Anne was a worker, firm of hand, sure of foot, quick to respond to crises or the call to partake in a cuppa. An Aulddane - a native of the Isle of Rossay - by descent, birth and choice. Generations of the Norman family had lived and worked on the Island of Rossay, going way back to a Viking past before the later arrival of the Gaelic and English speakers. Her grandfather and father had spoken broad Scots, referring to quines, thrapples, oaxters and kye guff as her daddy still did, even into his 70's. She remember grandaddy William Norman doing odd jobs round the farm as she and her little brother grew up on the farm. That was in the days of the old Victorian farmhouse - draughty, roomy and dark - before the new house was built, paid for by a European Union farming fund and Highlands and Islands Enterprise.
Anne was now well into her forties and, despite several admirable approaches through the Young Farmer's Association and the Scottish Conservative and Unionist Club, she had never agreed to wed any of the local guys, despite the offer of several scores of extra acres of farmland as the young man's dowry. For the Norman family ran the most efficient and - that rarity - profitable farm on the island. Outside the farmhouse sat two Land Rovers and a nearly-new Range Rover.
The secret of Westerholm Farm was in getting out of cattle into horses twenty years ago. It had been a huge gamble, and one she had shared with her father, Frederick. He was a generous and kindly man, indulgent with his children and never holding back his monies. He had mortgaged the property lease, sold the herd of milk heifers and beef bullock Fresians, and invested the money in stabling, men and horses. Perhaps there was a twist of sweetness to her father in again seeing, handling and hearing horses, these intelligent and wilful animals which took him back to his youth during the war, before the first tractors began to appear.
Either way, heart or head, the change had been successful. The acreage had been turned over for trecking and a lease added for the highland land to the north, across the Port na Bodach from the Patrick Bay road. Farr - the honourable Finn Farquar Ross de Bruis, 14th Earl of Rossay to thee and me - owned most of the island, indeed most of the ancient surrounding County. Over the centuries since the Highland Clearances the family had tried, with little success, to turn the north quarter of the island to good use, but it was universally thin peat mud, heather, ticks and rocks. However, it made great pony-trecking country with spectacular views to Bennabruaich, Loch Fidden and the Calmac ferry skipping between Port na Bodach and Altancraive on the Argyll peninsula.
Island life is as changeable as the weather. There are winter days and seasons as there are summer ones. At times things are well, and Anne thanked God for that with her simple presbyterian faith. Tragedy struck rarely, but when it did the entire island, Rassay-born Aulddanes and incomers mourned together. In an island of a few hundred souls everyone knows everyone else, often by name and by face. Boys had been lost in fishing boats, one allegedly dragged down by a submerged Royal Navy submarine plying the Clyde from Faslane to the Irish Sea, trying to avoid detection by rusty Russian trawlers out of Minsk. No-one admitted blame, but now the submarines come down the firth in full view, accompanied by a swarm of RN Special Boat Squadron black ribs which noisily pestered the pleasure yachts.
The tragedy of her family's life had been the loss of her younger brother, Will. Not that he was dead; possibly. Will by name and wilful by nature. Anne and Will were twins, born to her ten-years since passed-on mother, Alice. She was born six minutes first. There was no need of a scarlet thread round her ankle because, being a girl then a boy, the difference was always going to be obvious to their parents!
Will had simply gone. Mortgaging the farm was his idea. He had got involved with a flash (in Anne's opinion) older woman; an American living in London. She had come for a do-Scotland holiday on the train from Glasgow and the ferry from Coats Bay. She had chatted up Will and he had fallen for her. Love is blind and speedy. Will's idea, or was it that woman's?, was to get daddy to fund a project to develop an organic farm at a commune in Sussex. The problem was that it would cost half the value of the farm on Rossay. Frederick had done some sums and decided that his son's desires were valid, sold the entire stock, mortgaged the farm, and split the proceeds 50:50 between Will and Anne.
