[Mirabelle Bevan 08] - Highland Fling

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Mrs Robertson,’ she squawked, an HB pencil gripped so tightly between her fingers that her knuckles whitened.

  ‘Good morning, Margaret,’ Eleanor said kindly. ‘Miss Orlova has come back to check on her order and I’ve brought Miss Bevan, who would like to do some shopping.’

  ‘Right-o,’ the girl said and, with a sense of purpose, she walked back into reception and smartly turned the key in a wooden door marked ‘showroom’ at the end of the desk. Inside, two fluorescent strips flickered into a harsh flood of light. Below them, spaced evenly, two plastic models sported cashmere polo necks over casual, tartan skirts. Behind these, row upon row of shelves, floor to ceiling, contained folded woollen items in a rainbow of colours. Propped up against the shelves were two large photographs of stiff-looking models wearing colourful V-necks. Margaret switched on a two-bar electric fire.

  ‘Obviously, they could do better for display,’ Eleanor commented. ‘I mean, it doesn’t make one want to buy, does it? But look at this.’ She pulled a few sweaters off the shelf and laid them on a rickety trestle table that was erected to the side. ‘You have to feel it. Good cashmere will last you a lifetime,’ she enthused. The wool smelled raw – fresh off the loom. It draped beautifully.

  Behind her, Tash fitted a cashmere tippet on to the model. ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘And look at this,’ she gestured as she picked a pale peach wrap from another shelf. ‘It’s for you, Mirabelle,’ she declared. ‘Orange is notoriously difficult to wear but you’ll do it. That evening dress you had on the first night you were here was so chic. Oh yes, that’s perfect.’ She held the length of material up to Mirabelle’s cheek and called over her shoulder to Margaret, ‘Is there a mirror?’

  ‘I’ll see.’ The girl ducked out of sight. Eleanor mimed shooting herself in the head at the idiocy of not having a mirror in the showroom. ‘No customer service,’ she proclaimed.

  Tash smoothed the knit to Mirabelle’s skin. ‘People keep saying I should be a model,’ she said, ‘but I don’t fancy it.’ She struck a pose for an exquisite, frozen moment, arms outstretched. Then she smiled. ‘Nina was indulging me this trip, you know. I want to be a designer. That’s why I came along. She was having some of my designs made up, though she didn’t approve.’

  ‘I don’t blame her.’ Eleanor sounded startled. ‘Modelling pays so well. Girls are earning extraordinary sums these days.’

  ‘I saw the cashmere down at the lodge. On the table,’ Mirabelle said more encouragingly. ‘I was drawn to the turquoise.’

  Tash’s eyes lit. ‘It’s a wonderful shade. I chose it for next season – by the time we’ve had it made up, it’ll be winter 1959, can you imagine? People think knitwear is about the collars, but actually it’s about the fit on the body,’ she said as she warmed to the topic. ‘The length of the sleeve is the important thing. I like a flared sleeve. It’s modern.’

  ‘Oh yes. I can see that,’ Mirabelle said.

  ‘It takes more fabric but there’s definitely a market at the top end for something unusual – fitted on the body and then …’ She flicked her fingers. ‘Something new.’

  Margaret returned with an inadequately small, hand-held mirror in which, squinting to make herself out, Mirabelle could see that Tash was right.

  ‘Nina could wear orange, but she never did,’ Tash continued. ‘Red. Boring red. I think these mid-pastels are wonderful, don’t you?’ She pulled out a cardigan with a Peter Pan collar the colour of heather and held it up to her cheek. The buttons were like tiny pearls. ‘Oh god, I thought I was done, but I guess I’d better take this one too. They’d cost five times as much in New York.’

  Mirabelle remembered the huge percentages in Nina’s diary. She was about to ask something about mark-ups, when a woman wearing an ill-fitting brown tweed suit appeared in the doorway. Her jacket collar was edged with velvet, which made it stick out in an awkward V.

  ‘Good morning, ladies,’ she said as if the words were an announcement. ‘Miss Orlova, I’d like to extend our condolences. We were all sorry to hear about your godmother.’

  Tash put down the cardigan. ‘Thanks,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘Oh gosh. I’m getting upset again.’

  It must be difficult, Mirabelle thought, everyone talking about Nina. She knew from experience, grief came and went like a cruel game of hide and seek. Tash pulled herself together. ‘I came to confirm,’ she said. ‘Nina was working on behalf of several boutiques, as you know. The orders still stand despite her death. I’d like to ship just as we arranged.’

