Chapter Seven
It had rained for the full ten days since the enquiry from the TV production company, and the weather seemed to have affected everybody’s mood – including the aptly named Wynter sisters, who’d accepted Mats’ apologies with fixed, but not warm, smiles.
Annoyingly, last night Mats had experienced an incredibly erotic dream about Ezzie Wynter. It had centred around her saying ‘of course’ a lot, but with a completely different intonation to her usual cool British reserve. It had left him in an unsatisfactory, semi-horny state, half feeling that he knew Ezzie more intimately than he really did and half horrified that his libido didn’t know where he wouldn’t be welcome. It brought to the surface things he hadn’t realised he’d been feeling, like how sexy a beautiful, willowy blonde was in the plainest business suit imaginable. How startling blue eyes could be hard to look away from or a politely smiling mouth difficult to ignore. And how he minded that she didn’t like him.
But at long last the weather was cold and beautiful again, and in the morning he took the children and Josefin on a trip to Broadford, where the shops were strewn with fairy lights that got Astrid and Alvin chattering excitedly about Jultomten , or Santa Claus. They strolled the main road to the cabins that formed Skye Market, which were as many different colours as the cottages of Rothach village, then stopped at a street vendor for hot chocolate, and shortbread sprinkled with icing sugar that the server pretended was snow. Just as Mats was beginning to feel a stirring of Christmas spirit, he received a call from his father.
‘ Hej, hej, Pappa,’ he answered with the hand that wasn’t holding the cup of hot chocolate, half anticipating another grumble from Erik that Mats wasn’t at work, or perhaps a business matter that he needed to discuss.
But Erik proved to have other things on his mind. ‘How is Mamma?’ he asked gruffly. ‘I’ve been talking to her, and she doesn’t sound herself. Maja and Jonas say the same.’
Mats hadn’t spoken to his sister and brother recently, but knew they’d kept in touch with their mother. He hesitated. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said eventually. ‘She’s spending a lot of time alone, reading or watching TV. I keep trying to involve her with the family, but she seems to have things on her mind.’ He didn’t want to say in so many words that she was quiet and grumpy, and Erik seemed to be at the heart of the problem. His loyalties lay equally with each parent.
‘Oh.’ Erik sounded dismayed.
The call left Mats feeling out of sorts. This extended winter holiday wasn’t going entirely as he’d hoped. He gazed up at the splendour of Beinn na Caillich looming over the town, the mountain’s top third white with snow, and decided that by leaving his mother to her own devices he was letting her miss out on the beauties of Skye. The feeling persisted as they drove home for lunch and the winter sunlight hung hazily over the frozen moor, making the ochres and golds of the rocks and bracken beneath the lilac sky look like a pastel drawing.
After lunch, he caught Grete before she retired to the lounge to curl up once again with a book. In Swedish, he said, ‘It’s a lovely day to be outdoors, Mamma. Come with us on a walk. The children aren’t seeing much of you.’
He saw refusal flicker in her eyes before the mention of her grandchildren made her smile, though her acquiescence was lukewarm. ‘I suppose we should make the most of the weather.’
Josefin joined them, wrapped up in her green coat with a toffee-coloured hat, and the children raced around excitedly, their voices ringing on the clear, frosty air, calling on the adults to admire the sea, the boats, the gardens and anything else that caught their eyes. The frost hadn’t thawed and flattened the grass with its twinkling coat.
Then, ‘Look, Farmor, the café’s open,’ Astrid yelled, though it was open every day apart from Sunday, dressed for Christmas in a cloak of twinkling white lights, a row of icicles hanging from the roof. A Christmas tree glittered a welcome from the window, as if luring them inside for gingerbread and cinnamon buns.
‘OK, we can go in,’ Mats said, not feeling equal to the you can’t have cake every day and you had shortbread this morning argument. But he regretted it when the five of them entered the warmth of the brightly lit café and found a circle of parents with children joining in songs and poems.
‘Hello,’ a cheery bespectacled woman called from behind the counter. ‘Lovely to have a dad joining us for Friday Rhyme Time. As it’s nearly the end of November, we’re singing winter and Christmas songs.’
‘Hello,’ chorused at least eight welcoming voices.
