Face the Wind and Fly (6 page)

‘Nuclear’s not dangerous! Not in the civilised world. We know how to handle our nuclear reactors, not like the bloody stupid Russians. There’ll be no Chernobyl in Europe. No, no, lad, nuclear is clean technology. Electricity without pollution, and that’s what we need.’

Although his gut reaction was to resist the Summerfield wind farm, Ibsen still wanted to understand the arguments against it. ‘You said wind farms don’t work—’

‘Stands to reason. Think about it. If the wind isn’t blowing, the turbine can’t produce electricity. And on top of that,’ he leaned forwards as if about to share some important secret, ‘they have to switch them off when the wind’s too strong as well.
And—
’ he leaned so far forward that Ibsen thought he was going to topple over completely, ‘—there’s no way of storing the electricity they make.’ He leant back finally, slumping into his chair as though his passion had exhausted him.

‘That does sound ridiculous.’

‘Do you like birds? You must see a lot from your place. What do you get there, hey? Woodpeckers? Waxwings? Redstarts? Birds of prey?’

Ibsen finished his tea and set his mug down. ‘Aye. All of those from time to time. The trees round the cottage are hopping with birds.’

‘These turbines kill them, you know.’

‘Really?’

‘Stone dead. They can’t see the blades when they’re turning. They’re a damned nuisance, however you look at them.’

It was a strong argument. Ibsen loved to watch birds. As a boy, he’d spent many a happy day with Tam, binoculars round his neck, watching the ducks on the loch up the hill, or the sea birds along the coast. ‘Well,’ he said, storing the argument away, ‘humans have no right to kill birds just because we want electricity – or a quick profit.’

Frank smiled. ‘Knew you were a sympathiser. Bloody project’s got to be stopped. There’s a meeting in a couple of days in the village hall. Fancy coming?’

‘What time?’

‘Half past seven. Come along. Chance to question the blighters.’

‘I’ll do what I can.’ Ibsen glanced at his watch. ‘Better get back to work now though. I must get those roots out before I go.’

Chapter Seven

‘It’s started already,’ said Kate, absorbed in today’s edition of Scotland Daily on her iPad.

‘What’s that?’

Crossly, she read out the headline. ‘ “Summerfield Wind Farm will be an eyesore, claim locals”. I’ve never understood why people seem to dislike turbines so much, Andrew, have you? To me they’re like beautiful swans, with long necks and graceful wings.’

Andrew, who was reading The Times – paper version – looked at her over his reading glasses and poured himself a second coffee. ‘Some people find them threatening.’

‘Threatening? For heaven’s sake, why?’

‘They’re very big. They loom up at you out of the mist like the dementors in Harry Potter, sucking out your life blood.’

‘What nonsense.’

‘You asked.’

‘Why are you looking so smart, by the way?’ Andrew was not a morning person. He usually wore an open-necked shirt, with a sweater when it was cold, but today he had donned a jacket and tie. She caught a whiff of aftershave. He’d shaved already too. ‘And why are you up at this time, anyway?’

‘I’m going into Edinburgh.’

‘Oh. I’m working at home and it’s such a lovely day, I thought we might manage a salad on the patio at lunchtime.’

‘Sorry. I’m meeting the Bishop.’

‘The Bishop? For heaven’s sake, why?’

‘He’s a keen medievalist. I’ve discovered that he knows a great deal about church history of the period and there’s a few plot points I’d like to discuss with him for
Martyne Noreis and the Witch of Lothian
.’ Although his last novel had just been published, Andrew was already far into writing the next in the series. ‘Kate—’

‘Mmm?’ Kate was getting cross about the myriad inaccuracies peddled in the
Scotland Daily
article.

‘You’re going to have to tread carefully with this Summerfield thing. There’s a lot of bad feeling around already.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that? AeGen have put me in charge because they believe I have a bank of goodwill locally. They obviously think it will help.’

When Andrew said nothing she prompted him. ‘Andrew? Make sense?’

He stood up. ‘Maybe. If you do have a bank of goodwill.’

She frowned. ‘What are you saying?’

He laid his plate and cup by the sink. ‘Well, you must admit, you’re hardly the life and soul of the village.’

‘What the hell do you mean by that?’

‘You’re away so much. Off on business trips, away at conferences, out early in the morning, back late at night, too tired to do anything half the time other than plough through papers for the next morning’s meeting and shuffle off to bed.’

‘Is it that bad?’ she tried to laugh, but hurt overtook her. ‘You’re away a fair bit yourself, on talks and tours.’

‘I was the one who did all the school runs, remember. I’m the one who goes to parent evenings and fund raisers.’

Kate’s astonishment grew. It felt as if they were having an argument, yet all she’d done this morning was comment on a headline in the newspaper. But in fairness to Andrew, why had she never wondered if he resented her long hours?

‘Talking of being here,’ he shrugged on a jacket, ‘I’ve invited Andreas Bertolini and his wife for dinner.’

‘The film director? Heavens. Why?’

‘He’s optioned
Circle of Fire
.’

‘Optioned it?’

