Page 46 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue

GREER

Loch More, 2003

Sage

‘Sage strengthens the sinews, feaver’s heat doth swage

The palsie helps and rids of mickle woe,

In Latin (salvia) take the name of safety,

In English (sage) is rather wise than craftie;

Sith then the name betokens wise and saving,

We count is Nature’s friend and worth the having.’

The Englishman’s Doctor by John Harington

‘Looks like she’s here,’ Colin calls out from the bedroom, as I finish mopping up the floor in the bathroom. With a sigh, I put the floor cloth into the bucket and make my way into the bedroom and over to the window.

He’s right. I can see a grey Ford Mondeo slowing snaking its way along the drive; the drive that runs along the edge of the water. I watch from behind the mullioned bay windows, as the car momentarily disappears at the corner of the loch, behind the row of alder trees that line the loch shore. I step to the side of the window and stand beside the open curtain, watching as the car eventually rolls into the driveway and parks up.

She steps out of the car. She’s less corporate than I expected. I thought there’d be a tight-fitting suit, high, impractical heels, red lipstick. But she’s in jeans and an ill-fitting jumper, her hair is slightly wild – a dark brown, ringleted bob that may not have seen a hairbrush this morning. Her face is clear, no make-up, just a mass of freckles and deep-set eyes that look up and inspect the outside of the building. She steps back to get a better look and then, suddenly, gives an unexpected laugh that shocks me into action.

I duck away from the window and rush downstairs, hoping I wasn’t seen.

The heavy wooden front door is already open to let a breeze run through the corridors on this unexpectedly hot day, and as I walk down the stone steps to the gravel driveway, I see that she’s turned around to look over the loch, now only a few metres in front of her, glistening in the noonday sun. I stop to take in the view that she’s seeing for the first time. The loch is neatly embraced by hills on either side and the coned peak of Ben Stack is off to the far right. Large regular blocks of pine trees stud the hills, giving an unnatural asymmetry to the otherwise barren landscape. Living here every day it’s easy to forget the majesty of this view and the effect it has on those who see it for the first time. The only noise is the breeze in the two rowan trees close to the house. But as I continue to look at her, I notice an almost imperceptible change in her shoulders, as if some long-held tension begins to loosen.

‘Miss Black?’ I ask.

She turns quickly, almost jumping. She puts her hand on her heart, and there’s a look of slight amusement in her eyes.

‘Hi, yes, I’m Caitlin Black.’

Another surprise, she’s American. Well, her accent is more trans-Atlantic, and I can’t quite place it. Awkwardly, I put my hand out and we shake hands.

‘I’m Greer. Greer Mackenzie.’ Her amused gaze runs down my body, and I remember that my jeans are soaked.

‘Would you excuse my appearance? We’ve been mending a leaking pipe in one of the upstairs bathrooms.’ I look down at my greying, white T-shirt, damp and grubby, pulling at the bottom of it to emphasise my point. ‘Never quite the cleanest of places.’

It seems my appearance doesn’t bother her as she turns her gaze back to the house.

‘I’ve never seen anything so full of humour.’

I turn to look. Normally, I see this building as tired, in need of rescuing, in need of a knight in shining armour, but today, with her unexpected injection of warmth, I’m able to see it from her point of view. Today I can see this house, this lost colossus that’s made from crumbling red, Sutherland sandstone, trumpeting its complex stonework of mullioned windows and arched doorways; I can again see the riot of pinnacles and turrets that hide a team of winking and shrieking gargoyles, pitted and weather-beaten. Today’s Caribbean blue, cloudless sky sharpens the image and gives it an intensity that even makes me smile. It’s been so easy for me to overlook the audacity of the building, an impressively bold statement, almost ridiculous in such harsh and bleak surroundings. I notice her gaze stop at the rampant rose bush, with blood-red blooms, that climbs up beside one of the bay windows, standing out from the exposed stone, a startling contrast to the fading walls and all the other white, less radiant rose bushes that line the front of the building.

She frowns, but before it turns into a question, I say, ‘Please, come in. I’m sure you’re tired from your journey and could do with some tea.’

