The House Between Tides (54 page)

“Consorting with the enemy?” she said, a little unsteadily.

“Something like that,” he said, drawing her closer, his cheek cool against hers. His old gansey smelt vaguely of creosote and sawdust, nostalgic, familiar smells, and on his lips she could taste the whisky they had shared.

How strange was this feeling, of things falling into place.

A flash of lightning startled them apart, followed by a crash of thunder which shook the house. He glanced up at the ceiling. “Right overhead.” He bent to pick up the lantern. “Come on. You're
shivering again.” He scooped up a pile of potato sacks, guiding her back down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the kettle on the primus was dancing. “Sit over by the range and warm up. I'll be back in a minute.”

Cold air filled the room as he left, and the primus flame stuttered. She dragged one of the old chairs close to the fire and tucked her feet up under her, pulling his sweater over her knees, and a deep sense of well-being crept over her. No longer the enemy. How suddenly, and how quickly, matters corrected themselves. The current of connection which she had sought had become live and vital in a way she could not have imagined, separating the before and after. And she sat there, staring into the fire, absorbing the idea of James, and with it a quiet thrum of excitement. No longer the enemy! Then she rose and searched the cupboards, finding a small jar of dried-out Nescafé and a twisted bag of solid sugar.

She had hacked off enough of both for two mugs when the door opened again, and he came in clutching the potato sacks now plump with hay, and glanced at the steaming mugs. “Good girl,” he said and went back for more, arranging them on the floor in front of the range. “A couple more should do it,” he said, and disappeared into the narrow hallway where they had seen sacks in the under stair cupboard.

A few moments later he returned, walking slowly, the sacks tucked under his arm and carrying a large rectangle covered in hessian.

“Maybe now I can show you this.” She looked up at his tone. “I wasn't going to tell you, things being as they were, but now—” He crouched down beside her, pulling a package from its sacking cover and removing a layer of corrugated cardboard. He held it for her to see.

It was a painting, a watercolour, and in the flickering light she could see it was the foreshore on a misty morning when the light
filtered softly through the grey veil. And out on the strand there were two faint figures, disappearing into the mist. The light from the hurricane lamp fell on the corner and lit that confident, well-known signature.

Theodore Blake 1897
.
Muirlan Strand.

Jasper Banks's catalogue exhibit number 372, the painting that couldn't be traced.

James was watching her face. “I was so annoyed with you about the second survey that I forgot about the painting, but later I remembered and described what you said to Aonghas. He thought he did remember something like that, hanging here when he was a lad. So I came a-looking.”

She could not peel her eyes away from it. “Where was it?”

“Under the stairs with a load of old frames and potato sacks. Must have been there for decades, thought to be just another empty frame. Thank God the place is dry.”

“And you left it here? It's worth a fortune.”

“It had been safe there for years. I hadn't told anyone, and I was going away. And frankly, since I got back, I'd forgotten. It belongs to Aonghas anyway, so what happens to it is up to him. Emily gave it to Donald, and that gift at least is documented.”

He turned the picture round, and she saw that a piece of card had been stuck on the back with words written in faded ink:
To Donald. Hang it in the farmhouse, yours now, in memory of our lost beloved ones, and to keep alive a childhood shared, and vanished times. From Emily, with love, 21 June 1945.

She lifted glistening eyes to him. “So she
did
mean this house to be his.” James nodded slowly, his eyes still on the painting. The hurricane lantern cast a diffused light, giving the painting a soft sheen, and in the flickering firelight the two figures seemed to come alive. “Lost beloved ones . . .” he said softly.

“Those figures, they're almost spiritlike.” And Jasper Banks was
right, the painting was extraordinary.
His best, I reckon.
So much was conveyed with a subtle wash and a few brush-strokes, a stillness, a moment held and cherished. They sat in silence, drawn into the painting, and then he went and set it on a chair.

She watched him as he built up the fire again, and the pungent smell of peat filled the room. Outside, the gale raged, hurling rain against the windows, but the old farmhouse felt solid and safe, and she dropped down to the hay sacks, hugging the sweater to her like an overlarge skin and looked across at the painting. The wind blew back down the chimney, causing the fire to glow, and he came and sat close, slipping an arm behind her, his face lit by the low flames. Then she remembered. “Who's Agnes McNeil?”

He pulled away in surprise. “I thought you got on rather well.” He looked amused and gave her his slow smile. “Ruairidh's wife? Her name's Agnes but everyone calls her Ùna, and you don't think she'd give up McNeil for Forbes, do you?” He pulled her close again. A mighty crack of thunder told them the storm was still circling overhead, and it was followed by a long low rumble which seemed to go on forever, echoing round the courtyard. He got to his feet. “I'd better move the Land Rover into the barn, your car too. And I've got some old blankets in the back.”

