Chapter 12: The Best Laid Schemes

As I climbed in beside Jon, I was conscious that it was just under three months since I had first clambered aboard the all-terrain vehicle to travel to the Retreat. Then as now, my companion was friendly but quiet; less quiet now than then but lacking the volubility that had marked the days leading up to his first professional engagement in London. I was as aware as he that we had not finished with that episode in our lives.

I had decided on the drive to Coulport that I would leave the subject of the future of Jon and his sister until they brought it up. I was pretty sure that Kate would demand to have everything out in the open when she was ready. Until then, I was happy enough to exchange trivialities with her brother, since I was certain she would act as spokesperson for both of them. How to deal with the siblings was not the only thing on my mind: I had to face Jenny.

I was confused about the depth of my feelings for her, and I had no idea whatsoever about her feelings for me. For the next month at least, we were going to be living close together with only three other people in the vicinity. We had parted before the exhibition of her drawings on terms that were strained, to say the least. If I declined to deal with that elephant and the rhinoceros that was the music fiasco, I would have about as much to say as a Trappist monk.

How I might have handled the situation I cannot guess but two pregnant ewes changed the game. They were nibbling the tender grass growing between the ruts made by the vehicle wheels and they were naturally reluctant to give way to us. We were forced to stop and await their pleasure.

As an epiphany it may have lacked the drama of the light that blinded Saul of Tarsus on the road to Damascus, but it was nonetheless effective. Jon began talking about the changes wrought by Eddie and his three hundred odd sheep, recovering his enthusiasm as he spoke. As I listened, I contrasted the two wild endeavours I had funded: the abject failure of my career as a music impresario with the success represented by blobs of white scattered across the bleak moorland landscape.

But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane,

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best laid schemes o’ Mice and Men, Gang aft agley,

An’ leave us nought but grief an’ pain, For promis’d joy!

So said Robert Burns after he destroyed the nest of a field mouse, as he ploughed a wind-swept field. I knew nothing of either sheep or music – not to mention field mice - but I had been better prepared for one venture than the other. Eddie and Janice between them knew, or found out, everything there was to know about blackface sheep. He will care for the flock but without sentiment. Next spring he will survey his charges and decide which should live and which must die to generate the cash to maintain the rest of the flock.

We gave no thought to the survival of Jon and Kate in the music business. We naively assumed that if they performed well enough, an audience would appear, willing to pay hard cash for the privilege of listening to them. Anya was the only one of us that knew the hard facts of surviving in show business, and we brought her in too late to affect the outcome.

Still, thou art blest, compr’d wi’ me!

The present only toucheth thee:

But Och! I backwad cast my e’e, On prospects drear!

An’ forward, tho’ I canna see, I guess an’ fear!

Thus, Burns concluded his poem. I resolved, while I listened with half an ear to Jon talking about sheep, that the backward cast of my eye would be restricted to an analysis of what went wrong. I freely admit that, like Burns, I cannot see what is ahead of us, but I am convinced that there is a solution if I can only find it. I know the extent of my ignorance now and I can help the brother and sister even if only by tempering their dreams.

Every journey, they say, begins with one step and I resolved that I would use all my powers of persuasion to convince Anya that she should take the lead in searching for a way to satisfy the longing of Jon and his sister for success in music-making. My ignorance is embarrassingly total and totally embarrassing.

We pulled up at the farmhouse before I had taken my resolve any further forward; I will have to keep reminding myself that I have actually done nothing yet, even if it is an inspired idea to involve Anya.

Jon put the vehicle away while I hauled my bag inside, leaving it at the foot of the stairs while I went through to the kitchen to see Kate. She had just pulled a batch of bread from the oven, straightening up and grinning at me through the steamy atmosphere. A hank of hair had come loose from her ponytail and was plastered to her brow by sweat: she looked utterly charming.

“Out Fergus,” she grinned. “No one sees me like this, so hop it!”

