The Skylark's Secret, стр. 86
The deer began to move again, edgy now, and her father lowered the binoculars. ‘They’ll climb higher in a minute, I don’t doubt, now they’ve glimpsed us. Most likely they’ll make for the far corrie beyond the ridgeline.’
The garron shifted, stamping a hoof uneasily on the hard ground.
There was a soft click as Sir Charles released the safety, both barrels of his rifle primed.
At the sound, her father turned towards him, raising a hand and saying, ‘You’ll not get a clean chest shot now, the angle’s wrong.’ Then he stopped, his words left hanging, unanswered, on the winter air.
For a moment there was a quietness so profound it seemed that the earth held its breath. The three figures stood frozen in a grotesque tableau, watched only by the red deer and a single skylark that dropped its fluting notes of warning into the silence to break the spell.
And then the air shattered as a shot rang out, echoing off the hills to rebound across the dark waters of the lochan, and in a terrified scramble the deer fled, leaping upwards, away from the kill.
Sure-footed as ever, the garron picked its way down the path. The deer saddle on its back swayed with each step under the weight of the body slung across it, an ooze of blood blooming scarlet against its white flank. As they reached the lochside, the pony’s hooves rang hollowly on the harder surface of the road.
The crofters emerged in silence from their cottages as Iain Gordon and his daughter led the garron through the village, making their way slowly towards the gates of Ardtuath House. As they approached the hall, a group of women emerged, and Iain and Flora stopped.
There were gasps and someone whispered, ‘It’s Sir Charles!’
Then every head turned towards Lady Helen, who stood frozen in the doorway.
It was Moira Carmichael who moved first, hurrying to Flora, who had begun to shiver uncontrollably beneath the folds of her woollen shawl.
Iain pulled the faded deerstalker from his head and stood before her ladyship, his eyes downcast. Then he lifted his face, and it was creased with pain.
His voice was rough with anguish, though his words were clear and firm, loud enough for all to hear. ‘I’m sorry. I did it.’
Flora sank to the ground and Bridie rushed to her side, wrapping her in her arms and rocking her as she keened, her cries as wordlessly plaintive as the curlew’s on the shore.
Then Lady Helen took a step towards her husband’s body and Iain hung his head again, unable to look at her.
‘No.’ The word was spoken with a firmness that brooked no dissent. For a moment the only sound was the hush of the waves on the sand, as even the curlew fell silent.
All heads turned again towards her ladyship. ‘No,’ she repeated. ‘There has already been enough loss. There will be no more. This was an accident, Iain. A tragic accident.’
‘But . . .’ he began.
‘No,’ she said again, silencing him. ‘There were two of you there to witness it, you and Flora. His gun misfired. We all understand that, don’t we?’ She looked around at the small crowd that had gathered, the members of the tight-knit crofting community who shared one another’s lives. The bruise on her cheekbone was a dark shadow against the whiteness of her skin. There was silence, then a few faint nods.
She reached down and held out a hand to Flora. ‘Come, my dear, get up off that cold ground. You’ve had a terrible shock. And in your condition you need to take extra care.’ Tenderly, gently, she pulled the shawl around Flora, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. ‘Let’s get you into my car. I’ll drive you home, Iain. Bridie, you come too.’
She drew herself up to her full height and looked round commandingly at the assembled company. Her voice, usually soft and slightly hesitant, was strong. ‘Mr Carmichael, Mr McTaggart, would you be so kind as to lead the pony back to Ardtuath House? And could someone tell Doctor Greig to come as soon as he can? Thank you. I shall be waiting.’
Lexie, 1979
It’s a bright, blustery late spring morning and Daisy and I are visiting the churchyard to inspect the stone with its simple lettering, which is now in its place on Mum’s grave. We’ve gathered a bunch of wildflowers from the hedgerows around Keeper’s Cottage – ox-eye daisies, red campion and meadowsweet – and tied it with a twist of wool from Mum’s sewing box. I think she’d like that. Daisy carries a separate little posy of her own. We set them beside the headstone, next to the one that bears the names of Mum’s father, mother and baby sister. I trace the incised letters, rubbing away a little of the lichen that has begun to encrust the older stone.
Daisy toddles around busily, picking tufts of bog cotton to add to our offerings. I sit on the mossy ground and watch her play, the sunlight setting her halo of rose-gold curls aglow. Among the sombre grey stones in the little churchyard, her vitality is a welcome reminder that life continues.
I extract a few of the daisies from my makeshift bouquet and put one on my grandfather Iain’s grave.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper. ‘She and I wouldn’t be here without you.’
Then I clamber to my feet and take Daisy by the hand to walk across to the Mackenzie-Grant memorial. The stone angel keeps its eyes lowered, praying for the souls of those it watches over.
‘And well you might,’ I tell it. ‘He was a bad ’un, Sir Charles Mackenzie-Grant, even if he was my grandfather.’
Then I take another ox-eye daisy and place it next to the inscription bearing my father’s name. Alexander Mackenzie-Grant, lost at sea. ‘I wish you’d lived,’ I whisper. ‘I wish I’d known you.’
Now that Mum’s stone is in place, his name and