Highland Fling (25 page)

‘I’ll just look in the book.’ There was a nail-biting pause while Jenny listened to pages being turned over. ‘Ah yes. Glenreekie.’

This was a start. ‘Could you just read me back the address please? Mr Philip wasn’t sure he’d given you the correct postcode.’

We’ ve got 17 High Town, here, and the postcode …’

‘Thank you so much,’ said Jenny, still as Miss Brodie, having written it all down. ‘He’ll be so relieved he didn’t make an error.’

She was sweating slightly as she left the room. Being brash and ignoring all the rules of good behaviour, not to mention lying to innocent shop assistants, would take getting used to.

‘Have you any idea where Glenreekie is?’ Jenny asked Felicity, as they made macaroni cheese together.

‘It’s miles away. Way further than where Lachlan lives. Why do you ask?’

‘I’ve got an address for Philip there.’

‘Oh my God! That’s amazing! Does Mama know?’

‘No, and I don’t want to tell her, not until we’re sure he’s there.’

‘So how will you find out?’

Jenny, risking her knuckles with a very ancient lump of cheese and a grater almost as old, shrugged. ‘Go there and see, I suppose. I can’t go tomorrow, but, when I do, would Lachlan’s be on the way?’

Felicity nodded. ‘It is – right on the way. Why can’t you go tomorrow?’

Before he turned out to be such a rat, Jenny had felt like that about Ross. Now, the pain of his betrayal was a physical ache. ‘I’ve got the felt woman coming. I managed to arrange that before I left the building, screaming.’

‘Jenny! What’s wrong?’ Felicity was shocked.

Jenny realised that she was a person who must always be happy and positive. It was not her role to be desperate, or miserable, or, indeed, anything but sunny. It was the role reversal that was worrying Felicity most.

‘Oh, trouble at t’ mill,’ she said. ‘The man I work for
came today. We’ve got about three weeks to get everything up and running. Well, not running exactly – even he wouldn’t expect that – but with markets in place, the machinery sorted out. Stuff like that.’

‘I see. Well, anything I can do to help …’

Seeing genuine concern, Jenny patted Felicity’s shoulder. ‘You have helped, by doing those fabulous designs. And we’ll go the day after tomorrow. OK? Now, shall we put breadcrumbs on top of this? It’ll make it go further.’

‘Only if you don’t mind a little blood in among them. That grater’s lethal.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll tear the bread up with my hands.’ And pretend it’s Ross Grant-Dempsey, she added, under her breath.

Jenny’s ‘felt woman’ came wearing her product. Both she and it were extremely beautiful but not, Jenny gathered, quite of this world. The fabric was soft, almost transparent, and fell beautifully. Rowan, its creator, had the same transparent quality about her; very pale skin, red-gold hair and grey eyes. She was wearing a necklace of semi-precious stones on gold wires that looked as if she might have made it herself. A harp would have complemented her outfit nicely.

‘What I would really like,’ said Jenny, after some time was wasted in finding a suitable hot drink that didn’t contain caffeine, discussion of the state of the planet and whether shearing sheep was exploitative, ‘would be for you to come here and teach the women how to make Nuno felt so they can create textiles for a commercial market.’ She knew she’d said the wrong thing the moment the words were out of her mouth.

‘Commercial market?’ repeated Rowan, whose name was pronounced the Scottish way, to rhyme with ‘how’. ‘But what I do isn’t commercial. Each piece is individually made, with the wearer in mind.’

‘No, I know,’ said Jenny carefully, aware that Rowan might not be willing to share her skills in order that Dalmain Mills could create cheaper versions of what she probably charged the earth for. ‘But we couldn’t have those high standards. We would be creating something far less special than anything you do. We wouldn’t be poaching on your territory, or anything.’

‘Poaching on my territory? I don’t understand.’

‘I mean, what you produce is wonderful, individual stuff. I would quite understand if you didn’t want anyone commercial, like us, to imitate you. But we won’t want to imitate what you do.’ Jenny wasn’t quite sure she was telling the truth here, but she was desperate. ‘If you would just teach our women the techniques …’

‘I couldn’t do that. I can only teach one person at a time. Every piece has a soul of its own. It wouldn’t translate to the mass market.’

Jenny persevered for a bit longer, then excused herself. ‘I’m sorry, can I leave you here, drinking your camomile and ginseng, while I just make a quick phone call?’

