by Emma York
I was alone in the world. But then in many ways, I’d been alone for years. Ever since they threw me out.
Who does that to their child? Aged sixteen, I was out the door because they were unhappy with my choice of girlfriend. Not suitable as they put it. So they told me to make a choice, her or home.
They made the choice for me and I was cast out from the only home I’d ever known, the place that had been in the family for over four hundred years, the place that my ancestors had chiselled and cut and built with their own hands.
I had been angry for years after that but the anger had faded eventually, replaced by a numbness. To end the relationship they had paid her off. Offered her a lot of money to break up with me and disappear. That hurt. To find out she took them up on their offer hurt more.
When the letter arrived, it detailed not only that my mother had died, but also a number of financial complications that had arisen.
I had no choice but to travel back to Scotland. Once there, I could arrange the sale of the castle, pay off the various debts then return to my simple life. Otherwise the bank would take over the place and sell it for a song, keep the profits for the shareholders and still chase me for the rest.
I sat in the airport, waiting for my flight to begin boarding. It had been a long time since I’d been somewhere so busy. All those people, so many of them. Couples embracing, families arguing, children crying, laughing, running headlong into each other.
The women. Some of them travelling alone. The old urges bubbling up.
For a moment I felt lonely. The moment passed. I had vowed after Charlotte that I would have nothing to do with women. It wasn’t loneliness I felt. It was just a blip because I wasn’t used to being around so many people.
By the time I took my seat on the plane, I was calm again. It didn’t matter what was going on in the world around me. I wasn’t going to be part of it for much longer. I would clear the debts lest they chase me across the globe.
I tried to feel sad that my mother had died. It had been so long since I had spoken to her it was as if she had died years ago alongside my father. After what they had done I had no interest in reconciling with either of them. Nor they with me.
To pay off Charlotte, to tell me I would find someone more suitable, code for someone they chose, to be angry with me for not approving of such a state of affairs. Then when I didn’t roll over and accept it, to throw me out, tell me I was no longer their son. Was it any wonder I struggled to feel grief about their deaths?
I had sought permission from the abbot to travel and it had been granted readily. “Do what must be done,” he had said upon the day of my departure. “That way lies truth.”
The words stayed with me. I would do exactly as he’d suggested. I would do nothing more nor less than what had to be done.
The plane landed in Glasgow just after seven in the evening. I walked out of the airport straight into a reminder of how the air tasted different here. Something I couldn’t put my finger on but somewhere deep inside me, a memory stirred.
It took most of the night to reach the castle. The accents confused me at first. It had been so long since I’d heard a Scottish accent, especially one with the hint of Glaswegian. But from the moment I landed, I heard it everywhere. In the airport, the taxi drive to the train station, the train announcements, then at Doon village itself.
It was there that I finally arrived at a little after midnight. The only lights were the streetlights, two of them down by the jetty reflecting on the water. Across from there, I could just make out the silhouette of the island, a single yellow pinprick in the distance the only sign that there was anything out there but darkness.
It was cold but I was used to that after being in the mountains for so long. The wind was nothing more than a breeze. I could hear ducks somewhere out on the water continuing to talk to each other despite the lateness of the hour.
Hedley’s cafe was still there. I got the feeling it had been there since before the castle was built and would be there long after it crumbled into ruin. It was a permanent fixture of the village and old Hedley, if he was still alive, must be positively ancient by now.
I knocked on his door. Hedley wasn’t just the owner of the cafe. He was also the pilot of the little battered fishing boat that served as the ferry across to Doon Island.
“Haud on,” a gruff voice called from behind the door. “Have ye any idea what time is?”
“Time to say hello to an old friend,” I replied as the door opened slowly.
“Jings, Robert King as I live and breathe.” He shook my hand firmly as he spoke.
“Hedley. I thought you’d be dead by now.”
“Ah thought tha same. Reckon even the reaper’s afraid ah one o’ his boatmen.”
“Too late to take me across?”
“Not at all. Gimme a sec to fetch ma stuff.”
I waited down by the jetty and he joined me soon after, hipflask in his hand, taking a swig before climbing onto the boat. “Well, are ye comin’ or no?”
“I guess I’m coming,” I said, lifting my bag and then myself over the side. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in this.”
“Twas a terrible shame wha happened with your ma and pa,” he said, shaking his head. “I was awfa sorry to hear about it all, may God have mercy upon them both.”
“Thank you, Hedley,” I replied. It was the most emotion I’d ever seen from the man. On the day I’d left the island, he’d not said a word while he’d taken me across to the mainland. I hadn’t thought he’d cared at all. It seemed time had changed him as much as it had changed me.
“Are ye stayin’?” he asked as the mainland shrank away behind us.
“Not for long.”
“That’s a shame. She’s your castle now.”
I didn’t reply. The island grew steadily closer, the outline of the castle a deeper black against the blue-purple of the night sky, the stars vanishing behind it.
