The Missing Years Page 4

  THREE

  I drive Carrie to the station, marveling at her calm. We are well past cutting it fine territory now; we must surely be into Oh my God, oh my God, I’m so late, but the ever-increasing passage of time has had no impact on Carrie’s leisurely rate of preparations. I can feel my own heart rate rising on her behalf, but perhaps schedules run a little differently in the theater. After I’ve dropped her off, I head for the hotel, the route no less tricky for having just navigated it in reverse. There’s a beaten-up Land Rover ahead of me taking the same route at what seems like a suicidal pace. In minutes, it has gained so many twists and turns that it’s lost to sight. Will I one day know the road well enough to drive it at that pace? God forbid the Presumption of Death process takes as long as all that . . . I wonder what I would have to go back to if I stayed here for all that time, but then I shut that thought process down.

  I drive straight past the Manse’s entrance, deliberately not looking at it; I’m feeling rather resentful this morning. Instead I force myself to concentrate on finding the hotel turning among the road’s twists and bends. Just as I’m beginning to wonder if I could possibly have missed it, a rather grand wooden sign proclaims Kingrossie Hotel, Equestrian Center in elegant black script on a forest green background. On my right, the drystone walls have become an impeccable high limestone barrier, and there are even pavements instead of grass verges bordering the road. A mini roundabout appears—surely excessive for such a quiet route—and I navigate it slowly, craning my neck to look between the huge limestone pillars that flank the entrance, but the road through them curves away to hide itself behind the limestone wall, and all I can see are pine trees.

  Soon there’s another grand sign—Kingrossie Hotel, Main Entrance—and another roundabout, but this one isn’t mini, and the center is adorned with low flowering bushes and plants. I turn right and find myself on a road, at least five hundred meters long, that runs through perfectly manicured lawns seamlessly blending into a golf course in the distance. Despite this being without doubt the straightest, safest road I have driven this morning, I pass signs every fifty meters or so cautioning of a five miles per hour speed limit, and deer crossing.

  At the far end of the road is the hotel, a grand building that somewhat resembles the Manse in style, but on a much larger scale. Newer wings have been added to both sides of the main building. Those slant toward me, giving the impression that the hotel is opening up its arms in invitation. The stone that gleams in the continued sunshine is the same gray as the Manse, and the roof looks to be the same slate, but this is a very different building. It welcomes.

  Presumably one of the newer wings will house the leisure club? But I am curious to see the inside of the hotel, one of only two five-star hotels in Scotland, so I park in the well-marked visitors’ parking and head for the main entrance, where a smiling doorman holds the enormous oak wood door open and welcomes me. The lobby area is large, with a crackling fire in the huge fireplace that presides over one end of the room—clearly big enough to roast one of those deer I was repeatedly warned about speeding into—with sofas and armchairs grouped around it. Ahead of me is a large staircase with heavy oak banisters and a very muted green tartan carpet. I find myself thinking how magical this room would be at Christmastime.

  On the left, from behind a long reception counter, a young blond woman in a gray skirt suit with a tartan scarf tied beautifully at her neck offers a smile. It’s an elegant combination, smart and businesslike without overdoing the nod to Scottish tradition. “Welcome to Kingrossie Hotel. Are you checking in?”

  “Actually no. I’ve just moved into the area, and I’m considering joining the leisure club.” I’m very conscious of the quiet of the lobby; I feel like I’m talking in church.

  The receptionist—Elena, her name tag tells me—has already picked up a phone. “Certainly. I can call the club reception and see if someone is available to give you a tour.” A young man in a white shirt and gray trousers with surprisingly unruly caramel hair has appeared at the concierge end of the counter. He gives me a friendly smile then busies himself at the computer.

  “What name, please?” asks Elena, covering the mouthpiece of the phone with one hand.

  “Ailsa Calder.”

  I’m disconcerted to find the young man has straightened up and is staring at me so intently that I feel myself recoil from the force of his gaze. As Elena makes the arrangements, he quickly collects himself and returns to the computer, leaving me wondering what on earth could have drawn such an extreme reaction from him. The only thing I said of any note was my name.

