Wild Melody

WILD MELODY

Sara Craven

On the strength of a brief holiday romance with Jeremy Lord, Catriona Muir

left her quiet Scottish home and set off for London, firmly convinced that he

would want to marry her. But of course by the time she arrived Jeremy had

forgotten all about her. Instead she found herself involved with his uncle

Jason--who was even more out of her league than Jeremy had been.

Attractive, rich, a sophisticated man of the world, Jason presented a far

greater danger than his nephew--how could she possibly cope with his

devastating attraction? Hadn't she better hurry back to Scotland before her

life was ruined altogether?

'LASSIE, are you sure?' Mrs McGregor, her ample form wrapped securely in

a flowered pinny, paused in her task of kneading dough, and stared at the

slight figure on the other side of the big kitchen table.

'Quite sure,' Catriona Muir said, with a firmness she was I far from feeling.

'I—I simply must get away. The Mackintoshes want vacant possession as

soon as possible, and now I the house is sold, I feel as if I don't belong there

anyway.'

'Don't belong?' Mrs McGregor attacked the dough with renewed vigour.

'Away with you! In your own aunt's house where you were brought up as a

bairn?'

'The Mackintoshes own it now,' Catriona reminded her with a pang. It still

hurt to think of it. The big grey house standing back from the road had been

home as long as she could remember. Ever since, in fact, the parents who

were just vague pictures in her mind had been killed in a car crash and

Auntie Jessie, her father's unmarried sister and Catriona's only living

relative, had descended on her and carried her back to the tiny village of

Torvaig on the west coast of Scotland.

Now, eighteen years later, Aunt Jessie too was dead, and Muir

House—surely, as she herself had ruefully said, the most unsuccessful

guest-house in Scotland—had been sold to a Glasgow couple.

'Aye, they own it,' Mrs McGregor retorted. 'But for how long?' She dropped

the dough back into its bowl. 'If a fine woman like Jessie Muir couldn'a

make the place pay, then it's no likely that painted besom and her man will

do any better. This is the wrong place for summer boarders, my dear, and

that's the truth of it. We're too far away from Fort William and the Islands

and the things folk come to see. It's a family house, that. It's crying out for

bairns and laughter, and it'll no take kindly to that one and

her—improvements.' Mrs McGregor invested the last word with incredible

scorn. 'A discotheque in the basement! Have you ever heard such

nonsense?'

Catriona smiled unhappily. 'I think she's being a little unrealistic.'

'And so are you.' Mrs McGregor folded her arms and gazed at Catriona

sternly. 'Chasing off to England after some laddie that's never given you a

thought all year.'

Catriona flushed and her green eyes grew stormy.

'That's not true,' she protested. 'Jeremy didn't come this spring, I know, but

he has written to me.'

'Not for several months he hasn't,' retorted Mrs McGregor with all the calm

assurance of the sister of the village postmistress. 'And don't jut that Muir

chin at me, my lass. There's no one in this village with anything but your

good at heart, and they'd all tell you what I'm telling you now. A few

moonlight kisses by the sea-loch don't make a marriage.'

She nodded emphatically at Catriona, whose cheeks were flaming.

'Och, we've all been through it, lassie,' she Went on kindly. 'First love's a

grand thing, but it doesn't last. Whenit's real love, you'll know, just as I

knew with Mr McGregor.'

Catriona looking at the round plump face with its coronet of wispy grey hair

and visualising the balding taciturn Mr McGregor had to repress a desire to

giggle, in spite of her annoyance What did Mrs McGregor know of the

sweet and tender secret she and Jeremy had shared in that magical few

weeks the previous year when he had come to Torvaig on a walking torn-

and stayed and stayed until his time was up, and he had to return to

university?

Thinking of Jeremy with his crisp dark hair and laughing blue eyes brought

a tightening to her throat and a mistiness to her eyes. They had shared so

much. They had walked, sailed and swum during those golden days that

seemed as if they would last for ever.

One night they had attended a
ceilidh
in a neighbouring village. Catriona,

who played the guitar and sang folk songs in English and Gaelic, had been

one of the star turns, and later as they drove home in the back of Angus

Duncan's van along the narrow single track road with the clumps of grass

growing in the centre which was Torvaig's only means of access with the

outside world, Jeremy had drawn her close.

'I never knew you could sing like that,' he whispered, his lips against her

ear.

Catriona, more used to her aunt's affectionate bluntness and the villagers'

forthrightness, had blushed.

'Oh, it's nothing,' she said awkwardly.

'Nothing!' Jeremy cast his eyes to heaven. 'My love, in Londcn you'd be a

hit. You've got real talent, and you don't even know it. The record

companies are always crying out for something new, and those songs you

sang in that outlandish language. . .'

'The Gaelic is not outlandish!' Catriona flared. 'And I wish I could speak it

properly instead of just being able to sing a few songs in it.'

'Okay, okay,' Jeremy said placatingly. 'But it does sound strange when

you're not used to it. I think that with the proper backing and promotion you

could be Scotland's answer to Nana Mouskouri.'

'I'd be more flattered if I knew who she was,' Catriona said, resting her head

sleepily on his shoulder.

