Don't Be Afraid Read online

  “What a lovely woman. Come, I’ll make you a nice cup of tea and we can chat.”

  We followed Peggy into the tiny kitchen in the back. It was the first time I’d stepped through there, and I wondered how many stories those walls had heard. Peggy had this gift: people talked to her. They knew that she would keep their secrets; even if she loved a bit of good-hearted gossip, she wouldn’t betray anyone’s trust.

  “So, how can I help you?” She put the kettle on and prepared two mugs for us – each had a little cartoon of the Loch Ness Monster painted on it.

  Torcuil looked at me silently, as if to say your call. “It’s about Isabel,” I replied, squirming a little. In spite of trusting Peggy, it always felt somehow weird – even disloyal – to talk about my wife’s illness.

  Peggy, of course, knew that there was something wrong with Isabel. The whole village knew. It was just hard to talk about it. “Right.”

  “She . . . she’s really unwell. I mean, she tried to do something very stupid.” I felt my voice breaking.

  “I know.”

  I was slightly taken aback at that. People knew about that too? I must have underestimated the power of the Glen Avich grapevine. For a moment, I was speechless.

  “She’s coming home soon, but . . .”

  Torcuil came to my rescue. “We can’t leave her alone, of course.”

  I continued. “And I need to work. It’s hard as it is, to make ends meet with my job.”

  “So you’re looking for someone to be with her. A nurse, maybe?”

  “No, that’s exactly what I don’t want. A nurse will freak her out. See, that’s part of the problem, she hates doctors and nurses and hospitals.”

  “You might have to . . . I’m so sorry to say this, Angus . . . But you might have to find a way to convince her to be looked after . . . properly, I mean. By someone who knows what they’re doing,” Peggy said, as delicately as she could.

  “She’s followed by a consultant at the hospital, and we’re going to speak to Dr Robertson, so we have that. But I want to try to see if she can get some help at home. Something like a . . . companion,” I said, looking at Torcuil for help in explaining.

  “Yes, an old-fashioned expression, but that’s what were looking for,” he continued. “A companion. Someone who makes sure she eats, takes her meds, and doesn’t . . . doesn’t . . .”

  “Yes. I understand,” Peggy said.

  And doesn’t harm herself, I finished in my mind, and my stomach clenched.

  “She would have to sleep there too, when Angus is away for work.”

  “I see. And Margherita couldn’t do it, of course; she is so busy with her work, with Ramsay Hall and her children . . . Eilidh has taken up some hours at Sorley’s nursery and helps me here as well, so she couldn’t either. Leave it with me. I’ll have a good think, and—”

  “Well, thank you, Peggy,” I said, standing up. In spite of Peggy’s kindness, all of a sudden those four walls were suffocating me. I needed some air. “If you hear of anyone, you know where to find me.”

  “Of course,” she said and, to my surprise, rested a hand on my arm.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll sort it all out,” Torcuil said to me as we stood in front of Ramsay Hall. I considered how many times Torcuil had “sorted it all out” for our family, and what he’d got in return. Our father dying under his eyes. His brother marrying his fiancée. Our mother’s patronising, unloving letters. And in the face of all that, Torcuil’s unfailing loyalty and generosity.

  “Yes.”

  My brother got smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror as I drove to the hospital to see Isabel, wondering what I was going to find, hoping against hope that she would have shed the sadness and that I would find her smiling again. Hoping, as ever, for a miracle.

  9

  Dreamscape

  We pass each other

  In a dream

  Torcuil

  I was relieved to be out in the breezy afternoon. Meeting Clara had left me slightly dazed. I was sure I had seen her before, and I had felt something strange seeping off her mind and into mine – an irresistible, painful thirst she’d had for an eternity. Like she was looking for something. Like she was searching.

  It’s difficult to put these gossamer sensations into words.

  I refused a lift home from Angus. I needed to clear my head. I headed up the High Street, not even stopping to say hello to Margherita’s mum and stepfather at La Piazza; I kept going, past the little stony bridge over the River Avich, and all the way towards the outskirts of the village. The chilly wind of late autumn was on my face, blowing some of my agitation away. I could not rest until we had found someone for Izzy, until we had made sure she was safe.

