The Inheritance

by Michael Phillips

  Coira MacNeill, as always, was the first to know, as if the news had been borne on North Sea winds even before David returned from Lerwick after his meeting with Jason MacNaughton.

  David had scarcely set foot back on the island before the whole village knew of Hardy Tulloch’s claim to Macgregor Tulloch’s inheritance.

  Everyone was careful to mention no word of it in David’s presence. Unsure which way the thing would go in the end, no one wanted to offend either of the present generation’s scions of the ancient Tulloch name. It was best to keep one’s own counsel. Even David’s customarily garrulous aunt managed, with no small difficulty, to hold her tongue.

  There was one, however, whose curiosity finally burst the bounds of reticence. David was taken completely off guard a week later when Coira MacNeill greeted him unexpectedly as he walked through the door of her bakery. She threw out the words of her question almost in the tone of challenge.

  “Weel, young David,” she said, “what are ye intendin’ tae do aboot Hardy noo that he’s likely tae be oor new laird?”

  “What are you talking about, Coira?” replied David. His signature laugh echoed through the small shop and out into the street. In truth, David was stunned not only that she knew of Hardy’s legal action, but that she apparently took it more seriously than he had upon hearing it from the younger MacNaughton. Coira may have been a gossip, but she usually knew one end of a walking stick from the other.

  “Ye canna be ignorant o’ the fact,” she shot back. “A’body’s talkin’ o’ naethin’ else.”

  “They’re not talking to me about it,” said David noncommittally.

  “Oh, aye! An’ they wudna, ye ken. Why wud anybody speak tae yersel’ o’t? They wud be feart they might offend ye.”

  “Offend me!” David laughed again, now with genuine incredulity as he took up the speech of his boyhood. “Ye ken as weel as the naist that sich a thing’s no aye likely, if no a’thegither impossible. Ye’ll nae offend me wi’ yer words, Coira MacNeill. Nor will Hardy Tulloch or onybody else. I dinna say I canna be offendet, but ’tis a sair difficult thing for a body tae du.”

  “Weel, yoong David, that’s as well as may be,” rejoined Coira, not to be outdone and ever eager to get the last word. “But whate’er’s been said o’ auld Macgregor an’ the wayward ways o’ his youth, aboot yersel’ there’s ne’er been a word—”

  “No man ever brought a word of waywardness against my uncle,” interrupted David in a tone of rebuke, returning again to the English of his education in order to enforce his words, “either in his youth or since.”

  “Oh, aye . . . no man perhaps. But a woman might.”

  “I know well enough that you and my aunt Rinda won’t let your grudge against him die.”

  “I was thinkin’ mair o’ Odara Innes hersel’.”

  “And I’ve never heard a word of it from her,” said David. “Nor do I think has anyone else. It’s only you and my aunt and others like you who have kept it alive after fifty years. I’ll grant you, Odara Innes may have been hurt—even treated badly for all I know. But there was never an accusation of anything untoward on my uncle’s part. He married the woman, after all.”

  “Oh, aye, that he did. But what became o’ the foreign cummer* is what I’m wantin’ tae ken. Where is she noo, yoong David? Ye ken yersel’ that naethin’ good came o’ her, an’ that her blood’s on his hands.”

  “Coira! That is a completely unfounded accusation. Not that I’m unaware of the evil whispers. But I thought you were of stiffer fiber than to believe such low tales. There’s never been a shred of evidence pointing to all that foolishness that he killed her and hid the body. Now, you were about to say something about me. What was it?”

  “Jist that ye’ve always been held in high respect on account o’ yer bein’ the chief,” replied Coira, momentarily settling the feathers of argument. But David’s rebuke made her all the more determined to get the better of him even if she had to get under a different part of his skin. “But whate’er’s been said o’ yer uncle, no word’s been spoken against yersel’. I’m thinkin’, though, that wi’ rumors in the wind stainin’ yer ain character, ye might nae take so kindly tae them that’s spreadin’ them. No that I wud do such a thing, mind ye. I’m jist sayin’ that ye might be mair offendet than ye think.”

