Set Me Free (9 page)

Margherita

Lara, Inary and I walked along the loch shore towards Ramsay Hall, its grey stones appearing and disappearing from view as we advanced, like an enchanted castle from a fairy tale. It was my first time near Loch Avich since I'd arrived and I was bewitched by its calm beauty. The afternoon was chilly and clear, and the water was shining green, rippling softly in the breeze. It was worlds away from my suburban home in London: another world, another life.

“Look! There's a little island there,” I pointed out to Lara. In the middle of the loch sat a little mound of land covered in larches and pine trees, like something out of a mystical vision. “That's Innis Ailsa,” Inary said, with her delicate Scottish accent. “But we call it Ailsa.” I was still to get used to the local lilt – everything people said sounded like a song. The name of the island sounded something like “Eylsa”, in that beautiful, mysterious language that is Gaelic. Gaelic was completely foreign to me and it wasn't in my blood; and still, there was a sense of weird familiarity to it, like I'd heard it somewhere before, in a distant past.

Lara smiled. “It sounds like a spell,” she said. “Like something out of Harry Potter.” She branded an imaginary wand, “Innis Ailsa!”

We walked on, the grass still wet and shiny with morning dew, mist slowly rising from the hills. The perfect silence was only broken by the noise of the water lapping the shore and the rustling of birds in the trees. It was so peaceful. Flashbacks of my life in the run-up to the summer hit me all of a sudden – busy days, packed schedules full of chores that somehow seemed all-important. When had my life become so frantic? For months, years even, it had felt like everything had to be done now, everything needed seen to at once.

I took a deep, deep breath, letting this new calm fill me up. It's only when you put your burdens down, I considered, that you realise how heavy they were, how hard it was to carry them for all that time.

“Here we are,” Inary announced. We were in front of a stone arch with an iron gate at its centre; ivy-covered stone walls continued at both sides of the arch as far as the eye could see, semi-hidden by trees. There was a heavy chain threaded between the gate's halves, holding them together, but Inary opened it without a key. Lord Ramsay was expecting us.

We stepped onto a gravelled space with Ramsay Hall at its centre. Lara gave a little
oh
, and I looked around me in awe. Inary was smiling silently, aware of our admiration.

Ramsay Hall was built of beautiful grey stone, with a square central building and two wings at its sides, and ivy climbing up its walls. Its structure was symmetrical and harmonious, a jewel of perfect proportions. A copse of oak trees surrounded the house like a garland, and endless fields of grass rolled gently beyond them before turning into pine-clad hills. My stomach churned a bit, but I resolved not to be daunted by the mansion's size and by the title of its owner. After all, a bumbling old man in a tweed jacket could never intimidate me. I imagined him calling me
dear
. Maybe he had a moustache. And a cravat, and knickerbockers. Okay, now I was getting a bit carried away.

We heard the low, gentle neighing of a horse coming from the outbuildings on the right-hand side. “Are those stables?” I asked.

“Yes. They have a riding school, if you want to take lessons,” Inary replied.

“Not me . . . horses are
high
.” I shook my head in horror. Horse riding is one of the many things I'll never even consider doing. “But maybe Lara . . .”

“Well, I don't know . . .” Lara said.

“Torcuil will show you the stables and then you can decide. I love horse riding,” Inary said, which I suspected might swing Lara towards trying. Lara was starstruck by Inary, hanging on every word she said. It was very sweet and funny, and
so
Lara. “Come to the back,” she continued. “Torcuil never uses the main entrance. Nobody does, really. Only Lady Ramsay.”

“Oh, there's a Lady Ramsay?” I imagined the kind of groomed, genteel old lady who would appear on the cover of
Country Living
.

“Well, not as such . . . I mean, Torcuil is not married,” Inary explained as we made our way towards the back of the house. “Lady Ramsay is his mother. My aunt, on my father's side. She's scary.”

“Oh.”

“Don't worry, she's not here. She lives in Perth. Thankfully,” she added.

As we got closer to the house I noticed signs of neglect – unchecked ivy eating away at the walls, hedges that needed trimmed, windows in dire need of a wash. It was a big house for someone to live in alone.

