1980
I stood at the entrance of Fyvie Castle and looked up at the turreted porch. I knew from my research that the older entryway was round to the south side, but now access was through this door here on the east. The coat of arms above was weathered but still stood proud against the worn pink sandstone. I had seen many pictures of the outside of the building and yet I had a shiver of excitement as I walked in through the great oak door.
“Come this way, Miss Hay.” A stern woman of indeterminate age wearing tweeds appeared in the entrance hall and gestured to me to come in. She was unsmiling as I joined her inside and watched as she turned an enormous key in the lock behind us. She didn’t offer to help with my bags, so I swung them on my shoulders and followed her further into the castle. There were suits of armour standing against every wall in this spacious hall, and heraldic shields and swords all around. I followed her over the worn flagstones to a broad staircase where she swept one arm up towards its many wide steps.
“This is Alexander Seton’s magnificent wheel stair, the finest in Scotland.”
She turned back round and pointed to my bags. “Leave those here and follow me into the morning room.” As I climbed the worn steps, I looked up at more ornate shields with crossed swords and a beautiful stained-glass window with an ancient coat of arms embedded into the centre. I walked into the room and looked around, taking a deep breath. This room was stunning; all around the walls were portraits, some huge, presumably 60 of ancestors of the owners of the castle.
“This was once the Great Hall, the main reception room of the castle.” As I looked down at the thick carpet, I noticed my toes were becoming white with cold. Why did I think summer sandals and a light coat were a good idea for an ancient castle? Mum had told me I’d be freezing. I shivered; no wonder the woman had warm woollens on even though it was July. Inside the castle, it was chilly.
“Wait here. I shall fetch Mr David to meet you, then I’ll take you on a brief tour.” She looked at her watch. “The doors don’t open until eleven so we should have enough time.”
She swept off before I could even ask her name. All my correspondence had been with the factor, Mr Burnside; I had no idea who this Mr David was. I listened as the clicking heels faded and I looked up at the elaborately plastered ceiling, decorated with thistles and roses, perhaps created to celebrate the Union of the Crowns in 1603. I turned and looked at a tall portrait of a gentleman in full Highland regalia, in a classic setting. It had the look of an eighteenth-century portrait, but perhaps not by a Scottish artist. It was maybe Italian, I thought, and as I peered down to look at the signature, I heard a voice behind me.
“That’s the Batoni portrait, painted in 1766, one of his finest.” A tall, middle-aged man with silver-flecked dark hair and a ruddy complexion extended his hand.
“Miss Hay, welcome to Fyvie Castle.” The handshake was limp and his palm damp.
“David Burnside,” he said in a clipped voice. “Take a seat.” He indicated an armchair by the fire, which was not lit.
I followed him and sat on the edge of the wide seat.
“So you wrote that you’re at St Andrews University.”
“Dundee.”
He shrugged and continued, giving the impression he did not like to be interrupted. “And you’re researching a dissertation on 61Alexander Seton who used to own Fyvie. What exactly is the subject matter?”
I’d already given details of the title, sub-title and a synopsis of the contents, but I smiled and explained. “Yes, I start working on it next year, my Junior Honours year. The title’s Alexander Seton, the power behind the thrones. It’s basically about his influence on Mary, Queen of Scots’ son, James VI, and later her grandson, Charles I.”
“Yes, yes, of course, I remember now. And you want to do some research while working here at Fyvie?”
“Yes, when I saw you needed someone to help with the visitors’ tours, I thought it’d be ideal as I could learn about the castle he owned for so many years.” I snatched a look at him. He was gazing at my legs. I shifted in the chair and pulled my skirt tight around my bare knees. “But of course I would be doing my research only in my time off.”
“I see. Well, I’m sure you’ll settle in fine. This is only the second year we’ve had to open up to visitors. Some of the public are rather tiresome.” He sighed then stood up and I sprang to my feet. “Alexander Seton must have been some man. Godson of Mary, Queen of Scots, advisor to King James VI, then guardian to Charles I. And bedded three wives and had at least ten sprogs.” He chuckled. “Well, those were the legitimate ones.” He started to head towards the door.
“Mrs MacPherson will take you on the tour. When are you meant to start your official duties?”
“You said Monday, so I could have the weekend to settle in and learn the ropes. I was to shadow the other guides until then.”
“Jolly good.” And off he strode, without even saying goodbye.
I was about to head for the stairs to try to find Mrs MacPherson when I heard the clip-clop of her sensible brogues climbing the steps, and in she walked. 62
“Your bags are being taken to your room in the Preston Tower. But while I have half an hour free, I’ll show you round. It may help before you go on your first guided tour with Andrew after luncheon, as he’ll have the visitors with him.” She looked at her watch then headed towards the door at the far end. “Follow me.”
I did as she said and we walked through to a smaller room with more stunning portraits on the wall. “Should I call Mr Burnside Mr David, by the way?” I wanted to get things right on day one.
“Yes, it’s always been to differentiate from his cousin, Mr Charles Burnside, who is the laird and owner. You aren’t likely to come across him, though, as he lives abroad. Nowadays at Fyvie, Mr David is the factor and in charge most of the time.”
Calling a man Mr and his first name seemed to me rather odd, but I had no chance to speak as she was gesturing around the next room. “This is the back morning room, where we hang some of the thirteen Raeburn portraits.”
I gazed at these impressive pictures hanging all round the walls, but she was already pushing open the door, so I sped after her as she walked across a landing and into a square room with two small windows letting in only a little sunlight. She flicked on a light switch and ushered me in.
“Now, this is the Charter Room. You’ll hear on the guided tour about the important deeds and documents that were signed in here.” She gesticulated in a bored manner to a far corner. “They say there’s a secret chamber over there, but the guide will tell you more about that. Don’t believe everything Andrew tells the public, though.”
As I looked around the small dingy room with its dark wood panelling, all at once I was overtaken by a sudden feeling of melancholy. I have no idea where it came from, but my former feeling of light-heartedness vanished and I suddenly felt an overwhelming sadness. Perhaps it was simply because I was unsure if I did 63 in fact want to spend three months of my summer holidays showing visitors around this ancient, freezing castle inhabited by cold, unfriendly people. Or perhaps it was memories emerging from the past.