The Christmas Secret

by Karen Swan

  ‘Squeamishness,’ Peter tutted. ‘My wife can’t bear the thought of killing a living creature. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell her that it supports the rural economy and strengthens community links; or that the money from shoot days goes straight back into the estates, providing local jobs for gamekeepers, beaters, ghillies, groundsmen and the like; or that those birds are as bred to be killed as chickens and sheep . . . She just won’t hear it.’

  ‘You’re wasting your breath, old chap. It’s all to do with killer instinct,’ Douglas said, pulling a fist and shaking it. ‘And most women don’t have it. They just can’t quite bring themselves to pull the trigger.’

  Alex was about to argue that it wasn’t a question of gender: there were as many men out there as women who wouldn’t want to shoot, regardless of the background arguments in its favour, but she didn’t get the chance.

  ‘Well, that’s obviously not a problem for Alex. I shouldn’t think she’d hesitate to shoot anything between the eyes,’ Lochlan said darkly, before throwing an arm out and indicating the shoot bus. ‘Shall we?’

  The second and third drives were a mixed bag – literally. They were shooting partridge as well as pheasant, and the low sun made visibility tricky on some of the lines but she was still pleased with her form. Her hand was steady, her eye keen, her breathing slow. She was bagging eighty per cent of everything she aimed for and she didn’t think there was much between her and Lochlan at all, something she noticed appeared to be riling him enormously with every congratulation that was thrown her way.

  ‘You well and truly hid your light under a bushel, Alex,’ Torquil said cheerily as they all met back at the bus afterwards. ‘I ran out of ammo and watched you. You hit almost everything you aimed for.’

  ‘She’s making me look bad,’ Callum grumbled with a laugh. ‘I wouldn’t have invited you if I’d realized you were such a crack shot.’

  ‘Well, it’s clear you’re the gun of the day,’ Douglas said, toasting her with a tot of sherry being drunk from silver caps. ‘Congratulations!’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ everyone rejoined – all but one.

  They had moved to a drive on the outer reaches of the estate – 2,400 acres, according to Callum – the sea just behind them at the foot of the cliffs which rose steeply here. They were on high ground; Port Ellen and the distillery were far out of sight and the two mountains which always appeared so distant from the farm were seemingly within touching distance.

  The gamekeeper’s girlfriend was walking around and handing out hot sausages to all the guns. Alex was grateful for the warmth. For all the skill and concentration required to shoot, it wasn’t an overly active sport and she had begun to lose feeling in her toes. She tried promising herself the reward of one of Mrs Peggie’s boiling hot baths when she got in but her power of imagination just wasn’t that strong; she tried scrunching up her toes but it was hard in the thick socks; she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, stopping short of jogging on the spot.

  ‘Cold?’ Lochlan asked, with a look that suggested it was some form of weakness.

  She shrugged. ‘A little. I don’t have the best circulation in the world.’

  ‘You need to put some weight on,’ Lochlan said. ‘A bit more meat on your bones would make the world of difference.’

  ‘That’s incredibly rude, Lochie,’ Torquil snapped.

  Lochlan rewarded him with a hard stare that made no attempt to apologize and yet again the tension crackled, as it did whenever Lochlan was holding the floor.

  ‘Oh no,’ Alex smiled, brushing off the insult. ‘No woman ever minds being told she’s too thin. Even when it’s not intended as a compliment.’

  ‘Well, even so—’

  ‘Neoprene-lined wellies, they’re what you need,’ Callum said, coming to the rescue.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Peter agreed. ‘My wife swears by them.’

  ‘Le Chameau do a very nice style,’ Mhairi added, showing off her own olive-green boots.

  ‘Alternatively, you should try proper shooting,’ Lochlan said with a scathing tone. ‘That would warm you up.’

  ‘Proper shooting?’ Torquil asked, looking mildly scandalized at the intimation that this driven shoot with full hospitality wasn’t ‘proper’.

  ‘Yes, you know, walked-up shooting, rough shooting, call it what you will.’ His eyes never left Alex, challenging her, trying to intimidate her.