We walked along the back wall until we reached a small wooden door painted in black. It was garlanded by a stunning fuchsia plant, laden with flowers.

Inary tapped against the wood. “Hello! It's us!”

The door opened and on the other side was a man wearing jeans, an untucked chequered shirt and silver-rimmed glasses. He was probably a stablehand or a gardener. “Come in! Hi, Inary. And you must be Margherita . . .” he said, offering me his hand. His smile was warm and shy at the same time.

“And this is Lara, Margherita's daughter,” said Inary.

The man shook my daughter's hand. “Hello. I'm Torcuil.”

Torcuil?
I blinked a couple of times, trying to adjust to the discovery. This man was Torcuil? But he was young. And he wasn't wearing tweed. And he had all his hair.

The old, bumbling, Colonel Mustard-type figure dissolved from my mind.

“You are Lord Ramsay?” I asked, just to make sure.

He ran a hand through his thick auburn hair and left it sticking up, like a little boy who'd just woken. “Yes, but don't call me that or I won't know who you're talking to.”

At that moment, I realised I'd seen him somewhere before. He was the man who'd picked up Pingu on the night we arrived.

“You were there,” I said. “I mean, you were there when we arrived. You picked up my son's toy.”

“Yes. Yes, it was me. Funny that. Anyway. Tea? Coffee? My coffee is a bit past its best . . .” he said, lifting a jar of something that had solidified in a weird way, like a desert rose.

“A cup of tea would be lovely,” I said, looking around me. Everything was clean and smelled of bleach – I suspected a last-minute cleaning frenzy before I arrived, and the thought made me smile. There was a vast oak table in the centre of the room, half covered in piles of books and folders, and stone slabs covered the floor; from the window I could see what must have been a gorgeous garden but was now overgrown with unkempt bushes and covered in swathes of dead leaves.

He began filling the kettle, and I took the chance to observe him a little as his back was turned. There was a certain family air in his and Inary's colouring, with their auburn hair and fair skin, though Torcuil's hair was darker than Inary's. But the similarities ended at that – Inary was even smaller than me and very slight, while Torcuil was tall and well built.

“I hope you don't mind if we have our chat here in the kitchen?” he said. “It's the only place where my allergies don't act up. Here and my bedroom, but I couldn't interview you in the bedroom, it would just be dodgy.” He seemed completely unaware of what was coming out of his mouth.

Inary burst into laughter. I looked at him with raised eyebrows, and a deep red colour started rising up his face.

“Okay, I should shut up. Sorry.” He was nervous too, and for some reason I found this very endearing.

“Er, yes. So . . . you need a hand with the house?” I said, helping him along.

“Will you show my mum how to kick the boiler?” Lara asked, deadpan. I gasped inwardly, but Torcuil was unfazed.

“Oh, that. Yes, of course. You can just slam it if you don't want to kick it. It's up to you. It's just that it gets very cold in here all year round, and my housekeeper was the only one who got it right every single time. She was like a horse whisperer, only with boilers . . .”

“Why exactly would I have to hit your boiler?”

“Because the heating won't start otherwise,” Inary inter­vened, handing me and Lara a cup of hot tea. “Milk and sugar?”

“Milk, one sugar,” I said.

“Milk, four sugars,” said Lara.

“Caramelised tea, my favourite,” quipped Torcuil, and Lara giggled. “I have some biscuits as well.” He brandished a packet of digestives as if he were showing us the Holy Grail.

Inary took hold of a plate. “Oh, yes please. You know, Margherita is a pastry chef . . .”

“Well, I was . . .”

“Oh, cool! I love food! I can't really cook it, but I love it. So anyway, have a seat, have a biscuit, let's
talk
.” He moved several piles of books and what looked like essays.

I was smiling inside. He was funny. We all sat at the table, except Lara, who lifted herself up on the windowsill. Torcuil pushed his glasses up on his nose.

“Well, what I'm looking for, I guess, is just someone who could try to keep the living area sort of acceptable . . . I only use a few rooms; this place is enormous and heating the whole lot for just one person would be just silly. Every weekend I come back from Edinburgh, you know I teach at the university there . . .”

