Cal and Daisy step out into an extravaganza of green and blue, gold and pink. The house sits on the sheltered eastern side of the island, but this part of the garden slants south-east and now, approaching mid-day, it is very warm for the time of year. The ground outside the house is already a mass of budding bluebells and campion, interwoven with violets and primroses, almost at the end of their short season. The land slopes gently down to the remnants of a stone terrace above the sea.
‘Wow!’ she says, inadequately. ‘Isn’t this beautiful?’
‘Do you know, I’ve only ever seen this from the sea,’ Cal says. ‘I have a boat and I come along here fishing for mackerel from time to time. But when Viola was around, you somehow didn’t trespass on her beach. I don’t suppose she would have seen you if you did. But you just didn’t. I think we were all a wee bit scared of her.’
‘So there is a beach?’
‘Down there. It’s not huge. If we can find the way down, I can show you. Viola used to keep a rowing boat there as well, I think. Back when she could still get about. Many people here do. My father told me she used to row round to the village, to Scoull along there, for her shopping. Where your hotel is. She always preferred the sea to the road. Look. There’s a path.’
‘Are there cliffs down there?’
‘The cliffs are mostly in the north and south. But it’s pretty steep – or looks that way from the sea. It can be a bit treacherous. There must be one or two other paths down, but this is clearly the main one.’
He is pointing to their left where a track, just visible among the undergrowth, curves down towards the sea. Across to the right there is a block of what may once have been stables and workshops, long and low, with slate roofs.
‘You’re short of nothing here.’
‘Nothing but cash to do anything with it,’ she says, drily. ‘Enough to pay the taxes. I suppose that’s some consolation.’
Behind them, a crumbling wall extends beyond the tower, running parallel to the coastline for a little way.
‘What’s that? Back there?’ Daisy asks. ‘I’ve seen it on a plan but there was so much to take in all at once. There’s supposed to be a walled garden.’
‘There is, although I’ve never actually been in it. That could be part of it, attached to the tower and sheltered by it. If you motor or row just a bit further along the shoreline, you can see a wee headland, and there’s some sort of stone structure on it. Circular. We’ll be able to see it if we head for the shore.’
‘Is that Dun Faire on the map?’
‘That’s it. Nothing to do with the fairies, though. I think it’s probably a broch, a small fortress.’
‘I know what a broch is.’
‘Sorry. There’s another one at the other side of the island.’
‘Is there? Do you know,’ she says, ‘there are people who call themselves brochologists.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘They argue about whether various piles of stones really were brochs or not.’
‘I’ll bet they’re mostly guys.’
‘They could be.’
‘We do like to categorise and label, don’t we?’
She remains silent. She is remembering one Christmas when her father, feeling flush after some well-paid gig, had bought her a hand-built doll’s house, complete with furniture and furnishings, tiny curtains, a dinner service, pots and pans, and even a family of bendy dolls with porcelain heads, all in Victorian dress. She still has it and loves it, but at the time she was simply overwhelmed by it, by the responsibility of it all. Many of their Christmases had been happy but low budget. That Christmas, she didn’t do anything except sit in front of the miniature house, gazing at it for hours on end, afraid to touch it. Her father had been disappointed. ‘Don’t you like it?’ he had asked, but she had just replied, ‘I love it, Dad, but I need to get used to it.’
Now, she thinks that she will have to get used to all this, but it’s a scary business. Part of her wonders if she should just follow Mr McDowall’s advice and sell the whole lot, lock, stock and barrel. Put it on the market and see what happens. She could travel. Buy a more manageable house on the mainland. A bigger flat in Glasgow. Rent or even buy a proper shop. It’s a can of worms. A Pandora’s box. Once she opens it, all kinds of things will come flooding out and her world will never be the same again. It gives her a feeling of panic.
‘Shall we try and get down to the sea?’ Cal asks, impatiently. He clearly likes to be on the move.
‘Yes. Why not?’
They start to pick their way among primroses and violets, passing the remains of a stone terrace with half-obliterated flagstones, surrounded by a low wall looking out over the sea.
‘It’s almost like a big rock garden here.’ He glances back towards the tower. ‘I don’t think it’s huge, the walled garden, I mean. But it would be sheltered enough to grow apples, pears, plums. Things thrive here if they get a bit of shelter from the wind and the salt. Back at the hotel where you’re staying, one of the old owners planted all kinds of shelter belts so that they could grow things. God knows what state your walled garden is in now, though.’
‘A secret garden. This place has everything.’
‘It’s amazing.’ He shakes his head, seems to be regarding her thoughtfully. Wanting to say more but not sure how to begin. Instead he says, ‘Look back at the eaves of your house. Rows of nests there.’
‘Are they house martins?’