Mats vaguely remembered that the café provided a meeting place for groups. Though he didn’t term November 22nd ‘nearly the end’ of the month, when he saw Josefin, the children and even his mother happily finding chairs in the circle he gave in gracefully, especially as he could smell coffee. Soon he was adding his baritone to songs called ‘10 Warm Mittens’ and ‘Do You Hear the Christmas Bells?’ which he didn’t know but were easy to pick up. He felt an idiot, but the children loved it. Alvin, unable to keep up in English, just made a singing kind of noise. Astrid was the only child of her age, as British five-year-olds – unlike their Swedish counterparts – were at school.
When they paused between songs to give people an opportunity to top up their drinks, a young woman with a mop of ginger curls smiled at Josefin. ‘And are you Mum?’
Josefin roared with laughter. ‘No! Mats is Dad, and I am Nanny.’
‘Oh, the grandmother?’ another lady asked, looking embarrassed. She cuddled two children on her lap, who were peppering her with crumbs.
Mats could think of no elegant way of explaining that whilst Josefin could be his children’s grandmother age-wise, she was in fact the hired help. And if the Brits didn’t have so many names for grandmothers, such as granny, nanny, grandma, nanna or nan the confusion wouldn’t have arisen to make him and Josefin feel awkward.
Stiffly, Josefin explained. ‘No. I help Mr Larsson look after Astrid and Alvin. The nanny.’
Astrid, who was evidently able to follow the exchange, put in helpfully, ‘This is Farmor,’ as she tugged Grete’s sleeve, which meant Mats embarking on the explanation of Swedish grandparents being designated father’s mother, mother’s mother and so on. He was glad when the scones came round, and even gladder when his phone rang. He checked the screen and saw his sister Maja’s name.
Quickly, he asked Josefin and Grete, ‘Can you stay with the children?’ Then he went outside. ‘ Hej ,’ he said into the phone, switching to their native tongue and smiling to think of the youngest of his siblings, her brown hair flipping over at the ends. At thirty-five, Maja would end her most recent maternity leave in January. Little Ronja would be one year old in February. In Sweden, mother and father shared just over a year and a quarter’s parental leave, and Maja had been back to her PR job for three months while Nils took some leave, and then they’d swapped again. Their eldest child Walter had begun school this year and three-year-old Liam was in daycare. Rather than a full-time live-in nanny like Josefin, they also had daily help from Nils’ aunt, who covered what other childcare the parents couldn’t.
Maja returned his greeting. ‘Jonas is here, too, and we’re on speaker. Is Mamma OK?’ she went on. ‘Whenever we talk to her, she seems glum.’
‘Glum. The perfect word, though I’ve persuaded her out with us this afternoon.’ Mats explained the activity taking place in the café. ‘Pappa sounded glum, too, when I spoke to him earlier.’
‘He’s as growly as a bear,’ Jonas’ deep voice confirmed. ‘Is Mamma really just taking time out?’
But then parents and children began to file out of the café and Mats stood back nodding goodbyes. When Josefin and Grete emerged holding Astrid and Alvin’s hands he said, ‘I’ll come along later,’ so Maja and Jonas would be alerted that he was no longer alone.
Astrid and Alvin craned up to be kissed goodbye, as if they wouldn’t see him again for days, then, when the little party had moved far enough away, he resumed the conversation with his siblings. ‘Mamma told me she wants to travel, and Pappa wants to stay at work, so she’s gone off without him. Maybe it’s to see how he likes it.’
Maja snorted. ‘He doesn’t like it. I met him for lunch yesterday and even cuddles and smiles from Ronja and Liam didn’t cheer him up for long.’
‘And he came to us on Sunday, and not even pickled herring made him smile.’ Jonas sounded injured.
Mats sighed. ‘I hope they’re going to be OK at Christmas. We haven’t all been together in one place for years and I really want Astrid and Alvin to have a fantastic time, especially as they won’t see Inger except on video calls.’
Jonas sniffed. ‘You’ll have had weeks roaming the wilds of Skye on your own by then. You ought to be relaxed enough to cope with anything.’
Behind Mats, the lady who ran the café emerged, locking the door with a friendly wave goodbye. The blue was leaching from the sky, and gold and apricot streaks appeared, the temperature already dropping. Mats began to wander towards the hall past the play park and the shrubbery as the conversation fell to their various children.