  I was frightened for her, but I was frightened for my brother too. He had worked so hard to get where he was in his career – and it was more than a career, it was his passion. Angus and music, in my mind and in the mind of all those who knew him well, were the same thing, woven into each other, impossible to pry apart. I just couldn’t let him leave the trial at the orchestra.

  I was supposed to turn left, towards Ramsay Hall, but, unexpectedly, my feet made me turn right, into the woods, and took me towards Angus’s home – a cottage with a bright-blue door and a beautiful garden all around, standing alone at the edge of the woods and right on the loch. It looked like a fairy-tale house; and still, Izzy’s home would not bring her happiness. Nothing brought her happiness any more.

  I stood and gazed at the house for a little while, thinking about Izzy and Angus, a corner of my mind still whirling after the meeting with Clara – it was always difficult for me to calm down, to come back to myself, after having one of those moments.

  I was about to step back into the woods – I would then take the long road back along the loch shore to Ramsay Hall – when I saw her.

  I saw someone – a woman – at one of the windows of Angus’s house.

  I saw that her hair was very long, down on her shoulders.

  I saw that her face was sad and tear-stained.

  I saw her, and it was not a dream.

  Her features were blurred, but for a moment I thought – could it be? – I thought it was Clara. But it wasn’t possible. I must have been mistaken.

  All of a sudden, I realised that warm tears were falling down my face, and I didn’t even feel like I was crying, I was melting into tears of regret. It wasn’t my regret – it was the woman’s.

  And then I blinked, and she was gone – there was nobody at the window, and nobody in the house.

  I stood astounded for a moment, my heart pounding; then I turned around, drying my tears, still reeling from that strange, alien outpour of emotion. I tripped over something – someone – standing right behind me.

  “I’m so sorry!” she said, throwing her arms in front of her to stop me from falling. “I didn’t mean to startle you . . .”

  It was Clara.

  I was speechless for a moment, wondering what she would make of my red eyes. “It’s okay,” I said, my heart in my throat. What was she doing out here in the woods, next to Angus’s house? I was about to speak, when at that moment something started chiming and vibrating, and the noise broke the spell.

  “So sorry, I have to get this. As you know, I’m trying to arrange a place to stay,” Clara said, bringing the phone to her ear. I wasn’t sure what to do – whether to walk away with a silent wave or wait for her to finish. I resolved to stay. I needed to know more about Clara. The way I thought I’d seen her at the window of Angus’s house . . . This kind of thing happened to me sometimes, but not that often – when it did, I paid attention.

  “Hi, I believe you were looking for me . . .” she said to whoever was on the phone. “Sure, I’ll come straight away . . . Perfect. See you in ten minutes. Bye,” she concluded, and took another whole minute to try to switch the thing off. Again I saw that she was of the same school of thought as Peggy when it came to phones – Just press whatever, it’s got to be one of them.<
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  “Sorry!” she said, still pressing buttons at random. “There! That was Debora from La Piazza. I’m going to see a room in her house.”

  “I can take you, if you like. My partner, Margherita, is Debora’s daughter.”

  “Oh, what a lovely coincidence,” she said, and she smiled, laughter lines appearing around her eyes, lighting up her face.

  “Well, you’ll find everyone is either related or somehow connected in a village as small as this,” I replied, and we started walking. On the tip of my tongue there was still a question: What were you doing in the woods, so close to my brother’s house? But I could not ask; it just seemed rude, suspicious. And anyway, she clearly was out having a walk, it was as simple as that.

  “It’s Torcuil, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Bit of an uncommon name. Scottish.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “Thank you. So, where do you come from?”

  “Oh, down the road. Aberdeen,” she said. “But I lived in Canada for a long time.” Her tone was perfectly friendly – and still, something in the way she answered made me refrain from asking more personal questions. We chatted about the weather and about the beauty of the woods – but as we made small talk, the image of her crying at Izzy’s window danced before my eyes.

