Avalon (16 page)

Patches of high blue sky were showing between the fast-moving clouds. It had all the makings of a glorious afternoon and, suddenly, the last thing James wanted was to be alone with his thoughts in an empty house. He remembered Agnes’ invitation to Sunday dinner, and decided he’d accept after all.

He drove through town slowly, considering whether he ought to call ahead first or just show up. He passed the Braemar Parish Church. Services were just getting out, and the little congregation was filing into the churchyard where the older members were making an effort to ignore three teenage golfers carrying their bags down the road to the old golf club. The heathenish youngsters were talking loudly as they went, merrily oblivious of the darkly disapproving Presbyterian glances.

Though in no way an unusual sight on a Sunday in Scotland, the presence of the golf clubs jogged James’ memory. On a whim, he proceeded up the road to the town golf course, parked, and went into the tiny clapboard clubhouse. “Is Howard Gilpin here by any chance?” he asked the weedy youth behind the counter.

“Old Howard?” he said. “Oh, sure.” He glanced at his clipboard and ran his finger down the list. “He started about half an hour ago.”

“Thanks.” James headed for the door leading out onto the first tee. “I have to see him. Won’t take a minute.”

“Sure, whatever,” the kid replied. “He’s probably on the second green by now.”

Walking quickly out onto the course, James made for the second hole. There were two elderly men in bright green, padded shell suits with bobble hats and scarves, heads down over their putters; he recognized one of them as Gilpin. James waited until they had both sunk their shots. “Excuse me,” he said, stepping onto the green. “I don’t mean to interrupt you, but I was wondering whether I might have a quick word with Mr. Gilpin.”

Both men turned from their scorecards and looked him up and down the way old people do when meeting someone they probably know but can’t place. They glanced at his street shoes and grimaced as James stepped forward, extending his hand. “It’s James Stuart,” he said, adding, “from Blair Morven. I think you knew my parents, Mr. Gilpin.”

The old man shifted the putter and shook James by the hand. His grasp was cool and strong. “James!” he exclaimed as recognition came to him. He made a stiff half turn to his partner. “Look here, Iain, it’s young Stuart — Jack’s son.” To James, he said, “Well, now. I ask myself, what brings you out on the course? Not the golf, I think. No sticks! So, if you haven’t come to join us, what’s on your mind?”

The old legal eagle’s manner was cordial yet direct. Despite his years, he was trim and wiry, with the short curly hair of a terrier, and James could see he had lost little of his renowned vinegar.

“I’d like a brief moment of your time, Mr. Gilpin. There’s something I need to ask you.”

“Of course,” he agreed. “You shall have it — that is, if you don’t mind talking on the hoof. Iain will tee off, and you can ask away. Suit you?”

“Down to the ground.”

“Good.” He retrieved his golf bag — both men had slender quivers containing only three clubs each — and began striding away.

James fell into step beside him. “Can I take those clubs for you?”

“You want to caddy, too?” he asked, glancing around with a raised eyebrow. “No, sir. I carry my own clubs. The day I have to tip a caddy is the day I lay down my putter.”

They arrived at the third tee, and Iain smacked a dribbler down the center of the fairway. There was no height at all, but the ball bounced and carried a surprising distance. “Solid,” he said, and walked on.

“I’ll catch up with you on the green,” Howard called after him. To James, he said, “Now then, this question that could not wait — let’s have it.”

“It’s to do with my parents,” James began, suddenly uncertain how to proceed. He hesitated. “Sorry, I’m not sure I know how to ask this.”

“Never mind,” he replied. “It’s moot.”

“Pardon?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Howard gazed after his friend on the fairway. “I knew this day would come sooner or later. I’ve been expecting it ever since I heard your parents passed away.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“I have something for you. I’ve been keeping it in my study at home.”

“What is it?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. Come see me tomorrow.”

“I could come by this afternoon,” James offered. “Or, this evening if you prefer.”

“Ah, no,” he smiled, “that wouldn’t do at all. I never work on the Sabbath. It’s against my religion.” Howard bent down and placed his tee.

“I was taught the Sabbath was from sunset to sunset,” James countered.

“You
are
anxious.” He steadied the golf ball on the tee, assumed his stance, and took a practice swing. Glancing up at James, he said, “Are you a betting man?”