  ‘It’s extremely thoughtful of you at such a difficult time, miss.’

  ‘She would have hated to let anybody down,’ Tash said sadly. ‘And I’d like to add an order too. Those green hats with the bobbles we looked at? Do you know the ones I mean?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘I’ll take two dozen of those. Three-ply. They’re just the thing for a New York winter.’

  The woman shifted her weight slightly.

  ‘Nina didn’t like them but I do,’ Tash continued. ‘They’ll sell well at this little place I know. And that’ll be all, apart from this cardigan. I’ll take that now. It’s for me.’ She handed it over.

  ‘Right.’ The woman handed the cardigan to Margaret, who now hovered in the doorway. ‘Wrap that, would you, dear?’ she said. ‘And would you like to take that peach stole, madam?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please,’ said Mirabelle. ‘Tash has a frightfully good eye. Do you make all of this here?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ the woman said. ‘I can take you around the weaving sheds, if you’d like.’

  Eleanor pointedly looked at her watch. ‘Your call, Mirabelle, but we can’t do everything.’

  They paid, took their parcels and walked back to the car. Mirabelle slipped the stole out of its brown paper and draped it over her shoulders on top of her coat. ‘You disagreed with your godmother about the order she made?’

  ‘She could be old-fashioned,’ Tash said. ‘She was wrong about those hats. People will go wild for them, don’t you think, Eleanor?’

  ‘I can see youngsters wearing them next winter,’ Eleanor enthused. ‘Skating in Central Park.’

  Tash loitered beside the car door. ‘I suppose I can do what I want. Now that she’s gone.’

  ‘Is there something you would like to do, that you couldn’t before?’ Mirabelle pressed. ‘Bobble hats notwithstanding?’

  Tash stuck her hands in her pockets. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s still sinking in. One minute I’m heartbroken and then I just want to get on. The hats are a start, I guess.’

  Along the bank, vivid yellow crocuses peeked through the undergrowth like doubloons cast on the shore. The water was smooth as glass. Eleanor reached into her handbag and brought out a silver cigarette case. Mirabelle and Tash both declined. She leaned against the car and lit a smoke.

  ‘Are those Capstans?’ Mirabelle asked.

  ‘I know. Terrible, right? I can’t help it. Bruce has tried everything – he bought me a carton of some smart Italian brand but it turns out I have the palate of a sailor. He won’t let these in the house.’ She took a deep draw and put her arm around Mirabelle’s shoulder. ‘They learned to swim right here, our men. Can’t you see them, two skinny kids splashing about for dear life? The water is freezing even in high summer.’ She chortled.

  Ahead of them, a bird dived for fish, falling from the sky like a stone and emerging triumphant with a squirming, silvery trout. Eleanor stubbed out her cigarette and slipped into the driving seat. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tash sounded perturbed.

  ‘Gwendolyn. It’s almost eleven and Mirabelle has questions she wants to ask the old bird.’

  Tash raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I like to be thorough,’ Mirabelle said.

  The Dougals’ house was a castle. The road began to climb away from the loch-side as the women drove towards it, the gradient becoming steeper and the engine labourin
g. ‘Wow,’ Tash breathed as five storeys of hewn granite with two towers and a keep swept into view. ‘Is that… real?’

  ‘You have to go over the bridge.’ Eleanor gestured towards a worn wooden drawbridge that spanned the shallow moat. A huge yellow and red lion rampant flew from the other side. ‘It’s real all right.’ Eleanor sounded weary. ‘It still looks like it did in the fifteenth century, inside as well as out. Medieval Scotland was neither warm nor comfortable. Brace yourselves.’

  On cue, the moan of bagpipes started somewhere in the interior.

  ‘Oh god.’ Eleanor sounded annoyed. ‘I forgot they did that.’

  ‘Did what?’ Mirabelle enquired.

  ‘Porridge. Bagpipes. Dead stags,’ she said dismissively.

  The moat was mostly filled with mud that had frozen in patches. A few gloomy-looking puddles had freshly formed on the surface after the heavy rain. A long tartan pennant ran down one turret. Eleanor led them through the archway and into a cobbled quad. ‘The Dougals were Jacobites,’ she said. ‘That’s how the story goes.’

  Tash looked blank.

