The Wedding Cake Tree (27 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

We ventured on through Lochaber: Fort William passed in a blur of mist and rain, the Glenfinnan Viaduct was just a watery glance through the back window and Loch Shiel was more like a violent ocean than a sheltered inland loch. The storm reached a crescendo as we arrived at the coast; the windscreen wipers failed to match the torrent of rain being thrown in bucket loads across the car.

It was w
ith a sense of relief, then, that we eventually arrived at our destination, the small fishing village of Arisaig. Our accommodation consisted of two rooms in a pretty hotel situated on the harbour front.

A
Polish girl escorted us to our rooms.

‘
Oh, that’s a shame,’ I said with a cheeky glance at Alasdair, who was depositing the suitcases on the floor, ‘there’s no interconnecting door this time.’

‘
A minor detail,’ he said. ‘I’ll chisel one out if necessary.’

He followed me to the window
. I ran a hand through my damp hair and looked out towards the sea. At least, I thought I was looking at the sea; it was difficult to tell through the torrential rain.

‘
This weather has put a bit of a dampener on this evening’s plans I’m afraid. Your mum didn’t account for a storm.’ He turned to sit on the windowsill and face me. ‘So this is how tonight was supposed to work. We were
supposed
to go and sit on a little stretch of silver sand – about a mile or so from here – build a campfire, look out towards the mystic islands of Rum and Eigg—’

‘
Egg? As in, bacon and—’

‘
Yes, just listen for a second. We were going to sit on the beach and you were going to read the next letter’—he glanced out of the window—‘but obviously that’s not going to be possible this evening, so I’ll give you the letter to read after dinner and then, well, we’ll see what tomorrow brings.’

‘
Why don’t we just enjoy this evening and I’ll read the letter tomorrow,’ I asked, leaning towards him playfully. ‘What difference will a day make?’

He ignored my suggestion
and gently pushed me away.

‘
No. You need to read the letter tonight.’

He
picked up a strand of my damp rats-tail hair and tweaked it back behind my ear. ‘We have to be somewhere in the morning, first thing, so you
have to
read that letter tonight.’

Not remo
tely interested in Mum’s letter, and desperate to prevent Alasdair adjourning to his room, I took the only course of action left open to a harlot – I manoeuvred him onto the bed, sat astride him and arched forwards so that my lips were almost touching his.

‘
The thing is, Alasdair’—I allowed my hair to drape across his chest as I spoke in a low, seductive voice—‘I simply haven’t built up sufficient appetite for dinner. Maybe you could think of something we could do to kill an hour or so …’

What the hell had happened to me?

He tried not to smile but the corners of his mouth twitched, those deep blue eyes sparkled and I felt something else stir beneath his zip. It was my turn to raise my eyebrows. I began to unbutton my shirt, being careful to keep my eyes dancing with his the entire time. He laughed out loud (not exactly the response I was hoping for) and stroked my face with his hand.

‘
You will be my downfall, Ms Buchanan.’

Sometime later we headed out of the room and headed downstairs to order dinner.

The
bar was dimly lit and cosy. Two old gentlemen propped their elbows on the bar and chatted quietly, while a middle-aged couple who had clearly been out for a walk (in
that
weather), stripped each other of their waterproof clothing at the door. We sat at a table by the fire but we weren’t alone for long.

Barbara,
an American of about fifty, was jolly, slightly overweight, talkative and travelling alone – tracing her Scottish ancestors in the process. I didn’t mind sharing a table with her, I’d just had sex with Alasdair, the whole of Wisconsin could have asked to sit with us and I would have just smiled.

Shortly after dinner we gave our apologies to Barbara and sauntered upstairs. Alasdair went to his room to get Mum’s letter. He placed it on the bed and pulled me towards him in a gentle embrace. After a tender peck on the nose he said, ‘I really do have to nip next door for an hour or so and do some work, but I don’t think you should read the next letter alone. Why don’t you wait until I’m done and then we can read it together?’