I always think it is a good sign when a woman recovers her vanity, so I withdrew.

I took my bag up to the office and opened my laptop to check the waiting emails. While I waited for it to boot up, I went to the windows and looked out over my dominions, feeling the calm of the Retreat flush the tensions from my soul. The weather was cold but dry, with earlier rain courteously withdrawing into the hills to the north. I spied a flash of colour on the ridge at the western edge of the little depression surrounding Lochan Glas, suggesting that Elaine and Jenny were sketching in their favourite spot.

Leaving the emails unread, I put on a pair of sturdy boots and walked up the path behind the house. As I crossed the ridge, I came upon the ladies siting on folding chairs each with a canvas propped on an easel in front of her. I had first met Jenny and Elaine on the same spot almost three months before. The weather was colder now than then and there was a dusting of snow on the tops of the Argyle hills that formed the backdrop of the scene.

The only other difference was that Jenny had emerged from hiding. At our first meeting she had been sketching furtively and had quickly closed her drawing book when I appeared. Not quickly enough, however, to prevent me noticing the quality of her work. Later, when we amicably shared kitchen duties in the absence of Kate, I had induced her to show me more of her work.

On impulse, I offered to introduce her to Piers, the art gallery owner who had sold me a number of paintings over the years. It was only then that I realised that I was developing feelings for Jenny. Piers is an honest dealer, as far as that is possible, but he has a reputation as the seducer of the artists who exhibit in his gallery. It was one thing to introduce a casual acquaintance to him but, I soon realised, quite another when you care for the woman.

It was impossible to withdraw the offer of an introduction which might lead to recognition of what seemed to me to be a real talent. It was equally impossible to warn Jenny of my fears for her honour when she entered the clutches of such a rake as Piers. I might have declared my interest, of course, but I was not at all sure what my feelings were for her. I made a clumsy attempt to alert Elaine to the dangers but the ball, once rolling, developed a momentum that was unstoppable.

Part of the reason why I was unsure of my feelings lay with the façade Jenny presented to the world. She dressed in shapeless clothes in dull colours and seldom wore more than a trace of lipstick. Any hope I had that Piers would miss the jewel I had detected amongst the dross, were dashed when I collected her at her hotel for her first meeting with the gallery wolf.

She was stunning. Dressed in well-tailored clothes in vibrant colours and with hair and make-up perfect, no man could resist her beauty and charm. Well, no man but me, I must confess. I was offended that she had put on such a display for Piers when she had only ever shown me the dull, self-effacing side of her character. By the time I made the introductions, I was in a sulk. I flounced out of the lunch meeting, and I have hardly spoken to Jenny since. To top it all off, I managed to avoid attending her exhibition in Piers’ gallery.

Both she and Elaine turned to me as I crested the ridge behind them. The older woman was still doing excruciatingly bad work, but Jenny was working on a pretty landscape.

“Are you using oils or acrylics?” I asked her, without any other greeting.

“Oils, but it’s really too cold for them. I don’t feel the flow – it all feels laboured and lumpy, somehow.”

“Will acrylics be any better?” I asked, before I turned and said ‘Hello’ to Elaine.

Jenny had been looking at the painting but now she turned and looked straight at me. We held each other’s eyes for a long moment, neither of us smiling.

“This is nice, Fergus,” Elaine gushed. “We missed you, didn’t we Jenny?”

“Anya wanted me to check on her father and her Aunt Shona, so I couldn’t get to the show.”

“You didn’t miss much,” from Jenny.

“It was wonderful – you missed a real treat,” from her companion. “Piers is simply marvellous, isn’t he Jen? He has such a good eye for lighting. We sold absolute masses, didn’t we dear?”

“Anya’s Mr Mason bought two,” I contributed.

“I know! He’s such a sweetie – I told her she’ll have to take good care of him, or someone will steal him away.”

“I think you’d need a crowbar to get him away from Anya,” Jenny laughed and, all at once, the tension was gone, and we were smiling at each other.

