by Valpy, Fiona
As if sensing his master’s fractious mood, Braan pressed his wet nose against Flora’s hand and she scratched behind the black velvet of his ears to reassure him. ‘Honestly, Dad, don’t worry,’ she called back. ‘I’m glad to be helping out.’
Settling his tweed deerstalker back on to his head, her father shot her a fond look as he called Braan to his side. ‘You’re a good lass, Flora,’ he said softly. ‘I just hope they all appreciate that, too.’
Ardtuath House was silent when Flora walked up the drive. The building had a handsome, pleasingly symmetrical façade, the original two-storey hunting lodge flanked by twin towers in the Scottish Baronial style that had been added a century ago by Sir Charles’s forebears. Automatically, she walked round to the back and retrieved the iron key from its hiding place behind the stone trough by the door, letting herself in. The cavernous kitchen was stuffy with the heat from the range, which muttered away quietly to itself, and she pushed open a window to let in the fresh air. On the broad table in the centre of the room sat a bowl covered with a clean dishcloth, and a note in Lady Helen’s flowing hand written on a sheet of cream notepaper.
Flora, dear, thank you for helping.
There’s a salmon in the larder, which I’ve already poached. It just needs the skin taking off and some decoration on the platter (cucumber in larder, too, for this purpose).
You’ll find a haunch of venison there, for roasting. Please put it in the oven about five o’clock with some juniper berries and a little of the claret that you’ll find in the dining room. There are potatoes and carrots in the store room to accompany it.
Mrs McTaggart has made pastry (in bowl) for a rhubarb pie, if you wouldn’t mind preparing that, too.
Thank you again for all your help.
H. M-G.
Tying her apron, Flora set to work, fetching the ingredients and utensils she’d need to prepare the meat first, a fine haunch from a stag that her father and Sir Charles had shot a couple of weeks ago, with Ruaridh along, as usual, to lead the garron. Just the other day at Keeper’s Cottage, she’d made a stew from the tougher offcuts that her father had brought home, once the carcass had hung in the game store. The finer cuts were always saved for the house, of course. The game from the estate made a big difference to their rations, although her father always shared their allocation with others in the community who needed a little extra.
Setting the haunch in a large roasting dish, Flora added a handful of juniper berries and some dried mountain thyme. Then she went along the corridor and through the green baize-covered door that led to the front of the house. The air there was perfumed with the smell of the beeswax used to polish the rich mahogany of the furniture, overlaid with a faint scent of wood smoke. The dining room had been prepared for the evening, the table draped with a white damask cloth and set with silver cutlery and candlesticks. An arrangement of roses and trailing swathes of ivy from the walled garden formed a graceful centrepiece – surely Lady Helen’s work. On the sideboard stood several bottles of red wine. Flora uncorked one, carefully pouring most of the contents into a crystal decanter, and then took the remainder back through to the kitchen to pour over the meat before letting it rest in its marinade back in the larder again.
Once she’d peeled the vegetables and prepared the fruit for the pie, Flora set the kettle on the range and made herself a cup of tea before rolling out the pastry. She worked steadily and methodically with the capable neatness of one well used to such cooking, humming to herself to dispel the heavy silence that seemed to hang suspended within the walls of the empty house.
Just before six o’clock, as she was checking the roasting meat, she heard the sound of cars drawing up in front of the house and the voices of the returning fishing party. A minute later, Lady Helen hurried into the kitchen, pulling her broad-brimmed hat from her head and smoothing her hair into place.
‘Flora, dear, it all smells wonderful! You are a gem, stepping in like this. My husband was adamant that I should accompany them today so I couldn’t have managed without you. What can I do to help?’
‘Nothing at all, Lady Helen. I hope you had a good day’s fishing? I have everything in hand, so you have time to go and dress for dinner.’
Sir Charles’s voice boomed down the corridor, calling his wife back to the other side of the green baize door, and she gave Flora an apologetic smile before hurrying away.
