The House Between Tides Read online

  To her astonishment, she saw his eyes cloud over and he sat back. “I know.”

  “You know?”

  Two steaming plates of pasta arrived. James shook his head in answer to the waiter’s solicitous enquiries, and the man withdrew. “Eat your dinner,” he said as he refilled her glass, “while I see if I can unravel this mess.”

  He began tearing a roll apart, his eyes fixed on the tablecloth. “Three years ago I bought a cottage across the strand, opposite Muirlan House. I’d been abroad for years, but the island has always been home, even if only during school holidays.” He paused. “The big house fascinated me. It always has. Despite what it once stood for, it was part of my life, it was in my blood.” He lifted his glass, watching her over the rim. “And I told you I’d looked into saving it.” He paused again, demanding confirmation, and she nodded. “I was hatching a plan with Andy Haggerty who, at the time, was principal development officer at the bird reserve, a man of great integrity and vision.” His mouth twisted. “Not a property developer.”

  He told her how they had put together a proposal to restore the house, make it a centre for the reserve and the ecology of the island. Experimental farming. Rare breeds. “And we would encourage artists and writers to come. The restoration itself would be done slowly and carefully, training young people as apprentices, developing their building and conservation skills while getting the job done, and island people would run the centre. We approached the Blake Trust and got a favourable response. They were looking to wind up the trust anyway, and this seemed the perfect solution. Put the remainder of Blake’s legacy into Blake’s old house to support his various interests.” He glanced up at her. “It ticked every box they could think of, and we would make as little impact as possible and so preserve the special quality of the place.” He stopped and chewed for a moment. “My one offence, if you like, was that of trespass. I went in and out of the house, trying to establish what needed to be done, and got more and more disillusioned.”

  He sat back, aggression fading, and began running his finger around the rim of his glass as he had done with the museum’s teacup, staring down at the chequered tablecloth. She felt the tension go out of him as she listened. “But it never seemed like trespass. Ruairidh had keys. His dad had had keys. And his granddad too, I expect. They’d been looking after the place for generations. Faithful retainers for some phantom master—” He looked up at her again. “But we didn’t know who was master anymore. It was only when the fireplaces were all stolen that Ruairidh tracked down your grandmother’s solicitors. It was quite a job.” Now that he had begun to shed his anger, he looked simply tired. “And then everything went pear-shaped. It became clear that the project was beyond our reach, Andy was diagnosed with cancer, and the ownership issue, well, it became fogged too.” He looked away.

  “Meaning?”

  He hesitated, giving her an odd, faintly anxious look. “It was three years ago. I’d asked the solicitors who I might approach to buy the house”—he paused—“and chose a bad time to ask.” She dropped her eyes. Three years ago, when her world had fallen apart. His eyes, when she looked back, were deeply sympathetic. “I’m sorry. I read about the crash. A bird strike, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded. “Shortly after take-off.”

  “An awful irony, somehow.” He poured her some more wine and gave her time to recover. “So we didn’t pursue it, and as Andy sickened, we had to drop the whole idea.” They ate in silence for a while and the waiter came over, solicitous again, but James waved him away and sat forward. “By then the idea had taken root in my head, it wouldn’t go away, and the obvious solution struck me. The factor’s house. Of course—I talked to Ruairidh, and the family, and everyone was in favour. Aonghas won’t live forever, Ruairidh’s dad doesn’t want it, nor do Ruairidh and Ùna. So we went back to the Blake Trust, got some heavyweights interested, and things were progressing well.” He sat back, his face hardening again. “And then the rumours started flying. The old lady had died and the new owner of Muirlan House had big plans.” She felt her colour rise under his steady scrutiny. “Plans which would transform the island forever.” He picked up his fork and began eating, his eyes on his plate.

  “My plans aren’t so very dreadful,” she said after a moment. Naïve, perhaps, but only half-formed.

