Chapter 14
P erhaps I should have waited.
As it turns out, there isn’t actually much romance in stealing a royal horse at midnight and attempting to canter through the Scottish wilderness whilst your nipples are almost tearing holes in your shawl with the cold. And when it isn’t simply a filler sentence in a book, one certainly feels the length of every moment of the saddle digging into one’s coccyx and the smell of horse dung that seems to cling to the air despite the trail beginning a mile and a half back. Once again, I find myself miserable on the back of Hamish, thinking of Atticus to get me through.
Trying to use Google Maps to navigate a horse is not easy at the best of times I’m sure, but trying to gather just enough signal to at least find out whether to travel north, east, south, or west, is borderline impossible. The one redeeming quality, and the reason why I am not yet quaking in my boots, is the fact that the moon is full tonight and my path is well lit in her silvery glow. Oh, and knowledge that if a handsome prince who had been cursed to live as an even sexier beast wished to kidnap me for trespassing on his land, I wouldn’t mind much either (as long as he stayed as the beast, of course).
Have I thought any of this through even just a little bit? No. Is it likely to work at all? Probably not. Do I have any idea of what I’m going to do once I reach London and stand face to face with the love of my life after trekking through earth, wind, and East Coast trains to get to him? Absolutely not. But this feels exactly like something a hopelessly in love heroine would do, so perhaps if I do it too, it may suppress those little seeds of doubt that Fraser – with his silly bagpipes, and his habit of breaking protocol to tell me some stinging truths – has sewn.
Close to lying down in the middle of the path in hopes that the kind Ghillie Dhu finds me before the Dog Fairy or some other evil creature of mythology tears me apart, I finally see the dim lights of Braemar village in the distance. After I rouse Hamish, we race through the last stretch, until we reach the Balmoral Arms. All of its lights are extinguished, with the pub and its patrons all in bed for the night, but I don’t yet lose hope. I tie my tired steed to the fence, make my bed in the stone doorway of the pub, and hope that the milkman comes early this morning.
I don’t realise that I have nodded off until the rough clearing of a throat startles me awake. ‘Cannae sleep there, lass. My regulars would trample ye to get their elevenses pint, no matter how pretty you are.’
Jumping to my feet, I brush myself down and stand before the landlord with an apologetic smile. ‘So sorry, sir.’ And just as he moves to enter his establishment, an uncommon shot of confidence pings through my arm and I outstretch it to stop him. ‘May I … Would you perhaps …’
‘I don’t do handouts. No free pints, certainly no free pies,’ the bearded man gruffs.
‘No, no, forgive me, I was wondering if you knew where I could get a lift to Aberdeen train station? I can pay.’
‘Can ye now?’ He rubs his beard, suddenly interested. ‘How much?’
I draw out a few of the notes I have stuffed into my pockets, no idea how much a taxi across rural Scotland at dawn is meant to cost. The landlord’s eyes light up, and I know I have shown too many of my cards.
‘I’ll take you. I was heading that way to the brewers anyway.’ Unlocking the door, he pushes it open to reveal a hearty country pub. The fireplace is emptied of its ashes in the very heart of the room, and little groups of mismatched tartan armchairs sit around it. A cowhide rug spreads out across the wooden floor, with the creamy oak reaching up and wrapping around the bar that overhangs with hand-drawn beer-tap labels. The back wall of the bar is wallpapered in various amber bottles of whisky, all of them giving way to frame a large portrait of Balmoral Castle itself.
Taking pride of place on the corner of the bar is an old photograph of my grandmother stood beside a young boy in the corner of the pub, which hasn’t much changed since.
‘Princess Alexandra.’ The landlord notices me looking at the photo and draws up beside me. ‘She used to be a regular here when I was a wee lad. She’d just waltz right on in like any other Tom, Dick, or Harry and sit and have a sweet sherry in that old chair by the fire.’
