‘I love you, too, darling.’ Janice sounded tired. ‘Don’t let the world get you down. Remember that you’re a winner. I didn’t raise a reedy little girl that would break in the slightest breeze. I raised an oak, Deborah. An oak.’
‘I know, Mum,’ Deb replied, trying to control the wobble in her voice. She certainly didn’t feel like an oak, most of the time. ‘I know.’
‘Good,’ Janice said.
Deb put her phone on the table as the call ended. She admired Janice and Elise very deeply, and loved them both.
But, did she want to be like them?
Not entirely.
Not when it came to having a stone heart, toughened in the flames of loss and hardship.
What do you want, then? Love and roses?she asked herself.
Yes, came the answer. Would that be so terrible? A life of love, and ease? Of never having to struggle and fight, ever again?
No, it wouldn’t be terrible at all.
Was it likely? Also no. But, perhaps, Deb could at least allow herself that dream.
It seemed that Grandma Elise had believed in her dreams. But Deb wondered what Janice was hiding about her. What was it that she refused to talk about? Was there something terrible at the root of her mother and her grandmother’s relationship? Something that threatened to shake the foundations of her own sense of self? And if so, what was it?
SEVEN
‘DOWN WI’ NEW BUILDS! PRESERVE OUR LAND!’ the group of women shouted as Deb approached the end of the road where she had had her first run-in with the man with the piercing blue eyes.
It was a lovely day and she’d thought she’d walk up to Gyle Head and see if she could find a footpath around the building site and get a glimpse of the old folly. Even though there was, of course, Loch Cameron Castle – which she had now visited, and had tea with the Laird – she was intrigued to see something that was more of a ruin.
Plus, she needed some distraction.
Deb had always loved old castles, and though Loch Cameron Castle was breathtaking, the romantic in her had been slightly disappointed that it was fully operational. A castle with tiled bathrooms, washing machines and a digital security system was practical, but not necessarily the stuff of epic novels. Part of her had wanted to see broken, moss-covered walls and spiral turrets that had crumbled away to reveal their stairs within. Gothic, arched doorways with heavy, creaking doors that opened onto ruined ballrooms; slitted windows that overlooked a twisted, ancient forest.
The folly on Gyle Head looked like a real beauty spot, according to the pictures she’d found online. It did have a forest to one side, though Deb had no idea if it was ancient or not. The ruins weren’t anywhere near as big as a castle’s would have been, as the folly had only been built as a party feature for the then-laird’s amusement. In fact, looking at the pictures of the original structure which some keen local historian had posted online, it looked fairly small, but remarkably picturesque. She was keen to try again and see if there was another way she could get to it.
Built in grey stone, there had been two main towers which were edged in white – whether they had been painted originally or whether it had been a white stone of some kind, Deb couldn’t tell – and grand double doors with black cast iron hinges. Unlike a real ancient castle, the windows had been glazed and were much bigger than the customary arrow slits an older structure would have needed. Deb had found a few pictures of the original inside décor, which had been done in a faux medieval style with a large round table at the centre of the main room – there didn’t seem to be an upstairs – which the laird of the time had apparently used to host King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table dinner parties.
Cute, she’d thought. She’d worked on some impressive parties in her day, but it looked like the Scottish gentry had been kicking up their heels in pretty fine style in the 1930s, too.
Yet, today, there were about ten women at the end of the little road, all ages, carrying hand-lettered signs and marching in a circle. One of them – an elderly black woman with short grey hair and a kind yet stern expression, approached Deb. She wore shiny purple wellies, black harem pants and an elegant, draped top under an equally elegant shawl in a black and white geometric pattern.
‘Hello, dear. Sign our petition? This awful property developer, Kyle Abernethy, wants to build houses on protectedland. There’s rare local wildlife up there – red squirrels and capercaillie. Building work is going to drive them out.’
‘Oh. Right. Yes, of course.’ Deb took the pen from the woman and signed the paper. ‘Not many signatures so far,’ she said, handing it back. Despite the fact that she had had a run-in with this Kyle the other day, she couldn’t forget his muscled forearms, and the figure eight tattoo on his wrist. About the knightly set of his face, his beautiful, startling blue eyes. Thinking about Kyle, too, was a distraction from worrying about Janice, and a welcome one, at that.
‘Aye, well. We’ve just started. But don’t worry. When the group gets the bit between their teeth, we’re unstoppable.’ The woman smiled broadly. ‘I haven’t seen you round here before. June Hyland.’ She held out her hand, and Deb shook it.
‘Deb Sutherland. Hi, June.’ She shaded her eyes from the spring sun that slanted through the trees lining the road. ‘You’re a group? Of what kind?’
‘Our weekly club at the community centre. We crochet, chat, and provide a low-cost lunch for anyone who wants to drop in. We fundraise a bit too. For the local families usually, if people need a bit of extra help or what have you. Toddler group, the elderly, meals on wheels, that kind of thing. We call ourselves the crochet coven.’
‘Sounds like that keeps you pretty busy.’ Deb was touched that something like the crochet coven existed at all. It was lovely that a small community like Loch Cameron looked out for its more vulnerable members. She wished something like that existed where her mum lived. Granted, the small block of flats where Janice lived was quite a friendly community, as many people had lived there a long time. But there was nothing as organised as the crochet coven. Deb thought that Janice would probably quite enjoy having a group like this to hang out with. In the days when Janice’s health had beenbetter, Deb could imagine that she could have got quite into demonstrating against things and putting her natural obstinacy and outspokenness to practical use.
‘Aye. I guess you could say that’s what we have in common. Women that like to be busy. Some might say busybodies, but I couldn’t comment,’ she laughed. ‘Of course, when you look at Scotland’s history, you do wonder how many busybodies were falsely accused of being witches. It wasn’t always good to be a woman with an opinion.’ She raised an eyebrow, archly.
‘Nothing wrong with being busy. Or having an opinion. If you want something done, ask a busy person, so they say.’ Deb nodded. ‘I always think, more, if you want something done, ask a middle-aged woman. Goodness knows men are useless at concentrating on more than one thing at a time.’
‘Heartily agree, dear. I was a nurse all my working life. Rarely found anyone as unflappable with sixteen things going on at once as a middle-aged woman.’