I excused myself shortly after, but the sentiments were genuine when we agreed that we were looking forward to having dinner together. There was a spring in my step as I walked back to the house. Whatever it is between Jenny and me, it is clear it still exists. I was taking off my boots when the doubts returned: what had she been up to with Piers behind my back and could I ever forgive her for looking so stunningly lovely for his sake?

When I finally opened my emails, there was a query from Ali about some maths problem and I conducted an electronic lesson that kept me busy until dinner was announced. We all sat at the same table and the conversation was about the sights and sounds of London. By tacit consent, we kept to generalities, except that I gave a detailed account of the arrival of the four ladies at Heathrow in a stretch limo, drunk as skunks.

This brought forth reminiscences of Anya. She had made a deeply favourable impression on all of us, and we all had a story to tell of her cheerfulness and ready wit. She had told Elaine that she would spend December at Loch Dochard doing penance for enjoying herself so much in London. She had promised Kate that nothing would stop her spending Christmas with us at the Retreat.

Aunt Shona had loved her time looking after Hector although I admit to wondering how you could possibly detect pleasure on Shona’s sour face. Jerome Mason will join the party for the festive season; Anya stressed that he would be sharing her bed, Kate blushingly admitted.

“It won’t be the first time,” she told us. “She and I shared a room in London, and she stayed out six nights. She said she was staying in a hotel but the first night was the day Jerome arrived.”

It would have been ungentlemanly of me to say that five of these six nights were spent in my bed. Instead, I repeated what Ali had reported about Mr Mason being no stud but willing to learn.

“You are awful, Fergus,” Kate squealed. “She said the same to me, but I thought it was a bit rude, so I didn’t repeat it.”

We had sat chatting after our coffee and I now rose and offered to make a fresh brew. Jon came to help me and, when we returned, Kate had brought his guitar, handing it to him with a warm smile. He strummed gentle, sad airs while we sat in companionable silence drinking coffee; he seemed even more relaxed than normal, sitting at the table rather than on his stool beside the piano on the dais. I felt my eyes becoming heavy and a quick glance at the others suggested they were feeling equally weary.

“Play a jig Jon, before I embarrass myself by falling asleep and snoring,” Kate nudged her brother.

We went our separate ways shortly after, but sleep eluded me when I got to bed. I have spent much of my life in London where there is always some noise; sometimes a voice is raised in anger in the street below your window or you hear the wail of an emergency vehicle rushing to a distant crisis. Often, however, there is only a background murmuring almost below the threshold of hearing; you feel it almost as a vibration.

In the farmhouse at Coulport there is no noise of that sort. When I first visited the Retreat, I slept dreamlessly in the total silence but at that time in my life I was carrying years of accumulated tension. Now I was less stressed I became aware of the owls. The shelter afforded by the ridges encircling Lochan Glas has allowed trees to flourish, and I had seen the ghostly shapes of owls flying amongst them. They are huge birds, and I now discovered that their voices are in proportion. The gentle to-wit-to-woo of the fairy tales hardly does justice to the booming crash of a gliding owl returning with its prey.

I do not know why it had not bothered me before but on this night, there was a loud ‘woo-hoo’ every time I began to drift off to sleep. I seldom suffer from insomnia, but it can persist for hours if I simply let my mind lead me down a path of its choosing. The secret is to fool it into picking a subject so boring that I lose interest and fall asleep.

Thinking about money always works. I like what money can buy and I am acutely aware that my business had to be financially viable but the making of money is dull and boring. In the past I would have to consider how to maximise my income while cutting expenses to the bone but now my life has changed. Perhaps it was time I took stock of my new financial position. Almost three months before, I had sold the business I had built from scratch for cash and shares amounting to around ninety million pounds.

Every penny was made available to my accountants who fenced off portions that might be required to meet my obligations. About half was put aside until an agreement was reached with the government on what I owed them in capital gains and other taxation; my creditors had to be contacted, and my employees had to be satisfied that they had received everything they had earned. A very small amount of the purchase price was available to me.

