The One and Only Read online

  The last time she’d looked in the glass the effect had been quite pleasing, the high rolled white sweater was good with her slim suntanned neck, the well cut blue pants showed off her narrow hips and long legs. She loved trousers and wore them continually. Why quite suddenly should she now long for a dress? Longing cost nothing and achieved as much. She blended two shades of eye-shadow, lavender and kingfisher, and brushed them on, used a frosted pink lipstick, riper than her usual colour, and took herself to the dining room.

  ‘Is that by any chance a MacAllan sweater?’ Derek asked as they walked back to their table from the carvery.

  ‘Not by any chance. Not till my ship comes home.’

  MacAllans of Aberdeen were an international name in knitwear. Texture and styling were faultless, colours so good that even in the present ‘separates’ explosion you could spot a MacAllan nine times out of ten. She had drooled over some in Dublin in the recent shopping spree, a sea blue sweater with the faintest twist of grey, a soft spice brown waistcoat that looked like doeskin, a twinset in which the cardigan was purple and the jumper purple, lilac and moss. Quality garments all of them and priced accordingly.

  ‘Soften up your new boss and you might get one cheap,’ Derek advised cryptically.

  ‘My new boss?

  ‘Troy MacAllan.’ He gave her the full of blue eyes and long amused mouth. ‘That’s who you’ve come to see. A girl with problems.’

  ‘You mean she owns the riding stables?’

  ‘Yes. Great-uncle Robert left it to her three months ago and the chap she has in charge has given her notice. That’s why I wanted you over so quickly. Troy’s here this weekend and we’ll go along to the flat presently and meet her.’

  ‘She’s a friend of yours?’ She had meant to sound casual, it was not totally successful. ‘A young friend,’ Derek said not casually at all, and pushed across the silver-topped cruet stand. ‘She’s a student I know her parents better. Her father does business with me. He has a small assembly plant near Bathgate and we look after his security. But I like Troy and I’m sorry for her.’

  On the face of it Maggie didn’t see that a youngster with parents, home and a riding stables warranted much sympathy.

  ‘What’s the joke?’ Derek had been watching her face. ‘Nothing. I was just thinking you haven’t told me much to make me feel sorry.’

  ‘I haven’t told you anything,’ he amended quietly. “But there are worse things than not being able to afford a MacAllan sweater.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Not being able to get rid of them.’ He looked seriously at her derisive expression. ‘Since Troy inherited the whole family has had one thought—to marry her off.’

  ‘As a business proposition?’

  ‘Exactly. To the managing director and principal shareholder, her cousin Angus MacAllan.’

  ‘And she doesn’t want to?’ Maggie was beginning to feel some sympathy.

  ‘Of course she doesn’t want to. She wants to take her degree and go to work where she feels most needed—a developing country like Zambia or Pakistan. Well, before, it didn’t matter. So far as MacAllans went she had no potential. Old Robert never got on with her branch of the family, that’s her father, David MacAllan, my client, and his father Alasdair, now dead, of course.’ He paused, looking ruefully at her wrinkling brow. ‘Not with me?’

  She wasn’t. Family trees always lost her.

  ‘Simple really,’ Derek said forbearingly. ‘Three brothers—Robert, Alasdair and Malcolm—and a small knitwear factory in Aberdeen. After the ’14-’18 war Alasdair opted out, came down to Bathgate with his wife and son David, and set up in business on his own. Robert and Malcolm between them built up the knitwear factory and later Malcolm’s son Angus joined them. In fact, for the past few years he’s virtually been cock of the walk. Malcolm retired for health reasons and though old Robert still called himself managing director he gave more and more of his time to fringe interests like the riding stables. The summer before he died he took it into his head to command young Troy to come up and make his acquaintance. Most likely he expected her to lick his boots, but that wasn’t Troy. At the time she was organising protests for the reinstatement of a lecturer who’d been dismissed and she was full of this and her plans for working abroad. The upshot of it was that the old chap took a fancy to her and he left her the stables and a shareholding in the firm. Since then her life’s been a misery. She says Angus is never off her back and her parents keep pestering her to marry him.’