  ‘Oh well, I’ve done that too,’ Alex shrugged, knowing that the calmer she became, the more she enraged him; she was being feted as he was being frozen out and she sensed – somehow – that this was going to be her way through. There had to be some sort of provocation, a breaking point with him, and there was no doubt he was under pressure here today. ‘A lovely estate in Yorkshire. Appleton. Perhaps you know it?’ She knew he would; it was one of the foremost shoots in the country.

  ‘No.’

  He was lying. ‘Oh well, why would you? It’s only fourteen thousand acres or so.’

  There was a tense silence and it was clear nobody here believed his denial.

  ‘When I say proper shooting, what I mean to say – of course – is doing the MacNab,’ Lochlan said finally.

  She arched an eyebrow as she sipped the sherry. ‘The MacWhat?’

  ‘It’s when you stalk, shoot and fish in one day. You have to land a stag, a brace of grouse, and a salmon within twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Sounds fun,’ she said lightly.

  ‘It’s a lot harder than it sounds.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Okay,’ she shrugged but her body language said ‘whatever’. A small smile crept upon her lips. She could see he was infuriated by her – that she was here, that she wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t lose, wouldn’t give in.

  ‘I’m going next weekend, in fact.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘To a friend’s place in Perth. You should come.’

  She pulled an apologetic expression, knowing full well that this was about cowing her, showing her he would win in whatever arena they duelled in. She decided to try a little reverse psychology. ‘Well, that’s very sweet of you to offer but I’m not sure if I’ll still be here next weekend.’

  His eyes narrowed as he was thrown off balance again. ‘I thought you were here for the foreseeable?’

  ‘Things haven’t been going according to plan and I have other clients who need me. I can’t keep flogging the proverbial.’

  ‘And if things were to suddenly go according to plan . . . ?’ Callum interjected, a mischievous look in his true blue eyes.

  ‘Well, then, I’d be here for the foreseeable,’ she shrugged with a beatific smile.

  ‘Oh, it would be an absolutely capital opportunity, if you were to take it up,’ Peter McKinlay said enthusiastically. ‘I tried the MacNab once. Total disaster. I almost blinded my wife with the fly, then she fell back in the river trying to escape and poor thing was half-drowned. It took a holiday to Mauritius and a pearl necklace before she forgave me that one, I can tell you.’

  ‘Well, it’s not really my call,’ was all Alex would say, but Lochlan didn’t take his gaze off her. Her non-committal position was a challenge and he knew it: if he wanted his opportunity to put her in her place, he first had to let her put him in his place.

  ‘Right, everyone ready for the off?’ Torquil asked, collecting up the sherry tots.

  ‘Absolutely!’

  They all marched over the long grass back to the shoot bus, Callum hurrying to her side, a chuckle in his throat.

  ‘I do believe you owe me the pleasure of your company at dinner, Ms Hythe,’ he murmured. But she didn’t mind his mistake this time.

  ‘Colin, I do believe you’re right,’ she smiled, sending them both into a fit of laughter that caught everyone’s eye.

  Mr Peggie was like a bloodhound sniffing the air, surveying the sky with a wrinkled brow as she pulled up into the yard several hours later.

  ‘Snow’s coming,’ the o
ld farmer said in an ominous tone. ‘Heaps of the stuff.’

  ‘It must make life difficult for you,’ she said, standing by the back door and pulling off her boots; they were thick with muddy clods.

  ‘Ach, it’s not with the first stroke that the tree falls,’ he said, sounding and looking like an ancient bard.

  They walked into the farmhouse together to find Mrs Peggie standing by the stove, stirring a pan.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Peggie,’ Alex said with a smile, her nose in the air. Her long stay afforded her a special status that meant she was welcome in the kitchen and she enjoyed lingering in here as Mrs Peggie cooked. ‘Heavens, that smells delicious. What are you cooking tonight?’

  ‘Mushroom soup, followed by beef stew.’

  ‘Mmmm, I can’t wait.’

  ‘It’ll be an hour or so yet. Would you like a cup of tea?’ the old lady asked, wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘I’ve got Dundee cake or some tablet.’

  ‘Thanks, that would be lovely, but why don’t I get it? You’re busy. Mr P., would you like one?’

