The Steep Approach to Garbadale (35 page)

‘Has to have a university and easy access to mountains,’ she says crisply. ‘Glasgow, Edinburgh, Dundee, Aberdeen. In Europe, woh, anywhere near the Alps would do. Oslo. In the States: Colorado . . . Oh, loads of places. Why?’

‘Just checking.’

‘I’m not necessarily asking you to move in, you understand,’ she says.

‘I realise that.’

‘Still, you don’t want to lose me, Alban,’ she says gently, and looks over at him for long enough that when she looks back to the road she has to make a small adjustment to the steering.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t.’

He watches her face, side on, for a moment. He loves this woman, he realises, but he doesn’t know how to tell her exactly how much without sounding either mealy-mouthed or just too cold. He has never been head-over-heels in love, not even with Sophie, in a sense. Sophie is so long ago, and what happened between them occurred at such a young, even formative age that she forms this awful, unstable, hopelessly compromised foundation for all his feelings for all the women he’s ever felt anything for since.

But no, he does not want to lose Verushka.

‘Why?’ he asks, keeping his voice even. ‘Am I in any danger of losing you?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘Not that I can see. But I don’t know what’s going to come out the other side of this long weekend, when you see your old girlfriend, your long-lost love, the gal what popped your cherry.’ She looks over, an unfunny, even sad smile on her face. ‘What’s worrying is I don’t think you do either.’

‘Maybe that’s why I feel so nervous,’ he confesses.

‘Really?’ She sounds concerned.

He pats his belly through his shirt. ‘Really.’

‘Oh, come on,’ she chides. ‘It’ll be all right. You’ll probably have a great time. You’ll persuade them all to join the Scottish Socialist Party and send the Spraint guys back off to California tarred and feathered and questioning the very laws of capitalism itself. Sophie’ll have just the sweetest guy in tow and twins she’s been keeping secret for the last year and she’ll thank you for introducing her to the mysteries of lurve and say it’s time you both moved on and you and her husband will bond amazingly well and, oh, all that shit. Even your granny will be nice.’

‘She’s often nice. Just never without an ulterior motive.’

‘But don’t be nervous. It’s only family.’

‘Don’t be nervous,’ he mimics, muttering half to himself. ‘It’s only nuclear.’

They leave the main road at the village of Sloy in the shadow of the mountain called Quinag and take a right, heading over a low rise towards Loch Glencoul and the road round to Loch Beag and the great estate of Garbadale.

 
They turn in through the grand gateway and past the gatehouse. Alban looks back at the waters of the loch and the humpback bridge carrying the road over both the River Garve and the path that leads from the house down to the loch’s head. The Forester crunches up the drive between rows of Western Red cedars.

‘And thar she blows,’ Verushka says, chin on steering wheel, gaze upwards, diverted by the sight of the house starting to appear over and through the curving avenue of tall trees.

The house is revealed in sunlight. There are a dozen or so cars and a couple of white vans parked outside. They drive into the shadow of the south wing, drive out again. ‘Aye, here’s oor wee hielin’ hame,’ Alban says.

‘What a fucking monstrous pile,’ Verushka breathes. ‘Did anybody ever need that many turrets?’

‘It’s for sale,’ he tells her. ‘You always wanted a pied-à-terre somewhere up here. Even comes with its own mountains. You should make us an offer.’

‘Na,’ she says, pulling in between a brace of Range Rovers. ‘Thanks all the same but actually I was looking for somewhere a little bigger.’

‘Well, it’s a disappointment, but I understand.’

 
‘Alban! Hello.
Will
you stop doing that? Please! At least inside?’

‘Hi, cuz.’ Alban raises one hand. ‘Hi, ah, small children.’

They’re met in the grand hall by Haydn, who has been drafted in as the family member least likely to make a terrible mess of the accommodation and general hospitality arrangements, even though the house does have a manager who is perfectly used to doing this sort of thing. As they enter, four or five waist-high children of indeterminate gender are in the act of running hollering down the stairs, circuiting a large, sturdy octagonal table in the centre of the hall and then dashing out through the front doors. Alban watches them go, hand still raised in unacknowledged greeting. He shrugs.

Haydn blinks through his glasses at Verushka, who stands on her heels, hands behind her back, smiling at him, bathed in late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the double-height stained glass windows. ‘And this must be . . .’ Haydn looks down at his clipboard, riffling through pages.

