. It would soon be his turn. . . .

  But the destroyer, brim full in the swelling sea, dared remain no longer and too soon the ship turned away, heading for shore. A
boy halfway across on a rope leapt for it – and missed by a foot, plunging into the icy water.

  Ed stared at the splash, his comprehension beginning to dim now, shock taking root. The captain issued instructions to the men left behind to cut the remaining long ropes and coil them in readiness for instant use for the next destroyer. The mood was strangely calm as they wound the loops, anxiety cloaked in silence as they worked.

  They waited. They waited. The auxiliary lights had gone out again as water flooded the hull, the lit sky faded back to black, and they had only the occasional flash of a pocket light or the glow of a cigarette to see by. The captain rolled a cigarette, making a joke about something. He had survived a previous torpedo attempt and his attitude nerved the men but it did not need to be said aloud, the fate that awaited them: with the destroyer from their convoy gone, it was either a rescue or straight doom as their lot now.

  There was a sudden shout. ‘Captain! Look.’

  The man pointed into the dark and from the night, faint flashing lights emerged, the outline of another destroyer bringing a cheer from the troops. It drew up on the port side and the ropes were thrown over as before. Ed felt hands on his back, pushing him forwards. It was the captain.

  ‘Go on, lad.’

  The man quivered as the ships rolled out of time with one another, tautening and flexing like a lion tamer’s whip. He took the rope between his hands and legs and began to shin across, feeling how it strained in his grip. The wind whistled as though through a tunnel, the waves rearing up beneath him like the snapping jaws of wolves. He kept moving, hand over hand, his body pleading for relief as every sinew battled gravity. He was almost there . . .

  But the destroyer lurched violently on a surging wave, the rope snapping ratchet tight, and his hands opened reflexively. For a moment, his legs saved him, his ankles clamping tighter as his body swung loosely like a trapeze artist’s; but his fevered mind was too far from here to react in time. And as his body plummeted to the sea, it wasn’t the white rope he saw receding from him in the black sky, but a woman on the snowy steps of their home, a shawl over her shoulders and love in her eyes.

  Islay, Friday 8 December 2017

  The coffee was already in her hand when the door opened and Lochlan walked in, stopping in surprise at the sight of her standing there. He visibly sagged as she held it out towards him, steam misting the air between them. ‘You have got to be kidding me.’

  Alex straightened to her full five foot eight height and smiled. ‘Good morning.’

  He closed his eyes for a moment, as though praying for strength, and Alex took the opportunity to appraise his running kit. From the amount of mud sprayed up his legs, it looked as though he had run through peat bogs to get here. Rona looked half dead and, without bothering to nose Alex’s hand, headed straight for the already flickering fire. ‘It’s like goddammed Groundhog Day.’

  ‘I don’t think so, do you?’ she asked, gesturing to her outfit of slouchy black wool trousers, Céline trainers and a grey cashmere Chloé sweatshirt. The storm had passed over, just enough for the fishing boats to go back out – though not the ferries yet – and Louise had come through for her, getting her stranded suitcases dropped over from the mainland by the RNLI on a training run, in exchange for a peachy donation. ‘One of us is better dressed for a start.’

  He looked back at her again, before kicking the door shut behind him and coming further into the office. ‘You got your bags back then,’ he smirked, pulling his trainers off with the laces still tied and kicking them under his desk as he pointedly looked her up and down.

  She rolled her shoulders back, like a soldier on inspection parade. ‘Yes.’ She was back on top.

  He took the coffee from her without a thank-you, and perched on the corner of his desk. ‘Well, I guess I should be grateful that it’s an improvement on your last get-up. Glittery sandals and ankle socks? What were you thinking?’ he mocked, his defiant eyes on hers as he sipped his drink. They both knew it wasn’t her dress sense that she had to account for.

  Alex swallowed and took a deep breath. It was the moment she had spent since five a.m. bracing herself for, the one she knew she couldn’t hide from if they were going to move forwards.

  ‘Yes, well, about that, I’m glad you’ve brought it up,’ she said, forcing a smile onto her lips. ‘I wanted to thank you for last night—’

  He cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘It was incredibly kind of you to drive me home.’

  He took another long, slow sip of coffee, enjoying this. ‘I didn’t really have much say in the matter.’

  ‘Well, be that as it may, you went above and beyond taking me . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ He watched her, his eyes dancing and enjoying how she stumbled on the detail.

  ‘Taking me upstairs and . . . settling me.’

