Chapter Twelve
‘Porridge, cornflakes or a bacon butty?’
Clem blearily opened one eye and pushed the blanket off her face and mumbled incoherently.
‘Porridge, cornflakes or a bacon butty?’ asked Mari again with a booming voice and a loud smile.
Shuffling upright, Clem looked around and was appalled to see that pretty much everyone else was already up and seated at the long tables.
‘Dear God, what time is it?’
‘Eight o’clock already.’
Clem looked around, blinking, something was wrong with the room. ‘Why is the light funny?’
Mari looked at her, puzzled, trying to work out what she meant, when she twigged what Clem was on about. ‘That’s the snow. I guess the sunlight reflecting off all that white makes a difference.’
Clem smiled to herself: a new light, a new way to see the world. Scotland was revealing so many hidden depths and she was eager to start exploring. For now though, she was surrounded by strangers and needed to get back to the castle.
She ran her fingers through her hair and tried to pat it into some sort of order. She was distressed to discover a leaf and a twig. Normally, it would be tied back but now it hung down to her waist in long, messy auburn tresses. Deciding she was wasting her time, she padded to the breakfast table and was greeted with friendly joshing that appeared to be well meant. She’d find out what a haggis that had just left hibernation looked like, later on. For now she was famished. There was only one place left at the table and that was beside Rory. She had only time to say good morning when Mari returned with a coffee and a bacon butty, and Clem finished both in seconds.
‘So how’s the sheep? Did he make it?’
Rory turned and smiled at her, and Clem thought suddenly that for an older guy he had a really lovely smile, and those blue eyes were properly gorgeous. He’d have been a proper heartthrob when he was younger. She wondered if he was married and what his children looked like. Maybe he had a son he could introduce to Clem?
‘Yes, I’m going to drop him off at Phoulhaig and then head home.’
‘Good luck wi’ that then. A foolish sheep for a foolish castle,’ called out one of the women.
‘What does she mean by that?’ asked Clem.
‘Oh it’s just an old name for the estate,’ said Rory not dwelling on the insult.
‘Can I come with you, or follow you? I’d love to see the sheep back home. See if his flock recognise him.’
‘They’re not pets you know?’
‘Well obviously!’ said Clem affronted. She wasn’t an idiot.
Their conversation was now being followed by the rest of the table and several chipped in to take Clem’s side.
‘Ah that’s not true, Rory, remember young Malcolm’s mother. She had two sheep as pets.’
‘Aye, and Ben won’t go anywhere without his goat.’
Clem moved her chair a bit so that she could see the rest of the table properly. She was so small against Rory’s bulk that she couldn’t lean forward enough to see around him.
‘Really? A goat?’
‘And then Warren always has that jackdaw of his.’
‘Oh yes. Mind you, it isn’t the norm. You mustn’t go away thinking all highlanders are soft,’ said the first woman to Clem, and then turning her attention back to Rory she insisted that Rory should let Clem come with him. ‘She did save the sheep after all. Let her have, what do they call it on TV? Something to do with bankruptcy. Although I’ve never understood why.’
‘I think you mean closure, Jill.’
‘Aye, right enough. Let the lassie have closure.’
Clem looked at Rory, hopefully, who simply shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who am I to stand between a lass and her lamb. Come on, Bo.’
***
Clem drove through the snow, following Rory’s tyre tracks until they hit the main road, where the snowplough had already come through. Still, she drove cautiously and gnashed her teeth. Bo indeed! That had all the marks of a nickname that she might get stuck with, and that wasn’t happening. Little Bo Peep, as if. Ahead, he was pulling to the side and she parked behind him, locking her car and climbing up into his.
‘Is this really necessary? I can drive you know?’
‘I’m sure you can, but the road to Phoulhaig can be tricky and it would be a shame if you sheered off the side and plunged down the ravine. But it’s your call?’
Clem huffed and told him to carry on, noticing his small smile.
‘You know, just because your daughters aren’t good drivers doesn’t mean all women are bad drivers.’
Rory looked at her in astonishment and then looked back at the road as it began to make its way down the hillside.
‘Daughters? What are you on about? I don’t have any children.’
‘Oh, I assumed from your overly protective behaviour that you must be used to telling your daughters what they can and can’t do.’