‘It’s all right, I’m not staying,’ Verushka says, stepping up to him and sticking out her hand. ‘Verushka Graef. You must be Haydn. How do you do.’

‘Yes. Pleased to meet you. So, you’re not staying?’

‘Just passing through.’

‘I’m staying,’ Alban says helpfully, watching a couple of workmen move a large plant in a weighty pot to the stairs and then start heaving it upwards, one deliberate step at a time.

‘Yes,’ Haydn says, looking at his clipboard list again. ‘Bad news or good?’ he starts to ask Alban, then looks, surprised, at Verushka. ‘Passing through?’ he asks, incredulous. ‘To where?’

‘Further north,’ she tells him. ‘This is only Sutherland, after all.’

‘Huh,’ Haydn says, unclipping a pen and scoring Alban’s name through. ‘But it was the Vikings called it that.’

‘And Greenland Greenland,’ Verushka agrees, staring up at the panelled ceiling with its emblazoned shields and pendulous gilded doodahs like giant pine cones. ‘Those wacky Vikings.’

‘What was that about bad news, Haydn?’ Alban asks, putting his bag down on the parquet.

‘Oh, you’re sharing with Fielding.’

‘Does he know?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Does he snore?’ Verushka asks.

‘Not as far as I know,’ Haydn says.

She nods her head at Alban, says, ‘He does,’ and walks off a little way to admire a huge brass dinner gong, flicking it with one blunt fingernail. ‘Do you get gong tuners?’ she murmurs.

‘Do I snore, really?’ Alban asks, genuinely surprised.

The workmen get the giant plant to the top of the stairs and start rolling the pot along the gallery.

‘Well, that’s Fielding’s problem,’ Haydn says.

Verushka glances back at Alban, waggles one flat hand. ‘Very softly. Quite sweet really. Can’t imagine you’ll wake up because Fielding’s trying to smother you with a pillow.’ She looks at Haydn, frowning. ‘You have any spare ear plugs?’

Alban crosses his arms, looks at her. ‘So. Don’t let us keep you.’

She gives him her best shit-eating grin. ‘You’re welcome, it was on my way.’

He smiles and walks up to her, taking her in his arms. ‘Yeah, thank you for the lift. Seriously. It was great. Very much appreciated.’

‘My pleasure,’ she says, and kisses him. He kisses back.

‘I’d say get a room,’ Haydn tells them, walking past, ‘but I can’t help.’ He sits down heavily on a padded leather chair with corkscrew wooden uprights. He looks through the sheets of paper, shaking his head.

‘Problem?’ Alban asks.

‘Trying to keep the older people on the ground or first,’ Haydn says. ‘But it’s a struggle.’

Alban disengages himself from Verushka and walks over to Haydn. ‘We must have a belfry you could allocate to Win, no?’ he suggests (Verushka notices he takes a very quick look round the hall, stairs and gallery before saying it). The workmen with the plant have disappeared.

Verushka considers saying something on the lines of, I’m a mathematician; maybe I can help, but decides against it on the grounds that this sort of levity has been taken seriously in the past and led only to embarrassment and disappointment all round.

‘Ha, ha,’ Haydn says, though he takes a look round, too.

Verushka shakes her head, unseen.

‘All the Americans arrive tomorrow,’ Haydn says, looking at his last sheet on the clipboard. ‘I’ve tried to give the Spraint people the rooms with the best views.’

‘What,’ Alban asks, ‘to compensate for theirs?’

Haydn frowns, blinks, opens his mouth to speak, but then both men look towards the far side of the main staircase from Verushka as a door creaks open. Two enormous shaggy grey dogs - Irish wolfhounds, Verushka is fairly sure - lope in, heads down, and go snuffling up to Alban and Haydn. Haydn grimaces and holds his clipboard up out of the way. Alban grins and ruffles their ears and coats. One animal sees her and pads across.

‘That’s Gilbey,’ Alban tells Verushka. ‘Or Plymouth.’ He looks at Haydn. ‘Jamieson; he still around?’

Haydn shakes his head. ‘Dead.’

‘There you are; a spirit now. Anyway,’ Alban says, ‘they’re harmless.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Verushka pats the giant hound on the head, which is about level with her sternum. She has seen full-grown dogs smaller than this thing’s head. Shetland ponies are a couple of hands smaller, if also broader. The first dog raises its nose then goes bounding upstairs. Hers chooses to wander off. It collapses untidily behind the giant gong and starts snoring almost instantly.