  ‘Settling you,’ he echoed, and she wondered if he could tell that she had no idea how she had come to be in her bed in her Turnbull & Asser pyjamas.

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded, sure her cheeks were flaming. ‘It was very kind of you.’

  He took another sip, never taking his eyes off her. It was like being studied by a tiger from a tree. He seemed to be waiting for something more from her.

  ‘And I’m terribly sorry if the situation was at all awkward for you,’ she continued.

  ‘For me?’ he grinned.

  ‘Of course, I’m mortified. It was incredibly unprofessional of me and—’

  ‘Why?’

  She frowned. ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why was it unprofessional of you?’

  Wasn’t it obvious? ‘Well, because you’re my client.’

  ‘As I keep telling you, Hyde, no, I’m not. I never hired you and I don’t want you here. Hell will freeze over before you get to do your voodoo psychobabble on me.’

  His gaze dared her to challenge him on the frankly outrageous slurs on her profession, but she simply stuck her chin in the air and smiled, hoping she didn’t look as green as she felt.

  ‘Well, anyway,’ she said, ignoring the digs and taking the higher road. ‘You will no doubt be delighted to hear that Mr Peggie has very kindly said I can have free use of his old Land Rover whilst I’m here. Apparently there are no carrental companies on the island.’

  He chuckled. ‘No.’

  ‘So you don’t have to worry about being bothered by me again.’

  ‘Somehow I doubt that.’

  ‘I meant—’

  ‘I know what you meant.’ His eyes flashed, showing no mercy, relishing in her humiliation.

  She sighed. ‘Look, Lochlan, whether you like it or not—’

  ‘Not.’

  She cleared her throat. ‘Your chairman has made it very clear that you cooperating with me is a requirement or he will be forced into having you charged with gross misconduct.’

  Lochlan gave a scathing laugh. ‘Nope. Trust me, if he could have done, he would have done by now.’

  ‘He’s the chairman of the board.’

  ‘Just let him try.’ He looked at her, unperturbed. ‘Heavy stones fear no weather.’

  Alex looked back at him, incredulous. He really did think he was unaccountable to anyone. ‘This war you’re determined to wage with him – it’s not what he wants; Sholto wants to make it work.’

  ‘What I want has never been something my cousin has concerned himself with.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Why else would he have hired me? He wants to make this relationship work. I can help you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I can! But you have to work with me, Lochlan. You have to trust me.’

  ‘And I do.’

  Alex straightened up, feeling a sudden stab of hope. ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes. I absolutely trust you can make your way to the door unaccompanied this time.’

  Alex blinked, feeling a flame of fury ball in the pit of her stomach. She had never been met with such outright rudeness before. She had stood here before him with a cup of coffee and a white flag
and this – this! – was how he treated her? Did he have any idea of the people she had worked with, the companies she had helped, no, transformed?

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  She saw the surprise in his eyes and jerked her chin in the air, defying him to manhandle her again. Just let him try!

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  There was a moment of utter silence. A moment in which both their wills were flexed. A moment which he broke with a cavalier tut.

  ‘Oh, Hyde,’ he sighed, getting up and walking over to her. ‘You’re just determined to do this the hard way, aren’t you?’ And he caught her by the elbow and firmly led her to the door.

  ‘You have got to be kidding me! No! No!’ she cried, trying to wriggle free, but his grip was too firm. ‘This cannot be happening again!’

  He opened the door and pushed her through it, back into the courtyard.

  ‘I know, right?’ he laughed. ‘That was exactly what I thought when I saw you this morning too!’

  And with a self-satisfied grin, he slammed the door in her face. Again.

  Alex stood in the courtyard, feeling conspicuous, feeling small.

  But if she was humiliated, no one else seemed to notice. A few men rolled casks past her with a nod that was no more than quizzical; someone else sweeping the cobbles only noticed her when he almost brushed her feet from under her. She turned on the spot, wondering where to hide this time.

  It took her a moment to notice the difference in mood about the place. There was a conversational buzz that hadn’t been there before. Now that the storm had all but passed and the skies were clearing to a chilly ice blue, people were milling about, lingering on coffee and cigarette breaks where they’d been running for cover only the day before; she could hear radios on in the workshops and units, laughter and bad singing lilting through the open windows. The distillery’s energy was completely opposite to that of the muted, downbeat and turgid workplace she had first seen over the last couple of days.

  God, she wondered – was this her third day already? Had it been only that?