The Balmoral Incident (4 page)

‘Wild and yet not desolate’. As the road twisted its way out of Ballater into the mountainous countryside, the late Queen’s words in her journal described the scene most aptly. She had loved to draw it, as I did now, as we progressed west along the road with far below us tantalising glimpses of a gleaming river.

At our exclamations of delight, Vince as passenger instead of driver took the opportunity of waxing lyrical and knowledgeable, giving for Meg’s benefit a short school lesson in geography:

‘This particular quality of Deeside is to combine great heights around the river’s source and a gentle broadening in its middle life. And therein lies its enchantment. The Dee falls rapidly from its spring in the Cairngorms, among wildness and desolation, to become the famous salmon river descending amid forests to the fertile lands of the
lower Strath; indeed, the area through which it travels to join the sea sixty miles distant at the city of Aberdeen is both Highland, sea coast and plain.’

Pausing to point out a track winding downwards, he continued:

‘This no doubt originated as one of the drove roads. The only means of transport from the Highlands, the main road in fact, the only possible link carrying great herds of cattle when they moved down from the north to trysts in the more populated areas.’

‘That must have taken a very long time,’ said Meg and Vince nodded.

‘The herdsmen travelled about twelve miles a day and camped as they could. Many landowners welcomed the beasts for the manure they left behind them. Folk around Balmoral would be well accustomed to these autumnal migrants. Look, some of them are over there.’

To our right, a group of caravans and horses were huddled together in a vacant space, the smoke of their fires rising to greet us.

Vince laughed. ‘Gipsies, Meg. The descendants of the herdsman,’ and I thought of their less illustrious descendants, the tinkers with their bad reputations who skulked about the outskirts of Edinburgh, as he continued: ‘The folk will be watching their own property just as eagerly as they did when the herdsmen were passing by. In the old days it was cattle thieving, a well-established sport of the Highlands and regarded as a natural way to increase their often meagre herds. They were poor men and likely to acquire good appetites as they tramped so it was as well to keep an eye on the poultry too.’

Meg looked back over her shoulder, waving to the little group fast vanishing, some having rushed over to take a look at the motor car speeding past.

‘I like gipsies, Uncle Vince,’ she said wistfully. ‘There is something very exciting about travelling the countryside in a caravan.’

‘So speaks the city-dweller!’ Vince laughed and took a swig from whatever rich liquid filled his silver hip flask. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you had to live in it in all weathers.’

‘Can I have some of that, please, Uncle Vince?’ Meg pointed to the flask.

‘No, my dear, not until perhaps when you are a grown-up young lady,’ he said, polishing it on his sleeve. ‘This contains one of the local products. There is a long tradition of illicit distilling in our glens, a few wily practitioners who escape the net cast by excise officers. However, there is popular local support for the million gallons of whisky – usquebaugh – distilled without licence.’

‘Even here?’ Meg looked round as if expecting to see evidence of the illegal trade.

‘Indeed, my dear, it is unlikely that so remote a district as Upper Deeside, with its high reputation for turning the sparkling water of its burns into something stronger and more invigorating should have been reduced to a wholly meek and law-abiding lifestyle.’

And pointing again. ‘Especially as the district is well equipped with those convenient drove roads. Think of it, Meg. In the old days, not so very long ago really, where motor omnibuses now grind to the Devil’s Elbow and the Spittal of Glenshee with their tourists, there used to
be moonlight flittings, ponies carrying a great convoy of whisky kegs, escorted by Highlanders armed with useful cudgels and the like. And not afraid to use them either—’

As if in timely illustration of Vince’s tale, our road was barred not by men with cudgels but by the sudden appearance of a herd of sheep from a well-used farm road. A few bolder than the rest were heading directly in front of us. Our driver leant on the horn with little avail and the farmer’s collie dog’s retrieving attempts made the sheep even more frantic.

While we waited, not quite patiently, for some sort of order to be restored, the disturbance caused on that normally quiet road had made us the object of some entertainment from the gipsy encampment on the lower reaches of the hill, presumably remnants of those we had encountered earlier.

Now children rushed down to scramble onto the crumbling wall and stare at us, adults followed shouting at them – and at us. I expected all gipsies to be dark and swarthy-looking, like the women who came by the Tower selling clothes pegs and wanting to tell my fortune – ‘Ye have a lucky face, dearie’ – which I firmly resisted. Now a closer look revealed that although some of the older men were very Spanish-looking with their weathered faces, some of the young women were quite exotic, and many of the children beneath the grime were fair-skinned, sandy-haired like Meg.

One of the men pushed forward to seize a small child who had stumbled and was crying. Tall, thin, with a wayward lock of dark hair tumbling over his forehead. He was at my side of the car nearest the stone wall, gazing down at me.

The man who almost missed the train? My heart jolted as I saw him at close quarters. Would I never be free of men who reminded me of my lost beloved Danny, who in his dying breath had made Jack promise to take care of me? And Jack had done more than that, he had married me. I was his wife now, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer. And I thought of the rewards. Of Meg, the darling of both our hearts.