  “What would I have to be offended about?” asked David seriously. “What rumors about me? I know of nothing blowing in the wind on my account.”

  “Naethin’ concernin’ yersel’,” said Coira. “But the reputation o’ yer grit-gran’father’s may not fare sae weel—on yer father’s side, ye ken, nor will ye fare sae weel when the ill news comes doon on yer ain head—yer grit-gran’dfather Tulloch . . . if he was a legitimate Tulloch.”

  “What are you implying, Coira?”

  “Oh, naethin’ mair nor what folks is sayin’, that he mayna hae been a true Tulloch—o’ the kind that can inherit I mean.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “On account o’ the man’s mither nae bein’ married tae the Auld Tulloch at all.”

  “That’s preposterous. There’s never been a word of such a thing against God-fearing old Ernest or Sally in a hundred years.”

  “Weel, there’s word o’ it noo.”

  “What word?”

  “Jist what I asked ye when ye came in,” replied Coira cryptically. “What ye intend tae du aboot Hardy’s claim?”

  “So that’s it, is it? Hardy’s behind this?” David laughed lightly, doing his best not to seem concerned. “What do you know about it, Coira?” he asked, more desirous of an answer than his casual tone let on.

  “Oh, naethin’ but what a’body kens. Jist that Hardy’s sayin’ he’s a closer relation to the auld blighter than yersel’ on account o’ yer grit-gran’father an’ his mither.”

  “It’s not necessary to disparage the dead by calling Uncle Macgregor an old blighter.”

  “Hae it yer own way, yoong David. Ye still haena answered my question—what ye intend tae do aboot Hardy.”

  “I intend to do nothing at all, and you can tell the other auld wives the same thing. If Hardy’s the heir, then the courts will decide, and we shall all make the best of it. If he is named laird, I will be the first to offer him my hand and my service.”

  “Tish tosh, yoong David—ye’ll du nae sich thing!”

  “Then you don’t know me as well as you think, Coira MacNeill, because that is precisely what I will do—and with an honest and sincere heart.”

  “But ye dinna think it’s the trowth?”

  “I will only say that I find it curious no one’s made anything until now of whatever is behind all this, nor have I heard a word of this rumor about my great-grandfather and grandmother that seems suddenly to have sprouted. So I intend to ignore it until the matter is decided. Now, Coira, I’ll have some oatcakes and butteries, if you’re not opposed to doing a little honest trade other than trafficking in rumors.”

  *Cummer, Scots—A contemptuous designation for a woman, young or old, sometimes a supposed witch.

  32

  Whales Fin Inn

  David left the shop in the direction of the harbor and the center of town. A minute later he walked through the door of the Whales Fin Inn. At this hour the pub was occupied only by a handful of older men enjoying their morning coffee or tea, or for the early risers among them, their elevenses, perhaps with a scone on the side.

  David walked into the kitchen where he found inn owner Keith Kerr and his wife, Evanna, busy preparing stew, soup, and haddock along with ingredients for a ploughman’s lunch. They always assessed the day’s weather before beginning food preparations. On this day a thick fog hung over the sea. Only about half the village’s fishermen had gone out. Their clientele on this day could well be double the usual eight or ten regulars who came in at midday.

  It was a well-established fact, and one of the island’s most rigidly guarded secrets, that the prices on the inn’s printed Bill of Fare and daily blackb
oard menu were outsider prices only. All island residents paid exactly half the printed amount. Knowledgeable women agreed that their prices were only marginally more than it would cost to make the Kerrs’ soups, stews, sandwiches, fish-and-chips, and ploughman’s lunches in their own kitchens. Notwithstanding that most of the potatoes, turnips, carrots, milk, beef, lamb, and of course fish were homegrown—raised and caught and purchased from the villagers—they wondered how Keith and Evanna could make sufficient profit to keep the place open. There were tourists and visitors from the mainland, but they hardly seemed numerous enough to make up the difference. Yet the islanders were enormously appreciative, the wives most of all. The unusual policy kept the Whales Fin Inn hopping nearly all year round.