“Not really, no.”

“Pity,” replied the old solicitor. “I was going to make a wager with you: if I make it to the green in two, you can come by my office tonight. If I go three, you wait until tomorrow.”

“You’re on.”

He smiled again. “You remind me of your father.” He lined up his swing, and struck the ball with a satisfying
thwack
. The ball landed well down the fairway — a good shot, but it would take an even better one to reach the green.

They walked out onto the fairway. Iain had already taken his second shot. Howard alerted him with a shout — which James reckoned was exceedingly optimistic of him — and proceeded to line up his shot, still using the wooden driver. James kept quiet and let him concentrate. The old golfer centered himself over the ball, drew back the club, and swung.

Although he did not appear to have put much into the swing, the ball leapt up as if rocket-charged, arcing out in a high shallow curve — too shallow, James thought, to reach the green. But as the tiny white missile gained altitude, it seemed to grow wings. It sailed on the wind, dropping onto the edge of the green; it bounced once and rolled towards the pin.

James congratulated him on a fine shot, adding, “I guess I’ll see you this evening then.”

“I guess you will,” Howard remarked. James thanked him for his time, and wished him a good game. He stood and watched for a moment as James walked away, then shouted, “Say, you wouldn’t want to follow me around the rest of the course, would you? With your luck behind me, I bet I could beat Iain, for a change.”

“I’m not really a betting man,” James hollered back. “See you tonight.”

Returning to his vehicle, James continued along the river road. Glen Dee at Braemar is especially scenic. The river sweeps along in majestic silver swoops bounded by wide green meads beneath brooding dark hills planted in pine. He passed the Birkwood nature reserve below the dour Morrone of Morven, a black, bald-headed crag, and turned off the highway at the Linn of Corriemulzie, proceeding along the granite-chip road to Braemulzie, the farm of Sergeant-Major Owen Evans-Jones, Retired.

“My Jenny,” as her father liked to say, “is bi-racial. I’m Welsh, and her mother is a Scot.” James thought Jennifer had inherited the best of both, combining the earthly mystical romantic sensitivity of the Welsh and the fiery aggressive visionary ingenuity of the Scots. In Jenny both high passion and inspired practicality were united in the form of a distractingly lovely female. Dark haired and blue eyed, like her father, and smooth skinned and long limbed like her mother, Jennifer was in many ways less a human being than a force of nature.

In school, most of the boys had been afraid of her, and very few of those lads had ever bothered to change that youthful impression. James had seen grown men rendered speechless in her presence and women blanch with envy. When she entered a room, all eyes traveled naturally to her; when a question was asked, everyone turned to see what she would say. She did not join a conversation, she seized it. When you got Jenny’s attention, you got
all
of Jenny with it. Some people simply could not handle that.

“Even as a wee girl,” her mother once said, “Jenny never walked when she could run, and never ran when she could fly.”

There were a few cars in the wide, graveled yard when James pulled up. As with most Scottish farmhouses, one entered through the kitchen. Agnes’ kitchen was a large, rambling room with a big, sturdy table of chunky pine in the center, generations old. A dark Welsh dresser dominated one wall and deep cupboards another; a huge old gas-fired black iron stove that looked as if it had seen duty on a WWII troop ship kept the room cozily warm in winter and absolutely tropical the rest of the year. The room was steamy from pots on the boil, and the haunch in the oven filled the house with the delicious aroma of Agnes’ patented roast ham in a honey-mustard glaze.

No fewer than fifteen people were standing in the kitchen while Agnes, red-faced and frazzled, hovered about with a wooden spoon in one hand and a pot holder in the other, lifting lids and calling orders to her press-ganged assistants — two of Agnes’ young nieces. The rest of the onlookers were drifting in and out of the way, clutching glasses of wine and talking loudly.

“Hello there!” cried a voice as he stepped through the door. “Captain James, isn’t it?” He turned to see a thick-necked, stocky man with a bottle of sherry in one hand and three glasses in the other. “You look parched, boyo! Never fear, Gwyn is here.” He rattled the glasses.

“How are you, Gwyn?” asked James. Jenny’s Cardiff uncle fancied himself the life of any party he happened to join.

