Flora Kidd - My Heart Remembers

    MY HEART REMEMBERS Flora Kidd

Sally had adored Ross Lorimer ever since she was a child, and she was thrilled when she heard that he was coming back into her life again. But she was not quite so thrilled when she discovered that the job he was coming to do involved the destruction of the home she loved.    

  CHAPTER ONE sat on a cast-iron bollard near the edge of the quay and waited for her father. She could see him quite clearly. He was leaning over the broad flat bulwark of his fishing boat the Mary Rose, and he was talking to a man who stood below him on the grey granite quay. Sally Johnson

There was something familiar about the man; something about the set of his wide shoulders, about his unruly wind-tossed hair which stirred her memory and made her heart beat a little faster. Who was he? And why was he delaying her father? It was almost six o’clock. High tea would be ready and Aunt Jessie would be fussed if they were late for the meal. Sally knew it was no use trying to hurry Hugh Johnson. Strong and placid, he never hurried and was rarely disturbed. She had seen him upset only once, and that was when he had visited her in hospital after the car accident which had killed his second wife Rose, Sally’s mother, and had damaged Sally’s face. Involuntarily she touched the scar on her cheek. It would fade in time, Aunt Jessie said, but Sally was very conscious of it, especially when she met strangers. Fortunately in her home town of Portbride she did not have to meet many and she worked as a typist in the Town Hall among people she had always known. Pushing the memory of the accident and of her scar to the back of her mind, she gazed round the harbour with loving eyes. Beyond the grey outer wall of the harbour the turquoise and white water of the wide ruffled sea-loch rose and fell in perpetual movement. Within the protective walls the black silhouettes of the radio masts of the varnished fishing boats moved almost imperceptibly as the boats clustered close to each other, rising and falling, creaking and squeaking. Seagulls and terns, sailing and soaring, crying and calling, were white flashes against the new spring green of the rounded hills. Facing the harbour the grey and white of the houses, some tall and angular, others short and squat, frowned or smiled in the intermittent sunshine and rain of a wild windy May day, and above all the turbulent purple clouds rolled and jostled before the gusty breath of the mad north-westerly gale. A faint smile of satisfaction touched Sally’s mouth. This was her town, her home. It had been like this for hundreds of years, a sheltered haven for fishing boats and a meeting place for farmers. She would stay here for ever, hidden and protected from the world by familiar things. A movement to her left drew her attention. The crew of a big black submarine which had been driven into harbour by the forecast of bad weather was coming ashore. The wind mischievously whisked the round white-topped hat from the head of one of the sailors, and it bowled along merrily, past Sally towards the end of the quay and the sea. Swiftly Sally jumped off the bollard and ran after the hat, her slim legs and light feet carrying her rapidly over the granite sets. She caught up with the hat about a yard away from the end of the quay. She pounced on it, picked it up and turned to offer it to its owner, who arrived a few seconds behind her. ‘Thanks,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Och, I thought it had gone for good.’

He was of medium height and he was very thin as if he didn’t get enough to eat. His face was pale, the result probably of spending long hours under water. But his smile was gay as he crammed the hat down on his short fair hair and walked back with her along the quay. ‘Ye’re a fine wee runner,’ he remarked. Maeve, Sally’s stepsister, would have fluttered her long dark eyelashes and said something devastating. Sally could only smile shyly and remain silent, keeping to herself the information that she had once been Senior County Champion for the girls’ hundred-yards sprint. ‘I’m Jim Shaw,’ said the sailor, ‘able seaman in Her Majesty’s Navy. What’s your name?’ Sally told him. ‘Do you live here?’ he asked. ‘Yes.’ ‘Then how about coming to the dance in the Town Hall tonight?’ Sally glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes and thought about the number of times Aunt Jessie had said, ‘Don’t ever let me catch you going with any of those sailors Sally, or else...!’ Sally had never found out what would happen after ‘or else’ because Aunt Jessie had never finished the sentence. Yet her aunt had never threatened Maeve in the same way, probably because Maeve was twenty-seven and married, whereas Sally was not yet twenty-one and had not had a boy-friend ... unless she called her association with Craig Dawson having a boy-friend. ‘Not interested, huh?’ She was recalled from her thoughts by Jim Shaw’s voice and realised that he thought she was going to refuse. With a great effort, because since the accident speech had been an effort, she managed to say, ‘I’m going to the dance anyway. Perhaps I could see you there?’ His gay smile lit up his plain face again and she tried not to notice that he avoided looking directly at her face. ‘That’s just fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll meet ye at the door at about eight-thirty, and maybe we’ll go and have a drink before the dance.’ Sally agreed, and he walked off to join his companions who were waiting for him. She sat on the bollard and watched his thin angular shape until he and his friends turned the corner by the MacKinnon Arms Hotel into the main street. It had been nice of him to ask her to go to the dance. Possibly he had felt that he owed her something for rescuing his hat. There could be no other reason. He had seen her face clearly enough and had flinched from the sight of the scar. Sally’s mouth tightened, making her appear older than her years and giving her face a sour expression. She expected it would be always like

this, being asked to go out with someone she would not normally be interested in and accepting because such invitations would be all too rare. The clock in the Town Hall tower chimed the hour. Sally looked along the quay hopefully. In her father’s company she could usually forget her problems. He was coming at last, accompanied by the other man, whose tall well-proportioned figure made Hugh seem short and wider than he was. ‘That was a fine wee chase ye had after yon laddie’s hat,’ murmured Hugh in his soft husky voice as he stopped in front of her. ‘I’m glad to see ye’ve not forgotten how to run.’ His black oilskin coat rustled and creaked as he raised his hands to attend to the short black pipe he had placed in his mouth. ‘Are you coming now, Father? Aunt Jessie will have the tea on the table and she’ll be crabbit if you’re not there,’ said Sally as she slid to her feet. Her self-consciousness caused her to ignore the other man until such time as he was introduced, but she was aware of a strange excitement which caused her breathing to quicken and her body to tense. ‘I want to have a few words with Archie McIntyre, and then I’ll away home,’ said Hugh. ‘Meanwhile I’d like ye to take Ross here up to the house and to tell Jessie he’s eatin’ with us. Ye remember Sally, Ross?’ ‘Yes, I remember, but maybe she doesn’t remember me. Ten years is quite a long time to be away from a place.’ It seemed to Sally that her heart stopped beating. He had come back! He had dared to come back. ‘Do you remember me, Sally?’ Amusement softened the normally crisp ‘no nonsense’ voice as a big muscular hand was held out to her. Sally stared at the hand and remembered Maeve’s pleading, ‘Ross, promise you’ll write ... promise you’ll come back?’ But he hadn’t written and he hadn’t come back until now, and for a while Maeve had been brokenhearted. Sally shook the hand reluctantly and looked up. There were some changes. The square face was leaner than it had been ten years ago and it had been tanned by a stronger sun than any that shone in Scotland. Fine lines radiated outwards from the corners of blue eyes which no longer blazed with the enthusiasm of youth but were cool and guarded as if he had many secrets he wished to keep to himself. The brown sun-streaked hair was slightly shorter but was still inclined to be unruly. ‘I remember you,’ she murmured coolly. His eyes narrowed slightly and his gaze went deliberately to the scar on her cheek so that she became conscious of it and raised her hand to hide it. ‘Ross has come back to work here,’ chipped in Hugh, who had been too busy with his pipe to notice the tension. ‘He was thinking of staying at the MacKinnon, but I thought perhaps we could fix him up. On your way now, both of ye, and tell Jessie I’ll not be long.’

His rubber boots thudded on the granite blocks of the quay and his oilskin coat rustled as he swung away towards the harbourmaster’s office, a jaunty figure, his peaked cap pushed well back on his head, his pipe puffing forth smoke like an old diesel engine. They were alone beside the ruffled darkening water and deserted fishing boats. Around them on the quay lay the debris associated with sea fishing—stacks of wooden slatted boxes, blatant orange plastic marker buoys and the dark tangle of nets. The wind was still blowing and moaning, wafting the smell of fish about and sending a sudden billow of grey smoke downwards from the chimney of a high house. Sally stood silent, struggling to overcome the tongue-tiedness from which she had suffered since the accident, aware that a new disturbing feeling of antipathy towards the man at her side was growing. Last time she had seen him she had been eleven. Maeve had been seventeen and he had been twenty-two. He had been spending his holidays as usual with Miss Wallace of Winterston. Winterston was the big house on the southern shore of the sea-loch. His mother had been a relation of Miss Wallace. Ross’s father, who had been a civil engineer, had been killed in a building accident somewhere in South America and Miss Wallace had become Ross’s guardian. Although a forceful character, Miss Wallace, who had been the last of her line, had not been able to exercise much control over the lively spirited boy entrusted to her charge. He had done more or less as he had wanted, and when he had reached his teens he had developed an interest in fishing and had hung about the quayside until Hugh Johnson had taken him to sea with him. And so a friendship had sprung up between fisherman and youth, a friendship which had spread throughout the Johnson family, affecting mother and daughters alike so that they expected to see Ross every holiday time when he was home from his boarding school. Hugh had liked Ross because he was a braw lad, tough and handy with the nets. Rose Johnson had liked him because she could treat him like the son she had never had. Maeve had liked him because he teased her in a curiously intimate fashion, and as they had both grown older and Maeve had become aware of her feminine charms she had tended to try and keep him to herself, walking away up the hills with him through the bracken to some secret hiding place. As for Sally, she had hero-worshipped him, following him about wherever he went and sometimes sharing an adventure with him, like the time they had gone searching for gulls’ eggs, climbing the dangerous Blackwall cliffs and getting stuck and having to be rescued by the Portbride Fire Brigade. Then eventually Ross had graduated as a civil engineer and had decided to go away to England to work. Sally had been playing in the ruins of an old cottage on the Winterston estate when she had accidentally stumbled upon their hiding place and had overheard Maeve’s plaintive plea, ‘Promise you’ll write! Promise you’ll come back and I’ll love you for ever!’ And now she remembered vividly the sun glinting on Ross’s sun-bleached hair as he had tossed his head back to laugh, and she could hear again the youthful scorn in his voice as he had replied, ‘Nothing is for ever.’

A wild gust of wind shook the rigging of the fishing boats’ masts and flurries of wavelets scurried across the water. ‘Shall we go and find out what Aunt Jessie has for tea?’ He sounded tolerantly amused again, and realising that she must seem rude Sally pulled her thoughts away from the past and looked at him. ‘What will Maeve say?’ she asked. ‘What will she do?’ She had not meant to say it and was rather surprised that she had spoken without hesitation. His straight eyebrows which were much darker than his hair quirked together in a frown of puzzlement. ‘Why should she do or say anything?’ ‘She asked you to write and to come back, but you didn’t. You hurt her badly.’ His eyes hardened and he gave her a glance which told her quite clearly that she had spoken out of turn. ‘Your memory is better than mine,’ he replied coolly. ‘I don’t believe anyone could have hurt the Maeve I knew. Shall we go up to Rosemount now?’ Vaguely conscious that she had lost the first round in a contest which had only just begun, Sally moved forward and Ross walked beside her after swinging a rucksack over one shoulder. Sally eyed it curiously and asked, ‘Did you come by car?’ ‘No, I walked over the moors from Newton Stewart,’ he answered curtly, leaving her in no doubt that he resented her curiosity, and was in no mind to satisfy it. Sally was surprised. She would have thought he would have roared into Portbride in a fast car. It would have been more in keeping with her memories of him. Walking over the moors must have taken him about three days. ‘Why did you walk?’ Her natural curiosity, which had been subdued by the feeling of lethargy which had possessed her for the last few months, was awakening, aroused from its abnormal sleep by the challenge of his return to Portbride. He was looking about him as they walked round the head of the harbour and he did not bother to glance at her as he answered offhandedly. ‘I’ve been away from Scotland for a long time and I wanted to get the feel of the place before I started to work here.’ ‘Where have you been all this time?’ He looked at her then, and laughed. ‘There are some ways in which you haven’t changed. You still pester people with questions. It used to be “Where are you going, Ross? Why can’t I come too, Maeve?”’ he mocked. ‘Oh, I’ve

been in various places. The last one was near Karachi in Pakistan.’ Although her curiosity was satisfied Sally found it rather mortifying to realise he had once considered her a pest, and she became silent again. ‘You didn’t have that scar on your face when I last saw you,’ continued Ross. ‘How did you get it?’ It was his turn to be curious. The abrupt question, the one which shouldn’t be asked out of respect for the hypersensitivity of the person with the scar, seared her feeling momentarily and she disliked him intensely. ‘In a car accident. My mother was killed,’ she replied, as abrupt as he had been. ‘Ah, yes, Hugh told me. I was sorry to hear of your mother’s death. She used to be very kind to me. Whoever did the surgery on your face made a good job ... but don’t let the scar spoil your life by being self-conscious about it.’ They had left the harbour and were walking up the steep rough road to her father’s house which was perched on the ridge of rock which formed the northern side of the deep, wide sealoch and which eventually ended in the high cliffs of Blackwall Edge. The land on the opposite shore of the sea- loch which comprised most of the Winterston estate was blurred by white spindrift lifted from the crests of the waves. Sally looked resolutely in that direction, keeping her face turned away from the man whose frank comments were piercing her newly formed defensive shell. ‘Have I said the unforgivable? Shouldn’t I have mentioned the scar?’ he prodded. ‘I suppose you’ve been using it as an excuse to hide away.’ Sally whirled round to deny his accusation and even opened her mouth to say ‘I haven’t!’ But she closed it again, knowing he had spoken the truth. ‘How can you know anything about the way I feel or act?’ she defended with an attempt at haughtiness. ‘I’ve known others who have been similarly damaged. You’re not the only person in this world to have her face slashed open by glass from a broken windscreen.’ He was hateful! Last time he had been in Portbride he had hurt Maeve. Now he had come again, intent on hurting and on disturbing the even comfortable flow of their lives. She wished Hugh had not invited him to stay to tea. They reached Rosemount, the white gable-ended house which was her home. It was traditional in style, having three dormer windows in its grey slate roof. Sturdily built of granite, it had housed Johnsons for almost a hundred and fifty years and for Sally it was an important part of her security. She opened the garden gate and hurried up the path. She must try to warn Maeve somehow. Without looking behind her to see if Ross was following she opened the door, went straight through the small narrow hallway and into the living room at the back of the house.

‘Is that you, Sally? Where’ve ye been? Is y’r father with ye?’ Aunt Jessie, Hugh Johnson’s spinster sister, came out of the kitchen into the room. She moved slowly because her legs were crippled with rheumatism. Square-shouldered and stocky like her brother, her round rosy face and twinkling hazel eyes betrayed her good nature. ‘He’s gone to see Archie MacIntyre. He won’t be long.’ A quick glance round the room assured Sally that Maeve was not there, and then Ross was in the room behind her. ‘This is Ross Lorimer, Aunt Jessie. Dad said I was to bring him home for tea.’ ‘Och, to be sure, I remember ye. Ye used to live with Miss Wallace, God rest her soul, and ye used to go fishin’ with Hugh. How time flies! Come awa’ and sit ye down. ’Tis a wild day the day. Sally, set another place at the table.’ ‘In a minute, Aunt. I must go upstairs first.’ She was out of the room before Aunt Jessie could object. She sped upstairs to Maeve’s bedroom, flung open the door without knocking and after entering banged it shut behind her. Maeve, who was lounging on the bed reading a novel, looked up, an exasperated frown marring the smooth white of her forehead. ‘Do you have to rush in here like that? As if the wind wasn’t bad enough you have to go tearing through the house like a mad thing,’ she grumbled. Then with a change of mood, an affectionate smile curving her mouth, she added, ‘Although it’s more like you to rush around. What can have happened to stir you up? You’ve even got some colour in your face.’ Sally stood at the end of the bed and regarded her sister objectively, trying to see her as the man downstairs might see her. She had always been an admirer of Maeve’s beauty. Long strawberry-blonde hair waved naturally about a heart shaped face. Blue eyes put in with a smutty finger were set under finely-marked winged eyebrows. A perfect peaches and cream complexion, a full-lipped passionate mouth and a smoothly curving figure which showed to advantage in a swimsuit had all been inherited from Maeve’s Irish mother, Hugh’s first wife who had died in childbirth. How could a man not love such a beautiful person? How could he go away and forget her? ‘Maeve, Ross Lorimer is downstairs.’ ‘Ross Lorimer?’ repeated Maeve, opening her eyes wide. “You mean Ross who used to live at Winterston? Why is he here?’ ‘He says he’s come to work here. I thought I’d better warn you.’ ‘Warn me about what?’ ‘Warn you that he’s here, so that you wouldn’t get a shock when you came downstairs.’ Maeve stretched lazily and chuckled. ‘Thanks, Sal. It would take more than the sight of Ross Lorimer to shock me. Are you coming to the dance tonight?’

‘Yes ... and oh, Maeve, I’m meeting someone there, a sailor off the submarine which is in the harbour. I saved his hat from being blown into the sea.’ ‘Well, we are having an exciting evening,’ mocked Maeve. ‘A sailor? What will Aunt Jessie say?’ They both laughed good-naturedly about their aunt’s well- intentioned efforts to protect Sally from the ways of the world. ‘Then you won’t want me to come with me if you have an escort,’ suggested Maeve mournfully. ‘Oh, yes, I want you to come,’ said Sally earnestly, not wishing her sister to think that she wasn’t wanted. But Maeve didn’t seem to be listening. She had swung her legs over the side of the bed so that she was facing the small dressing table. Leaning forward, she examined her face in the mirror. Then picking up her hairbrush she began to brush her hair with long sweeping strokes so that it snapped and crackled with electricity. Behind Maeve’s reflection in the mirror, Sally could see her own reflection. Her beechnutcoloured hair was an indeterminate length, neither long nor short. An untidy fringe which badly needed attention fell over her forehead and drew attention to her wide hazel eyes. Across one thin cheek a long pallid scar angled from the corner of her right eye to the corner of her wide mouth. Once her face had been rosy and smiling. Now a certain wistfulness added maturity to it. Sally scowled at herself, not liking what she saw, and glanced at Maeve again. Her sister was smoothing away the lines caused by a frown, as if she realised that frowning would not help her to preserve her beauty. ‘What’s he like ... Ross, I mean?’ she asked curtly. Sally found the sudden question much more natural than Maeve’s apparently unconcerned reception of the news of Ross’s return. ‘He’s changed a bit,’ she began. It was difficult to describe how he had changed. ‘Is he married?’ Again Maeve’s voice was sharp. ‘I don’t know. He didn’t say.’ ‘Och, you’re hopeless!’ snapped Maeve. “You never notice anything about other people. You’d better go down and tell Aunt Jessie I’m coming or she’ll think no one wants tea tonight.’ Sally went to her own room. A quick flick of the brush over her own hair and a touch of lipstick was all the interest she took in her appearance. As she went down the narrow staircase she could hear her father’s voice coming from the living room. Just as she was about to turn the door handle and enter the room, the door was opened and Aunt Jessie shouted, ‘Sally, Maeve, come for tea, or else! Och, bairn, I didna’ know ye were there. Come on now, y’re father’s hungry and my guess is that Ross is too. Fancy walkin’ all that way! Whatever did ye do a thing like that for? Ye must be daft, lad!’

‘Maybe I am, Aunt Jessie,’ said Ross equably. ‘I had a few days to spare and I wanted to feel the soft moorland air, the rain in my face and the springy turf under my feet. I needed to be alone for a while, and I know of no better way of being alone.’ Sally looked at him in surprise. She also loved to walk the moors for the same reason, but she would not have believed that the very self-assured man who sat opposite to her would have required the spiritual balm offered by communing with nature. ‘Sorry I’m late, Aunt Jessie,’ breathed Maeve softly as she entered the room. ‘Hello, Dad. Have a good day?’ She bent over her father and kissed him on the cheek, an action which caused him to look askance at her as he answered her. ‘Hello, lass. Now what are ye after?’ ‘Nothing, I’m just showing how pleased I am to see you,’ she replied charmingly as she moved round to the vacant seat beside Ross. ‘Hello, Ross, Sally told me you were here. It’s nice to see you again.’ For the second time that day Sally saw her stepsister in a more objective light. Maeve had made an entrance, drawing attention to herself and her new blue dress with its short gathered skirt and romantic frills at the neckline and at the cuffs of the long sheer sleeves. She seemed to glow and she looked completely out of place among the heavy furniture of the homely room. Ross took her outstretched hand in his as he rose to his feet and murmured a polite commonplace greeting. As he released her hand she sent him a provocative underbrowed glance and said, ‘It’s taken you a long time to come back.’ His smile had a slightly sardonic quality as he answered smoothly, ‘Don’t treasure any illusions about my reason for returning. I’ve only come back because I have to work for my living.’ Maeve pouted prettily as she sat down and he resumed his seat. ‘Och, Ross, don’t be so unromantic!’ “But I am. I’ve always been a realist.’ ‘Whatever ye are, we’re all glad to see ye,’ put in Hugh. ‘Have ye thought about my suggestion ... about staying here? He could lodge here while he’s working, couldn’t he, Jessie?’ ‘Aye, he could. There’s an empty room up the stair waitin’ to be used. You won’t think of refusin’?’ queried Aunt Jessie. ‘After a supper like this you make it very difficult for me,’ replied Ross with an appreciative grin. ‘I’ll consider it, and let you know later.’ ‘You do that,’ encouraged Hugh. ‘I’ll be glad to have ye in this house of women. The dance they lead me!’ He clucked his tongue and rolled his eyes.

‘I can guess,’ murmured Ross dryly. ‘Do stay, Ross,’ said Maeve in her most persuasive voice as she placed a hand on his arm. Sally cringed inwardly. Why did Maeve have to be so obvious? She invited caustic sardonic remarks. But this time Ross didn’t reply as he looked at Maeve. It seemed to Sally that they looked at each other for a long time, as if they had both forgotten that there were other people in the room, and she felt an imperative urge to break the intimate moment. ‘Where are you going to work?’ she asked abruptly. Maeve remove her hand from his arm and continued with her meal while Aunt Jessie poured more tea. Ross’s blue glance was cool and indifferent as he looked away from Maeve’s golden beauty to the nut-brown, scarred-faced girl who sat opposite to him. ‘At Winterston ... erecting fuel tanks.’ Aunt Jessie set the tea-pot down with a thump and said sharply, ‘Och, no, ye canna be doin’ the devil’s own work!’ Sally gasped and said hotly, ‘I might have guessed!’ Hugh cautioned quietly, placidly, ‘Now, now, both of ye, be careful what ye say.’ Maeve looked up, faint puzzlement clouding her eyes, and said in her soft slurred voice, ‘Why all the fuss? What fuel tanks?’ ‘The ones we petitioned against when the Government first approached Miss Wallace about purchasing the land from her as the most suitable site for the tanks,’ blurted Sally. The colour had left her face and the scar looked ugly against the sudden pallor, but her thick brown hair glinted with copper lights and her hazel eyes flashed green fire as she glared at Ross. ‘You and Aunt Jessie might have petitioned against them, but I didn’t. Anyway, the construction of fuel tanks will bring people into the town with money in their pockets to spend ... and it’s brought Ross back,’ said Maeve. Ross slanted an enigmatical glance at her and murmured, ‘Thanks, Maeve, for your kind welcome. It seems that I’ve given Sally a reason for disliking me.’ Sally wondered whether the others had noticed the subtle challenge in his voice. She looked at her father, hoping for his support. He was frowning as he busied himself with the lighting of his after-dinner pipe. ‘I expect you won’t want me to lodge here, now you know I’m here to do the devil’s work, Aunt Jessie,’ jested Ross.

‘Och, well now, I wouldna’ say that,’ replied the hospitable Jessie. ‘But I’m a wee bit disappointed. Ye see, many of the folk in the town objected to the choice of the site. It’s a lovely piece of land, as ye ken well yerself, and many of us think that Portbride would never be the same if the tanks are put there. The old house has been a landmark in these parts for centuries and people are fond of it. Miss Wallace herself was very upset, and I wouldna’ be a bit surprised if the anxiety about the public hearing they held didn’t hurry her into her grave. After she died we didn’t hear any more about it. When was the decision made to sell the land?’ ‘Soon after she died. The Government made a compulsory purchase. Since I had inherited it, I saw no reason to fight it. The place was mortgaged to the hilt, anyway.’ There was a brief silence as they all digested the information that Ross had sold his inheritance. ‘Aye, aye, it’s a great pity. To think of a grand family like the Wallaces coming to an end like that, and their land becoming Government property,’ sighed Aunt Jessie. ‘I’d have thought more of ye if ye’d fought it.’ Ross smiled tolerantly at her. ‘I’ve told you I’m a realist. I couldn’t afford the place, let alone a fight to keep it. No, it’s better out of my hands.’ ‘I canna understand ye young folk, sometimes,’ complained Aunt Jessie. ‘But how is it you were sent here to work on the tanks?’ ‘My company contracted for the work. I’d just finished a stint on a similar project in Pakistan, and they offered me the position of site boss here. Promotionwise it’s too good an opportunity to miss, so here I am.’ ‘Your being here in a place you know so well is pure coincidence, then?’ put in Maeve. ‘Pure coincidence,’ agreed Ross. “You needn’t worry about seeing the tanks. They’ll be well concealed when they’re finished.’ ‘But think of all that you’re going to destroy to put them there ... all the lovely wild plants and the bushes and the trees and the rocks and the heather,’ exploded Sally incoherently. ‘The place will look a mess for months.’ ‘For two years, in fact,’ said Ross, as she paused for breath. ‘And it will never be the same, because we’ll know that the tanks are there even if they are covered up. Why couldn’t they have chosen another site? Why do they have to change Winterston?’ ‘Everything changes sooner or later,’ remarked Ross quietly, looking directly at her, and she knew he meant that she had been changed by the accident and her hand crept to her cheek defensively. ‘Calm down, Sally,’ admonished Hugh, more briskly than usually. ‘You shouldna speak to Ross like that. He has his work to do. You know very well that Portbride has been chosen because the loch is a natural deep water harbour and that tankers and ships can get in easily at any

state of the tide, as far as the Winterston jetty. They’ll be able to load and unload fuel without any problem. I think like Maeve that it’s a good thing for Portbride.’ Sally was completely silenced. When her father talked like that she knew better than to argue. ‘For two years,’ murmured Maeve. ‘A lot can happen in two years. Will you be here all that time, Ross?’ ‘Maybe.’ ‘And what about your wife? Where is she? Will she be coming to live here too?’ Ross’s smile was slightly cynical as he looked at her. ‘You never could ask a direct question, could you? The answer is, unlike you, I’m not married.’ Maeve’s expression grew sullen and Hugh said, ‘Aye, it’s about time you remembered you were married and went back to your husband, Maeve. I’m surprised he hasna come for ye.’ Turning to Ross, completely ignoring the insinuation in her father’s words, Maeve smiled brilliantly, and Ross looked at her in a strangely intimate, assessing manner, almost as if he was weighing up how far he could go with her, thought Sally with a sudden frightening flash of insight. “You won’t let my being married make any difference, will you, Ross?’ urged Maeve. ‘No, I won’t let it make any difference,’ he replied, and there was a touch of mischief in his smile. Apparently he had meant what he had said, because later that evening Sally watched him and Maeve enter the crowded lounge of the MacKinnon Arms. Maeve was wearing a thin coat over her dress and she looked radiant. As usual she received many stares from the sailors who were mingling with the customary Friday night crowd of fishermen and young farmers, all in town for the weekly dance and getting themselves into the right mood for the dancing which would only start properly when closing time came round. Sally was sitting at a table drinking her favourite lemon squash with Jim Shaw and two of his friends, Joe and Lofty. ‘Whew, what an eyeful!’ commented Lofty. ‘Who is she, Sally? I hope you know her.’ ‘She’s my stepsister Maeve,’ admitted Sally reluctantly. She didn’t really like it when men referred to Maeve in a disrespectful manner. “Then come on, lass, introduce us,’ urged Joe. ‘She’s looking for somewhere to sit. Why don’t you get up, Jim, and let her sit over there by Sally?’ Jim, who was as mesmerised by Maeve’s beauty as the other two, moved obediently, never questioning the order, and Sally signalled to Maeve, who said something to Ross and then

made her way to the table. Sally made the introductions and watched the three young men turn all their attention to Maeve, as she had guessed they would. Even when Ross arrived with Maeve’s drink and stood beside her, tall, self-assured and just a little aloof, they did not turn away from the object of their attention. They crowded round Maeve, showing off to attract her attention and cutting Sally off. As she sat in the shadow of the corner seat it seemed to Sally that it had all happened before. For some reason she was seeing Maeve much more clearly tonight, and it occurred to her that during the past few weeks whenever a young man had taken an interest in her at the dances to which Maeve had made her go, her sister had always appeared in her guise of protector and had diverted the young man’s attention with her beauty, charm and wit. It was as if she did it deliberately. Sally clamped down on the thought, regarding it as uncharitable. She must not think like that. She would become sour if she did. Maeve couldn’t help being beautiful and charming and it was quite reasonable for a young man to prefer her to an awkward, scar-faced person like herself. Yet tonight she had thought she would be safe because Maeve had Ross with her. Hand to her cheek, she looked at him. Leaning against the wall, beer-mug in hand, he wasn’t watching Maeve but was looking straight at her. Guiltily she moved her hand from her face and glanced away. He seemed completely unconcerned by the attention Maeve was receiving. He was sufficiently arrogant, Sally decided, to know that he had prior claim on Maeve tonight and he would have no hesitation in asserting his rights. With a queer flurry of apprehension Sally wondered whether he would consider he had more rights than Fergus, Maeve’s husband. The thought frightened her and knowing that no one would miss her Sally stood up, edged through the crowd and went out into the wild windy moonlit night. The MacKinnon Arms faced the harbour and was considered the best hotel in Portbride, commanding as it did uninterrupted views of the harbour and the sea-loch. Sally walked across the wide roadway to the wall which prevented the unwary from falling into the harbour and provided a favourite leaning place for the inhabitants of the town on a summer’s night. The tide was out and a little beach of pale sand glittered intermittently as the wind-driven clouds rushed across the face of the round silver moon. At the edge of the beach the water fell in small rippling phosphorescent waves. From the Town Hall up the main street came the sound of the band already playing for the dance, and immediately behind her there was the noise of many voices as the crowd left the hotel and went to the dance. In a few minutes everyone had gone and the place was quiet again. Jim and his friends, enthralled by Maeve, had obviously not noticed Sally’s absence and had gone to the dance without her. Sally gripped the edge of the wall beneath her hands as she fought against the self-pity which threatened to swamp her. Once she had been gay and happy, loving her parents, loving her sister, liking her work. Then the awful accident had happened. She had been coming home in the car with her mother after visiting relatives in Newton Stewart. It had been a dark winter’s

night with wreaths of mist weaving across the moorland and occasionally cutting down visibility to nothing. They had hit a patch, her mother had changed down to second gear and then ... blank. Sally had been told afterwards that they had hit the side of a railway bridge which crossed the road at a bend. The mist had hidden both bend and bridge and instead of following the curve of the road her mother had driven straight on into the supporting wall of the bridge. She had been killed instantly. Sally had been shocked and badly cut about the face. Everyone had said the plastic surgeon had worked a miracle on her face. But no one had been able to work a miracle on her injured spirits. Everyone had been kind and patient with her. Her father had been gentle and forbearing even in the midst of his own distress at the death of her mother. Aunt Jessie, that most maternal of spinsters, had poured out all her love to comfort her niece and when Maeve had come back from Ireland for a short holiday she had stayed ostensibly to help her young stepsister, a stay which had lasted four weeks. But somehow none of the kindness and cosseting had helped, and Sally found herself shrinking back from contact with people. Maeve’s policy of making her attend the weekly dances hadn’t helped either, because every time she noticed a young man’s eyes avoid looking at her scar, she wanted to run home and hide. Someone leant on the wall beside her. A strong hand uncurled the clenched fingers of her right hand and massaged them gently. Automatically her other hand unclenched as she turned in surprise to look at Ross. He took her left hand too and rubbed both hands between his, then released them. ‘Why did you walk out on us?’ he asked. She was too surprised to speak and could only stare at his profile as he looked away at the fishing boats. ‘Are you sulking because Maeve deliberately monopolised the attention of your naval friends and they forgot about you?’ he queried, and the taunt which lay beneath his question roused her. ‘I’m not sulking,’ she objected. ‘And Maeve didn’t do it deliberately.’ ‘Didn’t she?’ His tone was dry. ‘No,’ she asserted vehemently, hoping by her fierce negation to stamp the idea from his mind. ‘Maeve can’t help being lovely and attractive.’ ‘Any more than you can help being irritable, sulky and downright sorry for yourself, I suppose. Are you going to wallow in self-pity for the rest of your life? Shame on you! I thought you were made of tougher fibre than that.’ His forthright criticism scorched her like fire. Only a few minutes ago his hands had held hers and had soothed away her tension. Now his crisp, authoritative voice lashed at her, stiffening pride and rousing her anger. Words bubbled up longing to be spoken. They remained unspoken and she could only glare in an agony of frustration. She wheeled away from him, intending to

run home, but before she could take a step he caught her hand and jerked her round roughly to face him. ‘Let me go!’ she fumed. His grin was unsympathetic as he did as she asked. ‘I’m glad to find you’re not as dull and lethargic as you look, and that there’s still a spark of life left in you.’ Sally rubbed at her bruised wrist and involuntarily the words came tumbling out. ‘Why did you have to come back? I wish you’d go away!’ ‘I shall go one day, when I’ve done my work. Meanwhile ...’ ‘Meanwhile you’ll upset Maeve again. She loved you and you went away. She was heartbroken.’ ‘Did she tell you that?’ He sounded incredulous. Then he laughed. ‘Maeve didn’t love me. She was merely in love with the idea of being in love.’ ‘I don’t believe you. Maeve isn’t like that, and you wouldn’t say so if you’d seen how she used to cry herself to sleep after you’d gone.’ ‘Frustration, I expect. She hadn’t been able to get her own way. I’m willing to bet she was over it within a week and was walking the hills with some other youth.’ Sally had no retort ready. She guessed that the picture he painted of Maeve was possibly more true to life than the one she preferred to paint of her stepsister. She liked to think that Maeve’s love affairs after Ross had left had been the result of desperation and a broken heart, trying to disguise the truth from herself that Maeve was fickle. But disillusionment hurt, especially when it concerned a person she had adored from babyhood, and she was in no mood to forgive the tough self-confessed realist who stood beside her for stripping the romantic trappings from Maeve and making her appear cheap. ‘I’m on my way to Winterston,’ Ross announced abruptly in a well-remembered manner. ‘Coming with me?’ The careless off-hand way of inviting her was so familiar that for a moment she was eleven again and he was asking for her company on some adventure. ‘N ... n ... now?’ she stammered. ‘But it’s late, and I thought you’d be going to the dance with Maeve?’ ‘No. I met Maeve by chance on my way over to have a pint. She just happened to be going my way ... very conveniently for her,’ he replied with a touch of cynicism. ‘It isn’t completely dark, because there’s a moon. And if it isn’t too late for dancing, it isn’t too late for walking. Coming?’ He had turned to go and she knew he wouldn’t ask her again. The thought of seeing

Winterston by moonlight intrigued her spirit of adventure which she had thought to be dead. She couldn’t resist. ‘Can you wait, please? I must change my shoes,’ she asked hesitantly. He turned back to look at her and by the light of the street lights she saw his familiar daredevil grin. ‘I’ll wait,’ he agreed. And without further hesitation Sally turned and sped towards her home, her melancholy mood miraculously dispersed. Only one road led to Winterston. It was a continuation of the wide road which wound round the harbour and which ended abruptly on the southern side of the sea-loch where the quayside gave way to a narrow rock-strewn shore which was overshadowed by a ridge of rock which ran in a curve to end in a tumble of rocks known as Winterston Point. The road was narrow and rough and was surfaced by granite chips which glittered and sparkled in the moonlight, and crunched and scattered under their steady footsteps. Waves tumbled on the rim of pale sand and frills of bubbles exploded in scintillating showers of light when water hit rock and sprayed upwards. From the craggy hillside the scents of unseen flowers and grasses tantalised Sally’s nose. She knew that in the crevices pale yellow primroses would be hidden and that among the long grasses which bordered the roadside diminutive violets could be found. The scents of the newly grown plants mingled with the salty tang of the sea and with the odour of the damp seaweed which had been washed up to lie in long dark ribbons on the wan sand. Moonlight on the sea. The smells of springtime. Sally experienced a feeling of intense delight in all that she could see and hear and smell. For generations the moon had shone down on these hills and on this sea. Nothing had changed, she thought. And now the man at her side had come to destroy the beauty, to disturb the peace, to build ugly fuel tanks which would mar the countryside. No matter how well they were hidden they would leave a scar, like the one on her face which would never fade completely. The fact that he could ever think of such destruction raised a barrier between him and herself which she felt she could never overcome. The road curved round a protruding bastion of rock and then the way was barred by two high wrought-iron gates. Ross thrust a broad shoulder against them and they yielded, opening on to a tree-lined driveway already overrun with grass and weeds. Ross strode forward without hesitation. Sally dallied behind him, caught in the spell which Winterston had always cast upon her. She remembered the times she had gathered wild daffodils which grew in drifts in the springtime under the tall trees. She recalled the many brown trout which she had poached from the nearby burn which she could hear rushing perpetually to the sea. There were memories too of the tall stern lady who had been the guardian of Winterston and who had fought to preserve it.

