The House Between Tides (15 page)

Ùna called out to another child, whose gleeful stamping in a shallow channel was soaking his companions, and shook her head. “No. And I guess we won't know for a bit.” Again it seemed impossible to press the matter. “You're sure you don't mind us using the old croft house?” she asked, shaking her hair free of the hood as they reached the island. “We'll move our stuff out if you like?”

“It's fine, really.” She felt awkward, mindful of her new status—landowner, potential developer, incomer, outsider. Finding a place here was not going to be easy after all.

“Fantastic,” said Ùna. “Drop by and see for yourself, if you've time?” They caught up with the children, who were waiting obediently at the bottom of the track which led up to the house, and Hetty promised that she would.

She went off on her own and found the little burial ground without difficulty on a ridge behind the house, bounded by a low
wall. Rusty iron hinges showed where a gate had once stood, but now the sheep had wandered in, cropping the grass. They bolted as she approached, like guilty spirits departing.

The painter's grave was marked by a simple headstone giving only his name and dates, and she stood a moment, looking down at it, seeking a connection to him. But this was a bleak place, and there was nothing of him here.

His headstone was in stark contrast with the ostentatious Victorian memorial, complete with weeping angels, which marked his parents' grave and that of their three infant daughters. She discovered too that the burial ground was shared with the Forbes family, underlining the close, if unequal, relationship between the two families. A ring-headed cross marked the grave of John Forbes, the one-time factor, and beside him was his wife, who had died several decades earlier. Just twenty-four years old, poor thing, buried with an infant who had survived her by a day. And then she saw that there was another inscription on the base of the cross shaft, and she bent to pull aside a wiry strand of heather.
In memory of John Donald Cameron, Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, 1944.
Some forebear of James Cameron's, no doubt; Ruairidh had said that they were connected.

She sat down on the low wall, biting into the apple she had brought, and contemplated the grassy mounds. At least one of those slumbering here knew the answer to the riddle of the bones and had taken the secret to the grave. Had others known too? A conspiracy of phantoms? And she wondered if they were unsettled now by the discovery. If she hadn't come here, perhaps no one would have ever known. Muirlan House would have become just another ruin, burying its past under collapsing ceilings and a fallen roof.

She looked again at Blake's grave. Had
he
known?

He must have done.

But Blake was himself a tragic figure. From a meteoric rise which seemed set to place him amongst the greats of British art, he had fallen hard. A self-imposed exile, then a brief, childless marriage, followed by a long, slow decline which had ended in the clear waters of the strand. And somewhere in that broken life, another life had ended. But when? And why? She scanned the graves again, then threw the apple core into a patch of nettles and left the burial ground.

It was hard to reconcile any of this with the man behind the paintings. The seascape, which had been part of her childhood and which now hung in her flat, was shot through with brilliance, overflowing with talent and energy—and optimism. When she had described it over supper that first evening, the cousins had agreed it had almost certainly been painted at Torrann Bay. “A great sweep of a beach to the west, a mile or so long. The sun sets along it,” Ruairidh had told her.

She decided to ask Ùna how to get there, and went down the ridge towards the house to find her.

The chatter of children drew her towards an outbuilding which looked as if it had been one of the old croft houses, now sporting a new tin roof with large roof-lights. She stooped to enter the low doorway, and the buzz inside subsided and then resumed as Ùna came forward to greet her.

“You found him, then? The poor wee man. For all his money, he can't have been happy. It's no wonder he went barmy. Can you imagine it, living there alone with that under the floor-boards for company?”

“I was thinking he must have known.”

“Aye. He must have.” Ùna dismissed Theo Blake and pulled Hetty over to admire the work of her young charges. “Not quite up to his standards yet, but they're very keen.”

It was the usual array of childish daubs and collages: sea shells,
crab claws, and dried seaweed, with a few more dainty arrangements of pressed wild flowers. “This place is perfect for the children. Some of the dads repaired the old benches and fixed the roof, and the new roof-lights are great. And we had a safety inspection so don't you worry—” She broke off to defuse a sudden quarrel between two of the small artists and to mop up the resultant spillage. Hetty joined in, drying the children's hands on paper towels, and then asked for directions to Torrann Bay.

“Less than a mile, straight across. It's a gorgeous spot, but don't tarry too long there or you'll find yourself staying the night. Be sure to cross back over by four.”

A sweet smell rose from the turf as she followed Ùna's directions. It must be the clover, she thought, and those yellow flowers, whatever they were. And there were signs of a crop coming through. Was it Ruairidh's? He said he farmed the land.

She headed for the dunes to the west and climbed to the top, emerging through the grasses into a scene that was instantly recognisable—her painting, laid out in front of her. The sun was already beginning its slow descent towards a distant horizon, reflected in the pools and rivulets left by the tide, and even the rocks in the foreground were where she expected them to be. Blake must have set up his easel right there, in that sheltered spot in the angle of a ruined wall, and she went and sat where he might have sat, in a place of stillness and calm, and listened to the waves coming ashore.