‘They are. They tart them up a bit every year. It’s supposed to be lucky to have them nesting on your property. Filthy but lucky. They’re not long back, actually.’
They find themselves on a narrow bluebell-fringed track, heading down towards the sea. Everywhere, threaded among the rocks, there’s a mass of green leaves and thorny stems. Some are brambles, only just in bud, but there will be a fine crop of berries later in the year. Others seem to be roses.
‘Burnet roses,’ he says. ‘They’re everywhere. Never seen so many. Sorry, I’m doing it again. Lecturing you.’
‘Och, don’t be daft. I want to know everything about this place and you clearly know more than I do. Is that the white rose of Scotland?’
‘The very same. Thorny. Beautiful. You wait. Another month or so and they’ll be flowering all over here.’
The track is well worn, almost obliterated, but something has kept it just visible: foxes perhaps. Once it must have been much broader, a proper track from the sea to the house, because there are flat stones thinly covered with a layer of sandy soil. They can hear the steady swish of the sea and the sharp cries of oystercatchers below, the shrill din of house martins behind them. Somewhere nearby is the melodic gurgle of running water, a burn tumbling from the slope behind the house, down towards the seashore.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ he says, turning to look at her.
‘It’s more than nice. It’s wonderful.’
He grins again. ‘And it’s all yours.’
‘Don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. The responsibility, maybe. It panics me a bit. What am I to do with it all?’
‘You can take your time, can’t you? You say you’ve enough to pay the taxes.’
‘So I’m told. But with nothing much left over.’
The track ends in a slew of flat grey stones and then they are on the beach. It is sheltered by rocky slopes on either side and to the north, she can see the small promontory he had mentioned earlier, with a stone structure, a mouthful of teeth, on top. From here it doesn’t even look man-made. It looks as though it is part of the landscape, the bare bones of the hillock on which it sits.
‘Is that what you meant? Dun Faire?’
‘That’s it. An expedition for another day maybe.’
She’s surprised, but also touched by his assumption that there will be another day, another expedition. Well, what would be the harm in it? He seems to be good company.
Behind them the house, seen at this distance, looks even more like a fortress. The tide is quite low and the sea has deposited a line of shells and pebbles here, with a few pieces of seaweed, like question marks along the shoreline. There are tiny bird footprints on the white sand. There’s a low wall, and tied up against it with a piece of massive but frayed rope is a tubby wooden boat, the planks sprung, the wood rotting.
‘What a pity,’ Cal says, striding over to it. ‘I do love boats. And this is a really old one.’
‘Could you fix it?’
He shakes his head. ‘Don’t think so, hen. I mean, anything can be fixed, but this would need such a complete overhaul that there wouldn’t be much of the original left. It would be like the axe that had seven new handles and seven new blades! My boat’s a lot better than this. I can take you out fishing some time, if you want.’
‘Does this bay have a name? Other than the name of the house.’
‘It’s called Portree.’
‘I thought that was…’
‘On Skye, yes, but it just means the port of the king. Or leader, I suppose is more accurate. Fiercely proud of their own wee sovereign territories.’ He grins at the notion.
She sits down on a rock and pushes up a ridge of sand with her trainer. The sea catching the sunlight, row upon row of tiny waves, looks very enticing. She’d like to take her shoes off and paddle, but she’s inexplicably shy in his company. Not like her at all. But then he has slipped off his Skechers and he’s already in the sea, casually holding out his hand to her. So she leaves her shoes neatly beside the rock and joins him, taking his hand.
‘We get jellyfish later in the year,’ he says. ‘The big ones like swimming lampshades won’t harm you, but they’re not very nice when they get stranded. You have to watch out for scalder. Long pink trailing things. See if you get those on your skin, you’ll definitely know about it.’
They paddle, hand in hand, splashing gently through the water, stopping to look back up at the house from time to time. His fingers feel warm and dry. ‘At least this gives me some perspective on it,’ she says.
She stubs her toe on something, says ‘ouch’, releases his hand and reaches down to pick up – what is it? Something heavy and wooden. He takes it from her and examines it, brushing damp sand from it. ‘Now that’s really something,’ he says.
‘Why? What is it? Is it something off a boat?’
They are looking at a heavy chunk of oak, roughly circular, about twelve centimetres in diameter, with a deep groove around the top, two big holes through it and a semi-circular opening at the bottom. It has the look of a mask, or a weird face. You could stand it upright and that’s exactly what it would look like.
‘I think it may be off a ship. It’s a block – you know – the rope would have gone around it. It looks very old, though. Probably off a wreck.’
‘Were there shipwrecks around here?’
‘Oh yes.’ He gestures out into the Sound. Far away, she can see the distant misty hills of other islands, row upon row of them. Or a single large island. She isn’t sure what she’s looking at. Closer, and to the south of the bay, probably within rowing distance, is an islet, shaped like a seated beast, with a low hill on the top, a flattened cone. She had seen it more clearly from the hotel.