‘
Why? What are you worried about? I grant you, she may be about to tell me who my father is, or was, but honestly, it’s okay. I’ve always suspected I’d be the result of a one-night stand, although I didn’t expect him to be a bloody spy! Mum’s life is all in the past, I’m fine with it, don’t worry.’

I sat on the bed and picked up the letter while Alasdair
started towards the door.

‘
I’ll pop back in an hour or so. We can talk about it then, okay?’

‘
Okay soldier – sorry,
marine
. Off you go, toodle-pip, or whatever it is you officer types say.’

H
is mouth smiled but his eyes did not and, as he closed the door behind him, I should have realised, right there and then, something was wrong.

Chapter Thirty

Arisaig

Hello love.

Of all of the letters you have read so far, this is perhaps the most important.

As I said, once I arrived at Arisaig Lodge I collapsed into Geoff’s arms; I was so relieved to be away from the horror of Zagreb. He knew nothing of the details of my friendship with Sam but was informed by my colonel that a man had been found dead in my apartment and that, by the slightest of associations, my safety may also be in question. So, until more information came to light, I was to remain in Scotland. Geoff commented, half-jokingly, that surely I had experienced enough adventure by now and suggested I resign my commission with the RAF. I tried desperately to push the details of the past three months as far from my mind as possible and began planning my new life in Scotland, a country I adored.

The problem is the human mind cannot switch off so easily. Once ensconced in Geoff’s arms I remembered how much I adored him and how happy we were together. Unfortunately though, every time he held me I felt guilty; with every kiss, a revolting, lustful image of Sam sprung into mind. It was hell. We made love on the first evening, which may shock you considering the details of my previous letter, but the cover-up game of the adulterer had already begun. We hadn’t seen each other for months, we were a young couple; surely he would suspect something if I acted differently? Well, this is how my mind worked at the time. Also, bear in mind, making love to someone who you have been intimate with for years is comfortable, safe and familiar. I’m sorry to have to be so blunt but I’m desperate for you to understand. I wanted to give myself to him so I could prove we were the same as always – that life would go on just as before; but, my guilty soul couldn’t cope with the strain. Silent tears slipped down my cheeks as we caressed and afterwards, as he held me tight, I knew the guilt would never leave me. It was my burden, my punishment.

Did I consider telling him about Sam in those first weeks? Of course I did. But, I kept telling myself things like, it was only one night, he would never know.

The colonel granted me compassionate leave until the finer details of my safety could be ironed out, and boy did I need it. I made a daily phone call for an intelligence update and, after a long discussion with Geoff, on the fifth day of my leave I informed the colonel of my wish to tender my resignation. He asked me to wait a couple of weeks, to let things settle.

And there we have it. I decided not to disclose my indiscretion to Geoff but to resign from the RAF and focus on building a marriage and a home life in Scotland. I breathed a deep and much needed sigh of relief.

Of course, that was not the end of the story. Nearly two weeks after my arrival, Geoff received a phone call at work from the colonel. He came home to talk to me and I knew by the look on his face something was desperately wrong. I remember thinking – Jesus Christ, he knows about Sam – but it was much worse. It was, of course, the news of my father’s death. The funeral was on that very day and I had missed it. Dad was always the one I informed regarding my whereabouts; he was the sensible one who would have known how to get hold of me in an emergency. Mum and Annie fell apart after his death. A couple of days passed before someone in the village gave them the advice of contacting the duty officer at an RAF base to trace me. Then there was some confusion regarding my paperwork. The news of my father’s death and the date of the funeral chased me around half of Europe before the details eventually arrived on the colonel’s desk.

I was devastated. Although I had left home several years before, I had always been his special little girl and now I had no dad to run home to any more and would never see his face light up when I entered the room. All very selfish thoughts, but natural ones nonetheless and, unfortunately, the kind of feelings you can no doubt associate with now I am gone. An MOD driver and guard escorted me to the Dales. I have already told you about the horrific bombardment I received from my sister when I arrived at Bridge Farm. Perhaps you will understand now why I had neither the will nor the energy to fight back.

