Haunted Scotland (16 page)

Although fiercely independent, Alison Bradie had asked neither family nor friends for help. Towards the end there had been day visitors who kept her fed and watered and to some extent cleaned
the rooms. Sandra’s first instinct on entering through the front porch had been to throw open the shutters and windows to allow fresh air to circulate. It was a bright autumn day with a brisk
North Sea off-shore breeze. As Sandra stood on her own in the drawing room, a shaft of yellow sunlight fell on the oil painting hanging over the fireplace and she was struck by its beauty. She had
never before rated Scottish landscapes. They were generally too stark and overpowering, with lots of orange cattle dotted about. But this one was exceptional. It was hypnotic.

Decades of smoke from the open fireplace had coated its surface, but the colours still shone through. Sandra could clearly make out a range of hills overhung with racing rainclouds. In the
foreground was a wisp of smoke climbing from the chimney of a tiny dwelling place on the shores of a silver loch. In an adjacent field were two figures seemingly absorbed in chopping wood. Tucked
into the fold of a hill was a small church, encroached upon by a graveyard. The detail was fantastic, thought Sandra, searching for a signature or clue as to the artist’s identity.

All she could make out was the date – 1938 – and an indecipherable squiggle. No clue was given as to the location. Sandra’s thoughts were racing ahead of her when they were
interrupted by the arrival of Alison’s lawyer carrying the urn with her ashes. Ignoring this, Sandra asked him if he knew anything about the painting.

‘You’ll find out when it is valued for probate,’ he informed her, placing the urn on a side table. ‘Probably fetch you a couple of grand in the auction rooms.’

As he spoke, a Georgian carriage clock perched prominently on the mantelpiece overturned and crashed to the floor, the glass cracking. ‘That’s a shame,’
he continued briskly. ‘That would have been worth a few bob.’

Sandra stared at him. ‘Did you know my great-aunt?’ she asked.

‘Only met her once,’ he replied. ‘Old McKillop, the senior partner, looked after her affairs. We’d all expected him to pack it in when he hit seventy, but he just went on
and on and on until the Almighty gathered him in January. What a way to go! He fell off his bike at a protest meeting to stop that American building a golf course on Balmeddie Beach. A great
golfer, was Old McKillop, but he didn’t want his beloved environment to be buggered up.’

‘Balmeddie Beach? Is that somewhere I could scatter my great-aunt’s ashes?’ asked Sandra on impulse.

‘No chance,’ came the response. ‘Miss Bradie was very specific about that in her will. She wanted them to go into the sea somewhere called Loch Buie. I think it’s on
Mull.’

Sandra looked appalled. ‘How on earth am I expected to do that?’ she gasped. ‘I don’t even know where Mull is, let alone Loch Buie.’

The young lawyer smiled. ‘That’s your problem, Mrs Pottinger,’ he said, gesturing towards the urn. ‘I’d best get back to the office.’

When Paul telephoned Sandra that evening, she told him about Great-aunt Alison’s last wishes.

‘I wouldn’t bother, if I were you,’ he said. ‘She’s long past caring about that now.’

Sandra was inclined to agree, but her conscience still pricked her with a gnawing doubt that was unlikely to be dispersed when she decided to stay overnight in the old house. The least she could
do was consult the touring map in the glove pocket of her
hire car. And there it was. Loch Buie was situated on the south coast of the island of Mull, fourteen miles from the
ferry terminal at Craignure.

‘Sorry, Great-aunt Alison,’ muttered Sandra under her breath as she climbed into bed. ‘You’ll have to make do with Balmeddie.’

The night fell silent, but towards daybreak Sandra awoke to a persistent rattling noise coming from downstairs. At first she tried to ignore it, but the sound merely increased in volume. Finally
she went to investigate and, wrapping herself in a dressing gown, descended the staircase. The sounds were coming from the drawing room, but stopped when she entered and switched on the lights.

The first thing she noticed was that the funeral urn had been moved to the fireplace. She could have sworn it had been on the side table where the lawyer had left it, but it was now pressed up
against the fire guard, where the clock had fallen. Convinced her mind was playing tricks on her, Sandra flicked the light switch inside the door, but the over-light above the oil painting remained
on. That was odd, she thought to herself. There must be another switch but, search as she did, she was unable to locate it. There were no connections on either side of the fireplace. Nor could she
see plugs on the skirting board.

