It felt dead, and sadly desolate.
“What went on here?” Carrie asked, and her voice rang back at her from the soaring roof and the empty, stained walls.
“This is a weaving shed. Fergus Skinner-he was the guy in charge of the mill at the time of the flood-told me some of what happened. That night, they went on working here until eleven o’clock, because even as the water trickled in, they were still hoping that the flood would abate. But it didn’t, and the rest of the night they spent lifting everything they could off the floor. A desperate but hopeless task. What was possible to salvage was-the spinning frames, although they were badly damaged. Old wooden scouring machines survived, and the teasel-raising machines. Financially, the worst disaster was the ruination of all the finished goods. Orders worth thousands, packed and ready for delivery. It was that loss, really, that finally finished McTaggarts off.”
“Was the office on the ground floor?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Fergus Skinner told me that he remembered wading in there, to see if he could salvage any tiling, but the water was waist-level by then, the computers drowned, and letters of credit floating towards him down the aisle….”
“What happened the next day? The workforce … ?”
“All laid off. No alternative. But as soon as the waters subsided, about a hundred men turned up to salvage what they could. Half of the machinery had to be scrapped including the German electronic shuttle looms which had only recently been installed. So much for modem, and extremely expensive, technology. What did survive was some of the older, less sophisticated machinery. Looms which had been bought second-hand, and were already forty or fifty years old. The engineers stripped down the carding machine and cleaned it off before the rust set in, so that can be set up again. And there was some specialist machinery from Italy, but that’s in store right now, and we plan to send it back to Milan for refurbishment and reuse.”
Carrie, fascinated and attentive, was, nevertheless, starting to feel tremendously cold. Damp chill crept up through the thick soles of her boots, and all at once she shivered. Sam saw this, and was remorseful.
“Carrie, I’m sorry. Once I start expounding, I forget everything else. Do you want to go? Have you had enough?”
“No. I want to see it all. I want you to show it all to me, and tell me what you’re going to do, about the new plans, and where everything’s going to be. At the moment, I am completely bewildered by the prospect of doing anything at all. It’s mind-boggling. Like being given a totally impossible task.”
“Nothing is impossible.”
“But still… being the guy in charge.”
“Yes, but with the resources of a huge conglomerate behind me. That makes a hell of a difference.”
“Even so. They chose you to take on the job. I wonder why?”
Sam grinned, and all at once looked, not simply boyish, but at the same time, bursting with eager confidence. He knew what he was talking about. He was on his home ground.
He said, “I suppose because, basically, I’m a Yorkshire boy. And where there’s muck, there’s brass. Now, come, before you freeze, and I’ll show you the rest….”
By the time the tour was finished, and they stepped once more into the outdoors, Carrie was chilled to the bone. She stood in the snow, waiting while Sam closed and locked the door behind him, and then he turned and saw her, hunched into her thick grey loden coat, with her hands dug deep into the pockets.
“You look frozen, Carrie.”
“I am.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kept you so long.”
“I liked it. It’s just that my feet are frozen.”
“I hope you weren’t bored.”
“Not at all. Fascinated.”
He looked at his watch.
“It’s half past eleven. Shall we go back to Creagan, or would you like a heartening drink? From the look of you, a Whisky Mac might be the best thing.”
“Hot coffee would do the trick.”
“Whatever. Come along, get back into the car, and we’ll warm you up.”
So they drove away from the deserted mill, over the cobbles, under the handsome gateway, and then turned right and went on down the road and into Buckly, making their way along narrow winding streets and across a small square where stood the War Memorial. There weren’t many people about, but little shops had their lights on, and brave Christmas decorations in windows. Then over a stone bridge that spanned the ravine of a river in spate, and beyond this, Sam drew up by the pavement outside a gloomy-looking establishment with the duke’s arms in curly gold capitals above the door. Carrie eyed it without much enthusiasm.
“I am sure,” Sam told her, “that in Buckly there are more lively spots, but this happens to be the only one I know. And it is, in its own way, unique.”
“It doesn’t look a riot of fun.”
“We shall make it so.”
