The Cottage

by Michael Phillips

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. The name has been so mysterious—just like your heather. The letter from the solicitor about all this came to me two weeks ago, addressed to Alonnah Tulloch Ford. I thought it was a mistake. Since then my only connection to the name was the man who died. I’ve thought of him as Mr. Tulloch. Now here I am talking to another Mr. Tulloch.”

  “There are many more besides, believe me,” chuckled David. “And your given name is Alonnah?”

  Loni nodded.

  “It’s a lovely name. I’ve never heard it before.”

  “Thank you,” said Loni with a smile. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Yes, that would be nice.”

  “Actually, I’m a little new to the whole tea thing,” she said, glancing about the kitchen with a helpless expression. “I think I’m starting to get the hang of it. But I would feel better if you made tea for us so that it turns out how you like it.”

  “I’m sure you would do fine, but I’m happy to do the honors if you like.”

  “Yes, please.”

  David went to the counter, picked up the water cooker, emptied its contents into the sink, filled it with cold water from the tap, then returned it to its base to boil.

  “One of the secrets is to start with fresh cold water. After that, there’s nothing to it other than pouring the boiling water over the tea—loose or bags, whichever you prefer. Everyone has to figure out their own brewing time and how strong to make it, how much milk to add—it’s all a matter of personal taste. Some only give their tea bags a passing acquaintance with the water. I usually let mine steep three or four minutes. I make my tea strong because I tend to like it with more milk than suits most people. And I always use whole milk, whereas many use nonfat.”

  As he was talking, David walked to a cupboard, opened it, and took down an unlabeled tin. He removed several tea bags.

  “You seem to know your way around,” said Loni. “I didn’t even know that tea was there.”

  “Lucky guess!” laughed David. “It looks like a tea cupboard, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Someone left me a box of tea bags on the counter,” said Loni. “And a supply of oatcakes, which I’m nearly out of.”

  “Mrs. MacNeill at the bakery in the village bakes oatcakes every day. She’ll keep you well supplied.”

  As they chatted, David brought down a blue china teapot from an open shelf above the counter and placed four tea bags inside it. In two or three minutes the water was boiling. He filled the pot with water from the kettle. While waiting for it to brew, he opened another cupboard, took down two large mugs and carried them to the adjoining breakfast room.

  “You do know your way around this kitchen!” laughed Loni.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude on your space,” said David, placing the mugs on the table and returning to the kitchen.

  “I don’t mind. It isn’t as if any of this is actually mine. Well, maybe it is . . . I’m still trying to figure out what it all means. I’m just amazed how you seem to know where everything is.”

  “Don’t they say that most kitchens are organized along similar lines?”

  “That I don’t know, but most men aren’t as comfortable in a kitchen as you seem to be.”

  “I do enjoy myself in a kitchen, and I know how to cook—or at least I can hold my own, I should say.” He motioned toward the refrigerator. “I’ll let you get milk.”

  He picked up the teapot and took it into the breakfast room. “I would say our tea should just about be ready,” he added as Loni joined him with the carton of milk and what remained of her oatcakes.

  3

  Tea and Questions

  “I had been about to ask if you were the designated welcoming committee,” said Loni as they sat down.

  “I suppose something like that,” replied David, adding a generous portion of milk to his cup and pouring a sampling from the pot. Judging its color suitable, he removed the tea bags and waited for Loni to prepare her cup, then filled it before topping off his own. “No one designated me with the honor, as you say,” David went on. “I am a self-appointed committee of one. Some of the people, I am sorry to say, might not be altogether welcoming, if you know what I mean.”

  “I halfway expected that,” Loni said, sipping at her tea. “Oh, it is stronger than I am used to.”

  “Add more milk if it’s too much, or water.”

  “I think I like it.”

  “In any event, I apologize in advance if you happen to encounter any unfriendly looks. Our Coira at the bakery, Mrs. MacNeill, for instance, is one whose nose might be in the air when you meet her. She’s a lady who speaks her mind. But she’s a dear lass—pay her no heed. You mustn’t let people like Coira get under your skin. For my part, I am simply a man who thought it would be nice to welcome you on behalf of our Whales Reef community.”

  “That is very thoughtful of you. As I say, I wasn’t really expecting a warm welcome after all the confusion about the inheritance. I’m sure no one is pleased to have an American woman show up like she owns the place.”

  Loni did not notice the wince that passed briefly over David’s face. Nor could she possibly have been aware of the boyhood memories that surfaced momentarily at her words.

  “Actually,” he said, laughing lightly as he recovered himself, “it would appear that you do own the place.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that!” exclaimed Loni in embarrassment. “It was just a figure of speech.”

  “Of course, I understand. So what are your plans?”

  “I don’t know—how do you mean?”

  “Only that you said that all this has taken you by surprise.”

  “That’s the understatement of the century!”

  “So what are you going to do? How long will you stay? Will you move here?”

  “That’s just what Mr. MacNaughton asked,” Loni said. “No, I definitely don’t plan to stay. I have a job and life in the States. I haven’t even decided whether to accept Mr. Tulloch’s inheritance yet.”

