The Green Flash (32 page)

There were names here and there, engraved in the stonework. I switched on the lights, which flickered uncertainly and dismally from two hanging candelabra.
Fraser Abden, Bannockburn. Grant Abden, Culloden. Malcolm Abden, Glenfinnan. Charles Abden, Homildon. Douglas Abden, Sauchieburn
. The names were clumsily cut, and not all by the same hand; but they didn't look very old, probably not more than half a century. We'd been a bloody lot – though there was nothing to show whether these were the names of men who had fallen or merely of men who had fought.

I peered at the coat of arms between the two fireplaces. It looked like a unicorn and a heart and a shield. Underneath was written:
Creag mo chroidhe-se a chreag ghuanach
.

I wandered about the room and saw some more scratchings: these much older, looking contemporary with the dates.
Bruce Abden, beheaded, January 1572. Malcolm Abden, died on rack, November 1583
.

Lovely. There was another coat of arms here, more primitive in style, with something like a lynx or a leopard snarling.
Algionnach no nadur fhein
. Someone much more recently had been obliging enough this time to write underneath what I took to be a translation.
The beast itself both bright and bold
.

A shiver went down my back, caused by the tomb-chill of this hall. I'd think myself in a bloody haunted house soon. Where was the old woman dragging her son's head along the floor or the man screaming as his bones were stretched from their sockets? The beast itself both bright and bold.

I supposed I must come of a family of Jacobites. Whom else could they have followed but that born loser, Bonnie Prince Charlie? Yet somehow they'd hung on, in their arrogant, single-minded, obstinate way. They'd hung on to the house and the name and the faith, through all the plots and counterplots and uprisings and conspiracies, the beheadings, the rackings, the sequestrations, the oppressions, the denials of right and privilege. And later on there were these other names on the walls: Lucknow, Salamanca, Waterloo, Sebastopol, Omdurman, Loos, Tripoli, Arnhem. At some stage they'd thrown in their lot with the English, helped their old enemies in their quest for Empire.

And the end of it all was me, a sales manager in a perfumery firm. No wonder my old aunt was wetting herself with disappointment.

Yet what had her own son Malcolm been? A failed Member of Parliament, a raconteur, a minor television personality, a poseur, a womanizer. Was that much better? It was the strain that was deteriorating, wearing out, trickling like a spent river into the sands.

And who would follow me? Some Canadian farmer or Canadian farmer's son, with even less concern than I – if that were possible – for his long and peculiar and narrowly proud ancestry.

Unless I married and had a son. It was at least a laughable possibility.

IV

A long time going to sleep, for the gale was getting worse, and half Loch Broom seemed to be coming in the windows. Not that I would have minded Loch Broom in preference to some of the sick fancies the evening bred. That thing on the second crest was neither a lynx nor a leopard but some man-invented nightmare animal, half real and half imagined, half alive and half dead, smelling like a skunk and a charnel house, snarling a spittle-slime over all it could reach. The beast itself both bright and bold.

When I did go to sleep I dreamed I
had
a son; I don't know who the mother was but the fat nurse was bringing it in her arms away from the labour ward and smiling at me as she came up. ‘Be prepared for a shock, Sir David,' she said with rubbery lips. ‘ It will be a little shock at first, Sir David, but I'm sure you'll be able to adjust. Your wife is adjusting nicely, Sir David,' She opened the blanket, and there in her arms dribbling slime was the Beast, fangs bared in a lecherous snarl, little, blind bloodshot sockets where the eyes should have been, fat arms outstretched waiting for me to take him …

I woke with a grunt. Christ, if this wasn't worse than dreaming of prison or a drunken father and a leather strap! I got up and dragged on my trousers and heavy overcoat and went downstairs, switching on lights on the way, avoiding the old hall with its phantoms and its incubi, made the kitchen and snapped on the kettle. If it was colder than this at the North Pole I didn't want to go.

With coffee I stepped into the drawing-room and kicked some embers of the fire together, blew on them with the bellows until the glow broke into flame, then erupted all the rest of the wood out of the woodbox and watched it catch.

I sat there for about an hour while the fire blazed and warmed the front two inches of me and the cobwebs of nightmare blew away. Then I went to bed.