A moment later, the kitchen door was flung open and Alec strode in, dressed in his tweeds and still wearing his tall fishing boots. Without saying a word, he gathered Flora in his arms and kissed her. She breathed in the scent of the hills and the river from his jacket.
‘My darling, I’m absolutely furious with my father over this. He had no right to demand that you do the cooking for tonight. They should have asked Mrs McTaggart to stay. Or paid someone else to come in.’
‘Och, I don’t mind a bit. I’ve enjoyed preparing the meal and it means I get to see you too.’
He gazed at her fondly and gently wiped a smudge of flour from her cheek with his thumb. ‘Let me do something to help? Washing up? I’m a dab hand at that, though I’m afraid my cooking skills leave much to be desired.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s all done. Honestly, Alec, I’m fine. You’d better go and get changed. Dinner will be ready in an hour and you don’t want to keep your guests waiting.’
Reluctantly, he allowed her to shoo him out once he’d stolen another kiss from her, and she smiled as she listened to his footsteps retreating down the corridor to the boot room. Then she busied herself with the final preparations, setting plates and gravy boats to warm and sharpening the knife ready to carve the venison.
When Lady Helen reappeared in the kitchen to let Flora know that the guests were seated in the dining room, she was transformed. Her dark golden hair, shot through with those few strands of silver, was drawn back from her face with a pair of diamond clasps, highlighting the delicate structure of her cheekbones. Her fishing tweeds had been replaced with an evening gown the colour of the sea, embellished with crystal beading that sparkled softly, reminding Flora of moonlight on water.
But Flora’s eye was drawn to a brooch pinned to the dress. It was far less opulent than the rest of the costume, a simple silver depiction of an anchor surmounted by a crown, set in a wreath of acanthus leaves.
Lady Helen noticed Flora looking at it. ‘It’s rather pretty, isn’t it? It’s a Royal Navy sweetheart brooch, given by my father to my mother. He served in the Great War. I know it doesn’t quite go with the rest of my get-up, but it’s far more precious to me than these diamonds.’ She gestured to the hair clasps, the rings on her fingers sparkling as their facets caught a ray of evening sunlight that glanced through the window behind her.
She reached for the heavy serving plate on which Flora had arranged the salmon, decorated with thin slices of cucumber to look like fish scales. But as she tried to lift it, she winced with pain.
‘Are you all right?’ Flora asked.
‘Silly me – I sprained my wrist a few days ago and it still doesn’t seem to be working properly.’ Lady Helen gently probed her arm with her fingertips. Flora noticed that it was swollen, and the delicate skin on the underside was discoloured with an angry-looking purple bruise.
‘Shouldn’t that be strapped up?’ Flora asked. She’d done some first-aid training as part of her ambulance driving course and was eager to try out some of her newly acquired skills. So far she’d only been able to practise on Mairi and Bridie, but here was what looked like a bona fide injury.
‘It’ll be fine, Flora dear, really, I don’t want to make a fuss.’ Lady Helen waved her away.
‘Well, at least let me carry that through,’ Flora said, picking up the platter. ‘You need to rest that wrist to let it heal. And you don’t want to risk spilling anything on your gown.’
In the dining room, the conversation was already animated, the guests having whetted their appetites with generous drams of whisky and glasses of sherry in the
drawing room. A quick glance around the table told Flora that Diana wasn’t there, although Mrs Kingsley-Scott was holding forth about the difficulties of planning a wedding at the family estate in the Borders with the war on.
The talk among the men was of the day’s fishing, with speculation as to the weight of a salmon landed by Sir Charles and tales of other fish caught on other rivers.
One of the men boomed across the table, ‘That ghillie of yours isn’t exactly a talkative chap, eh, Charlie? Bit of an old curmudgeon, what? But he knows his stuff, I’ll give him that.’
Lady Helen shot Flora an apologetic smile before quietly saying, ‘Set it on the sideboard, dear. I’ll get Alec to help me serve.’
He had already pushed his chair back from the table and was quickly at her side, taking the heavy platter from her. ‘You should be seated next to me, not having to wait on us,’ he muttered.
