Chloe (26 page)

‘I mean, think of Kilkenny limestone!' she says to the air-hostess who smiles at her plastically.

C
hloë spent a night in Glasgow, partly because there was no reply at the Buchanans', partly because there was so much to see and do, partly because she wanted to carve a small space in which to chew over and digest Ireland. However, she found she could not do so in the confines of the luxury small hotel she had earmarked precisely for the purpose, for she allowed instead the mini bar and satellite television to enforce distraction. She had not seen a television, let alone watched one, since Christmas and, though she realized she had not missed it at all, she indulged in zapping between twenty channels whilst popping peanuts and sipping from whisky miniatures. She easily persuaded herself that, as she would undoubtedly be subsisting for the next three months on haggis, peaty water and only the occasional scone that Jocelyn's money might run to, room service was a justifiable must. Not least because it was her twenty-seventh birthday, a fact she had purposely kept from all at Ballygorm and was now bravely keeping from herself.

Just another year. No need to celebrate.

You mean, no one to celebrate with.

No cards. No candles. No Jocelyn. And as no one could do birthdays quite like her godmother, what was the point? Jasper and Peregrine? They had sent her a card, of course they had; a padded, perfumed, musical extravaganza emblazoned with a glittery ‘C' and swamped within with their idiosyncratic poetry in fine copperplate. Only it had arrived at Ballygorm after Chloë's departure.

So, cross-legged on a plump bed, she feasts alone on smoked salmon sandwiches and chocolate mousse, while keeping half an eye on the Scandinavian Snow Boarding Championships (in Swedish) and the other half on a film about open marriages (in Dutch).

Awaking the next morning, though her surroundings were strange, when Chloë cast her memory back to her room at Ballygorm and tried to envisage waking up there, it suddenly seemed so long ago and so far away. It had been warm, bright and open, that she remembered; the streets of Glasgow were dull and busy, and people were wearing jumpers. A small voice told Chloë that perhaps cities were simply not her thing. With coach ticket bought for that afternoon and rucksack deposited in the left luggage, she spent the morning at the Burrell Collection. There, she lost herself in the fine collection of French impressionism and thought herself quite honoured that Degas had a predilection for women with long, lush auburn hair. Often, with a slight shift of focus, she saw herself reflected from the glass in front of such canvases, and let down her locks or scooped them up into a bun accordingly.

Over a cup of very good coffee and a slab of shortbread, she gazed through the enormous wall-windows out over Pollok Park. Something moved. A deer. She held her breath. For a caught moment, the deer regarded her directly. In a blink, it moved off between the pines and was lost from sight. Chloë thought how lucky she was. And then she thought back to Ireland. Had she not been afforded a fleeting glimpse of Jocelyn? As she gazed at the parkland and trees, she realized that, though the deer had gone, its momentary presence had now left the view infinitely more beautiful than before its appearance.

The coach journey was a revelation and Chloë found herself already planning a life in Scotland. Scotland could be home, didn't Jocelyn say so? Or imply it? From being in the midst of the city, suddenly they were pacing through the most beautiful landscape and passing lovely villages with stone bridges and smoking chimneys. At every stop, Chloë was tempted to disembark but she was more inquisitive about meeting Fraser Buchanan and seeing just where she would be spending the summer. Before long, the waters of Loch Lomond lapped almost at the side of the road which edged its way along the contour of its shore. Road signs declared Crianlarich, Tyndrum, the bridges of Orchy and Awe and there were soon signposts for Rob Roy's house and cave. Chloë felt little waves of excitement; such romantic places were now hers for the exploring, could even be hers for the keeping. Unless, of course, Fraser Buchanan was opening a sculpture trail and intended to confine her to the grounds of the laird's lair. Chloë had decided to forbid her imagination from concocting Fraser Buchanan in her mind's eye, though she had a hunch that he would be portly and of not many teeth. She also prepared herself to be unable to decipher a word he said.

Loch Lomond went on and on; Chloë had no idea. It was not like Lough Neagh for its waters were stiller, its far shore nearer, the colour of the land surrounding it very different. In contrast to the bright, lime-emerald green of Ireland, here the shadow of Scots pine infused a blue-green tone over the land. The Scottish palette sang hauntingly in a minor key compared to Ireland's merry jig in a major. Eventually, the shores of the loch began to close in a little and Chloë knew her stop must be soon. She gathered her things about her, fiddled with her hair and then settled back into her seat with butterflies in her stomach; a desire to be on her way. Just after Tyndrum and before the Bridge of Orchy, the bus deposited Chloë and trundled off towards Glencoe. The driver had pointed down a small road off to the left so Chloë walked down it and into Glen Orchy. To one side a hill, smoked in shades of mauve and sienna, slithered down to the road; to the other the Orchy tumbled its course, intermittently hidden by dense pine. Ahead of her, a small clutch of buildings sat at the foot of a steeper hill, predominantly beige, within the sound of a waterfall. It was Drumfyn and she had arrived.

‘What a perfect setting,' she gasped as she strolled towards the hamlet, ‘and which one's Braer House?' she wondered. ‘Which one's mine?'

The lady in the post office which also sold groceries, gardening implements and general chandlery, was helpful but less friendly than Chloë anticipated. The door had sprung a jolly peel of bells when she had entered and the lady had scuttled in from behind the bead curtain at the back. She was just as she should have been; about sixty, short and stocky, a good head of silver hair curled neatly about her face, pale blue winged glasses, a neat if thin mouth, arms loosely folded across a plain blouse and good bosom, an Aran-knit cardigan about her shoulders. Chloë brandished the name ‘Fraser Buchanan' and asked directions with an eager smile, continuing to grin with her whole face as the lady told her where to go. Chloë bade her goodbye with effusive thanks and more smiling but the lady merely nodded her head and said ‘Aye' before disappearing beyond the bead curtain.