A small animal scampered out of the dark rhododendron bushes and startled her. She realised that Ross had gone, disappearing round the bend of the drive. He had gone, leaving her behind, having probably forgotten her. She ran lightly up the drive. She found him on the front lawn, standing motionless, his head tilted back as he surveyed the moon-silvered frontage of the old house. Standing beside him, Sally looked at it too. In spite of the moonlight the small oblong latticed windows seemed dark and secretive and the two pointed turrets which decorated either side of the high gatehouse with its serrated gable added to the Gothic and melodramatic appearance of the house. At right angles to the gatehouse, the rest of the house was the normal unspectacular structure of a plain three-storey house with a gable end and a slate roof. The house had been built on a long hump of land and it was backed by a clump of whispering pines behind which the land rose steeply. In front of it wide lawns dotted with what had once been carefully barbered ornamental trees swept down to the water where a small jetty jutted out. ‘How can you take part in turning all this into a mass of mud and rubble?’ said Sally, suddenly articulate as emotion stirred her. ‘If you can’t see the beauty you’re going to destroy you must be inhuman!’ He didn’t bother to turn his head to look at her as he replied quietly, ‘I’m not inhuman. I can see the beauty. On the other hand, I’m not a sentimentalist and I know that the house is a crumbling, unsafe ruin and that eventually it must come down, preferably before it falls down and injures someone.’ His quiet matter-of-fact statement concerning the fate of the house disturbed her greatly as she realised that the situation was far worse than she had anticipated. ‘Och, no, you can’t destroy the house. You mustn’t!’ ‘Actually the decision whether it should be destroyed or not is not mine to make,’ he replied calmly. ‘I can only present my point of view. But I’m inclined to agree with the consultants for the job that the house is standing in one of the obvious places for a couple of the tanks.’ ‘But how do you know that it’s a ruin? Miss Wallace lived in it until she died, so it can’t be that bad,’ objected Sally. ‘Have you ever been inside?’ he asked. ‘No, although I’ve often wanted to see what it’s like. I asked you once to take me over it, but you refused.’ ‘Would you like to see it now?’ Sally found herself struggling with wayward conflicting emotions. His calm unemotional comments upon the state of the house dismayed her. He seemed extremely sure and completely unassailable. On the other hand, his invitation to show her the inside of the house which had always enticed her disarmed her temporarily.

‘But we won’t be able to see anything. It’ll be dark inside,’ she replied, half-heartedly finding an excuse. ‘Anyway, how will we get in?’ ‘I have a torch with me, and I also have a key,’ he said practically. ‘I daresay I’ll be able to find the main electric switch and there are bound to be a few light bulbs still intact and working. Of course if you’d rather stay outside while I look around the house you can, but I warn you, this might be your last chance to see inside it.’ Sally responded immediately to his take-it-or-leave-it attitude. ‘No, I’d like to see it, please,’ she said hurriedly. He moved forward towards the plain door set in the gatehouse. On either side of the door were two stone tubs in which were set box trees, now shaggy and overgrown. Sally, who had followed Ross eagerly, looked at them sadly, thinking how symbolic they were of the air of general unkemptness which prevailed around the house. Ross produced an outsize old-fashioned iron key, inserted it in the keyhole of the ironstudded door. He turned the key and the lock slid back obediently. He grasped the large iron ring which was the door handle, pushed the door and it opened slowly and protestingly. He stepped inside and at once the beam of his torch shed a pool of yellowish light on the stoneflagged floor of the cavernous entrance hall. Sally followed him and he closed the door. Moonlight filtered through a large rectangular window, a simple grid of vertical and horizontal stonework with square leaded panes of glass in each small rectangle, which was situated high up in the wall facing the door. The torch beam flitted round the shadowed stone walls, flickered momentarily on the high timbered roof, lingered briefly on the window and descended the wide curving imposing staircase. ‘Wait here,’ ordered Ross peremptorily. ‘I’ll try the electricity.’ He moved away from her and was immediately swallowed up in the gloom. Sally stood still, absorbing the atmosphere of age. She was inside Winterston at last. Winterston, the home of the Wallace family since the days of the first king to rule all Scotland, David the First, who had granted land to the Norman knights who had come at his invitation from England to help him administer his new kingdom. One of those knights had been Hugo Wallace, who had chosen this particular land. He had built his castle nearer to the present site of the town and its ruins could still be seen, two fingers of stone pointing to the sky on a mound behind the small crouched cottages of the oldest part of the town. When the castle had been destroyed by fire the family had built a new house away from the town on a fine piece of coast where they could enjoy privacy as well as beautiful uninterrupted views of the sea. Many romantic and wild tales had been told about the family whose sons in more recent times had carried on the tradition of serving their king by entering the British Army. The tradition had come to an abrupt end when Miss Wallace’s only brother, William Wallace, had been killed in action during the second world war, leaving no heir to succeed to the estate. Sally was a bit hazy about the details, but she knew from local gossip that Ross’s mother had been a second cousin of Miss Wallace’s and had lived for a while at Winterston before marrying Alec Lorimer, a civil engineer. She and her husband had returned to Winterston occasionally for

holidays, and she had made her home there during the war while Ross’s father had been doing his war service. Sally wasn’t sure what had happened to Mrs. Lorimer, because Aunt Jessie and her own mother had tended to stop discussing the matter when they came to that part. A scuttering, scrabbling noise startled Sally and, cold with apprehension, she peered about her. She wasn’t really afraid of the dark—she had walked too many country roads at night for that. But it seemed as if Ross had been away for a long time and the dank smell of age coupled with the brooding silence of the house were beginning to attack her nerves. She had a sudden longing to call out to Ross, and only the thought that he might think her foolish and hypersensitive prevented her from doing so. A door at the end of the passage to the left of her opened and he called out, ‘Sally, there are some switches to the right of the front door. Try them, will you?’ Dim light sprang up from wall lamps shaped like flambeaux, revealing the grey stone walls of the hall which were decorated with stuffed stags’ heads, crossed claymores, dirks and round embossed shields. Tattered banners, their colours long faded so that they were of a uniform greyness, hung lifelessly from their staffs which protruded from the walls. A huge carved chest stood against the wall under the curve of the staircase. On it two enormous ornate silver candelabra were still spiked with white candles. Beside it a rusty, rather lopsided suit of armour looked doleful and pathetic. Everything was old, dusty and decrepit. Ross appeared, his tall wide-shouldered figure seeming strangely out of place, dressed as he was in dark trousers, a turtle-necked sweater and a tweed jacket. Sally had the oddest feeling that he should have been wearing the pointed helmet and chain mail of a Norman knight. He eyed her observantly and his grin mocked her. ‘You look slightly pale. Is the ghost of Willy the Hatchet walking tonight? He’s supposed to appear at full moon.’ Sally’s skin goose-pimpled. She knew the story of the medieval William the Hatchet who had apparently gone berserk one day and had applied a hatchet to his wife, her lover and then to himself. ‘I ... I ... heard a scrabbling noise in the walls.’ ‘Rats,’ he replied laconically as his gaze roved round the hall assessingly. ‘The place hasn’t changed much in ten years except that there are probably more rats, more woodworm and more dry rot.’ ‘Och, no!’ wailed Sally, as she tried to stave off the disillusion which was creeping inexorably into her mind. This was the dream house of her childhood and adolescent years, around which she had woven so many dreams. Now this ruthless realist was attempting to destroy its romance as he hoped to destroy its structure. ‘Och, yes,’ he jeered softly. He walked across to the staircase and placed a hand on the carved wooden balustrade which had been superimposed on the original stone one. Then he beckoned to her and she went over to him. ‘Look,’ he pointed with a blunt forefinger and she looked. Scarred wood, dry and brittle,

marred the symmetry of the carving. ‘And here,’ the cool hard voice persisted, and she looked again at another disfiguring patch of dry rot. ‘Couldn’t it be cut out and patched?’ she quavered defensively. His glance was disparaging and he did not bother to reply, but moved away towards the passage which led to the living quarters of the house. He opened a panelled door, put his hand to the wall inside, found a switch and light from a Jacobean wrought-iron chandelier shed a weak yellow glow over the Jacobean refectory table and its accompanying high-backed chairs. ‘What a lovely room!’ exclaimed Sally, looking round at the pine-panelled walls, at the long green velvet draperies looped back from lead-paned windows. ‘What lovely furniture!’ ‘The panelling is full of woodworm and rats,’ commented Ross, ‘and the furniture is probably ready to fall to pieces.’ He started to examine the panelling and Sally, after a sad glance at the lovely chairs, followed him. The panelling she could see was riddled with small holes. ‘Woodworm,’ announced Ross succinctly. ‘But isn’t it possible to inject something into it?’ asked Sally hopefully. ‘I’m sure I’ve heard Aunt Jessie mention that there’s a cure for it these days.’ Ross shook his head negatively. ‘Too late. It’s been like that for years.’ His appraising glance surveyed the dresser with its assortment of heavy pewter pots and platters and passed on to the three small black-framed watercolours which hung on the wall beside it. ‘The only things worth preserving in this room are the pewter and the paintings,’ he said. He left her side and went to look at the pictures more closely, while Sally followed curiously. Once more a feeling of intense delight ousted the encroaching disillusion as she regarded the paintings. All three depicted various views of Winterston and were painted in a vigorous, distinct style. ‘Who painted them?’ she asked. ‘My mother,’ he replied curtly. ‘It seems she showed great promise as an artist when young. She must have found her talent useful to while away the monotonous and hateful hours and days she spent in this house.’ Sally gave him a startled sidelong glance. He was removing one of the pictures from the wall. In the place where it had hung a dusty cobweb draped the panelling. ‘Where does your mother live now?’ she asked curiously.

He had placed the picture on the table and had returned to lift down another, but at her question he paused and turned to look at her. ‘Do you mean to say you don’t know? I thought it was one of the stories which did the rounds of the gossips annually,’ he remarked cynically. ‘It happened before you were born. She was drowned, off the Point. I was about five at the time.’ He made the statement in a flat unemotional voice and turned back to take down the next picture. Sally clenched her teeth together to quell the spontaneous upsurge of sympathy which his words aroused. She guessed instinctively that he would spurn any show of sentiment on her part. Her curiosity concerning his mother’s death would have to be satisfied by someone else. Aunt Jessie would know the full story. ‘No, I didn’t know,’ she answered quietly. ‘I’m sorry. What will you do with the pictures?’ ‘I think I can claim them as mine. I’ll take them with me when we leave. As I had guessed, the whole place is falling to pieces. It shouldn’t take long to knock it down—a week, maybe.’ Sally watched him lift the third picture from the wall and struggled to hide her consternation at the thought of the house being pulled apart, seeing with her mind’s eye the walls swaying and crumbling into untidy heaps of stone. Ross laid the third picture on the table with the others and proceeded to wipe the dust from all three with his handkerchief. Then as if aware that she was watching him he turned his head suddenly, gave her a quick underbrowed glance and smiled. Immediately the impression of ruthlessness which his square aggressive chin and stubborn lower lip gave was dispersed. ‘You’re looking at me as if you really disapprove of me,’ he accused. ‘What have I done to earn such a fierce glare?’ Sally blinked and looked away, disconcerted by the charm of his smile and by the indulgent expression in his eyes. He must still regard her as an eleven-year-old whom he had to humour. For some reason she did not like his indulgent tolerance. She wanted him to realise that she was twenty, almost twenty-one, and that she possessed an independent spirit which would neither be trampled upon nor wooed by suspicious gentleness. ‘This house must have some pleasant memories for you. You lived here at one time and you spent most of your holidays here. Don’t you care for it at all? Doesn’t the thought of having to destroy it disturb you?’ she attacked. The smile faded from his face. Cool and wary again, he seemed to consider her words seriously for a few seconds. ‘I’m not unduly disturbed. The house is rotting and rat-ridden and unsafe. It should have been pulled down years ago. I told Aunt Elena many times to cut her losses and dispose of the estate to someone who had the money to buy.’ His mouth curled cynically. ‘She didn’t listen to me, of course. As for memories, I remember only part of the time I spent here, and few of my memories concern the house. I believe people to be more important than stone and mortar.’ He gave her another underbrowed glance and the curl to his mouth grew more pronounced as he said,

‘Everyone, everything is subject to change at some time or other. Winterston has proved to be no exception.’ His words jarred on Sally and she retorted spiritedlys ‘Some things stay the same.’ ‘You mean you like to think that nothing changes?’ ‘The mountains, the sea ... they don’t change,’ she countered. ‘How pleasant to grow up and still preserve some illusions!’ he murmured. ‘Even mountains change slowly, inexorably.’ On the defensive, refusing to be beaten, Sally challenged defiantly, “Love doesn’t change.’ ‘ “Time will come and take my love away,” ’ he quoted, and smiled again as if he found her challenge juvenile and just a little foolish. ‘Love changes more than most sentiments. It’s a feeling of the moment, to be enjoyed while it’s there. Shakespeare had it taped: “In delay there lies no plenty.” ’ He stopped and his smile widened into a mischievous grin. ‘Perhaps I’d better not finish the quotation. You’re so square and so prim and proper, you might take me seriously and think I’m making a pass at you.’ Sally was annoyed. She had never been described as a square before, nor prim and proper, and they were descriptions she would never have applied to herself—at least not before the accident. ‘I’m not a square, and I’m not prim ...’ She saw mockery glimmer in his eyes and stopped in time just as she was about to admit to not being proper. ‘I wouldn’t think you were making a pass at me because I know that’s the last thing you’d want to do where I’m concerned. You don’t like me any more than I like you,’ she finished furiously, more shaken by his teasing than she cared to admit. The mockery vanished. The coolness returned and with it the ruthlessness. ‘In that case I may as well finish the quotation and improve your education: “Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth’s a stuff will not endure.” ’ Sally’s cheeks burned. She could no longer return his clear cool gaze. She wished suddenly that she had held her tongue, then wondered immediately and irrelevantly why she was able to overcome her tongue-tiedness when she was with Ross. ‘I thought blushing went out with long skirts and smelling salts,’ Ross prodded wickedly. ‘You’re even more square than I’d thought. Could it be that you’ve never been kissed? Maybe that’s something I should alter for you, after all.’ Sally retreated at once and he laughed. To her relief he moved away from her towards the door, saying, ‘Another time, perhaps. Let’s finish our tour of the house. You should see as much as you can while you’re here. It’s your only chance. I’ll leave the pictures here and pick them up on our way out.’

He switched off the lights and went out of the room, leaving her alone in the dark. She followed hurriedly, as he must have known she would, and caught up with him as she pushed open another door further down the passage. He flicked a switch and light from three wroughtiron chandeliers revealed another big room whose stone walls were hung with tapestries depicting classical scenes. A wide fireplace was set in the middle of one wall. The furniture was a mixture of Jacobean and heavy Victorian with a few choice pieces of Sheraton. There was no impression of comfort. The scattered rugs on the floor looked thin and worn, and Sally thought they had done little to protect the feet from the cold of the stone flags and the draughts which would whistle beneath the doors in the winter time. Chilled and depressed by the cold damp atmosphere, she was beginning to realise that perhaps the house was well named Winterston, since even on a mild spring night it was cold and cheerless. ‘This is commonly known as the tapestry room, for obvious reasons,’ mocked Ross. He had hardly spoken when a mouse which had been playing on an escritoire near the doorway leapt down and scurried over Sally’s feet. She shrieked and turned blindly to Ross, clutching at him for reassurance. He put an arm round her shoulders and held her closely. ‘What was it?’ she whispered into the smooth tweed of his jacket. ‘ “A week sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie ...” A field- mouse at least one inch long, all grey and furry, and terrified of us,’ he replied, and his voice shook with laughter. ‘Och, I thought it was a rat,’ said Sally, pulling away from him embarrassedly, conscious of a disturbing desire to stay within the circle of his arms. Apparently indifferent to the incident, he started to walk round the room examining the furniture, peering up at the raftered ceiling, touching the threadbare tapestries. Attracted by three portraits which hung above the fireplace, Sally stood in front of the dark cavernous hearth and stared up at the painted faces of a man and two women who were dressed in Regency-style clothes. ‘Vicious-looking tyrant, isn’t he?’ remarked Ross, coming to stand beside hen ‘The two women were his wives. He was Aunt Elena’s great-grandfather ... and incidentally my mother’s great-grandfather too ... and therefore my great-great-grandfather. How incredible! I’ve never thought of that before. It’s no use looking for any family resemblance, though.’ Once again he sounded thoroughly amused, but although she knew he was making fun Sally glanced at him. It was true he did not resemble the man in the painting. But Miss Wallace had. She had possessed the same pale eyes and the same pursed adamant mouth. ‘There isn’t much worth preserving in here either,’ commented Ross. ‘The whole lot should be burnt.’ ‘Och, no,’ Sally objected. ‘The escritoire and the spinet ... they’re worth keeping ... oh, and this love-seat here.’ Moving quickly and lightly to the chair, she sat down on it. It was covered with dimpled green velvet which had lost some of its pile and which was very faded. Sally stroked the velvet and

imagined the lovers who had shared it in the past. Perhaps the man in the portrait had sat on it with his wives ... one at a time, of course. Lost in her dreaming, she smiled at her thought and was unaware that Ross had sat down beside her until he spoke crisply. ‘If you like it so much, I’m sure I could arrange for you to have it.’ ‘Could you really?’ Sally looked at him, her face alight with pleasure. ‘I would like to have it. I could recover it and there would be room for it in my bedroom.’ Then she noticed the faintly cynical curl at the corner of his mouth again and woke up from her daydreaming completely. ‘No, I couldn’t. It must stay where it belongs, with all the other lovely things, because Winterston must not be destroyed.’ Ross leaned back and folded his arms across his chest and stretched his long legs before him. Sally realised suddenly how close he was to her and that his head with its untidy sun- bleached brown hair was near to her hand where it rested on the mahogany frame of the chair back. Resisting an irrational desire to rake her fingers through his hair, she removed her hand stealthily, sat up straight and as far away from him as the confines of the chair would allow her. ‘I can’t understand why you want to preserve the place,’ said Ross abruptly. “Your family have no connections with it.’ ‘It has always been here. It belongs here. I don’t want Winterston to be changed, or Portbride to be changed.’ ‘You’re afraid of change because you’re afraid of life,’ he jeered unkindly, then frowned and muttered more to himself than to her, ‘You didn’t used to be. You’ve changed, but you want everything else to stay the same. How unrealistic you are!’ Jolted and jarred by his criticism, Sally sat on the edge of the chair, her head turned away from him as she tried to control the unusual desire to burst into tears which almost overwhelmed her. ‘What reasons were given in the original petition against the building of the tanks ... for the preservation of Winterston?’ he asked. ‘The main objection was that the building of the tanks would mar an attractive part of the countryside and that in destroying the house a fine example of baronial architecture belonging to a family which played a great part in the history of Scotland would be lost for ever.’ She had turned to face him in order to deliver this speech. When she finished speaking he gave her an underbrowed sardonic glance. ‘Fine phrases, but not yours,’ he jibed. ‘How can you believe such nonsense? Architecturally Winterston is a very bad example of baronial architecture. Historically neither the house nor the family are of great importance. Structurally it’s rotten and a menace. If it isn’t pulled down it will fall down. Who wrote the petition?’ ‘Miss Wallace.’

‘An eccentric who put stone and mortar and pride of lineage before human feelings,’ he jibed caustically. ‘And Craig Dawson.’ ‘Who is he?’ ‘An architect. He works for the department of Town and Country Planning in the County Council offices. He was against the tanks from the start because he loves this place as much as I do. He was very friendly with Miss Wallace. He was very upset when she died.’ ‘Was he now?’ murmured Ross, turning his head to look at her sharply. ‘Tell me more.’ ‘You must have known him. He belongs to Portbride. His father was the manager of the Royal Bank in Ritchie Street.’ Ross’s eyes narrowed as he searched his memory. ‘I remember. A thin dark boy, rather like a weasel.’ Sally, who had often admired Craig’s fine-featured face topped by smooth black hair, was rather irritated by the description. ‘Yes, he’s a dark and thin ... but he isn’t like a weasel.’ ‘You’re prejudiced in his favour, I suppose, because like you he wants to preserve this old ruin,’ taunted Ross with a grin. ‘Have you seen him recently?’ Sally caught her lower lip between her teeth as the betraying colour flooded her cheeks again. Before the accident she and Craig had been going about together regularly. Brought together by the petition, they had discovered that they had a few other interests in common. There had been nothing exciting or particularly romantic in their relationship, but for Sally it had been something new and she had rather enjoyed having a regular date at the weekends like the other girls in the office. But after the accident, or rather after seeing the scar on her face, Craig had politely withdrawn his interest. ‘Dropped you like a hot coal, did he?’ probed Ross softly. ‘Then you’re well rid of him, so stop pining for what might have been. And now I’m going to have a look round upstairs. Coming?’ He was on his feet and striding away from her, flinging the careless questioning familiar invitation over his shoulder. He thought—heavens, what did he think?—that she was pining because her love was unrequited, because Craig had given her the cold shoulder? She must tell him it wasn’t true. She must tell him that though she had been initially hurt at Craig’s withdrawal the pain hadn’t lasted long because she hadn’t been in love with him. ‘Ross, wait!’ She was too late. He had gone. Hastily she followed, arriving in the hallway to see him disappearing into the gloom at the bend of the stairs, the light from his torch spearing the darkness before him.

Her feet slipping on the worn stone stairs, she hurried after him, determined not to be left alone. She reached his side as he tried the switches at the top of the stairs. They clicked, but no light appeared. ‘Hmm, good thing I know my way around here,’ he commented, then turned right and strode along a wide passage, Sally at his heels. She longed to hold on to the tail of his jacket, but pride and an idea that he might misconstrue such an action prevented her from doing so. He stopped and the torch’s beam flickered over a panelled door. He opened the door and tried the light switch. Nothing happened. The torchlight swept over the large room which was furnished with big furniture, laden with dust. ‘Aunt Elena’s room,’ Ross remarked briefly, and closed the door again. They peered into two other rooms similarly furnished. In the fourth and smaller room, however, the beam of light revealed a single bed, chests of drawers, a small desk and a bookcase. ‘Ah, they’re still here.’ Pleasure and satisfaction warmed Ross’s voice as he walked across to the bookcase to examine some of the books. ‘Was this your room when you stayed here?’ asked Sally. ‘Yes. I used to lie awake here when I was small listening to the rats, wondering when my mother would come back. Later when I came in my school vacations I used to come and go by way of this window.’ He moved across to the narrow latticed window which had been modernised at some time to open. In obedience to his persistent pushing it burst open and the cool night air rushed in, a welcome refreshment after the musty odour of the house. Her curiosity roused by his statement, Sally went over to the window and as if impelled by the same thought they leant together over the stone sill. Below them the triangular leaves of tenacious ivy creeper which cloaked the side of the house shivered with silvery reflected moonlight. ‘You climbed down the creeper?’ guessed Sally. ‘Why?’ ‘Because Aunt Elena didn’t allow me to go out at night. She thought I ought to stay here with her, and not mix with the youths of the town. She disapproved of such dissipated entertainments as the cinema, the fairground and the Saturday night dances. So I had to go secretly.’ Sally glanced at his rugged profile. Her right shoulder was jammed against his left one and she was suddenly aware of the lively rebellious spirit she had known when a child and felt a warm kinship with him. ‘Did she ever find out?’ she asked interestedly. Ross chuckled. ‘Of course she did. She was as sharp as a needle. We had a rip-roaring row—she was my guardian, you know. I promised to behave if I could follow my own inclinations to be a civil engineer like my father. She wanted me to go into the Army because all the Wallace men had ... and she considered me to be a Wallace. She had some strange fixed obsessions about the

Wallace family ... and about me. She lived alone too much, and living alone in this house would be enough to send anyone a little crazy.’ Sally watched the moon slide behind a cloud and the land become momentarily dark. Everything was different from what she had imagined from her scanty knowledge of the Wallace family and the gossip she had heard concerning Ross. Winterston, far from being an elegant historic mansion, was nothing but a decrepit ruin. Ross, whom she had heard labelled so many times by Craig Dawson and others as an ungrateful, inconsiderate black sheep, had once been a little boy who had yearned for his mother, a youth who had been determined to choose his own career. And now he was a man with whom she felt this curious sense of fellowship as they leaned shoulder to shoulder looking out at the shadowy landscape. The new knowledge of the house, of Ross and of herself was disturbing. It shattered numerous preconceptions she had held and left her vulnerable and shaken. She had been so safe and secure in the world of daydreams in which she had lived since the car crash that she resented being made to face reality once more and found herself wishing that Ross hadn’t returned and that she hadn’t come with him to see the house. Instinctively she guessed he was the dynamite that could destroy her peace of mind. ‘Is there no way of saving the house?’ she asked in a small voice. ‘It’s been condemned as unfit for habitation. Only a recommendation from the Fine Arts Commission that it should be preserved can save it now ... and since it’s been argued that any tanks built where the house stands would be virtually unseen from the sea, I can’t see the Commission changing its mind.’ He raised an arm and pulled the window shut. Sally moved away, sad because the close moment was over and because the death warrant of the house was sealed and she could do nothing about it. ‘How will you knock it down?’ she asked. ‘Probably with a demolition weight swung from the jib of a crane,’ he replied, giving her a sharp glance. ‘We’ll be needing secretarial staff once we get the trailers and huts which will provide our offices. Why don’t you join us? I’m sure you’re very efficient, and it would be a change from the Municipal Offices. We pay well.’ She was so disconcerted by his suggestion that she had no immediate answer ready. Then the thought of what it would involve provided her with a decisive reply. ‘Och no, I couldn’t. I couldn’t see the place destroyed. I don’t want to have any part in its destruction.’ ‘I see.’ He sounded unconcerned as he turned away. ‘Well, I daresay there are plenty of other typists in Portbride who’ll jump at the chance.’ He was away through the door, leaving her once again alone in a dark room. Again she hurried after him along the passage, following the distant shaft of yellowish light. Down the wide worn steps of the staircase she flitted. Her foot slipped and twisted. She lost her balance and fell.

Hearing her stumble, Ross turned quickly as he reached the bottom of the first flight of steps and blocked her fall effectively, catching her in his arms. The force of her hurtling body knocked him backwards against the stone wall behind him. The torch fell from his hand and rolled away down the lower flight of stairs. Shocked and breathless, Sally was in no hurry to release herself from his arms this time. She closed her eyes and leaned against his chest and listened to the rhythmical beat of his heart. ‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘You left me in the dark ... and I couldn’t see the stairs,’ she accused shakily. ‘Are you afraid of the dark?’ He seemed surprised. ‘Not normally, but ...’ She hesitated, unable to explain her confusion. ‘But tonight is not normal,’ he continued for her in a low voice, ‘because you’re here in Winterston with me, and it’s two o’clock in the morning. Is that why you’re so uncertain, so disturbed?’ Sally jerked away from him, breaking his hold, fearful of his ability to guess at what she was thinking. She covered her apprehension with simulated amazement. ‘Two o’clock? Och, what will Aunt Jessie and my father be thinking? The dance finishes at twelve and I’m always home by twenty past at the latest.’ Whirling round, she started down the second flight of stairs into the dimly lit hall. Halfway down Ross caught up with her and the pressure of his hand on her arm forced her to move more slowly. ‘Do you want to break your neck?’ he asked. ‘This staircase is a deathtrap in poor light. There’s no need for you to worry about Aunt Jessie or your father. I’ll do the explaining if they complain. But I doubt very much if they’ll be awake and worrying about you. Now if you were like Maeve, it would be a different matter.’ ‘If you were like Maeve.’ Now what did he mean by that? Did he mean that if Maeve had been his companion tonight Aunt Jessie and her father would have good reason to be concerned? Downstairs Ross collected his pictures from the dining room, retrieved the torch and switched off all but the hall lights. Everywhere he went Sally followed closely and when he told her to hold the pictures and wait in the hall while he turned off the electricity, she refused. ‘No, let me come with you, please, Ross,’ she pleaded, sinking her pride. He studied her upturned face. Wide eyes glinting green gazed back at him appealingly and he frowned impatiently. ‘What’s wrong now?’ he asked. ‘N ... nothing,’ she replied, then shivered uncontrollably. He would laugh at her if she told him that the dark dismal atmosphere of the house had played upon her imagination so much that

now she disliked the idea of being left alone, even for a few minutes. ‘A ghost walking over your grave?’ he jeered. ‘Winterston is full of them for people like you. Here, you can hold my hand if it will help you to feel better.’ Once more he was regarding her as a child to be humoured and tolerated. Remembering her earlier resolve to show him that she was independent and adult, her pride returned and she tilted her chin. ‘No, I’ll wait outside,’ she retorted. ‘Sally, Sally, quite contrary,’ he taunted. ‘Your name should have been Mary. All right, please yourself.’ Outside the wind had died away and the night was still. The shushing sound of the waves as they tumbled on the unseen beach, the brilliance of the unclouded moon were familiar, everyday, and their familiarity settled her nerves. Ross wasn’t long in coming and they started to walk back the way they had come. He strode ahead, erect, purposeful, apparently absorbed by his thoughts, as silent as he had been on the way out. Trudging behind him, Sally felt none of the delight she had experienced earlier. Tired, disappointed and completely shaken out of her escapist daydreaming rut, she was deaf and blind to the beauty of the night. The harbour lights seemed a long way away and the winding coastal road seemed interminable. By the time the fishing boats came into view Ross was a good ten yards ahead of her and she realised miserably that he must have forgotten her again. ‘If you were like Maeve it would be a different matter.’ The words taunted her. If she was Maeve he would have walked with her. Och, what was the matter with her? She didn’t want his arm around her. When she reached Rosemount he was waiting for her, standing under the solitary street lamp. She would have walked past him and on into the house without another word, but he stepped in front of her barring the way. She looked up questioningly. Under the harsh glare of the street lamp the face under the tossed sun-bleached hair was serious. ‘I expect after tonight’s experience you feel you have more reason to dislike me,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she fenced weakly. He raised his eyebrows. ‘No? Now be honest and admit that you’re hating me because I’ve tried to destroy your cherished illusions about Winterston ... and I’ve come pretty near to succeeding. Or is there some other reason for that miserable expression on your face?’ His words nipped, but Sally was too tired to fight back.

‘I wish you hadn’t come back,’ she said dully. ‘Why? Because I’ve woken you up? You’ve been hiding away, opting out ... weaving daydreams about an old house not worth a moment’s thought. Dreams are no substitute for life, Sally. You’re sweet and twenty, young and pretty.’ ‘I’m not pretty ... not with this.’ The words were torn out of her as she put her hand to her disfigured cheek. He removed her hand from her cheek and stared at her intently. ‘That’s entirely a matter of opinion,’ he murmured. Tired and tormented, Sally could stand no more. She pulled her hand from his grasp and cried, ‘Oh, I wish you hadn’t come back! I wish you’d go away!’ and dodging past him she ran into the house and up to the shelter of her bedroom.