‘Meggie?’ she said dramatically, when she answered the phone. ‘I need you!’

Meggie didn’t flinch. ‘What?’

‘I’m at the mill and I’ve got this mad woman here! She won’t teach the women to do her special felt thing, she’ll only teach individuals. That’s you! Then you can teach the women.’

Meggie gulped.

‘I know you’ve got Anna – and I’ll promise I’ll look after her so you can do this.’

‘But I’ve never taught anyone anything, and how do you know I’ll be able to learn it myself?’

‘Because you did textiles at college! Now don’t be difficult!’

Meggie laughed. ‘I’il do my best, but you can’t blame the poor woman for not wanting her techniques reaching the High Street.’

‘They won’t reach the High Street! At the moment we’d be lucky if they reached the front door of the mill!’

‘You’re awful crabby this morning, Jenny.’

Jenny took a deep breath. ‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s just – never mind, no time for that. I’ve got a woman whose soul is caught up with her work. Ifs very tiring!’

‘I dare say everything with her is deeply felt,’ said Meggie.

Jenny slammed the phone down.

Rowan was perfectly happy to teach Meggie, it turned out, when Jenny put the idea to her. And she wasn’t worried about the basic technique being commercially produced. She just didn’t want to teach a roomful of women how to do it. Especially women, she confided, who might damage her spirituality.

‘I’m not good with crowds,’ she said. ‘They suffocate my aura.’

‘Of course we won’t be producing anything nearly as beautiful or as individual as you do,’ repeated Jenny, as she showed Rowan out.

‘I know,’ said Rowan. ‘Everything I produce has a little bit of my soul in it.’

Just then, Jenny felt that everything the factory would ever produce would have a big bit – several pints, in fact – of her blood in it.

‘Well done,’ said Kirsty, as Jenny poured herself a cup of strong coffee. ‘One hurdle over.’

Jenny nodded. ‘And I think I’ve got a lead for Philip. Would you mind if I didn’t come in tomorrow and looked for him? He’s at Glenreekie. Felicity says it’s miles away.’

Glenreekie, it seemed, was a small fishing town on the coast, about fifty miles away. Felicity was in good spirits as they set off the following morning and although it was raining, icy rain, Jenny was grateful for an excuse to be away from the mill. Not, she realised grimly, that she would think about it and Ross Grant any the less because she was absent, but because once she’d dropped Felicity off, even if it did degenerate into a miserable wild-goose chase, no one would talk to her.

Jenny declined Lachlan’s offer of coffee, kissed Felicity’s cheek, and wished her luck. ‘Have a really lovely day. I’ll ring when I’m likely to pick you up.’

She gave Lachlan a cheery wave then turned the car round, drove back up the lane, and headed for Glenreekie.

Rather than spend hours driving round the narrow streets in the ever-worsening rain, Jenny decided to park, put up her umbrella, and look for Philip’s address on foot. Having done this, she called in at a newsagenfs to ask for directions, regretting the umbrella, which now flapped wetly by her leg.

‘Oh,’ said the man helpfully. ‘It’s not very far. Just up this road, then take the first left …’

Jenny was glad it was ‘not very far’, because it felt very far indeed, in the sleeting rain. She no longer hoped to make Philip see sense, or feel philanthropic or anything. She just hoped that (a) Philip still lived there, (b) he was home, and (c) that he would offer her a cup of tea or coffee. Anything else was a bonus.

At last she found the narrow doorway, wedged in between an estate agent’s and a computer-games shop. She lowered her umbrella and banged on the door with it, having searched in vain for a bell.

Don’t be surprised if there’s no reply, she told herself, deciding the umbrella was still necessary. He probably doesn’t live here, and if he does, and he opens the door, what on earth are you going to say to him?

Eventually, the door was dragged open. A tall, skinny youth in a ripped black T-shirt and combats draped with chains stood there. He had a bandanna round his head and bad spots. On his feet were trainers the size of small sofas.

‘Hi,’ said Jenny. ‘I don’t suppose I’ve got the right address for Philip Dalmain?’

‘Philip?’ The accent was very strong. ‘Aye, he’s here.’ The youth shouted over his shoulder. ‘Hey, Philip. There’s a woman for you.’

