11.Heading West
Following in the footsteps of the fugitive Prince, the three children trailed slowly behind Wiggy and the teacher, as they rounded the grey shoulder of Culvain and descended towards Glen Camgarry. Although the morning was half-gone, their bodies and muscles felt tired and lethargic, after the previous day's soaking and a night on rough floorboards in Glen Mallie. Light rain was still falling in prolonged showers and socks felt moist inside walking-boots, the ground supple from the overnight storm; the earth, the air smelling of rain; the heather spraying them as they brushed against it. And Camgarry below them, quiet and sombre, beneath hillsides reaching up into greyness and mist. A forlorn, beautiful emptiness. The two men traced a way towards the valley-bottom, talking less often now, with longer intervals between conversations, falling into the slower rhythm and silences of the wilderness. The children were chatting inconsequentially, trailing, less urgent than they had been on the previous day.
'I could murder a plate of bacon and eggs,' said Alasdair.
'You're always hungry,' Roberta complained.
'With fried bread, mushrooms, sausages, tomatoes.'
'Some good you would be as a Jacobite on the run.'
'It would have been alright,' Alasdair continued, 'if Wiggy hadn't burnt the porridge. Gordon only left him with it for a minute.'
Harry was sucking a sweet from a secret store in one of his damp trouser pockets. He took the sweet out discreetly.
'That was brilliant!' he laughed. 'Did you see the smoke, Al? He ran through the door like a maniac. He was in a right benny...'
'Yes, but it was dreadful to wash,' said Alasdair. 'What's the best way to clean burnt pots, Roberta?'
'Don't ask me,' she protested.
'Heather,' said Harry bluntly. 'Scrapes the bottoms clean.' They traipsed on around the turn of the hill. 'Still,' said Alasdair eventually, 'I'm glad the Wigster's come along.'
'It gives Gordon someone else to talk to...' his sister added.
'What do you think, Harry?' the gentle boy continued, trying as usual to involve his friend. 'Are you glad Wiggy's joined us?'
Harry just shrugged his shoulders. He was studying the glen, eyes ranging north and south, alert, like a fox sniffing the air for a scent : watchful, cautious, separate.
'Anyway,' continued Roberta, 'Mr Gordon deserves the company.'
'He's decent enough, isn't he?' said Alasdair, checking his sister's loyalty. He waited a while for the answer.
'Yes, he's alright,' she said in the end. 'Alright for a teacher.'
'Bet The Headmaster would like to see us now,' Harry rasped. 'He'd go ballistic if he was with us now.'
On that constructive thought they carried on in silence. Harry retrieved the sweet from his pocket, and put it furtively into his mouth while the others were looking away. He pressed on faster, leaving the brother and sister behind on the hillside. They exchanged few words.
'Are your socks wet?' Alasdair asked.
'You could take them off and squeeze the water out,' his sister suggested.
'No, I'll wait till I get to the stream down there.' They jumped across some wet peat. 'Just think, Roberta - we could be at home having a warm bath, clean socks, dry clothes...'
'Would you want to be?' she asked bluntly.
'No.' A silence. Empty.

When they got to the burn at the foot of the glen, the others were waiting, resting on boulders with the rucksacks strewn by their sides.
'Is it lunch yet?' Alasdair asked.
'You feeling hungry already?' Wiggy enquired cheerfully. 'You've only just had breakfast!' Alasdair looked at his friends, and held his tongue. Surely it must be midday by now.
'Where are we on the map?' he asked.
'This is Glen Camgarry,' said the teacher.'It must have been something of a resistance outpost in 1746. Because it's so remote, the Jacobites used it as a meeting-point after Culloden. We know they kept caches of food and extra supplies. And on his way to the ships, Prince Charlie came over the hills with Lochiel, to rendezvous here with Cluny Macpherson.'
'Doesn't look like anything could live here, does it?' said Wiggy, sniffing, and casting his gaze up and down the lonely river. It seemed wholly desolate. 'Here! Do you want a biscuit?'
Roberta took one and lay back on a boulder. Alasdair devoured his at once, his brow sweaty, and hair soaked - his young face looking, almost, pretty.
Harry had wandered off downstream towards a thicket of small birch trees, where the undergrowth grew tall and wet, and piles of boulders seemed to have tumbled down the mountain and spilled out across the glen.
Gordon and the Maclean children munched biscuits - 'We must save some for Harry' Alasdair added - and they imagined where treasure could be hidden in a glen like this. They were wearing cagoules, but Wiggy just wore his jacket, with a scarf wrapped over his head. His kilt looked wet and heavy.
'There was a hole in the roof where I slept,' he was saying. 'I felt drops of rain running down my neck all night.'
'Were you cold without a sleeping bag?' Roberta asked sympathetically.
'Got a bit chilly towards dawn,' he sniffed. His eyes widened and he smiled. 'Still, I doubt if I would have slept anyway - not with your snoring!' He leant towards her. Roberta felt a thrill course through her at this personal insult and his kind, sparkly eyes.
'I don't snore,' she insisted boldly.
'You do too. I've never heard anything like it.'
'Get stuffed!' she shouted, jokingly, and threw the remains of her biscuit at him. He could have it back.
Wiggy was going to say something else, but just then the remote voice of Harry cried out from deep in the undergrowth.
'Hi! Mr Gordon! Come and have a look at this!' Their heads turned, as if synchronised, and they peered to locate him.
'There!' said Gordon. 'By that old rowan tree.'
Alasdair and Roberta ran and leapt through the heather to the deep scrub where Harry was just visible. Wiggy ran too, almost child-like with excitement, curious and involved. Only Gordon walked, and as he drew up he found them circled around a high bank of heather.
'Look!' said Alasdair keenly. 'I just pulled away this stuff and...' Harry pointed, holding back the scrub with a stick. There, emerging from the undergrowth, were the perfectly defined outlines of a stone-wall. He had uncovered an overgrown ruin.
'It's an old shieling!' exclaimed Philip Gordon, surprised by what the boy had overturned. Working together, they pulled aside more heather and fallen branches to reveal the clear outline of a forgotten home.
