‘So! You need a big community party set up for…’ Deb checked her diary. ‘Four weeks’ time? Is that right?’ she got out her laptop, which she’d already set up with a scheduling spreadsheet and a separate document for notes.
‘That’s right, aye,’ Hal sighed. ‘We committed tae it, an’ then realised that we had tae be in New York for a few weeks fer some work stuff fer Zelda. I’ve got tae be with her. We’ll be contactable, of course, but since we’ll be distracted with that, an’ back an’ forth a wee bit, we thought it was best to outsource the party planning this year,’ he added. ‘We always have a May Day party fer the village. I started it again a couple o’ years’ back, and I dinnae want tae renege on ma promise. The villagers look forward tae it, an’ it’s always a hoot. Loch Cameron’s a close knit community, an’ they’ve always been so guid tae me an’ my family. I think it’s important tae give back, as the Laird.’
‘So, what does being the Laird actually involve?’ she asked. ‘You own the castle, and the village? I mean, it’s named after you?’
‘Aye. The Camerons have been the local landowners fer hundreds o’ years.’ Hal leaned forward a little in his chair as he explained. ‘The first Laird was Sir Colin Cameron, who was knighted in 1280. In 1445King James IIraised Sir Colin’s descendant Sir Duncan Cameron to the peerage to become the Laird ofLoch Cameron. We’ve owned it ever since. The castle was rebuilt a couple o’ times, o’ course. The present building was built in the 1800s, and we’ve been repairin’ it ever since.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Another reason I’m happy tae hand the party over tae ye. I dinnae have enough hours in the day fer everythin’ that needs doin’.’
‘To the castle?’ Deb asked.
‘Aye, the castle. But, also, most o’ the property in the village. I’m the landlord fer most o’ the houses. The cottage yer stayin’ in, too.’
‘Oh, I see. That’s a lot of property.’ Deb raised her eyebrow, doing a quick mental calculation about the possible value of the Laird’s estate.
‘Aye. A lot o’ responsibility.’ He nodded. ‘Still, it’s also a great honour.’
‘Of course.’ Deb wondered how Zelda had met Hal Cameron. Even if you worked for chichi magazines, it wasn’t every day that you ran into a titled landowner who owned a castle and looked like this.
‘So, the party.’ Hal clapped his hands together. ‘May Day is historic, up here. In Edinburgh ye may have seen the big bonfires at Samhain.’ He pronounced itsow-in. ‘That’s the old Celtic fire festival. New Year for the Celts, though we call it Halloween now,’ he clarified.
‘Ah. I have seen the bonfires,’ Deb replied. ‘People are quite into getting back to the old rural traditions nowadays, aren’t they? In Cornwall they parade a horse’s skeleton around the streets. And in Wales, too, I think. And there’s Krampus, isn’tthere? That big, scary goat thing. Is it a goat? But that’s in Germany.’
‘Aye, you’re right. People like tae keep that connection to the old traditions, especially now they’re interested in nature more. Over the past five, ten years, we get more people up here foragin’ for wild mushrooms, wantin’ tae do wild swimmin’, all that. When I was a kid, nobody was bothered,’ he laughed. ‘All those old festivals like Samhain and May Day – well, that was called Bealtaine, in the Celtic times – they’re based on the farming calendar. They’re just the times when the crops were harvested or when the land was fertile for plantin’.’
‘I see. That would appeal to people who are getting interested in working sympathetically with nature, nowadays,’ Deb mused.
Anna walked into the lounge, carrying a tartan patterned tray with a pot of coffee, two large ceramic mugs and a plate with a whole madeira cake. She set the tray on the table, the nutty, chocolatey smell of the coffee making Deb’s mouth water.
‘I’ll let you both help yourselves. There’s milk in that jug, sugar in the bowl. A knife for the cake, and some plates and napkins.’ The housekeeper had a friendly and unassuming manner that Deb liked. She was relieved, because as Anna was probably going to be her main point of contact at the castle for organising everything, it made a huge difference if Anna was easy to talk to or not.