  ‘But surely they’re a different generation?’ Maggie had been concentrating.

  ‘Yes. They’re second cousins. She’s twenty, he’s thirty-nine and a widower.’

  ‘Have you met him?’

  ‘Just once. He’s not the sociable kind. Troy says he’s John Knox, Calvin and Queen Victoria rolled into one.’

  ‘So she won’t marry him?’

  ‘Oh, she won’t marry him,’ Derek repeated irritably. ‘But can’t you see how difficult it’s made things for her?’

  Maggie nodded. She had heard the story in the right setting. The opulent dining-room with lights in its dark ceiling, bottle green watered silk on its walls and copper-stemmed mahogany tables evoked echoes of the age when such marriages had been accepted practice. ‘Is this one reason why she doesn’t want too much trafficking between here and the riding stables?’

  ‘Precisely—and the corollary, why she must have someone up there whom she can trust.’

  ‘I’d certainly like the job,’ Maggie owned. ‘It’s time I put down roots, and for Kelly I’d like them to be in Scotland.’ When it comes to it, how sentimental we are, she thought amusedly. I really only made that decision today flying over those green mountains and seeing the Forth Bridges and the golden barley fields. ‘Land of my high endeavour, land of my heart for ever.’ It really is true, and I want to give it to Kelly.

  ‘Weil, of course, that could be arranged very simply and no matter where you were,’ Derek observed startlingly. ‘Boarding school. I’ve been thinking about this quite a lot, Maggie, and I feel it could be the answer.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Self-control kept her from a more vehement response. ‘I think she’d be miserable. She’s not gregarious, you know, she’s the spectator type.’

  ‘All the more reason,’ he said firmly. ‘The right school could do wonders for her. And leave you free to think about yourself.’

  ‘You’re not trying to tell me I can’t bring Kelly to Aberdeen?’

  ‘Heavens, no. Of course you can. To Aberdeen. I’m talking about after.’

  ‘Is there an after?’ Now she was really foxed.

  The blue eyes softened. ‘I hope so,’ Derek said naively. ‘But that’s up to you.’

  The world and all his wives were in Edinburgh today. Like Derek and Maggie they had had their lunch and were now milling up Princes Street shopgazing or making for the gardens.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t get tickets for the Tattoo,’ Derek apologised. ‘I tried, but it’s the last night and there’s the firework display and I knew there was no hope.’

  It had been warm when Maggie arrived, it was now hot. Red arms and foreheads passing windows of shouting red tartans. The traffic was noisy and the street so wide and open reminded her of a running sea. Charlotte Square, reached after some manoeuvring, had cool grey bricks and white Georgian porches. The address had been surprising. From Derek’s militant picture Troy MacAllan did not seem a person for the white-traced fanlights and the torch extinguishers of Robert Adam’s period piece. It was said to be one of the most elegant streets In Europe.

  Derek did not propose to sit in at the interview. He had said wisely that they would get on better without him. ‘She may not be here yet. She gave me the keys in case she wasn’t.’ A moment and two doors later they were standing in a green-carpeted passage. ‘Troy!’ Derek called. ‘Troy! Are you there?’ There was no reply and he shrugged resignedly. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to leave you. Will you mind? Unfortunately there’s n
o telling when she’ll show and I’ve things to finish at the office.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Please don’t bother about me,’ Maggie said quickly.

  ‘She’s notoriously unpunctual, but she has allowed for it this time.’ He had taken a letter from his wallet. ‘This is some lame dog she’s taking somewhere or other. You’re to make yourself at home, she says. Poke round, have tea, eat what you fancy, watch the telly, have a snooze, take a shower.’ He put the letter away with a smile.

  Maggie was smiling too. ‘Take a shower! Does she really think I would?’

  ‘She’d be quite happy if you did. Many a one coming to this flat has been glad to—and needed it!’ He backed down the passage looking mischievous. ‘See you for dinner. Eight-ish. I’ll drop back.’