‘It’s too shallow out there,’ he continues. ‘Or it’s shallow in parts. There are hidden rocks. All kinds of ships, big and small, were wrecked out there over the years. Divers come out in the summer to see what they can find. There are rumours of treasure, but as far as I know nobody has ever found anything valuable. Interesting yes, but not particularly valuable. Not even anything as recognisable as a wreck. Just bits and pieces.’
‘But surely something wooden like this wouldn’t survive for so long.’
‘Oh it could. In salt water and buried deep in silt it would. Things come ashore in the winter storms from time to time. You should keep it. It kind of belongs here, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose it does. Weren’t there ships from the Spanish Armada wrecked here?’ She tries to dredge up fragments of history. ‘Some of them were wrecked off the west coast, weren’t they?’
‘Well, mostly off Shetland. And Ireland, I think. They were trying to get down to Biscay. There was a galleon wrecked in Tobermory Bay I believe. It got blown up eventually.’
‘Blown up?’
‘So they say. By an English spy. Elizabeth had only just chopped off Mary Queen of Scots’ head so there was a bit of tension going on. But I don’t think anything was wrecked here. Although there are stories.’
‘What kind of stories?’
‘Of Spaniards coming ashore. Deliberately. Because they didn’t stand quite such a good chance of getting their own heads chopped off here in Scotland.’
‘I see what you mean. Isn’t there supposed to be Spanish blood here? And in the far north.’
He wrinkles his nose. ‘Well they say so, but Celts could be dark too. Some of them. It’s a dangerous bit of coastline right enough. You wouldn’t know just how dangerous, when you see it in summer. But it can get a bit hairy in the middle of winter. Or even in autumn. There was a visitor here last year who kept going on about how calm and sheltered the waters were. I kept wanting to tell him, wait till you see it in October or November. The locals have a lot of respect for the waters here. With good reason.’
*
They go back up to the house and take their find with them. They don’t hold hands again. From this side, the impressive doorway on the seaward side of Auchenblae makes this look very much like the front of the house. Perhaps it was not only Viola who preferred to travel by sea. The block is still wet and the damp wood looks dark and faintly sinister, even more like a small mask or a Celtic head. She stands it on the windowsill at the seaward side of the house. Cal stays indoors while she fetches her Polo through the wrought-iron gates, parking it by the front door. She sees that he has left his own car, a big and almost new SUV, squeezed into the lay-by behind hers. The windows are tinted, so she can see nothing of what is inside. She brings in her tote bag of milk, teabags, the packet of chocolate biscuits she bought in the village stores this morning. She can hear him banging about in the kitchen and heads down the passage in search of him. He has boiled the kettle, foraged for mugs and even found teaspoons. She puts the milk into the fridge, which is chilling nicely. It looks a bit lonely in there but it’s a start. She’s going to have to get in some supplies if she decides that she’s brave enough to stay here for the rest of the week.
They take their tea and biscuits into the big room and sit on either side of the dining table – more old oak with a patina of great age about it – their chairs tilted so that they can look out of the windows. A significant part of the charm of the house lies in the views of the sea and the distant islands.
‘So,’ he says when he has eaten several biscuits in quick succession – where does he put them? Grandma Nancy would have said that he needed a few fish suppers inside him – ‘doesn’t fresh air make you hungry? Anyway, have you made your mind up? Are you going to come and stay here?’
‘I’m not sure. I’m going to go back to the hotel and have some lunch and think about it for a bit.’
‘Good plan. But if you do decide to stay, you’ll need some shopping.’
‘I can do that in the village, can’t I?’
‘There’s a Co-op in Keill as well. That’s the next village along. You pass my road end to get to it. Where would you sleep?’
She thinks about Viola’s room and shudders. ‘Probably in my mum’s old room. I don’t think I can face my grandmother’s room. But the bedrooms are clean enough and Mum’s room is next to a decent bathroom.’
‘Well that’s a plus!’
‘There’s surface dust, just. I can make up the bed. There’s a washing machine in the cloakroom along there. I’ll see if it works, do some washing. No reason why it shouldn’t.’
He looks briefly around. ‘There’s no central heating. It’s warm enough in the day now, but it still gets chilly at nights. There must be a wood store somewhere. Probably out the back there. But you shouldn’t use the fireplaces until you’ve had the chimneys checked out.’
More things for her lists. ‘Is there a chimney sweep?’
‘People tend to buy the brushes and do it themselves. Otherwise it means bringing somebody over from the mainland. Although most people don’t live in such ginormous houses.’
‘There are plenty of heaters.’