I would never have even believed that the figure I remember looming around like a ghoul during dinner parties, staring down her bespeckled nose with a scowl every time I laid a finger out of place, would even know what a pub was, let alone frequent one. She lived and breathed royalty, and anything else besides is strictly not spoken about.
‘Her son and daughter-in-law stayed with us a couple of nights too. Apparently, they were holed up in the castle on their honeymoon and couldn’t breathe for the stuffiness of it all, so had a weekend as a couple of “normal” newlyweds right here.’
Trying not to think about my parents consummating their marriage in the bedrooms just above me, I try to figure out if this is simply a rural landlord’s way of creating his own tales to sell his pints. Yet, nothing in his face would suggest anything other than genuine pride, and my family are hardly the exciting royals. If I were making up stories of royal patrons, I certainly wouldn’t choose my miserable mother as the poster girl.
‘I have a photo of them here somewhere.’ The landlord, unperturbed by my silence, rummages around in a back room before re-entering with a photo album that bursts with little slips of paper and various other knick-knacks that have been hoarded over the years. Flicking through it, trying not to let the thing explode in a sea of memories on the bar before me, the landlord hums with satisfaction and he turns the photograph he was looking for towards me.
My father, dressed in a tweed blazer with matching flat cap, grins at the camera, a small scruffy dog at his feet. My mother leans against him affectionately, not bothering to look at the camera, only gazing lovingly at her new husband. In jeans and riding boots, she is muddied to the waist, and a great smear of mud across her dimpled cheek doesn’t cease her smile. I had never even known that she had dimples. There is no denying it is her, however. Her bright blonde hair glows on the paper, that same blonde hair that’s always restrained, caged in a sleek, perfected bun, but this time her wisping curls are feral and floating in the breeze. My mother looks wild, and … free.
‘She’s beautiful,’ I can’t help but breathe.
‘Isn’t she just,’ the landlord agrees. ‘The upper-middle-class naval officer’s daughter, marrying the son of a princess – caused quite the stir back in the day. Apparently, Princess Alex sent them up here to get them out of the limelight until the news all blew over. The new Duchess Fran Walpole hated it, locked up in a stuffy castle, thrust into the life of a lady after being used to the carefree party life whilst still at uni. She still swore just like a sailor back then too. I heard she wreaked havoc up at Balmoral just to entertain herself. A true free spirit that one.’ He chuckles affectionately.
‘The Highland air must do funny things to people,’ is all the reply I can muster, unable to break my stare from my mother’s photo. Why couldn’t this woman here, with the smiles and life, be the one who raised me? Why did I get coldness and solitude, whilst all along there was once someone capable of showing me affection? What could have happened between these photos and the day I was born? My parents even look in love. The people in this photo wouldn’t sleep in separate bedrooms, or treat public displays of affection as strictly work-related. How can one go from being so in love, so full of life, to being a shell of a human being? A walking, talking rule book?
‘Or is it the air down south that oppresses them? And only when they come here can they truly become who they wish to be?’ the landlord murmurs as though he too is deep in thought and my mind flicks back to the loch, to Fraser Bell and his broad chest, to Sophie and her melodious laughter, to the easy feeling in my heart that has overtaken me as though until I got here a weight had been slowly crushing it.
‘Perhaps,’ I hum.
‘Here, I’ve just thought, don’t you look the spit of the duchess down to that wild shock of blonde hair and all?’ He pauses for thought as he scans my features with a curious dark eye.
I chuckle nervously. ‘I can’t say I see it.’ Fiddling with the fraying hem of my jumper, I am impatient to change the subject. ‘Would we perhaps be leaving soon, sir?’ I remind him of our initial errand.
‘Oh aye, aye, the train station. I’ll just grab Rose and we’ll be aff.’ Scooting off again into the back room, he re-emerges with an old dog plodding beside him. Her chocolate coat is greying but she gives a sprightly wag of her tail before leaving a sloppy smudge against my trousers with her jowls. ‘Just this way.’
