Chasing Angels (20 page)

‘My mother told me about them,’ Seona laughed. ‘You’d see this boat rocking from side to side in the water with these two daft creatures throwing punches at each other
and yelling like bulls. Nobody bothered, they knew it was just the two of them at it as usual. As often as not the boat would capsize and they’d have to swim ashore, stopping on the way to
shout a bit more and throw another couple of punches, and when they got out of the water they’d drive home to change, still roaring insults at each other. The next day they’d have
bruises and grazes all over their faces, but they were still together.’

‘Gran said it was the same when they came into the Fort for their messages,’ Kirsty smiled. ‘If Angus arrived on his own you knew it was OK, but if the two of them arrived
together you knew they were on a binge, and it always ended with them fighting. Never touched anyone else, mind you, perfect gentlemen if you happened to stray within punching distance, stopped
right away, bowed and exchanged a few polite words till you were out of the way, then got laid into each other again.’

‘What did they fight about?’ Kathy asked.

‘Och, everything and nothing really,’ Seona replied. ‘They fought about the shinty, whether Lochaber was better than Camannach, then the other way round. Silly stuff. Or
you’d hear Angus cursing the Major for being a Sassenach, an interloper, taking his birthright away, and the Major would call him a typical drunken teuchtar, too fond of the hooch to do a
decent day’s work, and if it wasnae for the English they’d all starve. But my father always said that was made up, something to keep the fight going rather than the cause. Everybody
thought they just liked fighting. When the Major died he left the estate to Angus, on condition that he married the cook, Bunty Campbell.’

‘You’re joking!’ Kathy said.

Kirsty and Seona laughed. ‘No, honest! He was in his forties at the time, and Bunty would’ve been near enough forty herself,’ Seona replied. ‘I think he was quite sweet
on her anyway, but she was a Campbell, for God’s sake, and no Macdonald would marry a Campbell without a lot of thought, not up here in those days. That was the Major’s parting jab, I
suppose, giving him back the land that Angus had always maintained belonged to him anyway, but making him marry a Campbell for it.’

‘And she went along with it, this Bunty person?’

‘Och, aye. But you have to remember that she’d been patching up their cuts and bruises for years as well as running the house and feeding them. She knew them better than anybody. My
mother always said Bunty and Angus would’ve ended up together anyway, but the Major doing that, it gave Angus the excuse that he’d been forced to marry a Campbell. The other condition
of the will was that Angus should personally scatter the Major’s ashes across the hills, so that he’d always be there, keeping an eye on him. Angus swears that he still hears the Major
shouting at him, drives him mad, so it does. After that Angus was called “Major Angus”, because he had taken over the Major’s estate. He’s a helluva man, you’ll like
him,’ said Seona, exchanging amused glances with Kirsty. ‘Wears the kilt all the time, and a Tam-o’-Shanter with a bloody big eagle feather sticking out the top. He’s like
something from Brigadoon!’

‘Why does he go about like that?’ Kathy asked. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen anyone wearing the kilt since I arrived here.’

‘Och, who knows?’ Seona said. ‘I think he just likes the idea of being a Highlander of years ago. It’s as if now that he’s got the land he always believed was his
anyway, he’s reverted to the time before the old Major’s people had it, to kind of wipe out the foreign occupation. He’s totally harmless though, he’s not some kind of nut,
he just lives in his own wee world, that’s all, and he’s not the only one who does that.’

Kathy said nothing. Seona might’ve been talking about her, after all.

‘He still comes into town for groceries and stuff, and to pick up whatever thing he’s ordered for his latest obsession. He gets hooked on things, you know the way you do.’

‘No,’ Kathy said uncertainly.

‘Well, he’s been like it all his life from what I’m told. He took a helluva interest in pigs once, I think that was the start of it. Somebody gave him a piglet and he bought
another and before anyone knew it he’d become an expert on all things pig. He never does things by halves, he really studies his subject. Soon it became a roaring success, people came from
miles around to buy his pork, so he gave it up.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it had become a business, I suppose. He just wanted to find out all there was to know for himself, he didnae want a business. Bunty says it’s because he has the
concentration span of a midgie, as soon as he gets to grips with something he loses interest and has to move on to something else,’ said Seona.

‘D’you mind his frogs and newts?’ Kirsty laughed.

Seona nodded. ‘Became almost a world authority then,’ she laughed. ‘The house was crawling in frogs, toads and newts and they were popping out of every pocket he had, and his
sporran. Wrote papers about them. Bunty went mad that time, newts wernae really her thing, but she just had to hang on till he’d gone off them and hope that he dived into something sensible
next time.’

‘And did he?’

‘Not really. Started to breed Clydesdale horses, won all sorts of awards. Had people who’d been in the business for generations queuing up for his foals. But the trouble with horses
is that they have trouble foaling, so he had Bunty sitting up all night with him waiting for the mares to deliver, and their whole lives were dominated by them. I think he went into Highland cattle
after that, or did he pick up on Ancient Egypt before that, Kirsty?’