‘Ah, Lauren,’ Haydn says. ‘Oh! Win. There you are.’

An oldish woman and a very old woman appear from the same direction as the wolfhounds. Lauren is a reasonably preserved sixty, in slacks and a navy sweater, still with a hint of brown in her hair. Win, the soon-to-be birthday girl, is frail-looking with thin white hair, clad in a loose tweed twin set. She’s stooped and clutching a tall wooden walking stick in her right hand.

Lauren leaves Win’s side, greets and quickly kisses Alban and then asks, ‘Did a plant come through here? And two chaps?’

Alban and Haydn both point. ‘Upstairs.’

‘Damn.’ She shakes her head, and with one hand on the banister rail runs up the stairs. Halfway up, she sees Verushka looking at her through the banisters; she smiles briefly and mouths Hello, then she disappears along the gallery, brogues clumping.

‘Alban, Alban,’ Gran Win says, straightening a little and accepting a kiss on both cheeks. ‘You’ve come. Thank you so much. Will you be here for my birthday, too?’

‘Of course, Gran. That’s the main reason.’

‘Oh, well, people say that, but . . .’ Win catches sight of Verushka, turns her head a fraction more and frowns. ‘Yes? Can we help you?’

Verushka walks forward and smiles generously. ‘Oh, I doubt it.’

Win looks to Alban.

‘Win, this is my good friend Verushka Graef. She very kindly drove me all the way here from Glasgow.’

Verushka nods. ‘How do you do.’

Win looks uncertain. ‘Yes, hello. Haydn, do we—?’

‘I’m just passing through, ma’am,’ Verushka says, before Haydn can answer. ‘Mountains to climb.’ Win looks at her in a way that causes her to add, ‘Literal rather than metaphorical.’

‘Oh. I see,’ Win says. ‘Well, can you at least stay for dinner?’

Verushka glances at Alban and says, ‘Thanks. I kind of have my heart set on a foil pouch of reconstituted chicken curry spooned through a midge net, but . . .’

‘Oh, please, do stay for dinner,’ Win says, her hand on the stick shaking slightly. She glances at Haydn, who is starting to look worried. ‘And I’m sure we can put you up for at least one night . . .’

Alban is smiling at her. Good enough, Verushka decides. ‘Well, that’s very kind,’ she says. ‘I’d love to.’

Behind his glasses, Haydn closes his eyes. His jaw clenches tight. Then his eyes flick open. He glances at his clipboard. Verushka is ahead of him.

‘Inverlochy,’ she tells him.

‘Yes, of course! Fielding’s not here until tomorrow!’ Haydn says. ‘Splendid!’ He looks up at Verushka, gaze swivelling between her and Alban, worried again. ‘How good friends . . . ?’

‘Sufficiently,’ Verushka assures him, taking Alban’s arm.

 
From the room, high on the fourth, attic floor, where once the house’s servants lived, the view extends across the back lawn, over the old walled kitchen garden on its southerly slope to the woods, looking down the glen between the twin lines of hills disappearing to the south-east, the landlocked loch - Loch Garve or Loch Garbh according to which map you chose to consult - unseen throughout the milder months from April to October behind a screen of leaves. In the winter, through the net of bared branches, it glitters sometimes under the slanting low-season light.

To the north is a steep hillside of grass and scree and a slanted line of cliff, hiding the upper ramparts of Beinn Leòid. A stream runs off the edge of the furthest, highest part of the cliff. Today, the waterfall catches the light against the darker rocks beyond. Alban remembers looking at the waterfall once, in spring, half a dozen years ago, in a momentary break of ragged sunlight between crushing falls of pounding rain and sleet with a storm blowing a high wind up the glen and howling around the old house.

The wind caught the waterfall that day, bending it back on itself and forcing the water rearing up in a great wind-supported near-circular wave, dumping it in unsteady, billowing veils and lumps back on to the moor it was attempting to fall from. It was like the most fabulous elemental battle between air, water and gravity and he recalls standing at the window in the drawing room, watching this chaos with a feeling of almost sexual excitement. Part of him wanted to run out into the storm, let the rain soak him and the wind buffet him and be part of it all. A more sober part was deeply glad of the roof over his head, the fire in the broad grate and the ancient bulk of the cast-iron radiators sited under each window, the pipes as thick as his arm, gurgling with water and rust or sand or something in them that made them tinkle and rustle.

Then, the family had been at Garbadale for a similar reason to the one that had brought them here, now.