Back out in the car park, I give Hamish one last fuss, hoping someone from the castle will be passing through soon enough and recognise him, and hop up into the landlord’s beat-up Land Rover Defender. Lifting Rose into the seat beside me, she soon makes herself comfortable with her head on my thighs and her snores rattling right through to my bones.
‘I never got your name, lass,’ the landlord says once he strikes up the truck that makes an almost wheezing splutter.
‘Allie,’ I reply, deciding against using my own name now that the reality sets in that I am alone in a car with a total stranger I met outside of a pub less than an hour ago.
‘Aye, good to meet you, Allie. Callum.’ He outstretches one of his hands, keeping the other on the trembling steering wheel, and I shake it in my own.
After breaking down thrice, listening to Callum’s interesting impression of Celine Dion that played on repeat in the tape deck for the last hour, and finally caving and telling the old man about Atticus and my plans in London, we finally arrive in Aberdeen. I thank my new acquaintance, and he ruffles my hair in an affectionate goodbye.
‘Look after yourself there, Allie.’ He gives me a smile as I fuss Rose again beside him. ‘Come into the pub any time if you ever find yourself back up that way. There’ll always be a sweet sherry waiting for you. Aye, and bring that fella of yours with you too. Best of luck, hen.’
‘Thank you, Callum.’ Grabbing the small bag that I had packed to bring with me, I race through the train station, hopping on the first train I see headed for London. Already bursting at the seams, I trundle up and down each carriage hoping for a seat, but proving unlucky. Finally discovering one in first class, I sit down and hope to rest my weary head and gather my strength to see Atticus once again.
‘Tickets please.’ The conductor startles me awake as the rolling hills turn to wide open sea just out of the window. ‘Ma’am, tickets please,’ he says again, as I stare at him blankly, my brain still catching up with the rest of my body.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t have one. I was in a rush. May I buy one now?’ I try to plead but the conductor only tuts.
‘You don’t have a first-class ticket?’ Now the whole carriage seems to have stopped tapping on their laptops, or clinking their glasses of Prosecco to watch this drama unfold.
‘No, sir.’ My cheeks are on fire and I think for a moment of prying open the doors and jumping off the train right here, right now.
‘Then I’m going to have to ask you to exit the first-class coach.’
‘There are no other seats. Can I please just stay here until the actual occupier of the seat boards?’
‘Nice try, hen. First class is for first-class patrons only.’ He looks me up and down. ‘We have standards to uphold.’ Gritting my teeth to prevent myself from having an outburst of ‘ don’t you know who I am ’, I get to my feet and do the walk of shame back down the carriage. I have no other choice than to make myself comfortable on the floor next to the toilet, which will every now and again swing open to reveal an unsuspecting user halfway through peeing, like the prize on an Eighties game show. The conductor escorts me the whole way.
‘That will be ￡350 to London King’s Cross.’ He smirks, as though the money is to go directly into his pocket.
‘How is that possible? I don’t even have a seat,’ I splutter. I know I am hardly down to earth enough to know the price of a pint of milk, or a bus ticket, but I know for a fact that paying three hundred and fifty great British pounds for the privilege of sitting next to a toilet on a stained and itchy carpet is taking the piss, literally.
‘It’s either that or you’re off at the next station.’ The conductor shrugs and I suppress the urge to scream in his face.
‘Fine.’ Drawing out my credit card, I reluctantly hand it over.
‘That’s all gone through – have a wonderful journey.’ He hands me my ticket and saunters away.
The experience of the train from my space on the floor reminds me a little of the twelve days of Christmas. I’ve seen six ladies weeing, five pissed-up hens, four screaming kids, three cokeheads, two fluffy dogs. All that’s missing is the partridge in a pear tree.
When the train pulls into King’s Cross at 3 p.m., reality begins to set in. I’m going to make it. In just one short tube journey, I shall get to see him again, down on one knee, confessing his love.