Set Me Free Read online

  Anyway.

  Things to do this summer:

  1) Sort out my hair once and for all. I don’t really have a plan on that one, though; it seems to get frizzy whatever I do.

  2) Put on weight in the right places. That won’t be hard because Nonna is forever feeding us.

  3) Re-read all the Bride of Shadows books and highlight all the best bits, then copy them in my diary.

  4) Try contact lenses again and absolutely DO NOT GAG if the optician puts his fingers on my eyeballs to slip them in (SHUDDER). I’m fed up with looking like Velma from Scooby Doo with my glasses, though Mum says it’s not true, that they make me look very cute. But she always thinks I’m cute so I can’t really rely on her opinion.

  5) Try not to get angry.

  7

  New moon

  Margherita

  We drove through countryside that grew wilder and wilder, until daylight faded and a sliver of moon rose in the clear sky. We went from the motorways and the houses and shopping centres to the silence of the moors and mountains, up and up through winding roads. I had the strange feeling of making a passage to another world entirely, a world where nature was stronger than anywhere I’d ever lived before. I was taking my children to a place that had nothing familiar to us, somewhere new and alien, and it was daunting and scary and exciting, like coming back to life.

  The sky was immense, and it was very dark, with the occasional lights like reflected stars in a sea of black. All of a sudden, we were cold. I stopped at a petrol station to bundle Leo in a blanket, and bought myself a cup of hot tea. As I was about to get back in the car, I stood alone for a moment and took a deep breath. A fresh wind blew in my hair and it felt as if it was purifying me, blowing away all that was old and no longer fruitful from my mind and soul. I looked at my little green Corsa fondly. All that was home to me was bundled in the back of my car. I gazed at them once more: Leo was asleep again, a bundle of tenderness snuggled in his new blanket. Lara looked so pretty in her oversized hoodie and jeans, her eyes closed as she listened to her iPod. Yes, all I needed was there. In the glovebox I had one of my most prized possessions: a battered notebook where my grandmother had copied her family recipes. She was my mother’s mother and I was called after her, Margherita, though everyone called her Ghita. The recipes were traditional cakes and biscuits from Castelmonte, our home village in the Italian region of Piedmont, at the feet of the Italian Alps. My grandparents – Giovanni and Ghita Scotti – emigrated to England in the fifties, just after the war, and never went back. Anna, Laura and I had been to Castelmonte many times as children but had only been back a couple of times as adults, now that the family home had been sold and ties with Italy were more and more frayed. I hadn’t baked from the notebook for a long time, and I felt the urge to do so again.

  It was past midnight as we drove by the loch shore, its waters still and dark, and through the village with its empty streets to my mum’s cottage. Above, the moon watched over us. Leo was fast asleep when we arrived, but Lara sat up straight, watching out of the car window. All the lights were on in my mum’s cottage and she came out as soon as we parked at the side of the street. I stepped out into the sweet-smelling air and my mum held me close. “Tesoro mio,” she said over and over again, and although we were so far away from everything I knew, in a world of wind and moors and purple hills, it felt like home. For the first time, alongside the sorrow and fear there was a little spark of excitement. When I’d left London, I’d wanted to get a break from myself, in a way, as well as Ash, but there was no new Margherita to replace the one I needed to leave behind.

  I watched my mum gather Leo in one arm and wrap her other around Lara’s shoulder, clutching them both to her chest. And as I stood there in the semi-darkness in front of my mum’s house, having carried the whole family safely over to this new reality, my perception shifted. A terrible weight fell off my shoulders then.

  In spite of all my worries and fears and regrets, I felt safe.

  In spite of all the uncertainty, I thought that maybe I would be just fine, the three of us would be just fine.

  I smiled, and it was a genuine smile, not the pretend ones I’d had to put on in the last few weeks, while lying to everyone that I was all right, that I was coping great with the upheaval in my life and I had everything under control.