By the time they ended the call, he was almost at the hall’s rear courtyard. He put away his phone, still thinking of Grete acting out of character. On his previous visits to Rothach, the family had shared the cooking and housekeeper Gwen had been asked to prepare the evening meal only once or twice a week. But this time, Grete had shown no interest in cooking, and Mats and Gwen were sharing preparation of dinner between them. This evening it was his turn, and he’d planned kalops, a mildly spicy Swedish beef stew.
He was just wondering whether he ought to ring Erik again and try and get a better feel for whether there was real cause for concern over his parents’ marriage when he heard tense voices. Set into the wall of one of the stone outbuildings was a utilitarian door, and the voices seemed to be floating out of the ventilation holes along the bottom. First came Ezzie’s voice. ‘Are you still rattled?’
‘Worried, I’d say,’ declared a voice he swiftly identified as Thea’s. ‘Since the Garden Gladiators people got in touch, I’m scared they’ll lie in wait to jump out at me. I know it’s unlikely because Skye’s too remote for them to travel here without contracts and a schedule, but I’m having nightmares about visitors pouncing for selfies to post on social media.’ She pronounced social media as if tasted bad in her mouth. ‘And what if Fredek comes crawling out of the woodwork?’
Mats should have hurried past. The conversation being held in a chilly, uncomfortable venue told him Ezz and Thea thought themselves safe from listening ears. But who was Fredek? As their conversation concerned Rothach Hall and Mats had been the one to make the mistake of talking to the TV production company, he felt justified in lingering.
Ezz’s voice came again. ‘I suppose Garden Gladiators thought that after the crap on social media in the summer, they could use the buzz to reignite interest in the show. But Grete’s told them there’s no chance,’ she added soothingly. ‘I’m sure you can rely on her.’
‘Her, yes. But what about Mats?’ Thea demanded, and Mats’ stomach shrank at her dubious tone. ‘What if Grete returns to Sweden? Would he green-light the show after all?’ She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Dev and I are wondering whether to move on now, while we can control things.’
Something cold squirmed in Mats’ stomach. Thea was thinking of leaving despite Grete’s best efforts? And because of him?
Ezz gasped. ‘But your home’s Thistledome, and Valentina’s just bought a second home in Rothach—’
‘Thing is,’ Thea ploughed on doggedly. ‘Dev can mostly work remotely, but he’s getting engagements to lecture to sports business students, and work with Under-21 football teams. Brand awareness is important to young athletes and he’s proving a great coach. It would benefit him to live near an airport or a high-speed rail link. Leaving the island would be awful, but it might be for the best to start again.’ The words were brave, yet her voice was tight with wretched dismay.
‘But that’s starting again again. It’s not fair.’ Ezz’s voice trembled. ‘We got away without criminal records.’
Mats suddenly had trouble breathing. Got away with?
Then Ezz’s voice sounded much closer to the door, as if she were preparing to exit the uncomfortable rendezvous. ‘I’d love to think I’d weather it if the story came out but, realistically, people love to gossip. On Sunday, I could hardly shut Josefin up about Mats and his divorce.’
Mats suffered another jolt to his system. Josefin gossiped about him? He’d never actually asked her to sign a non-disclosure agreement, but not gossiping about employers came with a nanny’s territory. Then the door rattled and he woke up to the fact that he was about to be caught eavesdropping, so he back-pedalled smartly around the corner of the stone outbuilding to a nook formed between it and the greenhouse.
He heard the sound of a door opening and Ezz saying, ‘See you later,’ in a sad, flat voice. To his relief, the brisk tapping of her heels headed in the other direction, back towards the hall, and then faded.
Troubled, Mats eased himself from his cobwebby nook and followed slowly. As he passed the ventilated door again, he heard someone blowing their nose – presumably Thea – but hesitated to intrude. Then he heaved a sigh, realising that as his mother was so low right now, his conscience wouldn’t allow him to dump a conversation about criminal records in her lap without first making certain that she had to be involved. Thea didn’t feel like his natural starting point, though. Ezzie Wynter was Rothach’s manager.
And, apparently, personally involved … Heavily, he crossed to the back door of the hall, and then into the lobby.
Orla glanced up from behind the polished wood of the reception desk. ‘Good afternoon.’ Her smile was wide and bright, freckles decorating her pale skin.
‘Good afternoon,’ he returned cordially, and took another couple of steps to check through the open office door whether Ezz was seated at her desk. And there she was, neat and composed as if the emotional conversation he’d just heard had never happened, poker-straight hair falling in a natural frame around her face. After a smile in Orla’s direction, he strode into Ezz’s office, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.