'What's this?' asked Roberta.
It was the fallen lintel of a doorway. Here at Camgarry they had stumbled upon the trail of the Jacobites : the remnants of a lost way of life. Hundreds of years of civilisation and then...
'What do you suppose happened?' Wiggy said to Gordon. 'Government troops. In the aftermath they must have set it alight and cleared the glen.' 'And the people? The children?' Gordon blinked.
In the grey glen, by the quiet waters, it was as if they had stepped back 250 years. No-one had seen this home for over a century - or even two. And now, in the thrill and drama of pulling back nature's growth, here it was once more, as if it had only been left the day before yesterday. Gordon couldn't help feeling a tingle, a sensation, as if someone was stepping on his grave. These lives, these people : so close, as if time was just an illusion from which one awoke, to find past merged with present... these lives and people : and yet disappeared, vanished forever.
'That tree!' he said, pointing at the gnarled rowan which overhung the ruins and had broken through the gable at one end. 'The Celts used to plant a rowan to bring luck to the house...'
'It didn't bring much luck to this one,' said Roberta. She was standing at the fallen doorway. 'Prince Charlie must have stood just where you are now, when he arrived at this home.' 'He didn't bring much luck either, did he?' she continued.
'Come on. Let's see if we can find the treasure,' said Alasdair boyishly. For half an hour he and Harry ducked in and out of trees up and down from the ruin, wondering at every moment if they might uncover the golden coins. Philip Gordon went with them, and Wiggy sat down on a rock and wrung out his socks. Brown peaty water trickled down the length of his arms. Roberta seemed quieted; still. She stole around the ruin, gently, softly, imagining the sounds and laughter which once inhabited it; feeling the mossy bark of the contorted rowan; and the damp stones and earth where the heather had been tugged at, uprooted, and rudely pulled away. Gordon finally called the boys back and pointed down river toward thicker woods and Loch Arkaig. Wiggy called Harry over and did up his laces once more.
'He's always doing this to me!' the boy complained, helpless, perplexed.
'That's because I don't fancy carrying a boy with a broken leg.'

They lifted on rucksacks, except for Roberta. Wiggy had been carrying hers. He remained seated on the boulder and seemed reluctant to go. He indicated that he wanted a few minutes' peace on his own to think. Gordon and the children pressed on into the deeper wooded slopes that dropped down steeply to the Loch. After a few minutes, in among the birch trees, Roberta stopped and said 'I'll catch you up,' and soon their voices seemed distant, remote, until they disappeared altogether. The intelligent dark-haired girl continued to listen, passively. She had a capacity to respond intuitively, to drift towards awareness and away from thought. The trickling of drops of water down twigs, the streaking of rain through her wet hair : she noticed them, momentarily. It was very quiet. She felt a softness around her in these woods, and within herself. It was a kind of quieting, an inner acceptance of stillness and wholeness. Of stillness all around her. Her socks, her pants felt wet : the outer world encroaching upon her inner world. She looked round about : mosses and rock, shadow on tree bark, birds hidden somewhere among the dappled leaves. It was as if nature was waiting, watching - like a lurking. She felt a lurking within her too. A wind got up and droplets of rain pattered softly to the ground close about her. She was passive and receptive. In the sigh of the leaves down the glen she thought she could hear the sound of children calling in the woods. Was it Alasdair and Harry? It was as if small beckoning voices were encroaching at a subconscious level, crying 'Here we are, here we are' : encroaching upon the merely controlled intellect, whispering 'We are here too, as you are, we are here too.' She let it all pass over her, open, without questioning. It was like a stirring, a waking within her : the advances of wild nature almost amorous, such was her awareness of beauty, of physical presence, so insistent and present its demand. And where dead leaves lay, and memories gathered, an awareness of cold nature, savage but not horrific, came to her, as clear as a dead man's face. She walked deeper in among the twigs and lichen-garlanded branches, feeling them flick and brush gently against her face. She traced the pattern of bark with her hand and felt its touch; felt, too, her own body and its actuality. And it pleased her. Gave her joy.
Her instincts told her to let go, to acquiesce, to accede to nature - to her nature, nature within her. She felt gentleness and savagery encroach and she welcomed this feeling; wanted so much to be part of it. Being... yes, that was it : being and moment and a listening. And in this being and listening she felt joyous, full of peace, proud of beauty - proud of her beauty and feeling. Proud of her power. Then still yet again, yet more. She demanded no answers. Her friend Wiggy had sat and watched a hawk wheeling in and out of the mists higher up the glen. He pulled out a sandwich and ate it silently. He felt the stillness, too. The morning rested, hushed and grey, almost overshadowed. And he felt a gentle sense of the past merging with the present. He had imagined, too, the laughter and cries of children as he looked down across to the wooded ruins of Glen Camgarry : a sad, pretty place of memories, this... homely remnants around the fallen lintels and scarcely disturbed hearth. Such a wild, pretty place of sad farewells. What had become of the family that once lived here in this, their home? With its laughter, its love, its trust? He looked at the empty glen, the fallen homestead, and reflected how the sound of children had been forced out of it by an unnatural establishment. He felt unfathomably empty and sad. The sound of children... ah... where had it gone? Up the glen, a hare set off bounding between boulders, wild and free, disappearing towards the mist.
The rain came on drearily by the ancient rowans. His feet felt cold and damp, and it seemed like time to get moving.
Wiggy strained and got up, legs stiff after his uncomfortable night. His dishevelled jacket and kilt merged with the browns and dull greens of the hillside. He picked up a wrapper and shouldered the pack, not a trace of their presence remaining in the glen. Then he made for the trees, leaving the ruins to merge slowly back into the landscape as well : in the unchanging solitude of the wilderness. Further down the hill, he met Roberta among the birch trees. She seemed deep in reverie, and embarrassed by his unnoticed approach; though more startled, in fact, by her own feelings when she awoke to her consciousness again.
'You seemed in a dream,' Wiggy suggested.
'I was wondering... if he had any children...'
'Who?' Wiggy asked.
'The dead man.'