  Maggie opened the doors until she found the sitting-room, unexpectedly heavy with club armchairs and a black marble mantelpiece. A paperback on antique furniture was lying on one of the chairs and she browsed through it for a while. No windows were open and the stuffy atmosphere was trying. Heavens, she must stop yawning. The interview before her was important and she needed a clear head.

  A cup of tea or coffee would have helped. They had talked so long over lunch that Derek had not suggested it. But now—while she was waiting? Why not? After all she had been urged to make herself at home.

  Troy MacAllan was not as disorganised as Derek had implied. There were tea things on one of the kitchen counters with a bottle of milk, a wrapped loaf and an unopened packet of chocolate cakes. ‘Eat what you fancy,’ the note had said. Maggie was not hungry, but it seemed churlish to ignore what had been so thoughtfully provided. When she had cleared away she went to wash her hands. The door she had not yet opened must be that of the bathroom. It was, and it burst upon her, bright, gay, luxurious, a panorama of turquoisy blues. She looked round delightedly—flowery walls, duck egg blue suite, gold-plated fittings. From the door you could not see the recess which held bath and shower, but when she walked over it was the same eye-catching story—duck egg blue with gold handrails and gold sculpting on the shower unit. Truly a room for a sybarite.

  Maggie almost wished she had not seen it because hot and travel-weary as she was the appeal was irresistible. ‘Take a shower,’ Derek had read lightly. Many a one had, he’d added, and Maggie knew well that many a one would. Stan now, she thought suddenly, enjoy yourself. Uptight people missed such a lot. How often had Sally urged her to relax.

  It was enough. She grasped the white sweater and wriggled it over her head.

  The shower had white cotton curtains with a frilled edge. She did not draw them. A minute to select the temperature and then plain sailing. There was even a handy bathing cap. She stepped into the pale blue basin, switched on and felt a cascade of water tingle about her shoulders. Away went the last traces of diffidence. She stood revelling, while weariness and all irritations splashed away with her travel stains on to the mosaic tiles.

  Silly to have worried over Derek’s comments on Kelly. She should see them as a hint. ‘Just think about it,’ he’d said. ‘Think of being free once in a while and able to go places. You’d adore the ones I have in mind.’ Besides, there was something intoxicating about bathing under spray. It made her think of fountains, in Rome, in Paris, in Barcelona, and of going there with Derek.

  Meantime if she had not been alone in the flat she would have said someone was walking in the corridor, but the house was old and old houses had their creaks and echoes. Only another minute, she decided. It was glorious, but it could not go on for ever. Her hand in fact was reaching towards the plated towel ring when she heard: ‘There’s something going on here! The things are gone!’

  No echo that, no creak. A voice. Puzzled, youthful and near at hand. She sensed. Someone was in the flat, in the kitchen. And not Troy. This was...

  ‘Well, they can’t have walked, son.’ A man’s voice this time. ‘Look properly.’

  Not easy to pinpoint the footsteps, but these weren’t far away. As the child called back indignantly: ‘I am. I’ve got eyes in my head!’ the male voice called back detachedly: ‘Is that a fact?’ and then, horror of horrors, water spouted into a washbasin.

  The child was in the kitchen, the man was here in the bathroom, a matter of yards away, round the corner. Idiot that she was, she hadn’t bolted the door.

  ‘I left the tea all ready on the shelf,’ the youngster insisted. ‘I tell you, Dad, we’ve been done’ He scampered into the bathroom.

  Maggie was petrified. She had thought: ‘If I keep quiet—’ But the man was now saying: ‘Here, I’ll look,’ and it was too much for any nerves.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ she screamed. ‘I’m not dressed. Stay where you are!’

  The curtains. She grabbed them wildly, tugging them till they closed. And not a second to the good.

  ‘What is this?’ the voice demanded, not apparently only feet away. ‘Who are you? How did you get in?’

  She said the first thing that came into her head. ‘I have an appointment.’

  ‘In the bathroom?’

  For crying out loud! What a man! Had he, she questioned despairingly, no intuition?

