Chloe (33 page)

‘Chloë! Oh, my sweet, sweet girl!'

Fraser was pelting along Princes Street towards her. For some reason, she turned to check that she was the Chloë of his attentions. A daft half of her hoped it might be otherwise, for he was still hollering, running, getting closer and causing much attention.

‘Chloë!' He was quite breathless and wore a moustache of tiny beads of sweat. ‘Chloë!' he panted, dropping his hands on his knees and allowing his back to heave until it started to steady. ‘Chloë!' he murmured, scouring her face and twitching his brow in as imploring a way as possible. Gently, he put his hands on her shoulders and sought her eyes. Even when he had them, she refused to unclench her pursed lips. ‘Chloë!' he whimpered in a dejected, small voice, eyes cast down, shuffling slightly.

‘Where on earth are your shoes?' Chloë asked. ‘Why are you in your socks?'

She continued to walk and he followed a respectful step behind her, jigging and skipping to avoid the footfalls of the passers-by and the noxious deposits of their dogs. Initially, Fraser babbled an effusive and long-winded apology omitting any true explanation. Soon, though, he fell silent; relieved and grateful that Chloë had neither made a scene nor reprimanded him publicly. The fact that she was walking his way, or at least tolerating his accompanying her, was good news. A very good sign. Good luck.

As they walked beyond the hub of shoppers, Chloë kept up her pace and her silence, Fraser trotting at her heels compliantly.

‘Shoes?' she asked eventually over her shoulder. ‘Socks?'

‘Och, Chloë!' Fraser cried earnestly, taking her elbow and giving it a sharp tug to make her stop. She did so reluctantly, still refusing to look at him. ‘MacWallader, will you not just hear me?' She cocked her head and regarded him through slanted eyes, raising an eyebrow to suggest he commence what had better be a convincing soliloquy.

‘My sweet girl, I've been looking all over for you. I did wrong – majorly – and I know it and I feel wretched. I feel wretched because an apology is not enough, but more I feel wretched because I know I've hurt you. I cannot quantify the value of your friendship. I realize now that I need it far more than I thought I needed the passion last night. Tell me I can still have it? Earn it back?'

‘Why the socks?' Chloë repeated because, though she had easily forgiven him, as was her wont, she also did not want him to know that just yet.

‘I returned this morning – late morning. With
him.
We were in the bedroom. Mrs MacMad knocked and entered.'

‘Oh, God!' Chloë gasped horrified, a gamut of lewd images cavorting across her mind's eye.

‘No!' Fraser exclaimed. ‘We were not – well, we were just talking. On the bed. Clothed – but on the bed. Mrs MacMad said, “Mrs Buchanan has gone out.” And then
he
said, “you told me
I
was Mrs Buchanan!” Really camping it up, he was. The tart. Anyway, we both started laughing uncontrollably – exacerbated by illegal substances, I'm ashamed to add. So she threw us out. I did not have time to collect my shoes which were, of course, by the front door. I've been pacing the streets ever since. Look, my toe! Look at the time, it's nearly six.'

‘And where, might I ask, is
he
?' asked Chloë so she could bite back a smile. Fraser, however, saw it. He put his arm gently around her shoulder and touched her ear lobe with the tip of his nose.

‘There's only one Mrs Buchanan,' he said fondly. ‘
He
was an aberration. Anathema! Anath-a-my-mistakes! I thought it was love last night. But found it only to be lust – and limited – this morning. Surprise bloody surprise. And he? Where's he?
He
was so scared of Mrs MacMad that he practically shat his troos! Certainly, he was last seen scampering down the street in a very strange way! The poof!'

Chloë laughed a little and then fixed Fraser an uncompromising and searching stare.

‘You hurt me, you did.'

‘I know,' he nodded gravely.

‘You're the first person whom I've actually really cared for who has done so.'

‘I am?' he said quietly.

‘You are,' Chloë confirmed, looking away and then looking at him, ‘and it hurt.'

Fraser looked at Chloë's shoes and then up at her face. Pale, she looked tired and pale and he hated himself. She looked as fragile as porcelain, certainly she was as precious as it. He sighed, touched her cheek and slipped his hand down to cup the back of her neck. He drew her face towards his and placed his forehead against hers. One of her ringlets tickled his nose. He ignored it.