She smiled at him in gratitude, but shook her head and hurried away, preferring the peace and quiet of the kitchen, thankful for the green baize door which deadened the racket from the dining room.
She took the meat from the oven, setting it to rest on a warmed platter, then began to make the gravy with the juices in the pan.
It was bubbling nicely, and she was just draining the vegetables and putting them in their dishes when Alec appeared, carrying a pile of fish plates. He set them on the table and put his arms around her, burying his face in her hair.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked, reaching to fill the gravy boats.
‘They loved the salmon. Absolutely delicious. Here, let me carry the venison through – save you the ordeal of having to listen to their inanities.’
‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t bother me. I’ll bring the rest,’ she said, setting things on to a tray.
‘Alec!’ Sir Charles’s voice was sharp and harsh, making Flora jump so that she almost spilled the gravy. She glanced over her shoulder to see him standing in the doorway. ‘Get back into the dining room at once. It’s extremely rude of you to neglect our guests.’
‘But Father, Flora can’t manage everything on her own.’
‘Nonsense. The girl’s perfectly capable of serving a meal. What she doesn’t need is you hindering her in her duties.’ He stood to one side and gestured for Alec to leave the kitchen, turning abruptly and following on his son’s heels.
Flora’s cheeks burned with a mixture of the heat from the stove and the humiliation of the laird’s words. But she picked up her tray and walked through the baize door with her head held high, setting the dishes on the dining table and shooting Alec a reassuring smile as she did so. He was sitting back in his place between two of the female guests, looking utterly miserable as they chattered across him about Mr Churchill, the new prime minister, and his wife, who wore the most beautifully tailored coats and such very elegant hats.
Lady Helen caught her wrist as she passed. ‘Flora, dear, go home now. You’ve done more than enough. I’ll manage the rest.’ She spoke discreetly, her words soft beneath the guffaws and shrieks of laughter as Sir Charles regaled the table with another of his fishing anecdotes. From her beaded reticule, she slipped a small brown envelope into the pocket of Flora’s apron. ‘Here, for all your hard work today.’
Flora shook her head, trying to hand the envelope back, but Lady Helen held a finger to her lips, gently shooing her away.
‘Thank you,’ Flora said, keeping her voice low, too, understanding that this gesture was not something that would have had Sir Charles’s approval. It was intended as an act of kindness, but at the same time it made her feel even more wretched about the role she’d been forced to play in the evening’s proceedings. ‘The pie’s in the warming oven and there’s a jug of cream in the larder to go with it.’
With a nod and a gentle pat on her hand, Lady Helen dismissed her and she hurried back to the kitchen. Before she left, Flora scraped and washed up the fish plates and cutlery. The rest would have to wait for Mrs McTaggart, who’d be coming in the next morning to make the breakfast, but she left everything as neat as she could.
She fished the brown envelope out of her pocket and then folded the sheet of cream writing paper containing Lady Helen’s instructions around it. With a stub of pencil she wrote, Thank you, but I was pleased to help. She tucked it under the cake slice that she’d set on the table for cutting the pie, so that Lady Helen would be the one to find it.
Carrying her apron, Flora quietly closed the back door behind her and walked down the drive to where the path led into the pines towards Keeper’s Cottage. A pair of tawny owls called softly to one another in the trees. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the moonlight and she took several deep, grateful breaths of the night air. At the turning, she paused for a moment, letting the slight breeze cool her face and neck, and glanced back towards the house. Behind the blacked-out windows, she could just make out a glint of candlelight, and another gust of uproarious laughter silenced the quiet conversation of the night birds for a moment. Then she turned her back on Ardtuath House and her face towards Keeper’s Cottage, where she felt she belonged.
Lexie, 1978
Daisy’s tucked up in her cot by the time Davy arrives for supper and, for a change, the sitting room in Keeper’s Cottage feels almost like the sort of place two adults could have a civilised evening together over a glass of wine. I’ve packed away the toys and put the picture books on a shelf, and I’ve changed out of my jeans and baggy jumper, digging a skirt out of the wardrobe and a long-sleeved T-shirt out of a drawer.
