Of course he had nobody to blame but himself, and he recognised that. When he received his grade D he had felt humiliated, but he knew that that a grade D was exactly what he deserved, particularly in the written part of the examination, where he had lost his self-control and made wild guesses at the provenance of the wines they were required to identify and write about. He had sat there, with ten glasses set out in front of him, and panicked when he tasted the first. He thought that the wine was Portuguese, and was on the point of setting out the arguments to support this view when it had occurred to him that it might be Argentinian. From then on, his progress through the examination had gone downhill. Instead of using the small spittoon that each candidate had on his desk, William had drained the first glass dry. The second sample, a Côtes du Rhone, he found no difficulty in identifying. Encouraged by this success, he again swallowed the entire glass, and by the time he reached the sixth sample he was drunk. It was shameful and extremely unprofessional. The examiners had been tactful, quietly suggesting that he have a break. “I’m very sorry, Mr French,” the chief invigilator had said, “but you’re disturbing the other candidates. It doesn’t really help, you know, if one of the examinees is humming away.”
William had been unaware of the fact that he was humming “I Am Sailing” under his breath. He stopped, but then, a few minutes later, was afflicted by a loud and persistent attack of hiccups, during which he spilled his two remaining samples, splashing the woman seated at the neighbouring table. This had resulted in his being asked to leave the examination room.
It had been a shameful performance and he smarted at the memory. But it was past now, and he had begun to wonder whether he should not sit the examination again. He knew as much as he ever had – possibly even more – and it would mean so much to be able to put MW after his name. Why not?
He took the decision there and then, as he closed up that evening. He would sort his life out: he would get Freddie de la Hay back; he would register for the next round of Master of Wine examinations; and he would get in touch with that woman he had met in the park.
Sebastian Duck had given him his card, which William had kept in his wallet. He extracted it now and dialled the mobile phone number given on it.
Sebastian Duck answered. “Duck speaking.”
William had thought he might have to remind him who he was, but apparently that was not needed. “Mr French.” said Sebastian. “I take it all is well.”
“That’s what I’d like to find out,” said William.
Sebastian Duck understood. Freddie de la Hay, he explained was now in “the field”; William would be very welcome, if he liked, to telephone Tilly Curtain and get a first-hand report.
William’s heart leaped. It was exactly what he had hoped for. He noted down the number that Sebastian gave him, engaged in a few pleasantries about the weather, and then rang off. Next he made the call to Tilly Curtain, who answered almost immediately. He explained who he was and there was a silence. Had something happened to Freddie? But then her voice came down the line, warm and encouraging: “I’d hoped that you might phone.”
William closed his eyes in sheer ecstasy. “Look, I know it’s absolutely no notice at all, but would you by any chance be free for dinner tonight?” he asked.
Again there was a silence. And then, once again, came the words to boost any heart – even that of a middle-aged wine dealer, a failed Master of Wine, and a failed everything else – “What a lovely idea! Yes, of course.”
Chapter 52: Dinner at Racine
William chose Racine in the Brompton Road because he knew Henry Harris, the proprietor, and was sure that Henry would always find him a table, no matter how short the notice. And indeed a table was available at eight, and the staff said they looked forward to seeing him.
Now that he had invited Tilly, William found himself trying to remember what she looked like. It was almost like going on a blind date, he thought, something that previously he would never have dreamed of doing, but which he now found rather exciting. She was certainly attractive, he was sure of that, even if he had seen her only once, and for a very brief period. He had a memory of light brown hair, cut fairly short, pageboy-style perhaps, and he remembered, too, an appealing smile. Or was her hair more blond than brown, and was it maybe longer than he remembered? She was in her late thirties, he thought, or perhaps early forties. He could not be certain of that either, and even thinking about her age made him feel anxious. If she was in her early forties, then that would be fine, as he was in his very late forties, or had been last year, before his fiftieth birthday. If there were eight, or even ten years between them, it would not matter; in fact, it would be ideal, at least from his point of view, and probably even from hers. William had always believed that women liked men to be a little bit older than they were, even if there were some women these days who went in for younger men. He was not so sure about that; he knew there was no reason at all why women should not have younger partners, given that men often did – how many men in their fifties did he know who had girlfriends in their early thirties? Legions – practically everyone. Yet the thought that women might choose to do the same thing, to seek out younger men, secretly unsettled him. If more and more women chose younger men, then how many women would be left over for the likes of him?
More unsettling than this speculation about age was the realisation that he had no idea whether Tilly Curtain was single. He had not noticed a ring, but then he had not looked for one. Of course, if she were married she would never have accepted his invitation to dinner; she would have said something like, “Should I bring my husband?”, which would have had the merit of directness and unambiguousness. Or she could simply have made an excuse about having other arrangements. It was possible that she was encumbered in some way by a boyfriend but was looking for a way out. That notion was equally unsettling; William did not wish to become involved in anything messy.