‘I'm sorry,' he said, ‘MacWallader.'

‘Please don't do it again.'

‘Oh, I won't.'

Chloë returned to Mrs MacAdam's while Fraser hid around the corner, revving the engine and giggling to himself.

‘Hello, my deary deary dear!' Mrs MacAdam chirped from the midst of maroon velour.

‘Mr Buchanan?' asked Chloë, batting her eyelashes. She watched Mrs MacAdam falter but pretended not to notice. Mrs MacAdam shrugged her shoulders and ushered her to the plump settee and the offer of the mintless humbugs. They sucked in silence, Mrs MacAdam's dilemma almost deafening. Chloë crunched her sweet first.

‘I'd better pack,' she said in English before clearing her voice and infusing her Scottish lilt, ‘take everything with me. I'll not be going home. I'll go to my mother's in Aberdeen. Should he return, please tell him nothing.'

Mrs MacAdam pulled her thumb and finger across an imaginary zip over her lips. Chloë packed and sneezed.

‘How much do I owe you?' she asked Mrs MacAdam. Knowing her penchant for deposits, Chloë was most surprised when Mrs MacAdam gave the air a quick wave and mouthed ‘He'll pay'. Chloë mouthed back ‘You sure?' ‘Oh aye!' moved Mrs MacAdam's mouth. Chloë gave her a smile which she hoped was meek and not guilty and offered her hand for a firm, farewell shake. On their way to the front door, the women stopped and regarded Fraser's shoes for a long moment. Finally, Chloë turned her head away from them and walked past. Neither spoke; both had their reasons.

‘Goodbye, and thank you,' Chloë said to Mrs MacAdam from the doorstep.

‘Don't you worry about waving, Mrs Buchanan,' said Mrs MacAdam, ‘your hands are full and you've enough on your plate.'

‘Shoes?' Fraser enquired.

‘Heavans!' Chloë exclaimed, wide-eyed and winsome. ‘I quite forgot. Silly, silly me!'

That night, Mrs MacAdam stripped the bed in the Gold Room. The next morning, she burned the sheets. A week later, she put Fraser's shoes on the bonfire and burned them too.

B
y mid-September, Chloë was convinced that Scotland was at its most beautiful. The midges had gone, and so had most of the tourists. The streams and waterfalls remained energetic and the hills sighed with colour. The heather shimmered purple and brown, the bracken shone auburn and russet and so did Chloë. The days for the most part were dry and, though still long, they were now tinged by a breeze that was essentially gentle but sang of the proximity of autumn. Buzzards wheeled lazily in the afternoons while red deer welcomed the camouflage of autumn and to spy one was a gift indeed. Most treasured, though, were the eagles. Irrationally, Chloë would often pray that a distant buzzard hugging the hills or skimming the sky just might be an eagle. ‘You'll know when it's an eagle,' Fraser assured her nodding sagely. ‘You'll not doubt it. You won't think to wonder if it might be a buzzard.'

She came across an eagle at close range one afternoon, sitting somewhat incongruously on a short telegraph post in the field behind the garden at Braer. It regarded her directly but remained quite still, its neck feathers lifted and lowered by the constant breeze. Chloë stopped and sat, hugging her knees, on a boulder. It was an eagle all right, not just because its size so dwarfed that of a buzzard, but because its poise and its stare contained such authority and presence, its estimation of its spectator undoubtedly supercilious. Chloë wondered whether to call for Fraser but decided to keep the moment all for herself. It was unlikely there would be another. She watched the bird but never saw it blink. Something caught its attention and it craned its neck, the feathers following the movement like chain-mail. Oh, to reach out and touch it, sneak a feather perhaps! The bird returned its uncompromising stare to Chloë and she found herself smiling warmly at it.

‘Hullo, Mr Eagle!' she said softly, raising her hand in a meek salute. It continued to observe her as if she were very strange indeed and then, with a slight shift and a practice wing flap, it took to the air calling, calling.
Wee! Chlo-wee!