  CHAPTER TWO It was a bright freshly washed Monday morning. Sally looked up at the small white clouds which floated across the pale blue sky and signed wistfully. Monday morning and the sun was shining brightly on the placid sea and complacent hills, all of which had been shrouded by misty rain the whole weekend. Entering the cool grey building of the Town Hall, she walked up the stairs to the office which she shared with two other typists, Betty Oswald and Judy McEachern. The room was quiet and although it was nearly nine o’clock there was no sign of the other two girls. Sally removed the jacket of her jersey wool suit, tucked her blouse into the top of her skirt and crossed over to her desk. She removed the dust cover from her typewriter, opened a drawer and took out paper and carbon paper. The clock tolled the hour. Nine. Sally frowned. She had never known the room to be so quiet at this time on a Monday. Usually all the girls who worked in the Municipal Offices gathered together for talk about their weekend activities, their subjects ranging from new dresses or shoes they had bought to their most recent romantic adventures. Noise, rumbling, grating noise associated with the passage of a heavy vehicle, penetrated the quiet room. It was a clanking, clattering sound with which the inhabitants of Portbride had become very familiar during the past fortnight. Moving to the window, Sally raised the sash and looked down. Below, two yellow bulldozers were passing by, perched incongruously on long flat trailers and looking like strange monsters. At the end of the main street they would turn right on to the harbour road on their way to Winterston, to join all the other equipment that had been collecting there. Sally closed the window abruptly and returned to her desk. Now she remembered why the other girls hadn’t come to work this morning. This morning the interviews were being held for typists required at the site and the Municipal Offices wouldn’t be the only one lacking typists. They would all be waiting for their interviews in the lounge of the MacKinnon Arms. Sally inserted paper in her typewriter, took out the committee meeting minutes she was in the middle of typing and started to type. Her fingers flashed rapidly and there was an expression of determined concentration on her face. Black words spilt across white paper. A bell pinged, the carriage of the typewriter dashed back to the beginning of the page and more words appeared, neatly, accurately. Her speed was good. She had left the secretarial college she had attended with excellent references, and could have gone to work in Glasgow, Edinburgh or London. In fact it had been her ambition to go to one of the cities eventually and possibly work her way up to be secretary to an important executive in an important industry. She knew she had a flair for organisation and administration. But that ambition had been buried out of the reach of thought since the car crash had made her so nervous and diffident. At least it had been buried until Ross had suggested she went to work at the site. She could have gone to work there without an interview if she had wanted. But she had said she didn’t want any part in the destruction and had told Ross to go away.

He had gone away—away from Rosemount after spending only one night. He had left the next day for Glasgow and when he had returned almost two weeks later with the first batch of equipment and the first members of the group of engineers and administrative staff who were to work with him, he had gone to stay at the MacKinnon Arms. Maeve was furious when he didn’t return to stay at Rosemount. She had blamed Sally, accusing her of being rude to Ross when he had taken supper with them. Since he had come back she had not been home at all between supper time and closing time, and she soon informed the family that she had taken a job as part-time barmaid at the hotel at the request of the proprietor, Andy Forbes. Already the gossip was filtering back to Sally that Maeve spent much of her time talking and flirting with Ross in the course of her duties as barmaid, and Sally could only assume that Ross’s presence in the hotel was Maeve’s real reason for taking the job. Her hands moved more quickly and the words appeared faster as her thoughts disturbed her. Although her stepsister had not said anything Sally guessed that Maeve had left her husband Fergus. If she hadn’t left him Fergus would surely have appeared by now, demanding her return to Ireland. Several times Hugh Johnson had suggested in his mild way that his elder daughter should go back and had offered to take her in the Mary Ross, but Maeve always found some reason for staying. Sally stopped typing and stared for a moment at the words on the paper. How could Maeve behave so obviously, so outrageously after only two years of marriage? She and Fergus had been almost ecstatically happy on that day in spring when they had been married in Portbride, and Sally had been happy for them. Fergus had seemed the perfect partner for Maeve, serious, responsible and possessive. What had gone wrong? Why did Maeve now seem so eager to break her marriage vows? Sally often wanted to ask her, but a certain reserve had prevented her from doing so. But with the danger presented by Ross perhaps it was time to break that reserve. He had returned at a very bad moment, just when Maeve was in the mood to commit any folly. Sally gnawed at her lower lip and began to type again. Whenever her thoughts touched on Ross she experienced a new heart-thumping turmoil of emotion which she could not explain. She did not want to think about him. In fact she tried hard to pretend he didn’t exist, a pretence she had practised successfully for ten years. Most of the time it wasn’t difficult because she had not seen him once since their walk to Winterston and back. But the sight of a piece of heavy equipment trundling through the wide main street or the glimpse of a donkey-jacketed workman entering a shop would remind her of the fuel tanks and Ross’s reason for being here, and immediately she would begin to think of that strange moonlit night in the old house and of the times when their minds had been sib. ‘Sib’ was an old Scottish word which meant related or akin to. But it also had a deeper sense beyond the dictionary meaning, implying that minds or souls could be close to each other in understanding. But why should she feel sib to the Ross Lorimer who had returned to Portbride when there was so much about him she didn’t like? Sally shook her head in perplexity and wished that something would happen to stop her from thinking about Ross and his involvement with Maeve which would have such unhappy and disastrous consequences. Nothing happened, however, and the day passed in humdrum routine until the return of

Betty and Judy from their interviews. Both had been offered positions at the site, but Betty was not sure whether she wanted to accept. Judy was full of enthusiasm and had accepted immediately. Tall and slender with long fair hair and innocent-looking baby blue eyes, she was a self-confessed opportunist. ‘Och, I’ll be glad to get out of this old-fashioned hole and to work among people who have been somewhere and have done something. We were interviewed by the personnel officer. He was interviewing all sorts of people ... not just typists, but cleaners and labourers. I’m thinking this is one of the best things that ever happened to Portbride. With the salary I’m going to receive I’ll be able to save up for a holiday abroad next year. And who knows, I might meet ...’ ‘Your match,’ put in Betty dryly. ‘We all know that’s what you’re hoping, and I daresay there’ll be some poor unsuspecting engineer among them waiting to be hooked. I think I’d rather stay here with Sally. I’m not keen on working among all the mud and mess they’ll make out there.’ The two of them argued about their interviews for the rest of the afternoon, and Sally listened, half wishing she had gone to try her luck, yet knowing she could not have faced up to the searching scrutiny of the interviewer. In the Town Hall she was safe. In Portbride she was safe ... or thought she had been until three weeks ago. Safe from curious eyes, safe from pain ... safe from joy too? The unexpected thought occurred to her as she left the office at five o’clock and walked down the corridor. A door opened and a man stepped out of the Town Clerk’s office. He was of medium height. He had smooth shining dark hair and was dressed in a well cut suit of charcoal grey. She recognised him at once—Craig Dawson. Her immediate reaction was to retreat stealthily and wait in her room until he had gone. But he glanced sideways and saw her. ‘Hello, Sally,’ he said courteously. ‘How are you?’ His dark narrow eyes flickered away from her face and he looked at something just behind her. ‘Hello, Craig. I’m well, thank you. And you?’ Stilted conversational phrases designed to cover embarrassment. ‘I’ve just been out ...’ ‘Did you know that ...’ They both spoke together, hurriedly trying to prevent a silence, then they stopped simultaneously and the silence happened. Craig smiled faintly, a slight curving of narrow chiselled lips. ‘Walk down to the harbour with me while we talk. I left my car parked down there. I’ve been at Winterston all afternoon and I thought about you. You must be feeling very disappointed that the tanks are going to be built there after all.’ Sally fell into step beside him, feeling rather surprised by his request for company.

‘Yes, I am,’ she agreed. ‘Although now I’ve seen the house I realise a great deal of restoration is needed if it’s to be preserved.’ Craig glanced sharply at her. ‘You’ve seen it? How did you manage that?’ ‘Ross Lorimer took me to see it.’ ‘What on earth made you go with him?’ Craig sounded irritated. ‘He invited me. He was staying with us. He used to go fishing with my father, you know.’ ‘Yes, I know. In fact I know a lot about Lorimer.’ Craig’s voice was harsh and Sally looked at him in surprise. His mouth was shut grimly and his dark eyebrows were pulled together in a frown. A long thin nose, dark hair growing to a peak on his forehead. A weasel—the description flashed into Sally’s mind and she saw Craig with Ross’s eyes. As she went down the stairs she was conscious that one of the new shoes she was wearing had rubbed her heel during the day and that a blister had formed. It had probably happened when she had been walking home for her lunch and back again to work. Now it made her limp as she crossed the entrance hall and pushed through the heavy door of the Town Hall and out into the sunshine. As they walked towards the harbour between the high gabled buildings the limp slowed Sally’s usual swift swinging gait to a halting hobble. If Craig noticed he made no comment, being more intent in talking about Winterston. ‘You know, I suppose, that the house is scheduled to be destroyed?’ he said. ‘Yes, Ross told me. But he said that the Fine Arts Commission could still step in and save it.’ ‘That’s what I’m hoping will happen. I haven’t given up the fight to save it yet ... and now that I know Lorimer is on the job I’m even more enthusiastic about the struggle to preserve it.’ ‘Why, do you have any influence with the Commission?’ ‘Yes, I’m glad to say. Also I have the job of making sure that the contractors fulfil their obligations and don’t disfigure the area. Lorimer and I have already had a few disagreements about what constitutes disfigurement. However, I think I made my position clear and that he’ll watch his step in future.’ Sally glanced at him again. He was smiling, that slight secretive smile as if he was very pleased about the outcome of his argument with Ross. ‘What will happen if he doesn’t?’ she asked. ‘My department will lodge a complaint about him to his company. Enough complaints and he’ll be removed. Already he’s been unnecessarily destructive and has blasted away some rock on the roadway to make way, he said, for some of the equipment. You’ll know where I mean.’

Sally knew. It would be the rugged bastion of purple granite which jutted out into the roadway near the gate to the estate. ‘You should see it now,’ Craig continued. ‘A lovely silver birch uprooted and cast aside. Rock blasted and splintered. Wild flowers wilted and dying. The gates torn off and the stone gateposts knocked down. Great wheel tracks gouged in the grass by the side of the driveway. In fact everything that we’d hoped to avoid.’ They had reached the end of the street and the harbour was before them, cluttered with fishing boats unloading their catch, noisy with circling gulls. Shocked by Craig’s description, Sally burst out, ‘Oh, how could he do it!’ And she surprised herself by being more concerned that it was Ross who was responsible for such destruction than she was about the splintered rock and the uprooted tree. ‘Ha!’ Craig’s laugh was short and mirthless. ‘Don’t you know that Lorimer is capable of violence to achieve his ends?’ ‘Why do you dislike him so much?’ asked Sally shrewdly, and Craig shot a wary glance in her direction. ‘I’ve never liked his methods. There was a time when he used physical violence against me ... quite unjustly.’ They had crossed the road to the parking place beside the harbour wall in front of the MacKinnon Arms and were standing beside Craig’s green sports car. Craig looked at Sally properly for the first time since they had met. He looked at her consideringly, almost assessingly, then looked away. ‘Perhaps I ought to warn you about him,’ he said. “You probably don’t remember what he was like when he used to live here. He had quite a reputation ... your sister ...’ ‘I remember. I know all about Maeve and Ross,’ interrupted Sally, suddenly irritated by his remark. ‘And I don’t think you need be anxious on my behalf. I’m not entirely naive. And you seem to have forgotten about this.’ She touched the scar on her cheek. He glanced briefly at it, winced visibly and turned his attention to the fishing boats. ‘I still think you should be on your guard. I’ll be passing through Portbride frequently during the next few months on my way to the site. Perhaps we could meet after work sometimes?’ A swiftly driven Land-Rover roared past them and parked a few yards away. It was yellow and had black lettering on its doors and was easily recognisable as one of the vehicles belonging to the site. Sally stared at Craig and felt she was seeing him as he really was for the first time. ‘No, thank you,’ she replied clearly.

He looked surprised. ‘We could go for a drive ... have dinner together.’ ‘No!’ The word came out sharply. ‘I’m sorry, I forgot you don’t care to drive any more.’ ‘You needn’t be sorry, Craig. Nor need you make the effort to invite me to go out with you. I know you don’t really want to take me out or be seen with me.’ Craig opened the door of his car and got into the driver’s seat. ‘Well, if that’s how you feel ...’ he began embarrassedly. ‘That’s how I feel,’ repeated Sally. ‘Goodbye.’ He looked up at her, puzzlement and a glimmer of something else which might have been dawning interest in his narrow eyes, then shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘Not goodbye, Sally,’ he said. ‘I expect I shall see you again.’ He drove off and Sally watched him go with a feeling of relief. She had met Craig and there had been no spark between them at all. He meant nothing to her, and she meant nothing, she was quite sure, to him. She turned and leaned on the wall. She was late for supper and Aunt Jessie would be fussing, but she felt she must be alone for a few minutes to enjoy the feeling of relief. The summer evening was sunny and clear. Against the blue of the sky the green of the hills was vivid. In the harbour the white hull of an elegant visiting yacht was stark against the dark harbour wall and the still water reflected the shapely lines of bow and stern which contrasted sharply with the massive bulks of the varnished fishing boats. The creaking sound of the small derricks lifting the catches from the holds of the boats were background noise to the shouts of the fishermen and the cry of the wheeling gulls. The Town Hall clock struck quarter past six and Sally moved, wincing as her shoe rubbed on the forgotten blister. As she limped past the parked Land-Rover she recognised one of the men standing beside it, in spite of the fact that he was wearing a yellow construction hat pushed back on his head. In shirt-sleeves, his jacket slung over one shoulder, Ross leaned indolently against the vehicle talking to a young man who was also wearing a yellow helmet. Sally hobbled past, hoping she wouldn’t be seen. But her lurching movement drew their attention and Ross’s voice, clear and decisive, called out, ‘Hello there, Sally! I haven’t seen you for some time. Have you been avoiding me? Or have you just been hiding?’ He was infuriating! Why did he have to say that in front of a third party? She had to stop because he was advancing towards her, accompanied by the other man who removed his helmet politely to reveal close-cropped curly brown hair and who looked at her curiously with pansy brown eyes set between the longest lashes she had ever seen. She wanted to raise her hand to her cheek to hide the scar from his gaze, but Ross’s presence prevented her

from doing so. ‘Sally, I’d like you to meet Mike Searle. He’s in charge of equipment and is deputy site manager. This is Sally Johnson, Mike, a young enemy of mine.’ Sally flashed an annoyed glance in his direction and encountered amused blue eyes which were very blue today, their colour accentuated by the blue shirt he was wearing. After Craig, Ross seemed very big, rather untidy and very tough. She nodded shyly at Mike, who held out his hand and said, ‘Pleased to meet you, Sally. You must have been hiding, because I haven’t seen you around.’ His voice was soft and his smile was gentle, and responding to the warmth of his greeting she smiled back. ‘I have to hurry now,’ he continued regretfully, ‘because I have to go back to the site as soon as I’ve eaten. Maybe I’ll see you again?’ ‘You will,’ said Ross assertively. ‘She works in the Town Hall, and lives in that white house you can see over there.’ He pointed at Rosemount, whose grey roof and upper dormer windows were just visible above the bushes which screened the rock of the ridge. ‘Her father owns the fishing boat Mary Rose and she attends the Saturday night dances held in the Town Hall. Is there anything else you’d like to know?’ Mike grinned amiably at him. ‘Not now ... I’ll find out the rest from Sally herself some time when she’s free. Cheerio for now, Sally.’ He hurried off in the direction of the hotel. Ignoring Ross, Sally began to walk away, still limping. To her annoyance he strolled beside her, his jacket still slung over his shoulder. ‘Why are you limping?’ he asked. ‘I have a blister on my heel,’ she replied coolly. ‘What’s caused it?’ ‘New shoes.’ Sally wanted to laugh. The mundane questions and answers seemed totally unrelated to the tension which had built up between them since he had called out to her. ‘Was that your friend Dawson I saw talking to you?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘It’s a pity he couldn’t have given you a lift home.’ There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice as if he didn’t think very highly of Craig, and contrarily Sally sprang to Craig’s defence.

‘I didn’t expect him to give me a lift. He knows I don’t ride in cars any more.’ Steel-like fingers gripped her arm and she was spun round as if she was a puppet to face him. “You mean to tell me you haven’t been in a car since that crash?’ he barked. She nodded and tried to free her arm. ‘I suppose no one has possessed sufficient brutality to make you go,’ he jeered. ‘It was the first thing you should have done after you’d recovered from your injuries. If a horse had thrown you, you’d have been made to mount it again so as not to lose your nerve. Same thing applies to car crashes ... at least it does in my opinion. No wonder you’re a bundle of nerves, you spoiled little brat!’ That final remark brought her head up. His unswerving blue gaze almost demoralised her, but she faced it defiantly and said, ‘I’m not spoiled. Please let me go.’ ‘Yes, you are ... spoiled and stubborn. Hugh should have made you go, but instead he and Aunt Jessie have cosseted you, given in to you. And Maeve hasn’t helped much either.’ ‘You have no right to say that! They’ve all been very good to me,’ began Sally hotly, trying vainly to twist out of his grasp. ‘Don’t struggle like that. You’ll draw attention to us, and you know what that will mean in this gossip-ridden town,’ he replied equably. Sally stopped twisting at once and stood perfectly still, fuming inwardly. ‘That’s better,’ commented Ross. ‘Now listen and do as I tell you. Go and have your supper and I’ll call for you in half an hour and take you for a drive to remedy the omission. It will be a form of shock treatment, but you’ll be surprised how effective it will be. Once the hurdle is cleared you’ll feel differently and be more like the person you should be.’ Sally was too angry to notice the earnestness of his tone. ‘You’ll be wasting your time,’ she hissed. ‘I won’t go with you!’ He released her arm and she started to rub it in an exaggerated manner. Ross smiled, the smile which glinted in his eyes first softening their expression and crinkling them at the corners. ‘We’ll see about that,’ he murmured, and turning on his heel walked away towards the hotel. Sally arrived home breathless and disturbed. Maeve and Aunt Jessie were already eating. Hugh was not there because he was still at sea. ‘Och, where have ye been? Ye’re verra white as if ye’d had a shock,’ fussed Aunt Jessie. ‘Sit ye down and have a cup of tea while I dish up y’r meal.’ With an anxious glance at the pale face of her favourite chick she bustled out to the kitchen, having forgotten in her anxiety to chide Sally for being late.

Maeve watched Sally with narrowed, speculative eyes. Then with an impulsive movement she stood up and went round the table to Aunt Jessie’s chair, sat down and began to pour tea into a cup. ‘What’s the matter, Sal? Has someone hurt you?’ she questioned shrewdly. ‘Nothing’s the matter. I feel tired, that’s all. It’s been warm today and my new shoes raised a blister on my heel,’ replied Sally, trying hard to control the shaking of her hand as she put sugar in her tea. ‘I thought I saw you talking to Craig Dawson in Main Street. I’ve been to Ayr today and I saw you from the bus. He seemed to be talking hard. Have you and he decided to take up from where you left off?’ probed Maeve. ‘I ... he ... he was visiting Mr. Miller, and I met him on the way out, so we walked down to the harbour together, that’s all,’ fenced Sally. At that moment Aunt Jessie returned with Sally’s supper. Maeve gave up her questioning, much to Sally’s relief, and the conversation became more general. After the meal Sally helped her aunt to clear the table and to wash the dishes while Maeve drifted off to the front room of the house to loll on the sofa in front of the television. Sally was still in the kitchen when she heard a knock on the front door, followed by the sound of it opening and Maeve’s exclamation of surprise and pleasure as she greeted Ross. Panic made Sally drop a plate which promptly broke in half. ‘I canna make out what’s wrong with ye. Leave be and go to y’r bed before ye break another. A good night’s rest is what ye are needin’.’ When Aunt Jessie spoke sharply it was better not to argue, so Sally gave in graciously and took the chance to go and hide in her bedroom. Once she was in her room with the door shut Ross would have no way of making her go driving with him. She walked noiselessly through the hall in her stockinged feet. The door to the front room was wide open and in the corner of the room she could see the speechless contortions of a pop group on the television screen, the sound of which had been turned down. Ross’s voice, crisp and vigorous, was quite audible, although she couldn’t see either him or Maeve. ‘No, I haven’t come to see you. As a matter of fact I’ve come to take Sally for a drive.’ ‘But she never goes in a car,’ objected Maeve. ‘She hasn’t been in one since the accident, and none of us has been able to persuade her. She’s a dear, and very sweet, but she has a very stubborn streak, you know.’ ‘I had noticed,’ said Ross dryly. ‘But she should have been made to go as soon as possible after the accident for her own good. She’s far too timid and nervous, besides being antisocial and not a little sour. I’m surprised that none of you have tried to prevent her from getting like that.’ The crisp, critical words stopped Sally in her tracks as she was creeping past the open door,

hoping to escape unseen and unheard. Mouth agape with astonishment and indignation, she waited for Maeve’s answer. Anti-social and sour. Ross’s assessment aroused pain as well as anger. ‘So you’ve noticed.’ Maeve’s voice was like a lilting lament. ‘I’ve tried, Ross, in the short time I’ve been here. But she won’t leave Portbride ... and as you know there isn’t much in the way of social life here, only the Saturday night dances with the same crowd of farmers and fishermen. She goes with Aunt Jessie to the Rural Institute meetings and to the Church Guild, but most of the members there are middle-aged or young marrieds and she can’t have much in common with them.’ There was a brief silence and Sally, very disturbed by the overheard conversation, was about to move away and go upstairs when Maeve spoke again. The subtle change in her voice made Sally pause again. ‘It’s good of you to take an interest in her, Ross, but Sally wouldn’t thank you for your pity. She’s probably hiding already, knowing you’re here. She was quite upset when she came in, probably because she was afraid of going with you. Why waste such a lovely evening being altruistic towards someone who won’t appreciate your kindness?’ The voice deepened, became caressing, almost seductive. “Why not take me for a drive instead? I promise you, we’d have fun.’ Maeve cutting in again, as she had done so often recently. Sally held her breath as she waited for Ross’s reply. Would he capitulate and give in to that insidious languishing charm and forget his good intentions? The floorboard on which she was standing creaked suddenly and loudly. Heart racing, Sally stood perfectly still hoping that they hadn’t heard the noise. For a few seconds all was quiet, then Ross spoke smoothly, ‘Maybe you’re right. I must say Sally didn’t seem very keen on the idea when I suggested it to her, and to spend the evening with a stubborn little prig is scarcely my idea of relaxation after a hard day’s work. Any suggestion about where we should go to have fun?’ Sally didn’t hear Maeve’s answer because there was a sort of roaring in her ears. For all he had said to the contrary Ross was no different from anyone else when it came to making a choice between herself and Maeve. Well, he wasn’t going to find it so easy to get out of his commitment! She was tired of Maeve cutting in and going off with her date. She didn’t waste any more time questioning her motives. Acting on impulse, she walked into the room. ‘Hello, Ross,’ she said brightly. ‘I thought I heard you come. Are you waiting for me? I shan’t be long. I just have to put on my shoes.’ Ross was lounging in characteristic pose, his long legs stretched before him, his head resting on the well-stuffed chintz-covered back of the sofa, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets. Maeve was crouched beside him and was leaning forward, her rich abundant hair almost touching his face. She looked as if she had been about to kiss Ross ... or as if she had just kissed him, thought Sally, as she noticed her stepsister’s unusually heightened colour and her sudden swift withdrawal.

Ross was looking at Sally’s feet. An enigmatical smile curved his mouth. ‘We were wrong, Maeve,’ he murmured. ‘She wants to go after all. I’m ready when you are, Sally.’ He looked up then and Sally felt uneasy when she saw the blatant laughter glinting in his eyes. Was he playing a joke on her? ‘Are you sure you want to go?’ Lovely but petulant, Maeve was examining her fingernails. ‘You don’t have to go, if you still feel afraid ...’ The impulse to turn and run from the room was strong, almost as strong as the one which had pushed her into it. Only the triumphant amusement glimmering in Ross’s eyes kept her stationary. ‘I’m going.’ ‘Then I’ll come with you,’ announced Maeve unexpectedly, ‘in case you feel ill or nervous.’ She looked at Ross, clearly expecting his agreement to her suggestion. ‘Your sisterly concern does you credit, Maeve,’ he said blandly, ‘but it’s for Sally to decide. It would really be better for her if she didn’t have your support for once.’ Was that sarcasm edging the crisp autocratic words? Sally couldn’t be sure, and it was impossible to read the expression on his face now that the amusement had faded from it. ‘No, thanks, Maeve.’ How hard it was to refuse! She had never refused Maeve anything, having always been afraid of hurting her feelings. ‘I must do this by myself. It’s time you stopped holding my hand.’ Maeve looked nonplussed and had no reply ready. Ross stood up. ‘Put your shoes on, Sally ... quickly before you change your mind. I’ll be waiting outside for you,’ he said. Sally ran upstairs, stepped into a pair of old brogues and ran downstairs again without any further preparation, knowing that if she hesitated she might change her mind. Outside the house she found Maeve and Ross standing beside a yellow Land-Rover. She looked round for another vehicle, but there was none. ‘Are we going in this?’ she asked. ‘In this,’ assented Ross, and opened the near door. Sally scrambled up on to the bench seat and he slammed the door shut. She was aware that Maeve was fussing rather like Aunt Jessie as Ross climbed in front the other side of the vehicle. ‘Don’t drive too fast, Ross. Remember she had an awful shock. Come straight back if she’s ill ... I’ll be waiting for you. Don’t go too far ...’ Ross shut off the stream of words by banging the door closed. Sally sat tensely reliving the

last time she had sat behind a windscreen. A blank wall of grey mist approaching, the tinkle of glass, the crunch of metal against stone. Her hands went to her cheeks as she fought for control and she looked appealingly at Ross. Pitiless blue eyes and a firm straight mouth. No mercy there. ‘All set?’ he asked, and she was surprised at how concerned he sounded. Her voice had gone completely and she could only nod. He started the engine, released the brake and the vehicle bumped down the rough road, paused at the junction with the main road and then turned left into the town. Sally held on to the edge of the seat and forced herself to look out of the window at the shops and the evening strollers, but when the Land-Rover stopped sharply to avoid hitting a dog which had darted out in front of it she cringed as the brakes squealed. Once through the town they followed the road which wound inland towards the distant Galloway hills. In the clear light of the June evening they presented a smiling serene facade, very different from the usually cloudy, menacing aspect hinting of mystery and danger—Larg, Lamachan, Benyellary and Merrick. The Rhinns of Kells, Corserine, Carlin’s Cann and Meaul. The well-known names lilted through Sally’s mind like an oft-heard melody as she watched the shifting panorama of tawny moorland and saffron-tinted mountains. ‘Have you ever been to Glen Trool?’ asked Ross idly. ‘Yes ... a long time ago.’ ‘I haven’t. I thought we might go there this evening. I’ve been going through Aunt Elena’s desk in my spare time and I’ve discovered she had been writing a history of the Wallace family. Apparently there was a Wallace at the battle of Glen Trool, supporting Robert the Bruce in his fight to gain the throne of Scotland.’ ‘But it’s a long way from here,’ objected Sally. She had thought that they would go only a short distance and that her ordeal would be over quickly. ‘We have all evening, haven’t we?’ he replied coolly. ‘Unless you have another engagement?’ ‘No, I haven’t ... but I thought you wanted to take Maeve out, to have fun.’ Now he would know she had heard his contemptuous reference to herself as a ‘stubborn little prig’ and perhaps he would have the grace to apologise. The laugh which greeted her words was far from apologetic. ‘As I thought, you were listening. You were on your way to your hiding place hoping I would forget you. That’s why I said what I did. I thought it might goad you into coming with me.’ So that was the reason for the expression of triumphant amusement on his face when she had entered the front room! Indignation bubbled up once again and words came rushing up to be hurled in verbal assault. But as she turned to speak she caught an amused sidelong glance from his very blue eyes and to her surprise she laughed. ‘That’s better,’ he observed. ‘It’s the first time I’ve seen you laugh. You should do it more

often. It makes you sparkle.’ It was a casually uttered compliment, but it betrayed his acute powers of observation, a brief personal comment delivered with a directness which she found disconcerting. She looked out of the side window at the drystone dyke bordering the road. Beyond the grey stones which had been arranged with skill hundreds of years ago to form neat dividing walls, a green meadow sloped down to a willow-fringed burn beside which a group of black and white cattle stood placidly meditating. They were Galloway Belties, distinguished by the white band round their middles separating the areas of black. ‘Do you always get your own way?’ she asked the window. ‘Craig told me this afternoon that you’re capable of using violence to achieve your ends. If I hadn’t reacted to your goading what would you have done ... used force?’ ‘Why use force when there are more subtle methods available?’ he replied lightly. ‘Craig’s opinion of me shouldn’t be taken too seriously. It tends to be coloured by his memory of a time when we were both much younger.’ He did not elaborate, and Sally, her interest excited, had to ask, ‘Why? What happened?’ Ross’s chuckle was wholly mischievous. ‘It was all very youthful and normal, and I’m really surprised that he still holds it against me. He took Maeve to a dance. I was there, and she spent most of the time with me ... rather a blow to his ego, I suspect.’ ‘Oh, I’d no idea he’d ever been interested in Maeve.’ ‘All the boys of the town were interested in Maeve. Craig was one up on them that night because she had agreed to go with him. She rarely accepted an invitation, preferring to go on her own so that she could dance with anyone who asked her.’ ‘But where did the violence come in?’ asked Sally. ‘I took Maeve home, and he followed us. One thing I cannot bear is being spied upon, so I was pretty wild when he appeared out of the bushes in front of your house after Maeve had gone in and began to tell me what he thought of me.’ Ross chuckled again, reminiscently. ‘We had quite a tussle. I suppose I had an unfair advantage over him because I was bigger and heavier and older. Anyway, he ran off down the road. He didn’t speak to me again until today.’ Sally was so interested in the story that she did not notice the road curve and dip and pass under a bridge, and it was not until they entered the town of Newton Stewart and swung left to follow the road beside the River Cree that she realised she had passed the bridge where her mother had died without noticing it. ‘I didn’t see the bridge,’ she whispered. ‘I thought you didn’t,’ he replied briskly, apparently having no intention of lingering on the subject. ‘Did you drive before the smash?’

‘I ... I was having lessons, but ...’ ‘Then you should continue with them. Now you’ve taken the first step your nerve will come back and once you can handle a car on your own you’ll be completely confident again.’ A calm authoritative voice telling her what to do and assuring her of the return of the confidence which had oozed away from her during those weeks in hospital. Only her father had suggested that she should take up driving lessons again, but he had made the suggestion in a hesitant, halfhearted way as if he hadn’t been sure it was the right thing to do. And he had been too absorbed in his own grief to insist when she hadn’t bothered. No one else had made the suggestion. Then why was Ross doing this for her? The answer—because he was sorry for her—gave her no pleasure and she was not inclined to believe it. He didn’t behave as if he was sorry for her. He didn’t handle her gently as if afraid of hurting her. In fact he seemed to go out of his way to hurt her. A white signpost pointed to the right and they turned into a narrow country road which rose gradually sometimes between rows of silver birches, sometimes besides the tumbling rockstrewn waters of the burn. Higher they climbed past dark green plantations of pointed conifers until the road ended suddenly on open moorland where sheep cropped at the short grass among grey boulders, and the mountain wind sighed among the fast-growing bracken. Ross stopped the Land-Rover in the parking space provided, opened the door on his side and leapt to the ground. Banging the door shut behind him, he walked off in the direction of a heap of stone which were surmounted by a huge solitary boulder on which an inscription had been written. For a moment Sally sat and watched him. It was the same here as it had been in Winterston House, as it had been years ago. He led and he expected her to follow. And of course she invariably did follow. She couldn’t help herself. By the time she reached the memorial stone Ross had finished reading the inscription and had wandered to the edge of the cliff to look down at the long curve of Loch Trool. Sally knew the inscription would tell her that in 1306 a small army of Scots under the leadership of Robert the Bruce had defeated a larger number of English by rolling boulders down the cliff on to their climbing enemies. She shuddered at the thought of the unpleasant violence which had taken place and looked around. Mountain and moor were bathed in crimson light. Far below the water of the loch gleamed like smooth steel between the dark walls of the surrounding land. A whaup cried sadly as it winged its way over the land and a hidden lamb bleated forlornly. Twilight. The wind rustled. Sally stood transfixed, her vivid imagination flighting back to that day when the Scots had lain hidden as only they knew how to hide among the rocks and the bracken, and had waited for the right moment to topple the boulders upon the unsuspecting English. ‘It must have been horrible!’ she cried out suddenly, and Ross turned to look at her. He was a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette against the sky and the distant water. ‘But effective,’ he said. ‘And it gave Bruce the moral victory he required. It gave his followers the confidence they needed.’ He walked towards her and peered down at her. ‘Ghosts again?’

he queried softly, and she nodded. ‘That imagination of yours gives you trouble, doesn’t it? Let’s forget about the battle. I didn’t really come here out of patriotic pride. I just wanted to see what it was like in the midst of the mountains. Look.’ Sally turned to look. Hill and moorland were wine red, reflecting the rays of the setting sun. Clouds had gathered like banks of rose-coloured feathers to streak the pale blue sky. The whaup cried again and the wind sighed. ‘It’s moments like this, in places like this, which haunt the memory when you are far away,’ murmured Ross. ‘ “My heart remembers how—’ ” quoted Sally softly, understanding instinctively. ‘Tell me some more,’ commanded Ross, his voice quickening with interest. ‘It’s from a poem by Stevenson, isn’t it?’ ‘I can only remember the first verse. He wrote the poem when he was far away from Scotland,’ replied Sally. ‘One verse will do,’ he urged, moving closer. Gravely aware that the closeness was more than physical, that once again their minds were in tune, Sally quoted the first lines of the nostalgic poem. ‘Blows the wind today, and the sun and the rain are flying Blows the wind on the moors today and now, Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying My heart remembers how’ The soft husky voice stopped and as if to echo the poignancy of the words the whaup cried again. ‘ “My heart remembers how,” ’ repeated Ross. ‘That describes the feeling exactly. For no reason at all you find yourself thinking of moors, of the rain and wind in your face ... and you want to come back even though there’s no one here to come back to.’ No one here to come back to. Had he hoped to find Maeve ready and waiting? Had he been disappointed to find she had married? The thought had never occurred to Sally before, but now she realised that disappointment could have been the cause of his cynical remarks concerning Maeve. Hope sprang up in Sally. He wasn’t as impervious to sentiment as he made out to be. He had just admitted as much. In distant places he had felt the pull of his homeland and had returned. His heart had remembered the beauty and the mystery. Perhaps she could use that sentiment to prevent him from destroying Winterston and at the same time prevent him from destroying Maeve’s marriage.