Her gaze lingers on the red rose a moment longer before she follows me into the house, up the steps and into the expansive hall. It’s an impressive room, the forward to the building, the room that announces what else you might expect from the rest of the house: the sweeping staircase leading down to the black and white tiled floor, grandiose portraits lining the walls and a large, mounted stag’s head glaring at the path of any guest, red light bulbs in its eye sockets. She stops and stares at it.

‘An old family joke,’ I say. ‘My father hated that stag, but it wasne his place to get rid of it. When electricity finally arrived here in Achfary in 955, he wired it up and put in those light bulbs. Will you be wanting to freshen up?’

Pulling herself away from the stag’s menacing gaze, she replies in a distracted manner, ‘Yes, thank you.’

I point to a door on her left. ‘The cloakroom’s in there. Take your time; I’ll be in the kitchen, just at the end of the corridor.’

I turn and start walking down the dark corridor leading to the green baize door, but as I do this, I begin to feel the cold on the back of my neck and the old, familiar muffling of sounds comes down on me like a heavy fog. The distant ticking of the grandfather clock is muted, and the sound of my footsteps on the tiled floor is stifled. Suddenly, they’re running towards me. The girl, four years old, runs ahead of the older boy, holding his hand. Both are pale, their eyes bruised with fatigue, their skin unused to sunshine. Her ringleted, white-blonde curls sit on her shoulders and her pale blue, smocked dress is grass-stained at the hem. The boy is trussed into a dark-blue sailor suit, his brown, wiry hair ruffled and unkempt. I expect them to stop, as usual, and ask the same question, asked with their voices always rising in expectation, always answered with disappointment. But they don’t. They don’t even notice me. They run past and stop in front of the door to the cloakroom which is now open, the light spilling out into the corridor.

And now the girl asks the question.

‘Mama?’ Her voice is timid, reedy, she has a sad, slightly anxious look.

When there’s no answer, I can see both their shoulders droop, the expectation slipping away and disappointment finally flickers across the girl’s face.

I feel as if the floor has given way under my feet, and I have to put my hand out to the wall to steady myself. But before I can begin to make sense of what has just happened, I hear the woman’s voice.

‘Hello?’ she says gently.

The girl doesn’t take her eyes from Caitlin Black. She’s staring, a fierce, enquiring glare, the dark smudges under her eyes heightening the enquiry.

‘Are you looking for someone?’

Caitlin Black’s question knocks me out of my reverie, reminds me that I shouldn’t be here, that I’m intruding.

Silently I open the green baize door and make my way into the kitchen. I busy myself: filling the kettle, putting it on the stove, finding the tea bags, the mugs and teaspoons, pouring milk into a small jug; doing the mundane things that calm the mind. Monotony always silences the conversation in my head, it quietens the anger, stopping it from becoming fury. There are days when the dialogue is so loud that I have to take a toothbrush to the grouting in the shower and meticulously scrub. Two hours later, I will feel that I’m able to be civil. On other days, filing does the job: invoices and receipts, utility bills and bank statements. The checking of figures and the smoothing of the paper before I punch the holes and put it in the correct folder. The neatness pleases me as if I’ve just done the filing in my mind. I always sleep better after I’ve done the filing.

She appears, her face slightly flushed, a question on her face.

‘Tea?’ I ask.

‘You don’t have any coffee, do you?’ she asks hopefully.

‘Will Nescafé do?’

She grimaces. ‘Strong tea will be fine.’

She pulls out a chair and sits at the kitchen table. It’s a wide, heavy, well-used wooden slab; knife cuts, candle burns and water rings denoting character, each mark able to tell a tale. Behind her there is a wide, yawning sofa and haphazard piles of papers sitting on a table beside it. I really should have made a greater effort to tidy up.

She seems to hug herself as she looks around the room. ‘It smells like you’ve been baking.’ She closes her eyes briefly and takes a deep breath. ‘Ginger cake?’

‘Aye. An old family recipe. Would you like some?’

‘Oh no, thank you. A bit early for me.’ She looks around the room again. ‘How long have you been here?’