'Seriously, Trina,' he put his fingers under her chin, forcing her to look up at

him, 'you shouldn't waste yourself in this wilderness. You'd have far more

chance in London.'

'Wilderness?' Catriona faced him bewilderedly. 'But, Jeremy, I thought you

liked Torvaig.'

'I do like it,' he said. 'But I like it because you're here. Without you, I

wouldn't have spent a second day here. It's too quiet for me. I like some

action.'

Remembering this now in the homely warmth of the McGregor kitchen,

Catriona felt her spirits plummet. It was the only difference they had ever

had. When he had finally gone back to London, he had promised to return

the following spring, if he could. But Easter had come and gone and no sign

of him, and then shortly before Whitsun, Aunt Jessie's ill-used weak heart

had finally given way, ironically enough as she sat watching one of her

beloved sunsets over the western sea.

It was Jeremy's parting words that Catriona had remembered in the

bewilderment of grief, when she had realised that the house would have to

be sold to pay off various creditors, as well as the mortgage which she did

not feel capable of shouldering.

'Here's my address.' He gave her a folded piece of paper. 'Keep it safe. If you

ever need me, that's where I'll be.'

They had kissed and she had clung to him, her face wet with tears,

promising to wait for him. At first his letters had come often and hers

returned as eagerly. Then the frequency began to falter, although he still

talked of the time when they would be together always. Now, if she faced it,

five months had gone by with no word. Catriona had salved her pride by

telling herself that Jeremy was busy with his studies and that he had

important exams coming up, which, as he'd said in an early letter, could

make all the difference to their future together. It was this, and the address

carefully treasured in her trinket box at home, that had decided Catriona on

her next course of action, now that she was alone.

She looked up from her reverie and found Mrs McGregor watching her

concernedly. She smiled back at her.

'It'll be all right,' she said. 'I know it will. I can't bear to stay here with

Auntie—and the house—gone like that. And I can't bear to see what the

Mackintoshes are going to do with the place either. Besides, London will be

an adventure, and Jeremy will be there.' She smiled again, more gaily. 'I'll

send you a piece of wedding cake.'

'So I should hope—when you find a husband,' Mrs McGregor said a trifle

caustically.

She confided her misgivings to her husband over supper that evening.

'But she's set on it,' she added, and sighed. 'London's a gey long way to go,

just to have your heart broken. I doubt yon poor lassie knows what she's

getting herself into.'

A week later, standing completely bewildered in the bustle of Euston,

Catriona was wondering exactly the same thing. The noise from the

loudspeakers, the roar of the traffic outside, and the shouting and banging

on the station itself as trains arrived and departed filled her with

unreasoning panic. After the silence of Torvaig, where the hum of the

telegraph wires was often clearly audible even in the middle of the day, she

felt as if her eardrums would burst. What was worse, everyone but her

seemed to know exactly where they were going. She followed the crowd to

the barrier and gave up her ticket.

Outside in the sunlight, she felt even more uncomfortable. Jeremy's address

was tucked safely in an inside pocket of her leather shoulder bag, but she

had no idea how to get there. Awkwardly she shifted her rucksack on to her

other shoulder and leaned her guitar case against a newsvendor's stand

while she tried to take stock of her surroundings. Most of the money she

possessed in the world—just under two hundred pounds—was safely

locked up in a small cashbox in her rucksack, but she had kept a few pounds

in her handbag for emergencies. Catriona decided ruefully that the first

emergency was now. Picking up her guitar, she walked purposefully to the

queue of people waiting for taxis. But when her turn came, she found to her

astonishment that she was calmly elbowed out of the way by two smartly

dressed men. She stood indignantly on the pavement watching the last cab

draw away, and a certain grimness crept into her expression. As another cab

pulled up, a fur-coated woman stepped forward, brushing Catriona aside.

Catriona swung her rucksack and there was a startled yelp as its bulk

encountered the fur coat. The woman tottered, momentarily off balance, and

Catriona squeezed past. 'Mine, I think,' she said, pushing her guitar case on

to the back seat. She sat back feeling a little guilty at her discourtesy, but at

the same time faintly victorious. If this was how Londoners conducted

themselves, then a Muir could do just as well!

'Where to, ducks?'

'Oh.' Catriona produced Jeremy's slip of paper and pushed it through the

glass partition. The driver looked at it and whistled. 'It's quite a way.' He

turned and studied his passenger, from the attractive mass of curly dark hair

on her shoulders down over the duffel coat and slim-fitting levis to the

well-worn brogues. 'It'll cost you.'

'I have money.' Catriona lifted her chin at him.

'Suit yourself, love,' and he let in the clutch.

By the time the journey was over, Catriona was too sick with nervousness to

worry over-much about the amount on the meter, although one corner of her

thrifty soul registered a momentary squeal of outrage as she handed over the

fare and added a generous tip.

'Shall I hang on?' asked the driver, apparently moved by the unexpected

gesture.

Catriona looked up at the house where the cab had halted. It was not quite

what she had envisaged, being a narrow terraced building with peeling

stucco. The paintwork needed renewal, and the front garden was untended.