Call of Glengarron (5 page)

What couldn’t I have said to that? Craig deserved to be slapped right down, and hard—and I’d have enjoyed doing it. But anything of the kind would only add to his resentment of me, and so affect his attitude to Jamie.

Holding back my seething anger, I said meekly, “Just as you wish.”

Maybe it was lucky for both of us that I hadn’t to put up with Craig McKinross for very long.

I was impressed, even a bit startled, by the excellence of the lunch. A rather rich pate was a prelude to trout grilled in oatmeal. After this came
coq au vin,
followed by cheeses and fresh fruit. It was all very delicious, but it seemed pretentious for a weekday family meal, even in a castle.

Soon after we had finished, Craig suggested making a move. I took Jamie upstairs and dressed him in some warm long pants and his blue quilted windbreaker.

Outside in the courtyard the air was crisp, with a real nip, so I was glad of my own warm slacks and suede jacket. Jamie clung to my hand while Craig backed out a jeep from one of the outbuildings.

The great outer gate was open now, and we drove straight through the arch. “We only keep that door closed when the weather’s bad,” Craig explained briefly. “It gives a bit of protection from the wind.”

The promontory on which the castle stood was almost an island, joined to the bank by a stone bridge or causeway. I noticed a boat, a small motor launch, moored by a jetty. There was a sort of beach there too, a stretch of sandy shingle shelving gently into the water.

As we turned onto the narrow highway, boat and beach were cut off from view by the bulk of the towering castle walls.

“Look, Jamie—it’s a real “knights of old’ castle, isn’t it? I wonder if there was ever a princess held prisoner in one of those little rooms at the top.”

It looked so different now from the grim gray pile that had greeted our arrival. Against the background of white-flecked blue water, the castle walls were a mellow medley of colors—subtle shades of yellow-fawn and brown, shading to purple and even jet black in the shadows. The castle had withstood the battering weather of long centuries, blending gracefully into the natural landscape.

We were driving back the way we had come this morning, the road rising quite steeply as we left the water’s edge. Looking sideways past Craig’s grim-set profile, I got a view of Loch Ghorm that stretched wider with every few feet we climbed. The sheet of shining water was dominated at its far end by a great bare mountain, snow-capped, remotely friendly in the clear sunlight. On either side softer hills were modestly veiled in velvet forest, right down to the water’s edge.

Looking down upon the castle, I could understand its neatly impregnable plan. The little rocky island floated gently just offshore, tethered to the bank by the causeway.

The idea of fairy-tale happenings, of wicked kings and romantically rescued princesses, had caught at Jamie’s imagination. For the first time he was showing real interest in the castle that was to be his home. He was still babbling enthusiastically as we swung left off the road.

The muddy grass struck in a direct line up the hillside, cleaving the dense forest, arrowing to the crest. Looking ahead, there was nothing to be seen but this ten foot wide channel lined interminably with pencil-straight pine trees. After the heavy rain it was almost a river.

The going was very rough. Jamie enjoyed it hugely, anticipating the biggest bumps and giggling as the jeep rolled and heaved.

But what was fun to Jamie apparently gave his father no amusement at all. Craig’s frown deepened as we climbed higher. I had a definite feeling, though, that he was no longer so pointedly angry with me. It was as if he was withdrawing to other and more serious problems. His silence no longer had a quality of strictly personal animosity.

The estate seemed to stretch for miles. Occasionally we crossed other tracks that were cut in the hillside, following the natural contours of the land. But our own always thrust purposefully straight, its gradient never eased by even the slightest diversion.

Craig made a brief comment from time to time, as if suddenly recollecting the need for a spot of courtesy toward a guest. But however hard I tried to keep him talking, each conversation inevitably died on the instant.

In one of these short bursts he told me the estate was almost wholly given over to forestry. “There are just a few tenant farmers living up through the glen.”

I knew nothing about agriculture, but I tried to sound intelligent. “What sort of thing—dairy farming or crops?”

Craig grunted. “Oh, you know ...” He sounded just about as vague as his aunt.