Once the money was in his bank he took the newest Land Rover and drove off for London with his fancy woman. And that was the last they ever saw of the money or the son. Both were gone. Mummy died five years later of unrelated breast cancer and the new pony business became the occupation of every waking moment for Anne and her daddy. That was 15 years ago now. She and her daddy had built up the balance sheet, which often made even passing the Royal Bank of Scotland offices in the only town, Baile, a danger. After five years the sheet turned black according to Ross Black CA in his 3rd floor grey sandstone office in Mount Albert Road. A few years on it was safe to visit the bank in person, and just last year the mortgage was paid off.
Anne often thought about the huge mortgage that had almost cost her family everything during the early days. Most of this was what Will had taken away. And blown on his flusie and her hippy friends, no doubt. A six figure sum of money can go astray quickly in London, she had heard from Farr. They often met when she went trekking with clients on the heathered land. He was an unpopular man with many on the island for being rich, successful, the owner, English-born, and having had the audacity to move into the ancestral pile, Rossay House. No-one had lived there permanently since the late 19th century. He was a successful businessman but a failed husband. No kids. Last in a very long line.
As much as Anne felt the hurt of Will's decision to go off with the money, daddy was pained every day by his loss. Anne meant everything to him, as had Emily and Will. The maths doesn't work; he loved them all with his entire heart. Every Sunday they'd grab the Range Rover, in clean clothes, brushed hair and polished shoes, and head down to the Rossay Church. Every Sunday, during the quiet time before the first psalm, daddy would ask the distant God: where is my son? Anne often saw daddy standing looking west down the old tramway path. He'd stay there for up to an hour, not moving, then walk slowly back to the house at her call of, "Cha's up!" to silently drink his tea and daily scone with butter from a nearby farm, with home-made jam sent from his widowed sister in Brechin.
Farr had taken quite a fancy to Anne, but she was coy and careful. He was to her as flash as that American woman from London. But he was also fun to be with on a trek. Often clients had assumed they were a unit. But Anne's mind was on her daddy and the business. She had seen many women going mad at her age after some smooth-talker, touching-up the grey hairs, getting bits lifted and their ilk. Her best friend, Heather, had started going to the spa at Auchrathie on nearby Inchisla and was clearly attempting to appear more 35 than 45. Which was very strange for a lady farmer on Rossay. Now Will had been forgotten Anne could cruise down her chosen kyle as she wished, she often told herself. But, she never forgot what Will had done.
Farr had a way with words. His short clipped consonants and diphthonged vowels had been learned from his nanny in London, polished at Harrow, and well-practised when the old Earl had decided to send him to St Andrews to study Early Modern and Enlightenment Philosophy were he earned a commendable upper second class MA honours degree. After university he had followed his father into the family investment firm in the City. It was here he first came across a flashy Scotsman from Rossay. The oink was in a cheap £100 suit with M&S shoes, full of himself and he had made a joke about Farr’s surname,
“Bruis! Why - couldn't your father spell 'Bruce' properly?"
After some enquiries he quickly found that this uppity Jock was from just up the road from his ancestral pile on a tiny Scottish island. A farmer's son with too much money, apparently. No-one in his family had visited the island since his great-grandfather's day, but the massive Skelmorlie-sandstone building was still standing and was famed for its mad architecture and a portrait of King Henry VII of England. I’ll correct that, it was the Hans Holbein portrait of Henry VII. He had made a list, fallen in love with the house, sold his investment business and decided to reinvest it in the family estate and house.
Shortly after this the markets crashed. Banks, investors and financiers went bust en masse. Visiting London shortly afterwards he had bought a Big Issue from, yes he said, it was, that uppity jock oink. Was there a flash of recognition? Probably not. Business kept him in London for several months. Now strangely thinking himself as a Scot, or at least The Aulddane, he made a point of buying his Big Issue from the same guy, who seemed grateful for a regular customer. One evening he thought he saw him sleeping in a doorway in Tottenham Court Road near Habitat.