I felt a tug deep inside me as if I’d been stretched out for a long time at the end of an elastic band and it was now retracting, pulling me back in. I didn’t like the feeling. I was only here to sell up, not to start feeling homesick.
This wasn’t my home anymore, no matter what Hedley said. They’d made that abundantly clear and even if the will gave it to me, it was written before they threw me out. I was going to have to sell. There were too many debts to leave me any other option. I would need around half a million just to get a hint of the place moving into the black.
We drifted the last few feet towards the jetty, the engine dying down. Hedley skilfully threw a loop of rope over the cast iron pole jutting upwards, the rope pulling gradually taut, keeping the boat in place so I could climb out. “Will you be needing a return ticket?”
“Do you know if Nipper is still here?”
“Aye, she may be. Might need a bit of dusting off though.”
“Then I’ll make my own way back. Thanks, Hedley. What’s the charge?”
“Och, put your money away. Was a pleasure to bring a King back to his castle.”
I nodded a farewell before turning away, walking slowly along the jetty and then onto the track beyond. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark as the light of the boat faded in the distance.
I could see the track winding slowly towards the castle, passing between the hummocks of grass. Sheep rudely awakened by the noise of the engine were settling back down, only making a cursory effort to grumble at my intrusion.
I had no key to the front door. It had never occurred to me that I might need one. When I reached the castle, I tried to open it but the place was firmly locked. It shouldn’t have surprised me but it did.
I rapped on the door with my fist and then waited, hoping someone was still there. Angela wouldn’t have left yet, surely. She was still being paid by the household accounts. Not for much longer though.
A light came on above my head a few seconds later. That was new. Since when had there been an outside light?
&
nbsp; It illuminated the ancient wood of the double doors, the countless scorelines and pockmarks of centuries of use. In the right hand corner, something had been stuck to the door. An R symbol. I had no idea what that meant and I was still examining it when the door creaked open.
“Mr King,” a voice said. “It could only be you at this hour.”
“Angela,” I replied, shocked to see how white her hair had become since last time I saw her. “How are you?”
“Come on in,” she replied. “Get out of the cold. How was your flight?”
“Fine, fine.” I followed her in and she locked the door behind me, pointing down the hall.
I didn’t move. I was overcome for a brief moment by a wave of nostalgia. The times I had stood in this hall, ridden my bicycle down that corridor, swung from that chandelier and fallen, leaving the scar on my lip that was still visible even now in bright sunlight.
I blinked, letting the memories slowly fade, overtaken by the final one, the doorstep argument, me leaving and never looking back, not until I was on the boat. They had already closed the door by then.
“The R on the door,” I said as I came back to myself. “What does it mean?”
“Regal Rentals,” Angela replied. “Your mother has been letting rooms for holidays for the last few years.”
“But she said she’d never let the public in here, the riffraff she called them when I suggested it.”
“People change, Mr King. Money was pretty tight after your father died. It’s all tied up in this place and it costs a fortune just to keep it standing.”
“I intend to run through the paperwork, Angela, see if there are any savings to be made.”
“You’re welcome to but I don’t see any way but to sell. I’m sorry to have to be the bearer of such news but-”
“It’s late,” I said. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“Of course,” she replied, taking the hint. “I’ve set you up in your old room. Good night, Mr King.”
“Good night, Angela.”
She headed across to the staff staircase, hidden behind the fake bookcase in the corner of the hall. I turned and walked over to the main staircase, the one I’d not been allowed to walk on, lest I wear away the carpet.
At the last second, I turned away and crossed the hall to the study, the most sacred space, the room I was never allowed to enter.
The desk was still there, though there was the modern addition of a computer to the strewn piles of paper.
There was a diary and an answer machine too, the red light on it blinking steadily. I pressed delete. Messages of sympathy I could do without.
As I flicked through the diary, it hit the computer mouse, the screen coming to life from standby. The monitor was filled with a calendar showing bookings for the upcoming month.
Pulling out the chair, I sat down. It took a few minutes to get the hang of the website but my teenage computer skills hadn’t vanished entirely. Eventually, I was able to cancel all the bookings. That was better than having people turn up for their vacation stay while I was selling the place out from under them.
Once that was done, I turned the computer off and stood up. Letting out rooms. The woman that turned her nose up at anyone opening their castle to the public. “Think of the shame,” she said when I suggested it. “The litter, the fingermarks on the paintings. Never in my lifetime.”
People change.
Do what has to be done.
I thought of both sentiments as I flicked out the light in the doorway of the study. I had planned to start looking through things but the moment I deleted the bookings, I started to feel incredibly tired, as if the journey had caught up with me. It was nearly one in the morning. At the monastery I would be getting up in four hours.
I walked upstairs to my old room. It was a surreal experience walking into it. The evidence of my life there had gone. It was decked out for guests. There was my old four poster bed and chest of drawers but everything else had been replaced. On the dresser were bales of towels and a kettle next to a hair dryer.
King of the castle, that’s what Hedley had said.
Do what needs to be done.