  We got to the bridge in a few minutes, and by then the walk had warmed us both up in spite of the cold breeze. I retraced my steps up the High Street in the opposite direction, and we arrived at Debora’s house. I rang the bell and Debora answered with a smile, her black eyes full of vivacity, as ever.

  “Oh, hi Torcuil! And . . . Clara? You know each other?”

  “We met by chance at Peggy’s,” I said. “And then—”

  “I was having a stroll in the woods and we bumped into each other,” Clara explained.

  See? She was simply out having a walk. Still, I couldn’t wait to tell Margherita about what I had seen, about the mysterious woman at the window.

  “Come in! I’ll show you the cottage, then there is a torta alle nocciole waiting for you.” Margherita and Debora were of Italian descent and both had a passion for cooking; there was always a small but amazingly tasty selection of cakes and biscuits on the go, both at La Piazza and Debora’s home.

  “I’m not sure what that is, but I’ll certainly have some!” Clara smiled.

  “It’s hazelnut cake,” Margherita replied as she came down the stairs. “One of our specialities. I thought I’d heard your voice,” she said to me. Margherita and I had been together for over a year, and I still got the butterflies every time I saw her – pocket-sized like her mother, with a mane of black hair and the sunniest smile. I’d longed and waited for someone like her for years.

  We kissed quickly, a soft peck on the lips.

  “I’m Margherita,” she said, offering Clara her hand. Clara shook it warmly.

  “Clara.”

  “Come. We’ll show you the cottage,” Debora said, stepping past us down the corridor. We followed her out into their small, picturesque courtyard – right at the other side of it stood a small, stony cottage that looked like it had come straight off a chocolate box.

  “It’s so pretty!” Clara burst out. She seemed delighted.

  “We hope you like it. The summer I spent here was very happy for me,” Margherita said with a sideways glance at me, and I looked down with a secret smile.

  “The first thing I did when I got your call was light the fire, so you’d see it at its best,” Debora said, gently leading Clara inside by the arm. We let Clara and Debora step in, and Margherita slipped her hand in mine. I enveloped her in my arms.

  “How are you?” she whispered.

  “Good. Things to tell you.”

  “Any news of Isabel?”

  “She’s coming home tomorrow. I’ll tell you all later.”

  We followed Debora and Clara into the cottage, and, looking at it with Clara’s eyes, I could see why she was so taken with it. A sweet scent of peat filled the room, and the fairy lights on the mantlepiece gave a soft glow.

  Clara walked slowly to the window – it looked straight onto the hills surrounding Glen Avich, covered in pine trees, a soft white mist at their feet. I stood and gazed at the view and the perfect landscape while Margherita and Debora showed Clara around.

  “I love it! Thank you, Debora. It’s perfect,” Clara said.

  “Do you want to think about it for a bit, maybe phone us later?”

  “I don’t need to think about it. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to move in.”

  “Splendid! Let’s go across to the house, have some cake and sort out the details.”

  “Why don’t we go to La Piazza? We can show you the place and make you a cappuccino. I’ll bring the cake along,” Margherita suggested.

  “You coming?” she asked me.

  I nodded. I still wanted to know more about Clara – I was growing more and more curious.

  La Piazza was unmissable – a big white sign in blue lettering crowned the entrance. A wonderful scent of coffee and baking enfolded us as we stepped in, enough to make your mouth water. The place had been a tailor’s shop for years, austere and bare, but Debora and Michael had created a corner of peace and homeliness, with wooden floors and clean, restful white walls dotted with framed photographs. The glow of two fireplaces added atmosphere and warmth. We all sat on the sofas near the fireplace. Aisling, the waitress, appeared from the kitchen. “Hello there!” she called to us in her soft Irish lilt. As she stepped out from behind the counter with a tray laden with drinks and slices of cake, her enormous tummy was unmissable.

  “Congratulations,” Clara said kindly as Aisling approached our table, after having delivered the tray to a group of mums and their toddlers.