He stared and smiled. 'I'm afraid I don't follow,' he said softly. The girl seemed startled.
'What? Oh, I was just thinking... but...' she looked at him. 'You feel it, don't you? In this place? I know you do.'
He smiled again, with kind eyes, trying to understand. 'You mean the feeling of nature?' he attempted. 'It does feel very close and present here, doesn't it? Almost as if it has a life of its own...'
She breathed out heavily, in relief. So she was right. He was like her. He felt it. And he had risked showing it too.
A barrage of rain fell more heavily on leaves overhead. 'Come on Wiggy,' she commanded, fondly, with a sigh. 'The others will be miles ahead.' And they left that sad, pretty place. Roberta led the way down through the steep woods that curved west towards the end of Loch Arkaig and, as they picked a course through the trees, she told Wiggy how she wanted to become a rock-climber and show her father that she could be as good as any boy.
'Skye,' he said.
'Hmmm?'
'That's the place. It has the finest mountains in Britain. You ought to go there sometime...'
I thought Skye was where Princes went when they wanted to get away from everyone.'
Wiggy gazed westwards, distant, thoughtful.
'Oh it has mountains too. Great spectacular wild ones. There is this amazing pinnacle in the heart of the island. People call it the Inaccessible Pinnacle because it's a challenge to get up it.'
He was still thinking, dreaming. Roberta took his hand. 'Take me there, Wiggy' she pleaded, her eyes direct and courageous, meeting his.
The man's eyes twinkled and he smiled back. 'When we find the Treasure, we'll use some of the money to buy a boat, shall we? And we'll sail over the sea to Skye... and you... shall be Flora.'
They reached Kinlocharkaig, where the others had stopped for lunch. Their packs were spilled out by the bare little cottage. To the east, the waters of Loch Arkaig reached to the distance, its shores sullen and grey and ancient. Westward lay the remote mountains of Glen Pean, through which Prince Charlie passed on his escape from the battle.
'There's a bothy four miles ahead where we can stay for the night. Then tomorrow, we head for the mountain pass, to see... if my theory is right.' Gordon, with boyish enthusiasm himself, was pointing them ever deeper into the wilds. "The cruellest road" one of the Prince's companions had called it. He grinned at Wiggy as he arrived.
'Looks like the mist's clearing in the West' said the kilted friend. 'Should be a fine afternoon.' Indeed the rain had ceased, and small patches of blue sky were breaking open around the hilltops, dappling the upper glen with uncertain sunlight.
'So this is Glen Pean?' he continued.
'The Prince slept here and was given a simple tea of milk and cheese. A loyal supporter called Donald Cameron lived at this very spot - they say it's haunted - and he now acted as the Prince's guide to get him away from the redcoats.'
'Haunted?' said Harry, his interest aroused. He got up to explore the back of the cottage. Soon they could hear grotesque 'Whoo's' that would have frightened any resident ghosts far away.
'Pass the jam, Wiggy' Roberta said, making a sandwich, but when it was half-done she dropped it on the ground. To her dismay it was covered in earth and dirt.
'Here, have mine,' said her friend. 'I had one earlier anyway.' It was a generous gesture as Gordon had rationed the bread. 'Oh - what are those?' Wiggy called out, as peaks emerged from a break in the clouds.
'Sgurr Thuilm and the ridge to a mountain called Sgurr nan Coireachan,' Gordon explained. 'Later on his travels the Prince came back to this area, and even had a midnight rendezvous on the summit of that second mountain. He met up with Donald Cameron again.'
'He was a loyal chap, this Cameron?' Wiggy said approvingly. 'Completely loyal,' Gordon affirmed.
Alasdair got up to find the recalcitrant ghost, then they gathered their packs, Wiggy adjusted Harry's straps, and they continued westward. The sunlight reached them at the first burn. The little band made their way across the flats and headed up the southern side of Glen Pean in the patchy sunlight. They seemed tiny and provisional against the great flanks of the mountain. While strips of grey mist were dispersing from the high corries, the earth underfoot was still wet from the overnight rain, and they traced a higher route through the heather where the ground was more sure and firm. Once again, as the afternoon wore on, they seemed quieted, spoke less often : slowly growing attuned to the hills round about them. The sun shone more resolutely, and glistened on raindrops, sparkled in the heather. Wiggy seemed relaxed now, less tense, more himself. Eyes were watching, undoubtedly, from the hillside - but it was only the deer, merged and unseen, their dun sides camouflaged, almost invisible. They were approaching a spur of Sgurr Thuilm when Wiggy, at the head, crouched and waved furiously for them all to get down. They looked at one another, and Wiggy crept back, finger to lips. His eyes were excited, alert. They gathered round, kneeling in the sunlight.
'Deer' Wiggy whispered. 'Four or five of them, up very close.'
They stalked forward slowly in the deep heather until they reached a small bank.
Will they smell us?' asked Roberta. Wiggy shook his head.
'No. We're downwind. But be very quiet!'
As they crept to the rise, hushed so that they could hear their own breath, they saw five hinds grazing, fifteen yards ahead. They were so close you could smell them. Lying deep in the heather, watching those graceful creatures with such beautiful forms, Roberta felt humbled, ennobled, at one with herself again. She looked across at the gentle and sensitive man by her side. He seemed engrossed and delighted too. The air smelt of heather and deer and earth. In an instant a crack and a roar terrified creatures, deer and children alike, as two Tornados shattered the silence, and screamed overhead in a metallic rush : so close overhead they seemed to graze the hillside and sear it with molten noise. The deer scattered in panic and terror, bounding headlong in every direction, and Gordon rose to his feet in utter consternation.
'Blast!' he swore angrily.
'Brilliant,' said Alasdair sardonically.
Roberta looked pale and vacant. 'Look! There they go!' shouted Wiggy, as the deer broke the skyline, already hundreds of yards further up.
They sat and recovered their senses.
But as they shared some biscuits, Harry said, 'Listen... no, look!' and he pointed to two helicopters approaching the end of Loch Arkaig behind them.
Wiggy suddenly looked drawn and worried. Gordon stole a glance. 'Routine training?' the teacher suggested, half-heartedly.
