the cottage. He heard her sigh softly and his heart sank as he pushed open the front door and ushered her inside.
The room was dark, smelling rich with peat smoke, simply furnished with a small sofa, a round table with four chairs, an empty bookcase. At the far end a sink and cooker and a small dresser formed the kitchen. He went over to the table and reached for some matches. ‘As you see, no electricity, just calor gas and oil lamps. That does – did – us fine. All mod cons.’ He forced himself to smile. ‘Spring water and even plumbing. The bedrooms are here.’ He strode towards a small lobby. Two rooms led off it, one with a double bed, the other with bunks. Both were cramped and dark and looked out onto the wet hillside behind the cottage.
‘I’ll take it.’
He stared at her. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘You do want to sell it?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ He tried to restrain the wave of relief that swept over him.
‘I’ll take the furniture too. I think you said that was included if I wanted it?’
‘It is. Oh, indeed it is.’
‘And the Land Rover?’ For the first time she gave him a real smile. ‘I can’t believe you want much for that.’
He shook his head ruefully. ‘Indeed not. In fact I’ll throw it in for nothing.’
‘Good. Thank you. I can pay you in cash. When can I move in?’
He blinked. ‘When you like, I suppose. As you see, we – I’ve – moved all our personal belongings out. I don’t want any of the crockery or kitchen stuff -’ Pretty kitchen stuff, so eagerly bought, so much hated now. ‘As far as I’m concerned you can have it today. Don’t you want to see anything else?’ He was almost disappointed. Now that he knew she liked it he wanted to show her round properly, he wanted her to admire the details, he wanted above all for her to know how much he had loved this place. Once.
She shook her head. ‘I’ll see it all soon enough.’ For a moment her voice softened. ‘It’s just what I wanted.’
Her needs were minimal. All her worldly belongings, the items she had allowed herself to keep after forty-four years of living and loving and suffering, filled a couple of large suitcases and a few cardboard boxes. The day she moved in nature decided to be kind. The sky was a soft downy blue, the water of the loch as iridescent as a dragonfly’s back; autumn sunlight warmed the stone walls and shone obliquely across the deep window sills into the rooms. She wasn’t a martyr. She had bought some warm woollen throws for the sofa and beds, some decent food and wine as well as the basic supplies and she had brought an ancient typewriter. It wasn’t until she had signed on the dotted line that she had thought about her lap top. It was there in one of the boxes – fully charged, but for how long? The answer would be to invest one day in her own generator, if she stayed, but for the time being she would make do and appreciate the primitive life she so craved.
Abandoning her boxes she wandered down towards the loch. Out of sight, around the corner, the long narrow arm of water opened into the sea, but up here it was calm and transparent, moving gently to the touch of the lightest wind. There might not have been another person in the world.
Except there was. As she turned back towards the house she saw the figure out of the corner of her eye just for a second on the far side of the inlet.
She frowned, squinting against the shimmering reflections. No, there was no one there. No one at all. She had imagined it.
For the first thirty-seven years of her life Caro had been a normal person. She had gone to school, proceeded to university, come out with a respectable degree. She had been drawn to journalism, worked on regional papers, then a national before marrying a photographer and producing two talented children for whom she had given up steady work and gone freelance. Phil Spalding had been the kindest, nicest, best thing that had happened to her until his God had taken him away. He had become a parson – something she had tolerated with a certain amount of horrified humour. But that had not been enough for God. Phil had developed cancer and seven years ago he had died. She had tried to accept it; tried to live with it; tried to come to terms with such cruel and unnecessary waste, but she couldn’t. Her life had fallen apart. The children had drawn away, involved in their own lives and friends, trying to be supportive but afraid of her anger and bitterness. There was nothing left. Until she had the dream. ‘Pull yourself together, Caro,’ Phil had said. He looked much as he had before the illness started to take its toll. Tall, good- looking; his eyes gentle but firm as he stood at the end of her bed. ‘You are frightening everyone away and ruining their lives and your own. Be alone for a bit. Get to know yourself again. Get away from here.’ He waved his arm around the room – their room. ‘You’ve got a book to write, remember?’ He smiled, that lovely quizzical smile, and reached out to her. She sat up, wanting to touch him, to hold him close, to smell the lovely warmth of his skin, but he had gone and she fell back on her pillow and cried.