  “Thank you.”

  “Aisling, this is Clara. She’ll be boarding at our house,” Margherita said. “Clara, this is Aisling. And her bump!”

  “When are you due?” Clara asked.

  “Next month. It can’t go fast enough. In fact, I’m always so tired, I could just lie down and read my Kindle all day.”

  “She was due to go on maternity leave last week, weren’t you, Aisling? But there has been a delay with the replacement. And she just won’t stay at home, no matter how much we try to convince her!”

  “I can’t leave the two of you to do everything, can I? I’m waiting for my sister to fly in from Cork and take over the job,” she explained with a pinch of exasperation. “She has this thing going with this Spanish boy, Pablo: one day it’s on, the next it’s off . . . It drives me up the wall! Anyway, she should be here any day now. Before I give birth here among the cakes.”

  “Now, that’s a good way to come into the world,” Clara replied, eyeing the glass-domed plates of homemade goodies.

  “True! So, what can I get you?”

  “A selection of cakes and . . . cappuccino, Clara? Or a coffee?” Margherita said.

  “Herbal tea for me, please. Mint, if you have it.”

  “Coming up,” Aisling said cheerily.

  Margherita got up and followed her. “I’ll help you,” she said.

  “No need!”

  “Yes need! You’ll end up folded in two if you bend over those sofas. I know, I’ve been there.”

  “Will I send Michael to the Green Hat to help you with the luggage?” Debora asked Clara. “Michael is my husband,” she explained. It was for him that Debora had moved up here from London, to set up a coffee shop near his home city of Aberdeen. Margherita had come to visit her, after having separated from her husband, and she never went back.

  “I have no luggage. Only two plastic bags full of stuff I bought at Peggy’s and the Welly. The Welly was Glen Avich’s camping and outdoor shop, owned by Aisling’s partner, Logan. I’m losing hope I’ll ever see my things again! You see, they lost my luggage on the flight from Toronto.”

  “We need to go shopping, then,” Margherita called from behind the counter.

  “I don’t know how much time I’ll have for
shopping. I need to look for a job.”

  “What kind of thing are you looking for?” Debora enquired.

  “Well, I used to be a midwife in Canada, but I’m also a qualified nurse. I suppose I’ll just apply to agencies, to start with.”

  She was a nurse. And she was looking for a job.

  And I kept bumping into her.

  I needed to know more.

  “What made you come back to Scotland in the first place?” I enquired.

  “Well, I have no family of my own, and I wanted a change . . . As I told you, I’m Scottish-born, so I thought, why not? I chose Glen Avich because a friend of mine was here on holiday and she loved it.”

  “That’s why you don’t have a Canadian accent,” I said.

  Clara smiled and said nothing. Margherita came back with a laden tray and placed a mint tea in front of her. “You couldn’t have come to a better place.”

  “You are not from here either, are you?” Clara asked, tilting her head to one side. Tiny curls escaped her thick braid and crowned her head.

  “How did you guess?” laughed Margherita – even though she had lived here for over a year, she still had a noticeable London accent. “I came from London for the summer, and I stayed. I loved the place, and also . . .” She smiled again, glancing at me.

  “I love a romantic story,” Clara said, and took a bite of her cake. “This is beautiful. So . . . hazelnutty!” There was a warmth about her, a sweetness that is seldom found. I was taken with her, as sometimes happens when you meet someone who seems to resound with you.

  “So you’ll be applying for nursing agencies?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Margherita looking at me. She had probably guessed where my mind was going. A thought, a possibility, was beginning to take shape.

  “Yes. We’ll see how it goes. I really want to stay here for a while.”

  “I’m sure it will all work out,” Debora said.

  The thought was getting stronger and stronger in my mind, but I would discuss it with Margherita before telling Angus or asking Clara herself.

  Later on, Margherita and I were sitting in my study at Ramsay Hall. Ramsay Hall was such a big house, that we lived in only a few rooms – five, since Margherita and her children had moved in, compared to the three I used to occupy – and left the rest to the visitors for guided tours.