The Skylark's Secret, стр. 90
‘And now I’ve let them all down again, by losing my voice and crashing out of my career.’
‘You’ve let no one down but yourself, Lexie,’ he says gently, ‘by thinking of yourself as a failure. You’ve actually done exactly what we all wanted in the end. You came home, bringing Daisy. And it’s here that you’ve found a new song to sing.’
His words sink in, soothing the pain I feel, and I kiss him.
And then, with a grin, he says, ‘Although of course I do take most of the credit for the singing thing.’
‘Och, would you get over yerself, Davy Laverock,’ I say, kissing him again.
And then, as the fire’s embers fall in on themselves, sending up one last flicker of flame in the darkening room, I take him by the hand and lead him, tiptoeing past the door to Daisy’s room, to bed.
Lexie, 1979
I’m pegging out the washing when the postie’s little red van appears, winding its way along the lochside. Carefully making sure that Daisy’s dungarees are securely fixed – the wind is always eager to snatch the clothes from the line and scatter them into the branches of the pines – I go to meet him at the gate. He hands me a small bundle of envelopes and there’s a familiar sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I take them from him, noticing that most are brown and almost certainly contain bills. I’ve been living off the last of my savings and they’re dwindling fast now.
‘I see there’s one from yon lawyers in Inverness,’ he remarks cheerily.
It’s the postie’s prerogative to inspect the mail thoroughly as he delivers it each day, and so he’s usually up on exactly who has a birthday, who’s received a parcel and – in my case – who’s being sent shameful, red-inked final reminders to pay their electricity bill.
The lawyer is the executor of Mum’s estate, such as it is, and so this letter could be the news that everything has finally been sorted out. Not that I’m expecting much in the way of an inheritance. Mum always lived quietly, eking out her pennies with the food she grew. I always insisted on paying for her train tickets to London, conscious that I was earning good money in those days and that, although she was skilled at making ends meet, she didn’t have much to spare. But maybe there’ll be a little money to help get me through a month or two more at Keeper’s Cottage before I have to face the inevitable and sell up.
The thought of having to move away to somewhere else dismays me far more than I’d ever have thought possible. Over the past months, as I’ve pieced together my family history, it’s as if roots have begun to grow, slowly, quietly, beneath my feet, binding me to Keeper’s Cottage. This place has become a home for me and Daisy and it hurts to think of leaving. I can’t imagine saying goodbye to Bridie and Elspeth and the other mums in the toddler group. I can’t imagine no longer being able to make music with the next generation of children to grow up in the crofts along the loch, passing on the traditional songs in the way they’ve been passed down to us over the centuries. And, most of all, I can’t bear to think about leaving Davy behind. But he’s managed to carve out a living for himself here, and that’s something I’m going to have to seek elsewhere. Just as so many have done before, I’ll have to leave Ardtuath sooner or later, go and find a job in a city to support myself and my child.
I thank the postie brightly, trying not to let my problems show, and wave him off on his way before taking the pile of letters inside. I chuck the brown envelopes on to the kitchen table, putting off opening them while I read the solicitor’s letter. It’s not exactly informative, just a brief note asking me to call and make an appointment to come to the offices in Inverness at my earliest convenience. I put it on top of the pile of brown envelopes and busy myself making Daisy’s lunch as she pushes a tractor around my feet, humming to herself.
Once Daisy’s gone down for her nap and I’ve finished wiping mashed potato off her high chair – she insists on feeding herself these days, and the result is often messy – I phone the lawyer’s office. The nice woman who fields my call tells me she ‘really couldn’t say, dear’ what the meeting was about, but she makes an appointment for me to go and see Mr Clelland next Monday afternoon.
Then I fetch my chequebook and with a sigh of resignation begin to open the rest of the post.
The offices of Macwhirter and Clelland Solicitors are tucked into a discreet side street behind the castle. I take a seat, perching on the slippery leather sofa and nervously smoothing my skirt over my knees. After so many months of rural living, it’s been a little nerve-wracking driving into the city and finding a parking space. And I’m anxious to know what Mr Clelland has to say. In my more hopeful moments, I’ve imagined a life insurance policy that would allow me to stay at Ardtuath for a few more months. On the other hand, lying awake in the wee small hours of the night, I’ve imagined a problem with taxes or death duties that means I’ll be plunged into debt.
Mr Clelland emerges at last from behind the door with his name on it and smiles at me, his eyes magnified by his thick-rimmed spectacles. ‘Miss Gordon? Do come through.’
He settles himself on the other side of the leather-topped