Wiggy stared coldly away, unconvinced. At the end of the loch there were two valleys, and the choppers wheeled aside and turned away up Glendessary. Soon the muffled sound of their engines was gone, leaving the glen to quieten once more and settle back again into its greater peace and ageless sanctity. They pressed slowly onwards, Wiggy looking over his shoulder from time to time, and clearly put out. The intrusive arrogance of patriarchy seemed so out of harmony with the natural world and its beauty. On the opposite side of the River Pean, he could make out the sharp artificial outline of indiscriminate forestry. He frowned in disapproval.
'It's typical,' he complained to Gordon. 'The taming and despoiling of nature for a quick profit...'
'Can you really tame nature?' he asked.
'Maybe not, but it will take hundreds of years to recover from that.'
The sun shone in contrast to his passing mood, sparkling on the new-fallen waters, the hillside glistening; grass, heather, and boulders, all reflecting light. The children tagged contentedly behind, their spirits rising in the warmth of the afternoon air. Roberta dropped further back along the hill, then stopped. Suddenly, Harry called out.
'Hi! What's Roberta doing?'
The two boys started to laugh as she crouched with her trousers round her knees.
'We can see you!' they shouted across the heather. 'So what?' she yelled back belligerently. 'I'm only having a piss.' 'Haven't you ever seen someone pee before?' she complained, in frustration, as she caught them up.
'Yes - but you're a girl' one of them answered. 'A piss is a piss,' she insisted, directly, amazed at the bizarre constraints and repression they seemed all to have inherited. Then they all laughed.
The spectre of The Headmaster finding relief in the heather, brought relief to them too, as he joined them again in their imaginary adventures - minus his dog. 'Look!' said Alasdair. 'The bothy! Down there!' He pointed down across the river, which was tumbling and gleaming in the valley below. The bothy was a simple cottage, left open for walkers, nestled between hills in austere isolation. Gordon and Wiggy had seen it as well. However, the teacher was limping a little, so he sent the children on ahead, and pulled up to attend to a blister while the other man waited. Open blue reaches of sky had now spread from the west, and the sun cast bright light on the lonely, ancient retreat. They watched the two boys and the girl shouting and plunging down the slopes to the river where they paused to remove their boots. Wiggy identified ruins on the near side of the water.
'The clearances?' he asked.
'Or government troops. Nobody lives here now.'
'Are we likely to meet any walkers tonight?'
'Unlikely.'
They headed down. The children had waded the river already and were resting on their waterproofs, drying their feet, and enjoying late afternoon sun. There were a few stepping-stones close by the bothy but the water was still fairly high. It chattered and dashed, and sunlight played on its surface, glinting and radiant. Gordon negotiated the slippery rocks but, halfway across, Wiggy lost his balance completely, and crashed back into the flowing river : water spraying everywhere, ten thousand rainbow droplets in the sun, as he struggled to recover and floundered across to the other side. The children cheered. 'Wiggy!' they shouted. He laughed with a roar, and his eyes twinkled, like the water in the burn. Soaking, refreshed, he emerged on the grass.
'I suppose you find that very amusing?' he asked them all, with a good-humoured smile.
'Hilarious' Roberta replied.
'Are you wet?' said Alasdair, with well-meaning care. The others collapsed in helpless laughter and rolled about on the warm, dry ground.
'What did I say?' Alasdair asked.
Wiggy removed his sodden kilt.
'I only asked him if he was wet.'
'This,' said Wiggy, squeezing a sock down Roberta's neck, 'is water. It's rather wet. And your sister finds it hilarious.'
'I think,' declared Gordon, 'perhaps we should go to the bothy.' Alasdair pulled out a towel for Wiggy and asked - 'Is it time for tea?'

12. A Paradise Garden.

'It's time to finish you off,' barked Fraser, as he slammed the squash-ball against the court wall for the final point, and gave her a victory shove. There was sweat running down his arms, his legs : his clothing was saturated in the warmth of the evening. He felt his muscles, strained and fit, and with it an immense sense of well-being. She was good alright : too good for Fraser's liking... they were, indeed, well-matched. 'You buy the drinks' he commanded, pointing at Rona and removing his shirt. They stared at each other, panting and wet, with a bond of aggression and mutual respect. After an hour of physical combat and close struggle, they felt a naked release and contentment like the relaxation after making love : where the body has taken control of the mind and become more in touch, more complete. They stared at each other, soaking and breathless, and the direct honesty and open aggression was like a soft relief. Rona took off her top, and tossed loose her hair, flinging her sports bra aside in the corner of the court. She moved on Fraser, and thread her fingers through the dark mass of sweat and hair on his chest. With her other hand she fingered the back of his shorts.
'God, I love your bum' she smiled.
Fraser gripped the side of her head roughly, and pulled it to his. She dug her fingers into his skin and bit his lips as she kissed him forcefully.
'I fucked you' he laughed, pulling away. 'I wish that you had,' she replied with a sneer, and slid her body up and down his soaking thighs and heaving chest. He loved her curves, her movement and conscious powers of feminine seduction. He felt her left hand slip beneath the top of his shorts, and finger Charlie. She stared at him in defiance.
'Why are you behaving in this impossible way?' he asked, glancing at the empty gallery.
'Because I want to,' she answered him, wilful, direct, asserting her power.
He raised a palm and pressed it hard against her breast. 'You're a slut,' he smiled. She gripped him firmly, led him on. 'A woman has a right to be,' she answered unreservedly.
They were pushed to the edge of normal reason by the drivenness of this mutual physical compulsion. His firm sleek body, so proud and handsome, that she wanted to fight him, screw him, love him. And she was so wild and self-possessed : smooth and strong and hungry for love. He smelt the amber-like fragrance of her body, and he wanted it : was moved, drawn joyfully towards it.
They heard the approach of the next group of players, and picked up their rackets and tops from the floor. She shoved him as he rose to his feet. 'Come back with me,' she taunted, 'and we'll see who really gets fucked tonight.' He followed her car in the fading light, filled with desire and a moody longing. But as they approached the Braemore junction the road was blocked, with armed officials, police and soldiers waving them down. They climbed from their cars in the summer dusk and a pair of civilians lumbered over.
