The House Between Tides Read online

  Her hand stayed. The manse’s parlour vanished, and she was right there in the room in Muirlan House, an interloper. Beatrice was sitting at her dressing table, her hands raised to her hair, looking back at her through the mirror, laughing. No, looking back at him, for he too was reflected in the mirror, bent to the camera with only the top of his head and one arm visible. He was raising his hand, palm uppermost, in encouragement. In the photograph he had contrived a layering of images, the vertical planes of the angled mirror wings reflecting back through the central mirror an infinite number of Beatrices. Tears burned behind Hetty’s eyes as she realised what she had stumbled upon. For this was it! Before her was the inspiration behind the painting she had been unable to leave behind. A moment of intimacy that he had remembered years later and had painted—not with the playfulness of the photographic image but as a hard-edged record of a marriage that had fractured and fallen apart. For that joyful moment before her now had been a fleeting one, soon gone, the sentiments soured and vanished, together with every rug from the floor, every stick of furniture, every stuffed bird, every breath and every heartbeat—gone with the auctioneer’s hammer or on a gull’s wing to oblivion. She had come too late.

  She left the museum in a daze. She had reached through the years and experienced a past emotional charge, a charge that Blake’s photograph and, later, his painting had captured in ways that were poles apart, depicting the joyful beginning and the broken end. And Beatrice’s sepia phantom had seared herself onto her mind’s eye. She walked slowly back to the hotel, past the lochan fringed with yellow iris, thinking how, over these last weeks, through his paintings and letters, the jagged, ill-fitting pieces of Theo Blake’s life had begun to come together. And it had been a tragic life, almost operatic in its drama.

  She remembered her first reaction to the house, when she had seen it as an abandoned film set. And that’s what it was, simply the setting for lives that were now played out. Past help. Past saving—

  But the island wasn’t.

  And suddenly the house itself no longer mattered. It could go. It was more important that there would always be lapwings swooping low across the machair, waves coming ashore on the empty stretch of Torrann Bay, below wide skies which reached to clear horizons. It was that which mattered.

  And somewhere there would be a battered Land Rover crossing the strand and guarding the marches.

  Rain blew fitfully as she hastened towards the hotel. The wind was strengthening, and as she crossed the car park she overheard a man say that an unseasonably large storm was on its way. “We’ll not see the ferry back for a day or two,” he remarked, “and the airfield’s closed.” Closed! So Giles would not have made it anyway. Just as well, as explaining to Emma and Andrew how she now saw matters was going to be awkward enough as it was.

  But Giles had made it. As she pushed open the door, she saw him, having a drink with Andrew and Emma in the reception lounge. He got to his feet. “There you are! We were wondering where you’d got to.” He gave her a hug and she smelt alcohol on him, more than a glassful. “God, what a flight. Caught it by the skin of my teeth and then—whew! Bounced all over the place. Titchy little plane too. Got in just before the airport shut.”

  It had always surprised her that a man of Giles’s self-assurance should be afraid of flying, but he was. In airport lounges she had got used to watching him sweat and fidget, drinking more than he should, becoming agitated and short-tempered. It was never easy. To be fair, this probably had been a rough flight, but how much had he drunk? “The guy next to me spewed, which didn’t help.” With a sinking heart, she recognised that he was now in the next phase, where relief brought out bluster and aggression to cover any suggestion of weakness.

  But he had recovered enough to change into well-creased trousers and a sharp sports jacket, and was looking decidedly metropolitan amongst the locals. “Let’s go through and get you a drink, shall we?” he said. “We’ve booked an early table, so lead on, Em.”

  “Giles, we need to talk—” Hetty tried to hold him back, but he patted her arm and propelled her forward in Emma’s wake.

  “Plenty of time.”

  The Island Inn catered to everyone from serious fishermen and bird-watchers to tourists passing through, but the locals were the mainstay of business. Being Friday night, the bar was already doing a brisk trade, and they were met by a warm beery smell and the sound of laughter. Emma looked around and gestured to an empty table just beyond the bar, while Dalbeattie went to get drinks. And, as the group at the bar parted to let him through, it seemed inevitable that Hetty would find herself looking across a sea of customers to James Cameron, leaning on the bar, Ruairidh Forbes beside him, deep in conversation.

