Set Me Free Page 13

  “You don’t mean it, do you? You haven’t really seen a ghost?” I blurted out.

  Torcuil opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, but then clamped his lips shut. “Of course not. Don’t be silly.”

  I felt completely stupid for having asked that question. I decided to change topic quickly.

  “I met Stoirin, yesterday. Fiona showed me around.”

  His face lit up. “Stoirin is beautiful, isn’t she? My brother’s wife, Isabel, was the only one who was allowed to ride Stoirin, apart from me.”

  I noticed he was using the past tense. I wasn’t sure whether to ask what happened to Isabel. He must have read my expression, because he explained.

  “My sister-in-law . . . she’s not very well. She can’t really leave the house.”

  “Oh . . . I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “Yes. She’s been like this for a couple of years now and hasn’t been outside in six months. She’s fine physically, but . . . there’s something in her mind that . . . cripples her. The doctors say it’s some form of anxiety thing, but who knows.”

  “Oh. Oh, I see.” Poor Isabel. My heart went out to her. “If there’s anything I can do . . .”

  “You are very kind. But I don’t think so. There’s nothing anyone can do,” he said, and there was such sorrow in his words and on his face, it was like a cold, black cloud had entered the room. He seemed to care about her a lot.

  “Did you see what I did in the garden?” I said hastily, to try to lighten the mood.

  “No . . . I came home last night when it was dark, and I haven’t been out today,” he replied, and stood to look out of the window. “Why, what happened?”

  “Have a look.” I smiled. He opened the door and walked outside – it was a drizzly morning and the sky was grey, but he didn’t seem to notice and he walked out in his bare feet. That’s Scottish people for you. They seem immune to cold and damp. He looked around, and a smile danced on his face.

  “You cleaned it up. Thank you,” he said. And then, “Thank you,” he repeated in a small voice, and looked away, to the grey skies.

  That night, as we baked for La Piazza, I couldn’t stop thinking about Isabel. I made a batch of amaretti, the bittersweet almond cookies. To me, amaretti signify the bittersweetness of life. I slipped some into a little paper bag and tied it with a ribbon. For Isabel, I wrote on it with a silver Sharpie.

  I tried to phone Torcuil to ask if I could drive up and leave the parcel with him, but there was no reply. I had no idea where Isabel lived, so I walked to Inary’s house in the windswept evening sky, grey clouds galloping above me.

  She welcomed me with a smile. “Oh, Margherita, come on in.”

  “It’s okay, I just came to—” I began, and then Torcuil’s face peeked from behind her.

  “Hello,” he said, running his hand through his hair as usual.

  “Torcuil is here, we were just having a wee whisky,” Inary said. “Join us?” She stepped aside to let me in.

  “Honestly, I can’t. I have to help my mum clean up; you know the way she does the baking in the evenings. I made these for Isabel, I wanted to drive up to Ramsay Hall but you didn’t answer the phone . . .” Oh, God, I sounded like a nag.

  “Torcuil is not the most reliable when it comes to phones, Margherita!” Inary said.

  “Sorry.” He seemed flustered and I felt terrible about it.

  “No, that’s okay, really, it was no bother to walk up here, and anyway, there you are. Night!” I left the sweet-smelling parcel in Torcuil’s hands and practically ran away.

  As soon as I arrived home, my phone chirped.

  I’ll keep an eye on my phone from now on. Thank you for Isabel’s biscuits. Night. T.

  A little bubble of happiness rose in my chest, and I wondered why.

  18

  The gift

  Torcuil

  I’m still reeling after Margherita’s appearance at Inary’s door. I would have loved her to stay. I should have asked her to stay. I stand in the hall with the parcel of biscuits she made for Isabel and I don’t quite know what to do.

  “Torcuil?” Inary is grinning. “Come, I’ll pour you another one.”

  I guess I am that transparent.

  And now she’s going to ask me questions. Questions I can’t answer because I don’t even know myself what I’m feeling or what I’m thinking.

  I mean, it’s not normal to be thirty-six and to have a crush, is it? It’s okay if you’re fifteen.

  So please, Inary, don’t ask me questions, not now, I say to myself.

