The Cottage

by Michael Phillips

  The courageous expedition to these outlying islands could only be undertaken by ship, traveling so far north into the arctic expanse of the Atlantic that icebergs were not uncommon during the winter months. With the Titanic still green in the memory, such an excursion to Britain’s farthest limits was not to be undertaken lightly.

  And yet the scene was somehow fitting for 1924. These were the rollicking postwar years when not only dance steps, dress lengths, and hairdos were pushing the boundaries of culture beyond what had been seen before, so too was the appetite for travel among England’s elite. African safaris, treks to Egypt’s pyramids, and excursions throughout the Greek islands were all the rage among those who could afford it.

  “So, Mr. Glendenning,” said a voice at his elbow, “you appear lost in reflection.”

  The journalist turned to see a youth striding toward him.

  “What do you think of our fair little isle in the middle of the North Atlantic?” the young man added.

  The Londoner’s journalistic instincts quickly took in the newcomer. Good-looking, dressed fashionably in an expensive brown suit of the latest cut, bearing himself with culture and breeding, he appeared in his early twenties. His obvious polish and sophistication, however, clashed with the thickly accented timbre of his tongue.

  “You have me at a disadvantage,” said Glendenning. “You seem to know me, but I confess I have no idea who you might be. I detect an unmistakable Shetland accent. And by laying claim to this island I assume you a resident. Yet your speech bears scant resemblance to what I have heard since my arrival.”

  “I’m not sure how I should take that!” said the young man. “However, I am a native. In that you are correct. And though I did not think of laying personal claim to it, as you say, when I approached a moment ago, this is in fact, or will one day be, my island.”

  “How so?”

  “I am Brogan Tulloch.”

  “Ah yes, Tulloch. I know the name. I am pleased to meet you. I am, as you already knew, Robert Glendenning.”

  The two men shook hands to formally acknowledge their acquaintance.

  “Your name is one of importance in these parts, I believe,” said Glendenning.

  “My father is the laird,” said Tulloch. “He is the landlord, the owner of most of the property on the island. Hence laird.”

  “And you, I take it, if you will one day inherit, must be his eldest son.”

  “I congratulate your powers of deduction! I am indeed a son of privilege who is doing his best to enjoy my inheritance while I am young enough to make the most of it. What are you drinking? From the looks of that black mud and its foam in your glass, Guinness I would say.”

  “I must admit, I downed half of it in a single swallow. I was so cold when I came in half an hour ago following an after-dinner stroll that my fingers and toes are still frozen.”

  “You’ll warm up when we get another couple of pints in you. Craig,” the young scion of Whales Reef called to the man behind the bar, “another Guinness for Mr. Glendenning and a Laphroaig single malt for me. Put both on my tab.”

  “You have a tab here?” asked the London journalist after his Shetland friend had ordered the drinks.

  “A very active tab,” laughed Tulloch. “And a larger one than my father would like. But one is only young once, as they say!”

  “And your father?”

  “He is a good soul. He pays my tab with an occasional fatherly admonition. He doesn’t think my habits become the son of the laird.”

  “It’s not just his son he is concerned about, I take it, but the future laird?”

  Tulloch nodded. “You are correct. The lairdship will pass to me, as well as the chieftainship.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me there,” said Glendenning. “What do you mean, the chieftainship?”

  “As well as being laird, my father is also chief.”

  “I thought chiefs went out with Culloden and the Highland Clearances. The only chiefs I know of in these modern times wear headdresses in American Wild West shows.”

  Again Tulloch laughed. “An old-fashioned custom, perhaps. Believe it or not the chieftainship does persist here. We are but a small island clan, and the title is mostly honorary. Yet the people consider it of great importance. Tradition and all that. So tell me, Mr. Glendenning,” he added, “what are you doing here? What kind of story are you planning to write about your sojourn in the Shetlands?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. I came on this excursion ostensibly to write about the kinds of people who are interested in nature and wildlife. I’ve written about safaris to the upper Nile and cruises down the Amazon and the natives of jungle tribes. But what sort of people are bird watchers and whale chasers? I thought it would make an interesting article. After being here a week, however, I’m wondering if the real story might be the people of Whales Reef rather than the tourists who come and go.”

  “Not so intriguing if you ask me. As far as I’m concerned, Whales Reef is the end of the world. It just happens to be my misfortune to be heir to an island of birds and fishermen.”

  “What will you do when you inherit, then? You do not sound altogether enthusiastic about your prospects.”

  “I cannot envision living my whole life in this godforsaken place. But don’t tell my father that.”

  “Do you attend the soirees for all the groups that come to grace your fair island?”

  “It’s the only entertainment and culture available here,” replied Tulloch. “Most of the tours that come sell themselves as offering a blend between luxury and outdoorsy naturalism, with a bit of danger thrown in. It’s all in the publicity. Bring your gowns and tuxedos, but don’t forget to pack your boots, binoculars, and rain gear, goes one sales pitch. The rich from London tromping around on a Scottish moor or along a desolate crag above a wild sea . . . they convince themselves they are communing with the great universe and its flora and fauna. Then they retire to the hotel, dress for dinner, sit around a warm fireplace with drinks in hand and all the comforts of home. The hotel and tour managers have devised a wonderfully elaborate scheme.”