Things are much clearer now, but it will be several more months before a final settlement is reached. Up until now I have relied on the price I got for my furniture and then the money from the sale of my flat to pay for everything. The lease of the grazing around Duchlage farmhouse, and the sheep in lamb now feeding on the grass and heather, were funded from that source.

My agreement with Eddie includes the building of a house for him and Janice and the accountants have authorised quarter of a million for that purpose in the last few days. The chief consequence of my decision to involve myself in the future of the Retreat is still in the hands of the lawyers. Jerome Mason, acting for the estate of Olaf Ogilvie, and Sean Flack, acting for me, are enjoying a duel over the details of an agreement. I would normally be impatient of the delay, but the truth is that I could be short of funds if they settle too soon.

On the other hand, it is important that the Retreat starts to generate income as soon as possible. The equipment needed to refurbish the properties has been ordered and will be ready for delivery before Christmas so that work can begin at the start of the New Year. I have risked the last of the money from the sale of my flat on securing the orders, but I will need a contract before my accountants will be prepared to release the full funds needed.

By the time I reached this point my mind was wide awake although my body was weary. In my old life, thinking about my finances was soporific but I now feel as if I am on a fiscal tight rope in a high wind juggling too many balls. In brief: my new life is too exciting to induce sleep. I was finding it hard to remain focused and I suspect that I nodded off from time to time.

In any event, I found myself in something rather like a dream; I could still hear the damned owls, although the noise was considerably less penetrating. In the dream, Rachel was an old movie playing through my life; the colours were faded, and the scenes were slightly out of focus. I found myself considering re-mastering the film; the story is still wonderful, but will it appeal to a modern audience even after I have invested heavily in it?

Then the dream switched to Jenny who appeared as a series of still photographs in brilliant colours and sharply focused. Based on these I could make a visually stunning movie but was there a story that would bring the audience flooding to cinemas? My mind switched between Jenny playing Rachel’s role in our movie and Rachel posing in the still pictures of Jenny. At some point I finally fell asleep.

I woke in the morning with a line from an old song running through my head: ‘A man chases a girl until she catches him.’

The Ministry of Defence had agreed to lease an acre of ground next to the Duchlage car park to me, so I went to Sean’s office in Helensburgh to sign the contract and to approve the detailed planning application for the house I proposed to build on the plot. He was gloomy about the prospects of an early agreement with Jerome on the value of the Retreat, but he brightened up when I suggested an interim agreement that would give me a quarter share in return for the refurbishment. At a later date, the final division would determine the investment I would make in advertising and promoting the venture.

I like both the solicitors as men, but I could not avoid the thought that the interim arrangements would add considerably to the bills they would eventually present to their respective clients. I phoned Hugh but he was out of the office doing something, as his girl expressed it. She thought it might be something on my behalf, but she could not be absolutely sure: ‘Mr McLean doesn’t tell me much,’ she complained.

I looked in on Janice behind her library desk to tell her about the progress on her new home but if she was pleased, she hid it well. I thought nothing about it at the time, but it proved to be the zephyr, hardly strong enough to ruffle your hair, which presages the storm. In the wreckage left in its wake, I found myself in the role of villain.

The refurbishment of the Retreat had been initiated by me and researched by Kate. Our aim was to provide luxury in the midst of unspoiled nature, offering seclusion without isolation. I had the computer skills to plan the work, but I now found myself floundering; the fact is that I know nothing about building trades. I have employed plumbers and electricians in my home and office but, early in January, I was planning to employ ten or a dozen men for around three months.

It would be hard enough to manage the work in the middle of a city, but we were at the further end of the known universe. We would have to go to Greenock or Glasgow to recruit the men; they then had to be provided with accommodation or transported for anything up to four hours of the eight-hour working day. Kate and Jon knew no more than I did.