As I prepare a bowl of garlic mayonnaise to accompany the squatties, which I’ve cooked and heaped on to one of Mum’s dishes, I try again to remember where Davy fits into the life of Aultbea. I have a jumble of indistinct memories that I stored away in a corner of my mind when I left for London, like the jumble of belongings stashed up in the attic. Something tugs insistently on a strand of those memories, trying to untangle itself. Even after our outing on the boat, I’ve still not been quite able to place him. But there’s been a familiarity in his eyes and an assumption of friendship in his manner from the first day he appeared on my doorstep, dispatched there by Bridie.
I hear the door of his Land Rover slam and then there’s a snatch of his habitual whistling as he comes up the path to the door, which I open before he has a chance to knock.
He hands me a mandolin-shaped bottle of Mateus Rosé. ‘The finest the shop has to offer,’ he says with a grin.
He settles himself in one of the armchairs and crosses his long legs. ‘This is nice,’ he says, looking around at the room. ‘It still feels like your mum’s, but Daisy and you have made your mark as well. Last time I was here, Flora was sitting where you are now, pouring me a cup of tea.’
‘It was good of you to visit her.’
‘Ach, I did no more than any of the others. Bridie was here the most, of course. If she spotted a job that needed doing she’d let me know and I’d come and fix it for Flora. She was a lovely woman, your mum. I always felt no matter how much I did I could never repay her kindness to me and my brother when we washed up here in the war.’
Those memories shift and stir, becoming clearer as the mud that clouds my mind begins to settle a little. ‘You were evacuees?’ I ask.
Davy nods. ‘Stuart and I were sent with about thirty other kids from Clydeside. We were billeted with a couple in the village. When the war ended we went home.’
‘How old were you?’ I ask.
‘I was just four when we were sent here . . . nine by the time the war ended. My brother was a few years older, though. He always took care of me.’
He leans forward and takes the photo of Mum from the mantelpiece. ‘This is a great picture of her. That’s how she looked when I first saw her, not that she ever changed much. And she died far too young.’
I take a sip of my wine. ‘She’d have been sixty this year.’
He sets the picture back above the fireplace and raises his glass to it. ‘Here’s to her, then. Flora Gordon: much loved and much misse
d.’
At his words, a sudden surge of grief threatens to overwhelm me. In order to cover up the sudden dampness in my eyes, I pass him a bowl of Twiglets and change the subject. ‘Thanks for yesterday. It was great to get out on to the water. A magical day.’ The memory of the sunlight on the sea and the seals coming to listen to our song is still vivid in my mind.
‘It was good having the company. I’m glad we had the weather for it. It’s not often we get a day as calm as that, even in the shelter of the loch.’
As I set the dish of squat lobsters on the kitchen table, next to the jug of white campion and dog roses that Daisy and I picked earlier, I steer the conversation back to Davy’s story, still trying to unravel that tangled skein of memory.
‘So when was it that you returned to Aultbea?’
‘I came back in the early sixties. You would have been about sixteen or so, I suppose. It was just about the time you were setting off to London. Everyone was talking about how you’d got a place at stage school. You were the toast of the community. Bridie and your mum couldn’t have been prouder of you.’
The strands of long-forgotten memories resurface at last. ‘Oh yes, I remember now. You moved into your house that year, I think.’ I dimly recall the gossip that heralded his arrival – something about his having inherited the house that he’d lived in during the war years. ‘Of course. It used to belong to the Carmichaels.’
He nods. ‘It felt like a homecoming to me, being back in Aultbea. And I was lucky to have a home to come to. Glasgow was a tough gig. Even though it was hard coming away from the city when we were so wee, being refugees turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me and Stuart.’
‘And where is Stuart now? Still in Glasgow?’
Davy’s eyes cloud over and he ducks his head. Then he says, ‘He died. He was stabbed in a fight after a football match.’