‘But if you feel like that why do you want to destroy, now that you’ve come back?’ she challenged. He moved away from her and the bond was broken. ‘Taking advantage, Sally?’ he queried coldly, scoffingly. ‘I can’t afford to be too sentimental. I have to earn my bread and butter. I had two alternatives offered—Scotland or Africa. I’d had enough of heat and sweat. A job at Winterston gives me a chance to satisfy my nostalgic yearnings ... and to work as well. The destruction, as you call it, will not take long ... and something else will be built in its place.’ ‘Fuel tanks,’ said Sally scornfully. ‘A greater asset to the economy of the area than an old rotten house,’ he retorted. ‘Don’t you agree?’ ‘No. You could have lived in the house.’ ‘And what would I do for money?’ he jibed. ‘You could have farmed the land, and contributed to the economy that way.’ He did not reply, and Sally experienced the pleasure of knowing she had defeated him for once. The pleasure did not last long as she realised that the barrier had been raised between them again, and that the warmth had gone. The warm colour had gone from the sky too and the clouds were darkening with the approach of night. ‘Where’s Maeve’s husband?’ asked Ross abruptly. ‘In Ireland. Well, I think he is.’ ‘Why doesn’t she live with him?’ ‘She ... she came here for a holiday. She hadn’t been well.’ ‘She’s well enough now. Why doesn’t she go back to him?’ The abrupt cold questions revealed his disapproval of Maeve’s behaviour and made Sally stammer, ‘I ... I ... don’t know. I think ... I think ...’ she paused, not sure whether she should tell him what she thought. ‘Go on,’ he ordered. ‘You think what?’ ‘Maeve hasn’t said anything, but I think they must have quarrelled and she’s left him. I know he hasn’t written to her since she’s been here ... and I can’t understand why he hasn’t been over to see her or us. I know my father is very worried about Maeve and so is Aunt Jessie.’ ‘You worry ... but you never come out into the open about anything. What a family! Don’t you ever tell each other how you feel? Aren’t you ever honest with each other?’ he scoffed. Then with a change of tone, with a touch of mockery, ‘It might create quite an interesting situation if Fergus turned up now, don’t you think?’ Sally went cold.

‘Ross you mustn’t, you couldn’t ...’ she stammered, fumbling desperately for the right words. ‘Please leave Maeve alone. Don’t cause any more trouble between her and Fergus.’ ‘Now whatever makes you think that I would?’ She was too anxious on Maeve’s behalf to notice the sharp edge to the question and she rushed on, ‘You seem to have so little respect for old-established things like Winterston that I suppose it’s too much to expect you to have any respect for marriage either.’ She intended her words to sting, and he was so silent that she began to think that they had found their mark. The bracken rustled in the wind. It was almost dark except for one pale streak of light in the north and the faint steel-like glitter of the loch. ‘I respect anything which is stable and sound and worth preserving,’ said Ross quietly. ‘I think marriage is a very fine institution provided the partners are compatible and love one another enough to give as well as take. Unfortunately it’s been my experience to discover that marriage doesn’t necessarily make a woman unattainable if she doesn’t want to be.’ The quiet reasonableness seemed to emphasise the cynicism underlying his last words, and it was Sally’s turn to be silent and she wondered miserably whether his ‘unfortunate experience’ had been with her stepsister and that he was implying that if anyone destroyed her marriage it would be Maeve herself and not him. She felt suddenly very tired. Emotionally it had been an exhausting evening. For a short while there had been a feeling of peace, a brief moment when their minds had been sib. A moment her heart would remember. Her breath caught in her throat as the thought crept in uninvited. ‘I’d like to go home, please,’ she said shakily, wishing that she had not ventured forth, that she had stayed hidden. ‘Of course,’ he murmured politely. ‘You must be feeling tired. But don’t think for one moment that the shock treatment is over.’ Shock treatment. Yes, she supposed it could be called that. By a series of conversations and events she was being forced out of her comfortable lethargy which had protected her for six months from unpleasant realities. The Land-Rover bumped down the narrow hill road beside the rushing water of Trool. The yellowish light from the headlamps revealed a scampering rabbit and a slow-moving hedgehog. Sally glanced across at Ross. He was sitting far away from her, remote and silent, a lighted cigarette between his lips, his eyes watching the road and his thoughts far away. There was no traffic on the road from Newton Stewart to Portbride. Here and there pale wreaths of mist swirled in the hollows of the land. Sally eyed the mist apprehensively and moved surreptitiously closer to Ross.

The road curved to the left and then to the right. A patch of mist, white and opaque, blanketed their view. Sally gripped the edge of the seat. Ross changed gear, the engine slowed and they passed through the mist under the bridge and began the steep climb on the other side. Sally sat back limply. Her mouth felt parched, and she searched for a handkerchief to wipe the cold perspiration from her face. Ross said nothing. He seemed to have forgotten all about her. Perhaps he was thinking of Maeve again and wishing that he had taken her out this evening to have fun. Supposing Fergus did come to Portbride to take his wife back to Ireland? What would he do when he found that Maeve was having an affair with Ross? Sally pictured her dark-eyed, piratical-looking brother-in-law, imagined his reactions and spoke her thoughts aloud. ‘Fergus is very strong ... and he has a wild temper,’ she said. Ross’s cigarette lighter flared as he lit another cigarette and before the flame went out she had a brief glimpse of his bold blunt features and the pronounced crease in his cheek which meant he was amused. ‘Is that a warning?’ he queried lightly. ‘Then I must keep out of his way if he comes to Portbride. It was a nasty patch of mist back by the bridge. Was it like that when your mother was killed?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Now that you’ve re-lived the experience and survived, how do you feel? Still nervous?’ ‘Not as much. It wasn’t as bad as I imagined it might be.’ ‘Nothing ever is,’ he commented dryly. ‘Take this business of Maeve and myself. Women are always fascinated by other people’s marital problems. For one thing they make such a good subject for gossip. I’m willing to bet that all the old wives of the town are having a great time putting two and two together and erroneously making five ... just because ever since I’ve been staying at the MacKinnon Arms, Maeve has been serving behind the bar there, and quite naturally we’ve been seen talking and even having a drink together.’ ‘Yes, they have,’ admitted Sally reluctantly, feeling embarrassed by his cool, slightly mocking observation. ‘And obviously you’ve believed the gossip and with your over-active imagination and the knowledge you have of my previous relationship with Maeve you’ve created an extramarital romance for her in which I play the spectacular but invidious role of the “other man”. Shame on you, Sally!’ This time there was a sharp edge underlying the mockery and Sally flushed guiltily as he continued with his explanation. ‘When I realised how Maeve was going to behave I decided that to stay in your father’s house while she’s there would create an impossible and difficult situation, and would give rise to more gossip. What I didn’t foresee, however, was that Maeve would pursue me.’

An agony of embarrassment on Maeve’s behalf made Sally squirm. It was closely followed by an upflare of indignation. ‘Well, you don’t have to encourage her. You said yourself when she asked you that you wouldn’t let the fact that she was married make any difference.’ Ross sighed exasperatedly. ‘I thought she meant she hoped I wouldn’t let it make any difference to my friendship with her. I’ve made no attempt to encourage her. But the more I avoid her the more she pursues. I like Maeve and I’d like to help her. I expected to find her married and well settled with a couple of bairns to keep her out of mischief. As it is, she throws herself at me almost literally when I go into the lounge for a drink.’ Sally stared out at the darkness. With the calm reasonableness which she was beginning to associate with him he was destroying once again all her preconceptions about his own behaviour, and knowing Maeve as she did she could easily imagine her being tantalised and enticed by Ross’s amused aloofness. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked curiously. ‘Try to keep out of her way as much as I can ... and hope that she’ll take the hint. You could help.’ ‘How?’ ‘Find out why she and Fergus quarrelled. See if you can get him to come for her. If he loves her and he’s the man you say he is, when he sees how she’s behaving he’ll have no hesitation in asserting his rights as a husband.’ ‘But how do you know all this?’ ‘The problem Maeve presents at the moment is not unfamiliar to me,’ he said coldly, and the coldness pushed her away again, a deterrent to her innocent questions. Pushed away, shut out, Sally moved away and looked out of the side window again. A problem with which he was not unfamiliar. The problem of the married woman pursuing him. Her lack of knowledge about the life he had led since he had left Portbride was creating another barrier between them. Naturally curious, she longed to know everything about his life during those ten years, yet she was afraid of knowing because she guessed that some of the knowledge might arouse a new and frightening emotion, an emotion she feared because it was related to other deep and painful emotions. She was afraid she might be jealous. The lights of Portbride appeared as they descended from the moors in a series of looping bends. The main street was shadowed and empty. The quayside, cluttered with fishing equipment, was deserted and quiet under the harsh glare of the harbour lights. When they stopped in front of Rosemount under the street lamp Ross jumped out of the Land-Rover and walked round quickly to open the door on her side. Sally stepped out and stood poised and ready to run indoors quickly as she became conscious of the tension which had sprung up between them again.

‘Thanks for the drive. I’m glad I went with you,’ she said hurriedly. ‘We both learnt a lot,’ he remarked easily. ‘I won’t come in.’ ‘You haven’t been invited,’ she flashed back, and he laughed. ‘I’m glad to see you’re coming to life again. Maybe I should finish the shock treatment now ... because I’m going to be busy for the next few weeks, possibly up to my ears in mud. I might as well give you something else to think about.’ Startled by this announcement, Sally glanced up at him uneasily. ‘What do you mean?’ For answer he bent and kissed her on the mouth—a brief, tantalising kiss, giving nothing yet promising much. It made her hungry for more and she put her arms round his neck to prevent him from moving away. ‘Sweet and twenty and never been kissed,’ he murmured mockingly against her mouth, then kissed her again with a thoroughness which obliterated all thought. ‘Sally! It’s high time you were in bed!’ Aunt Jessie’s clarion-like voice seemed to echo round the harbour. ‘As for you, Ross Lorimer, I see you’re up to your old tricks. As if you hadn’t caused enough trouble in your time! Get off wi’ ye!’ Ross raised his head and released Sally, who fled into the house, mortified by her aunt’s unexpected intervention. As she went she heard Ross’s laughter and his derisive comment, ‘You look charming in your nightgown, Aunt Jessie,’ followed by the determined slamming of a bedroom window.    

  CHAPTER THREE   ‘You shouldn’t take Ross seriously, you know,’ said Maeve as she and Sally breakfasted together next morning. Aunt Jessie rarely appeared early because, as she said herself, it took her a long time to get goin’. ‘Just because he took you out for the evening and then kissed you goodnight, don’t think he has any more than a passing interest in you, will you? It’s all part of the game with Ross to kiss the girl goodnight, and it doesn’t mean a thing,’ continued Maeve rather jerkily. This morning her smooth golden beauty was somewhat marred by the faint blue lines beneath her lovely eyes and the petulant droop to her full mouth. Sally was also feeling rather jaded after a night of tumultuous thought in which Ross had figured predominantly. Consequently she answered rather sharply, ‘Och, Aunt Jessie had no right to tell you!’ ‘She didn’t,’ replied Maeve equably. ‘I saw for myself. I was watching for your return too. You were such a long time that we both became anxious thinking that ... Why were you so late? Did you have a breakdown?’ Touched by her sister’s concern about the possibility of her being involved in another accident, Sally’s attitude softened. ‘No, nothing like that. Ross drove very carefully. We went to Glen Trool. I didn’t realise you would be so anxious or I wouldn’t have gone.’ ‘Glen Trool!’ exclaimed Maeve. ‘Why did you go there? Doesn’t sound like one of Ross’s ideas.’ ‘Which shows how little you know him,’ thought Sally to herself. Aloud she said, ‘Well, it was. He hadn’t been there before.’ She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, noting that she had a bare fifteen minutes to finish her breakfast and to get to the office. ‘Maybe Ross feels sorry for and feels he should try to help you,’ went on Maeve. ‘A sort of brotherly interest. I do hope you realise that, Sal. I don’t want you to be hurt.’ Sally refrained from saying that there had been nothing brotherly about Ross’s kiss and wondered why Maeve was being so persistent. Was it possible that she was jealous? The thought jolted her and she glanced at the clock again. There was really no time to question Maeve about Fergus, but the questioning must be done before Maeve made a fool of herself

over Ross. ‘Maeve, I must talk to you. Not now—there isn’t time.’ Maeve looked up, suspicion hardening the expression in her eyes. ‘What about?’ she cut in sharply. ‘About Fergus.’ Maeve clasped her face between her hands and leaned her elbows on the table. She did not look at Sally but stared at her plate. ‘Och, him,’ she said with synthetic jauntiness. ‘Why should you want to talk about him?’ ‘He ... he’s your husband,’ Sally reminded her gently, hesitantly, afraid of what she might discover. ‘I suppose you want to know why he hasn’t come to fetch me. Why I’m here and he’s in Ireland. Why he doesn’t write to me or call me.’ Maeve’s voice shrilled suddenly with emotion. ‘Well, I can tell you. He doesn’t want me any more because I can’t have a baby.’ Tears brimmed in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Sympathy surged up in Sally and forgetting the time she sat beside her sister and put a comforting hand on her arm. ‘Och, Maeve, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you tell us?’ ‘It isn’t the sort of thing you go around telling people,’ replied Maeve as she wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. ‘But Dad and Aunt Jessie and I aren’t just people. We’re family.’ Maeve smiled through her tears. ‘I know, that’s what I thought. That’s why I came. But somehow I couldn’t tell you ... or Dad. You had your own problems.’ ‘Problems are meant to be shared.’ ‘That’s what we say, but we never share them, do we? It must be some silly pride we all have. We go about pretending all is right with our particular little world, putting on a good face. You do it. You pretend you don’t care about the scar on your face, that you don’t care when the boys at the dances prefer me to you. Dad pretends that the bottom didn’t fall out of his world when Mum was killed. Aunt Jessie pretends her legs aren’t growing stiffer every day and that they don’t give her pain every time she stands up. I pretend that I don’t care that Fergus hasn’t followed me here.’ Maeve’s voice broke again and she covered her face with her hands. Sally stared in wonderment, surprised to find that her lovely, rather silly stepsister was so observant after all. ‘And is running after Ross your way of putting on a good face?’ she asked curiously. ‘Is that how it looks to you ... to everyone?’ said Maeve, obviously surprised. ‘Yes, I suppose it

does. I was glad to see him. He belongs to the time before Fergus, to the time when I had fun, when nothing was serious.’ ‘But you were so upset when he went away and didn’t write,’ objected Sally. Maeve smiled faintly. ‘Yes, I was, wasn’t I? It was the heartbreak of the year. I enjoyed it. Calf love ... sweet while it lasted, but it doesn’t last long when you’re seventeen, and Ross recognised that better than I did.’ She paused and then added in a low choked voice, ‘Love at twenty-seven is a different matter ... and I love Fergus.’ ‘Then why did you leave him?’ “We had an awful quarrel. He refused to adopt a baby. I was so miserable, and his mother didn’t help, always telling me how many children she had had and how the MacGinnis family had always been good breeders. Having to live in the same house as her was becoming unbearable. If only Fergus and I could have found a place of our own it might have helped, but it’s so difficult to find accommodation, so I came here. I thought that if Fergus really loved me he’d come after me.’ Maeve’s mouth trembled and her eyes brimmed again. ‘He hasn’t come and he hasn’t written.’ ‘And Ross is here,’ said Sally musingly. ‘Yes. It gave me such a lift to see him. I thought we might have a mild affair ... nothing harmful, just to take my mind off Fergus. I even imagined at one point Fergus arriving and finding me with Ross and being so smitten with jealousy that he’d drag me back to Ireland. Silly romantic me!’ Maeve sighed. ‘Ross won’t play. Och, he talks to me and listens to me, but all the time his mind is far away. And sometimes he looks at me with an odd cold light in his eyes as if he’s seeing someone else. Och, Sally, I just don’t know what to do!’ ‘Go back to Fergus,’ said Sally simply. ‘It sounds so easy, but I can’t. Not unless I know that he wants me. That silly pride again, I suppose. And I don’t think I could bear to live in his mother’s house any more. He’s away so often and when he’s there she’s so possessive about him.’ Sally looked at the clock again. Nine-fifteen. She had to go. She looked back at her sister’s tear-stained face and wished suddenly that she was older and had more experience of life. ‘Why don’t you tell Dad and Aunt Jessie? They might be able to help you, to give you some advice.’ ‘They’ll say the same as you ... go back to Fergus,’ replied Maeve dully. Sally rose to her feet. ‘I must go now, I’m late already. I’m glad you’ve told me what’s wrong between you and Fergus. Try not to act foolishly,’ she said. ‘Foolishly? In what way?’ Maeve’s voice was sharp again.

‘Letting pride come between you and Fergus, being too easy with Ross.’ It was out at last. And if Maeve was hurt at this reading of her character, it couldn’t be helped. Maeve smiled, a tight grim little smile. ‘I’ve never been able to help myself. That’s why it was such a relief when Fergus came along with his old-fashioned ideas about no nonsense with other men if I wanted to go with him. His possessiveness became a protection. I miss him badly.’ ‘Then go back to him,’ reiterated Sally exasperatedly as she walked to the doer. ‘I can’t,’ moaned Maeve miserably, and began to cry again as Sally left the room hurriedly, bound for work. Sally’s first instinct was to tell Ross about Maeve’s dilemma. After all, it had been Ross who had urged her to find out what was wrong between Maeve and her husband, so she felt he should be the first to know the result of her questioning, and it was possible that he might do something to help Maeve. In the days that followed, however, no opportunity presented itself for her to speak to him. For three consecutive evenings she waited by the harbour wall in front of the hotel hoping to see him when he returned from the site, but each time she had to go home for her supper before he arrived. Short of going into the hotel and asking to see him or going out to the site she could think of no other way of approaching him. She was too shy to try doing either, and she was not the type of girl to take up the office telephone and brazenly call him at his work. She tried waiting a fourth evening, using as an excuse the fact that her father was still aboard his fishing boat and she could wait for him sitting on a bollard with her back to the harbour while she watched the road for the arrival of a yellow Land-Rover. It was a warm humid evening. Beyond the harbour the sea was calm and flat stretching away to the faint blue line of hills which were Ireland. Thin grey nimbus cloud was encroaching gradually upon the pale misty blue which had been prevalent all day. It was the warm front of a depression which would bring rain, cutting short the spell of perfect sunny June weather, during which the bulldozers and mechanical shovels at Winterston must have been busy. A flash of yellow caught Sally’s attention. A Land-Rover was coming along the road from Winterston. Unaccountably her heart began to pound. Several times she had rehearsed in her mind what she should say to Ross when she saw him. She would pretend she hadn’t been waiting to see him but had just happened to be there at the time when he arrived. She would let him make the approach as he usually did and let the conversation take its course, then introduce the subject of Maeve casually. But supposing he didn’t approach her. Suppose he said merely, ‘Hello, Sally,’ then waved his hand and went straight into the hotel. No, it would be better and more honest if she went to him as he stepped out of the LandRover and asked if she might speak to him. But approaching him coolly and calmly after their last encounter was not going to be easy. His

kisses had been an experience she had not been able to forget. For one reason, he had been right she hadn’t been kissed before ... not like that, anyway. And for another, she had enjoyed being kissed by him. Feeling as she did, how could she face his amused, observant eyes without giving herself away? The Land-Rover thudded across the granite sets of the wide roadway and came to a stop by the wall. Sally started to walk towards it slowly, tensely telling herself that if she wanted to help Maeve she must speak to Ross. The door of the vehicle swung open and a man got out, a man wearing a yellow construction helmet and a short dark donkey jacket. He was tall but slim and slight, and when he slammed the door shut and turned Sally saw that he was Mike Searle. Tension rushed out of her, leaving her feeling strangely flat and disappointed. A pleasant smile revealed Mike’s even white teeth and narrowed his long-lashed dark eyes. ‘Hello, Sally. Looking for me ... I hope?’ ‘N ... no. Well, I mean I thought Ross might be with you. I have something to tell him.’ The corners of Mike’s mobile mouth turned down in mock- disappointment. ‘That reprobate! Why is it all the girls want to see him, when he has such a reputation for inconstancy?’ ‘Oh, I didn’t really want to see him. I just have something to tell him,’ said Sally, confusedly. It would never do to let Mike think she was disappointed because Ross hadn’t turned up, even if she was ... but she wasn’t going to pursue that line of thought now. It was too dangerous. ‘I thought I might see him while I was waiting for my father,’ she went on, aware that the soft brown eyes were watching her rather shrewdly. ‘It doesn’t matter. It isn’t important.’ ‘I hope it isn’t, because your chances of seeing Ross are pretty remote right now. He’s intent on clearing as much of the site as he can before the rains come.’ He glanced upwards at the spreading cloud. ‘Looks as if they might come tonight. Just my luck since I’ve been allowed to take the evening off. I was thinking of going sailing. I’ve had my racing dinghy sent up here, and I’ve joined the club here. What are you doing this evening?’ ‘I shall wait for my father and then we’ll go home together for supper, and afterwards I might play chess with him, or if he wants to read I’ll help Aunt Jessie with the rug she’s making.’ ‘It all sounds very cosy, for a wet night,’ said Mike, interest sparking his dark eyes, ‘but not the usual sort of Friday night for a girl like you. No boy-friends?’ Sally shook her head. ‘Well, that’s a break ... for me, I mean,’ murmured Mike. ‘Which boat is your father’s? Do you think he’d mind if I looked on board? I’ve always wanted to go on a fishing boat.’ Without hesitation, her disappointment at not seeing Ross forgotten, Sally took him to meet her father, who with his usual kindliness showed the young man over the Mary Rose and then

invited him to return to Rosemount with them for supper, an invitation which Mike accepted with alacrity. At Rosemount Aunt Jessie welcomed him hospitably, although Maeve paid him scant attention until he happened to mention that he worked for Ross. Immediately she pounced upon him. ‘Ross hasn’t been around all week. Where is he? What’s he been doing? He hasn’t been into the bar at the hotel once.’ Mike, who was not easily stampeded, looked at her consideringly for a few minutes before answering. ‘We aren’t staying in the hotel any more. Those of us who aren’t married and who haven’t brought wives with us usually live in the construction trailers on the site. We only come into the town for entertainment, Mrs. McGinnis.’ He put a slight emphasis on the word Mrs. which was not lost on Maeve, who frowned. ‘The early days on a site are always tough. There’s so much to be done before the concrete men arrive.’ Mike went on to explain more about the work they were doing, while Maeve, who had obviously lost interest, excused herself from the table and left the room to prepare herself for her evening’s work. Mike stayed all evening. Outside the rain fell in a steady drizzle. Inside the living room the coal fire glinted merrily on the carved chess figures and on the colours of Aunt Jessie’s rug. At ten-thirty Mike gave up trying to beat Hugh Johnson at chess. ‘It’s time I said thank you and made my way back to the site before the road becomes a quagmire,’ he remarked. ‘Ye must come again, lad. Any time ye’re at a loose end and when ye have a Sunday free come with us on the boat. Sometimes we take a wee pleasure trip up to Arran or across to Ireland,’ said Hugh. ‘Thank you, I’d like that.’ Sally accompanied Mike to the front door. As he opened it Maeve appeared, turning into the garden path, her umbrella tilted against the fine slanting drizzle which glittered in the lamplight. The damp air accentuated the salty tang from the sea and the scent of the roses which clung to the wall of the house. Mild, damp and shot with lamplight, the night possessed a comfortable familiarity. ‘Goodnight,’ Maeve’s murmur was barely polite as she eased past them after shaking her umbrella free of loose water and propping it in the corner of the porch. Mike waited until she had gone and the sound of a door shutting within the house meant she was out of earshot. Then he said unexpectedly, ‘How long has your sister been married?’ ‘About two years.’

‘Is her husband at sea, or does he travel?’ ‘He goes to sea. He’s first mate on a tugboat working out of Belfast. Why do you ask?’ ‘I wondered why he wasn’t around. Is she going back to Belfast soon?’ ‘I ... I don’t know,’ replied Sally hesitantly. ‘Left him, has she?’ queried the surprisingly shrewd Mike. ‘I wonder why she’s so interested in Ross?’ ‘They used to be friends when they were younger, when he lived in Portbride.’ ‘Oh, so that’s the connection. I’d no idea he came from these parts. He’s not exactly what you would call communicative. From what I’ve seen since I’ve been here it seems she wants to be more than friends just now ... as if he hadn’t had enough of that sort of complication in his life.’ ‘What do you mean by that sort of complication?’ asked Sally sharply. Mike’s smile was gentle and intended to soothe. ‘All right, all right! Now don’t fly off the handle because I’ve dared to criticise your sister ... and don’t hold it against me either. But perhaps it would be a good idea if I put you in the picture. Ross seems to have a fatal charm for married women. Maybe they fall for the strong practical he-man who appears to have life organised. Anyway, whatever it is, he had to leave one site he was working on because of the complication caused by his boss’s wife. Naturally he’s been wary of that kind of entanglement since. So I hope your sister will have the sense to keep clear.’ ‘Well, it means he has to stay clear of her too, doesn’t it?’ said Sally defensively, annoyed to think that probably all the people on the site as well as the town gossips had been watching Maeve’s involvement with Ross and had been having a laugh at her sister’s expense. ‘Sure it does, and I think he’ll do his best ... but remember he’s only human,’ said Mike. ‘Which reminds me, so am I. Have you anything on tomorrow night, or can I count on you to show me the bright lights of Portbride on a Saturday night?’ Sally agreed to meet him, then watched him climb into the glistening Land-Rover and drive off. Then she locked the front door, put her head round the living-room door to say goodnight and went up to her bedroom to think. And she had plenty to think about. Now she knew what Ross had meant by his remark about a married woman not being necessarily unattainable if she didn’t want to be. Now she understood why Maeve in her present state was a problem with which he was not unfamiliar. A complication caused by his boss’s wife. Had his boss asked him to leave the site, or had he left of his own accord? Had he been in love with the woman, and she with him? Or had it been a one-sided affair? Had the woman been the rapacious type who had chased Ross until out of loyalty to his boss he had given up his job rather than destroy a marriage? Sally hoped that the latter was the case, because ever since Ross had kissed her she had been creating a different image of him, an essentially romantic image because she was a romanticist.

When Ross had returned to Portbride she had seen him as a careless destroyer and arrogant conqueror. Now she was replacing that image with one of an idealistic individualist, a strongwilled, unconventional person. And for some reason she could not fathom it was important that this imaginary Ross should never have experienced the weakness of having fallen in love properly until he returned to Portbride to discover that the shaggy tomboyish eleven-year- old girl he had once known had grown into a ... Sally caught sight of her own face in the dressing-table mirror. Her hazel eyes were heavylidded and dreamy and a faint enigmatical smile curved her mouth. Realising where her thoughts were wandering, she sprang to her feet impatiently and pushing all thought from her mind undressed quickly. She scurried to the bathroom to wash and back again to climb into bed and hide under the bedclothes as if by doing so she could hide from further thought. But it was a while before she could calm herself sufficiently to drift into slumber, and when she slept she dreamed she was walking in the wind and the rain across the moors with Ross. As usual the cyclonic weather did not know when to stop once it had begun, and every day the grey clouds rolled in from the sea bringing slow, steady rain which often blotted out visibility for hours. There were short periods when the sky would clear temporarily and the sun would appear, making the wet streets gleam. And suddenly the quayside would be thronged with people seizing the opportunity to take the air. In spite of the weather life was moving at a faster pace than was normal for Sally. Heeding Ross’s advice, she began to take driving lessons again and went out twice a week with John Liddell who ran the local driving school. As Ross had prophesied her confidence gradually returned and with the confidence came a renewed interest in her appearance. She visited the hairdresser where she found an old school friend, Jean Mack, had finished her apprenticeship and was practising her trade. Jean persuaded her to let her hair grow and restyled it to hang straight from a centre parting, to curve forward on to her cheeks, a style which tended to hide some of the scar and which drew attention to Sally’s smooth forehead and clear sparkling eyes. She also began to take an interest in Betty Oswald’s plans for a holiday in London, and when, Betty asked her if she would like to accompany her found herself agreeing and actually looking forward to visiting the metropolis in the autumn. But her rehabilitation she knew was not entirely due to the driving lessons and her friends’ renewed interest in her. It was due mostly to the attention of Mike Searle. On the evenings when she wasn’t having her driving lesson he was there, inviting her to go sailing in his twelvefoot racing dinghy if the weather was suitable. Used to the sea all her life, Sally soon picked up the rudiments of crewing and being both agile and fairly obedient was soon earning Mike’s praise. For the first time in her life she entered the Portbride Yacht Clubhouse and for the first time in life found herself in the limelight, because Mike was a good helmsman and often won races. In the midst of all this pleasant activity she was aware of Maeve, disgruntled and unhappy in the background, still serving in the bar at the MacKinnon Arms, still idling her days away in the house. One evening returning after a particularly exhilarating sail she said goodnight to Mike just as Maeve came back from the hotel and they went into the kitchen together. Aunt Jessie had gone to bed and Hugh Johnson was fishing, so the girls were able to talk together freely for the first time since Maeve had admitted she had left her husband.

‘He’s nice ... Mike, I mean,’ said Maeve as she flopped into a chair and swung her legs on to another. ‘But he doesn’t like me. I wonder why?’ ‘How can you tell he doesn’t like you?’ asked Sally in surprise. ‘A certain way he has of looking at me, a touch of icy politeness when he speaks to me. He’d much rather not speak to me, you know. It could be snobbery on his part because I’m serving in the bar, but somehow I don’t think so.’ ‘Och, I’m sure it isn’t,’ said Sally defensively. ‘Mike isn’t a bit like that. But I’m sure he doesn’t dislike you. He seems to like everyone.’ ‘Perhaps he does, but there is something about me or associated with me which makes him very cool. It’s a pity, because if he’s going to be my brother-in-law it would be better if he liked me.’ ‘Brother-in-law? Maeve, what are you saying? I’ve only known him a few weeks and there’s nothing like that between us. We’re just friends,’ objected Sally. ‘He pays you an awful amount of attention ... more than a friend would. Now don’t be foolish and start giving him the cold shoulder because of what I’ve said,’ pleaded Maeve. ‘He’s pleasant and considerate. Why, you’ve only to look at yourself to see the difference he’s made to you. Since he’s been around you’ve had no time to mope and feel sorry for yourself. He’s the medicine you’ve been needing.’ ‘I know. But the difference in me isn’t entirely due to Mike, and it doesn’t mean I’m in love with him or want to marry him,’ said Sally. ‘Does he ever talk about Ross?’ asked Maeve with a sudden change of subject. ‘Sometimes.’ Sally stood up restlessly and went into the larder where she picked up a jug of milk and returned to the kitchen to find two mugs. She poured some milk into the mugs, then went to search for biscuits. She had to have action of some sort because it seemed as if with the mere mention of his name Ross was in the room with them, disturbing, tantalising. ‘What does he say about him?’ asked Maeve. Sally walked back to the table with a tin of biscuits, opened it and took one. She sat down and drank some milk and nibbled at her biscuit before answering, watching Maeve curiously and wondering why her stepsister was asking about Ross. ‘Nothing much. A few comments about how absorbed Ross is in the work at the site, and how he’s been cursing the rain. I think he’s been trying to explain why Ross hasn’t been in town much recently.’ ‘He’s been in,’ said Maeve quietly. ‘I’ve seen him and talked to him. He chooses his time carefully ... about half an hour before the bar closes when everyone is too busy talking to notice. He knows how to avoid gossip.’ Sally’s milk was suddenly tasteless and the biscuit she was holding disintegrated into crumbs. Maeve had seen Ross and she hadn’t! The knowledge hurt far more than it should.

‘Mike must know him quite well,’ continued Maeve, ‘if they’ve worked on sites together before. He must know if Ross has a girl somewhere ...’ Sally stared at her stepsister. Maeve was turning her glass round and round nervously. Her face was pale and frowning. ‘If that’s the sort of thing you want to know about Ross why don’t you ask him yourself?’ she asked. ‘I have ... not outright, but I’ve probed around, without result. He’s too wary. He never used to be. Something must have happened to change him.’ It has, Sally wanted to say ... but stopped herself in time. After all, Ross’s affair with his boss’s wife was his business and she guessed he wouldn’t be pleased if he knew that Mike had already mentioned it to her. And if he hadn’t told Maeve about it he didn’t want her to know. ‘What about Fergus, Maeve?’ she said, changing the subject herself. ‘Have you told Dad anything yet?’ ‘No. Nor Ross. And you’ve not to say anything to anyone. I’ll tell everyone when I’m ready and not before.’ Maeve’s voice took on the shrill tone which meant her emotions were out of control. ‘But what are you going to do?’ asked Sally. “You can’t go on like this. Maeve, why don’t you go back to him?’ ‘I can’t. I said too many bitter words ... I can’t ...’ ‘It’s silly to be so proud. Surely pride shouldn’t come between two people who love each other,’ began Sally, struggling to put into words her own idealistic thoughts on the subject. ‘Then maybe I was mistaken and we don’t love each other,’ snapped Maeve crossly. ‘I can’t go back and no one can make me. You see,’ her voice broke again as emotion got out of control, ‘he might not want me ... and I couldn’t bear the humiliation. Och, can’t you see I can’t go back?’ Sally didn’t sleep much after the conversation with Maeve. At first her thoughts revolved disconsolately round the fact that Ross had been into Portbride, that he had seen and had talked to Maeve but hadn’t bothered to seek her out and talk to her. So much for believing him when he had said he wouldn’t encourage Maeve, that he would avoid her as much as possible; so much for believing that the reason why she hadn’t seen him around was because he had been too involved in his work to come into the town. But then why should he seek her out? She was only Maeve’s little sister to be teased and tormented and ungently prised out of her comfortable shell. As Maeve had pointed out to her, she shouldn’t take him seriously; he had only a passing interest in her. In that case shouldn’t Maeve heed her own warning and realise that his interest in her was only passing too? If only she could think of a practical way of helping Maeve, of preventing her from wrecking her marriage on the rock of pride. She felt sure Fergus would welcome Maeve’s return. Hottempered he might be, but his temper was usually short-lived and he was ready to forgive and forget.