That was very odd. Moreover, she could not remember the over-light having been on before, and once again she found herself staring at the painting. It was certainly striking, she confirmed to
herself, and this time she noticed that there was something that looked like lettering under the paintwork in the left-hand corner. Removing a handkerchief from her pocket, she dampened the fabric
with her tongue and rubbed the surface. As she continued to rub, the dirt slowly lifted away and, much to her amazement, the words ‘Loch Buie’ were revealed.

It was at that moment she decided that despite the inconvenience, she would take Great-aunt Alison’s ashes to Loch Buie.
When she returned to bed, the house became
silent and Sandra fell into a deep sleep in which she dreamed of a woman in her early twenties and a man of around the same age. They were laughing together as they cast fishing lines over the side
of a small boat floating on a loch surrounded by high hills. The following morning, the overwhelming sense of happiness created by the dream filled Sandra with a sensation of great contentment.

That morning, having secured all of the doors and windows, Sandra packed her suitcase, loaded Great-aunt Alison’s ashes into the boot of the car, and set off to drive west, bypassing
Inverness, to travel south and south-west again towards Argyllshire and the sea port of Oban. It was midday by the time she arrived at the ferry terminal, but she was just in time to book the car
onto the CalMac. At Craignure, she asked for directions to Loch Buie and set off to follow the signs to Fionnphort, turning south onto one of the narrowest and windiest tracks she had ever
seen.

When eventually she arrived at the village of Lochbuie, on the curve of Loch Buie, it was mid-afternoon. Rounding a corner, she pulled over beside the loch to inspect the picturesque little
church, which she recognised instantly. It was the church in the oil painting. At the door stood an elderly woman, her hair tucked up into a woollen bonnet, her shoulders wrapped in a plaid
shawl.

‘You’ll be the one with Alison Bradie’s ashes,’ she said in a matter-of-fact manner.

Sandra stared at the stranger in astonishment. ‘How can you possibly know that?’ she gasped.

The woman’s face cracked in a smile. ‘I saw in the newspaper she’d gone. They called me from Craignure to tell me you were on your way.’

People on islands are still like that, thought Sandra. She remembered having told the ferry master the purpose of her visit. ‘But who are you?’ she exclaimed, bewildered.

‘Let me show you,’ said the woman gently. Taking Sandra’s hand, she led her round the side of the church to a simple commemorative stone. On it was
carved: ‘Rhuaridh Maclean. Painter, sculptor and lobster fisherman. 1912–1939. Lost at Sea.’

‘Rhuaridh was my oldest brother,’ she explained. ‘I am Norma Maclean. Alison was betrothed to Rhuaridh, but my father did his utmost to prevent them from marrying because he
didn’t approve of the way Rhuaridh earned his living.

‘Besides, he said Alison was too young. Such nonsense. She was nineteen, and her parents liked Rhuaridh, so there was not much my parents could do about it.

‘And it was not as if Rhuaridh didn’t have his own money. He sold a lot of his paintings. He was very successful – he even exhibited at the Royal Scottish Academy in Edinburgh.
So they decided to come here to a croft on the Moy estate in search of the simple life. Mull’s a great place to live if you’re an artist . . .’ She paused. ‘But you must be
one of the family,’ she said as an afterthought.

‘Her great-niece,’ said Sandra. ‘Alison left me her house in Aberdeen.’

Norma nodded. ‘My brother’s house,’ she said.

‘How do you mean? I thought Great-aunt Alison worked there as the owner’s housekeeper?’

‘That was Lachlan, my other brother,’ replied Norma. ‘Like me, he wasn’t that keen on marriage, was Lachlan, especially when he saw how my father treated our mother and
our brother. When Rhuaridh died, Lachlan offered Alison a home. I think that he’d always had a thing for her, but he’d never have done anything about it. That was Lachlan.

‘She couldn’t stay here on Mull, of course. Or rather, she wouldn’t stay here. There was too much sorrow. Lachlan and Alison always liked each other, but there was no way he
would
have married her and nor would she have wanted to marry him.

‘So the only way for it to be respectable in those days was for her to be his housekeeper and keep to her own quarters. They were together for almost half a century. She looked after him
well.’