  “Really—why would you not?”

  “I don’t know . . . there is so much to consider.” The thought flitted into her mind that she was being a little too open with this inquisitive stranger. He was a nice, good-looking, friendly man who had an engaging laugh and pleasant smile. But he had as good as told her that most on the island knew all about her. She should probably be more guarded in what she said. Their conversation would likely be spread all around the village before day’s end.

  “Did you know the man who recently passed away, Macgregor Tulloch?” she asked, changing the subject.

  David nodded slowly. “Whales Reef is one of those small villages where, as the saying goes, everybody knows everybody. Yes, in spite of the difference in our ages, Macgregor was a good friend.”

  “And here I come as a complete stranger whom nobody knows to take the inheritance from more deserving relatives.” Loni sighed. “I have to admit I have been a little reluctant to go into town. But I don’t suppose I can delay it forever. I have to go to the post office, not to mention restock my supply of oatcakes.”

  “Ah, yes, the all-important oatcakes.”

  “But despite my reservations, the first two people I have met have been more than gracious. I thank you for making me feel welcome, by the way.”

  “That’s why I came. So I’m not the first?”

  “Yesterday I met an elderly man called Sandy Innes.”

  “Oh yes, Sandy! You couldn’t have had a better introduction to the island. He knows its whole history and everybody living here. A dear man.”

  “Between the two of you, I am beginning to wonder if my fears are groundless.”

  “I hope that turns out to be the case. But if anyone bothers you, send them to me.”

  “And why you?” asked Loni. “Are you the mayor or something?”

  “The mayor!” laughed David. “That’s a good one. No, today I am simply a welcoming committee. David Tulloch at your
service.”

  “Then I will ask you a question,” said Loni. “What can you tell me about the two men who were in line to inherit before they located me?”

  A curious expression came over David’s face. “Only one of the two would have inherited had you not come along,” he answered.

  “Yes, of course. I think Mr. MacNaughton mentioned a fisherman called Harding, something like that . . . Harding Tulloch?”

  “Hardar.”

  “Oh, right—Hardar Tulloch. He said that he was likely next in line.”

  The words hit David with the force of a fist in the face. “Uh . . . right, that has been . . . er, the general consensus in the village.”

  “I believe he is a cousin to me also.”

  “That is true.”

  “Then I must be more closely connected to him than you?”

  David nodded. “You and he are full cousins, not mere half cousins.”

  “Which makes you and this Hardar cousins too?”

  “Indeed, or as with you, half cousins. Hardy and I are probably cousins in some fashion with half the people on the island.”

  “What can you tell me about him?” asked Loni.

  “Probably more than you want to know,” chuckled David wryly. “However, I think I should leave it at that.”

  4

  Ambitions

  It would perhaps be reading more into his preference for strong American espresso to say that it divulged hidden depths to his character of which his American boss was unaware. It was true, however, that its acidity and bitterness mirrored deep currents of frustrated ambition that indeed grated with malevolent and acrid resentment deep in his soul. Yet perhaps his years of playing second clarinet to the blustering big man were soon to pay off.

  The quiet Scotsman sipped from the contents of his cup, a triple shot laced with whisky, and continued to peruse the papers that had arrived at the Edinburgh office yesterday. The restructuring of the McLeod company’s E.U. division appeared to be progressing as planned. He had been promised a key position at its highest echelons. Possibly he would be put in charge of the whole thing, or, failing that, certainly of McLeod’s U.K. interests.

  As he continued to scan the files, however, he could find no reference to the troublesome Cayman Island account, flagged last year by the IRS. It was the one skeleton in all their closets that had to be resolved—whether with creative accounting or by paying the money back, though it seemed impossible that much cash could be raised in time—before the tax bloodhounds closed in.

  The word embezzlement had not actually been used. But once the IRS started sniffing around a major international corporation, hard after what they enigmatically liked to term “irregularities,” everyone knew that was what they were thinking. Nor would they stop until someone was hanging by his feet from the nearest lamppost.

  He would leave that to the company accountants. It was their carelessness that had caused the problem in the first place. Let them sort it out.

  He just had to be familiar with every detail of the company’s U.K. and E.U. operation, so that when the restructuring came and his appointment was announced, he would be ready.

  5

  The Village

  Emerging through the front door of the Cottage about an hour after the departure of her visitor, and seeing the rental car in front of the house, Loni realized she had still not made use of it. Where was there to go? She supposed she might drive into the village. But it was less than a mile away. That would set the locals talking even more than they probably were already—the helpless American who couldn’t even walk from the Cottage to the village.

  Perhaps one of these days she would take the ferry and drive into Lerwick, or explore some of the rest of the Shetlands.

  One of these days . . .

  The words reverberated through her brain. What did they mean? How long did she intend to stay anyway—days . . . weeks? That was the big question.

  For one more day at least, she thought, and she certainly didn’t need the car for what she had to do now. It was time to gather her courage and walk to the village.