I put a large mug of tea in front of her, and pull up my own chair, taking a sip of tea. ‘My family have been housekeeping here since the house was built in the late 880s.’ I throw her a wry smile. ‘Somehow we’ve been unable to stay away, something has always pulled us back, however hard we might have tried.’ It’s impossible to keep any bitterness out of my voice, I look down at my tea to avoid her gaze.

‘But you don’t live by yourself. You mentioned that “we” were mending a leaking pipe.’

‘Aye, my husband works here too. He’s still upstairs, finishing up. He keeps the grounds and does any maintenance jobs that are needed in the house. But we just do whatever is needed to keep the house in good condition.’

‘And your children?’

My heart skips a beat, but I try to give her a look of slight amusement, trying to keep her off guard.

‘No children I’m afraid, Miss Black.’ I blink but keep my gaze on this intruder. I can tell that she’s already horrified by her blunder; making assumptions about other people’s ability to have children is always a taboo. But I’m happy to let her think that being childless is not my choice. After a pause I, again, look into my tea, holding the cup with both hands. ‘Just one of those things that never happened.’

The red on her face deepens. ‘But…I thought I saw two children in the corridor just now.’ As she says this, her breath seems to become short and she grabs hold of the arms of the kitchen chair.

I’m momentarily disarmed by her reaction. I realise that, perhaps, I’ve gone too far, so give her a reassuring smile.

‘Oh…that’ll be our neighbours. Their children are always racing in and out of here.’ I give an uneasy laugh, awkwardly running my hand through my hair. ‘I asked them to stay away today, but they obviously can’t resist the cake.’ I stand up. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like some?’

She repeats the rejection without even considering it.

There’s something vulnerable about this woman. She seems to have shrunken into her chair and looks almost girl-like: thin and brittle. Ignoring her refusal, I bring the plate over to the table, the dark, sticky ginger cake, heavy and inviting. Experience has shown me that cake, especially this cake, can have a calming effect on even the most highly strung. Its enveloping childhood smell of sweetness and nostalgia can instil some serenity into a worried mind.

It works. She leans forward and inhales the gingery aroma. Her face relaxes and a smile appears in her eyes. She sits up and seems ready to go back to business.

‘Thanks for agreeing to see me without the land agent. The woman I spoke to knew very little about the house, she just seemed wary, almost unwilling to help. She didn’t even know how long it had been on the market. She was more interested in selling me a two-bed cottage in Lairg.’ She seems to scoff at the thought. ‘But it looks like, with your family history, you’d be a far better guide.’

She smiles, looking directly at me. I rub at a sore patch on the palm of my hand.

‘I’d be happy to show you around the house, I rarely get the opportunity. We’re so remote here; we don’t even get visitors that are just passing by. You see there’s not much to pass by to.’ I wonder if she fully appreciates how remote this area is. ‘Now, if you’ve finished your tea, shall we start?’

Standing up, she asks, ‘How many people have already been around?’

I try not to snort at the question, try to keep my answer nonchalant. ‘Oh, no one this time. Shall we start in the library?’ I wave her towards the corridor.

‘This time?’ She stops as if she’s briefly choked on something.

I suppress a sigh of impatience. ‘Yes, the house has been on the market, on and off, for the last fifty years. We’ve had some serious interest over that time, but nobody has ever stood by this old house. Something has always happened to make the buyers pull out.’ I walk on down the corridor, not waiting for her.

I can feel that she’s staring at me, but since I continue walking without her, she eventually hurries after me.

‘The house has been for sale for fifty years?’

As we reach the light of the hall, I turn back to her. Her thoughts are written all over her face, it’s obvious she can see the absurdity of the situation; a large, crumbling mansion that nobody wants to buy, more than thirty miles from the nearest train station and at least two hours by car to the closest provincial airport.

‘What made the buyers pull out?’

I push down the frustration, the years of disappointment, and start counting the reasons out on my fingers. ‘Well, either they suddenly realised they didn’t have the money to renovate properly or they decided it was too far from civilisation. One decided there wasn’t enough land with the house, another lost all his money in the crash of ’87, two weeks before exchanging contracts.’ It’s hard to keep the bitterness out of my voice. ‘Many didn’t bother with a reason, just pulled out without a word.’ I look at her squarely, the matador assessing the bull, hands on my hips, letting the red lining of my cloak show.