He was gone a long time. He returned with them tucked under the oilskin and dropped them wordlessly onto the table and then stood looking across at her. “I think you'd better come.” He reached for another oilskin, draped it round her, and steered her out into the courtyard.

There was a false, theatrical quality to the light as he led her up the ridge, and they could see waves breaking against the headland, sending spouts of spray high into the air, while above them the darkness still hung low and heavy. She followed him, buffeted by the wind, then stopped at the top of the ridge and looked ahead in disbelief.

The western wall of Muirlan House had split, torn apart along the crack by the force of the elements and, in falling, it had brought down most of the remaining roof, leaving only one corner with part of the little turret standing tall and jagged reaching out of the rubble. And where once there had been a rich man's mansion, there was now a view beyond to the dunes in the west, to a line of brightness on the horizon, across a war-torn image, the aftermath of conflict.

2010, Hetty

They talked long into the night, freely now, without constraint, as if the destruction of Muirlan House had cleared away the last vestiges of discord between them, while outside the storm passed over, its violence spent.

“It's as if the house decided for itself,” she said. “It didn't need me, after all.”

“No. It'd had enough.”

The hay bags took the coldness off the stone-flagged floor, and they sat resting against each other, sipping whisky, and she could feel her cheeks glowing in the firelight as she told him about her nomadic childhood, the paralysing shock of loss following the air crash, how Giles had helped her.

“And where does Giles figure in your future plans?” he asked softly.

She paused before replying, but there was only one answer. “He doesn't. It's been clear for a while now, but I lacked the courage to break it off. But don't misjudge him, James, underneath the bluster he's a good man.”

“Of course.” He pulled her to him again, no longer tentative.

Later he told her of the school and hostel he was involved with in Kenya, for a charity begun by his father. It had been that which gave him inspiration for what he planned for the island. “We're just there to help now, mostly fund-raising, but they do the building,
with youngsters learning the skills. There was some big funder interested, which was why I shot over there so suddenly.”

“And you would do something similar here?”

“If I could—”

“You can.”

And he bent to kiss her again, his eyes catching the firelight. “Can I?” he said, asking a different question as his hand slipped under the sweater, exploring the warmth of her. Then he lifted it over her head and pressed her gently back onto the hay bags. She raised her hands to his head, returning his kisses, running her fingers through his hair, finding sand grains in its thickness, and was filled again with that dawning sense of rightness.

Later, he pulled the blankets over them, and eventually they slept, her form curled against his.

When she woke some hours later, stiff and cold, he was crouched in front of the range, reviving the fire. He swivelled on his heels and bid her good morning, smiled at her, then rose to open the shutters. She sat up, quickly slipping into her dress, pulling his sweater over it and stretching it down to cover her knees. “Still blowing hard, but the rain has stopped,” he said, looking out. “I'll make some coffee and then we'll go back over. See if my cottage is still standing.” He reached into his back pocket for matches and had just lit the primus when they heard a vehicle in the courtyard and a car door slam. He looked up and grinned across at her. “The search party, I reckon,” he said as the door was flung open.

“Thank God.” Ruairidh stood in the doorway, tousled and unshaven.

“Close the door, you're blowing out the primus.”

His cousin came in, followed by his dog, and looked around the room, taking in the half-empty whisky bottle and dirty plates, his eyes lingering on the hay bags by the hearth. “So I needn't have
worried,” he said, as the dog settled in front of the fire and began scratching.

When James had not turned up, he explained, he'd phoned his cottage, then the hotel, and the bartender had told him what had happened, how Hetty had left the dining room, how Giles had come looking for her, and how James and Giles had quarrelled. “Said you were both spoiling for a fight.”

“A
fight
? With Giles?”

“His idea, not mine.” James grinned at her astonished face, and Ruairidh looked from one to another.

“And then Giles mentioned that Hetty had a car—” Ruairidh paused and turned to his cousin. “Tam says to tell you you've left nasty skid marks on his car park.” James laughed. “The airport will reopen later this afternoon, the ferry's on its way back, and the tide's low enough to cross now. Back to the hotel,” he added blandly.

“Or you can skulk at my cottage,” said James.

Again Ruairidh looked speculatively from one to the other. “Things are different this morning,” he remarked to James, and Hetty saw their eyes meet in understanding, but he gestured innocently towards the door. “Muirlan House.”

“Very different,” James agreed. “Let's take a look?”

There was a sweet rain-drenched smell as they walked up the ridge together. Every blade of grass, every cobweb and wisp of sheep's wool held droplets which sparkled in the low morning sun, shaking in the slackening breeze.