I decided this was the last time my ramshackle inheritance would see me. The quicker I sold the place the better. It was curtains for Wester Craig.

I

When I got back to London a big fencing thing was on, and I went along with Shona to watch Erica. In the morning there were eliminating bouts in which all the competitors had a go. If you got through these, then there were quarter-finals in the afternoon, and ultimately in the evening the last eight contestants fought it out in Seymour Hall before an audience, many of whom were the eliminated fencers.

The French women were particularly good, and the Italians and West Germans not far behind. By the afternoon every English woman except Erica had gone, and she was beaten by a Frenchwoman in the first contest of the evening. She joined us to watch the final bouts, a pink flush of fatigue hollowing her skin. I thought she looked high generally.

‘For Pete's sake,' I said, ‘this is an endurance test!'

‘Oh, it's OK. It's the same for everyone.'

‘How many bouts have you had today?'

‘Seven.'

‘And if you'd got through to the end it would have been nine. You can't be expected to have the same stamina as that kangaroo from Marseilles.'

‘They're going to run it over two days next year.' She looked at me with her sultry eyes and laughed. ‘It can't be that you're feeling sympathetic, David! Shona, something has happened. David is becoming a ladies' man!'

‘He always was,' said Shona. ‘Did you not know?'

I suppose Shona had decided to play it cool, see how things went, not press or nag. Presumably she still hadn't a clue as to what had gone amiss between us, no doubt had come to all the wrong conclusions. I ought to tell her. Some day I ought to tell her, in fairness to myself. Because if it did begin again, even in only the most desultory way, how long could it last?

Knowing made me notice more, or hypnotized me into imagining more. Skin of her face showed puckerings in certain lights, not so much round the eyes as round the mouth and chin. Used spectacles more. Veins of hands becoming prominent. Had she ever had a face lift? Certainly not in my time …

Not that there was any sign of slackening-off on her part. She still moved only a little slower than sound, driving me and others to ever greater effort, chairing our monthly meetings with all her old fire and passion, making public appearances, attending her health farm, fencing on Tuesdays – maybe, who knew, having it off with some new fancy man Mondays and Fridays. (Wouldn't have liked that if I'd thought she did. Dog in the manger, etc.)

Semaphore was launched at last and, true to Shona's road sense, didn't make it big. To my way of thinking the advertising wasn't explicit enough. What it really should have said was, ‘If you want to lay a bird, this will help you as nothing else does.' Leo Longford summed up the general feeling: ‘You're still before your time, David. It has to come, but we're still among the pioneers. Other people will score later on.'

It was notable among the Shona products for making the biggest loss. This didn't help to sweeten relations between us.

I did an extended tour of the US, coming again up against a few more prickly obstacles but generally getting the feeling that we were making our way into the big time. If all went well, in another year or two … But we needed to spend more money, and Shona wouldn't.

A couple of weeks after getting back I was best man at Van Morris' wedding.

I wasn't mad about the lady Arthur had finally decided to make an honest woman of. Coral was a pretty little thing with a wilful twist of hair on her forehead and ingrowing blue eyes that were cool with the knowledge of her own importance. Her parents had a tobacconist's shop in Dulwich and clearly thought themselves a cut above my old friend Essie and her two sisters, who turned up in three-tier gateau-and-sultana-almond hats. However, my presence, I'm ashamed to say, corrected the social balance.

Unexpectedly at the wedding was Derek Jones – though they'd got to know each other pretty well during the Kilclair affair. Over the Sparkling Anjou I asked him about Donald and was told they'd broken up. ‘He was altogether too demanding, too argumentative. We used to get awfully stroppy with each other, and then one day he just walked out on me. We were in a pub and he went for a pee – never came back; just pissed off, as you might say.'

‘When did you suffer this bereavement?'

‘Oh, weeks ago. I'm on my tod at the moment – though there
is
a young man I met on Sunday; we'll have to see.'

‘And Roger?'

‘Roger Manpole? I hardly see him, my dear.'

I looked over the top of my glass. ‘I think you really must be fond of me.'

‘Of course, darling, you know. But why so suddenly convinced of it?'