They got out of the car and crossed the pavement as Sam led the way, pushing open the door and letting loose a warm and beery smell. Gingerly, Carrie followed. Inside, it was dark and seedy, but gloriously overheated. A coal-fire glowed and flickered in the oldfashioned hearth, and over the mantelpiece hung an enormous fish in a glass case. Small, wobbly tables held brewery beer-mats and ashtrays, and there seemed to be only two other customers, both of them silent, male, and very old. Behind the bar, the proprietor was intent on a small black-and-white television set, with the sound turned down to a murmur. A clock ticked, and a bit of coal collapsed in the fire with a whisper. The atmosphere was so dour that Carrie wondered if they should simply turn about and tiptoe away again.
But Sam had other ideas.
“Come on,” he said, and his voice rang around the room, in a very off-putting way.
“Sit here, close to the fire.” He pulled a chair away from a table.
“I’m sure you’ll get a cup of coffee if you really want one, but would you try a Whisky Mac? It’s the most warming drink in the world.”
It sounded more tempting than coffee.
“All right.”
She sat, pulled off her gloves and unbuttoned her coat, then spread her hands to the heat of the fire. Sam went over to the bar, and the barman dragged himself away from the television set and took his order. After that, in the way of all countrymen in pubs, they fell into conversation, their voices low, as though they spoke secrets.
Carrie pulled off her fur hat and laid it on the chair beside her; she ran her fingers through her hair. Doing this, she looked up and caught the eye of the old man who sat beneath the window. It was a rheumy eye, and blazed with disapproval, and Carrie guessed that the Duke’s Arms was not an establishment frequented by women. She tried smiling at him, but he only munched on his dentures and returned his attention to his beer.
The exchange at the bar continued. Sam stood with his back to her, in the classic attitude of a man at ease in his pub, with one foot on the brass rail and an elbow on the polished counter. Very slowly, as they talked, the barman assembled Sam’s order, pausing every now and then to check up on what the television set had to say.
Carrie leaned back on the hard chair-back, stretched out her legs, and watched them, and thought that this morning she had seen, for the first time, the other side of Sam, the man who had walked in out of the snow only three or four days ago and been forced by the vile weather to stay. He had become, with no apparent effort, nor forced bonhomie, an integral part of an ill-assorted little household. Absorbed as easily as an accomplished and experienced house guest.
She thought of him dealing, unasked, with a number of not very exciting day-to-day tasks. Like humping great baskets of logs, filling the coal bucket, walking the dog, carving a roast pheasant, and even gutting the salmon which Elfrida, in a mad moment, had been impelled to buy from the man who sold fresh fish from the back of his van. Uncomplaining, Sam had shovelled snow, pushed trolleys around the supermarket, stocked up Oscar’s wine-cellar, and brought the Christmas tree home. Even better, he had set it up on its dicey-looking wooden stand, and then managed to unravel and get working the annual headache of the Christmas-tree lights.
For this noble effort, Oscar was particularly grateful.
On another level altogether, he had proved to be something of an asset when Elfrida decided to sell her picture, producing Sir James Erskine-Earle out of nowhere, like a rabbit out of a hat. The fact that that particular project had come to nothing, and the picture was pronounced a fake, had upset Sam considerably, as though the worthlessness of the painting was somehow all his fault.
He was a man hard to dislike. He and Oscar (nobody’s fool) had supped at once into a companionable friendship that belied the years that lay between them. Left alone together, they never ran out of things to talk about, because Oscar enjoyed sharing memories of the days when he was a boy and had travelled to spend summers with his grandmother at Corrydale. Because of his knowledge, not only of the people, but the countryside, he was able to fill Sam in with much local information and a great many anecdotes about the district in which Sam was coming to live and work.
On Oscar’s part, he clearly enjoyed the company of another man, a stranger, maybe, but one whom he had taken to instantly. He was fascinated by the progress of Sam’s career, the boyhood in Yorkshire, the years in London and New York, and now the challenge of getting a defunct business on its feet again. Remembering the old McTaggarts, and the sturdy tweeds that had come from the looms, he was amazed by the enormously exciting plans that had already been drawn up by Sturrock and Swinfield-the expensive machinery ordered from Switzerland, the marvels of modern technology, the marketing prospects for new and luxury products, and the programme for retaining the workforce, McTaggarts’ most valuable asset.