Jenny put on as unthreatening an expression as she could. She didn’t want to put him on the defensive; she wanted him to trust her. She just needed the right, gentle, opening line. She was just thinking it would be like trying to reassure a frightened animal and wondering if she should try to breathe up his nose, when he appeared. She had no opening line ready.

She took a breath. ‘It’s a pig of a day, Philip. Can I come in?’

He gave her a shadow of his usual charming smile. ‘I suppose you might as well. Gloria’s out. How did you find my address?’

‘I was a bit underhand, I’m afraid. Shall I put my umbrella here?’ She propped it in the corner by the door, knowing she’d never see it again.

Philip showed her through the narrow passage and up the stairs. ‘We’re above the estate agent’s,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘Slightly better than the shop.’

Jenny became very aware of his anxiety, his prickliness, his embarrassment. He opened a door. ‘Come in. This is the sitting room.’

A large black, plastic-covered divan took up most of the space. It faced a television that was playing a computer game. Another youth, similar to the one who had opened the door, lounged with the first one. Neither of them reacted to her presence.

‘Do you want to sit down?’ asked Philip.

Given the choice of squashing in between the lads and their games machines or perching on an upright chair in the corner, Jenny found that she didn’t. ‘I’d love a cup of coffee.’

‘I’ll make you one.’

Jenny followed him into a tiny kitchen.

‘It’s a bit of a change from Dalmain House,’ he said. ‘Did my mother send you?’

Jenny shook her head. ‘Ross Grant-Dempsey – the man the mill owes all the money to? He’s going to foreclose in three weeks unless we’ve got new plans in place, and you’re there. But your mother does miss you very much. Do you miss her?’

He shook his head, uncertain. ‘In a way. I miss the mother I love, but not the control freak.’

‘I can understand that.’

He looked up as if surprised. ‘Can you?’

‘Oh yes. So much was expected of you. You were never allowed to be less than the perfect son.’

‘Really? You could see that?’

‘It wasn’t hard, Philip. I should think most people could have seen it if they’d been there at the time.’

‘I don’t think Fliss understands.’

‘She has her own problems. Although, she’s getting better. I left her at Lachlan’s on my way here. And she’s done some lovely designs … But you probably don’t want to hear about the mill.’

‘Is there anything left of it to hear about?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I would have thought it was all closed down by now. Workers laid off, buildings repossessed.’

‘Including Dalmain House? I don’t think I’d have been talking about whether or not your mother missed you if she’d been thrown out of the house she loves!’ Jenny was trying very hard to be non-judgemental, but that had come out unexpurgated.

Philip looked down at the mugs. ‘No. I suppose not. It seemed like all I could do at the time was to borrow more money, and use the house as security. So it hasn’t gone yet?’ He picked up an electric kettle and filled it. ‘I didn’t think it would take you long to see how parlous things had become.’

‘No, it didn’t. But I decided that closing down the mill wasn’t the only option. I’d just made a few plans when Ross Grant-Dempsey came to see us in person.’ She paused. ‘He was furious with me for not telling him you’d gone.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Because I thought he’d just sweep in and close everything down. Which is more or less what happened. Philip, I don’t think I like your mother very much, but I really don’t want to see her thrown out of Dalmain House.’

He shrugged and turned away.

‘Is that why you left? Because you didn’t want to see it either, even though it was you who would have made it happen?’

He sighed, and Jenny decided there was no point in going on about it. She looked around her, trying not to show her frustration. The tiny kitchen was dominated by a fifties food cupboard, painted yellow, with a pull down work surface, cupboards fronted with beaded glass. She nodded towards it. ‘Nice.’

Philip glanced at her as if she was mad. ‘Don’t you think I’m a complete shit?’

That did pretty much sum up how Jenny felt about him, but she didn’t want to make him feel worse about himself than he did already. ‘I think you’re a bit of a coward, Philip. But now is the time to prove you’re not. Come back to the mill and see that there are other ways of making money apart from producing cheap sweaters that don’t wash very well.’

‘You sound like Kirsty McIntyre.’

‘Kirsty and I have been spending a lot of time together. She’s a pearl beyond price, Philip. Without her the mill probably would have gone down years ago. It still might, of course. But Kirsty and I, and the entire workforce, are determined not to go without a fight. Iain is proving really good at adapting the old machinery.’

‘So, what’s happening?’ He poured boiling water into the mugs. Then he opened the fridge and took out a carton of milk, sniffed it, and put it back. ‘Is black all right for you?’