I suppose I’ve got to admit I was incredibly lucky, but with the luck came a lorry-load of guilt. But why? Here’s my tale.

It began with my redundancy as a result of one of those big corporate takeovers. I was never particularly excited about my clerical/administrative position, and I was never keen on living in London. I grew up in a rural town in Norfolk, Thetford, where my widowed mother still lived in the little house I grew up in. Additionally, my tiny flat in London wasn’t large enough – no garage or parking space – for me to indulge my interest in classic cars and motorbikes. So when my job finished I took the generous redundancy payment, and retreated to my childhood home, where I was made very welcome. Tearfully welcome, in fact. It wasn’t difficult to find casual work, if not enough to live independently. It was about a month after I got home, when my mother asked if I remembered her talking about her Scottish aunt, who lived on one of the Inner Hebridean islands.

I shrugged. “Of course.” Not that I remembered any details.

“It seems that she’s been taken ill, and is in a Glasgow hospital,” Mum said. “Is there any chance we could drive up to see her?”

And that is where it really starts. Mum’s old Astra Estate was, for its age, in excellent condition, and I had no problem with trusting it for the drive. In fact, we packed up camping gear and everything we’d need for a couple of weeks in Scotland, and set off early in the morning of the fifth of July. We headed north and west, picked up the A17 at King’s Lynn, which is most heading west, but still not a fast road of the most part, and stopped for lunch at ‘The Friendly Farmer’, a restaurant tucked between the A46 and the A17, next to a service station. They gave us an excellent lunch, and we made use of the ‘facilities’ before setting off again. Leaving the car park, though, as we were about to enter the A46, there was a hitchhiker with a cardboard sign, ‘Scotland’. Impulsively, I pulled over. She – definitely she – was humping an enormous rucksack, clearly with camping gear.

“We’re headed for Glasgow today,” Mum told her.

“Wonderful,” she replied. “I can stay in a Youth Hostel there, and head off north, backpacking, in the morning. I’m Daisy Clarke.”

And that is what happened. We got on the A1 north, which is a fast dual carriageway, with motorway sections. We cut across to the M6 using the A66, not so fast, and the total run to Glasgow is just less than three hundred miles, five hours, not counting a break at Penrith. Mum and Daisy chatted the whole way. We left Daisy at the Glasgow Youth Hostel and checked into a hotel near Glasgow Royal Infirmary. We were both tired from a day’s driving, so put off visiting the hospital until the morning.

We had a substantial breakfast, and went to the hospital. Strictly, it was not visiting time, but the ward sister let us see Aunt Isla. She was in a single room, so we wouldn’t disturb anyone else, and at the time I suspected that they didn’t expect her to live much longer.

I, unlike my mother, had no idea what to expect. My first impression was of a tiny, leathery skinned desiccated woman, who I wasn’t at all sure was still living. But Mum went to her and gently touched the hand resting on the coverlet. She woke, and there was no doubt about the life sparkling in those eyes. “Bon ... nie.”

“Auntie, this is my son Duncan.”

“Than ... k you. Hel ... lo, Dun ... can.” Her hand, the one Mum wasn’t touching, rose toward me and I went and took it. It was warm and dry, the skin papery under my fingers. There was no strength in the grip, but I felt something pass between us, and I couldn’t let go. “There’s a let ... ter,” she said. “Please. Take ... it when ... you go.” And I was released.

That light left her eyes, and, just like that, she stopped breathing.

Mum bent, kissed the old woman’s cheek, and closed her eyes. When she straightened up, tears were trickling down her cheeks. I didn’t comment, and we went together to talk to the Sister. She nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said to Mum, “I think she was just hanging on to see you. Please, wait a moment.” She left the desk and went to an office, then reappeared with an official-looking envelope. “She asked to make sure this got to you,” she said, handing the letter to Mum.

“Aunt Isla was my Godmother,” Mum told the Sister. “I hadn’t seen her for years, but we always kept in touch.”

A few formalities, and we returned to the hotel, via a restaurant for lunch.

The letter. Ah – the letter. On that heavy paper you encounter on official documents, embossed with the title and address of a solicitor in Fort William, Fraser, Fraser and McDonald.

‘To Mrs. Bonnie Taylor or her heir or heirs. The will of Mrs Isla McLeod is held in our strong-room. You should receive this letter either from her hand or in the event of her passing should that occur before you see her. We request that you visit our office where you may be informed of matters to your benefit.