‘You lie to me so badly.'

His blue eyes flickered, and it was as if a hint of malice had crept in by the back door. ‘Of course you don't
like
Roger.'

‘That isn't an overstatement.'

‘I can't see what's wrong with him.'

‘Only that he's alive.'

‘Anyway, you could safely come back to the Cellini; he's
never
there. Very much involved in the City these days, you know. In with the nobs now. Royal Enclosure. Garden Parties, the rest of the old carnival. You got rid of your place in the Far North yet?'

‘Not yet. Want to buy it?'

‘I'll think of it, old dear. But how about offering it to Roger? I know one thing.'

‘What?'

‘He'd give his eye-teeth for your title.'

In fact I went to Scotland twice more that year, in spite of other intentions. The first was to a garden party at Holyroodhouse. Curiosity and a sense of profound irony pushed me to accept this invite. Also the old conman surveying a new scene. It does no harm to meet the best people, whether you're trying to raise credit for some dubious enterprise or to persuade the public that you have a night cream that induces cellular rejuvenation.

But as soon as I got there I wished I hadn't come, because who should be strolling by but Tom Martin of Greenock, in the company of a dark plump rosy girl in a picture hat; and of course the usual busybody introduced us. Obviously Tom's first impulse was to turn his back on me and walk away, but he was too much on his best behaviour in the not-too-distant presence of the queen. Expressions crossed his face like a television weather map.

Then his Adam's apple wobbled in his tight wing collar and I found myself being introduced to his wife. ‘ David Abden,' he muttered. ‘ I suppose it's Sir David Abden now, is it?'

I smiled at the girl. ‘ Tom and I were at school together; but the last time we met was at the Old Bailey.'

‘Oh?' she said, looking from one to the other. ‘In London, you mean?'

‘Yes. Puzzling case, wasn't it, Tom?'

‘Very puzzling.' He glared at me.

‘How long have you been married?' I asked the girl.

‘Oh, just two years. Are you married, Sir – Sir David?'

‘No. I'm still looking for the ideal,' I said. ‘Glad Tom found his.'

She blushed. She didn't look top-drawer but she looked all right. Probably monied. The thought of Tom fumbling his way about her was a disagreeable one. Martin had had some crude and dirty ways when he was at school.

‘What is your name?' I asked.

‘My name? Susan.'

‘Well, it's good to meet you, Susan. Any time you and Tom are in the Highlands, please give me a ring. I don't have a card but my number is Ullapool 41515. Come to lunch.'

‘
Thank
you,' she said warmly. ‘We'd love to, wouldn't we, Martin?'

‘Oh?' he said, still glowering. ‘Well, yes.'

We went our ways, but not before I'd done my best to win her over. I could see she was taken and would react unpredictably to Tom's story of my criminal tendencies. I'd given them the wrong telephone number, the number of Lochfiern House, where I imagined they wouldn't get the warmest of welcomes. Not that I supposed for a moment that Tom would go near the place. He'd want no further truck with his swindler, and in any case would be afraid if he took his wife I would seduce her behind the woodshed, and she a willing victim.

II

The second time I went north was in the autumn. Nothing in law can be hurried. According to Mr Macardle you had to apply – though not necessarily at the top of your voice – to the Court of Session for authority to execute an instrument of disentail in a form provided for by the Entailment Act of 1848. The ‘instrument of disentail' then had to be recorded in the Register of Entails; once that was done, you were at perfect liberty to try to sell your probably unsaleable property.

The man Macintyre had recommended some estate agents, McSwaine, Heeney and Garvice of Inverness, and, in anticipation of the great event when I came into free possession of the property, they had been up to look at it. They were generally and jointly of the opinion that Wester Craig's iron-age kitchen would be enough to put most prospective buyers off, and certainly would discourage Americans or others from renting it for the summer months. The cost of rejigging the kitchen was likely to be high, but I didn't realize how high until the estimates came through; then I told them to forget the whole thing. Lots of telephone buzz followed, in the course of which Macintyre dug out a firm that offered a full replan and refit for 40 per cent less than the first; but he thought I should see and approve what they aimed to do.