Distant Voices Read online

  Nearby the blackbird burst once more into song. With a sudden shock Amanda looked round. When she turned back to the greenhouse the old man was no longer in sight. She bit her lip, conscious of a rash of goose pimples across her skin and, hurrying now, tiptoed back the way she had come.

  He banked up the bonfire as it grew dark, put away his tools and stood for a moment staring up at the sky. The first ice from the north was sharp. It would be a hard winter. Shrugging, he walked slowly back towards the greenhouse and went inside. Closing the door he stood for a moment in the soft darkness. The air still carried a trace of heat from the sun but already the chill was building. He lit his lantern and stood it on the staging, waiting for the flame to steady and the shadows to stop their wild jumping. The old wooden chair, where he used to sit to eat his piece and drink the tea one of the maids would bring him stood now beside his untidy workbench. He reached for the packet of cigarettes and drew one out with a shaking hand. The pull on the nicotine was good. It steadied him. Made him feel calm. Sitting there he watched the smoke drift up around his head as the temperature began to drop.

  As the leaves began to droop and the brown touch of the frost claimed the first blooms, turning the plants to pulp, he threw down the cigarette end and climbed onto the chair. His long scarf made a gentle noose for the scraggy neck as he hooked the end over the curved nail in the roof support. He gave a wry smile as he pulled it tight. No more than an old turkey cock who must die at last. He shivered. Around him he could hear the plants dying. His own death, he thought, as he kicked away the chair, would be less hard.

  Amanda stopped. She turned towards the greenhouse. From somewhere she could smell burning leaves. She frowned. It was an autumnal smell; aromatic and smoky, redolent of cold days and frosty nights. She shuddered again, violently this time, suddenly acutely aware of ice in the still, summer air.

  The chain-link fence rose six foot in front of her, a barrier between her and home. The foothold which had hoisted her over was on the far side. For a moment she stood, defeated, aware that her neighbour was watching her from one of the upper windows of her house. With a smile and a shrug Amanda turned back towards the trees to look for something to stand on.

  From the bedroom window she could see the reflections on the glass in the evening sunlight. A different angle, a different colour, it was as beautiful as in the morning, but warmer, richer, more textured.

  As soon as she had dropped back onto her own square of bare earth and ducked into her house her neighbour had knocked on her door, baby on hip, and smiled conspiratorially. ‘I saw you over there. You’ve got more courage than me. I’ve wanted to explore that garden since the day we moved in.’

  She was, it seemed, a kindred spirit after all. And she knew the story. The fall of the family fortunes, the gambling debts, the frost and then at last the fire that destroyed the house.

  ‘There is no entrance to the garden,’ she said as they sat down over a cup of coffee, the baby, quiet at last, playing at their feet. ‘My husband has seen the plans of the estate. They sold off all the land bit by bit after the fire – that was sometime between the two World Wars, I think – then the owners moved away. The son, or perhaps it’s the grandson, still owns just that last couple of acres, but he never bothered or noticed that there was no access to it. It can’t be sold. It can’t be entered. It can’t be touched by the developers or the council or anyone.’ She smiled at Amanda. ‘A secret garden – with no one to look after it. Safe. No one to spoil it.’ She paused, and added sadly, ‘No one to love it.’

  ‘Oh, there’s still someone to love it.’ Amanda returned the smile and bending down she gave the baby a biscuit. ‘The gardener’s still there.’

  Her new friend’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You don’t mean –?’

  Amanda nodded. ‘He’s still looking after it. He’s keeping it safe. And I don’t think he would mind if you and I go there from time to time. In fact, I don’t think he would even notice.’

  It was an irony that she would like to have shared with Andrew but probably never could: the new house in the ancient garden; the dreams and nightmares there beneath the untrodden floor and on the far side of the fence.

  The Fairy Child

  The rain was streaming down the office windows as I folded my letter booking the cottage, clipped Peter’s cheque to it and pushed them both into the envelope. I looked again at the address. ‘Ishmacuild.’ The word was a magic spell in itself.

  A magic spell. I repeated the phrase out loud, gazing at the orange carpet at my feet, but seeing only silver sand, rippled by wind and tide. Was that why I had chosen the island for our summer holiday; why of all the places in the guide book I had picked a tiny lonely spot like Ishmacuild: because of a magic spell?