She glanced up and offered him a courteous if puzzled smile.
He waved her back to her seat as she prepared to rise and slowly took the chair opposite, searching for a way into what could only be a tricky conversation. His dad would have just asked the questions to which he wanted answers. His mum would have tried instead to draw Ezzie gently along the conversational corridor that led to the same destination. Mats was more like his mother.
‘Everything OK?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’ The corners of her mouth tilted up, but her eyes didn’t smile.
His mind flicked back to that erotic dream, and he had to make an effort to keep his gaze from her lips. ‘I just want to assure you,’ he began carefully, ‘that all thoughts of working with the Garden Gladiators are over. I was impulsive when they called – a failing of mine, my parents often tell me – but after Mum explained the backstory, I realised I hadn’t thought things through.’
Ezzie’s eyes flickered, as if she was unsure of where this conversation was going. ‘You were kind enough to say so at the time,’ she murmured.
Annoyance prickled up his spine that, like some exaggerated butler character from a period drama, she daren’t say the word ‘apologise’ to him. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m some entitled asshole.’ He made a face. ‘Uh, that’s US English, isn’t it? Should I say entitled arsehole in UK English?’
For an instant she compressed her lips as if trying not to smile. It sparked off a flash of something inside him, brief but powerful, but he no longer followed his lust. That’s how he’d ended up married to Inger. Gravely, Ezzie confirmed, ‘Arsehole.’
Now it was his turn to want to laugh. Instead, he answered equally gravely. ‘Good. We’re agreed.’ But though she was attractive when her eyes glittered with amusement behind her stilted facade, unfortunately, he was here to voice a serious concern. He shifted in his seat. ‘And now I’m going to apologise again,’ he said … apologetically. ‘But I heard you and your sister talking outside and, as my children are on these premises, I’m going to have to ask you why you mentioned getting away without criminal records.’
Ezz turned completely, shockingly white.
Compassion for her obvious distress softened his voice. ‘I expect you’re going to quote some employment law that says I have no right to ask. But you’re not my employees because that honour falls to my parents and when I hear people who interact with my kids talking as if they have shady pasts to hide, my Daddy Bear instincts kick in. I protect my cubs. I hope you’ll forgive me for doing things my own way, but now I’m beginning to imagine sinister reasons behind Thea not wanting to be on camera.’
Slowly, so slowly that it was as if she were ageing before his eyes, Ezz sagged. Her hands rose to her face, and covered her eyes.
Mats watched her, his breathing quickening as his heart rate ramped up at the anguish that rolled off her in waves. How serious was it, whatever she was trying to hide? He swallowed. ‘You can tell me. You can trust me—’
‘Crap,’ she said, her voice muffled by her hands.
Astounded at this blunt rudeness, he halted.
She brought her hands down, revealing an expression that managed to be both hard and woebegone. ‘I can’t trust someone who sends me to a pub without knowing my relationship with alcohol.’
One part of his mind acknowledged that she was trying to deflect the conversation from its original direction, but he was astonished enough to let her. ‘When I asked you to take Josefin to the pub that lunchtime? But then you went there with her yourself. Voluntarily.’
‘There’s a world of difference between being shoved into a situation and approaching it in a planned way.’ From the Stepford employee she’d been till now, Ezz had morphed into the picture of truculence. ‘I could be an alcoholic. You didn’t know that I wouldn’t give in to temptation and go on a bender.’
‘Are you an alcoholic?’ he asked, aware of the conversation careering still further off-piste.
Impatiently, she shook her head. ‘No. But I could have been. My point is that you have no basis for saying I can trust you.’
Mats tried to regain control of an unravelling situation. ‘If I was insensitive, I’m sorry. But if you have a criminal record, I need to know for my kids and probably for my parents.’
Her face was still translucently pale. ‘As you pointed out, your parents are my employers. In Scotland, an employer is allowed to ask me about my convictions – though, to follow the law of the land, they’d first offer me counselling from an appropriate body. For my part, I should disclose any unspent convictions, and certain spent ones, depending on the job I’m expected to perform. But I don’t have any convictions of any kind , so what I choose to tell you and your parents is nothing .’
Slowly, he said, ‘I’m not sure that’s going to cut it.’