  At that moment, Leo’s penguin slipped out of my hands as I tried to hold on to my bag, my jacket and a few bits and pieces, and fell on the pavement. I was about to pick it up when someone came from behind and did it for me. I hadn’t heard him approaching, so I jumped slightly. I turned around to see a man wearing a dark jacket and jeans, his eyes framed by silver-rimmed glasses, the light of the lamp post reflected in them. I had the strange feeling of having seen him somewhere before, but I couldn’t remember where.

  “Thank you,” I said, and he nodded briefly.

  “Come on, Margherita,” my mum called, and I walked away. I don’t know why I turned around just once more before I stepped inside the house, just to see the strange and yet familiar man walk away.

  Michael was waiting for us in the living room, with a wide smile and his arms open.

  “I’m sorry to fall on you like a ton of bricks . . .” I began.

  “I don’t want to hear any of that,” he said in his lilting accent, putting both his hands up. He had a booming, deep voice and he rolled his r’s – he was like a huge, friendly bear. “It’s an absolute pleasure to have you and the children.” He gave me a warm, tight hug.

  I was touched. My sisters and I had been astounded when my mum announced she was remarrying, and Laura had been firmly against it. It seemed impossible, when Mum and my dad had been so in love, so close for over thirty years. But Michael had won us over by making my mum happy again, and by being so kind to us every time we met. There was an easy charm about him, and a zest for life, an optimism that shone through him and over everything around him. Also, Michael was a chef, like me and Laura – which, I suppose, helped him fit seamlessly into our family. If you want to win over a Scotti, cook for them, feed them beautiful food and they’ll be yours forever.

  “Let me go and get your luggage from the car,” Michael said, and made his way outside. My mum and I exchanged a glance. She smiled as if to say I told you it would be fine, and I found myself smiling back.

  We settled Leo on the sofa, snug in a nest of blankets, and Lara and I sat down for a cup of tea and walnut cake before going to bed. Lara’s head slipped on my shoulder as she ate. She was exhausted.

  “How much you’ve grown in such a short space of time!” Mum said to her, squeezing her hand. “And your hair!” She stroked Lara’s head softly.

  “My hair is frizzy,” Lara said sleepily.

  “Your hair is gorgeous. Come, I’ll show you the cottage. You won’t recognise it!”

  We walked across the courtyard and my mum opened the door for us to walk through the threshold. As she switched the light on, my heart swelled. I couldn’t believe how lovely the place was – it had only been an empty shell when we last visited.

  They had left the bricks on show on the walls and on the rounded ceiling; it made the place look like a miniature castle but at the same time cosy and warm. Against the left wall there was a fireplace with a sweet-smelling peat fire smouldering away, its mantelpiece decorated with tiny yellow fairy lights. Right in the centre of the room was a wooden double bed covered in a creamy duvet, and just beside it was a little blue toddler’s bed for Leo. Michael had carried in our luggage, and it sat on the floor in front of a huge antique wardrobe carved with flowers and blooms.

  “What do you think?” My mum was beaming. I was momentarily speechless.

  “Oh, Mum,” I said. “I can’t believe this! It’s just . . . perfect,” I sighed, rocking Leo gently. He felt warm and heavy in my arms, sleeping deeply like only children can.

  “I knew you’d like it. Come, across here there’s Lara’s room . . .”

  “My room!” Lara exclaimed, suddenly
awake, and ran through. As I settled Leo in his bed, I heard Lara cooing. I followed her through and just had to join in. My mum had assembled the perfect room for her personality. The walls were turquoise, with an old-fashioned cast-iron fireplace lit with tiny dragonfly fairy lights. Behind her bed hung a fabric drapery decorated with hummingbirds and flowers in every shade of turquoise and blue. An antique wardrobe sat against the wall opposite the bed. And then Lara spotted the pièce de résistance: an antique writing cabinet with little drawers and shelves to keep her stationery in, and even an ink and pen holder.

  Lara went from corner to corner, taking it all in, her eyes wide.

  “Do you like it?” my mum asked.

  “It’s amazing!” she said, and threw herself on her bed, only to get up again and sit at her writing cabinet. “Just awesome. It’s like you read my mind for the room of my dreams. Thank you, Nonna,” she said, and ran and hugged her tight.