It was the turning point. She gave the kids most of the contents of the flat, sold it and gave them each a third of the money in trust, keeping the rest for herself. Her plan had been to travel and write that book – the book she had been going to write when she first met Phil. Then she had seen the ad in the paper and she had heard Phil’s voice in her head as clearly as she had always heard it in the past. ‘Go for it, Caro. You need to give yourself some space. Then start writing.’
Space! She looked round and laughed out loud. What had she done!
Two days later she saw the figure again. Just an outline really, on the shore near the broch, standing watching her as she pottered around. She narrowed her eyes against the glare off the water. It was the same man.
It took an hour to walk around the inlet. It was a cool misty day and she took deep lungfuls of the pure air as she walked. The broch consisted of two castle-like concentric circles of dark stone, about thirty feet high, with steps and passages within the thickness of the double walls. It was completely ruinous on one side, fairly intact on the other. In the centre a perfect circle of grass and weeds had grown lush, sheltered from the wind. She stood and stared round listening to the silence, the lap of water on the stones on the beach, the cry of curlew and sandpiper, the hiss of wind across the dried heather stems outside the walls. Suddenly she shivered. She turned round slowly, staring up at the blind, shadowed walls. Someone was watching her; she could feel it.
‘Hello?’ she called, her voice echoing off the stone. ‘Is there anyone there?’ There was no answer.
She did not stay long. As she picked her way back around the loch, scattering wagtails and gulls before her, a figure appeared on top of the ruined wall and watched her leave. She didn’t turn round and never saw him.
‘You’ll be wanting to charge up your phone and your lap top while you’re here?’ Mrs Maclellan welcomed her into the post office shop with a smile. ‘Mrs Foster always did that. I make a small charge for the electricity which I’m sure you won’t mind.’
Caro’s mouth dropped open. So that was how it was done! She had thought very little about her predecessors and was, she realised, completely incurious about them. Rich. Spoiled. A bit petulant. That was how she visualised Patricia Foster. Of no interest at all.
Slowly she fell into a routine. Once or twice a week she drove to the village; sometimes she explored further afield and at last she had time for herself. Time to think. To remember. And to write. She bought back-up batteries for the lap top and smiled at the thought of Mrs Mac retiring on the proceeds of her battery charging service. And she continued to wave from time to time to her unknown neighbour across the loch. Because he was still there.
The first time she saw him close up was a shock. She had been sitting on the shore with her notebook, outlining her thoughts for a series of articles – the idea for the book had still not come – when she glanced up and saw him only a hundred yards away. Dressed in some sort of rough highland garb, his hair long and unkempt, he was watching her. He was younger than she had expected; quite good-looking. She raised her hand in greeting, but he ignored it, staring right through her. She shrugged and turned back to her notes. When she looked up again he had gone.
The next time, though, he looked straight at her and he smiled. She felt a shock of pleasure. The smile was warm; friendly. ‘Hello!’ It was the first time she had spoken to anyone for several days. He didn’t reply. She wasn’t sure if he had even heard her but just for a moment his gaze lingered appreciatively before he turned away.
‘Who is the young man I see out by the broch?’ she asked next time she was in the village.
Mrs Mac glanced up from Caro’s purchases, frowning. ‘There’s no one lives up there. No one at all,’ she said sharply. ‘You keep away from there. It’s a dangerous old place.’
Two days later when Caro saw him in the distance he raised his hand in greeting before turning away. She stared into the watery sunlight, trying to see which way he went. His presence was beginning to irritate and