‘With a view to making a movie.’

‘Oh, Andrew.’ Their tiff forgotten, she jumped up impulsively and hugged him.

She had her ambitions, this was Andrew’s. He didn’t just want to write yet another novel, he also wanted to see his work on the big screen. They’d talked about it, from time to time, as some distant fantasy. Who will play Martyne? Who Ellyn? He saw James McAvoy and Anne Hathaway, she pictured Euan McGregor and Rachel Weisz.

‘It’s just an option.’ He smiled, the old alluring slow curl of the lips.

‘But he’ll do it? He’ll make a film?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. But he’s going to be in Scotland and I’d like to entertain him here. He’s keen to see where I work – and to meet you. You will make yourself free, won’t you?’

Kate hurried to reassure him. ‘Of course! When is it?’

‘Not for a couple of months. I’m giving you plenty of notice.’

She reached for her mobile and entered the date in her diary. ‘There. Done.’

‘Thanks. Will you be late tonight?’

Kate grimaced. ‘It’s the first meeting with Forgie and Summerfield Community Council this evening.’

He spread his hands as if to say ‘See?’ and the corners of his mouth tightened. Vexed by the coincidence she opened her mouth to justify herself, but he turned and strode out.

Kate heard the front door close, the car door open, the engine turn over. She thumped her fist down on the worktop. ‘Damn, damn, damn!’

 It was an odd moment of role reversal. Andrew had gone out, jacket and tie on and briefcase in hand while she was here, in jeans and a tee shirt, amid the debris of the breakfast table.

No point in brooding, she had to work. Their housekeeper, Mrs Gillies, was due shortly. Kate and Andrew had always split the domestic chores – Andrew was childcare and cooking, Kate was supermarket supplies and accounts – but once Andrew’s novels began to take off, they’d hired a housekeeper as well. Mrs Gillies had for years run the house with a proprietary command that would probably worry her, except that she was so seldom around to witness it.
You forgot to water the geraniums
, Mrs G would write, the note on the kitchen table tangible reproof of omission. Or,
We are clean out of bleach, I asked last week.
Andrew and Kate sometimes laughed at her tone – after all, whose house was this? – and Kate was sure that Andrew saved the notes for inspiration. No character, for him, was ever wasted.

Kate looked around at the mess in the kitchen with a vague feeling that she should tidy it. Her mouth curled into a small smile – tidy up for the cleaner? What was the point of that? She looked around for her briefcase before recalling that she’d taken it upstairs last night to do some work. On the landing, a notice on Ninian’s door caught her eye. ‘Keep Out on Pain of Death!’ A few weeks ago, she’d have found it funny, but Ninian had grown short-tempered and increasingly reclusive since Harry’s party and she was beginning to worry that these traits were growing extreme.

Eight o’clock. She rapped sharply on the door and opened it. The room was in complete darkness and she could only just make out his hunched shape under the covers. ‘Ninian? Shouldn’t you be up?’

An irritated groan split the darkness. ‘Mu-um! Bloody hell! Don’t you
know
? I don’t go in till eleven on Wednesdays!’ He pulled a pillow over his head and she heard another roar of anger, this time muffled.

She pulled the door closed, realising that actually no, she did not know he didn’t go in until eleven on Wednesdays, that in fact she didn’t know much about his timetable at all.

An unmistakeable whiff of cigarette smoke followed Mrs Gillies into the kitchen on the dot of nine. She must have stubbed her cigarette out on the doorstep. Well, that was something. Kate knew she often lit up in the house, in defiance of orders, she could still smell the nicotine smoke hours later when she got home from work.

‘Morning Mrs Gillies.’

‘Oh! You’re there, are you Kate?’

Jean Gillies had a knack of making Kate feel like an intruder in her own home. She bit back a smart retort. Sarcasm would be lost on Mrs G and besides, she didn’t usually have to put up with this, she was out at work. The housekeeper, she reminded herself, was an essential element in the smooth running of Willow Corner – she could allow her the odd irritable habit.

‘I’m working at home this morning.’

‘I see.’ On went the kettle. ‘Cup of tea?’

‘No, I’m fine thanks. Mrs Gillies, Ninian’s still in bed and Andrew’s gone to a meeting.’ Kate itched to ask her about Ninian but it seemed odd to have to ask the cleaner about her own son’s habits.

Mrs G rinsed a cloth under the tap and wrung it out. An impressive array of gold and jewelled rings sparkled and flashed, one on her pinkie, three on her wedding finger, two on her middle finger. They’d come down, she’d explained to Kate once, from grandmother and mother and auntie, like a dowry. The skin on her hands was aged and work-worn, but the rings were clearly some kind of badge of status and she was not to be parted from them.

‘Mind if I—?’ She gestured at the table, where Kate had started to lay out her papers.

Working in the kitchen was going to be impossible. Kate gathered them up. ‘Ninian muttered something about a lie-in—’ she made a joke of her ignorance and laughed, ‘but I want to make sure he’s not having me on.’

‘Oh Wednesdays he’s got a free period first thing. I’ll make sure he’s up in half an hour and gets some breakfast in his tum. He’s a growing lad.’