I returned home to Geoff and, although I looked and felt like a broken woman, my father’s death did have one positive aspect; it helped to put the horror of Zagreb into perspective.

So, why did my life take a different path altogether? Perhaps you have guessed. Six weeks after I arrived in Arisaig, I realised I had missed a period. I wasn’t surprised; as you know, that kind of thing can happen without any cause for concern. I didn’t honestly think I could be pregnant, but decided the best thing to do was to get myself tested, to put such thoughts out of my mind and relax. There was no doctor at the lodge so I walked into Arisaig. The nurse took my sample, tested it in a separate room and then returned to give me the verdict. I was pregnant. I left the doctors surgery and walked for hours through the dunes along the coast. I ended up sitting for a while on Camusdarach beach, where you are now. Right there and then I realised that the hopelessly romantic notion I had built up over the last few weeks of living a crofter’s lifestyle with Geoffrey in the Western Isles was not to be – could never be.

I know this is a horrific notion, but within the course of two or three days, I’d had sex with two different men and, remembering the date of my last period, those two days would have been around the time of ovulation. I had no way of knowing who the father was, who ‘your’ father was. I’m sorry Grace. Call me a tramp my darling, call me what you like, but what was done was done and the realisation hit me in terms of what I should do. My only certainty was I had to do the right thing by everyone, but most especially by you. I managed to get myself back to the lodge and immediately confessed to Geoff about Sam – but not about the baby. I packed my bag and phoned the colonel; he arranged transport for me back to Hereford.

My darling Geoff said very little. There was no big fight, no terrible names called; we sat in the lounge in silence with my suitcases waiting by the door until the car arrived. It would have been so easy to send the car away, to tell Geoff I was expecting his baby and go on living a life together. But, when all is said and done, although I was prepared to remain married and hide my indiscretion, I was not prepared to pass another man’s child on to Geoff – if indeed that was the case. But that was exactly the point, I simply didn’t know. If I had stayed with Geoff the guilt alone would have sent me to an early grave, maybe it has.

What I realise now, of course, is I should have told Geoff absolutely everything and allowed him to decide whether or not he wanted me to stay. But, my father had just died and I was an emotional wreck. All I can tell you now is, at the time, I believed I was doing the right thing.

I never saw Geoff again but have thought of him often. Whenever I sit for a while by your wedding cake tree I remember the happy times, and how life can change in a heartbeat.

Speaking of your tree, there is something else you should know. I know I always said I bought it to commemorate your birth but that isn’t strictly true. The day before I left Scotland for good, Geoff had been out on a ‘secret mission’ to buy me a present. There was a crofter’s cottage across the burn at Camusdarach that we had our hearts set on – a pretty little thing. We decided to pool our savings as a deposit and buy the place. Having planted the cherry tree at the hut (and as a wonderful gesture to the memory of my dad), Geoff had bought the wedding cake tree (a tiny pot-bound thing then) in preparation for when the house was ours. The pot was wrapped with a red bow. When the car arrived to pick me up I ran into the garden and grabbed my tree. I suppose it was my way of holding onto Geoff. I put the little red bow in an old biscuit tin and buried it within the tree’s roots. It’s still there. Do continue to see it as ‘your’ tree Grace; after all, you both put your roots down at St Christopher’s in the same year.