Yours faithfully,

Donald Fraser

Senior Partner.

Did we have a choice? One hundred miles to the North, a solicitor was sitting in his office, waiting for the heir (or heirs?) of Isla McLeod to call in so he could fulfil his responsibilities. Okay, perhaps he wasn’t just sitting there. Having the afternoon free, we decided, or rather my mother decided, to have a look at Glasgow, and head north the next day.

I have to confess that my mental picture of Glasgow is, or was, not something which would have led me there as a tourist. Nowadays, well, I suppose I’m glad we visited the Riverside Museum of Transport and Travel before the Wars. I have something positive to remember about the city.

Donald Fraser, when we entered his office late afternoon of the following day, appeared the epitome of old-style solicitor, right down to suit, tie, and glossy black shoes.

“Missus Taylor...”

“Yes, Mister Fraser. This is my son, Duncan.”

“How do you do, Missus Taylor, Mister Taylor.” He cleared his throat. “There will be a short delay for Probate, but the estate of Missus McLeod is to be yours in its entirety. There is a trust fund which should cover the death duties easily. I will give you a full inventory and a set of keys. In outline, your aunt is ... sorry, was ... a considerable landowner, and many of the island residents are tenants, though the leases are nominal. With the inventory is a list of the rights and duties of the tenants. I need to say that Missus McLeod had what some might think strange ideas. But I have to admit that they seem to work. I suggest you go and take physical possession, tomorrow would do.”

It wasn’t too difficult to find a B & B.

It’s no longer necessary to find a boat to get to Skye. There’s now a bridge. Sorry to detract from the beauty of tradition. A hundred miles or so from Fort William to Skye, through Scottish scenery. Need I say more? It took over three hours not including a lunch break.

We passed through Portree. As we were driving, I noticed quite a few wind turbines. That made sense. I’d heard that the Shetland Islands got their electricity from wind, which is rarely absent from there, but not about the Hebrides. At a post marking ‘McLeod Estates’ we turned off along a gravel track ending by a substantial stone house with very small windows, solar panels on the steeply sloping roof, and another turbine alongside. There was, I noted, a satellite dish mounted on the tall chimney. I stopped by the porch.

“Looks like we’re here,” I announced to Mum, who rolled her eyes.

“And you think this because...?”

I laughed. “Come on, let’s explore your inheritance.”

“Our inheritance,” Mum corrected. “Yes, let’s.”

It was dark inside, once we negotiated the porch door and the inner door, neither of which were locked. Little light found its way through the small windows which anyway had curtains drawn, but the light-switch worked.

July in Scotland. Not winter, but not that warm, either, for a softy brought up in East Anglia. The ground floor of the house was half open-plan, with the kitchen/dining room to the right and lounge to the left. The kitchen had an ancient range as well as a modern electric cooker and microwave. Two doors at the back, one led to a cool store, the other to a well-equipped bathroom and toilet, the toilet being separated from the main bathroom by a partition. Okay.

Mum headed for the stove in the lounge, which had a pile of logs and kindling next to it. However, she just opened the door, struck a match and stuck it in. Clearly, there was the making of a fire laid in there. Which was confirmed a few minutes later by the sound of the crackling of flames.

“It’s not really cold,” Mum commented, “but I think we’ll enjoy the fire. Perhaps later I’ll light the range.”

Electric light. Television and internet from the satellite. Warmth from the stove; generous warmth, using logs. Oh, and Aunt Isla’s computer. Not the latest, by any means, but a good specification. An iMac, so I was less worried about upgrades. Not to mention I had to use Windows at work, and learned to detest Win10. Horror reports about 11, but I never dealt with that.

Investigated a decent-sized freezer, which seemed to be mostly full of cuts of meat, though there was fish in there too, blanched vegetables and fruit. A larder contained roots; carrots, parsnips, potatoes. Flour, oats. Eggs. Would the eggs be okay? They must have been there several weeks at least. A refrigerator was found to contain butter and cheese. Two bottles of milk ... yes, definitely off, so we emptied the bottles and put them to soak.

Over the next few days we explored Isla McLeod’s estate, and estate it was – is. Though it’s ours now. We made friends with the Budge family in Portree, and had a visit from Alistair MacDonald, who was, we were informed, the chairman of the McLeod Tenants Association.