  She crossed the gravel toward the long driveway leading in the direction of the ocean, then paused. She hadn’t locked the house behind her. Come to think of it, she didn’t even have a key to any of its doors. Neither solicitor MacNaughton nor taxi driver Sinclair had mentioned keys. The front door was unlocked when they arrived and had remained so ever since. Was this one of those idyllic places where no one ever locked their doors?

  She reached the single-track road where she had first seen old Sandy Innes waiting for her arrival, then turned toward town. On the other side of grass-covered dunes to her left she could hear the sea.

  It occurred to her that she should have thought to bring more suitable clothes for walking—jeans and her running shoes at the very least. Wherever she was going, she always took workout shoes and trunks. Why hadn’t she packed them for this trip? She hadn’t thought beyond the professional visit with the lawyer. The dresses, pumps, heels, and sweaters in her suitcase weren’t exactly appropriate for exploring an island or a centuries-old fishing village.

  Especially these shoes she had on, she thought, doing her best to avoid turning an ankle on the cobblestones. She should have worn the pair of flats she had traveled in. But she wasn’t going back for them now.

  Gradually a few cottages came into view. A few minutes later she entered the village of Whales Reef. Houses of varying sizes lined both sides of the road, lanes, with narrow gravel cart paths winding in circuitous array between. If some order existed to the placement of the cottages and streets, gardens and fences and animal pens, it was not immediately apparent.

  Several women were out, some chatting over low fences, others hanging laundry on clotheslines. A few turned to stare as she passed. She pretended not to notice.

  The street gradually widened, and larger buildings replaced the randomly placed cottages. She came to a walkway alongside the street and then the village center Mr. Sinclair had pointed out two days ago. Loni vaguely recognized a few landmarks. But the day had been foggy and her mind was a blur. To her left a wide street led down an incline toward the sea. Across the intersection sat a small freestanding building more modern than the rest, of brick rather than granite, housing a small market. She gazed past it down the street, which came to an end about a hundred yards beyond at a cement quay-enclosed harbor. A couple dozen boats gently bobbed in the tide, the blue of the ocean stretching behind the harbor wall.

  Bringing her attention back to the main street, she saw a small red sign that read Post. That would be her first stop. She continued toward it and opened the door.

  Three women were standing in line, waiting for a clerk behind a windowed enclosure. Their heads turned as Loni walked inside. She felt every eye scanning her up and down without expression—mostly up, as she was easily eight or nine inches taller than any of them. She smiled and took her place in line. One by one they conducted their business and left the shop.

  “Hello,” said Loni, stepping up to the window. “Do you have a public fax machine?”

  “Nae, mum, we haena the likes o’ sich here. Ye’ll hae tae gae tae the pub, ye ken?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Loni with a light laugh. “I didn’t understand a word you said. I’m not from around here.”

  “Oh, aye! I ken that weel enouch. Ye’re the American lass.” He paused. “I said that we haena a fax here,” he went on more slowly. “Ye’ll hae tae go tae the inn—the Whales Fin, ken—jist along the street there. Keith’s got a machine ye’ll be able tae use.”

  “Thank you . . . the Whales Fin Inn.”

  “Aye, mum.”

  When she left the post office, the same three women stood huddled on the sidewalk, talking a mile a minute. They stopped as they saw her and stared in silence.

  “Hello again,” said Loni. She forced another smile.

  There was no reply. Their conversation resumed in low tones as Loni continued on. In spite
of the mostly unintelligible accent, she was able to make out snippets of recognizable phrases.

  “. . . do ye think the chief will say . . .”

  “. . . tryin’ tae take the laird’s . . . away frae the chief . . .”

  “. . . ye ken hoo . . . all on account o’ that American . . .”

  “. . . a’body kens the chief canna bide . . .”

  Their voices faded behind her. Loni saw the Whales Fin Inn fifty or sixty yards ahead. She walked through its door a minute later and found herself entering the dimly lit common room of a traditional hotel pub smelling of ale, food, and fishermen, she assumed from their attire, enjoying lunch or beer. Again heads turned and conversations grew subdued.

  The tall American, attractive and athletic, would have drawn stares even had there been no inheritance controversy. The men, however, did not seem as eager to discuss her presence as had the women. Loni crossed the floor to the bar as their talk resumed. A smile or two broke out as she hit a wide crack in the ancient wood planking and stumbled briefly in her two-inch pumps. She recovered her balance and continued carefully across the uneven surface. From a strict and conservative religious background, Loni had never been in a bar or tavern in her life. Though the village pub that was such a staple of life in England and Scotland was an altogether different institution than those seedy establishments of the United States with No one under 21 allowed emblazoned on their doors, she could not prevent feeling intimidated by her surroundings. The beer and ale taps prominently visible above the counter, and an array of several dozen whisky bottles displayed behind it, added to the slight unnerving of her conscience.

  A man in his fifties, washing glasses behind the counter, glanced up as she approached.

  “Hello,” said Loni. “I’m visiting the island and was told you have a fax machine I might use.”

  Just then a young woman about Loni’s age breezed through an open door behind the counter, balancing a tray filled with several steaming platters and bowls of soup. She smiled at Loni as she walked into the room and began distributing the offerings from the kitchen.