She meets my gaze, keeping her voice low and says, ‘You’re very honest.’

‘Miss Black,’ I sneer, ‘we’ve been here before. I’m just a realist. I don’t need my time wasted again.’

She almost puffs up her chest, as if she’s realised that her part in this scene is that of the bull.

‘Well, Mrs Mackenzie, let’s deal with those first two points. I may not look the part. Just because I’m not dressed in a suit and carrying a briefcase doesn’t mean that I haven’t got the money. In fact, I’m a cash buyer. And “too far from civilisation” is what I’m looking for.’

Bravo, Miss Black. I let the matador’s cloak drop and step back from the bull.

‘If you don’t mind me asking, why are you selling? Or rather, why have you been trying to sell for so long?’

Perhaps my assessment of her as a bull is incorrect. She’s a terrier. A terrier that’s got hold of its catch and doesn’t want to let go.

‘Why don’t I show you the house first and then I can answer your questions afterwards.’ My clipped words resonate around the hall. ‘Does that sound like a good idea?’

We’re standing on the pebbled beach close to the front of the house, both of us watching as the water gently laps the shingles. Without a breeze, the dark loch mirrors the surrounding hills, the complete stillness only broken by the sound of bubbling water running from the burn beside us. I have shown her the magnificent library, each of the twelve bedrooms, I’ve expounded on the construction of the elaborate fireplaces, we explored the servants’ quarters and we marvelled at the grandeur of the stable block. Miss Black admired the intricate carvings, the delicate stonework on the stairs and the inlaid wood on the writing desk. We’ve discussed the originality of the design, the early central heating system and the unusual investment in speaking tubes instead of servants’ bells.

It’s so long since I gave a full tour of the house that I’d forgotten how much I love to show it off. It’s reminded me how attached I am to this old white elephant and, just because it’s had such a profound effect on me, it doesn’t mean that it still isn’t the most magnificent building I know.

Caitlin Black closes her eyes briefly and breathes in the clear air.

‘Days like this are rare and precious up here.’

I turn to my visitor. ‘Do you know this area?’

‘My father is from Edinburgh. Although I grew up in Manhattan, we used to spend every other summer holiday and some Christmases near Lairg, staying with my aunt. Those summers were a welcome break from doing my very best to be the worst possible teenager for my mother. To be somewhere where nobody cared what clothes you wore, what school you went to or what neighbourhood you lived in; it was a revelation to me.’

So now I understand the accent: Edinburgh and Manhattan. Not a combination you hear too often.

She looks into the distance wistfully, as if she’s remembering one of those summer holidays.

‘How long has Ardbray been empty?’ she suddenly says, pushing the dark curls off her face, seeming to push away that memory, an old-forgotten emotion.

‘Well, it’s never stood empty; my family have always worked here, maintaining the house. But Mrs Maclean died in 947, and she’d lived a fairly solitary existence since the death of her husband at the turn of the century. So, I’m afraid this house has seen little of the world since the late 890s.’

She looks back at the house, her gaze carefully scrutinising every detail.

‘How did this house survive?’ Her question seems rhetorical. ‘So many of these kinds of houses were bulldozed and obliterated, now only ever seen in old catalogues and books. They were too big and too unwieldy, crumbling away, their owners usually too poor or their families too unwilling to take on the titanic task of reviving the great family seat. Why has Ardbray House been mothballed until someone could be found to rescue it?’

I stare at her, unable to answer, even though I’m perfectly capable of giving an explanation. But she misreads my stare.

Smiling, she says, ‘I have a long-held fascination for old houses. You see, my father is an architect and we were indoctrinated from an early age.’

‘Miss Black, why do you want to buy Ardbray?’ I ask.

‘I’ve been looking for somewhere to run a retreat. Somewhere people can get away from the constant noise in their lives. We so rarely get the opportunity to just “be”, just listen to our own thoughts, or just do the thing we love to do. I’d like to run a writing retreat, an art retreat, a yoga retreat and even a silent retreat. And, of course, there’ll be food. Food is what I’m good at, what I’m passionate about. Whilst the guests are feeding their souls, I will be feeding their bodies with good, locally sourced, vegetarian food.’