“Missus Isla,” he told us, “was a very generous landlord, and we established an amicable arrangement regarding rents and such like.”

“I won’t want to upset an arrangement which is working,” Mum told him, “though I don’t know what we’ll be doing yet.”

“If ye were to settle here,” he said, “ye’d find ye’d no need for much. The rents are low, but there’s meat – lamb, mainly – seasonal vegetables, wool as yarn or garments. There are skills on the island, ye understand.”

Mum looked at me. “There’s little to keep us in Norfolk,” she said, in a questioning tone.

“Up to you,” I shrugged. “You’re the one with friends in Thetford. All mine have moved away. I’ve no proper job, and I’d guess there’ll be plenty to occupy me here.”

Mister MacDonald looked at me – a penetrating look. “Young man, the lady of the estate will have respect from the residents here, but some of the visitors will respond better to a man.”

Thus it was we found ourselves heading south a fortnight after setting out. Mum and I sorted out the things we really wanted to keep, barely a van-load, and arranged with a local solicitor to sell the house for us. After some thought, we sold the Astra to a young man starting an apprenticeship who was delighted to have economical transport, and bought a Mercedes van. We loaded up everything we were wanting to take, and arranged for the rest to be collected by a house clearance specialist.

On the tenth of August, we set off again, this time without encountering a hitchhiker, stopped for the night just over the border in Gretna Green, and arrived back on Skye late on the eleventh.

Old Aunt Isla had everything very well arranged indeed, with reliable supervisors at each of her enterprises. I merely toured round to meet and get to know people. In particular, there were camp sites, where I discussed with the managers any problems they were having with the campers. On the whole, very little. But towards the end of August I encountered a familiar face in the form of Daisy Clarke. Daisy, it seemed, had made Skye her last destination before returning south to her home in London. She was bubbling with enthusiasm for her holiday, and I invited her to supper.

That was a pleasant meeting, discussing everything from a to z, including camping, well being, politics and religion. Daisy was about to begin her second year at LSE – the London School of Economics. The school has, shall we say, a reputation for left-wing bias. As a Centrist, I can argue both sides of the fence, and we had an animated, though mostly amicable, discussion. Daisy was actually impressed by Aunt Isla’s arrangements, so we got along quite well.

I needed to visit Fort William with Mum to finalise our possession of the estate, and agreed to carry Daisy along with us. She would, hopefully, there pick up a lift south. “If really necessary,” she shrugged, “I can get a train. I slightly resent paying out for it, but I can do it.”

So Friday before the Bank Holiday, Daisy showed up humping her enormous rucksack, which she put in the back of the van, and we set off, three abreast across the cab.

I like to have the radio on while driving, a music channel, usually, but with the usual hourly news reports. We’d not been travelling long when the first hint of trouble surfaced. By the time we reached Fort William, it was apparent that there had been major terrorist incidents affecting much of London and communication with the City had ceased. Official reports merely asked everyone to avoid the City.

Daisy was white-faced. “What shall I do? I need to be back at school in a few days!”

“Well, for now,” Mum said, firmly, “come back home with us. You can stay with us until things are sorted out.”

“But...”

“Look at it this way,” I said, “with us, you’re sure of shelter, food, and a bed to sleep in. We’ll find things for you to do if you’re bothered about that. What about your parents?”

“Richmond,” she replied. She looked at her watch. “I’ll text them and let them know. You sure it’s okay? Really?”

“Absolutely. Look, Mum and I need to go to our solicitor and deal with some legal stuff. Why don’t you take a look round the town? We’ll meet up...” I glanced at Mum.

“Brown’s,” she said immediately. “but we’ll probably be at least an hour, possibly more.”

We were a little over the hour with Mister Fraser. Really, it was just formalities. He’d secured probate with expedition, and handed over the deeds.

Mum thanked him. “I hope you or your firm will represent us in future. We’d better arrange a new will for both of us.”

“It will be a privilege,” was his response.

We met Daisy outside Brown’s and went in for a (rather late, for us) lunch.

“I’ve texted my family,” Daisy told us, “but no responses so far.”

There didn’t seem much point in hanging around, and we set off back to the island. Daisy’s phone bleeped as we crossed the bridge.

“My younger sister,” she said. “She’s taken a gap year to work on a nature reserve. The RSPB. Norfolk. She doesn’t carry her phone when she’s working in case she gets wet.” She paused. “She hasn’t heard anything from the rest of the family, though.”