‘I—’ Rory broke off, astonished by her words. ‘I am doing you a favour. Not being “overly protective”, besides which if I did have children, they’d hardly be old enough to drive!’
Clem looked over at him and his large bushy beard.
‘Why not, what are you, forty, fifty?’
‘My God, Bo, I’m thirty-two.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes, seriously!’
‘Oh, my mistake.’ She looked left and leant her head against the window. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you. But it was hardly her fault if he chose to look like a werewolf. Realising that she had annoyed him, she didn’t feel that this was the moment to tell him not to call her Bo. Still, after this she wasn’t likely to ever see him again. Feeling unusually awkward, she decided to change the conversation and asked why some of the people in the pub had called the place they were driving to Foolish.
‘It’s pronounced “Phoulhaig”. But it’s been called Foolish from almost the moment it was built. Henry Caruthers was the grandson of a wealthy Victorian, and like many who inherited wealth he had neither his grandfather’s drive, nor his father’s intelligence and grew up unimaginably wealthy, spoilt and lazy. At the time, a Scottish hunting estate was all the rage and so our Henry had to have one. The land at Phoulhaig was particularly cheap and when Henry went to inspect it, he was blown away by its natural beauty.’
‘So what’s wrong with it?’ asked Clem. She was enjoying listening to his voice; he had a soft rolling accent that sounded like dance music. The lilt and rhythm were lyrical and the depth of his voice was perfect for storytelling. Hell, he could probably make the traffic report sound appealing.
‘Hold on, now, Bo, let me tell the story. His land agent told him it was a bargain because the locals were too daft to understand what they had. The locals told him that visiting in June was not the best time to observe the issues of a glen that runs north–south.’
‘Why’s that then?’
‘Phoulhaig is a wide but deep glen and during winter only sees the sun for a few hours a day. But he ignored them and started to build. After the first year, he dismissed the local workforce, claiming native stupidity and sent up men from his own factories. Now no doubt they were good men, but they had little local knowledge and built the service road on the wrong side of the glen. Certainly, it made sense in connecting quickly to the main Edinburgh road, but in the winter months, of which Scotland has more than the average, it was almost perpetually covered in snow and ice and after a few deaths, the road was reconsidered.’
‘Are we on that road right now?’ asked Clem, looking out the window in alarm. All she could see were trees on either side, but still.
‘No, this is the new road. But it’s still a bit tricky and in heavy snow can be impossible to navigate. Anyway. It took many years, money and more deaths but eventually Henry had his grand castle and hunting lodge. He was delighted and invited everyone, including the young Prince of Wales; the prince being far more his sort of person than the dour Queen. Everyone trooped up and agreed that the castle was exceptional, the hunting spot-on and the hospitality beyond compare. What they did feel let the place down a bit were the midges. It was a pity because the one time of the year that the glen really shines like a jewel, it also fills up with midges.’
‘What’s a midge?’
‘A tiny wee flying insect that will drive you insane. But you need to experience that before you fully comprehend the horror.’
Clem shuddered and wondered if this midge was like Nessie, another mythical beastie.
‘Don’t think I want to experience that. Where should I avoid?’
‘Scotland.’ Rory laughed as Clem looked horrified. ‘No, it’s not that bad, honestly, but some areas are more prone than others, and Phoulhaig is more prone than most. Shall I continue?’
She nodded; Rory was a natural storyteller.
‘Over the years, Henry continued to pour money into the estate. His workers had also failed to understand the way in which the wind was funnelled down the glen: the castle walls were too thin and the windows too large. The place was permanently freezing, so he had to literally build a second layer of bricks and stones all around the walls to keep the wind out and the warmth in. The chimneys were also wrong, so the smoke was as likely to pour through the hallways and staircases as it was along the glen outside.
‘Gradually, his friends lost their appetite for his pretty castle and visited hunting lodges where the chance of being trapped by a blizzard, dying on the road or being eaten alive by midges were slightly lower.
‘Now Henry still believed in the castle, and felt that the problem was down to lazy local staff and so he moved up to Scotland to better supervise things. He had never been the man his father or grandfather was and gradually his empire began to slip from his fingers. Other businesses competed against him and flourished. Stupid and reckless decisions were his forte and cost him his company. Soon all that was left was his castle and a dwindling reserve of money. Eventually, he could no longer afford the castle and sold it and moved to Edinburgh. Gradually, he moved down the scale until he eventually died in a tenement surrounded by unpaid bills and empty bottles.’