They had found three or four electric oil radiators, as well as the fireplaces. When they switched on an immersion heater in the kitchen, somewhat to their surprise, they found that the water grew warm quite quickly.
‘After all – Viola was living here comfortably enough till last year,’ she observes.
‘She was. It’s OK, isn’t it? You could easily stay here for a bit. If you won’t find it too lonely. And you really don’t need to worry about the island. Viola was safe enough here for years.’
‘I’d like to have a look at the attics. Just to see what’s in there.’
‘I’d like to have a look at the tower,’ he says suddenly, draining his tea, pouring himself another mug. ‘Can you get into it from this part of the house, or only from the outside?’
She realises that she has been avoiding the tower, avoiding even thinking about it, never mind proposing to investigate it.
‘There’s a door in the kitchen. I opened it and had a look in. There’s a spiral stair, going up and down. I’m sure that’s the way in.’
‘It looks safe enough from the outside. Viola looked after her property.’
She can’t say why the thought of the tower makes her nervous. After all, it and this house are part of the same building. But the tower has begun to loom large in her mind, its mysterious bulk lurking in her thoughts.
‘I don’t think I want to explore it just yet. Perhaps later in the week.’
He seems to have come to a decision. He drains his mug again, looks at his watch and stands up. ‘Listen – I must be off. I have a ferry to catch.’
She can’t hide her disappointment, even though she thinks she should. He’s much too attractive. ‘Are you going away?’
‘Only for a night or two. I’ll be back late tomorrow or, failing that, lunchtime on Wednesday. I have things to do, people to see. Business, you know.’
‘Right.’
‘You’ll be in the hotel tonight. So that’s OK. Why don’t you stick to this part of the house for the moment? Make up a bed. Go and get some supplies. Make sure the heaters work. That sort of thing. Give me your mobile number. Here – put it in my phone.’ He hands her his iPhone. ‘The signal is pretty crap in places, but look – it seems to be working in here. There should be a landline here as well.’
‘It’s off. The solicitor told me it was one of the things I’d have to do. I haven’t contacted them about it yet but I could do it this afternoon.’
‘How about I come along the day after tomorrow? Wednesday? We could venture into the tower together. See what’s what. I’m sure it’ll be OK.’ He looks around. ‘I suspect some of the furniture in here may well have come from the tower. This table even. That press cupboard over there. Some of the chairs.’
‘Yes. I think so.’ She’s impressed by his knowledge. ‘That’s what Mr McDowall told me.’
‘Have you seen the curiosity cabinet yet?’
‘What’s that?’
‘In your hotel. Well, it isn’t really a curiosity cabinet at all but that’s what they call it here. I’m surprised you haven’t seen it. It’s on display in the hotel. Ask them about it. It’s a Jacobean embroidered box. Very beautiful. Wish I had it. It came from this house.’
‘Really?’
‘Way, way back when. I don’t think you’d have any claim to it.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t thinking...’
‘No, of course not. It’s a McNeill heirloom. Belongs to Donal and Alys McNeill. She makes jewellery, has a gallery down at Ardachy between Scoull and Keill. He helps out in the gallery, does some gardening – he might do a bit of gardening here if you can pay him – takes fishing parties out as well. He’s built in with the stones, but she arrived only a few years ago. Anyway, they allow the hotel to display it. Under glass of course. And with an alarm. It must be worth a small fortune.’
‘It must.’ She has always dreamed of finding something like this, something magical. Well, she thinks, looking round, she’s never had a better opportunity than now.
‘But Donal has this thing about it belonging on Garve, which of course it does. The old lairds of this place were McNeills at one time and the casket belonged to them. It must have been handed down through the family. I’ve often wondered about your Viola’s name. Neilson. Means the same thing of course. Only anglicised. Anyway – have a look at the casket. It’s wonderful.’
‘I will.’
‘And I’ll come back and we’ll venture into the tower together, if you like. On Wednesday.’
‘OK.’
‘Is that a plan?’
‘Yes. Yes, it’s a plan. I think I’d like that.’
He stands up, pats his pockets, looking for his keys. ‘I must go. It’s been great. And I’ll see you soon.’
‘Wait,’ she says suddenly. He is already outside the door, but he halts and turns back, looking over his shoulder.
‘What?’
‘What do you do?’ she asks. ‘I mean, what is your business?’
‘Didn’t I tell you? It’s a family business, really. Antiques, fine art, collectables. Good stuff. We have a pretty big shop. In Glasgow. Byres Road. You might even know it. Island Antiques.’
He smiles at her engagingly, turns and strides away, his car keys jangling, leaving her questions hanging in mid-air. A dealer. No wonder he wants to help her out. No wonder he has been so keen to set foot inside Auchenblae, a house that has its fair share of objects that might or might not be antiques, fine art and collectables.