The sheep were gone and we were moving on. The man shouted something at Dave, our driver – a gesture which included the motor car and us. The driver shouted back; it sounded like an insult although the exchange had been in Gaelic, I thought.

‘Bloody Irish,’ muttered Dave as we pulled away.

‘Language, driver, ladies present,’ Vince reminded him sternly.

‘Gipsies, I like gipsies,’ said Meg again, looking over her shoulder for a last, fleeting glimpse. She sighed. ‘And I’m not scared of bad weather, like Uncle Vince says. You would come with me and live in a caravan, wouldn’t you, Mam?’

‘Of course I would. But what about Pa – you wouldn’t want to leave him behind would you?’

She began to protest that he would come too, of course. But I wasn’t listening. My mind was still on the gipsy, shaken by the turmoil of emotions his resemblance had conjured up.

Meg sensed there was something wrong. She took my hand. ‘Are you all right, Mam, did the sheep coming at us like that give you a scare?’

‘Of course not, darling.’ I put my arm around her.

‘Patience everyone,’ Vince announced: ‘Only a couple of miles now.’

The journey was almost over and there was Crathie Church nestling close by a bridge over a tumbling river and we were at the gates to the castle. As we drove through Vince said: ‘There are minor estate roads closer to the cottage. Mere tracks for a horseman and not for the likes of us, our Rolls would be seriously offended by potholes and so forth.’

A long drive almost at an end, full of twists and turns past well-manicured lawns and tall trees, so ordered and regulated to suggest the vanguard of an army watching over us. An occasional distant glimpsed cottage.

‘Is that ours?’ asked Meg.

But it never was until, at last, we glimpsed the turrets of the castle and in the foreground the massive structure of the stables, where Vince informed us some of the former coach houses were being turned into garages, the final destination of our motor car.

‘Here we are.’ A small cottage close by.

And that was the first surprise.

Facing us, the usual cottage exterior, supported by a rustic porch, a window on either side and two dormer windows above it, presumably bedrooms.

‘It is very small,’ whispered Mabel anxiously. Handing her down, Vince merely smiled as he opened the door.

That was the second surprise: the tiny rustic cottage vanished as before us a stretch of tartan-carpeted hallway led the way into the two rooms facing each other. Vince opened the one on the left and Mabel sighed with relief.

‘Why, it is very much larger than it appeared from outside,’ she said as we walked into the handsome dining room with a well-polished mahogany table ready to seat eight people, overseen by a cavernous sideboard stretching the length of one wall and overlooked by what could only be rather obscure family portraits.

Vince opened the door opposite, leading the way into
what would have been once designated as the parlour, opened only for special occasions, weddings, christenings and funerals. Its transformation was an elegant drawing room with plush sofas, armchairs, pretty, small tables and a lingering smell of those expensive cigars.

‘Not a country cottage at all, Vince,’ I murmured. ‘More like a gentleman’s hunting lodge.’

Vince looked pleased. ‘And there is even provision for dogs,’ he said.

‘So our landlord knows we have Thane with us.’

‘Indeed.’ Vince pointed. ‘Through the kitchen there, although I believe HM usually keeps his pets at his bedside.’

With a grin, he led us further down the hallway of what was the much-extended interior of a cottage deceptively small from the outside.

At the sight of a well-appointed kitchen, Meg ran towards the sink, turning on its shining taps.

‘Running water, Mam, like we have at home.’

‘That’s a blessed relief,’ said Mabel. ‘I must confess, I am most impressed, so much … grander and more comfortable than I expected.’ She smiled at Vince. ‘You have done us proud.’

Vince bowed and I learnt later that the alterations had been HM’s idea once he became king. He wanted to have a small private place which passers-by would dismiss without a second glance, a mere estate cottage. Only a closer inspection would reveal that as an illusion and that it was three times its original length, embellished with pieces that suggested distinguished origins in Abergeldie Castle.

There were more delights as we went up a handsome
staircase, more to be associated with a Georgian house than a narrow set of steep wooden stairs.

Meg was rushing ahead, opening doors. Two bedrooms overlooking the front and with an uninterrupted direct view towards the castle.

‘A thoughtful piece of planning,’ Vince told me later, ‘so that the occupant could have plenty of warning of any approaching.’

I was making several guesses what kind of warning that might be when Vince decided that Meg and I should share this bedroom with its splendid view, not only of the castle but a good prospect of the surrounding country. What Meg thought was a cupboard was, in fact, a small dressing room containing, of all things, a water closet.

‘Isn’t this perfectly lovely, Mam?’ said Meg. ‘And such a lovely bed, too.’ And bouncing up and down, ‘Plenty of room – you could sleep a whole family here.’ Watching her gave me an uneasy feeling of lese-majesty, considering that the bed must have frequently sheltered an occupant not just alone for peace and quiet away from the watchful household and an equally watchful spouse.

Mabel was to have the other bedroom where she indicated that Lily could occupy one of the two attic rooms, invisible from the front and accessible by a ladder, presumably installed for guests’ servants and valets.