‘Aye, I think it was Ancient Egypt before the cattle,’ Kirsty said. ‘In fact I think tapestry was before the cattle, come to think of it.’

‘
Tapestry?
’ Kathy asked.

‘Aye, and he was great at it too,’ Seona replied. ‘There’s not a church for hundreds of miles, or a university across the country that hasnae lined up to commission a
tapestry from Major Angus. I’m telling you, he does nothing by halves, he’s an expert in anything he turns his hand to, he just loses interest once he’s learned all there is to
learn.’

‘So what’s he into now, then?’

‘Not sure,’ Seona replied thoughtfully. ‘It was orchids for a while there, but he may have gone past that now. I think I heard a rumour that he was building working models of
steam trains, but who knows?’

‘How old is he?’

‘Well into his seventies anyway. Let me think. His Rory went to school with me, so he’ll be thirty now, and Bunty had him less than a year after they were married. My father used to
say that was another thing he got the hang of before moving on to something else, so there were no more wee Macdonalds after Rory. Mind you, I think it was pretty heroic of Bunty to produce even
one at her age. So that would make Angus about seventy-five now, but you’d never think it.’

‘And did having a bairn make any difference to Angus?’ Kathy asked.

‘Och, aye,’ Seona replied. ‘Of course it did! He did a degree in Child Psychology right away.’

‘That’s not exactly what I meant,’ Kathy laughed. ‘So what became of the son?’

‘Well, he’s nothing like Angus, that’s for sure!’ Seona replied. ‘Took off as soon as he could, he’s worked all over the world doing all sorts of jobs. Once
he painted white lines on the roads of New York, and he worked on a farm in Australia once, and he did something or other in New Zealand after that, forestry I think it was. He hasnae been home for
a few years now, but I suppose he’ll come back in due course. Bunty’s broken hip is likely the first sign that her and Angus will be needing help to run the estate soon. It’s not
a huge estate, mind, most of it is rock and scrub, but there’s a few sheep and beef cattle, and the fishing of course.’

‘So Rory’s a bit of an adventurer then?’

‘No, I wouldnae really say that,’ Seona replied. ‘He was always a loner, quite happy in his own company sort of thing, but friendly and easy-going when you talked to him. There
was this laddie at school with us, can’t remember his real name, but for some reason the other lads called him Guff McGhee. You know what lads are like. They used to form this circle round
him and chant “Guff McGhee! Guff McGhee!” and he’d get that mad he’d take his shoes off and throw them at them, which was what they wanted. They’d throw them on the
school roof, a right lot of bullies they were. And it was always Rory Macdonald brought it to an end. He’d climb up and get Guff’s shoes for him, and scatter the rest of them with a
look. He never had to raise his fists, yet they never annoyed poor old Guff when he was about. I always liked that about Rory, I always thought he was a good sort who just liked his freedom, always
did what he wanted to do, still does. He was clever as well, went to Glasgow University for a while, but he gave it up after a year or so, it just wasnae his kind of thing. He liked being outdoors.
I mind when he was at school all he wanted to do was be a farmer, but the ground about here isnae exactly green and fertile.’

And then the three women talked of other things. Seona and Kirsty were polite, but they wanted to know where she had come from and why she was here. They had put themselves out to help her after
all, they had a right to have their curiosity satisfied in return. She came from Glasgow, she said, and she had been ill recently, following a family bereavement. Seona and Kirsty exchanged knowing
looks. ‘I knew you’d been ill,’ Seona said. ‘Didn’t I say that the very first day, Kirsty?’ Kirsty nodded. Kathy gave no time scale, but she told them that with
her mother dead there had been nothing to keep her in Glasgow any longer. True, if not perfectly and completely true, a skill she had learned, she thought ruefully, while dealing with Jamie and
fending off his insecurities. Both women listened sympathetically.

‘Was it sudden?’ Seona asked.

Kathy nodded. ‘She died in a fire.’

‘That’s awful, Kathy. I mind when my mother died,’ Seona said. ‘Remember when your Gran died, Kirsty?’ Kirsty nodded sadly. ‘We knew she was going to die, but
it didnae make any difference when it happened, it was just as much of a shock. It happens to everyone, I know,’ Seona continued, ‘but I canny understand how other people manage. I just
fell apart, couldnae imagine life without her, still canny.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Three years,’ she said, ‘and it feels like yesterday. I still expect to see her
every day, still include her in everything as though she was living up the road.’ By this time all three of them were dabbing at their eyes, and suddenly Seona looked around and let out a
great peal of laughter. ‘Look at us sitting here!’ she laughed. ‘What’re we like? Macbeth’s witches stirring up a pot of depression! If my mother was here she’d
give the three of us a good slapping and tell us to behave ourselves!’