Her directions, however, were excellent and made up for any lack of affability. The pavement became a small path which soon crept up and away from the road. After the lady's ‘stone's throw', Chloë indeed came upon a sign proclaiming ‘Braer House' and turned left up a steep drive, tree-lined and casting an eerie violet light. From far off, a trickle of laughter filtered through, though Chloë mistook it at first for the wind through pine needles. Soon, the trees stayed to the left and a neat lawn opened out to the right. A fine granite house stood straight ahead. And the lawn to the right was full of people. Wearing their finest; sipping what could only have been champagne. Talking fast in excitable laughs.

No one looked at Chloë as she clumped up the drive, weighed down by her rucksack, walking boots and bewilderment.

A hotel, perhaps?

The people moved aside when she said ‘Excuse me' but still seemed not to notice her.

Am I to be a chambermaid?

She stepped between them and through the open door into the hallway of the house. The din inside was much louder but under it ran the scent of roasting chicken and baking bread and Chloë found she was relaxed and smiling. She spied a young man at the back of the hall refilling glasses from behind a small trestle table.

I don't want to be a barmaid.

She picked her way over to him.

‘Hullo,' she said, ‘I'm looking for Fraser Buchanan?'

He looked up at her, scanned her face momentarily and changed his startled look to one of relief and a short but expansive smile.

‘Thank the sweet Lord!' he exclaimed in a highly intelligible but extremely Scottish accent. ‘We thought you'd never arrive, girl! We thought you'd stood us up!'

‘No, no!' assured Chloë, slightly bowed from the burden of her rucksack. ‘I tried to phone last night but there was no answer.'

‘Och,' he slammed his fist on to the table, ‘not again! Telecommuni-compli-cations! Look, no time for that now, drop your stuff and take this tray out to the guests!'

I'm to be a waitress!

Too startled to ask why, Chloë deposited her rucksack under the trestle table and held out her hands for the tray. As he handed it to her, he looked her up and down swiftly and muttered something about jeans would have to do, at least they were black and her shirt was white. Chloë could see that he was in too much of a flurry to elaborate, and too preoccupied for her to ask again for Fraser Buchanan. He also called her Maggie but she made allowances for that.

‘I'll ask again later,' she said to herself as she negotiated a clutch of chattering women in almost identical straw hats, ‘there's time. Three months or so. But for now I'm needed out in the garden whether I'm Maggie or Chloë. In my jeans that are black, at least, and my shirt that is correctly white. How odd!' she exclaimed under her breath as a man in a beautiful waistcoat swooped a glass from her tray. ‘What
ever
is going on?

Chloë discovered what was going on when she spilt red wine down her front and went in search of a bathroom. The house was only two storeys high but it was long, and all the rooms upstairs to the right of the staircase appeared to be locked. The one directly ahead was a small single bedroom whose bed was stripped with the mattress up-ended. To her left ran another series of doors, all closed. She took pot luck, walked past two and grasped the handle of the third with conviction. It opened with ease. It was a bathroom. But there was somebody in it too. A bride. Sitting on the toilet, no less; looking out of the window at nothing in particular, muttering to herself.

‘God, I am
so
sorry,' muttered Chloë, quickly closing the door and treating the empty corridor to her most pained expression.

‘It's fine!' the bride called. ‘Come back! Please!'

‘Me?' asked Chloë with her face close to the door frame.

‘Yes!' the bride called. ‘Absolutely you!'

Chloë pushed the door open and edged her eyes and nose into the room. The bride was now sitting on the edge of the bath with one shoe off and an exultant smile on her face.

‘Come in,' she beckoned, ‘come!'

Chloë entered the room and the bride swished past, closing and locking the door with a little giggle. She turned and held out her hand for Chloë, shaking it heartily.

‘I'm Sally Lomax,' she explained and then gripped Chloë's hand hard while a look of joyous bewilderment skipped over her face. ‘No I'm not!' she exclaimed. ‘I'm Sally
Stonehill
, Gracious Good Lord!'

Chloë shared a small laugh with her.

‘And I'm Chloë,' she said, ‘Cadwallader.'

‘An alliterative sister!' Sally declared with a whoop. ‘You can save my wedding night!'

‘I can?' asked Chloë, liking the girl enormously.

‘I'm trying to get out of my bra,' Sally explained earnestly. ‘I have no idea why I'm wearing one – I don't usually, you see.'

‘I see,' said Chloë thinking her dress of ivory shot silk bedecked with intricate frogging quite divine.

‘I was sort-of whipped up by this whole wedding palaver – I bought all the mags and went to all the shops,' she declared with her hand on Chloë's shoulder, ‘
every
one pushes lacy undies at you. So I bought some. In fact, I bought several pairs!'

‘And they're uncomfortable?' asked Chloë. ‘Itchy?'

‘Fiendishly so, but that's not so much the point,' explained the bride. ‘You see, I just craved to be
me
on my wedding day.' Chloë was unsure where the bra came in but let Sally continue. ‘Some brides,' she explained while she and Chloë instinctively sat on the floor, backs to the bath and legs outstretched, ‘pile their hair high and have make-up magicians reinvent them. Well, I can't think of anything more frightening for a groom than not to recognize his bride – so I did my own hair and my normal amount of face paint!'