‘Thanks, Anna. That cake looks gorgeous. Did you make it?’ Deb asked, admiring the golden crust of the madeira loaf cake. Anna had cut the end off already, and Deb could see the yellow, light textured sponge inside.
‘Oh, no. This came from the local market, I must confess!’ Anna grinned. ‘We have a lovely one here; I’ll take you, if you’d like to come next time it’s on. There’s a fabulous bakery stall that I always stock up on cake and bread from. There’s a great grocery stall too, and other stuff: a vegan wholefoods stall, ifthat’s your thing. Jam and honey, locally made soaps. They’re lovely, actually, all very natural and gentle. Crystals, even, sometimes.’
‘That sounds gorgeous. I’d love to.’ Deb poured some coffee from the pot into one mug, and then the other, for Hal.
‘Well, I’ll let you know. I expect we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, anyway.’ Anna nodded. ‘Anyway, I have to get on – we’ve got French polishers coming in and I have to show them what needs doing. Catch up soon, though?’
‘Definitely. Thanks, Anna.’ Deb reached for the knife to cut a slice of the moist-looking cake. ‘And, I’ve been Mother here and poured you one, but you can put your own milk and sugar in. I know I’m fussy about that,’ she said to Hal.
‘Thanks.’ He took the cup. ‘Anyway, in the past, the Camerons always had a big bonfire in the castle grounds and a big knees-up for the villagers. Kindae tae say thanks fer all their hard work over the year. Let them blow off steam, promote community cohesion. I was readin’ in the auld journals down in the family archive that some o’ the auld Lairds used tae hear grievances from the villagers in the afternoon, before the party, an’ sort them out so that there’d be nae bad will goin’ forward.’ Hal chuckled, pouring a little milk into his coffee and giving it a cursory stir with a silver teaspoon that Deb noticed was monogrammed with the initial C and with a crest. It was the Cameron insignia, she guessed. ‘I don’t do that now. But we do have a ceilidh, a free bar, food, the bonfire. I like tae be able tae give back.’
‘I’d like to see the records of the previous parties. Might be useful.’ Deb made some notes on her laptop.
‘Yer welcome tae. Get Anna tae take ye down tae the archive room sometime,’ Hal said. ‘Lots o’ good stuff down there, though there’s also a lot o’ auld records o’ cattle yields, land allocations, maps, that kindae thing.’
‘That sounds amazing, thanks.’
‘Aye. Couple of years I didnae hold the party, after my wife was ill and she passed.’ Hal looked reflective for a moment. ‘Then I met Zelda and she made me realise that Maggie wouldnae have wanted me tae stop doin’ the party. So she helped me reinstate it.’
‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’ Deb felt the familiar ache in her middle and leaned back in the sofa to stretch out her muscles a little. ‘Sorry. Do you mind if I just change position? I had a hysterectomy a couple of months ago and I’m fine, but I get a bit sore if I sit in one position for too long.’
‘Oh, of course, do whatever ye need.’ Hal looked concerned. ‘Can we get ye a hot water bottle or somethin’?’
‘That’s kind, but I’ll be fine. I might just get up and walk around for a minute, though,’ Deb said, touched at the offer. Hal was a total stranger and had made a thoughtful suggestion: Dan had been her partner, and called her the Queen of Sheba for taking too long recovering. She took out a couple of over-the-counter painkillers from her handbag and swallowed them with a sip of coffee.
‘Okay.’ Hal took a slice of cake. ‘Well, let me know if ye need anythin’.’
‘I will. Now. How many people are we expecting at May Day? From what time, until when? And you said there’s a free bar and catering, and a ceilidh. Any other main features we need to add in? And do attendees have full run of the castle, or just restricted areas? What about serving staff, do you have a place you usually get them from? Just off the top of my head, to start with.’ Deb paced around the lounge, feeling the pain in her middle start to abate.
