As I step into the kitchen, a wall of cold hits me. The place is freezing. Why, oh why did I forget to ask someone, anyone, to turn on the heating? Now it’ll be hours before the temperature goes above zero. I go through the post quickly and one letter jumps out to me. Punches me in the face, more like. It’s from my mother. Perth is an hour away but might as well be on another planet, because my mother never phones and visits barely once a year: she keeps in touch with me with letters, proper letters, on creamy paper with her name embossed in a corner. Lady Fiona Ramsay. Just seeing it written down knots up my stomach – this is the effect my mother has on my brother and me, and has had since we were children.
Torcuil, (no wasting time with Dears, then)
My friend Helena has been in touch. She said the last time she was at the stables she noticed that the grounds are getting wilder and wilder. I hope you realise how distressing this is for your sister and me. We trusted you to look after the estate, and you’re simply not doing that. Between you and Angus things are just going to pot – this is her being informal – I implore you, for my sake and your sister’s and yours – I can just hear her stressing that word the way she does, like she’s speaking to a halfwit – get it sorted.
I sigh in frustration.
She trusts me to look after the estate with no money to hire people to do it and no time to do it myself. My brother Angus is away playing his violin all over the world and his wife’s health is getting worse every day, so they can’t help. It’s just me, trying to keep Ramsay Hall from crumbling.
This letter will be kindling for the fire – and I’m vaguely angry at myself for still letting my mother make me feel inadequate, like a child, at thirty-six years of age; for always, always letting her get to me.
I can’t deal with this right now anyway. I have stuff to do. A lot to do, I consider as I plug in the kettle and unwrap my rather sad takeaway for one. I have to mark a million essays before I go back to Edinburgh, and I have to find a housekeeper who actually stays and works instead of going off to dance the marimba with a retired postman, bless her.
But although my mother is horrible – that’s not an opinion really, more a fact – she’s right about Ramsay Hall needing to be looked after. Gravity seems to be stronger around it. It looks as though it’s endlessly falling to pieces, even if we seem to be doing repairs day in and day out. Suddenly I’m exhausted and not hungry any more. I’m fed up, sitting in the cold eating even colder noodles.
I leave my dinner unfinished and go straight to bed, trying to forget everything and to manage some sleep. The night seems so wide and windy, so lonely. I close the curtains to the world, I shiver my way under the duvet and, finally, I close my eyes.
A word comes back to me: Margherita. The name of the dark-eyed woman. Her eyes looked a bit like Stoirin’s eyes, my horse – huge and with impossibly long eyelashes. Such a beautiful name. It must be Italian for Margaret . . .
I’m sinking into sleep, and then I feel my hair stand on end and my skin ripple with static. Here we go, I think, and sure enough, something thumps my bed gently: once, twice. I know it’s not the cats.
“Yes, I’m back!” I whisper to the darkness around me. All that’s left at Ramsay Hall are cats, horses and restless spirits. And me.
9
Somewhere to be
Margherita
And so there we were, on a clear, chilly morning in Scotland. It was like waking up in a different world. I was exhausted from the sleepless night, but my mum’s espresso – so thick that you could have cut it with a knife – managed to wake me.
As we walked through the streets of Glen Avich for an exploratory wander, it still felt surreal. The village looked so different from everything I knew, with its whitewashed cottages and the pine-covered hills surrounding it like a crown. The grass seemed to shine from the inside, and the sky took my breath away with its galloping grey-purple clouds. The air was so thin, so pure and clean it made me feel like I was breathing for the first time in aeons.
Leo, all wrapped up in a hoodie and with Pingu in tow, was holding Lara’s hand. He was a bit unsure of the new place and clung to us. Lara, on the other hand, had a spring in her step after a rare night of unbroken sleep. My heart gladdened when, at breakfast, I’d seen her helping herself to a second jam croissant, light and buttery like only my mum could make. Her cheeks were pink in the chilly air, and she looked cute in leggings and the bright-red wellies Nonna had lent her. We just weren’t equipped for the Scottish summer, but later that day we planned to visit the outdoors shop (aptly called the Welly) to stock up on the right clothes and footwear for rainy days.