  My name. Calder. Of course: after living so long with the disappearance of my father as a deeply private event, it’s a shock to think that it might be a matter of common gossip here—a local tale that has no doubt grown with the telling. I have to resist the urge to bolt for the car. The receptionist appears to be on hold on the phone, so I flick unseeing through a rotating display of postcards that’s on the counter, ignoring the concierge so definitively that I’m convinced he must know it’s deliberate. Though surely I am being paranoid. Even if the name Martin Calder might ring a bell for a certain generation of locals, there’s no reason that his daughter’s name—my name—should have that effect, and Calder is a fairly common Scottish surname. But I didn’t imagine the concierge’s reaction. I finally sneak a glance toward him, but he’s no longer at the desk.

  “Miss Calder?” It’s the receptionist. “One of our personal trainers can show you round in a few minutes. If you’d like to wait in the leisure club café?” Armed with a map, I head off in the direction she indicates and find myself spilling from the corridor into the café. My attention is immediately taken by the spectacular view across the valley through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. It’s the same view as that from the master bedroom of the Manse, except off-center, which gives me the feeling of something familiar but not quite right. The hotel must be set a little higher up the side of the valley than the Manse, and the higher angle of view allows me to see silver flashes of the little stream that runs through the trees at the bottom of the V-shaped valley. I look to the east, briefly wondering if the angle is such that I will be able to see the Manse—but of course I can’t, otherwise the hotel would be visible from there.

  “Stunning, isn’t it?” says a voice at my elbow. I turn to find a young man in sport kit whose impressively bulging muscles are certainly a good advert for the benefit of the gym facilities, at least in the male physique. “I’m Jack. Can I get you a coffee or a tea before we take a tour?”

  “Black Americano, please.”

  He signals the girl behind the counter, then we settle into two comfortable armchairs by the window. It’s hard to take my eyes off the view, but I force myself to look around. There are perhaps a dozen other people here, ranging from mid-twenties to retirement age. Some are reading the paper, some are tapping on their phones, one has a laptop open. The village doesn’t have a Starbucks. Maybe this is the local substitute.

  “So you’ve just moved into the area?” Jack asks in an Irish brogue. He’s leaning in, elbows on the low table between us, hands clasped a few inches below his chin as if waiting to prop it up. We cover the basics while we drink our coffees. He’s a handsome man, though surely a good few years younger than me. Perhaps Carrie would find him attractive, though she probably has an inch on him. I realize I have no idea what type of man Carrie would be attracted to. I have no idea how she conducts her love life at all. Is she a serial monogamist, or a bed-hopper? Does she bring men home? I can’t quite imagine giggling with her about her sexual exploits the morning after, but isn’t that what sisters do?

  “Field producer,” Jack says with a slight frown, as if trying to get a grip on the words.

  “Yes. For television news at ITV.”

  He looks impressed. I used to love this, the effect proclaiming my profession has: seeing my stock rise in the eyes of the beholder, watchi
ng the person reevaluate me. Television news seems to have just the right mix of glamour and edge to intrigue. But these days I find myself feeling a little cheap and showy. “Does that mean you travel a lot?”

  “All the time. Totally unglamorous, I’m afraid.” I know from past experience that if I downplay it any further I will sound patronizingly disingenuous, but it’s true: my job is not glamorous. “We do get extra time off for the hours we rack up, though, hence the four months of leave.”

  “And you’ll be here for all of that?”

  “I’m not quite sure.” I look out over the view again, with the sunshine now glinting off the topmost rocks of one of the craggy peaks across the valley. It’s somehow terrible in its careless, rugged beauty. Though I never spelled out a time frame, I know Jonathan is presuming I will be back in London within a couple of weeks. It’s an understandable assumption, as I’ve never taken more than two weeks off in a row since I started work. Carrie is assuming the opposite end of the range, though I’ve never explicitly told her that, either. Her play is scheduled to run till the end of July, and if she’s still living at the Manse then, I suppose I will be too. If not . . . well, if I go to London it will be to leave it, to depart to cover another story, Jonathan’s field producer once again. “Probably a couple of months,” I say, opting for the middle ground, despite the fact that in this case the middle ground would satisfy no one. Myself included.