Visibly, she flinched. She turned to her keyboard, typed rapidly, then waited while a shiny black printer nearby clicked and burbled, her hand outstretched to catch the piece of paper it churned out. Then she scribbled on the foot of the sheet, folded it into an envelope and sealed it before picking up her bag and coat and stalking past him.
As he spun on his chair to watch, she approached the white door to his family’s quarters, stuffed the envelope underneath, then marched off towards the back of the house.
Stunned, and wondering what the fuck was going on, he stepped out into reception, where Orla was gazing at the white door, wide-eyed at Ezzie’s bizarre behaviour. Mats treated Orla to a curt nod, and then stormed through the door. Inside, he picked up the long brown envelope. It was addressed to Grete Larsson. Ignoring that, he ripped it open.
Ezzie’s address was at the top, along with Friday 22nd November . The body of the letter was brief.
Dear Grete,
It’s with sadness that I must resign my role at Rothach House with immediate effect.
And a spiky flourish of a signature. He rubbed his chin. For Ezzie to have thrown in her job rather than answer a question, he’d either entirely mismanaged the interview or she had more to hide than he’d thought. Possibly both.
After searching the downstairs rooms for Grete, he ran upstairs to tap at the door to her suite. She let him in with a frown that suggested she hadn’t miraculously returned to her usual tolerant, happy self.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But Ezzie Wynter has resigned.’
Grete’s jaw dropped and shock registered in her eyes. ‘Resigned? Ezzie? But why?’ She reached for the letter, read it, then flipped it over as if in search of further explanation. Her gaze sharpened. ‘Do you know what’s happening? Why is she not working her notice? Why is the letter so terse?’
He blew out his lips. ‘Let’s sit down, and I’ll tell you what I know.’
As she listened to his account of overhearing Ezzie and Thea’s furtive conversation, Grete’s expression switched from bewilderment to dismay. ‘None of this is like Ezz, but she has seemed subdued ever since the television company rang here – damn them. She was upset when this person pestered her sister a few months ago.’
‘Was his name Fredek?’ he guessed. ‘Thea mentioned that name and sounded frightened.’
Grimly, Grete nodded. ‘Yes, I think that was it. He was the person your father threw off the property for harassing her. But why did Ezzie bring alcohol into the discussion?’
He spread his hands and shrugged. ‘An example of why she couldn’t confide in me, she said. Or to distract me while she decided what to say about criminal records. I thought if I dealt with it, it would be less official than if I brought the situation to you, but she’s left me with no choice.’
‘I must talk to her.’ Grete rose, still clutching Ezzie’s resignation letter.
‘She’s left,’ he said. Then, because his mother looked so despairing, he hugged her, noticing that her bones seemed nearer the surface now. She wore her years so lightly that he sometimes forgot that she was seventy-two.
Slowly, Grete resumed her seat. Loath to leave her with a frown on her forehead and woe in her eyes, he crossed to the windows and shut out the late afternoon darkness. A coffee machine stood on a small wooden unit, but judging that they’d both benefit from something stronger, he left the room and jogged downstairs. From the kitchen he caught the sound of Alvin’s bubbling laughter and Josefin’s friendly chatter. He turned off the hall to the dining room and the drinks unit, where he mixed two sturdy gin and tonics and added ice from the mini fridge. When he stepped back into the corridor, he caught sight of another thin brown envelope on the doormat.
His heart sank.
He lodged a drink on a convenient lamp table so he could swoop up the envelope. This time ‘Grete Larsson’ was written on the front in a different, untidier hand.
He carried it upstairs to his mother unopened, handing it over with a sigh, an apologetic look and the gin.
Wordlessly, Grete opened it, scanned the contents, then passed it to him. He read:
Dear Grete,
Please accept my resignation as from today.
With kindest regards,
Altheadora Wynter
‘Shit,’ he muttered, feeling as if he’d poked at something and discovered too late that it was a wasps’ nest.
Grete took a gulp of gin. ‘The sisters were adopted – I don’t know if you knew. But I’ve never known any siblings more loyal to each other.’
He shook his head. ‘I didn’t know that, but I’m pretty certain that loyalty is not the full story here. They’re tied together by something they want to hide.’
He didn’t know what, or if it was appropriate for him to know, but he did want to repair any damage he’d done, as well as removing the slump from his mother’s shoulders at the loss of the Wynter sisters.