Face the Wind and Fly (12 page)

‘Dinner at Martin Wishart’s in Leith? My treat? What do you think?’

Martin Wishart’s restaurant was Michelin-starred and luxurious. The service was as meticulous as the cooking, the tablecloths starched and whiter than porcelain. It was a place to be pampered and Harry’s response was predictable.

‘Your treat? How could we say no? What does Ninian think?’

‘I haven’t sounded him out yet, but he’s at an age where he’s beginning to be willing to be seduced by good food. I imagine he’d go for it.’

‘Excellent.’

She was pleased that Harry approved. ‘I’d like to surprise your father.’

‘No problem. The secret’s safe with me.’

Ninian, though, was not as enthusiastic as she had anticipated.

‘Why’re you treating
Dad
? He doesn’t deserve it.’

‘Ninian! Why ever not?’

‘Haven’t you noticed, Mum?’

‘Noticed what?’

‘Duh! Why’s Dad out all the time?’

‘He has meetings. He’s researching a new book.’

Ninian threw her a look of utter contempt and headed for the stairs. ‘Right.’

‘Ninian? Will you come?’

There was no reply, only the pounding of boots on the stairs.

She pressed her fingers against her temples, where the pounding was echoed in the makings of a monumental headache.

Chapter Thirteen

‘You haven’t got fixings for the cot in your van,’ Cassie told Ibsen, ‘and to be honest, I think the thing’s so rusty nothing would hold anyway. So you’ve got two choices. Either you strap her in front of you in the baby carrier, or you put her in the pram.’

‘How long did you say you were going to be?’ Ibsen eyed Daisy Rose apprehensively.

Daisy Rose blinked and blew him a bubble. She grabbed hold of one toe and pulled it to her mouth.

‘Here, baby.’ Cassie deftly unfurled her and slipped on a babygro. ‘It’s just a check up at the hospital, I won’t be long, but Mum’s getting her hair done and I didn’t want to ask her to change it, she’s done so much for me recently. As for Dad—’ she leaned towards Ibsen, ‘—well, bless him, I wouldn’t want to leave her with Dad, he’d probably forget she was there.’

Ibsen could feel his shoulders rising. It was touching that Cassie trusted
him
with Daisy, after what happened to Violet, but it was an enormous responsibility.

‘You’ll be fine, Ibs.’ Cassie put her arm round his shoulders and gave him a quick squeeze. ‘Just because … you know … it’s not going to happen again.’

He knew she was right, but it was going to take some courage.

‘What’s it to be? Sling or pram?’

‘Pram. I have to get some work done. You did say she’ll sleep?’

‘Like a baby,’ Cassie laughed. ‘Right. Pram it is.’

So now Ibsen found himself striding along Forgie Main Street pushing Daisy Rose in front of him. He prayed Melanie wasn’t around to see him because heaven knows what ideas that would trigger. His head was down and his shoulders were hunched forward because the handle of the pram was too low and besides, he was feeling extremely self-conscious. He just hoped Frank was going to be understanding.

It was ten weeks since little Daisy shot into this world in defiance of everyone’s diary and now here he was, in sole charge of her, his heart bursting with love and his brain scrambled by panic. What if she needed changing? What if she choked? What if—

He peered into the dimness of the interior to check that she was still breathing. He’d looked at her a dozen times already, because he needed to know she was all right. He was becoming obsessive about it, which was ridiculous but maybe understandable. Daisy Rose blinked at him from under a slightly crooked lace bonnet, her eyes already turning intense blue just like Ibsen’s, and Cassie’s, and Tam’s. A slow smile spread over her face.

‘Don’t you laugh at me, you little monkey,’ he muttered, but couldn’t resist grinning stupidly back at her. He was in love. Daisy Rose had captured his heart in a way no woman had ever quite managed.

Beside him, a car screeched to a halt. Wellington jumped sideways in alarm and the pram nearly jolted out of his grasp. He swung round. The engine died to silence and Kate Courtenay climbed out of the car. Ibsen’s face tightened. First she wanted to smother the countryside with wind turbines and now she was trying to kill him, his niece, and his dog. He hadn’t forgotten their encounter on Summerfield Law, but he hadn’t understood what happened that day either. Whatever way you looked at it, though, she made him feel uncomfortable.

Kate hopped round to the pavement. ‘Hi! Sorry about the sudden stop, the pram was unexpected, I didn’t recognise you until I spotted Wellington. I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I didn’t know how to get hold of you.’

‘I don’t have time for an argument about wind farms today.’ He was curt, nodding at the pram.

‘Yours?’ She touched the handle of the pram inquiringly. ‘May I?’

She pushed a tentative finger inside the pram and moved the cotton gently aside. Daisy gazed back at her with solemn blue eyes, then she opened her tiny mouth opened and executed a charming yawn. ‘Oh, she’s so beautiful!’ Kate exclaimed, with such heartfelt appreciation that Ibsen began to thaw.