“Let’s go to La Piazza and say hi to Michael,” Lara suggested.
“Good plan,” my mum said, taking Lara by the arm. I watched them walk on, Mum and Lara and Leo, and I thought they fit so well together, like three pieces of a jigsaw. Funny, how Leo and Lara were both quite unconcerned to be so far from their dad, for now at least. They were so used to it being the three of us, used to their father being away both in body and spirit, that they didn’t feel there was anything out of place in that picture.
A surge of sorrow hit me. What kind of family were we? A family of three? Maybe Ash had been right in insinuating I left him out. And still, it was his decision to work all hours and play golf the rest of the time, I reminded myself. It was his decision not to spend time with us. But recognising his faults didn’t make me feel better, didn’t make me feel like I was in the right. The blame game had no winners. I tried to shake myself out of those gloomy thoughts, but there was so much going on in my head.
“Here we are,” said my mum, pushing the door of her coffee shop proudly, making the wind chimes tinkle. I’d been so lost in thought I hadn’t even noticed we’d passed the tiny hairdresser’s, Enchant, then Peggy’s shop – the local emporium – and arrived at the door of La Piazza. A delicious scent hit my nostrils as we walked in. It was only the second time I had seen my mum’s and Michael’s coffee shop, but when we first visited it was still a work in progress. They’d sent me pictures of the building when they bought it – it was solid and well kept but completely anonymous. Apparently it had been used as a tailor’s shop for many years, but its previous owners now lived down in England and never visited, so they’d decided to sell. Mum and Michael had refurbished it completely, turning an empty shell into a warm, welcoming haven. They painted it bright white both inside and outside, and mounted a wooden sign over the door with La Piazza written in blue lettering. They ripped up the old flooring and covered everything in light wood; and brightly coloured photographs of wildlife and landscapes around the village, taken by a local photographer, decorated the walls. The bread and cakes they sold were beautifully displayed, and on the counter stood glass-covered plates of homemade goodies. The two fireplaces gave a lovely warmth and glow, and there was a corner with a soft, colourful rug and a box full of toys and books, where children could play while their parents drank their coffees. As a final touch, there were fairy lights – my mum’s trademark – everywhere, hanging over the fireplace and the walls, and they made the place look enchanted. They had chosen artfully mismatched vintage china and flowery tablecloths – no two tables were the same. I could see that everything had been picked carefully and with love. My mum had a natural gift at turning everything she touched into something beautiful, and a great eye for colours and patterns. My dad always said I was like her in that way, that it was an Italian thing to have an instinct for beauty, but I felt that if I did have a gift I hadn’t really used it in the last few years. As I looked around at what my mum and Michael had done, as I took in the fruits of their labour and commitment, I felt a deep, deep desire to see things blooming from my fingers again, to create and make and shape. To have something I felt truly mine.
“Hello, welcome!” boomed Michael from behind the counter. “So, what do you think?” He echoed my mum’s words when she’d showed us our rooms. I was moved by how eager they were to impress us, to show us the o
utcome of all their hard work.
“I think it’s wonderful.” And I meant it.
“Can I have a chocolate muffin?” asked Leo. There was a big tray of muffins covered by a glass dome that was impossible to miss.
“Sorry, my son is right down to business!” I laughed.
“Absolutely. Aisling, a muffin for the gentleman. In the VIP area, please,” Michael said solemnly, gesturing towards the corner with the toy boxes and squishy sofas.
Aisling played his game. “Master Ward,” she said in a rolling Irish accent that surprised me, placing a chocolate muffin on a plate in the children’s area. She was a stunning woman, with long black hair and moss-coloured eyes. She wouldn’t have looked out of place in a fashion magazine.