  He’s frowning again, like he’s chasing down something in his head. “Do I recall hearing something about the Manse? Some kind of local story? Diamonds, or something?”

  So it’s confirmed: my family story is now local legend. I don’t know why I hadn’t expected it. Jack’s eyes are clear, devoid of artifice—actually I’m not sure his range extends to artifice. I could easily duck this, turn the conversation elsewhere, but what’s the point? And perhaps I’m still smarting at the concierge’s reaction, ashamed of my own consternation. Perhaps I’m looking for a way to control the story. I opt for a breezy, flippant tone. “Yep. That’s about my father, actually. He worked for a jeweler’s in Edinburgh and disappeared twenty-seven years ago after a diamond-buying trip.” I pause. Jack’s eyes could not be any wider. “With the diamonds. He’s never been found, and nor have they.” His mouth has gaped open now, too. I give him a wry smile. “Go ahead and draw your own conclusions. Plenty of others have.”

  “Jesus.” Jack has recovered his voice. “Jesus. I literally don’t know what to say. Twenty-seven years ago . . . Wow. You must have been only a babe, surely,” he adds with apparent innocence.

  I laugh out loud, genuinely impressed by his recovery. “Ah, Jack. I’m glad to see you didn’t sidestep the Blarney Stone.” He grins back, tickled by my appreciation, then pulls a couple of forms out of the folder he has been carrying just as my phone starts to ring. I don’t recognize the number, but the area code is local. Perhaps the locksmith I left a message for earlier. “Sorry, I think I need to take this.” Jack nods agreeably and gets up to chat to a regular whilst I take the call.

  It is indeed the locksmith, who sounds both local and like he has smoked from birth. As I launch into an explanation, my eye is caught by an explosion of color on the wall behind the serving counter. I’m at an angle and can’t see the painting properly, but there’s something naggingly familiar about it. I climb to my feet to get a better look. It’s a reproduction of one of my mother’s, dominated by a slash of vitriolic crimson among a maelstrom of black. I can see her now, a cigarette in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, with eyes only for the canvas.

  “Still there, hen?” asks the voice of ten thousand cigarettes. Hen. It’s been a long while since I’ve heard that.

  “Sorry. Yes, I’m here.” I’m still staring at the painting. “Sorry, what time did you say?”

  “I can come now, otherwise it would have to be tomorrow. Are you home the now?”

  Home. Home the now. He pronounces it hame, but the word still jars: the Manse is no longer my home. Home should be Jonathan’s flat in London with high ceilings, questionable draft exclusion and his book collection dominating the living room, but of course, neither Jonathan nor I are ever actually there. And even after all these years, I still call it Jonathan’s flat. If I could sell the Manse, we could pool our equity for a bigger place . . . There’s an image of a house hovering just beyond the reach of my mind, a house that could be mine. I can’t bring it into focus. “I can be back at the Manse in ten minutes.”

  “Fine then. I’ll be just behind you; I’ll see you in about twenty.”

  I disconnect, still looking at the painting. It might be good, but I can’t tell. I can’t see my mother’s paintings the way other people do, can’t divorce the finished product from the memory of it being painted: where we were living, where I was at school, which version of Karen I was dealing with. We were staying in a kind of artistic hippie squat when she painted this one, with an imprecise number of other people living there at any one time. No one cared what I did or where I was, nothing was ever clean and there was never any quiet. I was ten years old and I hated it. I belatedly realize the waitress is talking to me. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  She smiles. “I was saying that the artist is local. She’s quite famous, actually: Karen Innes, have you heard of her?” She waits expectantly, and I nod weakly. Karen Innes. My mother painted under her maiden name. It always seemed significant to me. “She was born here, you know.” Actually she wasn’t. She was born much farther north, near Aberdeen, where my grandparents lived until she was one or so, and to whence they returned when they retired. I don’t have any urge to set the waitress straight. “We have some postcards here”—she indicates a small stand on the end of the counter—“and there’s posters of her work in the hotel shop if you like it.”