  “There’s a bathroom, too,” she said, holding Lara. “In case you were wondering if you had to walk across the courtyard in the middle of the night! Look.”

  The bathroom was tiny but perfectly formed, and I already saw myself soaking in a hot bath.

  “I can’t thank you enough, Mum.” It was my turn to hug her.

  “You don’t need to thank me at all.”

  I was too wound up to sleep. Leo was snoring softly like a baby seal snorts under water, and I lay in my bed under the creamy duvet, watching the embers smoulder red in the gloom. I just couldn’t switch off. In the small hours of the morning I gave up and went to check on Lara.

  She was fast asleep, curled up in her turquoise bed. It was the first time in weeks she hadn’t woken up through the night, and I was surprised, especially considering that we were in an entirely new place. I noticed with a smile that she had already sorted her books in the bookshelves and that her pens and Kitty were sitting on the writing cabinet.

  I went back into my room and sat at the window. A few stars still shone in the morning sky, but a sea of grey edged with pink meant night was turning into day. I took in the silhouette of the pine-covered mountains and the patches of purple heather and the million shades of brown and green on the hills. It looked so wild, so raw, compared with the manicured London suburbs I lived in. On impulse, I grabbed my phone.

  We are in Glen Avich, I typed. I was about to tap the little message icon, but I hesitated for a moment. And then, before I could stop myself, I sent the text to Ash. He replied at once.

  Good to know.

  He must have been awake, waiting to hear from us.

  All of a sudden I felt tears pressing behind my eyes again. Some ties, even if worn and constricting and infused with bitterness, are very difficult to break – maybe impossible. Not without severing parts of yourself with them, anyway.

  8

  The weight of years

  Torcuil

  My heart always soars when I return from Edinburgh to Glen Avich. The sight of my family home, Ramsay Hall – of the deer in the fields and the tree house on one of the oak trees beside the stables – is enough to make me smile, even today. Even when I know that a cold, empty house awaits me. Mrs Gordon, my housekeeper, handed in her resignation just last week, and she was the one who kept things going. I suppose it would be easier for me not to come back to Ramsay Hall at all except during the holidays, and just stay over in my flat in Edinburgh. But I don’t seem to be able to stay away from Glen Avich.

  I try. I make my plans for the weekend with my Edinburgh friends, and then, after work on the Friday, I get restless. It’s like I have some sort of inner compass that always points north. It always leads me here with a magnetic force I can’t quite control. It’s Ramsay Hall that calls me, our family’s residence for many generations, and my home. Before anything else, this mansion and its fields and woods is home to me like no other place can ever be. I used to lecture in medieval history in London, but I just couldn’t settle so far away from Glen Avich. I managed to find a post at Edinburgh University, which took me closer. But still not close enough.

  Anyway, my housekeeper. She’d worked at Ramsay Hall for the best part of thirty years, since I was a child. When my dad died and my mum moved to Perth, Mrs Gordon remained. She kept living at Ramsay Hall while I was in London and only came back for the holidays, but she moved back to the village after a few years, saying that Ramsay Hall had become too lonely, too spooky for her. I could hardly blame her; living in such a huge mansion on my own didn’t exactly appeal to me either. For a few years we followed the same routine: every Thursday and Friday she’d get the place ready for me, cleaning the living areas, shopping for groceries and seeing that Dougie, the local handyman, did the odd jobs that needed done. This meant that when I came back on a Friday night I’d find the place (relatively) warm and food in the cupboards. But last year Mrs Gordon had a midlife crisis at the ripe age of sixty-three, and took up ballroom dancing with another local gentleman, Mr McNally from the Post Office. She swore that their relationship was based on their mutual love of dancing and was not romantic at all – actually, Mr McNally had a lady friend he’d met on a cruise, and he was hoping to move to Shropshire to be with her soon. But he and Mrs Gordon were forever taking time off to go to dancing tournaments and rehearsing in the ballroom here at Ramsay Hall, in spite of the freezing temperatures, until finally the passion they’d been denying for so long bloomed in all its sequinned glory. Mr McNally wrote to the Shropshire lady; Mrs Gordon left her last steak pie in my fridge, hung up her apron and donned a feather boa. Together they’re going to tango to Blackpool, the heart of ballroom dancing.