After worrying over the problem without reaching any result Sally decided to tell her father, ignoring Maeve’s plea not to tell anyone about the situation. He listened gravely and calmly, nodding his head and murmuring, ‘Just so, just so,’ and when she had finished he said, ‘Now, I know what to do. We must go to Dunginnis one Sunday and take Maeve with us. No need to tell her where we’re going. It will be one of our Sunday trips. I’ve been promising your cousins a trip over before the baby arrives. Now you write to Claire MacGinnis and tell her we’ll be coming over the Sunday after the Fair ... that’s in a fortnight’s time ... and tell her to make sure Fergus will be there, or if he’s away at sea ... if he is, she’ll let you know when she expects him back and we can change our plans accordingly.’ Sharing the knowledge with Hugh helped. Sally wrote to Fergus’s mother and then set about inviting her cousins and her uncle and aunt to come on the trip. She also invited Mike. Then she told Maeve, assuming that her sister would automatically want to go on the trip, but did not tell her where they would be going. To her consternation Maeve said she wouldn’t be going because she had another and more interesting date. No amount of persuasion would move her, although Sally, having received a letter from Claire MacGinnis saying that she would be glad to see them and that Fergus would be at home, persisted right up to the morning of the day before the trip. ‘For the last time ... no, I’m not coming,’ stated Maeve exasperatedly. ‘I’ve better things to do. Why should I go with you? There’ll be no one to keep me company. You’ll have Mike, and it wouldn’t be any fun for me.’ ‘Fun? Is that all you can think of, having fun?’ objected Sally, annoyed in turn. ‘At the moment, yes,’ flashed Maeve, her voice and her eyes hard. ‘Now leave me alone.’ Sally seriously considered telling her sister of their destination in the hope that Maeve might reconsider. But a glance at the obstinate set of her sister’s mouth made her abandon the idea. It was no use. Her little plan had failed and it was too late to call off the trip because the weather had cleared up and everyone was looking forward to the outing. It had been a week of Portbride Fair ... an annual event when the farmers from the area held their own agricultural show. There were cattle shows, sheepdog trials and exhibitions of the latest farming equipment. The town was crowded with visitors seeing the show and attending the traditional sideshows associated with the Fair which were set up on the common ground to the south of the town. Each evening the jangling music had blared forth from the merry-gorounds and other mechanical attractions, creating a new and exciting dimension to the life of Portbride. Now the last day of the Fair had arrived and that night everyone who had participated would be celebrating the end of the annual event by attending one of the two dances being held in the Town Hall and in the Yacht Club. Sally had been invited to go to the latter by Mike and she was also looking forward to taking part in the last of the races which had been arranged especially for Fair week that afternoon. The weather was perfect for the race as far as Mike was concerned. A slight north-westerly wind brought clear skies and a slight popple to the water. In such conditions the light weight of Sally plus her ability to keep still were an advantage which, coupled with Mike’s experience of

sailing in light airs in the River Thames, enabled him to creep to the front of the fleet and stay there until the race was over. Pleased with his victory, he took Sally into the MacKinnon Arms for a drink before they went to the dance. They sat in one of the wooden booths which were a feature of the lounge and which were decorated with panels of various clan tartans. From where they were sitting Sally had a good view of the bar and could see Maeve, golden-haired and vivacious, serving with Meg Forbes, the wife of the proprietor. Maeve seemed to have a smile and a joke for everyone she served, and Sally could imagine that the sales of liquor had increased since she had been employed. Probably that was why the Forbes had asked her to work for them. ‘He wanted me to go back ... I told him he was a slave- driver. Needless to say it had no effect, so I pulled out my trump card.’ Sally became aware that Mike was talking about Ross and pricked up her ears. ‘And what was that?’ she asked. ‘I just mentioned that I’d planned to take you to this dance and he capitulated at once. He became quite avuncular in fact. I thought for one moment he was going to give me his blessing,’ said Mike in his best facetious style. Then suddenly, ludicrously, the expression on his mobile face changed from cheerful amusement to one of lugubrious dismay. ‘Did I happen to speak of the devil?’ he said in an urgent whisper. ‘Well, there he is. Now this is interesting. Watch your sister.’ Sally turned her head quickly. Ross was approaching the bar. Maeve, who had seen him coming, almost pushed Meg Forbes over in her haste to be in the right place to take his order, smiling and talking, turning on all her charm, deliberately not noticing or caring that on this busy night there were others waiting to be served. ‘Och, no, Maeve!’ murmured Sally embarrassedly. ‘Something to see, isn’t it?’ commented Mike. ‘And you have to give Ross his due, he makes no effort to encourage her. It just happens.’ He was right. Ross leaned sideways against the bar and looked round the room. When he saw Mike his gaze stopped roving and turning to pick up his beer-mug he nodded casually to Maeve and began to walk across the room. Sally saw her stepsister’s shoulders slump momentarily in defeat before she turned to another customer. ‘Trouble,’ sighed Mike. ‘I could feel it in my bones all afternoon. Hello, Ross. What brings you here?’ he greeted cheerfully. Ross hooked his foot under a nearby chair and pulled it towards him and sat down before answering. ‘One of the bulldozers has packed in. I’d like it fixed straight away because we must make use of this fine weather to finish the digging. They tell me you might know how. If it can’t be fixed now it means waiting until Monday to call in another one from the suppliers.’ Turning to Sally, he smiled faintly and said, ‘Hello, Sally. Sorry to spoil your evening, but I’m afraid Mike will have

to return to the site.’ ‘I’ll take Sally home first, then I’ll go straight to the site,’ said Mike, rising to his feet. ‘No, I’ll look after Sally for you. She can keep me company while I drink this. Go to the site now, while there’s still some light,’ commanded Ross crisply. ‘You needn’t worry—I’ll make up the time to you.’ ‘You’d better,’ threatened Mike mildly, ‘or you’ll find yourself short of one extremely valuable engineer! O.K., have no fear. The bulldozer will be fixed. Goodnight, Sally. I hope you’ll forgive this slavedriver for coming between us this evening. I’ll look forward to tomorrow. Let’s hope the weather holds.’ Not wanting him to go, wishing he had persisted in his desire to take her home, Sally said goodbye and watched him walk swiftly away. And as she watched she felt a sudden rush of affection for the gay young man who had arrived so recently to change her life. ‘You like him?’ She was not sure whether it was a question or a statement, but it jolted her, reminding her as it did of Ross’s ability to read the expressions on her face. ‘Yes.’ Cool and brief, that was the way to keep this meeting. She would finish her drink quickly and leave. ‘I’m glad,’ he murmured. ‘Mike is one of the best.’ His comment reminded her of Maeve saying that Mike would make a good husband. Ross would be recommending him next, and that she would be unable to bear. Raising her glass, she tried to drink her lemon squash quickly, only to swallow some the wrong way so that she choked. ‘Why the hurry?’ The tolerant amusement which she hated was there, making her feel infantile again. Fury that he should still regard her as a child made her choke even more so that tears stung her eyes. Ross moved into the seat that Mike had vacated and thumped her roughly on the back. ‘Ouch!’ she exclaimed involuntarily. But the choking stopped, leaving her with a violent attack of hiccups. ‘You don’t ... hic ... have to be ... hic ... so rough!’ she objected, turning to glare at him. His grin was unsympathetic. ‘And now you’ll have to wait here until you’ve stopped hiccupping,’ he taunted. ‘You can’t go home in that state. Aunt Jessie will think the worst if you do ... that you’ve been drinking whisky, and then she’ll really have something to complain about. Come to think of it, perhaps you have been drinking whisky.’ While she seethed with indignation he picked up her glass and sniffed at it, then wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘Lemon squash, and nothing else. Well, this beats everything!’ he remarked. ‘I’ve never

known a girl who could get tight on lemon squash before.’ His mockery was infuriating and she was near to choking again. ‘I’m not tight ...’ she started to object, then hurriedly tried to hold her breath and count to ten ... but she hiccupped loudly in the middle of her silent counting and he laughed unkindly. ‘Och, I wish you’d stop ... hic ... treating me as if ... hic ... as if I was only ... hic ... eleven!’ she blurted. ‘How would you like me to treat you, then?’ he asked quietly, and as always when he spoke quietly she became aware that she was treading dangerous ground. He moved closer to her and she stiffened involuntarily. With a forefinger he stroked the curve of her hair where it lay along her cheek. ‘Ever since I sat down here I’ve been trying to make out why you look different,’ he murmured softly. ‘Now I know why. It’s your hair. I like it.’ Startled, Sally glanced at him and for a moment they stared at each other. It seemed to her that the expression in his eyes was a mixture of challenge and lurking amusement as if he challenged her to react to the subtle change in his manner in a more sophisticated way than was her custom and yet was amused because he knew that she could not. Unable to respond to either the challenge or the amusement, Sally flushed and looked down at the table. Moving away from her, Ross picked up his beer-mug and drank while she tried in vain to control the dithering which suddenly attacked her knees. She couldn’t go home in this, condition. In fact she doubted very much if she could stand up immediately and once again she felt annoyed because he had been able to assess her condition so accurately. Tight on lemon squash and too big a dose of Ross Lorimer! ‘How’s the driving?’ he asked in a bland conversational tone. Sally supposed that Maeve must have told him that she was taking lessons again. ‘Quite well, thank you,’ she replied stiltedly. The hiccups were subsiding, thank goodness, and soon she would be able to go home away from that disturbing presence. ‘I see you haven’t been able to persuade Maeve to return to her husband,’ he said. He sounded accusing, as if he considered it was her fault that Maeve was still in Portbride. Forgetful of her recent embarrassment, Sally turned on him because she had an accusation to make too. ‘You said you would try to avoid her, that you wouldn’t encourage her. But she says she’s seen you several times during the past weeks. Is that how you keep out of her way?’ His eyes narrowed in reaction to her attack and his mouth curled ironically. ‘Do you know, I had a feeling you’d place all the blame squarely on me. Can I help it if when I

come into town for a little relaxation and a change from the mud, Maeve is here? Can I help it if she plays a big seduction scene every time I appear?’ His succinct description of Maeve’s behaviour when he had gone up to the bar tonight did not appeal to Sally; it was too accurate, too truthful. ‘You don’t have to come here,’ she defended. ‘You could go elsewhere for entertainment.’ ‘How do you know I haven’t been elsewhere?’ was the disconcerting reply. ‘I come here only when I haven’t much time to spare. I like the place, and the beer is good, but I would prefer it if Maeve wasn’t here.’ The coldness of his voice made Sally wince and feel suddenly sorry for Maeve. ‘I suppose you never bothered to find out why she’s left her husband,’ Ross went on, and the implied criticism of her inability to concern herself with Maeve’s affairs annoyed her again and she took defiant pleasure in being able to say tartly, ‘Yes, I did. And I wanted to tell you ... I looked for you and waited for you, but I never seemed to see you. How was I to know you’d gone to live on the site? I saw Mike instead.’ This hurried, jumbled explanation caused Ross to raise his eyebrows in quizzical surprise, but to her relief he made no sardonic comment. ‘You’d better tell me now,’ he said. ‘Is it a serious break between them or will it mend?’ Quickly Sally told him of the cause of Maeve’s quarrel with Fergus and her subsequent flight from her mother-in-law’s house, then she explained the plan she and her father had concocted to get Maeve to return to Ireland. ‘You see, I thought if they met again, they’d forget their quarrel ... they’d be so glad to see each other. But Maeve has refused to go with us, she has better things to do. I thought she might be going somewhere with you?’ He did not reply immediately, but leaned back against the back of the tartan-lined booth in which they were sitting and watched Maeve, who was busy serving a drink to a customer. The lounge was packed with people, farmers, holidaymakers, fishermen and yachtsmen, all in convivial mood for the last night of the Fair. ‘Looking at her now, thinking of the way she behaves, it isn’t easy to imagine Maeve pining for a child,’ observed Ross. ‘And yet I suppose it all fits. She’s the type to cover up desperation by flamboyant, outrageous behaviour. Do you know if they’ve had medical advice on the matter? I believe there are ways and means of dealing with this situation these days.’ Sally glanced at him in surprise. ‘I don’t know ... I didn’t ask,’ she stammered. ‘But the problem now is getting them together again. Maeve says she can’t go back, and that no one can make her except Fergus himself, and he’s made no effort even to write to her. If he doesn’t come back soon it will be too late. And then I’d hate to think of what will happen to Maeve ...’ Her voice trailed off into silence as she realised Ross wasn’t listening. He was still watching Maeve, yet Sally was sure he wasn’t seeing her. He wasn’t really interested in Maeve’s problem after all. He kept his real interest for someone else, someone who intruded into his thoughts,

making his eyes go cold and blank. Sally stood up. ‘I think I’ll go home now,’ she said sharply. Her abrupt movement had caught his attention and he stood up too. ‘I’ll walk up the hill with you,’ he offered. ‘No, thank you,’ she replied stiffly, and started to walk away, pushing through the crowds towards the entrance hall of the hotel. The laughter and joviality of the people made her even more eager to leave. ‘Sally ...’ Ross was just behind her as she entered the hall. His hand was on her arm, forcing her to stop and face him. ‘I know I’ve messed up your evening. Let me ...’ ‘Ross Lorimer, how wonderful to see you! I knew you were here, of course, but I didn’t think we’d meet so soon.’ The voice was harsh and it belonged to a middle-aged woman who had just descended the stairs and who came towards Ross, her hands outstretched in welcome. She was dressed in a simple black suit which helped to disguise her carefully controlled buxom curves. Her stiffly coiffured hair was a rich auburn which was wholly unnatural. Small dark eyes almost disappeared in the creases of her plump face as she smiled up at Ross, revealing fine sparkling teeth. Keeping a firm hold of Sally’s arm, Ross took one of the outstretched hands in his and said with a noticeable absence of warmth, ‘Hello, Miriam. You’re looking well. Is Tom here yet?’ Sally noticed that the small brown eyes were studying her curiously and wished she could break free of Ross’s hold and excuse herself. ‘No. He arrives on Monday, as planned. I’ve been staying with friends in Edinburgh. I drove over this afternoon. I thought I’d use the weekend to make sure that the place we’ve rented to live in while we’re here is clean and well aired,’ replied Miriam. ‘Come and have a drink with me ... if we can get near the bar. There’s quite a party going on tonight... the end of the annual Fair, so I’m told.’ ‘Thanks for the invitation. Another time, perhaps,’ returned Ross smoothly. ‘I promised I would see Sally home. This is Miriam Hunter, Sally. Her husband is in charge of the concrete boys who are about to join us on the site. Sally here is the daughter of a friend of mine, Miriam.’ Sally murmured a polite, ‘How do you do,’ and was treated to a wide sparkling smile and another assessing glance. ‘Hello, Sally,’ said Miriam, then with a rather knowledgeable glance in Ross’s direction she murmured, ‘I hope you aren’t going in for cradle-snatching, Ross. I seem to remember your taste used to be a little more sophisticated.’ Sally wondered whether she had heard correctly and looked at Ross to see how he would react. The expression on his face was normal, cool and non-committal, but there was a touch of malice in his crisp voice as he answered, ‘Still as tactless as ever, Miriam. When will you learn!’ And Sally noticed Miriam’s neck redden and her small

dark eyes flash before she smiled again. ‘Sorry, Ross. Did I touch a tender spot? Don’t mind me, Sally,’ she went on ingratiatingly. ‘I always say the first thing which comes into my head. Well, I’ll let you go and I’ll look forward to seeing you at our place as soon as we’re settled in. You’ll be welcome at any time. By the way, Ross, Lydia is coming to stay with us for a while. But you’ll know that. She’ll have written to you. Such a shame about poor Brian being killed, wasn’t it?’ Sally felt Ross’s fingers tighten painfully on her arm and she looked at him again. There was a tautness across his cheeks and a cold light in his eyes. ‘Lydia and I have not corresponded with each other at all,’ he said curtly. Miriam opened her eyes wide and her mouth made a round ‘O’ of surprise. ‘No? I think that was very wise of you both. It would never have done for him to have suspected anything, would it? Anyway, it will be quite like old times to have her with us ... and you. Tom and I are looking forward to it. Goodbye for now, Sally. Maybe I’ll see you again.’ The flashing smile was working overtime. As she walked through the hotel with Ross, Sally felt that Mrs. Hunter was the sort of woman who talked and talked and smiled and smiled, while all the time her small shrewd eyes were taking in every detail of a person’s appearance so that later she would be able to describe that person perfectly. Outside the hotel Ross released her arm at last. Involuntarily she rubbed it, trying to ease the soreness away. The evening was azure, rose and gold. The harbour was crammed with fishing boats and several graceful visiting yachts swung at anchor on the smooth gilded water. A group of noisy children with bags of chips in their hands rushed by on their way to the excitements of the fairground. As she looked up at the brilliant evening star which had just appeared above the smooth green shoulder of a hill, it seemed to Sally that there was a tingle of expectancy, of excitement in the atmosphere. The feeling was not strange to her. It was one she often experienced and it was always connected with an evening like this when the weather was clear and warm. On such evenings she expected something different to happen. Usually nothing did and she would go to bed with a faint sense of disappointment, of having been cheated. This evening the feeling was stronger, heightened by the presence of Ross by her side and the meeting with Mrs. Hunter. Who was Lydia? And why hadn’t Ross written to her? They were nearing the corner of the harbour where the road divided, one branch going off to the fairground where the lights already twinkled, and the other branch going up the hill towards her home. She glanced at Ross. The tautness was still in his face tightening his mouth and hollowing his cheeks. As he strode along beside her she had the impression that he was controlling his temper with difficulty. Ross in a temper! He was usually so calm, so self-possessed, but mention of a person called Lydia had pricked that self-possession.

At the fork in the road Sally stopped walking. Ross stopped too and looked at her in surprise. ‘You needn’t come any further, thank you,’ she said. "Why not?’ he rapped out the question. ‘I can find my own way home perfectly well ... and you might want to talk to Mrs. Hunter. I know you only refused her invitation because you promised Mike you’d see me home.’ ‘I did no such thing.’ He sounded as if he was talking through gritted teeth. ‘I had no wish to have a drink with her.’ ‘Oh, I thought perhaps you’d want to ask her about ... about Lydia. Who is Lydia?’ Now he would call her an inquisitive pest, but it was important that she should know who Lydia was, desperately important. ‘She’s Miriam’s niece. Someone I used to know ... does it matter who she is?’ he retorted. ‘Someone special?’ persisted Sally. ‘I thought so ... for a while.’ ‘But not any more?’ ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen her for three years. People change, emotions change, everything changes ... I’ve told you before,’ he ground out. ‘Have you finished with your questions, or would you like to know the date, the place and the hour of my last meeting with Lydia? If you do I’m sorry I can’t give you the information, because I’ve forgotten.’ His anger was very obvious now in the rasp of his voice, in the blaze of his eyes as he glared down at her. She had expected something different to happen, and this was it. Ross was violently angry with her and she didn’t like it. ‘I’m sorry, Ross,’ she said simply. ‘I didn’t mean to annoy you.’ The expression on his face softened slightly. ‘It isn’t your fault. Miriam is mostly to blame, with those damned tactless remarks of hers about baby-snatching.’ Sally was puzzled, not understanding why he should be annoyed about that. ‘But why should that irritate you? You know it isn’t true, so why be angry?’ He looked down at her in silence, a strange intent expression in his eyes. Sally looked back, feeling the tension mounting between them and remembering the evening they had gone to Winterston and he had stared at her in the same way. Automatically her hand went to the scar on her face.

‘You’re quite right. I’m glad you realise it,’ said Ross, all anger gone. The jangling fairground music wafted louder on a breath of wind, enticing them to enter the bizarre escapist world of sideshows and weird exhibitionists. ‘Come to the Fair,’ invited Ross in his abrupt, commanding way. It wasn’t the first time in her life he had invited her to the Fair, but she was caught off balance and stammered, ‘No ... no, thank you. You mustn’t feel obliged to take me anywhere.’ ‘What are you saying? Who said anything about being obliged?’ he barked, the anger back. ‘Because you think you’ve spoiled my evening you mustn’t feel obliged to take me anywhere. You don’t have to feel sorry for me,’ said Sally, her pride riding high. Exasperation twisted his mouth and glittered in his eyes and when he spoke it was quietly, dangerously, every syllable separated carefully as if he was trying to ram home a lesson. ‘Let’s get this straight. I’m not sorry for you. I don’t feel obliged to take you anywhere, as you put it, because I interrupted your evening with Mike. This happens to be the first night off I’ve had in weeks and I haven’t been to the Fair for years. I want to go and I would like your company. Is that clear?’ It was very clear. Her obstinacy overcome by the forceful beat of the words, Sally resisted no longer. I would like your company. What better invitation could she receive from anyone? Her earlier anticipation that something different would happen this evening was realised and she felt suddenly happy. She smiled. Her eyes sparkled and two dimples dented her cheeks. ‘Yes, Ross,’ she said with counterfeit meekness, ‘I’d like to go to the Fair with you. It’s quite clear to me that I daren’t refuse.’ His hands were on her shoulders and he was shaking her gently and they were both laughing. ‘Don’t get any wrong ideas about me, sweet and twenty,’ he warned humorously. ‘All my actions are governed by self-interest. I’m never sorry for anyone. Always remember that.’ Although faintly disturbed by this statement of his attitude to life Sally had no more time to ponder as for the next hour she was swept along on a wave of gaiety and laughter, riding the dodgems, sliding down the helter-skelter, trying her luck at the hoopla and winning a ridiculous pink and white fluffy dog, eating sticky candy floss and watching Ross at the rifle range, and finally failing ignominiously to hit the target at the archery stall. ‘You’re no Cupid,’ taunted Ross smugly. He had hit the bull’s-eyes three times out of five shots. ‘Well, show me how to do it,’ challenged Sally.

He paid for another five arrows and taking her bow fitted an arrow. His body at right angles to the target, his left arm held straight out at shoulder level, he held the bow in his left hand. The point of the arrow rested on the top of his clenched hand. Slowly he bent his right arm, stretching the gut of the bow until it rested in the notch at the feathered end of the arrow. He sighted along the arrow to the centre of the target. His right hand flicked, the gut twanged, the arrow sped forward and hit the bull’s-eye. With a triumphant grin he handed the bow back to Sally. ‘Quite easy. All you need is patience and a good eye. I’ll show you how to hold the bow and how to release the arrow, but you must do the sighting and watch the target yourself. If you don’t keep your eye on where you want the arrow to go, it will go wide of the mark.’ He put his hand over her left one where it held the bow. Then he put his right arm round her shoulder and placing his right hand in hers guided the gut to the right place on the arrow. He bent closer, his cheek near to hers as he looked along the arrow. Sally held her breath and tried hard to concentrate. Ten years ago his nearness would not have affected her. Now it was as if she had turned to jelly. ‘Now, direct the arrow at the centre of the target and look along it. Don’t look anywhere else ... and pull on the gut.’ He moved away carefully and she breathed again. She sighted along the arrow, saw the red centre of the target and shot. The arrow flew straight and landed quivering in the middle of the red. Lowering the bow, she turned delightedly to Ross. He was leaning nonchalantly against the side of the booth and was lighting a cigarette, apparently completely indifferent to her success. ‘I did it!’ exclaimed Sally. ‘Of course you did,’ he remarked. ‘You can do anything if you really want to.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Shoot the other arrows ... and then we must go. It’s past ten, and I want to make plans for tomorrow.’ Some of the happiness died within Sally. He’d had enough of the Fair and her company. Immediately she chided herself silently. How foolish of her to expect more than he was prepared to give. She had had this evening, and hadn’t he warned her not to get any wrong ideas about him? Facing up to the target, she shot the remaining three arrows in turn. They all fell short of the target. ‘I shot them in exactly the same way,’ Sally complained as they walked away from the bright lights and the jaunty discordant music into the purple lampshot twilight of the town. ‘No, you didn’t. You weren’t concentrating,’ he replied briefly, and she sensed his disinterest. She wanted to tell him it was his fault that she hadn’t concentrated, but decided disconsolately that he had withdrawn so far away from her that it would be a waste of breath. The hour at the Fair was over, an interlude which had possessed the same magic quality as the visit to Winterston and the drive to Glen Trool. Now he was impatient to be gone.

When they reached the fork in the road they stopped as if by mutual consent that their ways should part there. ‘Thanks for coming to the Fair with me. I enjoyed it,’ he said. He smiled at her, touched her cheek with a casual forefinger and turned away to walk swiftly down the road. Sally watched him go, saw him break into a run and angle across the road towards the hotel and disappear through its door. Then she began to walk slowly up the hill to her home, her head bowed in thought. Plans for tomorrow. Did those plans include Miriam Hunter and her niece called Lydia? Lydia who had once been someone special in Ross’s life and who was now free to marry? Sally sighed perplexedly. Her image of Ross as an unassailable individualist who had never known the weakness of falling in love was as wrong as her impression of a heedless, arrogant destroyer had been and she was beginning to realise that he was very human after all, as capable of falling in love with another man’s wife as he was of losing his temper. ‘Don’t get any wrong ideas about me,’ he had warned. Had he guessed she was full of them? But the trouble was the more her ideas were proved wrong by him the closer she was to the danger of loving him.    

  CHAPTER FOUR   next morning was flawless. A bright blue sky arched over the hills and was reflected in the smooth water. The quayside was quiet and deserted except for a solitary holidaymaker who took up his position at the south corner of the harbour wall to photograph a scene which Sally knew was a favourite with all photographers. Eventually his colour slide would show the fresh dark blue, white and red of the lifeboat, stationary at its mooring in the middle of the harbour, resting on its watery reflection; beyond it would be the bulky varnished hulls of the fishing boats and behind them the mixture of hazel, whin and blackthorn bushes which screened the sloping hill on which Rosemount stood. The

‘It’s going to be a grand day for the trip,’ said Hugh behind Sally, who had already dressed to go to sea in blue jeans and red shirt and was standing outside the front door watching for Mike. ‘Maeve hasna’ changed her mind, by any chance?’ ‘No. She says she has something better to do. Do you think if I told her where we’re going she’d come?’ ‘Na.’ He shook his head negatively, then sat down on the bench beside the porch and began to stuff tobacco into his pipe. ‘I think she’s guessed where we’re goin’ and that’s why she won’t come. But ye needna’ worry, the trip won’t be wasted. We’ll see Fergus, I hope, and between us we should be able to persuade him to come back with us. A hint about her serving in the bar at the hotel will fetch him. I’m thinkin’ he won’t like that.’ He puffed hard for several minutes. Then having got his pipe going to his satisfaction he took it out of his mouth and pointed with the stern to the opposite side of the harbour. ‘Here’s yer young friend comin’ now. He’s in no hurry this morning. A yellow Land-Rover had appeared from the Winterston road. It dawdled along past the hotel and stopped in front of the small shop which was always open on Sundays for the sale of grocery items, ice-creams and Sunday newspapers. A man stepped out of it and went into the shop. ‘That isn’t Mike,’ said Sally, and was annoyed with herself because her heart had started to beat faster than normally for the simple reason that she had no difficulty in recognising Ross as the man who had got out of the vehicle. ‘I’ll just go and see if Aunt Jessie has everything ready—’ She darted into the cool gloom of the house and went into the kitchen. Maeve was there washing up the breakfast dishes. ‘It’s a lovely day,’ she remarked. ‘Almost makes me wish I was coming with you.’ ‘Why don’t you?’ asked Sally, trying not to sound too eager. Maeve shrugged.

‘I don’t know, really. Partly because I don’t feel like standing around on a fishing boat all day watching the scenery and the gulls and listening to Aunt Madge talk about her aches and pains, and partly because I’m hoping Ross might take the day off and we might go swimming together like we used to do. He suggested it last night when he came back into the hotel ... asked me to stay around just in case he was able to organise things at the site so that he could get away.’ Plans for tomorrow. It was Maeve who was included in those plans after all and not Lydia. What was Ross trying to do? He made out that he wished Maeve was far away ... and then made plans to go swimming with her. ‘I don’t understand him,’ said Sally loudly and crossly. Maeve gave her an amused sidelong glance. ‘It isn’t difficult,’ she murmured. ‘He lives for the moment, that’s all. Past and future mean nothing to him. He does what he wants when he wants, and the devil take the consequences, and I’m beginning to think he’s right. That’s how we should live.’ ‘But it’s so selfish ... so inconsiderate,’ complained Sally. She did not hear Maeve’s reaction to her complaint because the telephone rang. ‘I’ll answer it,’ she muttered, and went out into the hall. She still felt cross because she knew that Maeve’s assessment was true in some part. But it irritated her to know that he behaved in that way with Maeve as well as with herself. Last night he had gone to the Fair because he’d wanted to go and because she had been around at the time he’d invited her to go with him. Today he might go swimming, and if Maeve was around he’d invite her to go with him. It was as simple as that ... and it irritated her. She picked up the phone. ‘Hello, Sally,’ said Mike at the other end of the line. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid. I can’t make it today. The slavedriver insists that this bulldozer be in action by this afternoon and I’ll have to stay and supervise the rest of the repairs. I hope you understand.’ ‘Och, what a pity. It’s such a lovely day.’ ‘I know, only too well, and I notice that this little inconvenience hasn’t stopped you-knowwho from taking the day off. Oh well, I suppose he’s earned it. Still, to have both Saturday night and Sunday fouled up is a bit much. What did you do last night?’ ‘Ross took me to the fairground.’ ‘He did?’ Mike sounded surprised. ‘How very avuncular or elder-brotherly of him! He probably thinks that’s the right sort of entertainment for someone of your age. Sorry I let you in for that.’ ‘There’s no need to apologise ... I enjoyed it,’ replied Sally coolly, but the implication underlying Mike’s words hurt, and when she hung up a few minutes later she reflected rather disconsolately that probably Maeve and Mike were very right. To Ross she was still an adolescent for whom he sometimes found himself responsible. The sound of a vehicle stopping outside the house caught her attention. Maeve came into the hall and said,

‘I suppose this is Mike arriving.’ ‘No, he isn’t coming. He just telephoned. He has to work.’ ‘What a shame!’ commiserated Maeve, but her sympathy did not last long. Her face lit up. ‘It must be Ross, then.’ She hurried to the open door and Sally followed her slowly, lingering hesitantly in the doorway as Ross walked up the path. ‘Good morning to ye,’ greeted Hugh. ‘And what brings ye here at this time o’ day?’ ‘I thought you might need a good experienced deck hand, or perhaps even a first mate for your intrepid voyage,’ replied Ross with a grin. ‘I must say I’ve never seen the North Channel look so calm.’ ‘Aye, I could do with someone to take a turn at the wheel. My nephew George who fishes with me is comin’, ye ken, but we really need another hand. And I was thinking, Mike might know all there is about sailing dinghies, but he’ll know nothing at all about manoeuvring a fortyton fishing boat. We’ll be glad of yer company, no need to tell you.’ Sally could tell her father was pleased by the way he puffed at his pipe. As for herself, that silly pounding of her heart had begun again. ‘But, Ross, I thought we were going swimming,’ cried Maeve, her disappointment blatant. He gave her a slow enigmatical glance. ‘We can still do that, Maeve, but since Mike can’t go today I think I’d better go in his place. He let you know, I hope, Sally?’ ‘Yes,’ she replied shortly, then added, ‘Slavedriver! This is the second time you’ve spoilt our plans.’ He stared at her seriously for a moment, then with a slight careless shrug he looked at Maeve again and smiled. ‘You’ll be coming on the

Mary Rose

too, Maeve,’ he suggested softly.

Maeve smiled back at him, obviously pleased that he wanted her to go. “Well, I’m certainly not going to stay behind here and go swimming by myself,’ she answered gaily. ‘I’ll go and change.’ Once on board the Mary Rose Sally found herself a prey to conflicting emotions. She was still cross because Mike had been unable to come and she was also extremely irritated by Ross’s behaviour. Presumably this morning he had decided he wanted to go cruising on the Mary Rose, so he was going cruising, no matter who else was inconvenienced. At the same time she was pleased because Maeve was on board and there was now a possibility of her meeting Fergus. And overall she had to admit that if Ross hadn’t decided to come Maeve would still be ashore in

Portbride. He had enticed Maeve to come. Yes, that described exactly the way he had spoken and had looked at Maeve, and that was another cause of irritation. He had no right to speak to and look at Maeve like that. ‘Castoff!’ The bow warp came hurtling towards her, thrown by the member of the crew of another fishing boat. Mary Rose sidled noisily away from her neighbours, turned so that her bow was pointed seawards and swept out of the harbour. Looking back, Sally could see her father and Ross talking together in the wheelhouse. Her father was smiling and nodding in agreement to some suggestion as his hand guided the wheel and he stared ahead, keen-eyed. Ross left the wheel-house and a few seconds later he and Maeve appeared together on the bow. They did not see Sally and leaned together on the bulwark, obviously engrossed in conversation. Feeling strangely rejected and unwanted, Sally moved aft of the wheelhouse to join her uncle Ben and his wife Madge, her cousin George and his wife Sheila and their two children. The trip was pleasant and easy. As Ross had said, the North Channel was rarely as calm as it was that day. Visibility was good and to the north it was possible to see the mountains of Arran, their jagged edges clearly defined. After half an hour the dark blue line of land towards which the boat was moving changed and became coloured shapes which represented houses and other buildings. Here and there the cylindrical shapes of water-towers perched on stilts appeared, common landmarks, rearing up above the comparatively flat green fields. Landfall made Hugh turned Mary Rose’s bow south and followed the coastline, keeping a respectful distance from the shore. And new mountains appeared, beautiful, purple and majestic, surprising, the Mountains of Moume. Suddenly the engines slowed and Mary Rose slewed round and made straight for the land. To the uninitiated it would seem as if there was no opening in the lush green rolling meadows, as if there was no harbour. But as the boat approached nearer an opening appeared, then unexpectedly it was in the midst of curling bubbling water which swept it along through a narrow passage. Gradually the passage widened out into a large loch. Engines at dead slow, the boat made fast progress on the tidal current which swept it past emerald green meadows and thick woodland. Eventually Hugh turned the wheel again and the boat swung round to point directly at the northern shore of the loch, then it moved crabwise towards its destination, a group of elegant pink, white and blue houses which were the waterfront of the small town of Dunginnis. Mary Rose was tied up at the old wooden pier from which some men and boys were doing a little lazy Sunday fishing. After arranging to meet at the boat at five-thirty to make sure of the ebb tide through the narrow entrance to the loch, Sally’s relations went off to take the bus to another town where they intended to visit friends.