I would call the estate agent tomorrow, get a valuation organised. Then I would start going through the finances of the place, get an appointment at the bank too. A lot to do. But if I did it properly, hopefully it wouldn’t take long. Then I could leave and return to the monastery.
Do what needs to be done.
THREE - TILLY
It was an overnight flight but with the time change, I did my best to stay awake while I was in the air. It didn’t work. I was squeezed in next to a salesman who spent the first hour trying to convince me that what I really needed in life was a new kitchen.
In the end I pretended to fall asleep. It was that or risk him battering me into submission and getting to Scotland to find I’d bought ten thousand dollars worth of kitchen on the way.
Pretending to fall asleep ended with me actually asleep, waking up confused as the seatbelt light came on above me. We were starting to descend.
Looking out of the window, I could see the first light of the day. There was Scotland below me. I’d slept through crossing the Atlantic. Somewhere down there was the perfect castle. If only I could get permission to film inside it.
It shouldn’t be too tricky. Eli had authorised me to make any payment I deemed necessary. I could offer up to half a million for one week of filming. If they were letting guests book vacations there, they obviously needed money.
But before I could speak to the owner I needed to get to the castle and that turned into a far more difficult journey than I expected.
The first hurdle was the email that came through to my phone as I walked through the airport terminal to collect my bag.
We regret to inform you that your booking for Doon Castle has been cancelled by the co-ordinator for the location. There are four alternative Regal Rental destinations within a fifty mile radius of your chosen location and we will pay the difference between your chosen location and one of equivalent standing…
The email went on in increasingly formal language but the crux of the matter was the booking was gone. A refund would be issued ‘in due course,’ unless I chose to move my booking elsewhere. Which would have been fine if I was on vacation. But I was here to speak to Robert King, owner of the castle, get in his good books.
I could picture him cackling over his computer as he cancelled bookings for fun, ginger hair under a tartan cap, two hundred years old, kilt blowing in the wind. “We don’t need your business, Yank.” Then clicking cancel.
I couldn’t just turn around and go back. I had no alternative plan. I needed to get permission. I decided to just pretend I’d not seen the email. If I could get as much as get a foot in their door, I had a shot.
Once I’d picked up my bag, I followed the signs to the cab rank.
“Where to?” the driver asked when I reached the front of the queue.
“Doon.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s an island. Loch Doon, north of Loch Leven.”
“I don’t go that far, love. There’s a train goes Loch Leven way. That any good for you?”
“Yes, fine. The train station then.”
“In you get.”
It took twenty minutes to get there and then I had to spend an hour waiting for the train to arrive. I hadn’t planned for things to go this way. I felt sure the cab would jump at the chance for a fare that length.
It wasn’t so bad on the train when it finally got moving. The city suburbs fell away, revealing snow capped mountains and lush green forests, all passing by in a blur as we picked up speed.
At one point, the tracks ran alongside a river and I was able to follow the flight of a pair of swans. They kept pace with the train for a spell before swooping down and skidding into the water.
After three hours on the train, we came to a halt. “Alight here for Doon,” the automated voice said through the spe
akers above my head. I still had more than fifty miles to go.
The train station was just a single uncovered platform. At the end was a noticeboard and attached was a faded bus timetable. The next bus towards Doon was in forty minutes.
I could do nothing but wait. Next time, I’d hire a car from the airport. If I’d known what a trek this would turn out to be, I’d have done it this time.
Forty-five bone chilling minutes later, the bus rattled into view and I climbed onboard, handing over bank notes that looked like monopoly money to pay for my trip.
The bus took two hours to get to Doon. From what I’d been able to work out from the timetable I’d been lucky, it only ran twice a day.
It crested a final hill and then began to descend and as it did so, I got my first sight of the lake, the island, and the castle.
It was surrounded by mountains, the sun bright enough to make the water sparkle, the wind creating waves that splashed into the shore down by the village. The lake was much bigger than I expected, the island seemed tiny but it grew larger as the bus crashed through its gears, descending the steep hillside into Doon village.
We came to a halt next to the village hall. Beside it houses dotted along the roadside, all thatched roofs and smoke drifting upwards from squat chimneys.
The door opened and I stepped down. I could see the dock at the edge of the lake so I headed towards it, hoping there was an easy way of getting across to the castle. A couple of fishing boats were tied up. So far I had seen no one, the village no more than a ghost.
There was a sign pinned to the low wall at the edge of the dock, I squatted to read it.
Ferries to Doon island - Good rates - Enquire at Hedley’s Cafe.
I turned around and saw the cafe next to the village shop. I walked in, finding what looked like the entire population of the village in there, a dozen people sitting at tiny wooden tables, all of them looking up as I entered. “Hi,” I said, giving them my most winning smile. “I’m looking to get the ferry to Doon.”
From behind the counter, a white haired man in an apron looked at me from under thick eyebrows. “I’ll take ye when ahm ready. Sit yessen doon and lemme finish ma brew.”