'You are Rona Malcolm of the Kilchreggan Hotel?' one of them asked in an English accent.
She nodded to them with calm surprise. 'I must ask you to accompany us back there to help our enquiries.' At this the woman blanched visibly, and licked her gums.
Fraser looked on in outright amazement. 'May I ask what this is about?' he snapped.
'We need to discuss the hotel visitors and go through the guest-books for the past five years.' 'Five years?' she shouted.
'Can't it wait?' Fraser objected. 'At least till the morning?'
'Definitely not.'
A soldier behind him cocked his weapon. 'F4' the man said, flashing a card. 'Anti-terrorist section. We have a problem.' Rona breathed out, and seemed more relaxed. 'Will it take long?' she asked the officer.
'As long as it takes,' the Englishman answered.
'That's it,' she concluded, turning to Fraser. 'Our evening's fucked up.'
He glowered at the men. 'I'll follow on anyway,' he said with a scowl. 'I'll go and get pissed in the bar instead.' They drove on slowly, in a convoy of cars and, at the Castle turn-off, Fraser swung hard and left the estate road far behind him. He felt in no mood to make conversation with his American guest; still less, with his wife. Scott had told him her plans for the evening. Andrew Douglas and Caroline, in fact, had arrived back later than expected at Ardfinnan themselves. They had failed to reach Glencoe after coming up against a succession of police road-blocks on the way. Outside Ballachulish they had seen the tail-backs at the bridge, checked the car clock, and decided to turn around.
'Ha! It must have been like this when the Prince had gone missing in the heather!' said Andrew, as they climbed from the car. 'I was reading about it in that book by Bishop Forbes.'
'I should never have recommended it,' Caroline laughed.
'They set a cordon of troops around Moidart, and Prince Charlie had one heck of a time trying to break his way through.'
'Not half as bad as the trouble we had today. I couldn't believe it!'
They looked at each other face-to-face, exchanging smiles of warmth and friendship. Nothing had spoiled their afternoon together. 'Listen' Caroline continued. 'I've arranged something special for this evening, so after we've freshened up, I'll meet you for dinner on the lawn.' She flicked back her hair uncertainly, and the sunlight danced in her eyes.
'Dinner outside?' said Andrew. 'Sounds swell.' It was a beautiful evening.

Half an hour later, as they traversed the lawn to the gardens, he looked at his former lover in the lengthening shadows and felt desire. Across the divide of oceans and seasons, his heart still raced at the sight of her. A slim white dress hung off her shoulders delicate, classical : her looks slight, beautiful - her butt, frankly, attractive, inviting; her spirit, seeming, resilient and brave. They passed through the rose-swept archway, soft scent drifting on the air, and entered the outer garden in the warmth of early evening. He wore a light jacket and open-neck shirt, and felt relaxed, casual.
'I wish you'd release these song-birds' he complained with a beseeching smile. 'I hate to see beauty locked away!' The feathery captives flew at the cages, and chattered dolefully, flustered, unsettled. They rounded the ancient sandstone sundial, from where they could see down into the secret garden : its borders a spray of colour and fragrances, lawn verdant and soft underfoot. He looked at Caroline again in the last of the sun, which played with shadows across her dress and her hair. The evening air was warm and still, laden with scent and petalled allure : the garden a retreat of calm and enchanting sensuous beauty. And with Caroline, here and now - beauty you felt you could almost reach out and touch, and keep? The American frowned lightly. What was it about this woman, this place? It was like an acknowledgement, he thought, of some perfect beauty we spend our lives searching for. Romance, adventure, courage and quest : what was it we were searching for all along but a perfect beauty? She looked so pure and vulnerable like the delicate blooms around her. Almost childlike. It was as if she had forged all this to reclaim, to recapture, a childhood perfection : the hopes and longings for a lost ideal, for perfection, for a more spontaneous communion. Everything seemed so sensual, alive. He remembered how Caroline had taken him to see her father, and the peace and detached splendour of Sir Walter's garden. There was, in her, an inner beauty which he recognised because he knew it, too, in himself. And the gardens in her life were each reflections of that greater, deeper beauty.
These borders, perhaps, the shadows of Plato's greater reality - as if, at some tear of the fabric might be revealed the actual realm upon which all this was modelled; of which all this was but a fleeting image. He had often felt that there were certain pivotal moments of intensity, moments of encounter in life, when time and the limits of space seemed to falter, or open up, and reveal...
'You're miles away!' She was smiling at him, teasing his lapse in good manners.
'I'm sorry. I was only lost for a moment!' Andrew rejoined. 'And just look at this!'
'I was busy while you were exploring the Cameron museum.'
At the end of the garden, a table was spread below the boughs of over-arching trees : damask cloth and silver cutlery, porcelain vases and, almost, an abandon of flowers. Small plates of salmon and lime rested between burnished candlesticks. And shadows stole over the perfect lawn : the evening sun descending, yet the air moist, warm, motionless.
'Shall we eat, Mr Douglas?' Caroline proposed.
'After I've walked round the garden a minute, and taken in everything with my senses and feelings.'
'You can't live off feelings,' she argued with fondness.
'We are made to feel' the American insisted.
They sat across the narrow divide of the table and attempted small mouthfuls between long passages of converse, enjoying their regained company and the interchange of compatible minds. Caroline asked about Helen, the woman he'd married and lost.
'She was always a city-dweller, you see - came from the towns; whereas I was born for the wild open spaces, I guess.'
'That's the point, isn't it?' she interrupted. 'People always assume that at marriage, couples begin with the same starting position, with so much in common. Then they can't understand when the partners diverge.'
'People grow, people change.'
'Yes, but what I'm trying to say is : maybe divergence is defined by what went before you were married; what were your origins; where you have come from; that which lies deepest within.'
He nodded. 'Then lives converge from those different beginnings, in showers of confetti and peals of bells, before carrying on along their separate lines.' Andrew leant forward, acutely interested. 'So... you could be looking at everything from different angles, even as you marry at what appears to be the same starting point?'