  I thought I would manage fine on my own, but this was only last week and already I miss her terribly. I’m too busy and too disorganised, and Ramsay Hall is just overwhelming, it needs so much work. I’ve asked Fiona, who works at the stables, to kick the boiler for me every Friday morning – it’s the only way to get the heating going, but you have to know where to kick it – so at least I don’t freeze every weekend. It has to be done in the summer too; Ramsay Hall has its own microclimate, a constant winter. The heat of the sun can’t get through the thick stone walls, and the only way to heat the mansion is from the inside.

  Anyway, this week Fiona is away, and I forgot to ask my cousin Inary to come and sort the heating, so the house will be a fridge. I also haven’t had time to get the groceries, because I had an enormous backlog of paperwork to do and hand in to the office before I left. I can’t remember what’s in my cupboards, but I vaguely recall a jar of pesto and some stock cubes – that’s pretty much all.

  It’s nearly midnight now as I drive into Glen Avich, and there’s nowhere open except the petrol station, but I don’t fancy a mummified sausage roll and a tin of beans. Visions of the steak pies and lasagne that Mrs Gordon used to leave in my fridge float in front of my eyes. I decide to stop at the Golden Palace, the first – and only – Chinese takeaway in the village. It opens late on a Friday to cater for those coming out of the pub. As I walk back to my car with a parcel of Singapore noodles, spring rolls and prawn crackers, a lovely sound makes me turn around, the voice of a woman resounding a few doors down from the Golden Palace.

  “Tesoro mio!”

  The little scene, illuminated by the light of a lamp post, makes me stand and watch for a moment. An elderly lady is standing a few steps from me, in front of a green car, beaming like she’s just seen the most beautiful sunrise. She takes a younger woman in her arms, repeating tesoro mio, and then she leans down to recover something – someone – from the car. It’s a little dark-haired boy in blue pyjamas, covered with a plaid blanket. She holds him and closes her eyes for a moment, caressing his head. Next, a young girl steps out of the car and the lady holds her too in a three-way hug. I’m entranced by this display of family love. Suddenly, the younger woman turns towards me for a moment and the lamp post illuminates her – I stop in my tracks. She has big, dark eyes and long, dark hair framing her face, and there’s something about her that makes me think
of sunshine, even in the middle of the night and in the north of Scotland. All of a sudden I’m embarrassed – staring at this woman, standing and watching such an intimate scene that belongs to them only. And then, as she balances her bag and her jacket, something falls from her hands. It’s a little stuffed toy – a penguin. She turns her back as she tries to retrieve it and I step forward to help, picking it up and dusting it off before handing it to her.

  “Thank you,” she smiles, and her eyes meet mine. They are soft, brown, shaded with long black eyelashes and circled with tiredness.

  “Come on in, Margherita,” the older woman calls, rocking the little boy from side to side. I recognise her now: it’s Debora, from the coffee shop – I’ve been there once with Inary. I say hello, but she doesn’t seem to hear me or recognise me. I walk away from the little family scene, somehow reluctantly. I feel stranded, as strange as it might sound. I can’t help thinking that I’m going home to an empty house.

  Ramsay Hall stands dark and lonely tonight. I make my way to the back and unlock the door. Theo and Dolinda, my cats, slip in beside me. They rub themselves against my legs as I step over the pile of post, dotted with little muddy cat prints, and let my rucksack fall to the mat.

  “Hello, cats. How have you been?” They seem in great form. Since Mrs Gordon has gone and there’s no more food to be had around the house during the week, they’ve moved their territory to around the stables. There, Fiona leaves them bowls of food and plates of milk to top up the mice and birds they hunt. Theo and Dolinda pretend to be domesticated, with their purring and their little collars – but they are panthers in disguise. Honestly, there is not a mouse to be seen around here, in spite of all the nooks and crannies where they could hide.