  He looked up, straightening slowly when he saw her.

  Then Giles caught sight of him. “Well, well,” he muttered, too loudly. “The man himself.”

  Ruairidh Forbes turned at his words and saw Hetty. He stepped forward with a warm smile and a hand outstretched. “Good to see you again.”

  She clutched his hand gratefully and felt obliged to introduce him to the others. “Forbes, did you say?” Giles’s voice seemed to boom out. “Ah . . . Yes. How d’ye do?” Then to her dismay he turned back to James. “Sorry to have missed you last week, Mr. Cameron,” he drawled. “Just a flying visit, I gather.” James fixed his eyes on Giles, saying nothing. “Took Hetty by surprise. On her own. You quite unsettled her, you know.”

  “Did I?” James transferred his gaze to Hetty, raising an eyebrow.

  He had, but not in the way Giles meant.

  “Last-ditch attempt, was it?” Giles continued. If he hadn’t drunk so much he might have noticed that James had become very still. This had to be stopped. She stepped forward, but Giles moved in front of her and continued. “I can see, from your point of view, why you were keeping your cards close to your chest, but under the circumstances, don’t you think, some sort of declaration of interest, eh?”

  “Giles!” She watched, mortified, as James’s face darkened, and she saw Ruairidh mutter something and lift a hand as if to calm things. But Giles was unstoppable.

  “At least we now know where we stand,” he continued relentlessly. “And once the dubious ownership claims have been cleared up—”

  “Giles!”

  Ruairidh clamped his hand on his cousin’s arm and turned towards Hetty, blocking James’s path to Giles. “Bit of a surprise, that was,” he said, and gave her a reassuring smile. “But your visit’s well-timed. Ùna rang just now to say there’s an official-looking envelope waiting at home. Inverness postmark. Probably the lab.” He lifted his half-full glass. “I’m away home to see when I’ve finished this.”

  “Oh, golly. The bones!” exclaimed Emma. “I keep forgetting. A real challenge for the marketing team.” James transferred his stony gaze from Giles to her, then muttered something inaudible and presented a contemptuous shoulder. Ruairidh addressed Hetty again. “If there’s news, shall I find you here in the morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Best not make any commitments as to time, darling,” said Giles, slipping an arm round her waist. “We’ve got to get to the island and back, remember, negotiating the tides. Perhaps Mr. Forbes could leave the report or something at reception.” He smiled briefly at Ruairidh and turned back to Emma. “Let’s eat, shall we?” Hetty stayed rooted to the spot, wanting to explain, wanting to make things right, but was now daunted by James’s uncompromising back. And besides, a public bar was hardly the place for what needed to be said. “I’ll be in touch,” she said, but he appeared not to hear, and then Giles steered her away.

  Chapter 44

  2010, Hetty

  The restaurant was already busy and their table was right in the centre. They took their seats, and Dalbeattie began at once to explain the findings of the new surveyor.

  Hetty tried to stop him. “Wait, there’s something—”

  But he was as unstoppable as a juggernaut. “Let me just run quickly through the m
ain points, m’dear. It’s in a bad state but not hopeless. The principal cost will be— Ah, yes, let’s order.” He paused while the waiter hovered and they considered the menu. Hetty looked at the door to the bar, wanting to go back and talk to Ruairidh and James, but she owed it to Giles, and his friends, to explain first how everything had changed. The waiter was doubtless a local man, though, so she must wait until he had gone. It wouldn’t be easy, but at least it would be done. There’d be the legal matters to sort, of course, but for the rest, it was over.

  She looked across at Giles. His face was glistening and his eyes were bright, and he was talking too loudly. Drinking didn’t suit him; it made him into a caricature of himself. But that too was over, and she found herself sad at the thought. Would he mind so very much? He had been good to her at a time when she had most needed help, when she had felt so very alone. He had seen her through the worst times, but he had begun to consume her, absorbing her into a world which she knew now was not for her.