'Exactly. It's a matter of angle, see? Maybe some people are going their separate ways from the moment they marry, because of what lies deep within, or furthest behind. Then should they stay together, as their hearts drift further and further apart?'
Scott approached through the archway and came into sight by the sundial. He lit the candles in the twilight and served a garnished steak entrecôte with vegetables grown in his own cottage garden.
'It's a beautiful evening,' he volunteered. 'They say we're set fair for a week. Hot, dry weather in the west, it said on the wireless.'
'Have you heard from Fraser?' Caroline asked.
'Mr Maclean telephoned and said he had been - delayed.'
'Thank you, Victor.' She straightened her knife.
'Seems like Gordon and the children will stay dry, at least,' said Andrew.
'If the rain doesn't get them, the midges probably will' was Scott's only comment as he departed over the lawn.
They laughed. 'He's ever so good,' said Caroline. 'Very discreet. And he helps me no end in the garden, with the heavier work. It was Victor who laid the sundial for me. He found it on its side by the family burial ground and I got it restored. I told him he deserves to have his name inscribed on that sundial. He spent hours working to position it and set it in place.' She poured out some wine - a straightforward Chablis, dry, cool - and watched the droplets condense on the sides of her glass. Looking across at him, there seemed - as always - such a strong gentleness. The light of the candles played on his face, made him appear more rugged and steadfast. Handsome.
He made her laugh with his fond recollections and reliable good humour : just as they'd laughed before, when life seemed so carefree and a joyful prospect.
'Where have all the simple things gone? The fun and pleasure and freedom?' she asked.
'Oh, the world still turns...'
'But life seemed so simple then...'
'Do you remember the evening we met...'
'At Matheson's firework party,' she added. 'And you'd brought a record. What was it?'
'Fleetwood Mac' they both recalled, and smiled.
'And you asked me out to some hoedown' Andrew continued...
'Not hoedown,' Caroline objected. 'It was the St Andrews Ball. And you came in a Douglas kilt!'
'The less said about that the better.'
'What I mean is,' she added, 'in those days, I seemed to wake in the morning, eager, expectant, looking forward to the day ahead.'
He wiped his mouth and stared at her. Then he grinned. 'You had problems with your landlady, I seem to recall.'
She broke into laughter. 'What was her name?'
'Mrs MacKelvie. Do you remember when your Uncle Jed came to visit?'
Andrew put down his glass. 'We went out for a meal...'
'And Jed got thrown out for refusing to wear a tie. Yes, I remember.'
'Then we went back to my flat.' Caroline's eyes were sparkling. 'And you and Jed got drinking... what were you drinking?'
'Jack Daniels. And we crashed out in the coal-shed. When Mrs MacKelvie came down in the morning she found us sleeping it off...'
'Your Uncle Jed embraced her and called her beautiful, and she had to call the police.'
'She was always calling the police!'
'Was that before or after Peddie put her bike up on the roof?'
They laughed fondly and Andrew topped up their glasses.
'I propose a toast,' he proffered.
'To Mrs MacKelvie,' they said together, and met one another, quietly, in their words and open glances.
'It had to end in tears,' Caroline continued.
'Oh - and it did,' said Andrew fondly recalling. 'On the West Sands, I believe...'
'We were walking arm in arm. Do you remember that old great-coat you used to wear?'
'And the long scarf you made for me! I've got it still!' He sat back and looked, up at the first stars in the darkening sky. 'Those days! Those days!'
Caroline chuckled on a mouthful of wine. 'And then Cant and Peddie appeared on the beach, with her Volkswagen, and almost ran us both over. God! They were wild!'
'They weren't to know it would get bogged down'
'Or that the tide was coming in'
'Or that Mrs MacKelvie would be out there, walking her dog. Now that was bad luck,' Andrew submitted.
'She called you a madman' said Caroline, reaching out her hand and touching his, as if to console him for the distant injustice.
'All I was doing was walking the beach,' he complained.
'And so I moved in with you.' ......... A silence.
She looked at him, as he withdrew his hand. 'You cooked me a meal...' she continued.
'And it all went wrong!'
'No, no! It tasted beautiful I assure you.' Her eyes shone.
'Ho!' he cried, incredulous.

From across the brae a lone owl called, its cry pitching in the darkness, reaching out into the still warm air. The candles stuttered and played in the deepening night, and seemed to draw them closer together. Ah! Those memories and the passage of time : people like shadows, crossing in and out of life - like youth - then vanished. She sighed. 'I loved you so much.'
He continued to eat, resting in the fullness of the evening, looking at her quietly.
'And when at last we were together,' she continued '- I mean really together... it was so perfect.'
'It was complete,' he concluded. 'And yet time passes. You can't hold on to that beauty.'
'But,' she complained. He took her hand.
'It was complete,' he insisted. 'Let that be enough.'
'Some day,' he said, 'you and Fraser must come on out to Montana, with the children. Come as a family, stay as long as you like.'
'Family,' Caroline muttered.
'Sure! And I'll show you the ranch and...' She threw down her fork and stood up. 'Stop playing games, Andrew' she snapped.
'I'm sorry?' he replied.
'I mean it's bloody obvious - Fraser and I - '
'But you're happy' he reasoned. 'You told me you were.'
'No, I'm not happy. You can see that I'm not.'
It was true : he had seen through her barriers and the hollow façade. When you knew someone deeply, saw through transparency like clear burn water, down to the bottom of their real feeling and being...
'My husband disparages me - makes a fool of me...'
'You care for him,' he observed.
'I find him crude and wild and distasteful.'
'Caroline, but I think he still loves you.'
'He's seeing another woman, Andrew! He's probably with her now. For God's sake! I've had enough. I'm breaking up.' She walked aside, into the shadows. Her friend stayed seated, silent, sorry.
'I go through the whole charade : social events, family unity, living in this hateful castle. But I've forgotten who I really am. At least, I had, until you came back.'
'But things have changed. It's been fifteen years.' She paced towards him, quieter, more sure.
