Page 40 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

Chapter Twenty-Six

P romptly at half past two that same afternoon, Kirsty Ralston knocked on the door.

As I opened it, I was greeted by a cheery-faced woman in her late sixties. Her hazel eyes danced.

She was swathed in a long, rainbow-knotted scarf, walking boots and a mohair, beige coat down to her ankles.

She stepped inside, peeled off her stripey gloves, and made a fuss of Bronte.

Her expression faltered a little as she took in my grandma’s artwork adorning the hallway. ‘I’m so sorry about Tilda. She was a lovely lady.’

I took her coat and scarf from her and hung it up on a peg behind me. ‘Thank you. Did you know my grandma well?’

‘I like to think I did. We’d been friends ever since she moved here. I bumped into her at the local library while we were both browsing the arts section.’ Her shoulders sagged. ‘I’m so sorry I missed her funeral. I was away in France teaching at an art school.’

I smiled and encouraged her into the sitting room. ‘No need to apologise. Would you like tea or coffee?’

‘I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea. Just a dash of milk, please.’

I made a pot of tea as quickly as I could, put some shortbread squares on a plate and carried it all through to the sitting room. Kirsty accepted her floral mug of tea with grateful thanks and clutched it in her ringed fingers.

She gazed around before she began to speak.

‘I used to travel a lot in my younger days, but whenever I came back to Rowan Bay, Tilda would tell me what you were up to and show me pictures. She was so proud of your novel writing, too!’ A melancholy expression stole over her. ‘You look so much like her.’

I took a mouthful of tea and examined her over the rim of my mug. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Thank you. One or two people have told me that.’ I paused. ‘So, Ruth Mangan?’

Kirsty pulled a dismissive expression. ‘Oh aye. That woman. She was always so jealous of your grandma. Everybody in The Rowan Bay Artists’ Society said it too. It was common knowledge.’

‘But why?’

Kirsty eyed me. ‘Two reasons. The first was that Ruth knew she was never as good an artist as Tilda. Don’t get me wrong, Ruth’s good. Her chalk sketches are wonderful. Buther work never had the individuality and passion that your grandma’s did. And she knew it.’

I considered this.

‘They were both members of The Rowan Bay Artists’ Society, but Ruth went out of her way to make Tilda feel uncomfortable. She allowed her to join– eventually– but didn’t welcome her with open arms, so after several months, your grandma left.’

I stared at her. ‘When was this?’

‘My goodness. It wasn’t long after your grandparents moved here, so it must be about forty years ago now.’

I frowned and took another sip of tea. ‘And what was the second reason you said Ruth was jealous of my grandma?’

Kirsty drank her tea again. She gave me a meaningful look. ‘What would you say if I told you Ruth was in love with your grandfather?’

It took me a few moments to digest this. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Very much so. Och, your grandfather knew. Apparently, Ruth fell for him not long after they moved here, but he never encouraged her. Howard only ever had eyes for Tilda.’

Bronte sashayed over to me and curled up by my feet. I let my shocked fingers stroke her head. ‘How do you know all this?’

Kirsty glanced out at the December clouds buffeting each other. ‘Oh, a few people knew, especially us members of the local artists scene. What with your grandma’s artistic ability and her being married to the man Ruth wanted; she couldn’t contain her jealousy.’

Kirsty tapped her rings against the side of her mug. ‘Ruth was always a dissatisfied, unhappy soul.’ Kirsty let out a sudden peal of infectious laughter. ‘I shouldn’t laugh really. You’ll know that Tilda got along with everybody, but even she couldn’t penetrate Ruth Mangan’s heart of stone.’

Kirsty paused before continuing her explanation. ‘Your grandma didn’t want to cause friction or tension in the community, but she was only too aware that Ruth Mangan didn’t like her.’

I turned all these revelations over in my head.

It echoed what Gwen had hinted at. No wonder Ruth had become nasty when she’d realised those pictures were the work of my grandma.

It must’ve brought all those feelings of envy and resentment back up to the surface.

That explained what Grandma had been referring to in her diary entries: the resentment and frostiness she’d received after arriving here.

This must’ve come from Ruth Mangan. ‘Is Ruth married?’ I asked.

‘She was.’ Kirsty lowered her voice even though she didn’t need to.

‘Her husband was a good-looking chap, but a right big head. Jacob Mangan. He always thought he was meant for better things, had his eye to the main chance.’ Kirsty’s hands hugged her mug of tea.

‘He was an art critic too. Used to make condescending remarks about Ruth’s work and then pretend he was joking. You know the type.’

‘So, what happened between them?’

‘He fell for a ceramic artist he met at her launch show in Glasgow. The ironic thing was she bore a passing resemblance to your grandmother, the same red curls and smiling eyes.’ Kirsty shook her head.

‘Well, you can imagine how painful that was for Ruth. Talk about adding insult to injury. She was riddled with jealousy about Tilda as it was, and then her own husband runs off with someone who looks like her.’

Kirsty sighed. ‘Your Grandpa Howard was everything Jacob Mangan wasn’t, and Ruth knew it. I don’t have to tell you what a kind, funny and interesting man he was.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘Nobody could wear a kilt like Howard Michaels!’

I grinned and nodded, taken back to years ago and the sound of the photograph album pages being turned by my mum to show me my grandpa done up in his full regalia with those sturdy legs of his, broad shoulders and rocking his kilt like no one else could.

No wonder Ruth had reacted the way she had when I told her I was Tilda’s granddaughter and that the paintings were her work.

I realised that I couldn’t confide in Kirsty about Ruth rejecting the idea of exhibiting Grandma’s art when she’d discovered that the paintings I’d taken there had been hers.

Kirst might accidentally let something slip about what we were doing.

One wrong word and it would drop Mitch in it and sabotage any chance we had of Grandma’s work being shown in the Lumiere Gallery.

As far as everyone else was concerned, Mitch was the painter of those pictures, not Tilda Michaels. At least not yet.

As though reading my innermost thoughts, Kirsty spoke again, breaking through my deliberations. ‘I hear that gorgeous new lighthouse keeper is hiding his light under a bushel.’

‘Sorry?’

Kirsty’s eyes shone. ‘Ruth could barely contain herself. I bumped into her at the hairdresser’s last week.

She was going on about how talented he is, especially with watercolour.

’ She sat forward in a confidential style pose in the armchair.

‘It’s lovely to have new artistic talent here in Rowan Bay! ’

I fidgeted on the sofa.

I conjured up images of my late grandparents and Ruth.

A love triangle. Well, I never.

I took a long, slow mouthful of my tea.

It could almost be the plot of one of my novels; that’s if I’d still been writing.