  “That was lovely of Margherita, wasn’t it? To bake something for Isabel. Did you tell her the situation?”

  “Yes. Sketchily, I suppose.”

  Please, please, please enough. Miraculously, Inary has pity on me and changes the subject entirely.

  “I wonder if things have been happening in the house with Margherita there. You know what I mean.”

  I know what she means, yes. Because when I told Margherita that Ramsay Hall was full of ghosts, I wasn’t lying.

  “Probably.”

  “And will you explain?”

  “Well, I told her about the ghosts, and she thinks I’m joking, of course. I’ll let her believe that. Mrs Gordon thought the weird things happening . . . like you know, things moving place, stuff like that . . . were all down to her being scatty, and I left her to believe that.”

  “That’s so mean!” she laughs. “You convinced Mrs Gordon she was losing her marbles!”

  “I didn’t convince her of anything of the sort! She thought so herself, and I didn’t contradict her, that’s all.”

  “Mrs Gordon is in her sixties. Margherita is young. If the same things start happening, she won’t believe it’s her being scatty and forgetting things, she will wonder what’s going on. What will you do then?”

  “I’ll play it by ear, I suppose. If I tell her the truth she won’t believe me anyway.”

  “She might . . .”

  “It’s unlikely.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so. Do you remember Lewis, my former fiancé?”

  “Oh yes. The idiot who left you.”

  She smiles. “Thanks for your loyalty. Anyway, I told him. That’s why he left me. I mean, of course there must have been other reasons, but that was the main one. He said I needed help. Basically, he said I was crazy. He just put it in a slightly more delicate way.”

  “That’s terrible. What a complete—”

  “So yes, I know what you mean when you say Margherita wouldn’t believe you, because Lewis didn’t believe me. He could have never believed me, had we stayed together. He would have kept thinking I was hallucinating or hearing voices.”

  “And does Alex know?”

  “Of course he does. He thinks it’s amazing,” she smiles. “That’s my point. Lewis didn’t believe me, but Alex does. You just have to choose the right person to tell. Did Izzy . . . Oh.” She stops abruptly. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry . . .”

  “I would have told Izzy, but there was never a right time, and then she was gone. Only my parents and siblings know. And you. That is it.”

  “And what about when you find someone again?”

  “It’s not likely I’ll find anyone.”

  “Why not? Why shouldn’t it happen to you?”

  “Oh, Inary, I don’t know. So much of it is down to luck, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but you also have to want it, Torcuil. If you never put yourself forward . . .”

  I really, really want to change subject. “So anyway, you asked me if I’d tell her, this phantom woman I’ll probably never meet? I don’t know, is the honest answer. I kept it from you for years, remember?”

  “And I never suspected, of course. Men are not supposed to have the Sight; it only goes down the female line.”

  “I must be some sort of genetic abnormality.”

  “Is that what you feel it is? A genetic abnormality?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe.�
�

  There’s a moment of silence and we both take a sip of whisky. Oh, it feels good. Warm and comforting, like everything in the world shines gold.

  “Inary?”

  “Yes?”

  “What if I tell Margherita and she reacts just like Lewis?”

  “Then she’s not worth being told.”

  On my way home, I type a text to Margherita.

  I wish you’d stayed. Sweet dreams, T.

  But then I edit it to I’ll keep an eye on my phone from now on. Thank you for Isabel’s biscuits. Night. T.

  I send it with a sigh.

  19

  Little love (2)

  Margherita

  The following Friday, after finishing all my work at Ramsay Hall, I waited for Torcuil to return from Edinburgh. All week we’d exchanged text messages, simple and short conversations that mainly revolved around saying good morning and goodnight and discussing the weather. But I cherished those texts. They had filled my week with companionship, somehow. Anna and I made long, long calls to each other and spoke for ages, dissecting what had happened to us, how the children were, down to the littlest details, but Torcuil’s messages, somehow, were becoming nearly as precious.

  But that afternoon he never turned up, and there were no texts. I was disappointed, and quite cross with myself for feeling that way. At five I had to get home to look after Leo and let my mum take a break before we started the baking for the next day. So I walked home, crushed and also frightened at the intensity of my disappointment.