'We may have changed, Andrew. Our circumstances may have changed. But what was between us : it's still there, you know that it is, still the same, unchanged.'
He looked aside, heavily. 'A whole lot's changed. It's not the same.'
Caroline came forward. She stood above him and gently gripped the sleeves of his jacket. 'Don't lie to me, Andrew. You know it's the same.' She turned his head to hers, insistent, passionate. 'You make me come alive, darling. You always did.'
He turned his head, but she brought it back. 'Look at me! Nothing can make our love die, you see. It's stronger than ever.' She pressed her face forward to kiss him. He responded, then struggled to push her away.
'What's this?' he said angrily. 'Tit-for-tat?'
She recoiled, stung by his comment, his rejection.
'Don't tell me you don't still want me! Why did you come back, if you don't?' She was hurt, unconvinced.
'I wanted to know you were happy...'
'Then why did you have to come back? Come back and unsettle me... and remind me of what I had lost...'
'Caroline, I told you. I needed to tie up loose ends. Our relationship was... past - fifteen years past - but it was precious. I needed to know you were happy. There were things that niggled, seemed incomplete, that I wanted to understand.'
She stood quietly on the fringes of light, her white dress almost engulfed in deep shadow, yet her mind alert, active, insistent. 'What things niggled? What loose ends?'
He stood up. 'It finished too abruptly. I felt, at the time, you were doing the wrong thing - that you handled it wrongly, unfairly. A letter, Caroline! You despatched our love with a letter.'
Her voice trembled. 'I just couldn't give up my lifestyle, my family, friends. I'd grown up with them : they framed my whole identity. And I was frightened to let it all go. I had to be abrupt. I knew if I saw you again, I would just cave in.'
'Listen!' he said, drawing closer. 'I came back because I needed a proper finish.'
She looked at him, bold and directly. 'You came back because you still loved me, Andrew.' There was stillness and strength in her eyes.
'No, no,' he pleaded. 'I honestly thought things had changed in our lives. I - had forgotten what the feeling was like.'
'You must have known what would happen,' she said.
'Did you, Caroline? Did you?'
She glanced down at the table and the unfinished meal. 'No,' she said quietly.
He took both her hands. 'I had forgotten what the feeling was like. I didn't realise what you needed, what you lacked. Hell, Caroline. I thought you were happy.' It was true. But when she had not come to him, he had borne such acute sense of loss; lost something he never recaptured; seemed, indeed, to have lost touch with part of himself. All around them the garden seemed pretty in the silent shade. And she did as well. They smiled softly to one another. The candles trembled.
'Don't lie to me, Andrew,' she whispered. 'I know that you love me. And, darling, seeing you again I want you so much. I can't bear to let you go all over again. Can't bear...'
She wept.
He held her.
'I feel empty, hollow, meaningless, unloved...' It felt as if she was splintering, shattering from inside, and only his strong arms could hold her together.'So stupid, crying like this!' she groaned.
'But, my dear. I cry all the time. I do.'
She tried to regain some composure. 'I haven't cried like this since I waved to you at the airport.'
He felt a surge of tenderness. 'Did you really cry?'
'I think I cried for a week.'
Fifteen long years. He had wanted to have her so much. 'Sit down, my dear,' he whispered, and bent to pull out her chair.
'I'm sorry,' she said ' - but it's been so long since someone could make me cry.'
'It doesn't do to lock feelings away,' he answered uncertainly.
There was a pause. They seemed cut off in this darkened garden; and it felt as if they were meeting in some far country, distant from men, from women. Everything there seemed tenuous, vanishing, yet intensely precious and beautiful. Andrew teased her and coaxed her, and she could feel the caress of his words on the soft night air. Overhead, vast infinite galaxies hurtled out through the empty sky, yet in this garden distance seemed just across the candle flame, trying to squeeze an uncertain smile, sure as the boundless wind orflickering face of shade : they, alone, still and remote under the cold inconstant heavens. She felt confused and lost.
'But I don't understand. Andrew, I know what you feel...'
He tried to explain. 'What I didn't realise then, but realise now' - he breathed - 'is the cost of adultery.'
His words fell heavily, leaden. She blinked. 'But you said it was wrong to keep feelings locked up...'
'There are other feelings besides...' he said, darkly. 'I know the costs of a lost marriage and lost children. Would you be ennobled by leaving them? Do you believe that?'
Protect her. He must protect her.
'And me?' she asked. 'What about me? Don't I have rights and needs as well?'
Andrew looked down at the empty glass in his hand. 'I remember when I first held Katie in my arms. She had just been born. Her mother was poorly and I held this tiny life to my breast... 'I remember when Kristen learned to walk, and I gashed my arm and she crossed the whole room to kiss me... 'And I remember when my daughter Katie came to me one night and said "I love you dad. I want you to stay with mum and us for ever"...'
He looked up at Caroline and his eyes sparkled sadly. 'I lost it all. Caroline, I lost it all. We're put on this earth... we only come once, and then we're gone... we are only given one chance to parent our children, one opportunity to get it right... You talk about feeling. But surely nothing comes half as precious as that kind of gift. It's like a sacrament that affects our deepest being, because it's so irrevocable, so deep and so much part of us...'
And Andrew, too, was perplexed, uncertain. He wanted, above all else, to protect her. He had to protect her. Had to.
'Maybe your marriage can be repaired?' he said. 'People don't usually marry and have children, unless there's something there, you know...'
'Listen!' she answered. 'He's selfish, irresponsible, but he's not a bad man. He says he just loves two women. But you see, it's not about him any more, whatever he does. It's about me. I don't know if I can take any more.'
Andrew felt a surge of anger towards her husband - for all this diminution, for all the years of disparagement. What had become of the woman he had loved? She had kept on going, but at what cost to her being, her identity, her stability. Years ago, she seemed to have once released her feelings, but then she had locked them away. They needed release, like her pathetic caged birds. She needed - to fly again. She needed release : to be herself.
Caroline returned his gaze. The sense of beauty they shared felt raw and urgent, now, urgent and raw. 'I love you so intensely, and you know it in our eyes. You know it's true.' She spoke sweetly.