At last, and none too soon for my bruised seat bones, we reached a clearing and stopped. There was a portable hut here, and a busy scene of men at work. The sharp whirring rattle of motorized sawing cut through the stillness.

Craig switched off the jeep’s engine and got down, “Want to stretch your legs?” he invited.

I nodded. “Yes, I’d like to.”

The ground was soft with a thick layer of pine needles, making the surface reasonably dry to walk on. As we strolled toward the group of workers, one of them broke away and came up to us. He was a big powerful man, still youthfully supple in middle age.

“Hello, Angus. How are you?”

“Good day to you, Mr. Craig. It’s fine to see you back at Glengarron.” The voice was soft as a murmured lullaby.

“Jamie, I want you to meet Mr. MacRae, who is the chief forester here. This is my son, Angus.”

The foreman nodded to Jamie, smiling. “A sturdy wee lad, sir.”

Belatedly, Craig remembered me. “And this is Miss Calvert. She kindly brought Jamie up from London.”

“Good day to you, miss.”

Craig half turned away, glancing toward the gang of men. “I’ve been looking at things on the way up here,” he said.

Angus MacRae cut in quickly. “Aye, sir, and you’ll not be any too ...”

Another saw started up nearby, blasting his words to shreds. Jamie tugged me over to get a closer view of what was going on.

After a few minutes Craig came across to us. “I want to look at a new plantation on the far slope,” he said. “It’s only a couple of hundred yards or so. Would you care to come?”

I was surprised by the pleasantness of his manner. “Thank you. Come along, Jamie.”

“No, there’s no need to bring him. He’ll be happier watching the sawing.”

“But ... is it safe?” I didn’t want to interfere, but Jamie seemed so tiny to be left amidst these dangerous tree-falling operations.

Craig nodded. “Perfectly safe. Angus MacRae is going to look after him.”

As we headed for a narrower track slicing the forest on our right, I turned and looked back. MacRae was hoisting a cheerful Jamie onto his massive shoulders. The boy saw me, and laughed and waved.

Craig had noticed my almost maternal concern. “Angus MacRae is a good man,” he said. “Jamie will get along well with him.”

Now I understood the reason for Craig’s sudden switch of mood. He wanted to separate me from his son, in an effort to begin to break down Jamie’s clinging dependence. Well, maybe it was the sensible thing to do.

After a few yards this minor track became exceedingly rough. The surface had been churned to thick black cream by heavy caterpillar tractors, and I had to concentrate on picking my way. Once or twice Craig offered me a hand, helping me over the worst patches.

“Sorry about this,” he muttered uneasily. “I didn’t think it would be so bad.”

He seemed so concerned that I put on a polite laugh. “What’s a little bit of mud? It will soon wash off.”

He looked at me oddly. “It certainly wouldn’t have suited Margo.”

With those few careless words he had destroyed the easier atmosphere between us. It seemed to me in extremely bad taste that his very first mention of Margo should be critical. Better not to have referred to her at all.

I suppose I spoke rather hotly. “Did you ever trouble to discover what might or might not have suited Margo?”

“I don’t understand.” His voice was like granite again.

Foolishly, in spite of my stern resolutions, I allowed anger to take hold. “Your marriage might have been more satisfactory if you hadn’t always tried to force Margo into your mold. She was a person in her own right, not a puppet on strings.”

Craig didn’t reply, and perhaps it was just as well. If he too had let self-control fly away, our fundamental antagonism would have been exposed.

We tramped on in tight silence while I tried to get my anger below a boil. Craig still gave me a hand whenever the going became impossible. But now I might just as well have been offered a wooden prop, for all the human contact there was between us.

At the crest of the hill the ground rolled away into a shallow valley, before it rose to another height. The whole area was dotted with young pine trees, not long planted. They stretched in uniform rows, neatly spaced.

Craig came to a halt and stood regarding the plantation moodily. I thought he had forgotten I was there until he asked suddenly, “Why was Jamie with you ... on the night she died?”

“I was looking after him because Margo had a business appointment. In her job she had to keep in touch, meet people....” I realized I was rattling on, as Margo needed defending. “He often stayed the night with me.”