We sat at a table near the window as Leo played and ate his muffin. Lara and Aisling were chatting behind the counter. Michael brought us each a cappuccino and two generous slices of cherry and almond tart. I could almost see the calories settling around my hips, but I could never say no to cake, not when it looked so lush anyway.
“I’m so glad to have you here.” My mum smiled. She hadn’t stopped smiling since the night before, it seemed.
“Me too. I just wish it were under different circumstances,” I said wearily. “I’m so confused right now, I can’t untangle my thoughts.”
“Try and put Ash out of your mind for a few days. I know it’s easier said than done, but it’s way too early to be making decisions about your marriage anyway. You’ve only been apart for six months.”
“I’ll try.” I looked into my lap. A frightening thought flashed through my mind: that a decision had already been made, that I was just failing to see it.
Failing being the operative word.
Right at that moment the door opened, the clear sound of the wind chimes above it filled the air, and a red-haired young woman with a laptop under her arm came in. There was something about her, something in her demeanour – maybe her vivacity, her spirit – that I imagined would make people do a double-take: it certainly made me. She was wrapped in a long cardigan and wore a woollen miniskirt, and she was small and slight.
“Hi, everyone! Do you mind if I stop here to do some work? My house is full of various in-laws up from Edinburgh, including Alex’s five nephews. Five. I can’t hear myself thinking! Can I have the first of half a dozen cappuccinos?” she said, piling her stuff on the table beside ours. She had a soft Scottish accent, the kind that sounds like a rippling stream.
“Coming up,” said Aisling.
“That is Inary Monteith,” my mum whispered. “Remember the book I left with you when I came down to London, the one that mentions La Piazza in the acknowledgments? She wrote it.”
“Oh, yes, The Choice! I loved that book, I really did. Wow, a real-life author! I bet Lara would love to meet her . . . but she seems busy now.”
“Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of chances. She comes here a lot to work,” my mum said conspiratorially. “She says she likes the peace and quiet.”
“Okay. Mum, look what I brought.” I slipped Nonna Ghita’s notebook out of my handbag. “I thought we could work from it a bit while I’m here.”
“Oh! I haven’t seen this in years!” she said, taking the little notebook reverently from my hands and opening it. The pages were yellowed, and there were little stains on them from many baking sessions. “Oooh . . . baci di dama, torta di Nonna Rosa, oh, you loved that one for your breakfast! Amaretti . . . torcetti . . . I haven’t made these in ages!” The names of those delicacies evoked memories of beautiful smells and tastes, and happy times in the kitchen with my own nonna as I was growing up.
“Maybe we can offer some Piedmontese specialities here in the coffee shop. I’m sure we can try to stretch the local taste buds a little.”
“Oh, yes. You’d be surprised how bold the local old ladies can be. I’m weaning them off scones and onto almond croissants!” she laughed.
“There’s something else,” I said as I slipped the notebook back into my handbag. “I was thinking. I’d like to find a job for the summer. Part-time only, of course, having the children . . .”
“You can work for us, Margherita.”
“Oh, I see, having us come and stay was all a plot to get me up to bake for you!” I laughed.
“Absolutely. I’m glad you twigged!”
“You are very kind, and I will help out, but you don’t need another person, you know that. You’d just be doing me a favour.”
“Well, what’s wrong with doing your own daughter a favour?” She shrugged.
“Thank you, but after the summer . . .” I began, and then I hesitated. After the summer was uncharted territory. I had no idea what was going to happen. “Whatever happens with Ash and me, I want to go back to work. My real job, what I trained for. Work as a chef.” Every time I said that word aloud I got a rush of desire for a busy kitchen, the scents of yummy things cooking, the buzz and challenge of it all.
“That’s a good plan. I never told you, but I could guess you missed your work. You used to enjoy it so much.”
“I did. I’m glad I didn’t work these last few years, I think it was the right decision and I don’t regret it for a moment, but things have changed now. When I see what you did here . . .” – I looked around at all my mum’s and Michael’s hard work – “. . . it makes me feel like I have so much more to give.”