  ‘It’s just one set of royalty fighting with another,’ Eleanor clarified. ‘Kings against kings. Anyway, the Jacobites are sainted, pretty much, though they lost. The story goes that Bonnie Prince Charlie spent three nights here on his retreat from Culloden. That’s where he lost,’ she said, with a matter-of-fact air.

  Before they reached the front door, it opened, and Willie Dougal appeared with two jaunty terriers at his heel. ‘Ladies!’ he called. ‘What a lovely surprise. Welcome to Brochmor.’

  They removed their coats in the hallway. Eleanor had not exaggerated. The hall rose over thirty feet and was decorated with spears and pikes that had clearly been there for centuries. Three tattered flags were nailed over a wide fireplace – two ropey-looking saltires and another lion rampant. On either side of the hearth, bashed-up suits of armour were displayed on stands and, above them, several stag heads mounted on dark wooden shields. Tash stared and then raised her eyes, transfixed by the wooden beams. ‘It’s a great old place,’ Willie said jovially. Mirabelle shivered. It might be a great old place, but Eleanor was right – it was cold.

  ‘We popped by to visit Gwendolyn,’ Eleanor announced.

  An expression flickered across Willie’s face that betrayed the fact that this was unlikely in the usual run of things. ‘She’s in her chamber,’ he said, and started to lead them upstairs, the dogs following obediently as the sound of the pipes receded. The hallway was dark despite the brightness of the morning. The castle had small windows set into its thick walls and they glowed like diamonds against the dark stone. Mirabelle noted that the sills stretched three feet deep.

  ‘What’re the bagpipes for?’ Tash asked.

  ‘The men always practise at this time of day,’ Willie said. ‘When we have guests, they’re woken by the pipes. It’s the best alarm clock. At Christmas we host a ceilidh and they play there too. You’d love it.’

  The day room was at the end of the corridor. Behind the heavy oak door, several freestanding lamps blazed and the walls were lined with tapestries in yellow and burnt orange. Gwendolyn was stationed at an oak writing desk by the fire, a cigarette burning in the ashtray beside her and her terrier at her feet. The room smelled of dried lavender and the faintest whiff of damp dog.

  ‘Oh,’ Gwendolyn said, ‘how lovely.’ She rose and pulled sharply on a long piece of fabric that hung beside the mantel. ‘I’ll have them bring us tea.’ The terrier growled and Gwendolyn ignored him. She kissed Eleanor on the cheek, gave Tash a hug and held out her hand to Mirabelle. ‘Will you be joining us, darling?’ she asked her husband, who loitered uneasily in the doorway.

  ‘No, no. You ladies enjoy yourselves,’ he said.

  As he left, the women arranged themselves in the old chairs around the fireplace. On the mantel, several highly polished, silver-framed pictures contained photographs of the couple – Gwendolyn sticking a rosette on an enormous prize bull, Willie hunting with a gun over his forearm, and the two of them dressed for a Highland Ball, a showy diamond brooch pinned to a tartan sash over Gwendolyn’s shoulder. Mirabelle shifted in her seat.

  ‘To what do I owe this honour?’ Gwendolyn asked.

  ‘I thought Tash and Mirabelle might like to see the castle,’ Eleanor replied.

  ‘It is such an attraction, isn’t it?’ Gwendolyn sounded smug. ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie stayed here for three nights on his retreat from Culloden and Queen Victoria and Prince Albert spent a night in the same bed in 1856.’

  ‘I do hope it wasn’t exactly the same bed?’ Tash giggled.

  ‘Brochmor has a long and illustrious history,’ Gwendolyn continued drily. ‘Willie’s family has owned everything for miles around for generations. He’s still the clan chief, though these days it’s more an honorary title. He’s just a simple farmer, really.’

  The door opened and a maid in a traditional black and white uniform brought a tray laid with tea things. Mirabelle noticed oat biscuits – just as Eleanor had predicted; four on the plate, which seemed a touch exacting. Mrs Gillies, for all her faults, doled out food lavishly. Gwendolyn poured the tea, brushing off the maid as if the girl was an annoyance. ‘I can show you around,’ she offered. ‘Everybody says the view from the ramparts is extraordinary. Did you hear the piper? We live our traditions here.’

  ‘It’s so important,’ Eleanor said, her tone absolutely flat. Mirabelle thought it was game of her to play along because she definitely wasn’t enjoying herself.

  ‘Yes,’ Gwendolyn enthused, seemingly unaware. ‘It means the world up here because Scotland is essentially still tribal. Willie’s people, the tenants, I mean, appreciate his leadership. Tash dear, how are you coping? It must be a comfort now that your uncle, the baron, has arrived.’