  “Who does own the hotel?” asked Glendenning.

  “Actually, it belongs to my father.”

  “From the little you’ve told me, he doesn’t strike me as the type.”

  “He’s not,” said Tulloch. “The celebration, the drinking, the finery—it’s not for him. He loves this island for its own sake. He disdains the fact that it has been turned into a tourist destination.”

  “How, then, did such a hotel come to be here?”

  “My grandfather was an entrepreneur and businessman. He built the Whales Reef Hotel and developed it into a tourist destination before the war. After his death, and when the war was over, my father leased it to a London firm. They manage everything. My father rarely shows his face. Instead he wanders about the island lost in his spiritual reflections. Bit of a mystic, my father, I suppose you might say.”

  “And you?”

  Tulloch laughed and raised his glass. “I play the rôle of unofficial host to the proceedings, adding local color and charm, as it were—the son of the chief.” He drained the contents of his glass and signaled to his friend behind the bar to pour him another. “I come for dinner most evenings and grace the visitors with my presence. I never miss the first and last evening, when the hotel’s guests all dress to the nines, with live music and dancing and celebration. A new tour usually arrives every week or two. It’s fairly constant through the summer months. The hotel’s owners do their marketing well.”

  “And does romance with any of the young female guests occasionally result?” asked Glendenning with a smile, his gaze sweeping across the dance floor.

  “One never knows,” rejoined Tulloch. “Every tour brings new possibilities.”

  19

  Revelation

  Loni closed the door of the wool factory behind her and slowly walked away.

  Instead of returning down the long drive, she left the mill
and cut overland in the direction of the church. She walked around the building a few minutes later, then found her way through the gate and into the enclosed cemetery in back. Passing through the gravestones, some of whose markers were worn so smooth as to be illegible, she came to the Tulloch family plot. She wandered among the graves, reading names she now recognized from Sandy Innes’s story two evenings before.

  There was the grave of Ernest Tulloch, whose memory and funeral had prompted Sandy’s reminiscences, and then other names caught her attention: Elizabeth, Sally, Wallace, Leith. Brogan Tulloch, however, was conspicuously missing. At length she came to a grave whose covering grass was greener and the headstone clearly newer than the rest. “Macgregor Tulloch,” she murmured, the man whose death a year ago had thrown her life and the future of this island into such uncertainty.

  Were these actually her relatives, her mother’s family? Had she at last discovered the roots she had never known, the home of her maternal ancestors?

  Beyond the plot of Tulloch graves, as she continued to wander about, her eyes fell on many Scottish and Shetlandic names, some of which she recognized—Innes, Gordon, Legge, MacNeill, Mair, Kerr, Munro, MacPherson, Ewen, MacDonald, as well as many more Tullochs scattered among the stones.

  Did this cemetery represent what she had come to the Shetlands to find without even knowing it . . . roots, posterity, family, belonging?

  When she left the cemetery a few minutes later, a man emerged from the back door of the church. He smiled in greeting.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I am Stirling Yates, the minister here. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “No, but thank you,” replied Loni. “I was just having a look around the cemetery.”

  “American . . . you wouldn’t by chance be the new laird that has the community all abuzz.”

  “Guilty,” laughed Loni lightly. “I am Alonnah Ford.”

  “I am happy to meet you,” said Yates, offering his hand. “If there is any way I may be of service to you, please do not hesitate to call on me.”

  “I appreciate that, though I do not anticipate being here long.”

  A thoughtful expression flitted across the minister’s face. “I know the feeling,” he said cryptically. “But however ambiguous our mutual futures may be, my offer stands.”

  “Thank you.”

  They parted and Loni returned around to the front of the church, then left the grounds by the drive back to the main road down the hill. She came out a minute or two later near the ferry landing. She paused, debating whether she wanted to walk through the village again. A figure came striding toward her along the road from beyond the landing. She recognized her second visitor to the Cottage from two days earlier. He lifted his hand in friendly greeting.

  “Hello again, Miss Ford,” he said with a smile as he approached.

  “Good morning, Mr. Tulloch,” said Loni.

  “Getting the lay of the land of your new estate?”

  “I don’t know about that—just out for a walk. It was a nice day. Besides, nothing is mine yet.”

  “Soon will be, I should have said.”

  “There are still many decisions to be made.”

  “I understand. Which direction are you headed?”

  “Nowhere in particular. I was trying to decide which way to take back to the Cottage. What about you?”

  “I live back over there, along the western road,” David replied. “I was on my way into town. Care to join me?”

  Loni nodded and they fell into step beside each other.

  “You were visiting our small parish church just now?” said David.

  “I stopped at the mill a few minutes ago,” said Loni, pointing up the hill to her left. “Then I made my way over to the church and the fascinating cemetery. I am discovering that my decision about what to do is more complicated than I had imagined.”