  He ate doggedly on, not looking up. “They’re expanding, I hear. Shooting parties, yes, and the golf course I knew about, but a helipad? A wind turbine to power a spa?” He spoke between mouthfuls. “I even hear talk of a causeway.”

  “Not from me!” She was outraged. Was this Emma again?

  “And now some bloody banker wants to buy you out!” She stared at him in amazement. How had he got wind of that in Mombasa? More emails? But someone had an ear close to the ground. Agnes McNeil, perhaps, although she had not been mentioned again. “So things have cranked up a notch or two since I left.” Hetty made no reply, and he continued to glare at her. “Will you sell?”

  “No.”

  He considered her for a moment longer, then went back to eating. “But you’re pressing on?”

  “Giles says—” He raised his head, and she frowned at him. “Giles says the scheme will bring prosperity to the area. Sustainable development.”

  A savage look crossed his face. “Aye. He’s right, and that’s why you’ll probably get all the planning permissions you need.”

  It made no sense. “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t you?” His face was set very hard. “I thought perhaps you might.” He remained silent for a long moment. “As far as I’m concerned, ‘sustainable development’ means whatever you can get away with this time. Then wait and push a little more, and then more again, until there’s no going back. I’ve seen it happen all over the world where there are financial interests at stake. A lovely little two-word excuse to screw things up, as long as it returns a profit.” He offered her the last of the wine, then took it himself when she refused, and lifted his glass. “I asked you once before if you thought that sort of development was appropriate to the island.” His knuckles whitened as he gripped the glass, and she waited for it to crack. “To my mind the island’s done its time as a rich man’s playground, with money calling the shots and the islanders dancing a tune at the beck and call of incomers. It’s now a precious place, wild and unspoiled, a sanctuary for more than just the birds.” He set the glass down. “Blake saw that, for all his other shortcomings.” Then he reached out and took hold of her hand across the table, as he had done before, but gentler now, almost in an appeal, and she did not pull away. “Something went terribly wrong for Theo Blake, but in the end the reserve he founded safeguarded a great swathe of the island. His neglect did the same for the rest, so time has stood still, and that special quality of the island has survived.” He released her hand and sat back again. “I asked you once about Torrann Bay because I thought, perhaps, you could see it too. For God’s sake, woman, you look at his painting of it every day.” Then he began rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Sorry. I’m dog tired.”

  She drew her hand slowly back from where he had left it and felt relief spreading through her. She hadn’t been wrong about him, and after a moment she asked quietly, “You believe your own plans would safeguard it?”

  His eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion. “That intention underpinned everything.” He took some time arranging the pasta on his fork, but it seemed too heavy to raise to his lips. “But it looks like we’ve hit the buffers again.”

  “Why?”

  “You said it yourself. There’s no record of the factor’s house, or the land, being given away. Aonghas told us he had all the necessary papers, but it turned out to be just a letter from Emily Armstrong to his father, Donald Forbes, stating her intention. Intention, mind, not commitment. He has no deeds, no legal record. Nothing. It’s a right old mess.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “Your . . . Giles alerted me to the potential problem that last time I saw you,
and I went straight round to see Aonghas. The letter on its own is worthless. The family has been hunting for something more while I’ve been in Africa and found nothing. So technically they’re still tenants, your tenants, and we can’t do anything without your permission.” He tossed back the remainder of his wine. “Which, in the circumstances, mo charaid, seems unlikely.” He looked at her for an endless moment. “So you hold all the cards, madam. Emily Blake never followed through.”

  Two days later, Hetty was on the underground on her way to Heathrow, replaying in her head James’s parting words as he dismissed her offer to pay half the bill. “I’m happy to stand you a meal, but understand this: if you press on, I’m going to do everything I can to stop you.” He had searched her face again. “I thought that the state of the house would be enough, but I hadn’t reckoned on the scale of the scheme, or known you had other interests pushing you on.” He paused. “You’re coming up at the weekend, you said?”

  “Emma has the report from the second survey, and I arranged to meet her and Andrew. It was all sorted before you turned up again.” It seemed like an insult now, and he listened, poker-faced, then hailed a taxi and opened the door for her.