  She became aware that the others had fallen silent. This was her moment. But then she saw a look pass between Giles and Andrew, and Andrew leant across and poured wine into her glass. “I believe Giles has told you about the other interest there has been?”

  “The banker, my love,” said Giles. “Apparently he’s keen—”

  “There’s a terrific deal to be struck, you know—”

  “No. Look—”

  But still they didn’t listen. “We’ll help steer you through it, of course, we’ll still be on board.” And through his genial smile she realised that Dalbeattie and Dawson were already nurturing this potential new client.

  Giles looked nervously at her. “I’m not sure Hetty has quite decided—”

  “Oh, I have. I won’t sell. In fact—”

  “Bravo!” Emma raised her glass, swinging back in line. “I’m so pleased, it’s a brave decision. There’s a lot of hard work ahead but—”

  “Are you sure?” Giles interrupted. “It’s a lot of money. We haven’t really talked it—”

  “I’m sure. You see—”

  “Just one big celebrity wedding and we’ll be on the map.” Emma was smiling and beaming at her, certain of her interest now, her complicity. “Sorting out the ownership question will take a little time, and might be awkward, but—”

  “It won’t be.” Her tone finally got through. “That land is theirs. Emily Blake gave it to them. I’ll not take it back.”

  The expressions on their faces were almost comical. Giles spoke first. “But we’ve never even seen this famous letter, and they said it expressed intention. The old girl changed her mind!”

  Hetty shook her head, sure of herself now. “She didn’t. I know she didn’t. She gave the factor’s house and the land to the Forbeses, and then she closed up Muirlan House, turned her back on it, and walked away.”

  They looked at her in astonishment, and Giles laughed awkwardly. “What’s this, darling? Second sight?”

  “No. But I’m certain nevertheless.”

  And suddenly she had to get out of there, while her resolve held firm. There was, after all, no point in staying. She pushed back her chair, scraping it on the floor, and the other diners fell silent, hopeful of a drama.

  Giles leant forward urgently, his hand on her arm. “But, darling, surely you must see—”

  “No. I do see, but differently to you. Though I didn’t at first—I don’t really expect you to understand, but I’m pulling out. Saving Muirlan House would be too costly—and I don’t mean the money. It belongs to the past and should stay there. It’s the island that matters, you see. And where we were heading, there’d be no return. We need places like that, we really do, but they’re fragile and vulnerable, and we were all set to destroy something irreplaceable. And that mustn’t happen.” She stood up and addressed Emma and Andrew. “So I’m sorry, but this stops here. No legal action, no bankers, no finance packages, no franchises. I shouldn’t have let it go so far, and I’ve wasted your time. I’m sorry . . . No, Giles. Stay where you are. Let me go.”

  Somehow she managed to escape from the dining room, leaving behind a ripple of conjecture from the other diners. The waiter bringing their starters stopped to stare as she walked swiftly out of the room and into the bar. But as the door closed behind her, her legs felt suddenly weak.

  Where on earth did she go now?

  The locals around the bar had dispersed to their houses, leaving only two figures, James Cameron and the bartender, in conversation across the bar. She paused in the middle of the room and then walked towards him. He turned and straightened as she approached.

  “Tell Ruairidh Forbes it’s alright. About the house and the land.” She heard her voice becoming unsteady. “It was Emily’s gift.” James looked back at her, his expression unreadable. “So you can do what you want with it, what you’d planned.” She was flooded suddenly by an all too familiar sense of loss. “And Muirlan House must go. I see that now.” He took a step forward, but she had had enough of all of them. “No—” She turned and left the bar quickly, crossing the reception area, through the outer door, and into the darkening evening.

  Chapter 45

  2010, Hetty

  There was only one road around the main island, so it wasn’t difficult to find the spot where the track led down to the strand. Even in the fading light, Hetty recognised it, and she turned down it, still driven by that surge of energy that had propelled her through the door and out into the car park, and by a compelling need to go once more to the island, and to Muirlan House.