‘We’ll go and see the MacGinnis straight away,’ said Hugh to Sally and Aunt Jessie.

‘What about Maeve? Won’t she be coming with us?’ asked Sally, glancing at Ross, who was busy on the pier making sure that the boat was adequately moored. Of Maeve there was no sign. Hugh shook his head and winked. ‘No, leave her. We’ll go and see how the land lies. She and Ross will follow in their own good time.’ Sally looked at him curiously. He seemed to be enjoying a secret joke, because he kept smiling to himself as they walked up the broken pier, stepping carefully to avoid having a foot trapped in one of the holes. Dunginnis was a picturesque little town. Built at the end of the eighteenth century, it possessed an elegant terrace of Georgian houses along its waterfront, which were quite out of keeping with the small cottages which straggled up the hill behind them. The MacGinnis house was at the western end of the terrace and was hard against a formidable wall which encircled the domain of the local landowner, a certain Countess for whom Noel MacGinnis, Fergus’s father, worked as harbourmaster. Noel had seen them arrive and was standing at his front door ready to welcome them. On a garden seat set against the wall of the house under a window sat Claire MacGinnis, all fifteen stone of her arrayed in a strapless sundress of varying colours. ‘Where d’ye think she got that?’ whispered Aunt Jessie to Sally. ‘It doesna’ leave much to the imagination.’ For all her outlandish style of dress Mrs. MacGinnis was a handsome, gracious woman. Built on Junoesque lines, she had a mane of black hair which was liberally sprinkled with grey and a pair of fine dark eyes. ‘Now come and sit ye down, Jessie, and ye too, Sally. Sure I’m glad to see ye both.’ She made room for them on the garden seat. It was on this seat that she held court all summer, talking ceaselessly to her neighbours or to passers-by. Never mind that the house behind her needed cleaning or that a meal needed cooking, social relations were of much more importance in the life of Claire MacGinnis, and as Hugh Johnson had once said jokingly, when you visited her you might as well throw away your watch and buy a calendar, because Claire had no sense of time. Sally herself doubted whether a calendar was any use as she had a feeling that Mrs. MacGinnis recognised only the climate, of which there were two sorts only ... fine and wet. On wet days she was forced to sit inside and watch the world of Dunginnis go by from her window. On fine days, even if they were cold, she would sit outside on the old seat, and in the winter she would wear a thick shawl and have a car rug over her knees. ‘Now then, Sally, let me look at ye,’ she said, putting out a long graceful hand and tilting Sally’s face upward. ‘I see it’s mendin’ nicely. Ye’ll never be a beauty like me youngest daughter-in-law, but ye’ve kindness in y’r eyes and in y’r heart too, and that makes up for a lot. Is Maeve with ye now? It’s time she came back. Fergus has been a terrible trouble to me since

she went away. Ach, when he came back from sea and found her gone he was terribly unkind to me ... his mother who nursed and raised him. He said it was my fault that she’d gone. How was I to know the girl wasn’t made right inside and couldn’t have children? It’s hard for a woman like me who’s raised six to understand. I’ve always been strong and I carried me children easily from start to finish ...’ She almost preened herself, and during her pause for breath Aunt Jessie, who had been sitting bolt upright on the edge of the seat, said tartly, ‘Maeve is strong enough. Treated right she’ll make a good wife to anyone. She knows how to keep house and cook, and given a chance she’ll be a good mother to any child who needs one. There are plenty of unwanted babies waiting to be adopted by the likes of her and Fergus who canna have any of their own.’ Since Claire MacGinnis was silenced for once, Aunt Jessie, after drawing a hasty breath, continued while she had a chance, ‘All this talk about carrying on the name and showing off your breeding prowess is such nonsense, Claire MacGinnis, in this day and age, I’m surprised at ye. No wonder the poor lass came runnin’ back to us!’ Sally stared wide-eyed at her aunt, thinking that she had never heard Aunt Jessie make such a long speech. Mrs. MacGinnis looked taken aback as if no one had spoken to her like that for years ... which was probably the case, for her husband Noel was a gentle, soft-spoken man and her children had learned at an early age that it was wise not to hurt their mother’s feelings. But she recovered quickly from her amazement and her charming smile appeared as she attempted to smooth Aunt Jessie. ‘Maybe you’re right, Jessie, but I can’t help feeling sad because Fergus won’t have a son of his own to carry on the name of MacGinnis.’ ‘Och, ye’d think ye were descended from the Kings of Ireland to hear ye talk,’ scoffed Jessie. ‘And anyway, haven’t ye three other sons with broods to take care of that for ye?’ ‘Ah, but ye see me sons all have daughters, and me daughters have the sons.’ ‘Well, no one can help that ... and I’m more concerned about Maeve’s future happiness than I am about the perpetuation of the MacGinnis name. Is Fergus here today?’ ‘Not yet.’ Claire turned to Sally. ‘I received your letter and wrote to him telling him ye were comin’. I’ve told you he wasn’t very nice to me when he came back from sea, and said all the trouble was caused by them livin’ here. As if I hadn’t done me best, givin’ them a room and a good bed and lettin’ Maeve do all the cookin’ and that.’ ‘It’s not right for young people to live with their parents when they’re just married,’ stated Aunt Jessie fiercely. ‘They need a place of their own until they get adjusted to each other.’ ‘A lot you know about it, and you not, married, Jessie Johnson,’ sniped Mrs. MacGinnis. ‘Now, where was I? Ah yes, Fergus said he was going to find a place for them to live, and when he’d found it he’d go and bring Maeve back to it. He’s been in lodgin’s in the city. Just think of it—my

baby in lodgin’s and not living where he’s wanted, in his mother’s house!’ ‘Has he found a place yet?’ rapped Jessie, interrupting the flow of self-pity. ‘I don’t know. But ye’ll be hearin’ for yeself. I had a postcard from him yesterday saying he’d be here on the one o’clock bus in the hopes of seein’ Maeve. I don’t see her with ye, though. Wouldn’t she come?’ ‘Aye, she’s come. She stayed on the boat, with a friend.’ ‘What is the world comin’ to? Hasn’t she the manners to come and see her mother and father-in-law? She’d rather stay with a friend!’ complained Claire. ‘Aye. He’s a good friend too, and if I were your Fergus I’d be a wee bit worried, ye ken, about losin’ my wife if I didn’t act soon.’ Sally looked sharply at Aunt Jessie, who winked at her, surprisingly enough. ‘With a man, is she? I might have known,’ said Claire with a sage nod of the head. ‘Ah, there’s the bus now.’ A single-decker bus turned the corner out of the main street and stopped by the pier. Several people descended, including a dark-haired young man who began to walk along the street towards them. He walked with the slightly rolling gait of a person used to walking on the deck of a ship at sea. He reached Hugh and Noel first, stopped and shook hands with them and seemed prepared to stay and talk to them, but Mrs. MacGinnis raised her voice and called, ‘Fergus, me son, come here!’ He approached her, bent to kiss her and allowed her to fondle his crest of thick black hair. Then straightening up he greeted Aunt Jessie gravely and smiled gently at Sally. ‘Hello, Sally. It seems to me you’ve grown up.’ His voice too was gentle, and like his smile it was at variance with his fierce piratical good looks. ‘Where’s Maeve?’ he asked, scarcely bothering to hide his eagerness to see his wife again as he glanced round with anxious black eyes. ‘Hasn’t she come?’ ‘Aye, she’s with us, lad,’ said Hugh soothingly. ‘But she stayed by the boat until we found out whether ye were here or not.’ ‘Why shouldn’t I be here?’ demanded Fergus. ‘I’ve come to see her. I want her back.’ Like his mother he had no hesitation in revealing his feelings in front of them. ‘Then why didn’t you come for her?’ questioned Hugh quietly.

‘How could I? I didn’t know she’d gone for a couple of weeks. We were busy taking that oil rig round to the North Sea, and then we had some work to do in the south. I wrote to her here, but my letters weren’t sent on to her.’ He gave his mother a fierce glance and when she would have defended herself he held up a hand to silence her. ‘No, Mother, I’ll tell my own tale. When I realised what had happened I was so upset I didn’t know what to do. But I calmed down after a while and decided it was no use bringing Maeve back here unless we had a place of our own to live in. So I set about looking for a place. It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve found a house to rent at last. I signed the lease yesterday—but it’s Maeve I should be telling, not you.’ He turned on his heels suddenly and walked away down the street to the pier, eagerness in every stride. They watched him go in silence, then Aunt Jessie breathed a sigh of relief and said with a satisfied smile, ‘Well, that’s that. It wasn’t as bad as we thought. The lad has had his problems and he’s faced up to them. It’s all going to turn out right. What a blessing Ross persuaded Maeve to come with us!’ Sally started. Ross was with Maeve. When Fergus saw them together goodness knows what he would do. The sight of another man with his wife might be just enough to trigger off his temper. Without further hesitation she jumped to her feet, prepared to run after Fergus. ‘Sally, where are ye goin’? Leave them alone!’ said Hugh in an attempt to stop her from following Fergus. ‘He ... he ... might hurt Ross,’ she blurted, wrenching her arm from his grasp. ‘Och, so that’s the way the wind is blowing,’ he commented with a twinkle, and stepped out of her way. She ran down the road swiftly and caught up with Fergus at the pier. ‘Fergus, wait!’ He swung round on her, his dark eyes sparkling with impatience. ‘Wait? Why should I wait?’ he demanded. ‘Maeve is with a friend. I’ll go and fetch her ...’ ‘What friend? What’s her friend to me? I’ll fetch her myself.’ He was on the pier and striding towards the Mary Rose before she could stop him. At that moment Sally noticed Ross leaning against the bulwark of the boat. The tide being in, the boat was riding high above the wooden platform. Maeve was standing in front of Ross and was peering at his face closely. There was a certain intimacy about their relative positions which aroused alarm in Sally so that she quickened her pace. But as Fergus approached them Maeve turned round. ‘Fergus!’ she cried, and her lovely smile lit up her face. He did not seem to hear her. His voice choked with fury, he said to Ross, “Who are you?’

Ross held out his hand and replied equably, ‘I’m Ross Lorimer.’ ‘Then stay away from my wife!’ barked Fergus. Ross straightened up, lunging away from the bulwark, and regarded Fergus warily. ‘I’ll be glad to stay away from her. But don’t you think it’s time you recognised your marital responsibilities?’ Fergus’s face went white as he reacted furiously to the sneer in Ross’s voice. The little crowd of men and boys who had been fishing, hearing the raised voices, gathered round inquisitively. ‘No!’ cried Sally, rushing to place herself in front of Ross. ‘Take Fergus home, Maeve!’ she called to heir stepsister. Maeve nodded, and pulling on Fergus’s arm whispered something in his ear. As if realising for the first time that she was really there he unclenched his fists, put his arms around her and kissed her, to a chorus of derisive hoots and whistles from the crowd. Then with a final suspicious glance at Ross he put his arm around Maeve’s waist and together they walked away towards the town, while the small group of spectators returned to their fishing. Sally turned round. Ross was leaning against the Mary Rose again. He was holding a handkerchief to his nose. Concerned, Sally went over to him and as she drew near she noticed that his handkerchief was spotted with blood and that a yellowish bruise was swelling rapidly on his cheekbone below his right eye, which was showing signs of blackening. He looked up and smiled slowly. ‘You were right about Fergus’s temper,’ he remarked. ‘What have you done to your face?’ she asked anxiously. His mouth twisted ruefully. ‘I didn’t look where I was going. I went down to look at the engine, and forgot that in some places down below the headroom is low. As I turned to come back up the companionway I caught the lintel with my head, and this is the result. Stupid thing to do ... and my nose always did have a tendency to bleed if I banged my head in any way.’ Sally gazed at him helplessly, upset because he had been hurt and she was not in any position to do anything about it. Now she knew why Maeve had been inspecting his face so closely. ‘I ran as fast as I could after Fergus,’ she found herself explaining. ‘I knew that if he saw you with Maeve he would be wild, and I was afraid he might hit you.’ He had been looking curiously at the bloodstains on his handkerchief, but at her final words he looked up suddenly and under his bright quizzical gaze she flushed and looked away defensively. ‘That was nice of you, Sally, but although he has a temper he seems able to control it. He

wouldn’t have hit me. And anyway, the whole idea was for him to see Maeve with me. Remember you told me last night that Maeve had said no one could make her come to Dunginnis to see Fergus and that he would have to come to her first? Well, I knew I could make her come here if I went about it the right way.’ He paused and dabbed at his nose again. Out on the loch a trio of motor-cruisers went by, swept up the loch on the current, and their wash made the water slap against the pier and the warps holding Mary Rose creaked and strained. ‘So last night,’ continued Ross, ‘I went to see her before she left the hotel and made a date with her for today, ostensibly to go swimming. I had a feeling Mike wouldn’t be able to go on this trip and I turned up at Rosemount to offer my services knowing full well that Maeve would come when she knew I was coming. A word with Hugh to warn him not to say anything to her about our destination and to leave us here when she refused to go ashore, and it was all fixed. Fergus did the rest. He reacted exactly as you predicted he would, and as soon as they saw each other they forgot their silly pride and the problem solved itself. Maeve forgot me as soon as she saw him.’ Sally looked at him with shining eyes. He wasn’t as selfish as she had thought, he didn’t live for the moment only. ‘You did it to help Maeve,’ she suggested hopefully. His glance was oblique and slightly mocking and he grinned unashamedly. ‘Not entirely. I did it for myself too. I can’t say I was pleased by her rather obvious attentions.’ Then as Sally’s face fell with disappointment he added, ‘I warned you not to get any wrong ideas about me.’ Sally’s disappointment was so intense that for a moment she felt rather dizzy and breathless. He meant, of course, she decided dully, that he couldn’t afford to have Maeve around embarrassing him when a woman called Lydia arrived in Portbride. Self-interest had motivated him all the time. ‘I understand,’ she said flatly. His eyes narrowed observantly. ‘I wonder if you do,’ he challenged, ‘or if that imagination of yours is working overtime again.’ Sally tilted her chin and glared at him. ‘Och, there you go again, treating me like a bairn! I understand enough to realise that you would have found Maeve’s attentions an embarrassment to you when your friend Lydia comes to stay with Mrs. Hunter. I might have known you were only thinking of yourself and not of Maeve. I daresay you’d have made no attempt to persuade Maeve to come with us today if you hadn’t heard that your friend was arriving today.’ Above the bloodstained handkerchief which he held once more to his nose Ross’s eyes widened with surprise, but before he could make any report Hugh came striding up to them. ‘Och, now, I hope there wasna’ a fight between the two of ye,’ he exclaimed concernedly

when he noticed Ross’s eye. ‘There was no fight,’ said Ross curtly, and explained in short terse sentences how he had come to damage his face. The temper which Sally had noticed for the first time the previous night was back, tautening his face and hardening his voice, ‘Well, that’s a pity,’ said Hugh. ‘But it’s all been in a good cause, lad. There are Maeve and Fergus as happy as turtle doves. Come away to the house now, both of ye. Jessie and Maeve are preparin’ the lunch, so it will be a decent meal and not one of Mother MacGinnis’s messes. Ye’ll find, Ross, that all is forgiven. Fergus isn’t one to bear a grudge. I took him aside and explained the position. He understands now.’ Ross pocketed his handkerchief and stood up straight. ‘Thanks, Hugh. I’m feeling in the need of a little understanding and forgiveness right now. They’re rather rare commodities hereabouts.’ The rasping edge to his voice made Sally flinch and she noticed her father glance curiously at her. Dejection and pain such as she had never known before welled up inside her. Ross was angry with her, and it was possible he had cause to be. In a muffled voice she muttered, ‘I’ll go on ahead and see if I can help with the meal,’ and turning away, took to her heels and ran blindly down the length of the pier. In the clear gold-shot light of a perfect summer evening the Mary Rose chugged fussily across the glittering turquoise deeps of the North Channel, leaving behind the rich emerald green fields and heading straight for the distant dark blue profile of the Galloway mountains. Up in the bow Sally leaned over the bulwark and watched the sparkling feathering bow-wave, wishing that she could become in some way a part of its perpetual merriment. The dejection she had experienced on the pier had stayed with her for the rest of the afternoon, clouding her pleasure at seeing Maeve and Fergus together again and spoiling what should have been a perfect day. The bow wave chuckled merrily, seeming to mock her, and she looked up across the bright water to the hills of home which were now taking on distinctive shapes and colours. That was another phrase from Stevenson’s poem which she had once quoted to Ross, and it was those particular hills of home which had enticed Ross back to Scotland, back into their lives to disturb and tantalise. How she wished he hadn’t come! The hills of home.

Ever since she had made the unfortunate remark about Lydia, Ross’s attitude towards her for the rest of the day had been one of cool irritation, as if he still found her the pest he had considered her to be ten years ago. And now she found herself wishing that the reference to Lydia had remained unsaid, and with the wish came a flash of self-knowledge. She was jealous of an unknown woman. And if she was really truthful with herself she had been jealous of Maeve too. As the boat approached closer to Portbride the high headland of Blackwall with its frowning cliffs of grey scarred rock became recognisable. It was the end of the ridge of rock on which Rosemount was built and it thrust out into the sea, dark and formidable, a white lighthouse at

its foot to warn the unwary of its danger. Gradually it came nearer and the entrance of the loch opened up and the boat rounded the more gentle kindlier slope of Winterston Point and following the Winterston shore made for the harbour. It was the first time Sally had had a close look at the Winterston estate since her visit to the house with Ross, and she noticed with a faint feeling of regret the rutted mud where the land had been cleared of vegetation and where the earth-moving equipment had been delving. Already there were four large round cavities in the earth ready for the erection of the tanks. Scattered about the site were yellow bulldozers and mechanical shovels looking like monsters preying on the land. Clustered together west of the house were the long construction trailers and huts which provided the living quarters and offices for the site. In contrast to them the house, whose sweeping lawns were now a morass of mud and gravel, looked forlorn and decrepit, no longer a romantic reminder of the glorious vigorous past, but simply a crumbling ruin. And as the boat passed it Sally suddenly realised that the romance and vigour was now, was in the present in the bright yellow equipment and in the men who were working on the site. ‘ “The old order changeth, yielding place to new.” That’s how it will always be, so why waste time worrying about what has been. It’s now that matters.’ Ross’s voice was quiet, but Sally had difficulty in suppressing the start which the suddenness and closeness caused. ‘When does the house come down?’ she quivered, more for something to say than out of any particular interest. ‘Towards the end of the week. Does the thought of its destruction still bother you?’ He was leaning on the bulwark beside her and his shoulder touched hers. His closeness made her quake so much that she had to move away to put an end to the contact. ‘No, not as much. It doesn’t seem quite so important any more.’ ‘Perhaps something else ... something more normal and natural has pushed it out of your mind,’ he probed. She flicked a glance at him. A yellowish-black bruise shone on his right cheekbone. It narrowed his right eye and gave his face a rakish, battered appearance. She had a longing to touch the bruise as if by doing so she could soothe it away, and it was a great effort not to raise her hand to his cheek. ‘Y ... yes, I think so,’ she replied, looking away quickly at the angular shapes of the houses of Portbride, at the tall church tower, at the huddles of fishing boats. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Ross smoothly, enigmatically, and she glanced at him again. But he had turned away to look at the town too and all she could see was the outline of forehead, cheekbone and chin above the hunch of his shoulder. This was the time and place to make amends, to apologise for her foolish words on the pier. ‘I’m sorry, Ross, for what I said ... about you and Maeve, and Lydia.’

He turned his head and looked over his shoulder at her, his blackened eye speculative. ‘Why should you be sorry for saying what you think?’ he asked. ‘It wasn’t very nice ... and it made you angry.’ He turned round to face her properly. ‘Is that the reason for the fit of the blues?’ he asked curiously. ‘You thought I was angry with you? And it mattered enough to spoil the rest of your day?’ She could only nod in reply. He frowned, and the tautness she associated with anger was back in his face. ‘Then I must apologise too. I’d no idea anything I might do or say would affect you so much,’ he said curtly. His voice roughened as he added, ‘The trouble is, you’re too young, too vulnerable ...’ He broke off abruptly and turned to look up at the quay as the noise of the engines changed and the boat sidled up to the fishing boats with little fussy spurts of noise. ‘It would have been better for you if Mike had been able to come,’ Ross continued in the same curt tone. ‘That was indirectly my fault too. But he was very much needed at the site today. It looks as if he’s finished the job though, because there he is waiting for you.’ He smiled suddenly and he patted her shoulder. ‘I’ll try to be more careful in the future, and not mess up your arrangements.’ There was a shout from Hugh and in answer Ross moved forward, grabbed the bow warp and swung over the bulwark on to the fishing boat against which Mary Rose nestled. He made the end of the warp fast, then moved aft to catch the stern line thrown to him by Cousin George. Having made that fast he shouted something to Hugh and waved his hand. Hugh shouted back and waved too, while Ross crossed over the other fishing boat and began to climb the iron ladder which was set into the harbour wall. As he reached the top of the ladder Mike appeared, tall and slim, and they talked together briefly. Then Ross had gone, disappearing from her range of vision. He had gone without another word and there was really no reason why she should see him any more. Now that Maeve had returned to Ireland there was no longer a point of contact. Even though he would still be at Winterston the possibility of their paths crossing was very remote unless he visited Hugh. Sally moved swiftly, urged by instinct. Climbing over the bulwarks, she ran across the deck of the other fishing boat and climbed the vertical ladder with the ease of long practice. ‘Did you have a good day?’ asked Mike as he put a helping hand under her elbow when she reached the top of the ladder. ‘I was wondering when you’d wake up out of your daydream and notice me.’ Sally smiled at him briefly, murmured an abstracted greeting and added urgently, ‘Where’s Ross?’

‘Over there.’ Mike jerked his head in the direction of the hotel. ‘He was all set to return to the site until I told him a certain person was waiting to see him.’ Swinging round, Sally saw Ross walking with uncharacteristic slowness towards the hotel. Walking with him was a woman with long dark hair. She was looking up at him and talking animatedly and he seemed very interested in what she was saying. ‘Who is she?’ asked Sally, trying to sound indifferent, but guessing the answer to her question. ‘Trouble with a big “T” this time. She’s Lydia Wood, the one I told you about. Wife of Ross’s one-time boss.’ ‘She’s a widow now. Her husband was killed in an accident at one of the sites,’ announced Sally. Mike blinked in surprise. ‘I’ve only just learned that fact. How do you know?’ Sally told him of the meeting with Miriam Hunter the previous evening. ‘Well, well, well,’ drawled Mike. ‘How interesting. I wonder how your sister is going to react to this?’ ‘She won’t be here. We took her back to Ireland today.’ Mike’s eyes sparkled with interest. ‘I wondered why he took the day off. How very wise! Knowing Lydia was on her way here he’d want your sister out of the way.’ ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Sally miserably. If Mike thought the same way that she did about Ross’s behaviour there must be some accuracy in her assessment. ‘I told him so, and he was very annoyed.’ ‘You told him—’ Mike began incredulously, then burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Sally, you’re a great girl! I bet he was annoyed. If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that Ross doesn’t like comments about his private life. But seriously, it’s just as well Maeve has gone, because Lydia is a cat, feline to her fingertips, and if anyone or anything comes between her and what she wants she tears them to ribbons. And now with Brian gone, I doubt if she’ll let anyone else come between her and Ross.’ Winterston House was not destroyed by the end of the week following the trip to Dunginnis. Sally knew because she looked across to the southern shores of the loch every morning to see whether it was there or not. On Saturday morning it was still standing grey and rather ghostly against the dark pines, a faded memento of the past, strangely out of place among the severe functional design of the site huts and trailers. She wondered what had happened to prevent it from being knocked down. There must be a good reason, because she knew Ross well enough now to realise he would not be easily deflected from his intention. She would ask Mike what had happened that afternoon when

they went sailing. It had been a quiet, uneventful week, almost like the weeks had been before Ross had come back. But there had been a difference, and she recognised that the difference was in herself. Only a short time ago she had been glad of the quiet monotony of her way of life in Portbride. Now she felt impatient with the routine and kept hoping something unusual and different would happen. ‘Such as finding Ross talking to Dad when it’s time for tea,’ she scolded herself scathingly, ‘or being invited to pay a midnight visit to Winterston House, or being driven into the mountains to hear the night wind rustle and the whaup cry “My heart remembers”. Och, it’s a foolish heart ye have, Sally Johnson!’ She glared at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror, slammed her hairbrush down and stalked out of the bedroom and downstairs into the kitchen. Thank goodness she was going to be busy all day and so would have little time to brood. There was a letter from Maeve. She sounded ecstatic again. Fergus had rented a small house, and as soon as they were settled in it they would be going to the adoption society. The house was perfect, the neighbourhood was perfect and Fergus was perfect. All was well in Maeve’s world again and she hoped they would all come and see her soon and bring the clothes she had left in Portbride. She had added a postscript. ‘If you see Ross ... and I expect you will... will you tell him I’m glad he made me come back. I’m beginning to realise what a nuisance I’ve been to him during the past few weeks. He’s been a good friend. I hope his eye is better now.’ What chance would there be of seeing him now? Any leisure time he might have he would spend with Lydia, who was staying with the Hunters in the house at the top of the brae, two hundred yards up the road from Rosemount. If you see Ross.

When she had learned from Aunt Jessie that the House on the Brae, the summer residence of the Dowell family from Edinburgh, had been rented by the Hunters for eighteen months Sally had experienced a curious feeling of dismay at the thought of being so close to them. Now she would have to suffer seeing Ross go by on his way to visit Lydia. So far she knew he had not been, probably because he had been busy at work. But now that the weekend was here he would be looking for diversion again, and quite naturally he would want to spend his time with the woman who had once been something special in his life. Already Sally had seen Miriam Hunter several times as she passed by in her small car. When she noticed Sally, Miriam had waved and nodded and had flashed her wide shining smile. Each time she had been accompanied by a dark-haired woman with a small pale face who had been wearing sunglasses and whom Sally assumed to be Lydia. Sally sighed as she prepared her breakfast. A lot of good staying in Portbride had done her. She had hoped that by clinging to familiar places and people she would be able to overcome the shock and depression caused by the car accident. She had hoped that by hiding in her home town she would be able to forget and ignore reality such as the reality of her scarred face. But Ross had come, surprised her and had demolished her flimsy defences. Now she had to conquer this foolish infatuation she had developed for

him. And fight it she would, telling herself that he was too old for her, too selfish. That afternoon Mike was late arriving for the race. Carrying out his instructions, Sally had the dinghy rigged and ready when he came hurrying along the quayside to the Yacht Club slip. ‘Good girl!’ he panted as they pushed the dinghy down to the water on its trolley. ‘Sorry to be so late—slavedriver’s fault. He had a meeting this morning and it went on and on and on. I thought Tom Hunter would never stop talking. All right, I’ve got her. Take the trolley back, there’s a love. I’ve a feeling in my bones we’re going to win again today. I’m in the right belligerent mood!’ There was a stiff westerly breeze and Sally had to work hard at sitting out to keep the little boat upright as they beat out against the wind towards the Winterston shore. Although they had started last they were soon overtaking the other dinghies. As Mike had said, he was in a winning mood and he made no mistakes, so that by the time they were on the second lap beating out again, they were in front of the fleet. As they surged up to the red and white marker buoy which bobbed gaily on the waves Sally could see a large yellow digger moving forward, swinging its loaded shovel round to deposit the earth in a mound near the shoreline. ‘Working on a Saturday again?’ she murmured to Mike, glancing quickly at his absorbed face which was tilted upwards as he watched the luff of the mainsail with slitted eyes. ‘Mmm. I was lucky to get away. There’s been a change of plan. That’s what the meeting was about. The other two tanks are going to be built nearer the point, so that the house can be preserved.’ ‘Oh, I’m so glad!’ Sally’s exclamation was surprised, but she stifled the rest of her questions, knowing that he disapproved of her talking while they were racing because it disturbed his concentration. When the race was over Mike allowed her to take the tiller to practise sailing the boat for herself. Pulling the mainsheet in with her right hand, Sally headed up and pointed the dinghy’s bow at Winterston again. ‘As if I hadn’t had enough of the place this week!’ grumbled Mike good-naturedly. ‘You have to come out here again!’ Relaxed after his victory, the problems of work pushed far away, he was crewing carelessly, letting the jib flap a little. The wind had died down a little and the afternoon sun was bright and dazzling on both water and sail so that Sally found it difficult to judge when she had sailed too close to the wind. ‘This place has a fascination for you, hasn’t it?’ said Mike. ‘Why?’ ‘Ever since I can remember Winterston House has been in my mind, possibly because it’s the first thing I see in the morning when I look out of my bedroom window, and always has been. And then it’s such a romantic place ... and the Wallace family were always interesting, unusual people. Do you know why it’s going to be preserved after all?’ ‘Some talk of the Fine Arts Commission changing its mind ... that fellow Dawson from the

County Council has something to do with it. Do you know him?’ So Craig hadn’t given up the fight! Sally felt a return of the admiration she had once had for his singleness of purpose. ‘He’s been down on the site by the hour this week trailing Ministry blokes round with him. Damn nuisance they’ve been too, getting in the way of the equipment. I had to warn them several times about the safety regulations. One of them was nearly grabbed by a digger. It got to the point when I was hoping one of them would get hurt to teach the rest a lesson. If I’d been resident manager I’d have told them to get off my site. But I have to hand it to Ross. He kept cool even in the face of the greatest provocation of all.’ ‘What was that?’ asked Sally. ‘Dawson had the gall to issue a warning to Ross saying that if he didn’t take more care he’d have to report him for being unnecessarily destructive.’ ‘What did Ross do?’ ‘Invited Dawson and the Ministry people to tour the site with him and point out the places where unnecessary destruction had taken place. Dawson didn’t take up the challenge, of course, knowing his accusation was unfounded. Ross has been extremely careful and very strict with the men about the trees. I doubt if anyone less would have taken so much care.’ ‘I’m glad the house won’t be destroyed,’ said Sally, looking across the water at the turrets and the latticed windows of the old building. “You’re glad!’ Mike sounded amazed. ‘You must be as crazy as Dawson, then. He was positively jubilant when he made the announcement. It isn’t safe ... and the digging hasn’t helped because some of it has been done close to the foundations. Some of the coping stones are loose and one is bound to tumble soon. I only hope someone isn’t walking nearby at the time. Ross will probably have to make it out of bounds. We have enough normal site accidents without asking for more. You can’t really like the place, Sally. It’s gruesome!’ They argued about the house all the way back to the clubhouse, a cheerful lighthearted argument because the sun was shining and they had won the race and Mike rarely took any argument seriously. It was while they were pulling the dinghy up the slip that Miriam Hunter appeared and walked towards them. ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten about the party tonight, Mike. Tom did invite you?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps you’d like to bring Sally with you.’ ‘No, I hadn’t forgotten, thanks, Miriam. I meant to call you and ask if I could bring Sally ... but I just haven’t had a minute to spare this week. It’s been pretty gruelling.’ ‘Yes, so Tom says.’ Evidently Ross had been putting on the pressure for some reason. ‘All the more reason to come and relax and enjoy yourself tonight,’ beamed Miriam. ‘I’ve met your aunt and your father, Sally, this afternoon. We had such an interesting chat about Portbride. I love to know all about a place and to get involved with the local people. Your aunt has promised to take me to a rural meeting as soon as they start up again next month.’

‘Oh lord, there she goes!’ murmured Mike wickedly. ‘Don’t let her join, Sally. She’ll be organising everyone and everything before you can turn round. ‘Naughty, naughty Mike!’ reprimanded Miriam, but she didn’t seem a bit disturbed by his comment. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you both later. I’d like you to meet Lydia, Sally. I’m afraid she might find it dull here, so I want her to meet some young people. It’ll be quite informal ... just a few friends for drinks and a buffet supper.’ She went off, smoothly sculptured in her close-fitting white dress, picking her way through the dinghies which were parked on the slip with a smile and a word for everyone she passed even though they were strangers. ‘I wonder what she really thinks, really feels?’ mused Sally as she watched Miriam. ‘Believe me, she has no feelings and she never thinks in the way you mean. All she does is plan. She plans parties and other people’s lives. She’s probably mapped out your future already. And I have a hunch that this little get-together is really to bring Lydia and Ross together again ... publicly, so that no one on the site or in Portbride will be in any doubt that Lydia is now a widow and is free to marry again ... and that Ross is the target.’ ‘Oh. What shall I wear?’ Sally asked, in order to change the subject. He grinned down at her. ‘Is it so important? Go as you are, all windblown, with tanned cheeks and bright eyes, and you’ll make the other women seem like overdressed dolls.’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ scoffed Sally, unimpressed as usual by his oblique compliment. ‘I mean what sort of dress should I wear? I’ve never been invited for drinks and a buffet supper before.’ ‘Then it’s rather a pity to spoil your innocence about such affairs. It would be safer not to take you ...’ ‘But I want to go Mike, please!’ she pleaded, afraid he might suggest going somewhere else, and then she wouldn’t see Ross. ‘Such eagerness! I wonder why?’ His glance was mocking. ‘All right, we’ll go. A good reason for going is that Miriam is one of the best cooks I know, and I’m willing to put up with all the silly conversation just to eat one of her shrimp cocktails! Why not wear that green thing you wore last week for the dance we didn’t go to?’ Later that evening Sally dressed in the ‘green thing’ and prepared for Miriam’s party. Three months ago she would not have even thought about attending such a party where there would be so many strangers present to stare at her and wonder about the scar. That was not to say she wasn’t slightly nervous now, and she had to admit she couldn’t have gone alone. But Mike would be with her, kind happy-go-lucky Mike who had accepted her as she was without question from their first meeting, when they had been introduced to each other by Ross. She scowled as she remembered the meeting and Ross’s mocking manner as he had told Mike all about her. Would Mike have ever noticed her if Ross hadn’t introduced her to him? The question often niggled at the back of her mind when she was out with Mike, when it seemed to her that perhaps he accepted her too easily, ignored the scar too blandly. Was it

possible he took her out and about with him because his slavedriver had ordered him to do so? It wasn’t a charitable thought to have about the young man who had done so much to restore her self-confidence, and Sally dismissed it from her mind as she concentrated on looking her best for the evening. The scar had faded very little and pallid puckers were still ridged against the tan which outdoor activity had brought to her cheeks. But her face was regaining its normal fullness and her figure had filled out slightly too so that she was no longer reed-thin and shapeless. The green dress was plain and sleeveless and its colour set off her tan and the green flecks in her hazel eyes and also played up the reddish glints in her thick smooth hair. More pleased with her appearance than she had been for months, Sally set out with Mike for the House on the Brae feeling fairly confident. Under the new-found confidence bubbled the old familiar excited anticipation which she knew was caused by the soft, romantic summer evening. The wind had gone and the sea was flat, glinting with sapphire light which contrasted sharply with the dark blue line of land on the horizon. To the north the blunt outline of the Mull of Kintyre was clearly lined against the blue rose-streaked sky, and on the shimmering sea the cone of Ailsa Craig seemed to float, a lonely island and a landmark for miles around. Below in the harbour dinghies were busy carrying the crews of some visiting yachts to the shore. A row of boys stood motionless at the end of the harbour wall holding fishing rods. Occasionally one of them would move, flicking his line out of the water, so that a wriggling fish could be removed from the hook and thrown into a basket. The House on the Brae was an old house built during the nineteenth century by a retired sea captain. It was made of grey sandstone and had a steeply sloping roof from which protruded two dormer windows at the front and one at the back. Downstairs a fine bay window commanded a beautiful view of the harbour and opposite shore of the sea-loch. At one side of the house, which faced west, the Dowells had built an enclosed veranda or patio which was really an extension of the dining room, from which it was possible to enjoy the more extensive views of the sea and the distant landfalls while remaining completely sheltered. It was into this veranda that Miriam led Sally and Mike when they arrived. There they found several couples already seated or standing, talking and enjoying aperitifs. ‘First of all I want you to meet Lydia,’ said Miriam, taking Sally by the arm in a motherly fashion and guiding her over to a chair in which a small woman sat. ‘Lydia, this is our young neighbour, Sally Johnson. You know Mike, of course.’ Lydia’s beauty was cool and classical, completely different from the natural flamboyant beauty of Maeve. Her pale face was framed by straight black hair which hung down to her shoulders from a centre parting. Her features were small, neat and regular. Her bow-shaped mouth opened to reveal small sharp teeth when she smiled and her large light grey eyes, framed by long black lashes, never seemed to blink. She was wearing a plain black dress of a soft material which clung to every curve of her sinuous body. Round her neck were three strands of pearls. Gazing at her, slightly awed, Sally decided she had never seen anyone so sophisticated, and she felt suddenly dull, uninteresting and awkward. ‘Pleased to meet you, Sally. Hello, Mike, nice to see you again. I was watching you both sailing this afternoon. I was very envious. The weather seemed ideal.’ Her voice was lazy and purring.