  ‘Aye. That would be nice.’ He was settling himself at the small kitchen table, already in his socks and reaching for the Ileach newspaper.

  ‘How was the shoot?’ Mrs Peggie asked.

  ‘Very . . . productive,’ Alex said with a satisfied smile.

  ‘Good.’

  Alex wandered over to the small sink and refilled the kettle. ‘So, who’s in the green room tonight?’

  ‘A Mr Newson, from Sutherland. He’s visiting his daughter and son-in-law before the festive break. He comes every year and stays with us.’

  Alex switched the kettle on and leaned against the worktop. She liked the sound of him; a quiet sort with an accurate aim who’d sleep through the night – unlike the Spanish toddler. ‘Do you get many repeat visitors?’

  ‘Aye, a fair few. Mr Newson every December, and an elderly couple from Dorset come each Easter although his hips are so bad now, I don’t think he’ll manage the stairs for much longer, do you, Mr P.?’ Mrs Peggie asked, seemingly oblivious to her own advanced years.

  Mr Peggie made a sound that suggested agreement.

  ‘And then there’s our American, Mr Horowitz, who comes every summer to go wreck diving.’

  ‘Wreck diving?’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s a popular activity here. There’s that many ships have been wrecked off the coasts here. They’re treacherous waters. The tides in the Sound of Jura, on the other side from here – they race through at almost five knots and there are reefs just below the surface everywhere on this side. It’s no place for amateur sailors, that’s for sure.’

  ‘But to come all the way from America to go wreck diving here? Surely there are closer opportunities at home for him? The Bermuda triangle, for one!’

  ‘Ah, but it’s a personal mission. His grandfather –’ she frowned – ‘great-grandfather . . . ?’

  ‘Grandfather,’ said Mr P. without looking up from the paper.

  ‘His grandfather perished on one of them and he feels this is a way of honouring his memory, to try to salvage possessions off the ship. He’s been coming every year for sixteen years now.’

  ‘Heavens.’ Alex reached for the cups hanging from hooks on the dresser and placed a couple of teabags in the brown teapot.

  ‘He was that excited when they brought up the bell. Two years ago now, I think it was.’

  ‘Wow. That’s incredibly . . . dedicated of him.’

  ‘He’s a good man, is Mr Horowitz. There’s not many people these days as truly take the time to remember the sacrifices that were made in their name. Which reminds me, when are you going to make a start on those boxes, Mr P.?’

  Mr Peggie’s eyebrows appeared over the top of the paper.

  ‘You promised you would have it all done and sent to Jackie McKenna before Christmas. You said the bad weather was just the excuse to bring them down and get it done.’

  ‘And I will.’

  ‘You’ve been saying that for weeks.’

  ‘The weather wasn’t bad enough then. There was still too much to do with the walls.’

  ‘Well, they’re forecasting a foot of snow in the next few days. Seems like the perfect time, if you ask me.’

  ‘Yes, pet.’

  Mrs Peggie huffed, perfectly aware that she was being fobbed off. She looked over at Alex who was watching it all with a patient smile. ‘Mr P.’s father was the local sergeant and I’m afraid it was up to him to identify the bodies that washed ashore after a wrecking.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Alex frowned. ‘How awful.’

  ‘Aye, it must have been, not that he ever talked about it. The first Mr P. knew about any of it was after his father’s death – he found boxes of letters, photographs, logbooks up in the roof. Heartbreaking stuff it was. His father had kept the letters from mothers, widows, all desperate trying to locate or identify their husbands. From the notes he made on them, it seems like he wrote back to them all too.’

  ‘What a noble thing to do.’

  Mrs Peggie shrugged. ‘The only decent thing, if you ask me. War is hard enough to live through without not having a body to bury at the end of it.’

  ‘You must be very proud of your father, Mr P. It sounds like he helped a lot of people.’

  ‘Aye,’ came the voice from behind the paper.

  ‘He keeps promising to donate everything to the museum. They’re desperate to add it to their collections,’ Mrs Peggie said in a louder voice, just in case her husband should be tuning her out.

  Alex swirled the brew with a teaspoon before replacing the lid and beginning to pour. ‘Which museum’s that?’

