The Castle in the Glen

Chapter 1

Emma Callander stood at the bus stop feeling utterly miserable.

Rain ran down her face and dripped under her collar.

Wind whipped around her legs. A bus should have come ten minutes ago, and all she wanted to do was to get home.

She toyed with the word. “Home.” “I want to go home,” she whispered to herself.

An image sprang into her mind: the house with the veranda around it, the vineyard sloping up to blue hills of eucalyptus and bellbirds, the paddock where the wallabies came at dusk, the pond with the spoonbills.

And then the golden beaches, the sun always shining . . .

“Bugger England. Bugger men,” she muttered.

By the time she got off the bus at Earl’s Court Road and trudged up Trebovir Road to the flat she shared with two Aussie friends, she had made up her mind. She was going back to Australia.

“My word, look what the cat dragged in,” Jilly exclaimed as Emma came into the flat, leaving a trail of drips behind her. “You look like a drowned rat. So was the date at a swimming pool or in the Thames?”

Emma took off her mack and hung it over the kitchen sink.

“In case you haven’t noticed it’s pouring out there,” she said.

“And the date was a horrible non-starter. Or at least he was keen to get going in the bedroom without even pausing to have a chat first. He said he had to stop at his flat to pick up a letter he was supposed to post but once inside . . .” She stopped, grimacing.

“He started to . . . you know . . . come on to me, and I had to tell him I’d scream the place down if he didn’t open the door that instant. ”

“You poor thing. What a creep!” Robyn came over to her, putting an arm around her shoulder.

“Not that old ‘I’ve forgotten something in my room’ trick!” Jilly said, shaking her head so that her Vidal Sassoon bob bounced. “I thought we’d tried to educate you in the ways of the big, wicked city by now.”

“All right, so I’m not exactly experienced around men like you.” Emma pushed her wet hair back from her face as she crossed the room. “I haven’t had much chance to practice.”

“Sit down. You need a glass of wine,” Robyn said kindly. “These Aussie blokes are sex mad. I don’t know what gets into them. The moment they’re far from home they think they can act like animals. The London boys might be slower, but at least they’re polite and expect to pay for a meal first.”

“Only they forget to mention they’re dating someone else at the same time.” Emma sank down onto the sofa. “Three months of my life with Simon and I find he’s had another girlfriend all that time.” She mimicked Simon’s voice. “Someone more suitable, with good family connections.”

“He was a swine,” Jilly agreed. “He led you along.”

“He certainly did,” Emma said. “I’ve had enough of men. In fact I’ve had enough of everything. I decided tonight that I’m going to go home. I’ve come, I’ve seen, I’ve experienced England, and now I can go back to marry a reliable sheep farmer.”

“Boring, darling,” Jilly said. “If you’re going to marry an Aussie at least choose a lifeguard from Bondi Beach. All those muscles rippling.”

“But not much up top,” Robyn added.

“Anyway, you don’t actually have a home any more, do you?” Jilly blurted out, rather tactlessly.

Emma winced at the words and the harsh reality. “Okay, so I don’t have the family property any longer, but I can live in Sydney.”

“But you can’t leave now, Emmie.” Jilly got up and put a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “You’re a darling of the literary scene. Promising young Australian writer. Isn’t that what The Sunday Times said? You have to make the most of your fame.”

Emma laughed. “Fame? A couple of reviews, and I believe I’ve sold perhaps five thousand copies of the book.

If I’d been smart I’d have another book ready to go to build upon that recognition, but I don’t.

I don’t even know if I can write a whole book by myself.

The old man at the bookshop in Sydney, the one I told you about, he helped me so much.

And frankly, I’m scared to try now that people seem to think I’ve got talent. ”

“You’ll never know unless you try,” Robyn said. She poured a glass of wine, handing it to Emma. “You could always have Jilly dictate some of her sexual exploits and write a steamy bestseller.”

“Hey, watch it!” Jilly feigned annoyance. “I might go on dates, but I don’t let them cross the line, you know. A kiss and a cuddle in the back row of the cinema, that’s all. I’m saving myself for the right one.”

“How will you know he’s the right one?” Emma asked, relaxing a little now as she warmed up.

“He’ll be rich, dahling, of course.” Jilly mimicked a frightfully posh accent. “I don’t intend to settle for anyone poor and humble. Oh, and a title wouldn’t be bad. I see myself as Lady Blah-blah.”

“And where does one meet this rich paragon?” Robyn asked. “We don’t exactly frequent the posh nightclubs or go to weekend house parties. And to most British blokes we’re wild colonials. Uncultured. Beneath them, progeny of convicts.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jilly said. “My family came over as legitimate settlers after the First World War.”

“And mine have been in Australia since the eighteen hundreds,” Emma said. “They started with apples, then found that grapes grow better.”

“Jolly useful to grow up with wine on hand,” Jilly said. “It’s a wonder you’re not a lush.”

“I never liked the taste of it,” Emma confessed. “I don’t mind it now, but I still can’t get used to beer.”

“Well, not English beer,” Robyn said. “That dark brown stuff is like poison. That’s why I stick to cider. It tastes all right and has the same effect.”

“It gets you drunk quite quickly, actually,” Jilly said.

“I remember one night with three ciders and I could hardly walk home in a straight line. If I’d been with a bloke who’d wanted to take advantage, I probably wouldn’t have said no.

Now I know my limits.” She got up, dropping her cardigan on the back of the sofa.

“Well, I’m off to bed. Early night for once.

I might get a chance to do some modelling.

Someone who works at Mary Quant came into the boutique today and said I had the right look.

How about that. Can you see me as the next Pattie Boyd, darlings?

” She strutted around the room pouting, making Emma and Robyn laugh.

I’ll miss them, Emma thought as she went to her own room.

They were good company and an important tie to her homeland.

Jilly was hopelessly messy, always leaving clothes around and unwashed dishes, but she was fun and easy to get along with.

Robyn was the earnest one, working at the Australian High Commission.

They had become close over the last year.

Was she being stupid to want to go home now?

She was doing well in England. She had a good job with Barlow and Barlow, an esteemed publishing house, even if she was only an editorial assistant, which meant general dogsbody.

She’d met writers like Graham Greene, and she’d had a book published.

From the number of hopeful manuscripts that came in she knew how hard that was.

So she must have something unique as a writer and, what’s more, a publisher who actually wanted another book from her.

She’d be mad to go. And yet she felt out of place; she didn’t belong here.

The worst thing was that she hadn’t been able to write.

All her life at home she had never been short of ideas, one after another begging to be put down on paper.

“Always scribbling away,” as her mother put it.

But since she came to London the double pressures of a strange city and good reviews for her one published novel had dried up that constant stream.

She wasn’t sure people wanted more books set in Australia, and yet she was still an outsider and observer in London.

The terrible fear that she tried to keep at bay was that she’d never write another book.

As she lay in bed picturing home, she realized with a jolt that Jilly had been right.

She didn’t have a home any more. Her visions of returning to Australia were of that bungalow at the family vineyard, the blue hills beyond, waking to the sound of the magpies and kookaburras.

But that house now belonged to her dad’s cousin and his family.

She hardly knew them. Her mother now lived on Pete Warton’s farm and she had no idea whether she’d be welcome there.

She was sure she could land a job with an Australian publisher, using her Barlow and Barlow credential, and maybe, just maybe, she could get back to her writing again, but she’d be alone, an outsider in her own country.