  I’m sorry I missed you earlier, things crazy at work, just arrived. How about coming to the stables on Sunday with Lara and Leo?

  The text flashed on my mobile as Leo, Lara and I were sharing buttered toast in my mum’s kitchen, before putting Leo to bed and getting on with the baking for the coffee shop. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I read it.

  “Who is it, Mum?” Lara asked.

  “Just Torcuil,” I said nonchalantly, and then gazed at her quickly. She was busy cutting Leo’s toast into smaller bits; she didn’t seem up nor down about Torcuil’s text, thankfully. “He’s asking if we want to go riding on Sunday. Would you like to go and see the horses, Leo?” I said.

  He beamed. “Yes! Can I go on a horse?”

  “Well, maybe, if Fiona holds on to you very very tight and the horse goes very very very slow. We’ll see. You up for it, Lara?”

  “Sure!” she said brightly, and bit into her toast. Her hair was in a braid resting on one side of her head, and she was wearing a bright-yellow miniskirt with black ballerinas and black tights. Inary had given her some clothes she didn’t wear any more, and it was a treasure trove for Lara. Once again I noticed how much cheerier she looked these days, how rested, with the unbroken nights’ sleeps she’d been getting since we arrived. There had been no sign of her anger, though to be fair she’d never unleashed her rage on me, her dad or Leo before. It only usually happened in school. Or with my beloved mother-in-law.

  “What?” she said with a smile.

  “Oh, sorry. Have I been staring?”

  “Yes! Again!”

  “Sorry!” I put my hands up. “Just, you’re very pretty.”

  “You are very pwetty,” Leo echoed.

  “Mum! Stop it! Stop it, you too!” she said, and leaned over to give us both a kiss before she disappeared through the French doors.

  *

  On Sunday, Leo was the first up. I was still asleep when he jumped on my bed.

  “Mum! Wake up! We are going on a horse! Can you help me put my wellies on?”

  “It’s a bit early, darling . . .” I forced myself to sit up. Lara wandered into the room, bleary-eyed.

  “What’s the time?” she slurred.

  “It’s very late. It’s time to go,” Leo said cheerily. “I need to bring my Transformers.”

  “You won’t be needing those, I don’t think.”

  “Please, Mummy!”

  “Okay, okay,” I relented, and looked at my watch. “It’s barely seven o’ clock!”

  “I’m going back to bed,” said Lara grumpily.

  Leo took her by the hand. “But you can’t! The horses are waiting!” I had to laugh. That was what I always said when we were running late for nursery – Your teacher is waiting.

  “The horses are all asleep. Torcuil told us to go around nine. That’s three hours away,” I said reasonably. “Why don’t we relax here for a bit, have a little play and—”

  “I need my wellies on.”

  He was unmovable. I had to relent and get up. I decided to take Leo to La Piazza for breakfast to try to kill time. Michael was always there early on a Sunday to prepare the lunch specials. I tried to be as slow as I could in getting ready and managed to stretch the time to just past eight o’clock.

  Leo ran down the little alley and into the coffee shop’s kitchen.

  “We are going horse riding!”

  “You’re here early, young man!” Michael said. The kitchen smelled beautifully of coriander and nutmeg.

  “Yes, because the horses are waiting,” he explained.

  “Sorry about this. We have to be up at Ramsay Hall around nine and this boy has been awake since seven.”

  “Well, somebody is keen! Help yourself to breakfast, Margherita. You can use the coffee machines, can’t you?”

  “Oh yes. Can I make you an espresso or something?”

  “No drinking when I’m on duty.” He smiled. “Also, if you make coffee like your mum, I can’t drink that. I wouldn’t sleep for a week.”

  I helped myself to coffee and some torta I’d made the evening before with Mum, and fixed Leo and Lara some hot milk and a generous portion of torta each. Leo was so excited he couldn’t sit still. Finally, it was time to go.

  “We’re off then, see you later!”

  “Have fun!” Michael winked at me.

  He winked.

  Why was he winking?

  Because he was nice! That was all. I was being paranoid. That was all.