Vince had his own quarters in the castle assigned to members of the household. In addition they contained his surgery for daily consultations and dispensing medicine for minor ailments. He was also used to being on call if needed by sick tenants on the estate.

Even as he was seeing us installed, two maids were
hurrying across from the royal kitchens with food provided after our long journey. Silently they moved into the kitchen and in due course we were served with soup, venison stew and steamed pudding after which they cleared the table and as silently departed back with the debris of our meal.

‘What about Thane?’ Meg demanded anxiously.

‘Not to worry,’ said Vince beaming on us over his cigar smoke, the inevitable and satisfying end to every meal. ‘The kennels are across there in the stable block and food will be brought to him. He’ll get his share, don’t worry, the dogs are particularly well fed.’

A consoling prospect, although the groom was alarmed at Thane’s size. ‘Like feeding one of the ponies, madam,’ he said, looking at the contents of the bowl.

I assured him that would do very well. Thane had quite a small appetite for such a large animal. He was used to sharing our meals at home, but I often wondered if he added to it by other things; I said ‘things’, trying not to identify them as wild creatures he caught and ate on Arthur’s Seat, especially when Mabel put it all into words.

‘That dog should be in the kennels. Does he not go out and hunt?’

Mabel always referred to him as ‘That Dog’, regardless of the fact that he had a name. Patiently trying to explain that he was a hound not a dog was something Meg did regularly but without the least success.

Vince asked: ‘Well, how do you like it, Meg? This will be your home for a month.’

‘A whole four weeks,’ she sighed.

‘Yes, right until the Highland Games. After that HM
leaves for London and there is a general exodus of visitors until next year.’

Meg was hugging Thane and conveying this information to him. Vince and I had decided to keep a watchful eye on him until he had time to settle in and get used to the terrain around us.

‘He might even be mistaken for a wolf,’ said Meg nervously.

‘There haven’t been wolves in this part of the world for a very long time,’ said Vince consolingly, but as he explained to me, there were gamekeepers armed with rifles and a strange, huge, grey animal might provide a target, especially a hound of the breed noted for hunting deer.

We found we were not alone in our fears regarding Thane’s well-being when the gamekeeper Aitken arrived to welcome us. Sternly surveying Thane, peacefully stretched out at Meg’s feet as she read a book, he said: ‘That animal is too big for a house pet, sir, should be kept outside. Could damage Royal property, you know,’ he added with a sharp glance around the room for any evidence to add weight to his remark.

Vince said, ‘He is used to living indoors, well trained. One of the family,’ he added.

Aiken grunted and shook his head. ‘Proper place for him is in the stable kennels with the other dogs, sir.’ Frowning, he paused and said: ‘I have strict instructions that he is not to be let run wild, he is to be restricted to a lead. At all times, sir.’ Another look at Thane lying peacefully ignoring him. ‘We’ll have to see if his presence so close by upsets the other dogs. They’ll bark at anything
and we can’t have the family’, with a respectful nod towards the castle, ‘kept awake at night.’

Vince gave a solemn assurance on Thane’s behalf and Aiken nodded but doubtfully. Taking his leave, he said, ‘A word of warning, Dr Laurie. Don’t let HM clap eyes on him. What I mean is that if he were to get a glimpse of such a handsome creature …’ Pausing, he scratched his ear thoughtfully and sighed. ‘We don’t have any deerhounds and well, you know the rest – if you take my meaning, sir.’

Touching his bonnet he walked away to where his labrador was waiting, chained to the fence. Unleashing it he saluted us solemnly.

‘What did he mean by that – about the King?’ I asked.

Vince glanced at Thane. ‘Come on, Rose, surely you know the royal prerogative. If the King should come and say “That’s a fine dog you have there” then he would expect you to curtsey and say “Please, Your Majesty, I would be honoured if you would accept him as a gift”.’

Meg who had been listening to this conversation gave a shriek of horror. ‘No, Uncle Vince, never!’ And with a protective arm around Thane’s neck. ‘He’s mine!’ She was suddenly tearful, and Vince said, ‘Don’t worry, Meg, it isn’t going to happen. We won’t let it happen.’

I was doubtful about that. Word gets around with surprising speed and we were here for a month. Could we possibly keep his presence a secret from the King?

We had only been in the cottage a few hours and already I could see complications looming on the horizon, especially as next morning I heard a horseman close by.

Looking out of the window, there was the King emerging from the stables on a handsome stallion, his
favourite I learnt, to be entered for one of the national steeplechase events. I thought he gazed intently at the cottage. Was he on the lookout for Thane?

I shivered. If one was on the lookout for bad omens, a lad had drowned during the salmon leistering in Loch Muick. ‘The river’s swift-moving,’ Vince told us. ‘He stumbled, fell and hit his head. Knocked him out and he was swept away.’

We went to the window, as the doleful procession carrying his body back passed the stables on a litter.

An ominous start to a holiday, indeed. I clutched Meg to my side.

A quiver of fear went through me. It was one I recognise and I would do well to heed. That old warning shaft was never in vain.