  ‘Your turn to choose where we go this summer, Isobel,’ Peter had said with a grin. ‘Don’t choose the Bahamas though, will you? I don’t think the family coffers will quite run to that.’

  In the five years of our marriage it had worked out that way. He had chosen one year and I the next, each seeing places we might not have dreamed of otherwise, for our tastes were so different. I, the dreamer, seeking lonely places or sites steeped in history, and Peter, the energetic sportsman, choosing lively walking, sailing and exploring holidays. Such an arrangement could have spelled disaster for some marriages, but for ours it was a stimulus and an excitement. We both enjoyed the new efforts we had to make and learned, too, far more about each other than we ever would have done had we reached a dreary compromise each year.

  The next time I was in the public library I crossed to the travel shelves and scanned the titles. I knew roughly what I wanted: the Scottish Highlands and Islands. I, with the maiden name of Macdonald, had never been there. My father had always said that our family came from Scotland years ago, and although we’d often talked about it we had never visited it when I was a child. This year, I was determined, I was going to remedy that. I reached down a volume and flipped slowly through the pages, glancing at the breathtaking photographs. There were so many places to choose from, so many lovely things to see. I took the book home and with it another of stories and legends. It was in this second book that I found Ishmacuild:

  Below the picturesque village, deep amongst the rocks, lies the magic fairy pool where countless generations of Macdonald women have gone by moonlight with a gift of gold to ensure the birth to the family of a son and heir …

  I blinked and read on quickly. That was a very unhappy subject and one I tried to put out of my mind, but somehow over the next few days my thoughts insisted on turning back to that magic pool. After all I was a Macdonald woman, and I desperately wanted a son and heir.

  The first two years of our marriage had been intentionally childless. The last three not so. Neither of us had worried at first and we had used the chance we had to go to concerts and theatres and have the kind of holidays our friends with growing families could not afford. But of late I had begun to wonder if anything could be wrong. I had not mentioned it to Peter but once or twice I had seen him glance broodingly into the pram of our baby nephew, and I knew that like me he was thinking about children.

  The guide book recommended Ishmacuild for its peace and silver sands and the beauty of the surrounding mountains. It listed several addresses.

  When, tentatively, I suggested the place to Peter he laughed. ‘So the famous Macdonald blood is coming to the surface at last.’ He dropped a kiss on my forehead. ‘It’s a lovely idea, Isobel. We’ll write for details at once.’

  So it was all arranged. On a beautiful June evening we climbed onto the train which was to take us north. My heart should have been singing and my blood tingling with excitement but it wasn’t, for something was wrong with Peter.

  Peter was usually a cheerful, matter-of-fact person. Tall, strong, broad-shouldered with the clear grey eyes and tanned face of an outdoor man, he was everything a dream husband could possibly be. I could never quite get over my luck in having married him at all. His humour and
optimism carried me along on the crest of a wave even when I was feeling a bit down. But now, for two days he had been moody and depressed. He had eaten nothing and snapped at me every time I spoke to him. His face had taken on a sunken grey look which secretly terrified me. I wondered whether to suggest he saw the doctor, never a popular idea with Peter at the best of times, and I wondered with a sinking heart whether I should suggest cancelling the holiday, but in the end, cowardly, I did neither and hoped for the best.

  In the sleeping car which normally would have been an exciting adventure to share and enjoy we undressed in total silence. Peter hauled himself into his berth without a word and settled down, his face to the compartment wall. He never even said goodnight.

  I lay awake for hours listening to the rhythmical rattling of the wheels over the miles of track, tense and unhappy. The further north we got the more I was filled with a dreadful sense of foreboding, and when at last I fell asleep in the early hours of the morning it was to a restless slumber tormented with formless nightmares.