“You know Craig, I expect, Sally ... and you too, Mike? He’s being so kind and attentive.’ Craig Dawson with Lydia Wood. Sally could scarcely conceal her surprise as she glanced up at Craig, who was standing close to Lydia’s chair. He smiled and nodded to her. ‘Well, Sally. Have you heard the latest on Winterston?’ he asked. ‘I’ve won the fight to preserve it.’ His barely concealed triumph irritated her. ‘Yes, Mike told me this afternoon. I’m glad.’ ‘I thought you might be.’ “What’s this?’ Lydia sounded interested. ‘Have you done something clever, Craig? You know, I simply adore clever men.’ Pleased by her subtle flattery, he started to explain to her, but Mike interrupted quickly and said, ‘He’s been clever enough to save a house which is about to tumble down ... an out-and-out ruin which has already been condemned once and which the owner was glad to be rid of.’ ‘You mean that lovely old mansion I can see from here?’ queried Lydia, pointing with her glass. They all turned to look across the water to where the windows of Winterston House reflected the red and gold of the setting sun. ‘I hate to see the destruction of such places. In spite of the fact that you’ll probably disapprove, Mike ... and I just daren’t let Uncle Tom hear me ... I think it’s a great pity that that particular site was chosen to build the tanks.’ Craig smiled down at her approvingly. ‘Old houses have such a wonderful atmosphere,’ went on Lydia. ‘I’d love to visit it. No chance, I suppose?’ ‘I’m sure it could be arranged,’ said Craig smoothly. ‘As you say, not a chance,’ put in Mike. ‘Ross has put it out of bounds for everyone on the site.’ ‘Ross has?’ For the first time in the conversation Lydia’s voice ceased to sound lazy. ‘That’s interesting. I don’t think I’ll have much difficulty in persuading him to let me see it. Ross and I are old friends, you see,’ she explained to Craig. ‘I see,’ he said rather stiffly. ‘You don’t like him,’ observed Lydia shrewdly. ‘No, I don’t. He once did me a disservice,’ replied Craig, still stiff. ‘Oh, you’ve met him before?’ ‘He used to live here. In fact the house over there was his for a short time before he sold it to the Government.’

‘Well, I’m learning all the time. I didn’t know Ross was landed gentry.’ Lydia turned her wide unblinking eyes upon Sally. ‘Did you know Ross when he lived here?’ she asked. ‘Yes. He used to go fishing with my father.’ ‘Hello, hello, hello, glad to see you here, Mike ... you too, Craig. And who is this? Someone I haven’t met?’ The speaker was a big kindly-faced man with greying hair and twinkling blue eyes. Mike introduced him to Sally as Tom Hunter. ‘Uncle Tom, did you know that Ross used to live in that house over there, and that he inherited it?’ said Lydia. ‘Not until today. Now, Sally, I believe you’re a neighbour of mine, so we must get to know each other. Come into the lounge with me and talk while I get these people another drink.’ ‘Careful, Sally,’ warned Mike jocularly. ‘He’s the world’s greatest flirt!’ More people arrived, mostly connected with the site, although Sally was surprised to see her boss, Mr. Miller, as well as Colonel Parker, one of the town councillors. Tom and Miriam seemed to be a very social couple, adept at putting their guests at ease with the right word. Eventually Tom led Sally back into the veranda where the self-possessed Lydia was holding court of which Craig and Mike were still members. ‘Everyone has arrived now, dear,’ said Miriam, coming up to Tom, ‘so I think we can eat. Everyone except Ross. You did remember to invite him, I suppose?’ She eyed her husband closely while he answered in a rather blustering manner as if he had been caught out doing something he shouldn’t. ‘Yes, of course I did.’ ‘And he accepted the invitation?’ Tom looked rather defeated. ‘To tell you the truth, Miriam, I’m not sure. He was ... er ... er ... non-committal. He’s had a lot to do this week and has not been exactly approachable from a social point of view. I haven’t had much time to speak to him—’ Aware that his wife was looking at him in a pitying manner, Tom turned to Mike and said, ‘Do you know if Ross is coming tonight?’ ‘No,’ replied Mike. ‘As you know, he’s been slavedriving.’ ‘If he doesn’t come,’ Lydia said, her deep purring voice suddenly plaintive, ‘I shall begin to think he’s avoiding me. Three years is a long time.’ Small, defenceless, she sat on the edge of her chair, her eyes downcast as she twiddled the wedding ring round on her finger. The uncomfortable little silence was broken by Tom, who

cleared his throat gruffly and placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, offered sympathy. ‘Now, now, Lyddy, you mustn’t think like that. Ross has been busy. He’ll come about, he’ll come about. Suppose we all go in and join the rest of our guests before they eat all of that wonderful supper Miriam has prepared?’    

  CHAPTER FIVE   As Mike had said, Miriam was a good cook, and the food, served buffet style, was superb, but although she enjoyed the meal and enjoyed talking to the various people she met, Sally found herself watching the door for Ross’s arrival. ‘You keep looking at the door,’ purred Lydia. ‘Are you expecting someone ... Ross, perhaps?’ Sally turned to look into light grey eyes which were wide and strangely blank. Under the bland gaze she could not help the pink colour from stealing up her neck and into her cheeks, and wished she had not been holding her dessert dish in one hand and her spoon in another, because then she could have put a hand up to hide her scarred cheek. With an effort she stopped herself from running away and decided to answer truthfully. ‘Yes, I hoped he might be here. I have a message from my sister for him.’ ‘Your sister? Oh, I haven’t heard of her,’ remarked Lydia, a faint annoyed frown marring her face. ‘Does she live here?’ ‘Not now. She’s gone back to Ireland, but she was here when Ross returned. She and he are old friends too.’ The grey eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘And are you and Ross friends too?’ ‘I suppose we are, in a way. But he only thinks of me as Maeve’s little sister.’ ‘But you’re attracted to him?’ persisted Lydia with a knowledgeable nod. ‘Yes, I think I can guess how Ross would treat you, in a kindly way but with a firm hand. He’d be interested in you because you’ve been hurt and he would try to help you ... rather like he was interested in a poodle puppy of mine which was hurt once. As soon as it recovered he lost interest.’ The chocolate mousse which Sally was eating lost its flavour and she placed the plate on the nearby table. ‘Ross and I met in Malta,’ continued Lydia. ‘We fell in love, but unfortunately I was married. I would have wangled a divorce somehow, but Ross decided to behave honourably and he put in for a transfer. Now I’m free and I’m hoping he hasn’t changed his mind about me.’ Sally longed to escape. She didn’t want to hear any more. She did not want to listen any longer to a woman who could dismiss the death of her husband so briefly and coldly. But she was rooted to the spot, fascinated by the gaze of the empty grey eyes. ‘When I first heard about you from Miriam,’ said Lydia in a very confidential manner, ‘I was

worried. I thought you might have been capable of changing his mind. But now I’ve met you I can see you aren’t the type to make much impression on him. Ross likes women to be poised and to know all the answers. You seem to be just a little wet behind the ears.’ ‘Thank you,’ said Sally stiffly, furiously. Lydia smiled with some of her aunt’s flashing brilliance. ‘Now I’ve hurt your feelings. I’m sorry. It’s a bad habit I have. But maybe my frankness will help you to get over your infatuation more easily. Ross will be moving on soon. He’s very ambitious, and has a certain amount of pull with the company. And now I must leave you and go and talk to someone else. Aunt Miriam is a stickler for etiquette, you know, and she thinks it’s very bad form if you stay talking to one person for too long at one of these parties.’ It wasn’t easy to escape from the party, because Mike was enjoying himself and didn’t want to leave. In the end, however, Sally persuaded him that although she didn’t feel well enough to stay there was no need for him to leave. Miriam and Tom, to give them their due, were more concerned about her desire to leave alone, but they did not attempt to persuade her to stay, and at last Sally escaped into the cool dark blue night and hurried down the hill to her home. After Lydia’s attack she wanted to hide away from everyone. How she wished she hadn’t gone to the party! She had set off in a confident, anticipatory mood and was returning home torn and rejected. If only Ross had been there maybe Lydia would not have been so spiteful and possibly Mike would have stayed by her side under the watchful eyes of his ‘slavedriver’. Why hadn’t he been there? A busy week, Tom Hunter had said. Yes, she could imagine Ross driving himself and everyone else to achieve his objective, working flat out, ignoring all invitations to be sociable. He would be sociable in his own time and in his own way. She unlatched the garden gate and ran up the path to Rosemount. The warmth of her home enfolded her and she felt comforted immediately. She opened the living room door and stood stock still. Sitting at the table opposite to her father, leaning over the chessboard, was Ross. His tweed jacket was off, the knot of his tie was loosened and his hair was rumpled. Hugh was concentrating hard, his shoulders hunched as he contemplated the few remaining pieces on the board. He puffed briskly at his pipe—a sure sign that he was thinking deeply. Only the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece disturbed the silence of the homely room. It was a pleasant silence, the sort which can only exist between two people who like and respect each other, and Sally hesitated to break it. But curiosity plus exasperation were difficult to restrain. ‘Of all the nerve!’ she burst out, thinking of the people who were expecting him at the party and all the time he had been sitting here. He looked up, put a finger to his lips and said ‘shush!’ At that moment Hugh made his move and Sally, giving Ross what she hoped was a haughty glance, walked across the room and looked down at the chessboard. She could see that in a few moves her father would soon have Ross’s king checkmated and she stood by the table watching until the moves were made and the game ended.

Hugh sat back, rubbing his hands together with glee. ‘I thought for a few minutes ye had me beaten, ye devil!’ he chortled. Ross shook his head. ‘Not tonight, not this week. It isn’t my week for winning,’ he remarked. ‘Well, lass, did ye have a good time up yonder?’ asked Hugh, turning to his daughter. ‘Ye’re back earlier than I expected. Jessie’s gone over to Sheila’s place to stay the night. The bairn is on its way and Sheila has gone to the hospital.’ His bright hazel eyes narrowed as he studied Sally’s face and she touched the scar without knowing that she did so. Hugh glanced across at Ross, who was putting the chessmen away, and rose to his feet. ‘I’ve been glad of your company, lad. We’ll have the return game another time.’ He collected his pipe and matches, considered them silently for a moment, then said firmly, ‘See that y’r not too late to bed, Sally. Goodnight to ye both.’ ‘Goodnight,’ murmured Ross, who was still intent on arranging the chess pieces. ‘Goodnight, Father,’ said Sally absently, as she watched Ross. As soon as the door closed behind her father she hissed, ‘Why are you here?’ Ross placed the lid on the chess box, leaned back in his chair and grinned up at her. ‘Why shouldn’t I be here?’ he enquired blandly. ‘You were invited to Miriam’s party.’ ‘I was, but I’m not aware that I accepted the invitation. Was it a good party?’ Sally pulled the chair from the table, sat down on it and stared at him helplessly. He was always so unrepentant, so unashamed. He returned her stare steadily, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. ‘No ... well, I don’t think so. That’s why I came home early. Lydia was there. She was quite upset when you didn’t turn up.’ ‘I thought she might be,’ he commented coolly. ‘Then you planned deliberately not to go,’ she accused. ‘I didn’t go because I didn’t want to go. I dislike Miriam’s parties—too much social climbing and gossip. Also I rather enjoy thwarting Miriam’s attempts to organise my life. I prefer to make my own arrangements to see Lydia and when I see her it will be privately without a crowd of bystanders. Did Mike leave with you?’ ‘No, I came back alone.’ He looked at her sharply, so she rushed on with another question, afraid that he might enquire too much about the party. ‘Why did you come here?’

‘I met your father on the quayside. I was taking a walk and looking at the fishing boats. He told me where you’d gone, and that Aunt Jessie had been called to your cousin’s house. He seemed in very low spirits, so when he invited me for a game of chess I could hardly refuse. I thought I’d be gone before you returned. Does he often get depressed?’ ‘Yes, since Mother died,’ replied Sally. A floorboard creaked overhead as Hugh moved about his room. He had gone to bed leaving her downstairs alone with a man, an unprecedented action in this house where old- fashioned rules were still kept. With her thought her glance had strayed to the ceiling and as she looked down again she noticed Ross lounging indolently, watching her with that bright intent gaze which belied his indolence. ‘Dad has gone to bed,’ she faltered. ‘So he informed us. Apparently he has more tact now than he had ten years ago,’ remarked Ross dryly. ‘More tact? In what way?’ ‘Ten years ago he wouldn’t have left Maeve and me alone down here at this hour of night.’ ‘Oh!’ she gasped ... and blushed. Recovering as quickly as possible, she sat up straight and said coldly, ‘The circumstances then were different.’ ‘How were they different?’ he challenged. ‘Well, you and Maeve were ... were...’ She noticed suddenly that he was smiling at her and continued hotly, ‘He probably had good reason to stay in the same room as both of you.’ Ross raised his eyebrows. ‘You have a point there,’ he conceded smoothly. ‘Maeve was difficult to handle even at seventeen. I’m glad for her sake that she met Fergus. He seems to know how to keep her in order. Have you heard anything from them since last Sunday?’ Grateful for the return to safer ground, Sally quoted Maeve’s message. ‘She hopes your eye is better. Is it?’ she asked. His method of answering was unexpected. Leaning across the corner of the table which separated them, he said, ‘See for yourself.’ Sally had to lean forward too to look closely at his left eye. The bruise had lost its puffiness and all that remained was a yellowish-black shadow under the eye, the white of which was still slightly bloodshot, giving his face a somewhat dissipated appearance. ‘It looks much better,’ she said seriously. ‘Has it been painful?’ ‘Thanks for asking. It hasn’t made a difficult week any easier,’ he remarked sardonically, and it

was then that she realised that only inches separated their faces. The sudden silence in the room was not the comfortable relaxed silence of twenty minutes ago when she had entered the room. It seemed to sizzle with tension. Anyone coming into the room and seeing them would think they were about to kiss. The thought had hardly crystallised in Sally’s mind when she was swept by a depth-shaking desire to be kissed, to feel that determined mouth on hers, obliterating conscious thought and rousing her senses. She sat back quickly out of range, glancing stealthily over her shoulder to make sure no one was at the door and hoping that Ross hadn’t noticed anything unusual in her reaction. Her hope was in vain. He laughed, and rising to his feet observed derisively, ‘Perhaps the circumstances aren’t so different after all. In the absence of Hugh I’d better exercise a little self-restraint and go.’ Still shaken by her own behaviour, Sally watched him shrug into his jacket, straighten his tie and push an unruly lock of hair back from his forehead in a half-hearted effort to tidy it. ‘Did Maeve have anything to tell you?’ he asked carelessly, breaking the tension with a harmless enough question. ‘Yes,’ croaked Sally. ‘She likes the house and her new neighbours. As soon as they’re settled in she and Fergus are going to an adoption society for an interview.’ ‘A husband, a house and a baby,’ commented Ross musingly. ‘Maeve’s ambitions have been very simple really ... and now she’s near to achieving them. Is that what you would like too, Sally? Marriage and all that goes with it?’ This time the question was not so idle. He had moved round the table and was standing beside her. Disturbed by his nearness as well as by the question, Sally looked up. ‘I don’t know,’ she stammered, and her hand went to the scar on her cheek. ‘I haven’t thought about it.’ ‘You haven’t thought about marriage?’ He sounded surprised. Sally shook her head and wished he would go. Her wish wasn’t granted. Instead he squatted down before her, placed a firm hand upon her wrist and pulled her hand away from her cheek. ‘I thought you were getting out of that bad habit,’ he scolded. Deprived of her shield, too close to him again for comfort, Sally lowered her eyes, unable to return his intent gaze. ‘Surely all girls plan and scheme for marriage from the time they’re able to string two thoughts together,’ he said with a touch of cynicism. ‘Why haven’t you?’

‘That’s not true,’ flared Sally. ‘Girls don’t plan and scheme all the time. Scheming and planning have nothing to do with love.’ Her eyes glinting angrily, she faced up to his gaze, only to be completely confused by his smile. ‘You think love has to do with marriage?’ he probed. ‘Yes, I do,’ asserted Sally. Then she realised that her hand was still in his, so she pulled it out of his grasp and looked determinedly at the green chenille tablecloth which protected the fine old polished table. ‘I assume then that you haven’t thought about marriage because you aren’t in love with anyone,’ said Ross. She flashed him a wary look to see if he was making fun. He was still squatting in front of her supporting himself with one hand on the table and one hand on the side of her chair. His blue eyes were quite serious under dark, slightly frowning eyebrows. ‘Not even with Craig Dawson?’ he persisted. Surprise arched Sally’s eyebrows and she answered spontaneously without thought, ‘No. I was never in love with him. I was only interested in him because he cared about Winterston House. But ...’ She paused and her hand went to her cheek again as she recalled the way in which Craig’s glance always flinched away from the sight of her scar. Once more her hand was removed forcibly from her face. ‘Stop it!’ ordered Ross. ‘Don’t you realise that whoever loves you truly won’t care about it?’ he added softly. For a silent moment as she returned his gaze Sally felt that she was on the verge of making a momentous discovery. But fear held her back, fear of being hurt, and she withdrew her hand from his again and looked away. He stood up and leaned against the table. ‘What about Mike?’ he asked abruptly. ‘I like him very much. We have a lot of fun together,’ replied Sally mechanically, her thoughts chaotic, and she tried to find a reason for his searching personal questions. ‘But I haven’t known him for very long, and he’s already said he doesn’t want to marry a girl just to leave her behind while he goes off to the other side of the world to work.’ ‘He could take her with him, like Tom Hunter has taken Miriam?’ Sally thought of Miriam, busy, busy, smiling, smiling, organising everyone. ‘Would you like your wife to become like Miriam?’ she challenged. ‘I haven’t a wife,’ he replied with a grin, side-stepping the question neatly. ‘Och, you know what I mean. If you had a wife would you like her to grow into a busybody,

trying to fill in her time in strange places, knowing that she daren’t put down roots because they’ll only have to be pulled up again?’ He considered her question silently for a few seconds before answering. ‘No, I wouldn’t like my wife to become like Lydia,’ he said at last. ‘On the other hand, like Mike, I wouldn’t want to leave her behind. So it would seem that marriage is not for me, unless I can find someone exceptional.’ ‘But you’re going to marry Lydia!’ exclaimed Sally. ‘Am I?’ His voice was dangerously quiet, warning her to take care about what she said. ‘Yes. She told me tonight that she thought of divorcing her husband because she loved you, and because you loved her and wanted to marry her.’ ‘Her desire for a divorce had nothing to do with me,’ he replied coldly. ‘Then why did you ask for a transfer? Why did you leave that site?’ questioned Sally, thoroughly puzzled. ‘You did have a good party, didn’t you?’ he jibed nastily. ‘Did you enjoy stirring the mud with the others?’ ‘I didn’t!’ To her annoyance tears sprang to Sally’s eyes as she searched vainly for words to convince him that she hadn’t sought information about him willingly. ‘I couldn’t help knowing. It was Lydia. She made me listen to her.’ ‘I see. I wonder what she hoped to achieve. Perhaps she thinks you have designs on me. But she’s wrong, isn’t she, Sally? I hope you told her so.’ Thoroughly confused by his jibes, Sally sat still, her face white as she stared down at her hands which twisted together in her lap. ‘To keep the record straight, I’d better tell you my side of the story,’ continued Ross. ‘Brian Wood happened to be a good friend of mine. I left the site because it was the only thing I could do to avoid a scandal.’ ‘Thank you for telling me,’ Sally replied stiffly. ‘I think I understand now.’ ‘I hope you do. Lydia isn’t a particularly kind person and she’s really taken it out on you ... I can see that now. Mike should never have taken you to the party, or he should have stayed with you and protected you,’ he said critically. ‘She wouldn’t have said anything if you’d been there,’ defended Sally. ‘She was worried when you didn’t arrive. She wonders whether three years has been too long, whether you have changed your mind about her. Have you, Ross?’ ‘Maybe. Remember, “In delay there lies no plenty.” ’ Sally remembered. She remembered the rest too, and felt suddenly desolated by the knowledge that Ross lived only for the present, that he did not expect love to last. Her feelings

must have shown in her face, because he leaned forward and touched her cheek gently, laying the palm of his hand against it in an odd gesture of comfort. ‘You’re too sensitive. Why worry about Lydia? I can assure you she wouldn’t give a damn about you. Sally, look at me.’ His hand moved caressingly, stroking her cheek, smoothing the scar. The tender caressing note in his voice was almost her undoing. If she looked up she would be lost. He would kiss her, and then goodness know what would happen. ‘Don’t,’ she cried. ‘Don’t touch me! Go away!’ He removed his hand at once. ‘What’s the matter? Does it hurt?’ ‘Och, no, no. Go away, oh, please go away!’ The ticking of the clock was very loud again and overhead a floorboard creaked. ‘You say that so emphatically that I’m beginning to believe you mean it,’ said Ross, at his driest. ‘I’ll go. I shouldn’t have stayed so long.’  

  CHAPTER SIX   arrived too late to take part in the Tuesday night race during the week following Miriam’s party. His expressive face twisted into a wry smile as he stood with Sally outside the Club House and watched the dinghies slipping silently away into the light of the westering sun, their terylene sails filtering yellow light as they tilted over in the breeze. Mike

‘Such are the joys of responsibility. I always hoped for promotion some day, but I must say having to take over the duties of site manager at short notice has its drawbacks,’ he observed. ‘But what’s happened to Ross?’ asked Sally, suddenly anxious. ‘Didn’t he tell you? Head office sent for him. He left on Sunday. What shall we do? Go for a sail by ourselves, or sit here and relax, or go for a walk?’ ‘Let’s sit here and relax, and watch the harbour. It’s always interesting.’ Mike sprawled in a canvas chair and yawned suddenly. ‘Sorry, Sally,’ he apologised with a rueful grin. ‘But after two days of doing Ross’s work I’m exhausted, and my respect for him knows no bounds. To be a site boss you have to have the hide of a bullock, the tact of a diplomat and the deviousness of a politician. It seems to me that everyone is out to pull you down ... the client, the sub-contractors, the consultant and even your own employer and employees. Ah well, I expect I’ll survive.’ ‘I’m sure you will,’ murmured Sally as she watched a speedboat cavorting about the sea-loch pulling a water-skier after it. Ross had gone away at last, so she should feel relieved. But instead a dreadful feeling of desolation was creeping over her. ‘It’s rather ironical, though, that Ross should be asked to go to another site just as Lydia turned up,’ Mike was saying. ‘I thought you’d said he’d been called to Head Office,’ said Sally, her attention caught. ‘I did. He went there to get instructions before going on to a new site which the company have in South Wales. Evidently the site boss there has been having trouble, and since everything is moving smoothly here, Ross has been asked to go and sort them out down there.’ ‘How long will he be there?’ ‘A month, perhaps. It depends on what kind of a mess they’re in.’ ‘Will he return here?’ ‘I’d like to think that he won’t have to. Now that I have a job in the saddle, I intend to stay there. There’ll be no cause for complaint while I’m boss. Come to think of it, I wonder ... ’

Mike’s voice broke off and his eyes narrowed as he watched the sunlight twinkle on an aeroplane high up in the blue sky. ‘What do you wonder?’ prompted Sally. ‘I wonder if Craig Dawson did lodge a complaint about Ross ... and did manage to have him removed from the site.’ He shook his head slowly negatively and answered his own question since Sally had none forthcoming. ‘No. It’s scarcely credible, knowing how much faith the company has in Ross’s abilities. I wish he’d managed to knock the house down before I took over. It’s the biggest headache I have right now.’ ‘You really believe it’s going to fall down, don’t you?’ said Sally. ‘I know it is. I’m trying to get permission to put some supports against the west wall. But everything has to be done through Dawson and at the moment he’s more interested in making an impression on a certain person.’ “You mean Lydia?’ queried Sally. ‘I do. All part of working off his grudge against Ross, I suppose.’ Mike sighed suddenly and contentedly. ‘You know it’s nice having you around to talk to ... possibly because you have no connections with the site. But now it’s your turn. What exciting events have been happening in Portbride since I last saw you?’ The evening passed pleasantly as it always did with Mike, and Sally was able to ignore the queer ache in her heart that the news of Ross’s departure had caused. For the first time in their acquaintance Mike kissed her goodnight. His kiss, like himself, was pleasant and undemanding. He promised he would call her to make arrangements for Saturday, but Saturday came and he was unable to go sailing as he had been called away to his home in London. In spite of the good weather and a trip in the Mary Rose to Lamlash on the Isle of Arran, the weekend dragged for Sally. So did the following week, and when the weekend approached again without any message from Mike her spirits slumped completely. Lydia was still staying at the Hunters’. Sally saw her occasionally when she passed by either with Miriam or with Craig. Craig was a frequent visitor to the House on the Brae, a fact which did not surprise Sally when she remembered the attention he had paid to the lovely widow at the Hunters’ party. And she could not blame Lydia for going about with him. After all, she must be missing Ross ... Yet a persistent thought that Lydia could have followed Ross to Wales if she had so wished nagged at the back of her mind and she longed to know why the woman was still in Portbride. She found the answer one day when she was returning from a walk. Three weeks had passed since Ross had left and August was almost at an end. They had been three weeks of settled weather and Sally had spent many an evening walking. This particular evening she had chosen to go through the gate in the back garden of

Rosemount on to the main road which went north. The road curved inland away from the coast, although a few miles further along it would come close to the sea again. A slight breeze stirred the bracken fronds and tall grasses which bordered the road. Soon a white five- barred gate appeared in the stone dyke. Sally opened it and passed through, making sure it was fastened securely again so that the Ayrshire heifers who stopped their munching to stare at her with doleful brown eyes would not stray out of the field. The grass in the meadow was short but lush and scattered among it were clumps of mustard, little islands of bright frothy yellow. As she made for the northerly edge of the field Sally’s country quick eyes noted the pink of campions and the blue of speedwell among the longer rougher grass. The edge of the field was guarded by a barbed, wire fence and beyond the fence the land fell away in a crumbling cliff to the sea which advanced and retreated endlessly, creaming round the rocky shore of a small sheltered inlet. On the opposite shore of the inlet the land rose more gently. A flight of stone steps wound up the slope to a white cottage, a simple affair with a slate roof and two windows set on either side of a plain door. For a while Sally watched the repetitive movement of the water, and while she watched she found herself thinking about Aunt Jessie’s story concerning Helen Lorimer, Ross’s mother, who had been Miss Wallace’s only cousin. Helen had lived at Winterston with Miss Wallace until she had met and married a roving engineer Alec Lorimer, whose work had kept him on the move. Helen had travelled with him until the war had started in Europe and then she had come back to live at Winterston bringing her three-year-old son Ross with her while her husband joined the Army. Apparently some friction had existed between the two cousins, caused possibly by jealousy, so Aunt Jessie surmised, because Miss Wallace had hoped to marry Alec Lorimer herself ... before her talented, capricious cousin had cut her out. However, when William Wallace had been killed at the battle of Dunkirk and Alec Lorimer had been taken as a prisoner of war, Miss Wallace had relented and had offered her cousin a home. ‘It was Ross she was interested in, ye ken,’ Aunt Jessie had said. ‘She knew fine she would never marry. Her brother was dead. Who was there to inherit the estate? Only Ross, the son of the man she had loved and her cousin who was also a Wallace. And she was determined that he should live at Winterston and be brought up in a way befitting a Wallace. ‘Lord knows what went on in that house during those two years before Helen’s body was found washed up on the shore of Gimlet Bay. The verdict was suicide. And Miss Wallace had the boy to herself.’ Evidently Alec Lorimer had not argued with the arrangement when he had returned from the war and had gone off on his wanderings again leaving his son with his wife’s cousin, and when he had been killed in an accident Miss Wallace had automatically become Ross’s legal guardian. With such a childhood and youth it was not surprising Ross had some strange attitudes, mused Sally as she continued to watch the water lap the little patch of sand where Helen Larimer’s body had once lain, and possibly his experiences accounted for his consistent refusal to look beyond the moment.

Nothing is for ever, he had told Maeve years ago, and he had gone away and forgotten her. Was it possible he had done the same with regard to Lydia? Sally half-hoped it was so. And yet if that was his attitude it would apply to all women and she had to admit that she had told him to go away the last time she had seen him because she had been afraid of her own responses, afraid that she might have capitulated unconditionally to his off-beat lovemaking and that she would have been merely another moment of pleasure which he would not expect to last for ever. She turned from the fence and continued to walk along the edge of the field which gradually grew narrower as the land jutted out snoutlike into the sea. Looking over another gate which was set in the fence, she could see the land falling sheer down to the rocky plateau on which the white lighthouse and its outbuilding was perched. On the other side of the water she could see a plume of smoke rising high above the land on the Irish coast. Over there somewhere was Maeve in her new house, and tomorrow evening she too would be there, because she had decided to take a week of her holiday, to get away from Portbride because suddenly her home town was no longer the haven it had once been. ‘Go away,’ she had told Ross, thinking that with his going peace of mind would come to her. ‘I’ll go,’ he had said quietly—so quietly that she had wondered if she had hurt his feelings. No. It was impossible to hurt the feelings of a person like Ross. By now he would have forgotten the incident, forgotten her. It was only silly people like herself who brooded over what had been said and done, wishing she hadn’t said and done. Turning away from the edge of the headland, she walked along the gravel path which joined the rough road on which the House on the Brae and Rosemount were situated. She walked quickly, not looking at the house where Lydia stayed. ‘Hello, Sally. You’re in a hurry this evening. Come and have a cup of coffee with us and tell us what you’ve been doing lately. Hasn’t the weather been gorgeous?’ It was Miriam, smiling brilliantly, her small eyes shrewd and observant between the wrinkles which surrounded them. ‘Thank you, I really haven’t time,’ said Sally, forcing herself to be polite. ‘I’m going to Ireland tomorrow to stay with my sister and I must finish my packing.’ ‘All the more reason why you should come and have a talk.’ The gate was open and Miriam was gesturing to the long garden seats set invitingly under a striped umbrella. On one seat sat Lydia. It wouldn’t do to be rude. Miriam and Aunt Jessie were already on visiting terms and any rudeness on Sally’s part would soon be reported to her aunt. ‘For a few minutes, then,’ she agreed. ‘Good. Sit down there beside Lydia. Poor girl, she’s absolutely depressed. She has been waiting for a letter from Ross to tell her when she can join him in Wales. I suppose you have no news of him?’ ‘No. Why should I?’ replied Sally, rather startled. But after throwing out her question Miriam had departed to the house presumably to make

coffee and Sally was left to face the blank, catlike gaze of Lydia’s grey eyes. ‘You see Mike, though ... and he might have heard from Ross,’ she purred. ‘I haven’t seen Mike all this week,’ replied Sally stiffly. ‘Too bad. I suppose like all engineers in his position he’s pleading pressure of work. They all do it. It’s a good excuse when they want to give you the brush-off, when they’ve found someone else they prefer to you. Mike was really making good time with that little blonde at the party. What was her name? Susan Miller, the Town Clerk’s daughter, if I remember rightly ... and you have to admit she has more of what it takes to attract a man than you have.’ Sally gasped. She had never in her life heard anyone express pure unadulterated spite as coolly as Lydia did. ‘Horrified, aren’t you, little innocent?’ Lydia went on. ‘It’s true, though. I should know. I’ve lived most of my life around sites watching the intrigues ... and often participating in them. That’s why I can face up to the reality that Ross is probably amusing himself with some girl in Wales, conveniently forgetting that I’m waiting to hear from him. That’s why I entertain myself with Craig. It passes the time, and there’s no harm done.’ ‘Isn’t there?’ queried Sally politely. ‘I expect you’re worried about Craig’s feelings. There’s no need. I know he’s using me to work off an old grudge he has against Ross, and I can use him to bring Ross up to scratch.’ She half closed her eyes and her body moved in a rather sensual movement. ‘I’d rather like to see Ross jealous,’ she murmured, then added, ‘It’s an old ploy, one you might use if you wanted to bring Mike up to scratch ... but then you might find it difficult to attract someone else sufficiently to use him.’ Sally discovered she was shaking with the effort to control herself. Her immediate reaction was to run away, away from those unblinking grey eyes which watched her with such dislike. ‘Go on, run away,’ taunted Lydia. ‘That’s what you’re longing to do.’ ‘I have no need to use such a ploy, as you call it, and even if I had I wouldn’t,’ said Sally, her pride coming to her rescue. ‘As you say, you have no need,’ agreed Lydia suavely, ‘because nobody wants you. A man might be attracted to you temporarily because he’s sorry for you. I can imagine Ross wanting to help you because it’s his nature to want to put things right. It’s a pity you’ve taken both him and Mike seriously. You’re the type who gets hurt easily because you expect too much.’ ‘I haven’t taken either of them seriously!’ ‘Haven’t you? Then who’s causing you sleepless nights? You didn’t have lines under your eyes when I first came here. You didn’t look so taut and tense.’ Sally could stand no more. She could not understand why she was being subjected to such an attack, unless disappointment over Ross’s inability to communicate with her had caused Lydia to lash out. But whatever the cause Sally was determined not to be a whipping boy any longer.