When I arrived at Hereford I was interviewed by the colonel and told him the whole sorry tale. He didn’t judge, in fact he blamed himself for deciding not to inform me about Sam, but I decided blame was fruitless. All I cared about was your safety and your future. Which I suppose brings me on to why I changed my name. Intelligence sources discovered my association with Sam had been dangerous in the extreme. He was a mercenary and had blackmailed and double bluffed his way around the Iron Curtain for a number of years. The fool of a man had become embroiled with a strand of the Soviet mafia; he owed money. He told them I was an agent and they would get their money through me. He intended to loosen my lips (metaphorically and physically) and learn valuable information regarding the British intelligence operation in Eastern Europe. Obviously I hadn’t blabbed so he decided to sleep with me and then blackmail me, all quite simple really. The Soviets were growing impatient, so they decided to dispose of Sam and loosen my lips the old-fashioned way. I was lucky. Anyway, it wasn’t thought likely in the end that I would be chased to the UK. I was an opportune target rather than someone of vital importance, but the colonel didn’t want to take any chances. So, as an added measure, I began to introduce myself as Rosamund Buchanan (Buchanan was your grandmother’s maiden name).

When you were born the name of your father was left absent on the birth certificate and the colonel arranged for your name to be Buchanan. As I was still married to Geoff, I was legally Frances Heywood. I always intended to change my name on divorce but, believe it or not, we actually never did divorce, so I remain Frances Heywood, which is why I asked Jake to deal with the death certificate directly through Grimes.

The only question remaining was what to do about my career. Clearly I needed to work to be able to supp
ort you but, in those days, women were forced to leave the armed forces on pregnancy. This is where the colonel’s genius really came to light and I have been eternally grateful to him for the strings he managed to pull in order to land me with my new job.

Many of the special forces chaps and intelligence operatives were suffering from burn-out. The intelligence operation in Northern Ireland was massive and involved tremendous risk not to mention the strain of the work required in order to keep a handle on Cold War intrigue. Someone put the idea forward, albeit in a half-hearted manner, that there really ought to be some kind of retreat – a safe house – where operatives could go to for post-deployment wind down. Somehow the colonel managed to persuade a civil servant with loose purse strings to part with enough money to buy a suitable house in an inconspicuous location. Clearly, they needed someone appropriate to run the retreat – and there you have it, my new job.

However, Grace, I’m afraid this new revelation brings me to the part of my story I have been dreading telling you the most. The retreat, as you have no doubt guessed, was St Christopher’s. The house doesn’t belong to me my love, but I so dearly wish it did because I would give it to you in a heartbeat. I know you have always said it would break your heart if I ever sold up, and have warned me many times that you intend to kick me out in my old age. I’m so sorry I never told you; I guess I thought I would live forever, and that eventually you would meet someone and settle into a place of your own.

The retreat has given me a great deal of pleasure over the years and I feel, between us, Jake and I have been able to provide a necessary service through some difficult times. Speaking of Jake, as you know he retired from the British Army some years ago, but what you don’t know is that he was my protection officer in the early days. He left the army to help me run the retreat – the soppy old fool!

By now you must feel as though I have fed you a heap of lies all of your life. I wish I had told you about St Christopher’s as a child, but without wanting to sound even more melodramatic than I already must sound, St Christopher’s works well because it is private and discreet. Then, as you grew older, I knew that the time would come to tell you everything, but I’ve hardly seen you over the past few years, and when I did, our time together has been precious, and I haven’t wanted to spoil things. And now I’m dying, and I have run out of bloody time and, for a million reasons (not all to do with you) I decided that this way would be the best. The most important thing to remember is I have never purposefully lied to you, but a set of circumstances conspired to catapult my life in a totally unexpected direction. I need you to know that my over-riding concern – always – was your safety and happiness and, as Jake has reminded me a million times over the many years I have known him, I did succeed at both: you were such a happy child, I suppose I never wanted to burst the bubble.

The only remaining thing to tell you is that I have no idea who your biological father is. I’m sorry Grace, you don’t look like either of them. I would hold your face in my hands when you were small and stare at you – desperate for a tell-tale sign – for any little genetic characteristic that would give me a clue as to who your father was, but the only person you resemble is my mother, you are the image of her. Sorry love, it’s difficult to concentrate so I will leave you there.