  ‘The Museum of Islay Life in Port Charlotte. You should get up there to it. Wonderful displays of times past.’

  ‘I’ll make sure I do.’

  ‘It’s fascinating seeing everything as it was.’

  ‘Has much changed?’ Alex asked, handing out their cups of tea.

  ‘Only the number of cars, really. And people and horses in the fields instead of tractors.’ Mrs Peggie stopped from her stirring and sat down at the kitchen table for a moment, resting her slippered feet up on a low, tapestried footstool. ‘Oof.’

  ‘I imagine there’s some information on the distilleries?’ Alex asked, wrapping her hands around her cup and leaning against the worktop.

  ‘Aye, lots. They’ve not changed much either. Kentallen sits on the site of an old farm so you can see the old piggeries and sheep pens.’

  ‘Ah, I did wonder. I thought a lot of the buildings seemed agricultural. Lochlan Farquhar’s office is particularly . . . basic.’

  ‘It was a stables, if I’m right?’ Mrs Peggie mused to her husband.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Mr P.’s great-grandfather sold the land to the Farquhars before the Great War.’

  ‘Oh wow,’ Alex smiled. ‘So your families go a long way back.’

  ‘All the families round here are intertwined with the Farquhars. Mr P.’s farm supplies barley and peat to the distillery and they sell back to us the grist for the cattle. And my own mother and aunt worked at the big house for the family. My mother was in the kitchens and her sister Morag was one of the housemaids.’

  ‘But not you?’

  ‘I wasnae even born by then, lassie,’ Mrs Peggie exclaimed in mock outrage, ‘although even if I had been, circumstances had changed – the wars saw to that. No, within months of war breaking out, almost all the men had gone to fight and the women had to work the fields. The only staff left was Aunt Morag who became the housekeeper and her husband who did the gardens and driving, at least until he was sent to fight too in the final wave of conscription. By the time I was born, knocking on fifteen years later, things were very different; the distillery was barely getting by and the house was still running on a skeleton staff. I expect I could have found work there once I was old enough – poor Aunt Morag had died in the Spanish flu epidemic – but Mr P. and I were married at eighteen and we had this place to run.’

>   ‘And here you are, all these years later, still running it. Don’t you ever think about retiring?’

  ‘Farmers don’t retire,’ Mr Peggie said. ‘They die.’

  Mrs Peggie rolled her eyes and pushed the palm of her hand flat on the table to get back up on her feet. ‘Retire? Die?’ she scoffed. ‘The chance would be a fine thing. I’ve no time for either.’

  Chapter Ten

  Islay, Monday 11 December 2017

  The mug of coffee was steaming in her hand when the office door opened.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said, holding it out.

  Lochlan, covered in mud splatters from his run, sighed as Rona treacherously left his side to nose her hand. ‘Give me strength,’ he muttered.

  ‘Hi, sweetie,’ Alex said under her breath, ruffling the dog’s soft ears as it looked up at her with gentle chocolatey eyes. ‘You’re a poppet, aren’t you?’

  Shutting the door with his foot, he walked in and took the mug from her. ‘You don’t waste any time,’ he grumbled.

  ‘On the contrary, we’ve already wasted far too much,’ she said, walking over to the fire to warm herself. The office was still chilly from the heating being off all weekend. ‘How was your run?’

  ‘Fine,’ he replied to her back, as suspiciously as if she’d just asked him for his PIN number.

  ‘Do you do it every day?’

  ‘As long as the weather allows.’

  A quizzical expression furrowed her brow. ‘Tell me, how do you get your car down here?’

  ‘A couple of the groundsmen bring it down for me,’ he said distractedly. ‘Look, is this what it’s going to be? You bombarding me with inane questions?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware it was a bombardment,’ she shrugged. ‘Just being friendly.’

  ‘And where did that thing come from?’ he demanded, pointing at the hessian-covered wing chair she had put by the fire. She had found it in one of the farm’s outbuildings when she had parked Mr Peggie’s Landy after the shoot at the weekend – a long-forgotten upholstery project of their daughter’s that was still, after twenty or so years, awaiting a new cover.