“You do. And you should. I can look after Leo.” My mum has always been so supportive of me and, once again, she wasn’t letting me down. I felt very lucky.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Look at him, he’s no trouble,” my mum said, her gaze moving to little Leo over in the play area. He was building a Duplo castle with Lara’s help, too busy to take any notice of us. “It would also give me a chance to spend more time with him. I’ve seen him so rarely for a year . . . This was my only qualm about moving so far away, you know. Anyway, you are here now. At least for a bit.”
“Thanks Mum. If you’re sure . . . You see, this could be a good chance to dip my toes in the water and get a few hours somewhere, just to start with. Tourists flock up in the summer, don’t they? I’m sure there are a few businesses needing a hand. Like guest houses, or something. I mean, I would still help here, of course, and it would just be for a few hours a week—”
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help hearing your conversation . . .” said a voice beside us. It was Inary.
“That’s what you come here for, don’t you, Inary? Looking for stories,” my mum laughed, and the red-haired girl joined in the laughter.
“You know me too well. Anyway, I heard what you were saying about a summer job . . . I think I might be able to help. You know my cousin Torcuil, up at Ramsay Hall?”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“He needs someone to help look after the house. Well, not the whole house, just the living quarters.”
“Like a housekeeper?” I said. I was looking for something more focused on cooking, but I was open to suggestions.
“Yes, sort of. Mrs Gordon gave her resignation, you know, Agnes Gordon?” Inary said towards my mum. “She’s now engaged to Malchie McNally, the former postman.”
“Oh, yes. I know who you mean.”
“Well, they’re moving down south to dedicate themselves to ballroom dancing.” Inary’s lips turned up mischievously, and my mum laughed.
“Mrs Gordon, a closet dancer? And Malchie? Who would have guessed!”
“Oh, yes. Apparently, they’re doing what they call Silver Tournaments, for dancing OAPs.”
“Well, good on them. I hope I’m dancing when I’m their age!” my mum laughed.
“So yes, Torcuil has nobody to help, and you know how he’s away in Edinburgh all week and he only comes home at weekends. It’s been hard going for him. If you’re interested, maybe I could pass on your phone number to him, Margherita? I’d give you his, but he never answers his mobile. He loses it a lot. Once he left his BlackBerry in the freezer.”
&
nbsp; “Frozen blackberries make great milkshakes. Sorry, I had to say it.” I giggled at my own silly joke. “But yes, why not? It wouldn’t be exactly what I was looking for, but it would be a start . . .” I hunted in my handbag for a pen and scribbled my number on a napkin.
“Perfect, she said, slipping the napkin into her canvas bag. “Well, I’m done eavesdropping; I’ll get back to work.”
“Work? Making up stories is not a real job,” Michael chipped in.
“Ha ha.” Inary smiled.
“Ignore him, Inary,” my mum said. “Well, the universe is clearly giving you a sign, Margherita.”
I wanted to believe it.
“Anyway, we must be off. We’re going to the Welly to get some warm stuff for these two!”
“Say hi to my brother for me,” Inary said.
“Oh, does your brother work there?”
“Yes, he owns the shop. Everybody is related here.” She shrugged. “He’s the one who took those pictures,” she said, gesturing at the lovely framed photographs on the wall. “And Aisling, there, is his partner.”
“For my sins,” said Aisling, but there was a softness in her eyes that told me she was happy.
We rose to go; my mum leaned over the counter and placed a kiss on Michael’s cheek. With a flurry of goodbyes we spilled out onto the street, and I was left wondering what it must feel like to be in the kind of relationship where you kiss them goodbye even if you are only walking down the road.
“Lara,” I said as soon as we were out of earshot. “See that girl who came in, Inary? She’s an author.”
Lara’s face lit up. “A real author?”
“Yes! You can show her your stuff,” I said.
She blushed. “I don’t know . . .”
“Why not? Your stories are great, Lara.”
Set Me Free Page 8