I fail to hide my raised eyebrow. ‘You’ll not be making the most of the local salmon, trout or venison then?’

She smiles. ‘No, Mrs Mackenzie, I won’t. But rest assured, I will be making the most of the other incredible fresh produce available.’

‘Will it not be too remote?’

I can see she’s trying to hide her amusement. I need to stop acting as if I’m interviewing her.

‘Remote is exactly what our guests will need. They’ll be looking for secluded and difficult to reach.’

‘When you say “our guests”, does that mean that it’s not just you who’s taking on this venture?’

She cracks her knuckles and waits a beat, a shadow of annoyance flickering through her eyes. ‘Mrs Mackenzie, my brother Jim will probably take on most of the financial negotiations, perhaps some of the budget planning, but when I said “we”, that was just a turn of phrase. I will be the sole owner and proprietor of the house and business.’

Her candour confounds me, and I suspect she’s had this type of question before.

Suddenly distracted, she points to a large, irregular mound on the other side of the burn. ‘What’s that over there?’ Weathered bricks and large boulders are sticking out of the grass at haphazard intervals. It’s a stony knoll that screams of neglect and abandonment.

‘It was the walled garden, destroyed by a landslip over fifty years ago. I’m afraid there’s never been the money to dig it out and restore it.’

‘Can we get over there to have a closer look?’

‘Aye.’ I can feel her excitement, she’s keen to get nearer to it, so I begin to walk up the side of the burn. We walk beside the peaty water of the stream that cascades down the hill, neither of us speaking. The water gives off a distinct clean, sweet smell that’s all at once refreshing and uplifting. We reach the old wooden bridge that’s badly in need of repair. She’s as mesmerised by the water as I am. Sometimes, I stand here and am so enthralled by the theatre of rushing water that I forget about time. This cacophony of sound helps drown those angry conversations in my mind, temporarily taking away the disappointment.

‘This way,’ I call, as we cross the bridge and carry on walking down towards the hilly mound. But she doesn’t follow, so I give her some time to enjoy the watery show.

I find the old tree stump that’s been my sunset-watching perch for years. I used to come down here as a child, late in the summer evenings when I should have been in bed. I’d watch the clouds as they turned from pink to orange and sometimes to red. It’s the remains of an apple tree that used to stand outside the walled garden, destroyed in the landslip. It feels like an old friend.

I look back towards the bridge. That’s when I hear the giggle; a happy, unwatched giggle. And then I see them; she’s running after her brother. And they’re laughing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them laugh. I feel an odd sensation as if I’m floating. I feel like I’m an outsider, seeing them for the first time. As usual, the sounds are muffled, the din of the water is subdued, the breeze in the trees is silent, but I feel as if a tectonic shift has occurred, I feel superfluous, no longer needed.

They’re beginning to fade. I can’t see the detail of the smocking on her dress, the lines of his sailor suit are slightly blurred. I feel as if I have lost something.

‘Mrs Mackenzie?’

She startles me.

‘Are you all right?’ she asks, slightly out of breath. There’s a colour in her cheeks that wasn’t there when she first arrived.

I struggle to answer her, not wanting to open up to this stranger. But I think she recognises that this isn’t the moment to pry, so she carries on talking.

‘I’ve always dreamed of a walled kitchen garden. I love the order. I’d far rather go and visit a famous kitchen garden than something more classical or formal. Maybe it’s the knowledge that everything in it will be put to good use.’ She looks around her, at the higgledy-piggledy mess of stone, bricks, moss, grass and bracken before turning her attention to the loch and the view ahead of her. ‘This is a great spot for a garden.’

Finally, I’m on easier ground and can readily respond. ‘It was beautiful, one of the most well-known gardens in the Highlands. Apart from the beds in front of the house, there was very little formal planting around the grounds. Mrs Maclean threw all her energies into this one spot.’

‘Have you got any pictures of it?’