  “In what way?” asked David.

  “I had no idea there was such a thriving business on the island, or what had been thriving before the confusion over the inheritance. I met the mill’s manager . . . I’m afraid I’ve already forgotten his name—”

  “Murdoc MacBean—another of your distant relatives.”

  “He explained about the financial strain they have been under.”

  David nodded thoughtfully.

  “It seems the future of the mill, at least in the immediate future, is up to me. All I can wonder is if I am going to be the cause of another business that has been going for generations having to close its doors.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

  A wistful smile came over Loni’s face. “I was raised by my grandparents,” she said after a moment. “My parents died when I was an infant.”

  “I didn’t know that. I am sorry. That must have been difficult.”

  “Being an orphan has challenges, I will say that. That’s one of the reasons my family roots were mostly as unknown to me as I was to people over here. Everything about my past was shrouded in secrets. I never seemed to know who I was. My grandfather—both my grandfathers, actually—was a furniture maker. My father was an only son. When he died, and then when I didn’t want to continue the business, a year ago my grandfather retired and closed the doors of his showroom. I can’t help feeling guilty.”

  “You had other plans?”

  “Nothing specific. But when I left home for college I think they always hoped I would come back to the family business. I had learned it from the ground up when I was young and enjoyed many aspects of it. But it wasn’t a life I could have been happy in.”

  “I can see that it would be hard. What is it you do now, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I am assistant to an investment executive in Washington, D.C.”

  “What does that entail?”

  “We coordinate investments, mostly for corporate clients and a few individuals with sizable portfolios—stocks, bonds, mutual funds, real estate, commodities . . . that sort of thing.”

  “Sounds pretty high finance.”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “And you like it?”

  “I do. It’s exciting, challenging. There’s always something new on the horizon.”

  “Do I detect a But in your tone?”

  “There’s that lurking feeling in the background of having disappointed my grandparents, not following in their footsteps.”

  “I know something about that,” said David. “I have a number of relatives, one aunt in particular, whom I will never please as long as I live.”

  “Now it seems the mill here is in the same boat, waiting for me to decide on its future.”

  “But you wouldn’t . . . I mean, when you say another business having to close its doors,” David went on in a more serious tone, “you’re not thinking of shutting down the mill?”

  “I didn’t mean that. I was only referring to the uncertainty and that its future seems to be up to me, and that I still don’t know what I should do . . . about everything.”

  “I see.”

  “You have to understand—as much as this inheritance situation has changed things for all of you on this island, I am still trying to get used to the shock of it. The first I heard of it was two weeks ago. Before that, I had no idea of any connection to the Shetlands. I’m just a girl from a simple, hardworking family. I have, I think, about twelve hundred dollars in the bank,” she laughed. “Now I’m told I own all this property, and people are calling me laird. This is an enormous change. My head has been spinning for two weeks.”

  They walked on in thoughtful silence.

  As they reached the outskirts of the village, from out of a lane to their left between several stone cottages, Audney Kerr bounded into the street.

  Imperceptibly David caught his breath in surprise and turned away. But Audney walked straight forward and greeted them.

  “Hoo are ye, Miss Ford?” she said with a bright smile.

  “Fine,” replied Loni. “Hello again.”

  �
��An’ good day tae yersel’, David,” Audney added.

  “Hello, Audney,” said David. He lowered his voice. “If I could jist hae a word wi’ ye in private,” he said softly. “Will you excuse us a minute, Miss Ford?”

  He motioned to Audney and led her a few steps across the street. She looked back over her shoulder. “I’m glad tae see ye finally found the chief,” she called back to Loni.

  The word slammed into Loni’s brain with such force she felt her knees buckle. She scarcely heard the next words that passed between them.

  “What was it ye wanted tae speak wi’ me aboot, David?” Audney was saying.

  “Nothing,” he said with a smile of irony. “It won’t matter now.”

  Loni was staring at the two as if through a blurry haze. But her thoughts were years and many miles away.

  ———

  A gangly teenager walked into school, her books in a canvas bag over her shoulder. She stood a head taller than any other girl in the small Quaker high school of twenty-seven students. But her height and awkwardness weren’t the worst of it. It was the whispered comments constantly swirling around her . . . stares, giggling when she walked by, people talking behind her back. No one ever shared a secret with her . . . the secrets were only about her. She was always on the outside.

  She started along the corridor toward her first class, then hesitated. She saw three girls down the hallway. They stopped as they saw her coming, stared at her, then put their heads together and began whispering and giggling.

  She felt her face redden. She could not turn and run. That would only make them laugh all the more. Keeping her eyes on the floor and hugging the wall, she continued on.

  At the far end of the hall, a good-looking boy of sixteen came around the corner. The three girls scurried toward him.

  “Hello, Davis,” purred one of the three in a flirtatious voice.

  “Oh . . . hi, Audrey,” he said. Then he drew her away from the others. “Could I just have a word with you alone, Audrey?” he said softly, leading her a few steps away along the hall.

  The girl called Audrey glanced at her two friends with a mischievous grin, then followed.