  Drinks were not included in the liberal pricing scheme, which was both a blessing and a curse. It was widely accepted as fact that the home brew of the Whales Fin Inn was, as the faded sign in front attested, Shetland’s Best Beer. The secret recipe had passed through the generations since the time of Keith’s great-great-grandfather Donal Kerr, who began importing the brew to stimulate business and counter the effects of the new luxury hotel built on the island during his time. Having to pay the going rate for a pint kept the men from consuming as much as they might have liked. That was the blessing. Yet its allure was enough that to limit oneself was sufficient to send a man into the doldrums. Hence the curse.

  “Best of the morning to you, David!” said Keith. He stood at a wide counter chopping vegetables. Beside him Evanna was peeling potatoes with such a rapid motion that her hand was a mere blur.

  “Hello, Keith . . . Evanna,” said David. The tall chief found a spot on their sturdy wood worktable less cluttered with pans and plates than the rest, shoved a few things aside, and leapt onto it with his long legs dangling over the side.

  “You were my father’s best friend, Keith,” he said, turning toward the inn’s owner and lowering his voice. “If old Macgregor was like my grandfather, you’re more like a father to me than any man in the world. If I can’t trust you to speak as directly as my own daddy, there’s no man I can trust. So tell me straight—are folks in the village talking about me?”

  “They’ve always talked about you, laddie,” replied Kerr. “They’ve been talking about you since the day you were born and they knew you’d be chief after your daddy.”

  “But are they talking about me now . . . since Macgregor’s passing, I mean?”

  “More than ever, laddie,” said Keith, gathering up the vegetables from beneath his knife and sliding them into a pan. “There’s no one folks’d rather see the chieftainship and lairdship come together again on his head than yourself after however many generations it’s been since they was separated. The main thing they’re wondering is what they’re meant to call you now, chief or laird.”

  “The way I hear it, Keith,” said David with a sigh, “the one title may not be coming down on my head at all.”

  “You’ll be meaning Hardy, I’m thinking?”

  David nodded.

  “I wouldn’t worry about him, laddie. His great-grandmum was the youngest of the Auld Tulloch’s three, as everyone knows well enough, by his first wife, ye ken. And that was back in the day when lassies couldn’t inherit. He hasn’t hope of a brass farthing coming to him from that quarter. The inheritance is yours, no worry about that, and the chieftainship and lairdship both come to you along with it. Not that Hardy hasn’t been strutting about with his chest puffed out like he’s all at once the most important bloke in the Shetlands. Been bothering our Audney more than ever. But let him, I say, for pride goeth before a fall, as the Book says. Hardy’s as big a blowhard as ever walked through the doors of our pub. And when he takes that fall, I’ll be there thinking it serves the big lout right.”

  “Might not be a good idea to laugh in his face, Keith,” laughed David, though seriously. “I’ve seen him lay a man out on the ground for less. What about you, Evanna?” said David, turning to Keith’s wife. “What are the women saying?”

  “Oh, naethin’ more’n what Keith told ye,” she replied, turning to stir the soup in the pot on the large stove. Her tone betrayed nervousness.

  In truth, since news of Macgregor Tulloch’s death she had felt unusually awed by David. The fact that David was now chief and laird—at least would be unless Hardy’s claim turned out to be true—elevated the lad immeasurably in her estimation. Her superstitious Celtic blood could not help suddenly being more than a little afraid of him. She would have spoken freely in his hearing four months ago. Now she was reluctant to do so.

  “Have you heard talk among the women, Evanna?” asked David more pointedly.

  “’Tis naethin’ but foolish talk.”

  “What is the gist of it?”

  “Women are always more free wi’ their tongues,” she answered, still avoiding David’s probing eyes.

  “What are they saying?”

  “Ye should ask your aunt.”

  “I intend to. Right now I’m asking you.”

  Evanna was rescued from the awkward moment by the appearance of her daughter. Audney Kerr walked into the kitchen with a basket of eggs she had gathered, bringing the fresh air inside along with her smile.