‘Of course, I’ll show you when we get back to the house. Unlike most of the Victorian and Edwardian gardeners she didn’t try to grow peaches and pineapples in great glass houses, she didn’t try to master the garden; she was a more natural gardener, understanding the seasons and flowering periods. But she wasn’t just a gardener, she was a herbalist and a midwife. She had an unequalled collection of herbs; people used to come from all over the world to see her.’

I look down at the ground, a sudden emotion swelling in me. I pull up a few blades of grass and start ripping them apart, throwing the remnants into the air. ‘I’m only sorry we’ve never been able to recreate the garden. I would have loved that.’

There’s an uncomfortable silence between us. I want her to leave now so that I can stop myself from hoping and then having those hopes dashed all over again. But suddenly, she turns to me.

‘Mrs Mackenzie, could we take a break and go find those pictures over another cup of tea and some of that cake?’

The empty mug and crumb-strewn plate lies forgotten as she carefully leafs through the photograph album. The thick, cream-coloured pages, dappled with age, hold the sepia pictures of Ardbray, the garden and long-gone house guests. She’s completely absorbed, soaking up every detail; the neatly laid out planting, bountiful harvests of fruit, vegetable and herbs, as well as stiff images of an elderly Kitty Maclean, determined in tweed and thick stockings, sensible brogues and slightly wild hair, leaning on a garden spade. These photographs soothe me; they show what this house used to be; they show its function, its usefulness, but also its soul, its grandiosity and its splendour.

As she goes through the pictures, every now and again she looks up at me, excitement in her eyes. Finally, I realise that I need to give a little, let her understand this house a bit more.

‘The reason Ardbray has been empty for so long is that there were no heirs when Mrs Maclean died,’ I say, trying to keep the fatigue out of my voice. ‘She’d outlived her husband and both her children by many years. There were no siblings or cousins to leave her fortune to. So, she left most of her money to the Society of Herbalists, a society she’d been an ardent member of and had supported until her death. But there was a very particular codicil in her will, stating that the house was to be held in trust and maintained until a buyer could be found. Once the house was sold, only then could the money raised by the sale be given over, along with her papers and herbarium. She specified that a housekeeper and maintenance man should live here and use a set-aside pot of money to ensure the house was kept in good condition.’ But now I can no longer keep the sour tone out of my voice. ‘And here we are over fifty years later, unchanged and stagnating.’

She stares at me. I can just see the questions brewing: the ‘whys’ and the ‘hows’. But I’ll not answer those, I cut them off before they’re even articulated.

‘Are you still interested in the house, Miss Black?’

‘Please, can we possibly drop the formality? Perhaps you can just call me Caitlin.’ Again, she looks at me, her gaze now more sympathetic. ‘I’m afraid we didn’t get off to a good start. Maybe we could begin again?’

I maintain her gaze but know that I’m being stubborn. Colin tells me it’s one of my most unattractive qualities. I should be accommodating. After all, it’s in my interest for this woman to buy Ardbray and to give me my freedom.

I nod.

‘Okay.’ She gives me a conciliatory smile. ‘So, in answer to your question, yes, I’m interested. How could I not be? There’s so much…’ She hesitates and I watch her closely as she seems to look around the kitchen for the words. That vulnerability that I saw earlier appears to have shifted away. I can almost feel the excitement welling up inside her; her eyes are bright and there’s that gentle flush to her freckled cheeks. She unconsciously pulls at the sleeves of her jumper, trying to make them longer than they already are. But I don’t think she can find the words or, maybe, she’s unwilling to say them to me.

Suddenly, she snaps the photograph album shut as if she’s made a decision and is ready to act.

‘But I need to know more: more about this place and more about Kitty Maclean. I want to find the heart of this house and who made it what it was. If I’m going to buy it, I’d like to reclaim some of its original magnificence. But I can’t do that without understanding everything about it.’

I blink, caught off guard by her sudden enthusiasm. That isn’t an emotion I’ve encountered much recently. I push my chair back and stand up.

‘Aye, I can do that,’ I say guardedly, ‘but it’ll take a while. I think we’ll be in need of some more tea.’

*

Keep reading!