Back home in the huge old mansion he continued to invest in the, thankfully, not-crumbling ruin. The estate had gardeners, masons, retail staff and a regular feast of coach parties. He had noticed the Norman family's lease on the north part of the island and had driven up one day to check them out. They were good people, and the daughter reminded him of his wife, who had left him for a younger man. Green eyes, strawberry blond, farmer's daughter with a ready smile, if with an added touch of melancholy.
Farr often popped in to join them at the farmhouse for that strong tea and the delicious but deadly Scottish delicacy of scone, jam and cream.
"Was there ever a Mrs Norman?”, he asked Anne's father.
Frederick inhaled, looked out the window, and replied, "Yes. Bonny quain. Looked much like Annie here. Have a good long look at her and ye'll see her mummy. Cancer took her a few years back. But, she gave me twins, so I have much to be grateful for to the good Lord."
Farr saw Anne flush.
"Twins?"
The old man continued, "Yes. Annie was the eldest by a few minutes and then oot popped wee Willy. Aye his mummy's favourite he was."
Anne noisily took the empty plates away and strutted off into the kitchen. Touchy, Farr thought.
"Did he die also?" Farr asked this slowly and quietly; he was thinking of the hurt of losing a young child or baby.
"No. Took some money and left for London. Never heard of him again."
A shout from the kitchen broke the solemnity, "Took half his daddy's money and blew it on flusies and wasters, more like!” She strode in with soap suds on her hands, armed with a hand-mop, flashing it left and right at the two men. "Broke mummy's heart, broke daddy's heart, and ruined my life. Every day, here I am, watching women my age take their kids to school, going home to their husbands, and here I am a bloody tool in the toolbox to be used every day, shovelling cuddy-sharn to keep bloody scones and tea on the table for old men and rich boys! Clean your own bloody dishes!"
Anne was red and in tears as she threw the back door open, rushed out, grabbed her favourite horse, Outrider, and galloped off towards and beyond St Colmac.
"I'm sorry, Frederick, I didn't mean to. I didn't know."
"It’s OK. She's been nursing her wrath for fifteen years now. It was going to come out one day. If it wasn't you it would have been someone else. Dinna fash yersel aboot it."
Farr saw very little of Anne for the next few days before he had to get back to London. He flew Glasgow to Gatwick, caught the express train to Victoria and was back in the Big Smoke again. Familiar but less humanly-populated than that little Scotch island, he thought to himself. On his way to the family office on London Wall he passed his usual Big Issue seller. He stopped and fetched out a note. £5 Royal Bank of Scotland. He passed it to the vendor, who looked it over, glanced at him, and pocketed it.
"Remember me?" Farr asked.
"Aye. You buy the Big Issue each week. Thanks. Where did you get the note down here?"
Farr looked at him and said, "Rossay. At the bank. Yesterday."
The dishevelled young Scot looked right back at him. "Yesterday?"
"Yes, yesterday. If I buy your entire bag of copies, can I buy you a coffee?"
"No funny business, mister. OK?"
"None. Just a coffee and a chat."
"I'd prefer tea and a scone."
"One with butter and jam, I expect?"
"Aye. But nae chance down here."
In Pret-a-Manger the two settled down. Farr looked at this dirty guy. Same M&S shoes. Suit long gone. Yep, this was the guy who had insulted him.
"Do you know who I am?"
"You already asked me that."
"I am Farr Bruis, Earl of Rossay. I live in the big house. I also own all but a few of the farms on the island."
"You haven't invested in the town, Baile, ya bam, its a complete dump!"
Farr stirred the chocolate coffee bean stencilled onto the foam and sipped the just-about-acceptable coffee.
"Now, you know who I am. Do I know who you are?"
"Bad grammar, Mr Bruce, you mean ‘can I ask who you are’ ". The same cheek even on his uppers, thought Farr.