“I see. That explains why he is so very devoted to you.”

“Well, I suppose it does. I always did my best to make him happy.”

“To make up for his mother’s neglect?” The words were stabbed in so quickly that I was taken by surprise. So, for all Craig’s earlier show of self-composure, he seemed to be declaring open warfare. Well, if that was what he wanted, I could match him any day.

“What right have you to criticize Margo? You were the one to let Jamie down—not her. A boy needs a father, but what did you ever care about that?”

“I cared a very great deal.” He turned away from me, crouched down, pretending to inspect one of the young conifers. “I could have demanded custody of young Jamie, but I happen to think that a child shouldn’t be separated from its mother in the early years, even if she ...”

“You talk of one or the other,” I said sharply. “A child needs both his parents.”

Craig straightened up, pulling the little tree right out of the ground. With a flick he shook the loose soil from the roots, and began to examine them closely.

“I agree with you, Miss Calvert. It may interest you to know that on quite a few occasions I tried for a reconciliation with Margo.”

He was a fool to suppose I’d fall for that. “I can just imagine your terms. If Margo admitted it had all been her fault, you would generously allow her to return....”

“On the contrary, I gave way on almost every point. In fact, the last time I saw her I offered to ...”

“Why speak of what happened years back? You haven’t seen Margo since she came to live in London, and you went abroad.”

He glanced at me quickly, and then went back to inspecting the tree roots. But I doubted if he was really observing them. “I can assure you,” he said slowly, “that Margo was clearly informed of my readiness to have another go at making our marriage work.”

“Then quite obviously she couldn’t have believed in your sincerity.”

With an angry gesture Craig tossed the sapling away from him. “We’d better be getting back, Miss Calvert. I don’t want to keep Angus MacRae from his work any longer.”

There was a bustle of excited activity all through my second day at Glengarron, in preparation for a lavish dinner party that evening.

Apparently this was a regular event, held on the first Tuesday of each month, the gentry from miles around being invited. From overhearing odd remarks I gathered that the Lennoxes had suggested canceling the affair when they knew Craig would be home, but he had insisted on letting the arrangement stand.

In the normal way two or three girls, daughters of estate workers, came to the castle each day to help Duncan and his wife with the domestic chores. But today the place was alive with hurrying women. Everybody available had been pressed into service. It was amazing where they all came from in this thinly populated country. I supposed they had been collected from outlying farms and cottages, and transported to the castle
en bloc.

Busy as they were, every one of the women had time to make a fuss over Jamie. The poor child was a bit overwhelmed by so much attention, especially as he found it difficult to follow the softly lilting Highland speech. In the end I took him out of the mainstream into the relatively quiet backwater of the family’s small sitting room.

He was clinging to me as much as ever. Perhaps even more, after a big upset the previous evening at bedtime.

Craig’s old nursery had been cleaned and got ready, but that was on the top floor of the castle. When Jamie realized he was to sleep so far away from me, he began to sob bitterly.

Craig seemed at a loss, and there had been a hasty family discussion.

Fiona had spoken out harshly. “He ought to be pleased to have his father’s old room. He’ll soon settle down if we’re firm about it.”

But I knew it wasn’t as simple as that. “I think you’re forgetting Jamie’s not five years old yet. Everything is strange here, and the poor little chap’s frightened.”

Eventually, he had been allowed to go to bed in the guest room next to mine.

The episode seemed to have convinced the family that it wasn’t going to be all smooth sailing with Jamie. They were realizing now that you couldn’t snatch a small child from one life and drop him into a totally different world, without a lot of difficult readjustment

About eleven-thirty Mrs. Lennox eddied into the sitting room. I was reading
The Wind in the Willows—a
firm favorite of Jamie’s that I think he knew almost by heart. He wasn’t any too pleased to be told to play with some building blocks while his great-aunt talked to me.

“We’ve been wondering, my dear,” she began, “Jamie is not settling down here—”

She was looking at me inquiringly, as if I ought to understand what she was getting at.

“I’m sure it’s only a matter of time,” I said.