‘Bloody hell! That’s a sorry tale but why is it still called Foolish? That was over a hundred years ago.’
‘Because despite regular warnings by the locals, people from away would visit, fall in love and buy it immediately. They then would spend a few years or decades trying to fix the heating, the wiring, the midges and then sell it in despair. Over and over. The current occupiers have been here a couple of years; they seem to be managing quite well. Mind you, there has been over a century of renovations and repairs done to the place, so I don’t think there’s much more they can do.’
The road had been dropping the whole time and Rory had been inching along. Happily, the ground beneath the snow wasn’t frozen what with it being a late snowfall, and the lying snow was already beginning to melt. Still, Clem was glad that she wasn’t driving.
‘Okay any minute…’ said Rory as the car broke out of the trees, and Clem let out a gasp of wonder. Below was every Instagrammer’s dream. At one end of the glen fell a beautiful waterfall, plunging down to a large loch and then flowing down into a river. This river meandered along the floor of the glen until it passed the prettiest castle that Clem had ever seen. It made the Walt Disney castle look like a lumpen mess modelled in playdough.
‘Aye, that’s the reaction of most people when they see it. No one looks at that and wonders how they are going to insulate all that glass, or keep it clean, or fix the gutters or repair the turrets or…’
‘But it’s so pretty!’
‘Right enough. I’m all for a bit of form over function, but there has to be some sort of function. You get these designers, architects and the like all making a thing look fabulous but totally impractical. I mean what’s the point?’
Clem sighed, that was the problem with some people, they were stuck in their ways. No experience of the bigger picture.
‘It’s called pushing the boundaries.’
‘It’s called a waste of bloody money. So what is it you do then, if you’re so quick to defend them?’
‘I’m a fashion designer.’
‘Oh right.’ Rory rolled his eyes. ‘And working at Ruacoddy. What are you going to do there? Move all the chairs around until they’re all in perfect harmony?’ His tone was light and joshing and no doubt he didn’t think he was being offensive, but Clem sat and steamed. The car was now approaching the castle crunching over a snowy, gravel driveway and Clem tried to respond without losing her temper. People were so ignorant.
‘Not an interior designer, a fashion designer. I make clothes.’
‘Ah my apologies. Still, everyone needs clothes I guess.’ His shrug suggested that much beyond a sack and a rope was fancy stuff, and therefore, a waste of time. He pulled on the handbrake and smiled across at her. ‘Right enough, here we are then. Stay in the warmth here, and I’ll go and knock on the door.’
Everyone needs clothes I guess.Clem was fuming; how quickly he had dismissed her entire world. She watched as he walked towards the front door. He had parked as close as possible but still had to trudge through the calf-high snow. The massive stone pillars supporting a portico were just a tad too narrow to allow a car to pass through. The wind seemed to have whipped the snow up, at this end of the glen, but it was no deeper than a foot. Clem looked at her boots in dismay. They had barely recovered from last night. Red suede high-heeled boots were clearly not the ideal choice, although they did look so striking against the snow. She started to imagine an entire outfit suitable for a Siberian princess fit for the catwalk. Could you domesticate wolves to be walked on a lead? That would look incredible.
Frustrated that she didn’t have any pens or paper, she looked back to where the front door was being opened. A slim man almost as tall as Rory, but not as broad, welcomed him with a large smile and called back over his shoulder. Clem wound the window down to hear the conversation just as a woman came through, chatting excitedly. A moment later a chihuahua ran past her feet and excitedly leapt at the snow and promptly disappeared.
‘Biggles!’ the young woman shouted in alarm and shrieked at her husband to save the dog. Clem would have helped, but she was too busy laughing as she watched the dog jumping around, barking delightedly as his ears and nose bounced in and out of view in the snow. A minute later, Rory walked over and plunged his hand into the snow and returned the dog to his owners. Their relief was as great as their little dog’s disappointment. Rory then returned to Clem.
‘They said to come in for a coffee whilst we sort out the sheep. I’ve said you probably need to get back to work…’
‘Oh not at all,’ dismissed Clem, full of curiosity for the foolish castle. ‘I’d love to have a drink. Tell me quickly though, do I smell of wee?’