  “Bloody disgrace is what it is.” I swing round to find a shriveled woman in her sixties at the end of the counter, her pinched mouth incongruously painted in a red lipstick that clashes with her purple fleece and set in a hard line. “Look at this.” She jabs her hand sharply at the postcards. “Setting up that wee bitch as if she was Scotland’s own Picasso. Bloody disgrace.”

  I hear my own shocked intake of breath even as the waitress quickly jumps in with such perfect politeness that her dislike of the woman is all the more evident. “Good morning, Morag, can I get you anything?”

  Morag snorts as her head moves in an odd tremor. “You can get rid of that rubbish for a start.”

  A lady in her forties is bustling up to her now. “For God’s sake, haud yer wheesht, Morag. The poor woman’s only just gone to the grave.” She turns to myself and the waitress, embarrassment and exasperation warring on her face, even as Morag mutinously mutters something that might be Hell mend her. “I’m so sorry. She had a bad night.” I’m too shocked to speak. What on earth did my mother do to incite such long-standing enmity?

  “I’ve seen you before. What’s your name, hen?” asks Morag suddenly, her narrowed eyes focusing intently on me. The hen isn’t the same casual term that the locksmith used. This hen accuses.

  “Morag!” exclaims her younger friend. Perhaps not a friend; she has the demeanor of someone who is there out of duty. A family member, perhaps. But Morag is undeterred, her eyes locked on mine while Jack advances on us, drawn to the commotion. I could refuse to answer; of course I could. Nobody would think anything of it; the waitress already has apologies tumbling out of her mouth. But somehow Morag knows who I am. I can see that. And I won’t give her the satisfaction of thinking I’m ashamed of my name.

  “I’m Ailsa Calder.” The words are distinct, strong. They mean to be heard. “The daughter of Martin Calder and Karen Innes.” The heads of the waitress and Morag’s younger companion swivel toward me in perfect, almost comic, synchronicity, their eyes wide and mouths open.

  “You’ve got a nerve coming back here,” Morag spits. Her anger rocks me back. It’s hard and ugly and spiteful,
and it seems to fill her whole body; she’s growing with it. The younger woman is scarlet with embarrassment as she tries ineffectually to tug her away—Morag!—but Morag isn’t done. “You’ve . . . got . . .” The words are difficult for her to form, and a visible tremor is running through her right side. She’s ill, I realize—seriously ill; and in an instant, every single cutting response that my brain is considering is rendered impotent.

  “Morag, you can’t speak to other customers like that,” remonstrates the waitress with commendable calm.

  “I’m so sorry,” Morag’s companion says. “Really, I’m—”

  “What’s going on? Is everything all right?” Jack has reached us now and is looking from one face to another as if something in them might drag him up to speed.

  “I think I’d better leave,” I tell him, with deliberate calm. “We can do the tour another time.” I wave away the waitress’s apologies with a rueful smile. I’m taking the moral high ground. I have to be absurdly beautifully behaved to maintain it.

  “Are you sure you have to go?” Jack asks, keeping pace with me as I return to our table to grab my bag and coat. Morag’s companion has succeeded in getting her into a chair near the counter. She’s still shaking. “I don’t want, well, whatever this is to have put you off . . .”

  “It’s fine. I really do have to get back. I’ll come back tomorrow for the tour.” I smile a charmingly magnanimous good-bye, but Jack’s concern is evident in his eyes as he watches me go. I’m halfway to the exit when the concierge enters. He seems to be scanning the room as if looking for me, but surely I’m imagining it. Then his eyes light upon me and I’m positive that’s exactly what he was doing. He even starts in my direction, but the waitress bustles toward him; he turns to her somewhat reluctantly and patiently listens, though his eyes flick repeatedly toward me until his attention suddenly sharpens at something she says. I pass within a few feet of the pair of them, close enough to read his name badge: Ben Rankin, Hotel Manager. Not the concierge, then—he’s rather more important than that. As I pass, he looks directly into my face with startlingly clear blue eyes, the color of the glorious cloudless sky that awaits me outside. There’s no malice to be found in his gaze, but I can’t decipher any message either. And then the moment has passed and he’s behind me.