That, at least, she did know about. ‘And eats like one,’ she smiled. Yet the disquiet of earlier turned around like a cat in her stomach, stretched and settled. ‘Listen. I’ll take myself off to Andrew’s study, give you some room.’

Andrew kept his study immaculately tidy. He worked mostly on his computer. His research notes and history books were stored in box files on the shelf at his right hand, but there was room for her papers on the table where he liked to spread the post-its and wallpaper he used for plotting in the early stages of a new novel. Outside, a light breeze ruffled the climbing roses by the front door and sent dappled shadows across the desk. Her hands, full of papers, hovered for a moment as her mind hopped over stepping stones, making connections: roses – garden – gardener – Ibsen. Why had she thought of him?

The telephone on Andrew’s desk rang and she answered it at once. ‘Willow Corner, hello?’

Silence.

‘Hello? Can you hear me?’

There was still silence, though she thought she could hear breathing.

Life is too short to hold conversations with yourself. She cut the call and dialled 1471. Number withheld. Some aborted sales call probably.

She had a stack of estimates to go through and a financial viability report to compile. It had been done before, of course, but by Jack Bailey. She needed to make sure for herself that everything was up-to-date and in order, which was why she’d opted for the peace of home rather than the hurly burly of the office.

Twenty minutes later, she was deep into a complex calculation when the telephone rang again. She had instructed the office not to call her, and in any case, they would use her mobile for anything urgent. It must be for Andrew. Irritated, she picked it up. ‘Hello?’

Silence.

‘Hello? This is Kate Courtenay at Willow Corner. Is there anyone there?’

The phone went dead and she went through the 1471 performance again, with the same result.

When it happened for the third time, she didn’t bother, she just picked the phone up and marched through to the kitchen with it. ‘Mrs Gillies,’ she mouthed over the noise of the food grinder in the sink. ‘The phone keeps ringing but there’s no-one there.’

‘What?’ The grinding stopped and the loose orangey-brown bun scraped up onto the top of Mrs Gillies’s head bobbed with annoyance at the interruption.

‘Sorry. The phone keeps ringing but there’s no-one there. Does it happen a lot? We’re ex-directory so there shouldn’t be nuisance calls.’

‘No idea, Kate, sorry. Andrew usually answers it.’ The deafening grinding resumed. Mrs G had her routines.

Kate dropped the phone onto the kitchen table, where at least it would be out of earshot, and returned to the study, pondering the oddity of why the cleaner should use their first names while they addressed her formally.

Andrew didn’t appear for supper. At six thirty Kate changed from her jeans into a dark business suit – neat straight skirt, well-cut waisted jacket – and cream silk blouse. She slipped on a pair of commanding heels. She was happiest out on site in jeans and protective boots, but the illusion of height gave her a greater sense of control, and besides, she liked to confound expectation. People never expected a wind farm project manager to be a woman, and a diminutive one at that. The mood tonight was going to be confrontational so it would be great if she could establish an air of authority. Tonight was not a night to fade into the background. So – which scarf? Red. Red was assertive. She opened her eyes and her hand went straight to her treasured Weston Petrified Wood silk print. Its fabulous bold reds and oranges made her feel invincible.

The Council meeting was due to start at seven thirty and she hadn’t eaten yet. She knocked on Ninian’s door as she passed. ‘You hungry?’

‘Yeah.’ The response was muffled.

‘Dad’s not home. What do you want?’

Ninian’s dishevelled head appeared. ‘Christ, does that mean you’re cooking?’

Kate was a terrible cook. Where Andrew could conjure up a gourmet meal out of nothing, she could ruin a fillet steak in an instant. She ignored Ninian’s remark. ‘Beans on toast or eggs and sausage?’

‘Okay to feed Cuzzer and Banksy too?’ He opened the door a little wider and across a carpet littered with paper and socks and discarded wrappers, she saw Ninian’s two friends lounging on the bed.

‘Hi! I didn’t realise you were here.’

Cuzzer – Stephen Cousins – was a sharp-featured lad with what she knew to be an equally sharp tongue. Elliott Banks had a mop of dark auburn hair and an open, pleasant face. He rose now. ‘You’re all right, thanks,’ he said, ‘I’d best be going.’

‘Me too.’ Cuzzer unwound his skinny legs and stood up. His head was shaved almost to the bone. ‘Get you down the road, Banksy.’

Ninian scowled. ‘You don’t have to go,’ he said, ‘she’s going out.’

‘Nah. Ta.’ Cuzz squeezed past her, eyes averted, head down. He looked shifty, but then he always did.

‘Mum’ll be expecting me,’ Banksy said, smiling at Kate as he waited for her to step aside. ‘See you tomorrow, Nins.’

‘Okay. See you.’

‘Bye,’ Kate called as the two lads disappeared down the stairs. The front door closed behind them.

‘Where’s Dad?’

‘He had a meeting with the Bishop.’ But that had been this morning—

Ninian grunted. ‘Seems like he’s been having a lot of meetings recently.’