  The grandeur and beauty of the scenery and the excitement of the boat trip out to the island distracted me a little next day, I must admit, from Peter’s mood. He seemed to have made up his mind to try and enjoy himself and he smiled and talked and gazed as I did at the scenery unfolding before us on every side. But I could see there was still something very wrong. The strange look haunted his eyes and though his mouth smiled and joked I could see that deep down inside he was in bleak despair. I shivered as, standing by the boat rail, feeling the hot salt wind blow the hair off my face, I turned suddenly and caught him looking at me with such an expression of bewildered resentment and hate it was all I could do not to cry out in horror. It was as if he had become a stranger. I turned back to watching the slippery silver waves and bit back my tears.

  The cottage we had rented was tiny; no more than two rooms with a little kitchen and bathroom extension built on at the back. From the sink as I filled the kettle for our first pot of Highland tea I could see a vista of mountain peaks and valleys leading to the horizon and before them the silver sea lochs, glittering ribbons in the dusky twilight. Somewhere down there beyond the horizon lay the magic pool.

  The next morning dawned bright. I lay for a long time listening to the shush of the sea in the distance and the weird, eery whistle of the curlew, watching the thin beams of early sunshine edge slowly through the undrawn curtains. Suddenly I realised that Peter was watching me. I turned to him, and leaned over to kiss him, but abruptly he turned his back on me and pulled the pillow over his head. Hurt, I drew back.

  ‘What’s wrong, love? Can you tell me?’ I whispered, hardly daring to ask the question which had brought such fear into my heart.

  ‘Oh, go to hell,’ the muffled words sounded so desperate I didn’t know what to do. I climbed out of bed and stood gazing down at him numbly. ‘Go on; go away. Leave me alone.’ Peter’s voice was taking on an angry tone. Quickly, stunned with misery, I grabbed my dress and sandals and fled to the bathroom.

  The path from the back door led across an area of heather bent towards the rocks and the loch. I ran quickly, wanting to get as soon as possible out of the sight of the cottage windows. Tears, half of fear, half anger, were running down my cheeks, and all I wanted was to hide my misery on my own by the shore.

  I didn’t see the small fishing boat, hidden as it was by the rocks, until I was almost on it and by then it was too late to turn back. A young man, tall, with a thatch of midnight-black hair and piercing blue eyes, was learning negligently against the stern pulling a net from the tangle at his feet. His lips were pursed in a soundless whistle. I turned away as soon as I saw him, wanting to be on my own, and headed up the beach but he must have seen me at once. ‘It’s a grand morning.’ His voice, not raised above a half-whisper, arrested me where I stood. Seeing me turn back he gave a broad smile. His teeth were astonishingly white in his tanned face.

  ‘You’ll be staying up at the cottage. How are you finding it?’ he asked casually, his fingers never ceasing to work through the tangled black mesh.

  ‘Oh fine.’ I rubbed the back of my wrist across my eyes, hoping he wouldn’t see that I had been crying. ‘We only arrived yesterday though. So I haven’t seen very much.’

  He grinned. ‘Well, I’ll take you out in the boat any day you want. Do you like the fishing?’

  I shook my head, warming to the charm of his infectious smile. ‘I’d like to go for a sail though. And one thing, I would like so much …’ I hesitated, imagining he’d think me such a fool.

  ‘You’d like to visit the fairy pool,’ he finished for me. ‘Aye, everyone wants to go there. I’ll take you whenever you wish. Now, if you like.’ He straightened hopefully, but I shook my head. ‘I must go back and get some breakfast for my husband now. Perhaps later?’

  He shrugged. ‘Any time. You’ll always find me round the boat if I’m not at sea. My name is Ross by the way. Ross Macdonald.’

  ‘I’m Isobel,’ I said. ‘Once Macdonald too, now Hemming.’

  He held out his hand. ‘No doubt we’re kin. I saw it in your eyes.’ He grinned. ‘Now, away to your food, Isobel Macdonald. You must not let your man starve.’

  He turned back to his nets and I began to retrace my steps towards the cottage. My encounter with Ross Macdonald had cheered me and when I went back into the kitchen I was humming quietly to myself. I stopped abruptly when I saw Peter sitting at the kitchen table. He was absent-mindedly stirring a cup of coffee.

  ‘There’s more in the pot, Isobel,’ he murmured and there seemed to be a note of apology in his voice.