What a strange sensation it was, feeling the painting coming alive around her. It seemed to envelop her, drawing her in and binding her close with a sense of connection, strong and powerful. And it was here, not at the grim little graveyard, with the flung cries of the seabirds above her, that she felt the spirit of the young painter, restless and driven, glorying in his talent, before his world fell apart.

1910, Theo

Theo held the book open in front of him, feigning concentration. He improved the charade now and then by turning the pages, determined to avoid conversation. He wished now that he had ordered a fire; the room was cold. And too still, too quiet. When he was sure that Beatrice was not looking, he studied her, searching for clues. How much damage had he done?

She was sitting on the window seat, her chin cupped in her hand, looking out across the bay, a picture of tranquil thoughtfulness. But he wasn't fooled. There was little tranquillity behind that cool façade. He had seen the expression of hurt bewilderment on her face when he had snapped at her, and he cursed himself again for his lapse. He flipped over another page as she moved, drawing her shawl close, and frowned at his book with counterfeit attention, but she didn't turn to him. Thank God— He didn't want her to speak of it, to ask him to explain, for what could he possibly say without causing further damage? They must just forget the incident, bury it, and keep the surface smooth.

But there were already cat's-paws on that surface, and he knew that there would be further squalls. He had seen the way she had begun to look at him, puzzled and dismayed, as if striving to understand. He gripped the covers of the book, stifling a groan. He had not meant to speak to her as he had, but the sight of her standing there beside the pool, a parody and a cheat, had sent shock waves jagging through him, and for a moment he had lost control.

It was to have been a delightful afternoon, and he had set off determined to make it so, determined to put aside his frustration with Cameron and give Beatrice the attention she deserved. It had begun well too. They had picnicked on the sand, watching the seals playing off-shore, and after a while she had wandered off, leaving him sketching the gaunt bare ribs from a long-wrecked boat, half-buried in the sand. He had forgotten her as he became absorbed in his work but, as so frequently happened these days, he had become distracted, the painful scene in the study replaying itself in his mind. “I'd understood there was no further obligation, sir,” Cameron had said.
Obligation!
Good God. It had come to that.

He had persevered with the sketch, but after an hour he had given up and sat brooding, gazing out to sea, wrestling with the hurt, and eventually he had gone to look for Beatrice.

At first he could not find her, but as he came from behind a large rock he saw her—and had gaped in disbelief. She was poised on the edge of a rock pool, one hand resting on a boulder, her skirts gathered in the other, leaning forward, dipping her toe into the pool, causing a flurry of ripples to break the surface. The blood had pounded in his ears, and it was not Beatrice he saw:

“For pity's sake, Màili. Stay still!”

“I can't. I'm just balanced on the edge.”

He sketched rapidly while she held her pose. “Just a moment more, then I'll have it.”

But she stepped away from the pool and laughed at him over her shoulder
.
“Will this one make you famous, Theo?”

“What on earth are you doing, Beatrice?” His shout had unbalanced her and she had straightened abruptly, letting her skirts dip into the water while he stood staring, his bag across his back, his heart still jumping.

Moving away from the pool, she dropped beside him, her chin resting on his shoulder, and the musky salt smell of her hair drove the sketch
from his mind. “I was stiff! Surely you can make the rest up, you've drawn me often enough.”

Beatrice looked across at him. “Why, nothing. Theo—?”

“Well, come away.” It had been all he could do to regain control. “You've got your hems all wet.” His fault for calling out, of course, but she had stepped away from the pool, giving him a puzzled look. “The light's changing. We should head back.” He gestured abruptly to her discarded shoes and stockings: “I'll wait at the top of the dunes while you put those on,” and he had felt her eyes following him as he climbed up the dunes, his feet sliding backwards in the soft sand, struggling for control. But Màili's voice pursued him, carried on the wind:

“If it makes you famous, will I get talked about in Edinburgh?” she asked, and began plucking at the pink heads of sea thrift that grew from a cleft in the rock. He leant back against the rocks, pulling down the brim of his straw hat low across his eyes, and watched her, his pulse thudding.

He could remember every moment of that day.

“I'd rather they talked about the painting.” Retrieving his pencil he altered a few lines in the fall of her skirt, and in the round fullness of her breasts. And she laughed at him and flung a pink flower head into the pool, then watched the wind catch and spin it, breaking the calm of the surface.

By this time Beatrice reached him. “Did you make good progress, Theo?” she asked quietly.

“A little.”

“Will we come back another day, in better light?”

“No. At least . . . I don't know.”

She had run her fingers through her hair and pinned her hat into place, glancing at him from under the brim, curious. “I thought it quite a striking scene.”

“Barren, lifeless.” And too sharp a metaphor of his life! He had
tightened the strap on his bag, hitching it higher on his shoulder, and she had followed him down the inland side of the dunes.

“Could you improve it at all? By adding people or birds, maybe?”

He had snorted angrily, still shaken, and too ready to be insulted. “For God's sake, Beatrice! Why not a couple of palm trees and a half-buried sea chest? Would you like that better?” A stricken look had crossed her face, and she had dropped her head again, shaking the sand from the damp edge of her skirt, but when she looked up, her face was expressionless and he had felt a pang of remorse. “It's not a good composition. I'll try somewhere else.”