  Up piped the child’s voice with interest. ‘I think these must be her clothes.’ It was peremptorily shushed. ‘Don’t touch them.’ The detectable frown in the voice put insult to injury.

  It was time to stop being hangdog. ‘I haven’t broken in, you know. My name is Campbell. The owner knows about me.’

  ‘In that case, Miss Campbell, I’m afraid you have the advantage.’ The voice was quiet but firm. Other people might see a funny side to the situation. Not this man, whoever he might bee

  Curiosity got the better of her and she poked her head gingerly through the curtains. ‘Let’s not talk in riddles. My appointment is with Miss MacAllan.’

  Two faces stared at her. She hadn’t expected to like the look of either, but they were disarming. The same handsome mould had been used for each, large undefined features, full cheeks, snub noses. The boy’s smooth head was caramel colour, his father had chestnut sideboards. The boy was in kilts and must be feeling their weight. He seemed quite mesmerised by what he saw; and this did not escape notice.

  ‘All right, Graham, there’s no need for you to hang about,’ the man said sharply.

  The tone you could resent. It had a ‘watchdog’ quality. All liking vanished and Maggie felt herself bum with anger. ‘And there’s no need for you to hang about either,’ she thrust. ‘I want to get dressed!’

  It was rude and stupid. She regretted it immediately and it was certainly not going to be taken in good part. The face went pale with anger and set like a stone wall. The voice, still quiet, took on a hard edge. ‘I’d recommend you to watch your words. I am not hanging about. I find you here on my property taking a shower and asserting that I know about you when I’ve never seen you before in my life. Your position’s ridiculous, so don’t try getting smart with me.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of it,’ Maggie said icily. ‘I had a business appointment with Miss MacAllan. I was brought here by a friend who had her key to admit me. It was suggested in the note she left that I should take a shower if I felt like it. Is that such a crime?’

  ‘I didn’t say it was a crime. I don’t use words as loosely as you do.’ Some eyes at this point might have held a twinkle. These green eyes were positively glacial. ‘Just get ready to leave as quickly as possible, please. I know my cousin and her friends think differently, but this is my flat, and my son and I need it just now.’ He turned on his heel as though the audience was ended and walked quickly away.

  ‘My cousin’... Shaken as she was, Maggie did not miss the clue. ‘My cousin’ was Troy, so he must be—what had the version been from Troy’s side of the fence? ‘John Knox, Calvin and Queen Victoria rolled into one.’ It fitted, she thought furiously, towelling herself; it fitted, but it didn’t go far enough.

  Angus MacAllan made the stage Scotsman perfectly credible. There were jokes about Aberdeen on a f
lag day; this Aberdonian grudged you water from the public main. And what a dilemma he must have been in! To run—in case the curtain might slip—or not to nm—in case she might make off with the soap?

  She was dry now and she dressed quickly, anticipating another show of aggression. It seemed, however, that Angus MacAllan had shot his last bolt, for when she opened the bathroom door there was no sign of him. The boy alone was in evidence, still in his red and green Clanranald kilt and standing against the wall.

  ‘I’m off now,’ Maggie said awkwardly.

  She was never at her best with boys. The last eighteen months had naturally brought her into contact with children of both sexes, but it was a fact, though she hoped it did not show, that girl pupils were a joy and their opposite numbers a challenge. All her innate uncertainties returned as she looked now at young MacAllan, so smooth-haired, so clean and tidy. And there was a matter of two chocolate cakes on her conscience.

  ‘I think I ate some of your cakes. They were on a tray in the kitchen. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ the little god in the kilt said forbearingly. ‘It can’t be helped’

  Why was he there? Maggie wondered. It looked suspiciously like checking that she did not leave with more than she had brought in.

  ‘And thanks for the use of your shower.’ An attempt to carry things off but unfortunately sounding rather a forced one. ‘I don’t usually do these things, but it was all so nice I couldn’t resist.’

  A blush feathered delicately through the creamy face. ‘It is a de-lightful bathroom. It’s new.’ He did not appear to see anything unusual in the remark, but then it was likely he would have inherited his father’s sense of humour.