away. I don't want him to be sent away.'
'1 know.' That was his father.
'He's too little.'
'So he needs to grow.'
'He'll grow away from me.'
They were quarrelling. They were having a row. The unbelievable had happened: his mother and father were fighting. Cold with horror, Henry waited for what was going to happen next. After a bit, his father spoke again.
'Templehall's a good school, Virginia, and Colin Henderson's a good headmaster. The boys are never pushed, but they're taught to work. Life is going to be hard for Henry…'
So that was what the row was about. They were going to send him to Templehall. To boarding-school.
'… and learn to take the rough with the smooth, the better.'
Away from his friends, from Strathcroy, from Balnaid, from Edie and Vi. He thought of Hamish Blair, so much older, so superior, so cruel.
'… Henry is too dependent on you.'
He could not bear to listen any more. Every fear that he had ever known crowded in on Henry. He backed away from the library door and then, reaching the safety of the hall, turned and ran. Across the floor, up the stairs and down the passage to his bedroom. Slamming the door shut behind him, he tore off his satchel and threw himself onto his bed, bundling the duvet around him. He reached under his pillow for Moo.
And so he was going to be sent away.
Plugging his mouth with his thumb, pressing Moo to his cheek, he was, for the moment, safe. Comforted, he would not cry. He closed his eyes.
8
The drawing-room at Croy, used only for formal occasions, was of enormous size. The high ceiling and scrolled cornices were white, the walls lined with faded red damask, the carpet a vast Turkey rug, threadbare in places but still warm with colour. There were sofas and chairs, some loose-covered, some in their original velvet upholstery. None of them matched. Small tables stood about, littered with Battersea boxes, silver-framed photographs, stacks of back numbers of
Behind the leather-seated club fender, a log fire burned brightly. The hearthrug was shaggy and white, and if wet dogs sat about upon it, smelled strongly of sheep. The fireplace was marble with an impressive mantelpiece, and on this stood a pair of gilt-and-enamel candelabra, two Dresden figures, and a florid Victorian clock.
This clock, chiming sweetly, now struck eleven o'clock.
It surprised everybody. Mrs. Franco, sleek in black silk trousers and creamy crepe blouse, announced that she could not believe it was so late. They had all been talking so much that the evening had just flown by. She must get to bed, and her husband as well, if he was to be fit and ready for his golf game at Gleneagles. With that, the Francos gathered themselves and rose to their feet. So did Mrs. Hardwicke.
'It's been perfect, and such an elegant dinner… Thank you both for your hospitality…'
Good-nights were said. Isobel, in the two-year-old green silk dress that was her best, led them from the drawing-room to see them safely on their way upstairs. She closed the door behind her and did not return. Archie was left with Joe Hardwicke, apparently disinclined to retire so early. He had settled back in his chair again and looked good for at least another couple of hours.
Archie did not mind, and was content to be left in his company. Joe Hardwicke was one of their better guests, an intelligent man with liberal views and a dry sense of humour. Over dinner… often a sticky session… he had done his bit to keep the easy conversation going; he told, against himself, one or two extremely funny stories, and proved to be unexpectedly knowledgeable about wine. Discussing Archie's inherited cellar had taken up most of the second course.
Now Archie poured him a nightcap, which the American gratefully accepted. He then filled a tumbler for himself, threw a log or two on the fire, and sank deep into his own chair, his feet on the sheepskin rug. Joe Hardwicke began to question him about Croy. He found these old places fascinating. How long had his family lived here? From where had the title come? What was the history of the house?
He was not curious but interested, and Archie happily answered his questions. His grandfather, the first Lord Balmerino, had been an industrialist of some renown, who had made his fortune in heavy textiles. His elevation to the peerage had followed on from this, and he had bought Croy and its lands at the end of the nineteenth century.
'There wasn't a dwelling house here then. Just a fortified tower dating back to the sixteenth century. My grandfather built the house, incorporating the original tower. So, although bits at the back are ancient, it's basically Victorian.'
'It seems large.'
'Yes. They lived on a grand scale in those days…'
'And the estate…?'
'Mostly let out. The moor's gone to a syndicate for the grouse shooting. I have a friend, Edmund Aird, and he runs it, but I have a half-gun in the syndicate and I join them on days when they're driving. I've kept some stalking, but that's just for my friends. The farm is tenanted.' He smiled. 'So you see, I have no responsibilities.'
'So what do you do?'
'I help Isobel. I feed the dogs and exercise them when I can. Deal with all the fallen timber, keep the house supplied with logs. We've got a circular saw in one of the outbuildings and an old villain comes up from the village every now and then and gives me a hand. I cut the grass.' He stopped. It wasn't much of an answer but he couldn't think of anything more to tell.
'Do you fish?'
'Yes. I have a beat on the Croy, about two miles upstream from the village, and there's a loch up in the hills. It's good to go up there for the evening rise. Take the boat out. It's very peaceful. And when it's winter and dark at four, I have a workshop down in the basement. There's always something that needs repairing. I mend gates, renew skirtings, build cupboards for Isobel, put up shelves. And other things. I like to work with wood. It's basic, very therapeutic. Perhaps instead of joining the Army I should have been a joiner.'
'Were you with a Scottish Regiment?'
'I was a Queen's Loyal Highlander for fifteen years. We spent two of those in Berlin with the American forces…'
The conversation moved on, from Berlin to the Eastern Bloc, and so to politics and international affairs. They had another nightcap, lost track of time. When they finally decided to call it a day, it was past one o'clock in the morning.
'I've kept you up.' Joe Hardwicke was apologetic.
'Not at all.' Archie took the empty glasses and went to place them on the tray that stood on the grand piano. 'I'm not much of a sleeper. The shorter the night, the better.'
'I…' Joe hesitated. 'I hope you don't think I'm being impertinent, but I see that you're lame. Did you have an accident?'
'No. My leg was shot off in Northern Ireland.'
'You have an artificial leg?'
'Yes. Aluminium. Marvellous piece of engineering. Now, what time do you want breakfast? Would eight-fifteen do you? That should give you time before the car comes to collect you and take you to Gleneagles. And shall I call you in the morning?'
'If you would. About eight o'clock. I sleep like the dead in this mountain air.'
Archie moved to open the door. But Joe Hardwicke was offering to dispose of the tray of drinks. Could he perhaps carry it to the kitchen for Archie? Archie was grateful but firm. 'Not at all. House rule. You're guests. Not