They were back in the Tourist Office inside the station when Major Angus arrived. He wasn’t a tall man, but somehow he looked it, he had a presence. He was of medium
height, but you could see that once he had been well-built, with wide shoulders and muscular arms. The hair under his Tam-o’-Shanter – and how glad she was that she’d been
forewarned about that hat and the feather erupting from it – was snow-white and shoulder length. Merging with it at the front was a full set of whiskers, so that the visible part of his face
consisted of a nose, ruddy cheeks and two amazingly bright blue eyes. She had trouble taking her eyes off his, deep-set but sharp and intelligent, almost lit from within. On his feet he had heavy,
well-worn brown brogues and thick woollen socks with a
sgiann dhu
tucked into the top of the right one. His kilt was in a muted, dark tartan and quite different from any she had ever seen,
but her acquaintance with men in Highland dress had been restricted to TV programmes, where the outfit was refined and brightly coloured. The men wearing those kilts, usually entertainers with no
Highland connections, also had frilly jabots underneath delicate jackets with silver buttons, and shoes made of shiny patent leather, but Major Angus was wearing the working variety, the genuine
garb. His kilt was held at the waist by a thick, no-nonsense belt, and the only sign of frivolity was the silver edging on the large sporran hanging from the belt. On top he wore a rough, dark
green shirt rolled to the elbows and a sleeveless, brown leather jerkin that buttoned up to the front, the kind she had seen working soldiers wearing on newsreels of the War. Kathy thought back to
her only trip through Glencoe all those years ago, and how she had imagined the road missing and the remnants of the Forty-Five Rebellion making their way homewards from Culloden, being hunted
across their own land by the Redcoats. She couldn’t make up her mind if Major Angus would fit that bill, or if he was more like an escaped extra from some embarrassing piece of Scotch kitsch.
All he needed was a plaid across his shoulder, a studded targe in one hand and a broadsword in the other, but there was no denying that even without them the overall effect was arresting. She
wondered if he had a horse waiting outside and would throw her roughly up behind him, then she reminded herself that he had driven a Daimler for the original Major, so she was being stupid. Still,
even a Daimler would add to the impression, she thought, until they got outside and found a battered white Mini waiting to convey them to Glenfinnan. He had asked her no questions, he had simply
accepted her on Seona’s recommendation, in fact he hadn’t spoken at all, and within minutes her suitcase had been retrieved from the Alexandra and they were on their way.
‘
Who’d have believed it?’
she thought gleefully. ‘
Two weeks ago Ah left the Barras, noo here Ah am, bein’ driven through the Highlands in a Mini by Rob
Roy’s wee brother!’
And being driven fast at that, Major Angus had little time for details like speed restrictions, or any other requirement of the Highway Code either.

Once out of Fort William they passed through Banavie at breakneck speed, with Neptune’s Staircase on the right, the series of locks on the Caledonian Canal bringing boats through the short
cut from Inverness to Fort William, and Loch Eil on the left. They drove through Corpach, Fassfern and Kinlocheil, names she had never heard of, all of them as exciting and exotic as Zanzibar or
Valparaiso, especially if you came from Moncur Street; she only wished she’d had the chance to actually see them. High on the right hand side of the road at Drumsallie, outside Kinlocheil,
she noticed a small whitewashed cottage with a bright red door and window surrounds. Though she couldn’t get more than a swift glance before it had disappeared in the distance, she could see
that it was completely on its own, with sheep grazing nearby. ‘Who lives there?’ she asked. ‘It’s Rory’s,’ said Rob Roy’s younger brother, ‘but he
doesnae live in it. He’s away at the minute anyway.’ She wondered briefly how he could be sure she knew who Rory was; it would be a few years yet before she understood that everyone in
the area knew everything about each other, even the ones who couldn’t claim direct or indirect kinship. Major Angus would have known perfectly well that Seona had already fully briefed her,
he would’ve expected nothing less. And then they drove round a corner into a moment she would never forget. That first sight of the Glenfinnan Monument standing at the head of Loch Shiel, the
mountains on either side and into the distance rising in perfect symmetry, literally took her breath away. She gave a little involuntary gasp and Angus turned to look at her. ‘Aye,’ he
said simply, smiling at her. ‘It is.’ A statue stood on top of the sixty-five foot tower, with an octagonal wall around the base, but the car passed too quickly to take a closer look.
Even with that brief glimpse the beauty of the thing almost brought tears to her eyes. It was so picturesque, so perfect, that it looked not quite real, as if someone had painted it and let their
enthusiasm run away with their brush. And Seona had said there was nothing much at Glenfinnan! That first sight of the tower standing against the landscape, with the hills, the loch and the sky
framing it, instantly entered into her memory. She would never forget the first time she saw it and when she was away from it that picture was the one she drew to mind. Even though she would see it
again every day for many years in different weather and light, she carried that initial impression in her mind, and later it would sustain her through the months of Con’s dying that lay far
in the future.