“Never better,” the ruddy-cheeked man declared. “Here, hold on to this!” He thrust a glass into James’ hand and proceeded to fill it to the brim with golden liquid from the bottle. “You’re keeping in fighting trim, I see. Young people!” He rolled his eyes dramatically. “There ought to be a law, I say.”

“There probably is, Gwyn,” James replied, and the Welshman laughed raucously. “Excuse me, will you?” he said, stepping away smartly. “If I want any dinner, I have to kiss the cook.”

“Kiss away!” he said, still laughing, and lurched off to refill a few sherry glasses.

Agnes was at the stove, lifting a pot lid, as James came up behind her. “It smells divine,” he remarked. “Anything I can do to help?”

“James!” The lid clattered back onto the pot as Jenny’s mother greeted him and bussed him lightly on the cheek. “Help? You already have, dear.” Nodding towards the overflowing sherry glass in his hand, she said, “Every drop you drink is one less for Gwyn, and that’s a help. Now, unless you want to see a grown woman throw a spitting fit, you’ll get out of my kitchen at once. There are too many people standing around in here as it is.”

“Right,” said James. “Call me if you change your mind.”

He moved into the living room, which, although not as crowded as the kitchen, contained as many people. There was a tight cluster of folk to one side of the fireplace where the Sergeant-Major was holding forth. “We would never have had the balls to try it on in my day. Makes you wonder what —” He broke off when he saw who had joined the party. “James lad! Good to see you, son! Agnes said you had been called away on business.” Turning to the dark-haired, wind-chafed man beside him, “Kenneth, this is Captain James Stuart — caretaker over at Blair Morven.” He then explained, “Kenneth is Agnes’ brother from over by Balmoral.”

James greeted him, and the two shook hands. “We met a year or so ago,” Kenneth said, “at the Braemar games.”

“James is battling the Australians at the moment,” Owen informed Kenneth. He always explained things in military terms. “They’re trying to invade Blair Morven.”

“Oh, aye,” replied Kenneth shrewdly, as if he knew all about the canny stealth of what he called “our kangaroo kissing cousins.” Putting his hand to James’ shoulder he wished him a bonny victory. “Do ’em before they do you,” he advised somewhat blearily. “They’ll have the very turf from under your toes if you don’t.”

“Any luck in London?” asked Owen. He regarded James with interest. Kenneth, too, gazed up from his glass expectantly.

Obviously, James thought, everyone knew he’d been in London, and had guessed why he went. Any hope he’d had of putting it behind him for a few hours vanished. The thought of having to sift through it all for a suitable morsel to toss their way made his mouth go dry. “We’ll have to see,” James mumbled vaguely, and excused himself to go find Jennifer.

He turned and started from the fireplace just as Jenny entered the room from the opposite end. James smiled instinctively when he saw her, took two steps towards her, and stopped. She was with a tall man with short, dark hair whose head was bent towards her cheek while he whispered something in her ear. His arm was draped loosely around her shoulders.

The fellow smiled broadly, and Jenny laughed. Then she glanced up and saw James standing alone in the center of the room. She quickly excused herself and came to him. “What are you doing here?” she said, taking his arm and turning him around.

“Your mother invited me,” he said, and was not pleased with his suddenly defensive tone. “But I seem to be intruding.” He glanced over his shoulder at the young man. “Who’s the bloke?”

“A friend,” she said. “You should have let me know you were coming.”

“Obviously,” James agreed sourly. “Look, I’ll leave if you want me to. Maybe that would be better.”

“Nonsense, you’re here now. Stay.”

“Thanks,” he muttered. “Your welcome is overwhelming.”

“What did you expect?” she snapped. “I don’t hear from you for weeks, and then all of a sudden I’m supposed to be ecstatic that you decide to show up for Gran’s birthday dinner. Anyway, I thought you were in London.”

The young gentleman joined them just then. “Why don’t you introduce me, Jen?” he said. James heard the possessive note in the fellow’s voice and felt an instant loathing possess him.

“Of course,” she said. “Charles, I’d like you to meet James, an old friend.”

“Delighted,” said Charles. “What do you find to do around here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Oh, this and that. I try to keep busy,” replied James. “How about you?”

“Chartered surveyor, for my sins,” the fellow replied. “I work for a firm in Aberdeen. I pop over now and again for a little shooting in season. I’m becoming a real sportsman.”