'You have a husband who loves you at heart, and children too.'
'You are the man I need so badly, the lover, the friend.'
'It's not that simple,' he complained, in deep confusion.
'I need you, Andrew, whatever it costs.'
'It's not that easy.'
'I need you, darling.'
'You have to consider the whole of your life.'
'Need you. I need you.'

He looked to the ground in dismay.
She stared at him fondly over the table. He needed her as well, she thought. She had not realised how lonely he'd been : that his life was hardly adequate either. He deserved her love. He should have her love. She touched his fingers, gently, with the tips of hers. And now, softly, she said,
'Andrew, we owe it to each other, to honour the truth, to face it...'
But he couldn't. He avoided her gaze and wrested himself away. 'Caroline, it's late. I feel like turning in.'
She saw that he meant it. 'Alright' she said, softly, and they rose to go.
They stole quietly across the shadowed lawn, away from the candlelit table, until the darkness enclosed them and their meal seemed distant, apart, like some faery banquet in another world. She felt his strong presence, close by her in the shadows, and it made her feel feminine and complete. The stream trickled gently as they crossed the bridge, and she shivered a little. It was cooler now.
'Do you remember Dunvegan?' he asked, friendly, kind.
'Yes,' she said.
'You said you'd had enough of mountains, and you'd visit the castle instead.' 'You wanted to climb. I wanted to rest. We went our separate ways,' she sighed.
'What was the name of that flag?' he asked.
'The Faerie Flag.'
'Ah! That was it. You woke in a dream that night, and told me the flag in the castle had disappeared.'
'We all have dreams,' she said.
'But you made me get in the car and drive, and we stood by the castle walls and thought we saw lights...'
They laughed softly.
'But when dawn broke, there was just the grey water lapping on the lonely shore. And you and I. So we returned to the tents at Glenbrittle and made a breakfast fit for a king and queen. Dreams, dreams!'
'It seemed so simple then, didn't it? Caroline said. 'Adventure, dreams. Could it be like that again?'
He tensed in the darkness. Her quiet voice aroused him, fuelled his bitter desire.
'Seasons turn, the years pass. Things can't be the same...'
'I don't believe that,' she insisted gently.
An owl called out again in the woods. Across the bay, a red star winked, tiny twinkling, bobbing over the waves of the sea : overhead vast stars flung out in the empty sky. Human warmth and affection told him to put his arm around her, soft and tender; but he stood his distance, and it felt as if a waste of galaxies might separate them, for all time.They passed through the arch, and the darker presence of the west wing loured above them. Two helicopters swept overhead disturbing the night, and Douglas frowned to himself.
'My,' he said, 'They're sure in a stew about something.'
But soon they were gone.
All around them, the dark, the wilderness lurked. She wished it could envelop them both, bury them, enclose them perhaps in a kind of foetal passivity... in a still being, in a new place. The sound of a car approached up the gravel drive and brought her back with a jolt : Fraser's car door slamming, as he returned - from God knows where. And then night, and a lonely bed.
The following morning dawned cloudless and hot, a mass of green leaves and brightness shimmering outside the dining-room windows. The day seemed brilliant, and full of promise. As Douglas came down into breakfast, the smell of freshly-ground coffee assaulted his senses and broke in to chase off his slumbers.
'Good morning' he said. Only Caroline answered. She seemed composed, in control once again, and smiled tensely across at her friend. The flowers on the table (unnoticed by Fraser) were newly-picked and prettily arranged. Caroline, too, looked pretty and fresh. In contrast, Fraser - his hair greased back - sat sullenly, reading the morning paper.
'There!' he exclaimed, slapping it down. 'They think that terrorists have captured him. What about my bloody children, I'd like to know, that you've sent off with that idiot teacher?'
'I object to that,' she answered coldly.
'And Wiggy? Who? Have you any idea who he is? This Wiggy?'
Andrew poured himself some coffee, and catching sight of the front page, his curiosity was quickly aroused.
'It's a beautiful day outside,' he said. Fraser continued to eat. 'Could I see that paper?'
'Yes, of course.' He passed it moodily to the visitor. Douglas read the main story, and looked with surprise at the photograph, splashed on the front. He seemed to be deep in thought. Fraser was talking to him now... 'appreciate my concern, with bloody terrorists on the loose. My boy's out there somewhere, and God knows who's at large or what they'll do.'
Andrew, who had bitten off some toast, waved the rest of it at the paper. 'You know,' he said, 'I have a proposition.' Caroline watched him. 'These children of yours. I figure they're chasing the ghost of Prince Charlie. It's probably a mad-cap hunt for his treasure, but... if you're worried about this Wiggy, and personally I don't think you need be... I figure I may be able to track them down.'
Caroline looked across sharply, disconsolate : a look that Fraser caught in mid-glance. 'Gordon can look after the children,' she said.
'The fuck he can!' her husband growled.
'Besides,' the American continued, directly to Caroline, 'I could do with a few days away in the heather myself - and get to meet your kids.'
She looked down at the table. 'Gribbon and I used to lose ourselves up in those hills. "Skulking" I think they would call it in the interviews with the Bishop. Well I'm going to "skulk" in the hills for a while. I remember the lay of the land quite well. And who knows? Maybe I'll bring back the treasure as well!'
Fraser got up with a scowl.
'Then I won't be seeing you this evening,' he said. 'There's no bloody treasure at all in those hills. Now excuse me, but some of us have to work.' He stalked out into the hall, and the door slammed shut behind him.
Andrew looked round. 'Do you understand...' he started sadly... 'I just need time to think things through.'
'It's alright,' she answered softly. 'I know you do. I understand.' 'Only...' she hesitated... 'come back soon with the right answer.'
'I'll come back with your children, with a bit of luck and a decent map.'
The American made conversation, and the sun broke across the table and shone on the flowers. He poured himself out some more coffee, and scratched his head, his hair a little awry, and his mind as well. His eyes continued to return with some interest to the paper next to his plate. But nothing seemed simple or clear. It was his heart that spoke to him plainly.
He needed to head for the hills.
* * *