  Tash bit into a biscuit and found she couldn’t speak. She chewed noisily before managing to swallow. ‘Not for me. I ate a huge breakfast,’ Mirabelle said as Gwendolyn swung the plate towards her. ‘We’re trying to figure out Nina’s last hours,’ she continued. ‘That’s the thing. And we wondered if she mentioned anything to you, Gwendolyn? Anything she might have been worried about?’

  ‘To me? Why ever would she mention anything to me?’ Gwendolyn put down the plate.

  ‘I just wondered if anything had come up when you two met. For champagne. Before dinner the other night.’

  Gwendolyn looked uncomfortable. ‘Who told you?’ she asked, and then answered her own question, ‘Ah. Her black man.’

  Mirabelle’s skin prickled. ‘Gregory did mention it,’ she said, trying to keep Gwendolyn talking. ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘This and that. People we had in common. The state of the world.’

  ‘What was Nina’s view on the state of the world?’

  ‘Very much the same as mine,’ Gwendolyn said with a smile. ‘She was a sensible woman. She understood we need to keep control of things in the West – that we need to work together.’

  ‘To keep out the Reds, you mean?’ Tash demanded.

  ‘Exactly. They can’t threaten us. Now, more than ever, it is up to the Allies to stick together.’

  ‘The Russians, as I recall, were our allies during the war,’ Mirabelle said.

  Gwendolyn looked outraged. ‘That’s hardly relevant. There’s no excuse for what they’re doing. Bloody backward Communist bullies – our local schoolchildren are undergoing drills, you know. In the event of—’

  ‘Honestly, Gwendolyn,’ Eleanor couldn’t bear it any longer. ‘It’s not so black and white. The West has done its fair share of bullying. Britain isn’t what it was, let’s face it.’

  This riled Gwendolyn. ‘What nonsense!’ she muttered. ‘Look at the way the Russians behaved over Suez. Bloody cheek! Anyway,’ she struggled to control herself. ‘We should go up to the ramparts. You know what the Scottish weather is like. If we don’t get up there while the sun is out, it’ll be tipping down before we know it. You can’t come to Brochmor and not s
ee the view.’

  They abandoned the tea things. The dog came with them. As they climbed the stairs, he wound between their legs, almost tripping them up. Mirabelle caught Eleanor’s eye and they smiled like naughty schoolgirls. From the ramparts the view was as extraordinary as Gwendolyn had promised. Bagpipe practice over, they settled into the thick silence, which was only broken now and then by the sound of the birds and the wind. Gwendolyn began a commentary that she had clearly given several times before. ‘This part of the castle is thirteenth century – built by Lord Fraser Dougal and completed in 1275, and over there is a later addition, built in the early eighteenth century. Johnny-come-lately,’ she laughed at her own joke. ‘We have a ghost,’ she added. ‘Not as sad a story as your Green Lady.’

  ‘I didn’t know you believed in ghosts.’ Eleanor kept her tone measured – quite a feat.

  Gwendolyn continued with relish. ‘The castle is haunted by Lord Fraser Dougal’s son, Robert. He died at the battle of Stirling Bridge in 1297, fighting alongside William Wallace. They say he couldn’t bear to leave Brochmor. Occasionally someone sees him here on the ramparts. Sweet, really. It must be awful to have an unhappy ghost – I mean the Green Lady is so tragic.’

  Eleanor’s slim smile strained. ‘We manage.’

  ‘He walled her up, didn’t he? The husband. When she locked herself in her room? Starved to death, poor thing. Now, let me see, that must be Bruce’s great-great-great-great-grandfather. I heard someone saw her in the village on Wednesday night. They say she appears if the laird hurts a woman.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. There’s no such thing as ghosts, Gwendolyn. It’s just a stupid story,’ Eleanor snapped.

  There was some weak warmth in the sun. Mirabelle turned her face towards it. She worked out the direction of the railway, though you couldn’t see it from the castle. Old habits, she chided herself, always figuring out how to get away. The tracks were close, she realised, though whoever had been the laird when the railway was laid clearly had a hand in keeping the steam trains out of his line of vision. At a glance, nothing much had changed here in centuries. Bruce was right, she thought, the biggest shake-up the place had seen since the Jacobites was probably Eleanor with her forward-thinking determination. She had taken on a lot – ghosts and all.