  “Say hello to Lord Ramsay from me,” he called as we walked out of the door.

  I take that back. I wasn’t being paranoid. Michael was teasing me. And I would most certainly ignore him.

  Poor Leo was made to wait even longer, as all the horses were taken up by pupils of the riding school for the next half an hour. Torcuil was in full riding gear and wasn’t wearing his glasses; he was holding onto Stoirin’s reins loosely, as if they were holding hands. The bond between them was clear to see. Every once in a while, Stoirin nuzzled the top of his head. She was even more beautiful as I saw her out of her stand for the first time: her coat glimmered in the sunshine with a warm shade of brown, shiny and immaculately clean, like she’d been washed with some exotic oil. Strands of her mane flew gently in the wind – there seemed to always be a breeze at Ramsay Hall.

  “So, what do you say? Do you want to ride her?” Torcuil offered, lifting the extra helmet he had in his hand.

  “Come on, Mum!” Lara encouraged.

  “Come on, Mummy!” echoed Leo, whose little hand kept patting Stoirin’s side.

  “I don’t know . . . I’ve never been on a horse before . . .”

  “She won’t throw you. I guarantee that,” said Torcuil.

  “I know, I know she wouldn’t. You wouldn’t, would you?” I said sweetly, caressing Stoirin’s mane. But she was so big. “Look, maybe another time.”

  “I’d like a go,” Lara said, and looked at me.

  “Go for it!” I smiled.

  Torcuil handed her the helmet. “There,” he said.

  I was so proud of her and just a little bit apprehensive as she stepped on the stirrup and lifted herself up, with Torcuil’s help. Stoirin snorted and swayed a little but was otherwise unfazed.

  “How does it feel?” I asked unnecessarily. Lara was beaming.

  “Brilliant! Wow! Can I . . . go somewhere?”

  “Well, you could, but Stoirin isn’t used to sticking to a circuit, she’ll be off. Are you okay w
ith that?”

  “I don’t think you should, not the first time . . .” I protested.

  “Mum!”

  “She’ll be fine. Honestly, Margherita. I promise. She’s a mellow girl, aren’t you, Stoirin?” Torcuil looked like he knew what he was doing, so I relaxed a bit. He wouldn’t put my daughter in danger.

  “Lara, if you feel like she’s going too fast, pull the reins back . . .”

  “Will it hurt her?”

  “Of course not,” said Torcuil. “It’s like speaking to her. You’re simply telling her you want to slow down a little.”

  “Okay.”

  “Ready?”

  Lara nodded. Maybe she was ready: me, not so much.

  “Off you go, Stoirin, good girl,” Torcuil said, and patted her side.

  “Oh!” Lara’s face broke into a big smile as Stoirin began trotting over the gravel and into a field. My heart was in my throat and my knees were wobbly, but I pretended not to be afraid.

  “Don’t worry. She’ll be fine,” Torcuil said with authority. The knot in my stomach loosened ever so slightly, but not completely.

  Lara sat on Stoirin like she’d been riding horses forever. I saw her increasing the pace a little, then pulling on the reins as Stoirin went too fast. She looked in control. I was so full of admiration for her.

  “She’s a natural,” Torcuil said, echoing my thoughts. “And soon it’ll be your turn, won’t it?” he said to Leo.

  “Yes! I want to go on the very big horse!”

  “No way, you are going on the very small pony!” I retorted, my eyes not leaving Lara as she trotted across the fields.

  “He can ride Sheherazade,” he said, pointing to a small mare Fiona was leading by the reins. “The lessons always finish on the hour, so it’s almost time.” He glanced at his watch.

  “Mum! Look! It’s Peppa Pig!” Leo pointed at Torcuil’s arm. And indeed, he was wearing a Peppa Pig watch.

  “Torcuil? Are you a fan of Peppa Pig?”

  “Oh, that? It’s just temporary. My watch broke, and this was left behind at the stables and nobody claimed it, and I hate shopping . . .”

  “Oh, I love shopping. I hope to make it to Aberdeen with Lara and my mum soon. Before the summer is over and we go back to London.”