“Inary told me.”

“Yes, so it makes no sense to come back every single weekend, let's face it, but I sort of have to. I can't stand to be away from here for too long . . .”

I was surprised at this sudden, unexpected candour. Inary had her hands around her mug, her head tilted slightly and a smile hovering on her lips. I had the feeling that Inary's affection for her cousin ran deep.

“You would have the place ready for me, you know, warm, groceries in, stuff like that. A cooked meal would be great, if it's not too much trouble . . .” I loved the way he pronounced the word
great
, rolling the
r
in the middle.

“Torcuil has an ongoing tab with the Golden Palace. You know, the Chinese takeaway,” Inary explained.

“See, I can't cook to save my life,” he said, running his hand through his hair once more. He was fidgety, forever touching his hair, pushing his glasses up – there was a sense of awkwardness around him, of shyness. “It runs in the family. I mean Inary here is just legendary when it comes to dodgy meals . . .”

“Excuse me!”

“No offence, honestly . . .”

“None taken.” Inary grinned and dunked another biscuit in her tea.

“Also, I'm so busy all weekend trying to oversee the riding school and prepare for my teaching week . . .”

“So I would come in on a Friday morning, and maybe a Thursday too, depending on what needs done? A general clean, kick the boiler . . .” – Lara giggled and I shot her a glance – “. . . bring some food in, cook a couple of meals for you?”

“Yes. Does that sound reasonable?”

I thought it did, but I wanted to think about it for a bit, so I bought myself some time. “Would you show us the rest of the house?”

“Of course.” He rose and beckoned us. “Follow me.”

“Wait till you see this place. It's incredible,” Inary murmured to Lara, taking her by the arm. I felt a tingle of anticipation.

We followed Torcuil up a few uneven stony steps and passed some rooms to our left, which he dismissed as his bedroom and bathroom, and then a small reception room. Every possible surface there was covered by stacks of books, and I could see by the amount of papers around and the jumper thrown on the sofa that Torcuil used this as his study. It was a mess, but a
lovely
mess, I thought, a sign of someone who was passionate about what he did. The same mess that's in a kitchen in the middle of a cooking session.

“And here comes the real thing,” he announced as we stepped into a stone-floored hall. “That's the main entrance, and down here are the formal reception rooms.”

From the high-ceilinged hall a marble staircase wound up to the first floor, dividing itself in two landings, both lined with portraits in tarnished gold frames. A row of coats of arms hung at the top of the staircase, and in the centre, bigger than the others, was what I guessed was the Ramsay coat of arms: a two-headed black eagle holding a shield.

“Is that the Ramsay coat of arms?” Lara asked.

“Yes. Our motto is
Dei Donum
, which means—”

“Gift of God,” said Lara.

“Do you study Latin?” asked Torcuil with a smile.

“I've been taking some classes in school. Just for fun.”

“That's my kind of fun too,” Torcuil replied, and I saw Lara blooming under his praise. It warmed my heart. “So this is the posh side of the house . . .” he continued. It
all
seemed pretty posh to me.

We walked through room after room, each of them covered in dust, with the most beautiful pieces of furniture shrouded in huge white sheets, cobwebs hanging from the ceilings. Torcuil had started sneezing already.

“And this is what used to be . . .
atchoo!
. . . my father's study.”

This was the only room that was clean and well kept, with framed maps on the walls and an antique globe on the desk.

“My dad passed away five years ago. He loved Ramsay Hall. He tried to spend most of his time here, though his work kept him away. It's history repeating itself with me, I suppose! Come. I'll show you the library.”

“It's like the Cluedo mansion,” Lara whispered. “Margherita, in the library, with a pastry cutter . . .” I had to laugh.

The library was lined with dark wooden shelves from wall to wall. There were hundreds of volumes in their glassed cases, like a book aquarium. I could
feel
Lara's excitement.

“Some titles are impossible,” Torcuil said. “Like an eighteenth-century encyclopaedia of all Scottish plants in five volumes . . . but some are more modern and very readable. I know, because I spent half of my childhood here . . . I mean literally
here
.” He patted a dark-brown leather sofa in a corner.