"No. I think I know who you are. Its a small island. Even if I only moved there recently. Baile town can wait a few years, or generations, more."
The street-man didn't flinch.
"I've heard about you. You, I believe, are William Norman of Westerholm farm. (And, as I’m sure you know, my name is pronounced Bru not Bruce, OK?) But, it is you, isn't it?"
For moment both men thought he'd bolt. Perhaps even throw the stinking coffee over the well-dressed Englishman, but he also had his father's character, albeit hidden well down and deep. His eyelids turned red, he sniffed, blew his nose on his sleeve, inhaled and looked wistfully out of the window into the noisy city. In his mind he was back at home on the farm on Rossay.
"How's mum and dad? How's Annie?" He was still looking out the window.
"Your father is fine. Your sister too. Your mother died of breast cancer some years back. I am so sorry."
The Scot hadn't changed his position, but a tear dripped off his nose. "You're sorry? I am the one who should be bloody well sorry. I blew over three hundred k. Lost it all on Scottish bank shares in the crash. I was worth close to one mil on paper. Lost it all. Daddy's money. Didn't know when to get out. Thought it would go on forever. Now I can't even buy a carry-out tea except as a Salvation Army freebie. What a bloody waste."
Farr continued his coffee. Good, grief, it was actually disgusting when it went cold. "What are you going to do?"
The young Aulddane just looked at him. The look said: nothing.
"Fancy a job back home. I can set you up. If you want." He paused, "No funny business."
The Scot thought carefully. He was a tidy thinker. "OK. You're on."
Farr put down the unfinishable coffee and took a bite at the congealed cheese panini. "Just one condition." He put his hand in his jacket pocket, removed his wallet, drew out £500 and passed it to the Scot. "Go. get cleaned up. Buy some decent working clothes. Fly home. And I'll see you after you visit your family."
The dapper Englishman stood up and walked out, leaving a copy of the local paper, The Aulddane, lying on the table; and the Scot to his thoughts. He'll make up his mind, he thought to himself, one way or the other. I'll either see him on Rossay or I'll never see him, or that £500, again.
The old farmer was in the paddock, nailing a new strut to the fence where horses and the weather had broken the old one. He glanced down the old tramway. There was a man coming up it. Doubtless, another walker heading to the Kilmaronock Bay cafe, known affectionally as The Greasy Spoon. He went back to work, but then he dropped the hammer. As if he burned by a flame he ran thoughtlessly, straight down the path. He didn't know why - his body just ran like a forty-year-old until his eyes and conscious brain caught up. And, by now he had reached the young man, his son, and he began to sob as he had done the night his wife had died. But this time for gain, not for loss.
Anne heard the commotion and came out of the kitchen. She screamed, threw her head up to face the sky, and cried again. The old man sobbed and held onto his son with a grip like a man holding a wild horse. The son just stood, hoping his father would squeeze the life out of him and bring this all to an end. He looked up and saw Anne. "Annie," he mouthed. He tried to stretch out his arm, but the old man had him in a death grip. She was older, some white hair, lined face, but still the same Annie, his big sister.
Anne walked quietly away, took Outrider, gently patted him, put the saddle on him, and rode off north to her quiet place. Alone.
Earlier, Farr had arrived back on the MV Strathy. The stone-mason's son was working as a ticket-seller at the ferry terminal.
"Here's £100. You remember William Norman?"
"Yes. I went to the Academy with him."
"Well, if you see him get off the boat, phone me. Here's my mobile number."
The call had arrived two hours earlier. Farr had taken the Range Rover and parked it at Port na Bodach, then walked up the hill to a spot overlooking the Kyles. He waited. After an hour, as he was watching the PS Waverley passing through the reefs, he heard hoof-beats. The horse halted and the sound of someone walking through the heather came towards him. Anne, tempest-worn, sat down beside him. The day was beautiful, she moved closer and leaned her head on his shoulder. He put his left arm over her and kissed her on the top of her head.