‘She’s not long out of hospital, we had a real scare with her.’

‘Is she all right?’

‘So far as we know, yes.’

‘Are you taking her to work?’

‘I had to, Cassie’s off to the doctor’s. If you want the truth,’ he confessed, ‘I’m trying not to panic about all the instructions I’ve been given. There’s a spare nappy in the bag. If she cries, just jiggle her about a bit. If she seems thirsty, there’s a bottle of water. Personally, I’m happier with dahlias.’

‘The instructions sound about right.’

‘She’s not a packet of seeds, I’m told. Apparently she’s not to be planted by the feet and covered in soil. I’m worried I might get confused.’ He grinned at her, his earlier apprehension forgotten. ‘What brings you here, Pocket Rocket?’

‘Is that a reference to my size? Because if so, I have to tell you I find it—’

‘Just a little joke. It was a tribute to your obvious energy.’

‘I’ve got the energy, you’ve got the tool kit handy on your head.’

He lifted a hand up to his ponytail and touched string. His grin widened. ‘First thing to come to hand this morning.’

‘Vanity isn’t one of your vices, then?’

‘Dangerous ground. If you want to talk about my vices, I’ve got others I can describe to you.’

‘Oh please. I’ll pass.’ She was laughing.

He said, ‘You look nice when you’re not being pompous.’

Kate looked startled. ‘Thank you. I think.’

Wellington, tired of being ignored, pushed his nose into her hand and she bent to stroke him. ‘Hello, Wellington. Don’t you look gorgeous in this sunshine? Your coat’s gleaming. You’re a lovely boy.’ Wellington’s tail redoubled its wag. She straightened up, but kept stroking Wellington’s insistent head. ‘Listen, I wanted to talk to you. I’ve had an idea.’

Ibsen raised one eyebrow. ‘Another wind farm?’

‘One is enough for round here, I’m sure you’ll agree. No. A garden.’

That
did
surprise him. ‘What, round the bottom of the turbines? Forget-me-nots, perhaps?’

She ignored the sarcasm. ‘In Summerfield, next to the primary school.’

Surprise jolted him out of defensiveness. ‘That bit of waste land? I thought it belonged to the council?’

‘It does in a manner of speaking. Actually, the land is part of the ground that the school is built on. It never got developed, just got overlooked somehow.’

‘Why do you want to make it into a garden?’

‘Everyone can get involved, see?’ Her hands were moving expressively. He watched them, half mesmerised. She really could be engaging when she got caught up by her enthusiasms. ‘The kids can be included in the decision making, it’ll help parents and grandparents do things with their children, it can be a beautiful place, for sitting, and listening and learning. Getting to know where food comes from. I’ve got lots of ideas.’

‘Right.’ He planted his feet squarely on the pavement and crossed his arms. ‘And you mention it to me because—?’

‘I’d like you to be on the committee.’

Ibsen threw back his head and laughed out loud. ‘Committee? Me? You’ve got me all wrong, Mrs Courtenay—’

‘Kate. Remember? Spiky and short.’

‘I’m no committee man.’ His ponytail swayed as he shook his head. ‘I hate meetings. It’s all I can do to go to the Skittles Club meeting once a year down at The Crossed Keys.’

‘You were at the Community Council meeting.’

‘I wanted to hear what possible justification your lot could give for the bloody ugly mess you’re going to make of the countryside round here.’

‘Don’t swear,’ Kate said, then looked up at him swiftly from under her lashes. God, she had terrific eyes. ‘Sorry. Habit. I’ve got a teenage son. Anyway, it’s not about the committee, I’m not explaining this well. Of course, there will be decisions to make, but what I really want is for you to head up the volunteers and help with designing the garden. Getting it up and running. There’s going to be a lot of work.’

‘
You
want me? Dare I ask – what has the waste land at Summerfield Primary got to do with you?’

‘If the school likes the idea, and I think they do, the first thing will be to get some money in place. And once it gets going, the Summerfield Wind Farm Community Fund will be able to help.’

He could feel his face tighten.

‘Assuming the wind farm is given the go-ahead, of course,’ she qualified, seeing his expression. ‘But in any case, the garden is still a great idea. If the money doesn’t come from the Fund, then we’ll have to raise it another way, because it
is
a fantastic project, don’t you think?’

‘I think you’re being manipulative, Kate.’

‘No! I asked you because I knew you’d be good. I just—’

There was a whimper from the pram. ‘I’ve got to go. Madam needs attention.’

‘Think about it?’

‘Maybe. Here, Wellington.’ He turned away and started to walk. The dog gave Kate one backwards glance as he followed obediently.

‘How can I contact you?’ she called after him.

‘I’ll be in The Crossed Keys in Summerfield on Friday night.’

‘And you’ll give me an answer then?’