From time to time, with all the world set to rights, they had ambled off together, to visit the Golf Club, or drop into the Creagan pub for a peaceful, manly dram.
Elfrida, as well, was entranced by her visitor. But then, she had never been able to resist the charms of an attractive man, especially one who laughed at her dotty remarks and was capable of concocting a perfect dry Martini. As for Lucy, she had confided to Carrie one night, when Carrie had gone up to Lucy’s attic to kiss her good night, that she thought Sam was almost as good-looking as Mel Gibson.
Amused, “You like him then?” Carrie had asked.
“Yes. He’s gorgeous. And he’s comfortable. I usually feel a bit shy with men. Like other girls’ fathers. But Sam’s like the sort of uncle one’s known forever. Or somebody’s very oldest friend.”
And that was how it had been. And that was how, for Carrie, it might have stayed, had it not been for the traumatic events of yesterday.
And this morning.
Nothing, really, had happened. It was just that, treading be hind him, following Sam through the cold and lofty spaces of the mill… the echoing passages, the deserted stores and dye sheds, Carrie was made aware, for the first time, of his alta ego. Before her eyes, he seemed to change. Grew in stature, spoke with confidence and authority. He vividly described to her the devastation of the flood and the destruction of machinery, computers, electronic looms. Explained the plans for the future, quoting figures-prices, profits, mark-ups-that made her head reel. Once or twice he had tried to make clear to her the details of some technicality of spinning or weaving, which she could scarcely understand because it was a bit as though he were talking in a foreign language. Irritated by her own stupidity, she felt diminished and also confused, because Sam, back in his own world, was strangely transformed. No longer the amiable house guest of the last few days, but a man in charge, a man to be reckoned with, and, at the end of the day, a man you would not choose to cross.
He returned to her at last, bearing their drinks and two packets of peanuts.
“Sorry.” He set these down on the table, and drew up a second chair.
“Conversation.”
“What were you talking about?”
“Football. Fishing. The weather. What else?” He had bought himself a pint of bitter. He raised the tall glass. Across the table their eyes met.
“Slainte.”
“I don’t speak the language.”
“It’s Gaelic for “Down the hatch.”
” Carrie took a mouthful of her drink, and hastily set down the glass.
“Heavens, that’s strong.”
“The classic warmer when you’re out on a winter hill. That, or cherry brandy.”
“What’s the weather going to do?”
“There’s a thaw on the way. That’s why our friend is glued to the box. The wind is moving around to the southwest, and there are milder air streams on the way.”
“No white Christmas?”
“Wet white rather than freezing white. And the road to Inverness is open again.”
“Does that mean you’re going to disappear instantly?”
“No.” He shook his head.
“I’ve been asked for Christmas, so I’m staying. Anyway, I’ve nowhere else to go. But on Boxing Day, I must come down to earth with a bang, pack my bags and leave.” His smile was wry.
“It’s going to feel a bit like the end of the holidays and having to go back to school.”
“Never mind. Lots of fun and games in the pipeline. Elfrida’s party, for one.”
“I have to be here for that. I’ve promised to mix a jug of Pimms.”
“Don’t make it too strong. We don’t want any untoward behaviour. Like Lady Erskine-Earle and Arfur Snead dancing Highland Flings together.”
“That would be disastrous.”
“When … when you get to Inverness, will you stay there?”
“No. I have to be in London next week. The head office is open for a couple of days before the New Year, and David Swinfield’s set up a meeting. Then, I think, Switzerland again. I shan’t be back here until about the twelfth of January.”
“Lucy and I go on the third. We’re booked on the morning flight.” She bit her lip, thinking about this.
“I’m not looking forward to it. I think Lucy is going to be desolate, and I don’t know what I’m going to say to cheer her up. I only know I wouldn’t want to be her, leaving all the fun and the freedom behind and going back to that dull flat, and a mother who won’t be particularly delighted to see her.”