  “Then next time we meet, Hetty, my dear, it’ll be gloves off, in opposite corners of the ring. A pity, really.” She had got into the taxi, searching for something to say, but he just nodded briefly and closed the door behind her.

  The underground reached Terminal 1, from where she would fly to Glasgow for her connection. Giles had been determined to come, but a big deal he was involved with had begun unravelling and he was going to be tied up in meetings. Just as well, as it would have precipitated a showdown to stop him, and she didn’t need that just now. “If we get it sorted, I’ll come up on the afternoon flight, there’s space, I checked.”

  “Look, Giles, why not—”

  “I just don’t trust that lot up there, love. Not after Cameron turned up on your doorstep like that. Bloody nerve! You shouldn’t have let him in, you know. Tantamount to harassment.” He had been deaf to her account of what James had told her that evening. “You should have called me.”

  No, Giles, much better not.

  So now she was flying up alone, trusting that his meetings would run well into the afternoon. They usually did. And now she could deal with whatever confronted her on the island without the distraction of Giles.

  One thing at a time.

  She pulled out Blake’s letters as she waited in the departure lounge, although she almost knew them by heart now. I’ve been abroad for another spell of treatment, he had written in July 1937. Much good it has done me, though, and God knows when I will get back there. Germany is very worrying these days. And she thought of him, bent over his desk, perhaps lifting his head to gaze through the window where she had first made her entry. Elderly now, ill and alone, turning visitors away. I couldn’t make you comfortable, my dear friend. Not like in the old days. And there were fewer and fewer references to his paintings. You are persistent, Charles. I will send you some if only to keep you quiet. You won’t like them, I fear. I hardly do myself. I start with an idea but lose it somewhere in the execution.

  She gathered the letters up as her flight was called but pulled them out again once she had boarded. By 1940, the handwriting was spindly, and there was a weariness, a loss of confidence. There is agitation again, you know, one letter read, and I am still being pestered to divide up the farmland. For what? Impoverished lives on an unforgiving soil. God knows I’ve tried to explain my position. Will they never leave me alone? I burn the letters now, or let Donald deal with them. And in each successive letter evidence of belt-tightening and reduced circumstances. Prices are bad again. It’s hard to sell at all, sometimes. The hoggs fetch next to nothing, and even the bull brought three pounds less than we expected. But at least we can feed ourselves. I set a line for flounders in the sea pool, they make a tasty meal. Was he reduced to catching fish in order to eat? Surely not! Or was this the eccentricity of a recluse? And always, between the lines, that heaviness, that deep sadness. The land makes the people poor, Charles. Beauty might sustain the spirit, but it won’t fill their bellies. The men work until they drop, their women grow old before their time, their children ill-nourished and ignorant. So you were wrong, James Cameron—he did care, and that thought brought pleasure. And then, in a letter dated 1942, Three pairs of red-necked phalaropes are nesting on the loch behind the house. Do you remember the one Baird took? Curse him. They hadn’t nested there since. But they’re back! I leave my gun at home these days, and I’ve resolved to give land over to be a reserve for the birds. They at least thrive here, and planning it gives me some solace. Perhaps some small absolution. And as she stared out of the plane window, she thought of the painting of the desperate man calling out across the waves, the running figures on the other canvas, that sense of urgency, of things slipping from his grasp, of loss. It’s only when the fever is on me that I burn to paint again, but then a dark force takes hold of my brain, and it gives me no pleasure. My sister Emily persists in trying to persuade me back to Edinburgh. But I shan’t go, you know. I’m bound to this place forever now, and I claim sanctuary here.

  As the plane came down to meet the tarmac of the runway, Blake’s words mingled with what James had said: “. . . a precious place, wild and unspoiled, a sanctuary for more than just the birds.”