  She cringed as the car rocked over the stony ruts and down onto the wet sand, hearing a sickening scrape as she dragged the underside over the uneven surface. The car was not designed for this! There was another bad moment as she lurched through the deep channel and it almost stalled, but she managed to keep going and then sped across the strand. God, what a night! She had to lean forward with the windscreen wipers on full and noted fleetingly how the dark clouds had lowered the sky. The tide still looked well out, but how long could she spend on the island? Fifteen minutes? Not long, but it would be enough. Then she wouldn’t come back again, not while the house still stood. But she had to come back this last time, alone, as she had first seen it just a few short weeks before. Once she had given the word, its fate was sealed—and it would be gone.

  It took longer than she remembered to drive across, and she felt the car being buffeted by the rising gale. The wind was being funnelled through a gap between land and island, blown in from the ocean. What was it that Ruairidh had said about westerlies? But fifteen minutes would be enough, and then she would return to the hotel and face the music. She almost panicked at the midway point when low cloud masked both shorelines and she was left without landmarks, but she pressed on, teeth gritted. Then she saw the chimneys of the house in front of her. She headed straight for them and was soon pulling up the foreshore and onto the old drive, and the light from the headlights bounced off the high walls. Leaving the car where Ruairidh had left the Saab that first day, she got out and ran, head bent against the driving wind, tripping over the uneven surface awash with mud, and regretted her thin clothing. The walls of the house were streaked with wide damp patches from fallen gutters, and the gaunt ribs of roof timbers moved in the wind. Intruders had torn away the front window boarding again and got in through the porch, where the makeshift door swung loose on its hinges, flying open and banging shut as the gusts caught it.

  She reached the porch’s shelter breathless and soaked. Above her was the room with the little turret, where that intimate scene had been played out, that brief moment of laughter. And as she stood there, the rhythm of the swinging door became hypnotic. It flung back two or three times, then banged, flung open again, and banged shut. She found herself timing it, repeating the rhythm and, as it flung wide, she grabbed the handle and held, and next moment she was in the hall, dripping rainwater onto the dung-cushioned floor. Ten minutes.

  Darkness and deep shadows hid the dereliction,
and in the fading half-light she saw the century-old images of the past clearly before her. In the drawing room, a pale light filtered through the liberated windows, and she went to stand where she had seen Beatrice and looked out on an unchanged scene, watching the storm clouds blackening the strand. Beatrice—she felt conscious of her presence, and of her absence, as one might feel in an ancient tomb, sensing an emptiness, filled only by sorrow and loss. If the bones were hers, would she rest more easily having been recognised and reclaimed? There’s damp in the drawing room, Blake had written in 1942, so I closed it up. I never use it now. Her throat tightened and she withdrew, pausing at the door of Blake’s study. It’s easier to heat the study, and everything I want is there. Then her feet took her to the morning room, where Aonghas could only remember lumber being stored, next to a conservatory that had never been finished. Numbly, she went back into the hall.

  Was that it? Could she go now? She hesitated, then looked up, feeling a sudden compulsion to follow the rest of Theo Blake’s photographic route through the remnants of his house. It would be her last chance. If she went as far as the half-landing, she might be able to see inside the room she had hoped to make her own, where she had witnessed that sweet moment through Blake’s camera lens. If she kept close to the wall where the staircase was firmly attached, she would be safe, and a glimpse would be enough. Five minutes more?

  A rumble of thunder seemed to sound a warning as she stepped onto the lower treads. They were splintered in some parts but firm beneath her feet, and she reached the small half-landing safely, pausing to look through the round window. For a moment the broken roof-light was clear of storm clouds and lit the stairs with an unnatural light, while the scene through the round window was dark and threatening. It was the negative image of the photograph Theo Blake had taken there, and for a moment she felt his unsettled spirit around her. Gulls, like lost souls, swept past the jagged hole in the roof.