 ‘You’ll have to come and see, won’t you?’ he said over his shoulder.

‘Okay! I will,’ she called after him. ‘And I’ll bring a ribbon for your hair.’

She wasn’t lacking in spirit, he had to give her that. Maybe it was just what he needed – a shot of pure adrenalin to jolt his heart into beating with excitement.

Besides, Wellington liked her.

Tam and Betty’s modest kitchen was the hub of family life. Ibsen grew up in this cottage. He learned to make scones and pies here with his mother, and spent hours dropping batter off the end of a spoon onto the hot girdle, then flipping the small Scotch pancakes over when bubbles rose to the surface. He remembered running in, aged five, covered in mud but triumphant with the first carrots of the season ready for scrubbing and chopping. Once, he’d covered the entire table with strawberries and counted them – one hundred and sixty four. On winter evenings, when supper was over, homework finished and the chores done, they’d all gathered here to play ludo, or Monopoly or happy families. And here, with the smell of Betty’s rhubarb crumble still in the air, they’d argue over football, or the best way to deal with the economy, or the state of farming. And it was here that he fell apart after Violet died, and where he was slowly glued back together again, the cracks and breaks in his soul disguised just as his mother would conceal the flaws in a cake with butter icing.

Tam poured two beers and sat at the kitchen table with Ibsen while Betty, happy in her domain, fussed around them preparing supper. Wellington lay in the dog bed that was kept there for him and snuffled gently.

‘Everything all right with Daisy Rose today then?’ Betty asked, knowing the answer.

‘You mean, did I cope? Yes, I did. I thought I might have to tie the nappy on with string, but I just about managed.’

Betty laughed. ‘It’s great to see Cass so happy, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

He didn’t mean it to sound curt, but his mother picked up on his tone at once. ‘Oh lovey, I didn’t mean … I know it must be hard for you.’

‘Not really. It’s a long time ago, Ma.’

He had to lie to her because otherwise she’d never stop fussing. Best to change the subject. ‘Frank Griffiths was on about this wind farm again today, Pa. Says they’re a waste of space, these companies just build them because the government’s giving out big subsidies.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Here you go,’ Betty interrupted, setting down steaming plates of shepherd’s pie and veg. Betty Brown’s shepherd’s pie was the best in Summerfield or anywhere for miles around, so silence fell for some minutes as they all tucked in.

‘And they kill birds,’ Ibsen added eventually, laying down his fork to draw breath.

‘And where does he get all his facts from?’ Tam Brown was a stockier, more weather-beaten version of his son. He’d left school at fifteen to learn his gardening at his own father’s knee, but he was a keen reader and had a questing intelligence.

Ibsen shrugged. ‘I didn’t ask, but he seemed to know what he was talking about.’

‘Have you checked it out?’

‘Give me a break, Pa, I only just got back.’

Betty said, ‘Tam, you know why Summerfield’s so important to the boy.’

Tam looked at Ibsen levelly. ‘I know. But the wee lass isn’t there any more, she’s gone back to the earth long since, and the wind farm’s a thing for the future.’

‘We don’t have to let it happen,’ Ibsen said, his voice harsh.

‘If you’re going to be one of the protesters, son, I should warn you I’ll be on the other side.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘From where I sit they’re good on a lot of levels. Renewable means just that, remember. There’s always more where it comes from.’

‘But—’

‘The Forgie lot won’t like it, I can see that. They’ll think it’ll bring down their property prices, I dare say. But look at it this way, there’ll be a lot of jobs. Maybe not for the posh folk so much, but for people like Davey Fegan, down the pub, the construction workers. There’ll be lots of folk needing to stay locally while it’s being built. The caff’ll be hard pressed to make enough rolls in the mornings and the pub’ll have to get in a lot more beer.’

‘And what about the damage they do to the environment? Killing birds. Noise. Ugliness. And for what? Not a lot, according to Frank. And don’t forget, we’ll be able to see them from here.’

‘That’s the worst argument I’ve heard yet.’

‘Now now, you two.’ Betty got up to clear away the plates. ‘I won’t have arguing round the table.’

‘There’ll be a lot more arguing before this wind farm thing’s settled, I suspect,’ Tam said dryly. ‘And not just round this table either.’

‘The woman in charge of the thing, Kate Courtenay—’

‘A
woman
in charge?’

‘Five foot three of chutzpah, thinks she knows everything.’

‘If she’s in charge, I daresay she does know a great deal.’

Attraction was one thing, opposition to the wind farm quite another. ‘She knows what she wants to know and conveniently sets aside the things that don’t fit with her grand plan.’

‘Or maybe you’re just not listening.’

‘You’re an obstinate old bugger, aren’t you?’

‘And you need to face facts.’

‘Stop it you two.’ Betty intervened. A lifetime of living with these males had forced her into the role of peacemaker, which she undertook with gusto. ‘Time out.’