  Chapter 43

  2010, Hetty

  “Lovely to see you again, darling.” Emma came out to the car park to greet her, having watched for her in reception, and eyed the battered hire car with astonishment. “Good journey? It’s a shame Giles got held up. Do you think he’ll make it?” She opened the hotel door and ushered Hetty in. “I spoke to the banker’s representatives again this morning. They’re very keen, you know.” And she prattled on, undaunted by Hetty’s silence. “Lots to chew over. Plenty of options. And I understand you’ve been making some pretty powerful connections yourself. Jasper Banks, of all people! Well done.” She waited beside her while Hetty registered at reception and said that they would have tea. “You being Blake’s relative is worth a great deal, you know, and his work is making something of a comeback. That rock pool painting is so romantic; we can use it in all the advertising. It’s perfect! And Giles tells me you’ve bought another original yourself. Is it a good one? Either way, there’s loads for any good marketing team to get their teeth into. I’ll order tea.”

  “Thank you, but no.” Emma looked surprised, but Hetty was firm. “There’s something I didn’t finish last time I was here, so please forgive me, and I’ll see you later.” She went to her room to leave her bag.

  The woman in the library recognised her at once and fussed kindly as she showed her how to load the images, explaining that the room they were in had once been the manse’s parlour, knocked through into the original dining room. When she had gone, Hetty sat back, soothed by the stillness that is peculiar to old houses, and began. The timeless quiet added to the sense of unreality as she began to scroll once more through the collection of images, and she was left suspended between two worlds. The knowledge that wild birds now flew unhindered through the rooms before her on the screen was forgotten as she stepped again into that other time.

  She lingered over the picture of Emily leaning against the man who would so briefly be her husband, oblivious then to what lay ahead, joyfully unaware that too soon she would have to learn acceptance, learn how to endure and move on. As Hetty herself was learning— The zoom brought her face closer. Perhaps there was a strength there behind that bright youthfulness, lying dormant until it was needed. She moved the zoom to Theo Blake’s face, then back to Emily’s, convincing herself she could trace the resemblance between them. Both faces had the same directness, the same assurance. It was more softly defined in Emily, but it was there. She moved back to Blake and focussed on his eyes, hooded and dark, and believed that she saw the artist there.

  And then with a jolt she realised that for all the other photographs, she w
as, quite literally, seeing through Theo Blake’s eyes, seeing what he had seen, captured by his camera’s shutter. These fading images linked him directly to her, and she was as close to him as if she were inside his head.

  Suddenly he was very real. Gripped by the thought, she went back to the beginning. And now as she scrolled through the images, she felt an intimate connection to him and began to appreciate his skill with composition, his painter’s eye for drama. A slash of sunlight cut across the dark hall from the open front door, a curlew posed on his desk mirrored a half-finished sketch beside it, a rainbow’s arc was captured through the dining room window and framed by the window itself. And gradually she realised that there was a sequence to the photographs, as if they had been taken on the same occasion, and that they followed a route inside the house.

  She leant forward towards the screen, gripped now, and followed him down the hall into the drawing room, across to the dining room, the morning room, and then the study, lingering for a moment in each. Then he began to mount the stairs, and she went with him—past the stag which kept its gaze aloof and distant, a clever camera angle followed the curve of the banisters to the tiled floor of the hall, and a shot taken through the round window on the half-landing was over-exposed and fuzzy, exploiting the contrast between the dark of the stairwell and the ethereal brightness of the outside world. A dream world . . . She imagined him framing the image, then pausing a moment to look out across the pasture to the dramatic skies above the western dunes. Then came a series of images which she had not seen before, taken on the decaying upper floor. Doors opened from the intact landing, and she had glimpses of a linen press, a bookcase, a polished table, an oval mirror, a painting on the wall. And suddenly she was in the room that should have been hers, and she could see the rounded niche of the turret in one corner. The edge of a brass bedstead protruded into the image, slippers lay askew on a rug beside it, clothes discarded on the counterpane, a washstand with jug and bowl. And she saw, reflected in the mirror, two figures.