  33

  Audney and Her Chief

  “I’ve eight fresh eggs for ye, Mum,” called Audney as she bounded through the back door of the inn’s kitchen. She stopped abruptly. “Oh, David,” she said, “I didna ken ye was there. Best o’ the mornin’ tae ye,” she added, giving his knee an affectionate slap with her free hand.

  “And to you, Audney,” replied David with a smile.

  If Audney Kerr, younger than David by two years, occasionally addressed her chief in what an outsider might have considered a forward, almost flirtatious manner, nothing could have been further from her intent.

  From before they could remember the close friendship of their fathers had thrust David Tulloch and Audney Kerr into the closest proximity. As children they had played together, gone to school together, bickered and laughed and argued together, and were as close as any brother and sister separated by two years. Both had younger siblings and thus also shared the common bond of being the oldest children of their families. Arna Tulloch had been a second mother to Audney, just as Evanna Kerr was to David.

  After David’s father went down in the terrible nor’easter that took the lives of several of the best men of Whales Reef, the prevailing view was that his widow was spoiling young David by keeping him from the sea. The rough and tumble life of a fisherman, notwithstanding its dangers, made men out of boys. Books and learning, then sending him off to university when he should have been earning his manhood on the deck of a fishing boat, was not for the likes of a strong-blooded Shetlander.

  The girls of the island cared nothing for the opinion of their fishermen fathers. They found David all the more attractive that he spoke kindly to them, was well-schooled in literature and poetry and the world of ideas, that he loved the natural world of plants and animals. He was as athletic as any other boy, twice as handsome, and possessed a great joyful laugh that could be heard halfway across the island. He was polite and fun. What girl wouldn’t be enchanted?

  Had David turned out a weakling, the islanders might have thought differently of him. But he grew into the tallest young man on the island, a good inch taller than his huge cousin Hardy. Though he certainly possessed nothing like Hardy’s girth, David was well-built, able-bodied, capable, and robust.

  When the boy-chief, succeeding his drowned father, reached manhood, his allure was yet more captivating. That David showed every girl equal consideration while giving none indication that would betray the loss of his heart, made him all the more irritating a rival to the island’s other boys. Every girl on Whales Reef, and not a few on the mainland, were smitten with young David Tulloch.

  When he first left for Oxford at seventeen, most of the young men who had been unsuccessfully vying with him for the affections of the village girls were happy to see him go. When
the ferry to Aberdeen sailed from Lerwick with David on it, every young man between fifteen and twenty-five on Whales Reef rejoiced.

  Most of the islanders had little doubt, if David returned at all, it would be but briefly, in all likelihood with a degree in his hand, a wife on his arm, and his future secured in the great South. Like many Scots before him, King James VI the most noteworthy, he was certain to be seduced by the charms, fascinations, and temptations of England and rarely cast his glance northward toward his homeland again.

  When David appeared the following summer, having added three more inches in height and probably two around his chest, there were some who did not even recognize him. The boy had grown into, if not altogether, certainly almost a man. The hearts of young women for miles swooned afresh, again to the annoyance of the village lads. But, they told themselves, he would soon be gone once more, perhaps this time for good.

  For one maiden in Whales Reef, however, David’s return from the university in the late spring following his first year proved life changing. That young lady was Audney Kerr.

  By necessities of schooling and the differences in their ages, during the years of their early adolescence the two childhood friends had not seen as much of each other as previously. David graduated and departed for England, leaving Audney behind as a gangly fifteen-year-old, somewhat long in the face, still the rambunctious youngster he had romped and ridden and explored the island with years before, and not yet displaying the signs of dawning womanhood.

  The year of David’s absence, however, wrought perhaps more changes on Audney than it did on the young squire. Overnight, it seemed, she had blossomed into a woman.

  When David made his first appearance at the Whales Fin Inn after his return and beheld the young woman setting down two frothing pints in front of his cousin Murdoc and his uncle Fergus, he wondered where Keith and Evanna had discovered such a winsome new pub maid. He approached the table and greeted his kinsmen. Then suddenly recognition dawned.