  The next three days passed quickly and without further incidents. I told Peter about Ross and we went out with him twice on fishing expeditions. I was beginning to like the tall islander very much. He had a calm, gentle sense of humour which did much to ease us over uneasy silences and the awkward angry moods which still came on Peter seemingly for no reason at all.

  Then on Wednesday night came the most terrible moment of my life. I had had my bath and was sitting up in bed reading, wondering why Peter was taking so long. On the past two nights he had gone to bed early and had been asleep when I joined him. At last he came, turning out the light, and he stood looking down at me for a long while without speaking. I threw down my book and held out my arms expectantly. He went white and took a step back as though I’d hit him.

  ‘No, Isobel,’ he said, quite loudly. ‘Never again, my dear. Never; I’m going to divorce you.’

  ‘Peter!’ I heard the anguish in my own voice, like the voice of a stranger. ‘Peter, what’s happened?’

  ‘I don’t want to live with you any more. That’s what has happened. There’s no more to be said on the matter.’ He walked deliberately to his side of the bed.

  I flung myself up on my knees and caught hold of him. ‘Peter, why? Peter, I love you. Is there someone else?’ My eyes were burning with hot tears. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Quite coldly and deliberately he flung me off. One minute I had my arms round him, clinging, the next I was lying on the cold, painted floorboards. He climbed silently into bed and turned his back.

  Sobbing wildly I scrambled to my feet, grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair, and flinging it round my shoulders over my nightdress ran out into the translucent warmth of the night.

  It was quite easy to pick my way down to the loch for although it was after eleven, it seemed not to get dark at all this far north. My heart was hammering against my ribs with fear and I felt very sick.

  All I wanted was to be alone by the gently lapping waters of the loch. Alone to think.

  It was almost as though Ross were waiting for me. One moment I was alone, sobbing desperately, and the next he was there beside me. With only the slightest hesitation he put his strong arm round my shoulders and pulled me against him.

  ‘There, there, lassie; it’s best to cry. No woman should be afraid of crying, especially one as beautiful as you. Why, your tears are like crystals, here on your
cheek.’ He raised his finger gently and brushed them aside.

  ‘Oh Ross, what shall I do? Peter wants to divorce me.’ I clung to him, thinking only of my husband and the terrible pain in my heart.

  ‘I could see that there was something wrong between you.’ Ross nodded, his lips very close to my hair. ‘My dear, I’m so very sorry.’

  Slowly, clinging to him for reassurance and comfort, I walked beside Ross down the warm beach. We didn’t talk at all after those first few words, then at last when we reached the barrier of fallen rocks which lay across the end of the sand he stopped and turning me to him he kissed me. Behind us an enormous moon was rising slowly from the circling mountains and somewhere on the waters of the loch a lonely night-bird cried.

  I hardly know what made me let him do it. The magic of the night, the warmth of the sand, the ache of rejection in my heart which needed so badly to be comforted and stilled. All those things must have helped to enchant me as we sank slowly together to our knees in the moonlight, still kissing, and I let him slide the pale blue silk of my nightdress from my shoulders.

  It was dawn when I finally let myself back into the cottage. I felt chilled and the hem of my nightdress was wet with dew, but I felt indescribably reassured and happy. It was as though Ross had imparted to me some of his own quiet strength.

  I put on the kettle and groped in the cupboard for the teapot as the first red glow of the sun rose above the mountains.

  Peter found me there. He stood for a moment in the doorway looking down at me and I saw with a hideous lurch of pity that he had been crying.

  Without a word I pushed a cup towards him and began to pour out.

  ‘Isobel, I’m sorry, darling.’ He sounded hoarse and uncertain. ‘I’ve been thinking about it all night. I must tell you the truth.’ Nervously he clasped his hands around the cup, staring deep into the steaming liquid. ‘I went to see Dr Henderson a week or so before we came here. No.’ He held up his hand as immediately I tried to interrupt, full of anxiety. ‘No. I’m not ill or anything …’ He sighed and sipped the scalding tea, trying to find the courage to speak. ‘I had to know if it was my fault we have no children, Isobel. I had to know.’ He looked at me pleadingly. ‘I’m sorry, love.’ He seemed unable to go on and I waited, not daring to say a word. I could feel myself beginning to shiver.