Chloë scrambled to her feet and shielded her brow with her hands so she could follow the bird. It alighted on a distant branch. She raised her hand and waved expansively. The eagle remained motionless and it occurred to Chloë that, unless she had known where to look, she would never have noticed an eagle there at all. How many times had she missed one, she wondered. How often had they been watching her? What did they make of her? Was she recognized? Acknowledged? She waved again and was charmed and delighted that the eagle took to the air. The bird seemed to skirt the very edge of the sky and then suddenly he was amongst the clouds, circling and assessing and enjoying himself very much. Down he swooped and then soared again. Down he came and skimmed across the treetops fast.
Wee! Chlo-wee!
With a tilt of his wing-tip he commanded the wind to take him up again and, riding the thermals, he wheeled and hung and seemed to be flying for the sheer hell of it. And then he was gone. Chloë was not sure when she lost him but though she scoured the skies and prayed and pleaded, he was nowhere to be seen.

‘I'd like to be an eagle,' she said to Fraser later over a humble supper of oatcakes and crumbly cheese.

‘And I'd like to be a bus driver!' responded Fraser, pulling a face.

‘No,' Chloë insisted, ‘I'd like to be an eagle – or at least, like one. They seem to have such control and they seem to be so self-sufficient.' Fraser conceded defeat. Chloë continued, ‘Eagles seem to have a consummate understanding of the purpose of their lives, don't you think? They do what they do so very well; they learn how to ride the thermals and how to use the wind to their advantage. They blend in with their surroundings and yet they add to them too.'

‘Aye,' agreed Fraser earnestly.

‘I guess that's what I crave,' said Chloë, a little forlornly, ‘to really fit in somewhere, to feel so utterly at ease, in control and strong. That my surroundings should nourish me so.'

Fraser fell silent and dabbed at crumbs on his plate, eventually looking up at Chloë with dull, drawn eyes.

‘September'll be gone afore long,' he said quietly. Chloë nodded. ‘Could you be an eagle here, do you think?' he asked. She shrugged and tipped her head. ‘Will you not stay a wee while longer, Chloë MacWallader? Build a nest?' Chloë did not respond. ‘Just test out your wings some more before you fly on? Fly away?' Fraser implored.

Chloë smiled at him and stroked his cheek. ‘I cannot start to build my nest until I've found the bough. It may be here, but I can't know that unless I've flown on – I'll never fly away, Fraser, never from you. I'm probably more of a homing pigeon than I'll ever be an eagle! But pigeon or raptor, I now know that I have to see just how far my wings can take me. They don't feel very strong at the moment, that I can tell you, but they do feel like they need a stretch, an airing. If I fly free, I can fly true. As yet, I've been neither high enough nor far enough.'

‘When'll you go, my girl, lassie mine?'

‘End of the month. October.'

Fraser scrunched his eyes tight. When he opened them, they were quite wet.

I feel so loved
, Chloë marvelled to herself later,
for the first time perhaps, someone actually needs me. Cares if I go. Wants me to stay. Maybe I ought to, for a little while longer.

The feeling of well-being, of strength, which she experienced on a solitary walk through the dew to the waterfall the next morning, decided Chloë that she would journey on at the end of the month. Not because she had been told to. She found she actually wanted to.

Jocelyn would be proud.

Yes, she would indeed. So are we. And you should be too, Cadwallader. No advice sought from Jasper and Peregrine. Didn't even consult the Andrews. Fait accompli.

Fate.

I can't wait.

Fraser wanted to ensure that the remainder of Chloë's stay would be filled to the brim with quality time. He woke her at the first mention of dawn each morning and kept her with him until the cuckoo yawned its protest from the wooden clock face in the early hours. He dreaded her leaving, he abhorred the idea of Braer without her. Of being without her. On his own. He did not want Chloë to go to England. It was far away. It was England. He wondered whether to pretend that he did not know of an envelope marked ‘Chloë: England'; that the one so titled in the bureau drawer wasn't for her after all but for someone else. Didn't she know, he had a
cousin
called Chloë. I mean a sister. Friend. No, a colleague. Ultimately, he did tell her of the envelope but she said she didn't want it just yet.

While walking alongside Loch Lomond one morning, an idea came to Chloë practically out of the blue.

‘Fraser?' she started, slowing her pace and holding her head at an acute angle.

‘MacWallader?' he responded, ruffling her hair.

‘I think I have an idea,' she continued.

‘Oh aye,' he said, ‘you
think
so, do you? Either you do or you don't, surely?'

‘Hush up and listen! You know Braer?'

‘Aye, I think that'll be the house in which I live.'