Over the next few days the news seemed to get worse and worse. Manchester, Glasgow, and finally Birmingham had received attention from the Jihadists. Chemical and biological attacks had required those cities to be isolated except for emergency services. Hospitals were overloaded dealing with intractable infections. Sadly, the chemical attacks resulted in a one hundred percent casualty rate. I’ve since wondered why the attacks hadn’t been coordinated for the same day, but either way security forces hadn’t managed to prevent any of the atrocities.

Daisy went to work for a local shepherd, though she kept her room with us.

A provisional government set up local committees and appealed for Reservists and Cadets to report to their nearest garrison for service, and added that volunteers with technical skills would be welcomed. We talked about it, but in all honesty I couldn’t claim to have technical or military skills. Several of our locals, though, were retired military and left to report for duty. For the first time in generations, the gender balance swung to a predominance of females.

Daisy was very quiet, and we hardly knew when she was around. Everything was up in the air: government, if you can call it that, was a handful of MPs who happened to be in their constituencies when the attack happened. For the most part the Civil Servants who actually ran the country died with the bulk of parliament. Local Committees did a fair job of administering their areas and coordinating the necessities of life. Most of the hassle passed us by as we were effectively independent of the mainland.

One evening I heard crying from Daisy’s room, tapped on the door, heard, “Yes?” and went in.

Daisy, red-eyed, wet cheeked, peered up from her bed where she was wrapped round a pillow.

“Dead,” she said. “Dead, and I can’t even go to a funeral to say goodbye. I don’t know what I’ll do.”

I pulled a chair over to the bed and sat there, reached out and laid my hand over hers. “You’ll stay here,” I said. “You’ll be family to us. Your sister could come if she wants. Wasn’t one of your brothers Navy?”

She sniffled. “Terry,” she nodded. “he’s on deployment. Submarine, somewhere. I left a message.”

“We’ll work it out, Daisy.”

Sniff. “Thanks.” Sniff. “Can I have a hug?”

“Sure!”

She left the bed and folded herself into my lap. I wrapped my arms around her and she moulded herself against me. Felt good there. I’ve never found flashy women attractive, never gone after big boobs. Daisy, well, Daisy’s like her namesake. You might overlook her in a crowd, but she’s pretty in a quiet sort of way. Not athletic, but fit from walking and general exercise. Brown hair, fairly short. Brown eyes; warm, brown eyes. She fit well in my arms.

“This feels good,” I commented.

“It does,” she sighed.

I don’t know for sure how long we sat like that. It was, anyway, long enough for Mum to come in search of us. She knocked on the door and entered when Daisy called ‘come’.

“Supper’s ready,” Mum said, without further comment.

“We’ll be right with you,” I smiled. “Daisy was feeling a bit down.”

“I can understand that.”

Before Mum actually left the room, Daisy twisted in my arms. “Thank you,” she said, and kissed me.

I think it was intended as a peck, a token, but it turned out to be much more. Neither of us tried to break off as the kiss deepened. Mum cleared her throat, and we separated.

“Wow!” Daisy breathed.

“Wow,” I sighed. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“Me neither,” Daisy replied.

“Well, come along. Work things out later,” Mum ordered briskly.

She’d roasted a chicken, with stuffing, roast potatoes, all the trimmings. Much later, when things had settled down, we’d miss things like lemons for the stuffing, and make do with locally available items. But for then, excellent supper. We followed the chicken with stewed apple and cream, then took coffee to the lounge. I sat in the two-place sofa, and Mum sat in the tall Windsor chair next to the stove. Daisy, though, slid into my lap. Cups of coffee made things a little precarious, but I wasn’t complaining. I drank mine quickly, and put it on the seat next to me.

Daisy, though, sipped slowly, savouring the beverage. Halfway through, she commented, “I think a time will come when coffee is a luxury.”

That sank into my subconscious. Of course, she was right. With the world in chaos, at least our country – and I doubted if the terrorists had ignored the other Western nations – and the Middle East the focus of military attention, she was absolutely right. She eventually finished her coffee before it actually got cold, handed me the cup to put next to mine and snuggled in. “Duncan...” she hesitated, but went on, “this is going to sound, I dunno, as if I’m ... trying to ... God!” She sat up a little and looked at Mum, then me. “That kiss ... I mean, I liked you immediately when you picked me up. I didn’t think any more of it, because I was going to go back to Uni...”