He put these ideas out of his mind and set about preparing for the evening. Going to his wardrobe, he surveyed the jackets hanging within. He had neglected his clothes for a long time and it showed, but at least there was a navy-blue blazer in reasonably good condition, and there was a timelessness about blazers. He took it out and tried it on; the cut was good, and he had not put on weight since he last wore it. It would do, he thought. Trousers were more difficult. Two pairs of the charcoal-black trousers he favoured were out of commission, one because of a broken zip and another because of bad fraying at the cuffs. Jeans? He remembered that there was some of Eddie’s clothing still in the flat. He and Eddie were the same size, more or less, and when he lived with him his son had regularly borrowed William’s clothing – admittedly, though, and insultingly, for fancy-dress and retro parties.
He went to the cupboard where he had stored Eddie’s remaining possessions. There was, as he had remembered, a pair of jeans, and he that took these out and unfolded them. They were distressed, but no more so than new jeans were these days, and they appeared to fit. William examined himself in the mirror; the jeans took off ten years, he thought, possibly more, and they were perfect with the blazer. This was the very essence of casual smart, he thought – that vague concept that allowed you to wear anything as long as you looked as if you had at least made some effort. He could hold up his head in any company in an outfit like this.
The hour between seven and eight was an ordeal. He tried to relax. He tried reading, but could not concentrate and put the book down; he tried listening to music, but found that he was not in the mood; he tried writing a letter, but found that he had nobody to write to and put the pen and paper aside. At last it was time to go, and he made his way downstairs, conscious of the fact that his heart was beating faster in anticipation.
Tilly Curtain arrived at Racine a few minutes after William. They recognised one another immediately, and she came over to the table where he was waiting and shook his hand warmly. “I hope I’m not late,” she said. “You’ve probably been waiting for ages.”
&nb
sp; He shook his head. He had been right about the smile – it was wonderful, transforming.
She sat down and William ordered drinks from the waiter who appeared at the table. They both took a gin and tonic. He looked at her and she smiled. It’s the teeth, he said to himself, that’s what I remember.
“I’m glad that you were free,” he said. “I was at a loose end and I thought … Well, why not?”
“Why not indeed?” she said. “No, I was glad that you phoned. I was going to phone you.”
“About Freddie de la Hay?”
The smile disappeared. She looked grave. “Yes.”
William knew immediately that something was wrong. “How’s he doing?”
Tilly looked about her. Her voice, when she replied, was lowered. “Well, it started pretty well. They took the bait, and we heard a certain amount. But then Freddie’s transmitter suddenly went dead.”
He stared at her without saying anything.
“We tried to locate it,” she said. “But there was no signal. None at all.” She paused, watching his reaction. “We fear that they discovered it. They might have been suspicious of the weight of the collar or something like that. Anyway, we have to assume—”
He stopped her. “Are you telling me my dog’s disappeared? Is that what you’re saying?”
She nodded. “I’m very sorry. I really am. But that’s what we have to conclude. It’s a missing-in-action case. It happens.”
Chapter 53: Meeting Sorley
The sleeper train carrying Barbara Ragg and Hugh Macpherson drew into Fort William Station shortly before ten in the morning. The days of generous train breakfasts, served with copious quantities of – then – guiltless grease, eaten at table, and with cutlery too, had long gone, to be replaced by continental fare, conveniently healthier, served in sterilised plastic and cellophane, and eaten, of course, with one’s fingers. Perched on the edge of Barbara’s bunk, Hugh tackled just such a breakfast while both of them gazed out of the window of the train. They were making their way past the still waters of Loch Treig; like glass, Barbara thought; like glass reflecting the mountains and the sky in perfect inversion.
She had no appetite. To eat in the presence of such an inspiring landscape would be, she felt, like munching some pre-wrapped snack in front of a Botticelli in the Uffizi; the spiritual and the corporeal were not always appropriate bedfellows.
“You’re not hungry?” asked Hugh, brushing from his fingers the last crumbs of a desiccated croissant.
She shook her head. “Not here. Not in front of all this.” She gestured out of the window.
“It’s very beguiling, isn’t it?” he said. “I never tire of it. Never. It’s home, but it never seems to me to be anything but ... Well, just the way the world should be, if we hadn’t messed it up. The perfect landscape. What heaven will look like, if we ever get there.”
She looked at him. She had always hoped to meet a man who would react passionately to landscape; now she had. “You must miss it.”
For a few moments he was silent. He continued to stare out of the window. “I do. I miss Scotland every day. Every day.”