‘But what happened to Rhuaridh?’

Norma Maclean gave off a deep, weary sigh and gazed across Loch Buie towards the Firth of Lorne. ‘One day Rhuaridh just went off in his little motor boat and he never returned. Upturned by
the tide off Carsaig Bay, they said. His body should have washed up on the shore near Malcolm’s Point, but it was never found. Alison was devastated. She never recovered from her loss. It
broke her heart. That’s why she left. That’s why all these long years later she needs to return.’

Something still did not make sense. ‘How is it that you’re here?’ asked Sandra. ‘It’s just so strange.’

‘I needed to escape from Aberdeen too.’ Her voice betrayed her emotion. ‘I had been seeing a local boy and found myself pregnant. My brothers and I were close. I was sixteen at
the time and when we lost Rhuaridh, Lachlan took over Alison’s tenancy of the croft for me. They were good men, my brothers Lachlan and Rhuaridh. Nobody knew me here. I had a fatherless child
to bring up and with my mother dead, my father wanted nothing to do with me. So I came here. I’ve moved house on the island twice since, but never more than a mile.’

Their eyes met with a mutual understanding. ‘I think Alison would have wanted us both to be here for her today,’ said Sandra. ‘Shall we?’

Together the two women followed the stoney path toward the water’s edge. Removing the cap of the urn, Sandra shook the white powder briskly onto the wind and the two women watched
as it dispersed like icing sugar over the restless expanse of water in front of them.

‘She’ll be happy again,’ said Sandra.

‘They’ll both be happy again,’ her companion corrected her.

18

On the fashionable south side of Glasgow, Will and Janice Laidlaw were thrilled when their offer for a tenement flat in Pollokshaws was accepted. Janice had always longed for a
place of her own to redecorate to her own inimitable taste, and from the moment they moved in had set about re-traditionalising the interiors.

First of all there was the kitchen, followed by the bedrooms and living room. The latter was a big problem as its only decorative feature was a small, nondescript gas fire, whereas Janice was
determined to have a spacious open hearth surmounted by an imposing mantelpiece. Fortunately, Will was a bit of a genius when it came to do-it-yourself and recycling, and he was prepared to go to
any length to please his best beloved.

That first winter, they made do, but as soon as the clocks went forward at the end of March, Will announced he was planning to entirely rebuild the fireplace. ‘Don’t worry, it
won’t cost us anything. I found a whole stack of stone lying unused in an old
abandoned yard down the road. If nobody wants it, we might as well make the best of
it.’

Janice was thrilled. As a van driver for the council, it was a relatively easy task for Will to pick up the necessary materials on his travels and soon afterwards large slabs of stone began to
appear on the tenement stair. While this was going on, Janice retreated into the kitchen, leaving her husband and his pal to get on with the work.

It took several weeks and created a lot of noise and clouds of dust which filled the entire building like a sandstorm, but when the work was completed Janice was thrilled at the result. It was
as if the entire wall of the sitting room had been replaced. Instead of the small, ugly stove there now stood the most magnificent opening of pink and white-streaked marble surmounted by a black
marble mantelshelf, under which Will had inserted a flueless living flame fire. It was a marvel. ‘It makes me feel like royalty,’ Janice told Will.

Or at least that was her first reaction. Throughout the summer months she would proudly show it off to friends who dropped in for a visit, but after a certain amount of time had passed, it
occurred to her that there was always something missing in their response. Nobody was ever as enthusiastic as she had expected them to be. They were polite, yes, but that was all.

And on further reflection she realised why. Despite the flame being turned on to its fullest extent, the room always remained inexplicably chilly. It was as if there were a permanent north wind
hovering over the hearth. As autumn moved towards winter, the temperature continued to drop. Often Janice felt that it was considerably warmer outside in the street.

‘Why does the fire give off so little heat?’ she chided Will one day, shivering as she increased the flame. Outside the sun was
shining, but inside the
Laidlaws’ sitting room it remained as cold as the interior of their refrigerator.

Will too was puzzled. ‘Perhaps it’s the marble,’ he said. ‘Marble is supposed to keep things cool, isn’t it? That’s why they use it in all those eastern
palaces and places like Dubai.’