Barbara saw that the sky was reflected in his eyes – a tiny spot of light. Would she pine for England if she were ever to move away? Who spoke now of missing England, in the way in which Rupert Brooke had? To do so would be to invite a sneer from the sophisticates who thought it naive, even simple-minded, to love one’s country. Of course a country had to be lovable, and if people lived amid ugliness and squalor, or if their country became a stranger to them, then perhaps they might be forgiven for not holding it in affection. It was easy enough to imagine what one might distil from a landscape such as this – a feeling of emptiness and space and sheer physical splendour – but what could one take from the litter-strewn streets of a city, from a forest of tower blocks? What niche in the heart could such a place occupy?
Of course Barbara loved London, as so many Londoners did, in spite of their occasional complaints. She loved it because it was her place, and anybody with any soul to speak of would love his or her own place. But it was more than that; she loved its little corners, its poky little shops run by shabby eccentrics, its oddly named pubs, its gardens, its sudden turns of architectural splendour. She loved its extraordinary tolerance, which felt like an old slipper, she thought – as uncomplaining and as pliant as such footgear is in the face of all sorts of pressures and provocations. In fact London was exactly that – an old slipper that had been home to countless feet and still welcomed and warmed the feet that came to it fresh. It was not a bad thing for a city to be, when one came to think of it, an old slipper. You could not call Paris an old slipper, nor Berlin, nor New York. Only London.
What if she had to leave London? She had never even entertained the idea – after all, where was there to go, after London? – but now the possibility crossed her mind that Hugh did not feel the same way. And if Hugh wanted to leave then she would have to face the prospect of moving on herself. Could she do it? She would lose her stake in the firm – and how that would please Rupert – and she would also have to find something else to do. It was a depressing thought, not one to be considered even for a few minutes. New Yorkers, Parisians, Londoners: you could hardly expect any of them to move, could you? Unless, of course, New Yorkers went to Paris, Londoners to New York, and Parisians to London. That made sense enough.
They passed the rest of the journey in silence, not because of any awkwardness, but because neither wished conversation to break the spell that the unfolding Highland landscape was weaving about them. And what remarks were needed here? If one listens to the talk of people looking at scenes of great natural beauty, their words are often revealing. “Isn’t it beautiful?” is what is most frequently said; to which the reply, ‘Yes, beautiful,” adds little. What is happening, of course, is a sharing. We wish to share beauty as if it were a discovery; but one can share in silence, and perhaps the sharing is all the more powerful for it.
Hugh had said that his father would meet them and drive them to the farm on Ardnamurchan. Now, as she peered out of the window of the slowing train, Barbara had no difficulty working out which of the small number of people waiting on the platform he was. “That’s him?” she asked Hugh, pointing at the tall man in a Barbour jacket.
Hugh nodded. “His name is Sorley,” he said. “Sorley Macfeargus Macpherson. Sorley to everybody except my mother, who calls him Somerled.”
“Somerled?”
“It’s a complicated story,” said Hugh. “Later.”
They got down from the train and made for the barrier. The air, Barbara noticed, smelled different:; it was fresh and clear; air that had rain on its breath, and salt, and the sweetness of seaweed.
Sorley stepped forward and Hugh took the proffered hand. Then he leaned forward and the two men embraced, awkwardly, as men always embrace, but with clear affection – and perhaps even relief, thought Barbara. Had a stranger witnessed this scene, she told herself, he might have imagined that here was a son coming back from a long and dangerous trip and being greeted by a relieved parent. But Hugh had not really gone anywhere, other than London, which was only five hundred miles away and hardly dangerous. Yet perhaps that was the way it looked from this part of Scotland; in which case how would she appear to them? Would they think her some exotic metropolitan, some femme fatale who was planning to take their son away from his home and family? It was tempting to imagine that they might.
Sorley disengaged from the filial embrace and turned to Barbara. “So you are Barbara,” he said, leaning forward to embrace her too. “My dear, you are so very welcome to our family.”
She felt his lips upon her cheek; the lightest of kisses. And then, looking into his face, she noticed that he had the same eyes as his son, and the same fine features. For a few moments she stared at him.
“I hope that I meet with your approval,” he said gently.
She laughed. There had been no barb in his comment. She could not tell him, though, wh
at she had been thinking, which was that here before her was her future husband as he would be in twenty-five years’ time. It was rather like looking at one of those pictures that forensic artists draw of the missing person as he would be now, after many years. With deft pencil strokes, the years are added, and there, before our eyes, the missing person, more weary, more worn, is suddenly revealed.
She looked at Sorley, and realised, more strongly and with greater conviction than ever before, that the planetary movements that had brought her and Hugh together in Rye could only be the result of divine blessing or sheer good fortune – on a cosmic scale.
Chapter 54: Words of Welcome
Sorley led them to an ancient green Land Rover. Their cases loaded, he ushered Barbara into the front seat while Hugh prepared to climb in behind. “I don’t mind the back,” she said. “Let Hugh …”