‘Please tell Miriam I’m sorry I couldn’t stay for the coffee. I hope you have some news from Ross soon. I’m sure that being kept in the dark about his intentions must be very disconcerting for you. Goodbye, Mrs. Wood.’ Head high, Sally walked to the gate. Once through it she began to run towards her home. Maeve’s house was a bungalow situated in a new housing estate. It was very well designed, making the most of a small area of space. There was a large living room which had a dining area at one end and a fairly large kitchen with a breakfast bar and washing area. From the wide windows of the kitchen and living room there were fine uninterrupted views of the sea and the distant Galloway hills. On the day after her arrival Sally sat in the kitchen picking at her breakfast and looking at the view which was so very different from the one seen from the window of the living room at Rosemount. ‘Sally, did you hear what I said?’ Maeve’s voice was louder than normal and it penetrated at last, rousing Sally from her lethargic reverie. ‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t.’ ‘Whatever is the matter with you? I’ve been looking forward to your stay. I thought we’d have fun choosing the material for the curtains for the baby’s room and that you would help me to make them, and that we’d be able to paint the whitewood furniture I’ve bought for his room. But if you’re going to sit around moping like this, picking at your food and staring out of the window, I can see I’d have been better off alone this week while Fergus is away. You’re not crossed in love by any chance, are you?’ Crossed in love? Was she? What did the phrase mean? Did it mean loving someone and not being loved in return? Or did it mean loving someone and having someone else come between you and the person you loved? It couldn’t apply to her, in any case, because she wasn’t in love with anyone, unless to miss a person meant that she loved him. ‘Sally, snap out of it,’ threatened Maeve. ‘Och, maybe I’ll take another cup of tea and you can tell me all about it.’ Maeve swirled away and plugged in the kettle. She moved with deft confident movements, mistress in her home and loving every minute of it. A husband, a house and a baby. Is that what you want, Sally? Ross’s strange question returned to haunt her and she looked round the sunlit kitchen. The floor gleamed with polish. Chromium taps glittered over the sink. Fresh paintwork reflected the sunlight and crisp flowered curtains moved slightly at the open window. Maeve more glowing and vital than ever, her trim curves showing to advantage in a pale green shirtwaister dress belted neatly at the waist, reached into a cupboard and brought out another cup and saucer which she set on the table. ‘Is this what I want?’ thought Sally. ‘To be in a pleasant house with a pleasant view, waiting to adopt a baby, and my husband miles away?’ ‘Now come on, wake up and tell me what has happened to make you so depressed,’ chided Maeve, as she filled the teapot and brought it over to the table. ‘When I came back here you were looking so much better and were putting on some weight. Who’s let you down this time ...

Mike?’ Her dark blue eyes were kindly between their long lashes as she studied Sally. No longer unhappy and absorbed in her own problems she could afford time to take an interest in her young stepsister. ‘No one has let me down,’ replied Sally. ‘I haven’t seen much of Mike recently because since Ross left the site Mike has had more responsibility, and not so much leisure time. Besides, I believe he’s been going out with Susan Miller.’ ‘There, I knew it! He

has

let you down!’

‘No, you can’t say that, because there wasn’t anything really serious between us. It was just the rest of you hoping that there might be.’ ‘I suppose there was a certain amount of wishful thinking,’ agreed Maeve. ‘Going with Mike seemed to help you so much, brought you out, made you stop feeling sorry for yourself. It was a good move of Ross’s to introduce you to each other. I’m surprised to hear that he’s gone away, though. Do you know where he’s gone?’ ‘To a site in South Wales, where the company is having some labour difficulties. He left soon after the Hunters arrived.’ “Who are they?’ asked Maeve. Sally explained about the Hunters and added flatly, ‘Their niece Lydia lives with them. Ross and she are going to be married.’ Maeve’s eyes widened with surprise. ‘I always thought that there was a woman somewhere,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t realise he was as close to marrying as this. Who says they’re to be married?’ ‘Lydia does,’ said Sally shortly. ‘But not Ross,’ drawled Maeve slowly as she poured tea. ‘Not to me, anyway,’ replied Sally. ‘Then I shouldn’t take any notice of what Lydia says. Don’t believe it until Ross makes the announcement.’ ‘I’m not. It’s none of my concern anyway.’ ‘Isn’t it?’ Sally looked at Maeve sharply. Her stepsister’s gaze as she passed her a full cup of tea was steady and understanding. ‘I think it is,’ said Maeve, answering her own question. ‘I think it is your concern about the relationship between this woman and Ross plus the fact that he’s gone away that’s caused your loss of appetite and general loss of spirits. A few weeks ago you were even concerned about his relationship with me.’

‘But that was because I didn’t want you to destroy your marriage,’ objected Sally. ‘It wasn’t because I was jealous or anything like that. I’m not in love with him, so how can I be jealous? I scarcely know him.’ ‘Och, Sally, how can you say such a thing! You know Ross as well, if not better than I do. Ever since the first time he asked Dad if he could go fishing with him, you followed him about. He could do no wrong in your eyes. You used to hero-worship him ... and I can tell you now, he used to lap it all up as if it was his due.’ ‘Hero-worship isn’t love,’ argued Sally stubbornly, secretly appalled that Maeve had noticed her youthful worship of Ross. Maeve shrugged. ‘Who can tell what love is? I thought once that I loved Ross, but it was only physical attraction. He knew that better than I. When he went away I soon forgot him. Young as you were, it was you who was hurt when he didn’t write and didn’t come back, and you transferred your hurt to me. And now you’re being hurt all over again. I tried to warn you, didn’t I?’ Realising that it was no use trying to hide from the truth any more, Sally said, ‘I didn’t need your warning. I’d already warned myself. I told him to go away, and now he’s gone.’ ‘And you’re thoroughly miserable again,’ murmured Maeve, her glance bright and knowledgeable. ‘I shall get better,’ said Sally. You see, Maeve, I couldn’t bear his attitude to life ... the living for the moment only. I didn’t want to be one of his moments.’ ‘Ah, now we’re getting to the truth,’ said Maeve. ‘You’re in love with him, Sally. You wouldn’t want it to be for ever if you weren’t. And you told him to go away. Och, what a mess! You should have made the most of your moments with Ross ... better to have a memory than nothing at all ... and you know it’s just possible you could have made one of those moments with him last for ever.’ Sally was silent, her thoughts flying back to the living room at Rosemount and to the time when Ross had caressed her cheek and had murmured her name. Had that been the moment? She looked at Maeve. ‘It’s too late. It’s over,’ she stated flatly. ‘I wonder?’ queried Maeve. The rest of the week passed pleasantly and the sisters did not refer to Ross again as they immersed themselves in sewing and painting. But the change of scene and air and Maeve’s company did little to improve Sally’s spirits because the discussion about Ross had raised her doubts about her own behaviour towards him. And always her thoughts revolved around the same theme. What would have happened if she hadn’t told him to go away that night at Rosemount? By the end of the week she was so tired of her thoughts and of herself that she was glad to return to Portbride on the Saturday ferry boat, and to return to the office on Monday morning

where a backlog of work kept her busy. At five o’clock she left the Town Hall with a certain amount of anxiety. It had been a wild day with gale force winds churning the waters of the loch and keeping the fishing boats in harbour. Earlier she had heard the maroons sound, the signal which warned that the lifeboat was needed, and she had known that her father as coxswain of the lifeboat would be struggling into his oilskins and hurrying down the brae to join the other volunteers who manned the red, white and blue unsinkable craft which was moored in the harbour. She had phoned Aunt Jessie for news and had learned that a message from the coastguard had been received to say that a sailing boat had lost its mast and was drifting badly in the direction of the tide race at the Mull of Galloway. On her way home Sally called in to see Archie MacIntyre, the harbourmaster, to ask for more news. ‘They’ve found the yacht and are trying to take off the crew,’ reported Archie MacIntyre. ‘Och, but it’s a bad job, ye ken, and the lifeboat is in danger of being washed up on the rocks itself.’ Keeping her anxiety to herself, Sally hurried home, told Aunt Jessie all she knew and after eating went down to the harbour again to watch and wait for the returning lifeboat. As she leaned on the harbour wall the wind tugged at her raincoat and snatched at her woollen headscarf. The only people about were a few fishermen waiting like herself for the return of their colleagues in the lifeboat. Supposing the lifeboat was wrecked? Supposing her father was washed overboard? The thought was torment to Sally and she closed her eyes in an effort to banish it. She must not think that way. She must remember that her father was sensible and would not take unnecessary risks. She opened her eyes and peered out towards the entrance of the sea-loch. It was hidden from view by spindrift, blown from the crests of the leaping, frenzied water. The sheltered water of the harbour was comparatively flat, but whenever a violent gust shook the masts of the fishing boats, it seethed and hissed. Sally was vaguely aware that a car had swished to a stop quite close to her, but she did not look in case she missed seeing the lifeboat appear. Someone leaned on the wall beside her. The familiarity of the happening alerted her sixth sense and she stiffened. ‘I see you’re at your wailing wall again,’ scoffed Ross. ‘What’s the matter this time?’ She was frozen with surprise and it was a few seconds before she had sufficient composure to turn and look at him. He seemed like a stranger, a stranger in a white belted trench coat who looked at her with cold, unfriendly eyes. Behind him a grey car was parked. It looked as tough and as businesslike as he did. ‘I’m waiting for the lifeboat to come back. Father is out in it.’ He glanced briefly towards the sea-loch and tried to push his unruly wind-tossed hair back from his forehead. Then he looked at her again. ‘I thought there was something missing,’ he said, still inspecting her with that cold hard gaze.

‘Seems to me I heard the maroons this afternoon, but I couldn’t be sure because there was so much noise at the site.’ Sally burst out with the question which was uppermost in her mind. “When did you come back?’ ‘Today.’ ‘Why?’ ‘To finish some unfinished business,’ he replied grimly. ‘The demolition of Winterston House.’ ‘Oh, but I thought it was arranged that it should be preserved. Craig told me at that party at the Hunters’. He was so pleased.’ ‘And so were you, I guess. Yesterday part of the west wall crumbled and fell and hurt two men who were inspecting it at the time with a view to putting up supports. Mike is one of the men hurt. He has damaged some ribs and has broken a leg. He’s in hospital in Ayr.’ Sally’s eyes were wide. ‘I must go and see him. Which ward? When is visiting time? Does he need anything? Oh, poor Mike! He said something like this might happen.’ ‘And like me he warned Dawson ... but his warning hadn’t the slightest impression on that selfimportant idiot. If I’d been allowed to demolish it when I wanted the accident would have been avoided. I’ll take you in to see Mike now, if you like. Visiting time is at seven-thirty.’ ‘No, thank you. I want to see the lifeboat come back. Besides, I’d rather go by myself.’ He gave her an underbrowed, rather sardonic glance, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Please yourself,’ he murmured, and turning, leaned both arms on the wall and looked out to sea. No longer under observation, Sally regarded his profile. A person does not change much physically in a month, so there was little difference in the set of his mouth and the angle of his jaw. But she sensed a subtle difference in manner. There was a lack of warmth and a touch of hostility in the way he had spoken to her. ‘How long have they been out there?’ he asked abruptly. ‘About three hours.’ ‘A long time in this weather.’ ‘It’s a sailing boat.’ ‘Damn fools sailing in this weather and not thinking they might risk the lives of others,’ he said curtly. ‘Have you any binoculars?’ ‘Yes, in the house.’ ‘We’ll go and get them and go up on the headland. We might be able to spot them from up

there.’ ‘But we won’t be able to see a thing. Visibility is so bad and we’ll hardly be able to stand up in this wind,’ objected Sally, feeling that he was stampeding her again. ‘Maybe so, but it’ll be better for you than waiting here and worrying. Come on.’ He walked to the car and after a momentary hesitation she followed, as he must have known she would. The car was very new and very comfortable. ‘Is this yours?’ she asked curiously as he reversed and then turned in a wide arc, having the car park all to himself at that time of day and year. ‘Yes. I decided that a Land-Rover was not a suitable vehicle in which to take a girl out, that is not if I wanted to make an impression.’ He spoke lightly, jokingly, and Sally presumed he meant he had to buy a car in order to take Lydia about while she was in Portbride. ‘Have you any particular girl in mind?’ she asked, keeping her voice light too. ‘Yes, although I’m not making much headway. She’s rather preoccupied at the moment and I fear I have competition.’ Lydia involved with someone else! It could only be Craig. Sally glanced covertly at Ross, trying to gauge the seriousness of his comment. He was frowning slightly as he manoeuvred the car up the rough road to the cottage and she remembered the rather bitter emphasis in his voice when he had called Craig a self-important idiot. The car stopped outside Rosemount. ‘Hurry up,’ ordered Ross. She ran into the house and straight upstairs to her father’s room. The binoculars hung in their case behind the bedroom door. She grabbed them and ran downstairs and out to the car before Aunt Jessie could appear and question her. As they approached the House on the Brae she noticed that there was a small green car parked in the driveway, Craig’s car. She glanced at Ross, but could not be sure if he had noticed. Craig and Lydia ... and Ross was jealous. In a way she was glad he was capable of experiencing such an emotion. It meant he was not entirely impervious to feeling. And yet if he was jealous it meant that he had decided that after all he was in love with Lydia and that three years had not been too long. They reached the end of the road. Ross parked the car. As soon as she stepped out of it Sally felt the force of the wind. It whipped her face and beat at her body, forcing her to step backwards. Ross came round the car and putting an arm through hers pulled her with him towards the gate which opened into the field. He lifted the latch of the gate and forced it open against the weight of the wind, and when he turned to close it it was torn out of his grasp and

slammed into position. They began to walk, or rather push themselves towards the headland, their heads bent, their shoulders hunched. The long grass was laid horizontal under the onslaught and was pale and shivering. ‘This is madness,’ shouted Sally. ‘We’ll never make it!’ Ross looked down at her and grinned. ‘Want to bet?’ he shouted back. ‘No!’ ‘Want to go back?’ he jeered, and immediately her backbone stiffened. ‘No!’ ‘Then come on ... push a bit harder.’ Bodies inclined forward, they set off again arm in arm. Above them feathery charcoal grey clouds rolled below the paler grey of nimbus and occasionally flung a shower of rain into their faces. When they had passed a glimmer of pale sunshine would appear. ‘If more rain comes, visibility will be nil,’ yelled Sally, ‘Och, what terrible weather!’ ‘I thought you liked it like this,’ shouted Ross. ‘ “Blows the wind today and the sun and rain are flying.” Isn’t that how your poem goes? Well, that’s how it is today.’ ‘I do like it usually, but not now, not while I’m worried about my father,’ she replied. By way of an answer he squeezed her arm gently, and it occurred to her that if she hadn’t been so worried she would have been enjoying this walk arm in arm with him, fighting the wind together. They reached the edge of the cliff and stood braced, looking down at the foaming, turbulent water. Ross removed the binoculars from their case and putting them to his eyes surveyed what could be seen of the sea. He looked south first and then gradually turned until he was facing west. Suddenly he gave a shout. ‘I can see it ... the lifeboat! It’s about six miles out, making for the entrance of the loch and rolling like a pig. Look!’ Excitedly Sally almost snatched the glasses from his hand and held them to her eyes. Ross stood behind her and hands on her shoulders pushed her round so that she was looking in the right direction. At first all she could see was wild leaping water, then shifting her gaze a little to the right she discovered the lifeboat, small and squat, red, blue and white, rolling and pitching as it worked its way towards the loch. ‘Now you can stop worrying. Once round the headland and in the shelter of the loch they’re safe, unless something very unusual happens,’ said Ross.

Battered by the wind, spattered by the rain, they watched for a few more minutes, taking turns with the binoculars. At last Sally lowered her arms and gave Ross the glasses and he put them back in the case. ‘What a relief!’ she murmured. ‘Was it worthwhile coming up here to know a little sooner that they’re on their way home?’ he asked as he slung the case strap over his shoulder. Sally nodded, then was immediately stricken with shyness. Now that her anxiety had been removed, her own problem had returned to the forefront of her mind. A problem which involved the man who was with her, who had come back a second time. But he had already left her side and had started to walk in the direction of Gimlet Bay. Adjusting her head-scarf, the knot of which had become loosened by the wind, Sally set off after him, wondering not for the first time in her life why it was she always followed where he led. She caught up with him by the barbed wire fence where she had stood alone just over a week previously. Down in the little bay the water pounded and surged. At their feet the lovely grasses and wild flowers which she had admired on her other visit were flattened and torn by the slashing wind. Ross stood motionless, his hands in the pockets of his trench coat. He was staring, not at the little beach where his mother’s body had once lain as Sally had expected, but at the small twowindowed cottage facing them. ‘Big enough for two,’ he murmured, and Sally wondered if he was talking to himself. ‘Anyone live in it?’ he asked abruptly, without looking at her, and she experienced a little flurry of amazement that he should assume she knew what he was talking about. ‘Not now. It’s been empty since last September. I believe it’s for sale.’ ‘Who owns it?’ ‘Someone in Ayr. They used to use it as a weekend place. Murray and Barnes, the estate agents, will know.’ Without warning he swung himself over the two strands of wire and began to walk round the head of the little bay, following the narrow pathway which led to the cottage. Sally wasn’t able to swing over the fence, so she struggled between the top and bottom strand of wire, hoping that she would not rip her raincoat. She could not help remembering the other occasions she had squeezed through barbed wire fences when following Ross on some cross-country pursuit. “You don’t have to follow him,’ she said to herself. ‘You’re free to do as you please.’ But as usual she took no notice of herself and followed him as if pulled by an invisible cord. At the cottage, after having tried unsuccessfully to open the plain black door, Ross had walked round to the back where Sally found him turning the handle of a similar door which was set into a small porch jutting out from the main building. ‘I suppose I should take it as a good sign that neither door will budge,’ he commented, ‘but it’s disappointing not to be able to see inside. All the blinds are down.’

He walked backwards a few yards and his gaze roved over the roof and the walls. ‘It’s in far better condition than Winterston House and it wouldn’t cost as much to renovate ... and there’s room for expansion. Plenty of land and access to the sea. Far enough out of town, but not too far to be isolated. It would do. What do you think of it?’ Surprised by the sudden question, Sally hesitated, longing to ask him why he was so interested in the cottage. ‘I’ve always liked it,’ she answered. ‘It would make a good home for a retired couple, or ... or...’ She found she couldn’t finish. ‘For a newly married couple,’ he added, with an ironic lift of one eyebrow. ‘Is that what you meant to say? How right you are!’ They walked back round the head of the bay, Ross leading; Sally followed, her thoughts jumbled. If he and Lydia bought the cottage and lived in it how would she bear it? she wondered as they reached the fence and prepared to struggle through it. ‘Wait.’ Ross’s hand was on her arm and she straightened up to look at him. Then to her surprise he picked her up and put her over the fence. Disconcerted by his action, Sally had time only to mutter a breathless ‘thank you’ before she had to hurry after him as he strode away across the field. As they angled across towards the gate they met again the full fury of the wind, this time from behind. Occasionally a very strong gust would cause Sally to run involuntarily. The third time it happened Ross laughed and linking his arm through hers held it tightly so that his grip prevented her from being blown along. ‘You’re a featherweight,’ he observed. ‘Come to think of it, you look thinner than when I last saw you. Have you been pining again?’ ‘No, of course not.’ She tried to jerk her arm from his grasp, but he held it tightly against him. ‘Who would I pine for?’ ‘Well, I know it wouldn’t be for me ... you were so emphatic about me going that you must have been delighted when you heard that I’d moved out, so I can only guess that Mike has been neglecting you.’ ‘No, he hasn’t,’ defended Sally. She had had enough of people thinking that Mike had to dance attendance on her all the time. ‘He hasn’t had much time to spare ... you of all people should know that. And then I went to Ireland to stay with Maeve last week.’ ‘You dared to leave the nest?’ he jibed. ‘And tomorrow you’re thinking of going to Ayr, all by yourself. You are adventurous!’ The hostility which she had sensed earlier was back. Stung by his jibes, bewildered by his unfriendliness, Sally flashed back, ‘I’m going to London for the rest of my holiday in October.’

‘Then it would seem that your rehabilitation is almost completed. I wonder if you’ll ever dare to leave Portbride for longer, to go and work in say Glasgow ... or even London?’ ‘No, never. I shall never leave Portbride. I couldn’t,’ said Sally emphatically. They had reached the car and he released her to delve into his pocket for the car keys to unlock the car. He made no comment on her decided statement and she had the impression that he had withdrawn completely. ‘Have you returned to the site permanently?’ she asked hesitantly, in an attempt to draw his interest back. He unlocked the door and opened it, taking time to answer her question. When she did not make any move to get into the car he glanced at her, a cold, unfriendly glance. ‘I shall stay long enough to make sure the house is demolished and that everything is running smoothly. I’ll try not to make it longer than three weeks. Think you can stand it?’ Ignoring the taunting question, Sally forced herself to ask another question. ‘And then where will you go?’ ‘Such interest in my movements!’ he remarked, and his sarcasm scorched her feelings. ‘I suppose you want to make sure it will be far away from here?’ ‘No, I wasn’t thinking that at all,’ she retorted. It dawned on her suddenly that she had hurt his feelings that night when she had told him to go away. She had hurt the impregnable Ross. She should be crowing over her victory, but instead she was searching for a way to explain. ‘Then why do you want to know where I’m going?’ he retaliated. ‘Because I want to go with you,’ was the answer which sprang unbidden into her mind. But she couldn’t say it. Not when he was so openly hostile towards her. ‘Get in. We can’t stand here for the rest of the evening,’ he said impatiently. ‘It’s going dark and the lifeboat will be back.’  

  CHAPTER SEVEN   with a great bunch of autumn flowers, Sally caught the five-fifteen bus for Ayr. It was a country bus and she expected to arrive in the country town at a quarter to seven. From the bus station she would have to catch another bus out to the hospital. Armed

It was a calm, damp evening, very different from the previous one when the lifeboat had returned safely to harbour, its mission successfully completed. Sally looked out of the bus window with interest. It was a long time since she had been to Ayr, and this was only the second time she had left Portbride by road since the accident. The first time had been with Ross to visit Glen Trool, when he had forced her to ride in the Land-Rover. Perhaps if he hadn’t made her go she would still be nervous and unable to make this trip now. Determinedly she stared out of the window, pushing Ross to the back of her mind. The gale of yesterday had wreaked havoc in the fields, flattening the crops of oats and barley which had ripened so fast during the fine weeks of August, giving hopes of a good harvest. Now, unless the weather turned dry again the farmers would have difficulty in salvaging the battered crop. Not that the occurrence was unusual in the history of her country. It happened so often on the farms, this raising of hopes only to have them dashed again. No wonder the land bred a dour, determined type of people accustomed to disappointment! The bus wended its way along country road to pick up people from small villages and hamlets. Most of the people were women clutching bunches of freshly cut flowers like herself, obviously bound in the same direction. Many of them knew each other and called out greetings in the broad Ayrshire dialect. Once at the bus station at Ayr she did not have long to wait for the other bus. At the hospital she had time to buy a cup of tea and a sandwich in the waiting room, then found her way to the ward where Mike was. He was lying flat on his back and his right leg was in traction, supported in a sort of cradle which meant, Sally decided, that the break was above the knee. His eyes were closed and he looked very pale, but when the nurse said briskly, ‘Visitor for you, Mr. Searle,’ he opened them wide. ‘Visitor for me? And there I was thinking nobody cared! Sally, you angel! If only I could sit up I’d kiss you. You wouldn’t like to lean down and give me a peck, would you?’ Blushing a little, knowing the visitors at the next bed were watching and laughing, Sally bent and kissed him on a rather bristly cheek. ‘I’ve brought some flowers from the garden. I didn’t know what else to bring. Aunt Jessie said I should bring things to eat, but I wasn’t sure.’ ‘That’s right, bring something for me to eat. Come again tomorrow and bring them. Sit down and talk to me. I’m not supposed to talk much because it hurts me to breathe. Tell me about

your holiday.’ She told him, but even to her own ears it didn’t sound very interesting, so she went on to tell him about the lifeboat being called out. ‘Wish I’d been there to see that,’ he grumbled. ‘I suppose you’ve no news of the site, about what’s happening there? I asked one of the nurses to call the number and ask, but she just smiled sweetly at me and told me not to worry.’ ‘She’s right, you needn’t worry. Ross came back yesterday afternoon.’ ‘Good,’ he almost shouted. ‘Have you seen him, spoken to him?’ ‘Shh, Mike! If you get excited they won’t let me visit you. Yes, I think he must have come as soon as he heard the news.’ ‘But I’d no idea he was through in South Wales. Ask him to come and see me, there’s a love.’ ‘Very well.’ ‘You don’t sound exactly overjoyed at the thought of having to speak to him. Did he tell you what he’s going to do about the house?’ ‘He says he’s back in order to demolish it. He was going to see Craig last night.’ After leaving her and her father at Rosemount Ross had gone on to the House on the Brae, to see Craig and of course to see Lydia. ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ sighed Mike, closing his eyes again. ‘Now I can sleep again. I couldn’t last night in spite of all the pills they gave me. I kept seeing that wall coming at me. Harris and I were inspecting the house to see how it was standing up to the rough weather we’ve been having ... Hold my hand, Sally.’ Sally put her hand into his left one which was lying on the sheet and his fingers curled around it. ‘It’s a nice hand,’ he murmured. ‘Strong and capable. I bet you can cook and sew and do all the things that nice old-fashioned girls do.’ Ross had called her old-fashioned once. ‘Do you think I’m old-fashioned just because I can do those things? I’m quite capable of doing many other things too.’ ‘Compared with the girls I usually associate with you’re old-fashioned.’ ‘I wish I wasn’t. I wish I was sophisticated and knew all the answers,’ she replied. ‘But why? That sort are two a penny.’ ‘If they’re the sort people want I’d like to be like them,’ insisted Sally. Mike closed his eyes again. A faint line appeared between his eyebrows and she wondered if

he was in pain. She hadn’t intended to speak as she had, but somehow all the emotion she had been bottling up had forced its way out. ‘Are you all right, Mike?’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.’ He squeezed her hand gently and opened his eyes again. ‘That’s all right, I understand. I’ve been trying to think who you know is like your description, and the only person I can think of is Lydia Wood. Now why on earth do you want to be like her?’ Sally bit her lip and looked away. He was far too shrewd. ‘Is there anything special you would like me to bring for you tomorrow?’ she asked, hoping to divert his thoughts. He grinned. ‘Don’t think you’ve put me off the scent by asking that innocent question. I’ll have plenty of time tonight and tomorrow to think out an answer for myself to the riddle.’ He closed his eyes again, obviously very tired. They did not talk any more, but when Sally stood up at the end of visiting time he pulled at her hand and whispered, ‘Come again, Sally, and bring Ross.’ The only way she could think of getting a message to Ross was by telephoning the site. To her relief she was unable to speak to him, but the girl who answered assured her that her message would reach him. She passed on this piece of news to Mike the next evening. He seemed less tired and glanced with interest at the magazines and books she had brought him, although he was slightly disappointed that Ross was not with her. This time with a great effort Sally managed to keep the conversation light, and not once did they refer to Lydia until she was leaving. Then Mike glanced at her with a mischievous twinkle in his tired eyes and observed airily, ‘I think I know why you want to be like Lydia.’ ‘Oh, why?’ ‘I’m not telling ... not yet anyway. But I wouldn’t bother to be like her if I were you. It would be a waste of time. Be yourself, Sally, and believe me, you’ll have more success.’ On the way home, looking out of the window of the bus at the darkening sky, Sally puzzled over Mike’s parting words. Mike liked her as she was, there was no doubt about that. And she liked him. But that was where it stopped, and she was sure he would be no more concerned than she would be if he moved away to another site now. So it wasn’t with him that she would have more success if she was herself as he had advised. The street lamps were shedding pools of light on the wet surface of the pavement when Sally descended from the bus in the main street of Portbride and a fine misty rain was sweeping in from the sea. She had hardly walked a few yards when a car eased to a stop beside her. A window was lowered and Lydia looked out.

‘Ross says we may as well give you a lift since we’ll be passing your house,’ she said rather ungraciously. ‘No, thank you, I’d rather walk.’ ‘Don’t be silly. You’ll get soaked,’ said Lydia, reaching back and opening the back door of the car. ‘Besides, we want to ask you about Mike.’ Reluctantly Sally stepped into the back of the car. Ross glanced over his shoulder briefly and said, ‘Pride has its uses, but not when it’s raining and you haven’t a raincoat or an umbrella. How’s Mike tonight?’ He released the brake and the car moved forward down the road. ‘A little better tonight. He said he’d been able to sleep. He didn’t the first night because he was too worried about the site. When I told him you were here, he relaxed. Did you get my message? He wants to see you. He hoped you might go tonight. He was rather disappointed.’ She could not help rebuking him. He had preferred to go out with Lydia rather than go to see Mike. ‘We’ll go tomorrow, Ross, and save Sally a journey,’ purred Lydia. ‘I’ll go. You won’t,’ was the terse reply. ‘Oh, why not? I thought we’d go and you could take me to that lovely hotel by the sea, at the golfing place. I can’t remember the name.’ ‘Why should I take you there, when you’ve been there already?’ returned Ross. ‘And don’t tell me that you’re longing to see Mike, because I won’t believe it.’ Lydia sighed exaggeratedly. ‘You are really being most difficult! I thought I’d explained that I only went with Craig because I was lonely while you were in Wales.’ ‘Were you lonely tonight too? Is that why you walked out to the site?’ His tone was acid and Sally flinched on Lydia’s behalf. “Yes, partially ... and I wanted to see you.’ Ross made no reply and Lydia half turned in her seat and said to Sally, ‘I think you’re very loyal, the way you visit Mike. Such an awkward journey too. I was talking to your aunt today and she was telling me how you have to set out as soon as you leave work. You must be famished when you get home. Mike is a very lucky person, don’t you think, Ross, to inspire such loyalty.’ ‘Loyalty has always been one of Sally’s characteristics,’ he replied, and stopped the car in front of Rosemount.

‘I’m sure it has,’ agreed Lydia, sugar sweet. ‘But it requires more than loyalty to visit a person night after night in hospital when such a journey is involved. It also requires devotion, or love, if you like. Don’t you agree with me?’ ‘I can’t see that my agreeing with you makes any difference,’ replied Ross carelessly. ‘If that is the way you see it I’m sure that’s the way it is. No need for you to take the bus tomorrow, Sally. I’ll take you.’ Sally was out of the car in a flash. She leaned back through the open door to say, ‘No, thank you. You’ll want to talk business to Mike. I’ll visit him another time. Goodnight. Thanks for the lift.’ She was rather pleased with the way she had handled Ross’s offer to take her into Ayr. She had learned the hard way that she must avoid being alone with him. No longer would she follow where he led. It was too dangerous. It had sounded though as if he was giving Lydia a rough time. Probably Lydia’s ploy to make him jealous had worked too well and he was punishing her for going out with Craig. He had been very unpleasant to her, and remembering Lydia’s wish to see him jealous, Sally wondered whether his behaviour had come up to expectations. She was glad she did not have to go on the bus to Ayr the next evening. On the way home she dawdled, enjoying the mellow September sunshine. The harbour was empty apart from the lifeboat swinging at its mooring. A few seagulls flapped about idly, looking hopefully for fish. But there were no groups of holidaymakers standing about to throw it to them. Summer was almost over and Portbride was returning to normal. Halfway up the brae, she met Miriam coming down, Dolly, her miniature grey poodle, at her heels. As soon as the little dog saw Sally it dashed up to her and started to jump up and down, twisting its small body and yapping furiously. ‘Down, Dolly, down!’ admonished Miriam. ‘She’s so excitable and doesn’t go visiting enough, and so takes offence at everyone. I’m surprised to see you. I thought you’d be off to see Mike again.’ ‘Ross is visiting him tonight.’ ‘Well, I’m sure you’re glad to stay at home. I was only saying to Ross last night when Lydia brought him in how good you’ve been and what a devoted wife you’ll make for Mike.’ ‘But I’m not going to marry Mike, Mrs. Hunter.’ ‘Aren’t you? Oh, you’re just being coy because he hasn’t popped the question yet. But I know the way it’s going to be for you, and I’m so happy for you.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘I only wish I could feel the same way for Lyddy ... She’s gone, you know.’ Bulldozed as usual by Miriam’s manner of speech, Sally was mentally shaking herself out of the mud and could only croak, ‘Gone where?’

‘She left this morning. Took a taxi to Ayr and then went by train to Glasgow. She said she was going to Edinburgh.’ ‘She’s gone to visit friends, then?’ asked Sally. ‘I don’t know. That’s the trouble, she wouldn’t say. She was in such a wild mood. I’ve always known that Lyddy had a temper, but I didn’t think she could be so cattish, so spitting mad. I’m afraid it’s all Ross’s doing.’ Miriam shook her head sorrowfully and said sagely, ‘He’ll have trouble with her, I know he will. She won’t forgive him easily when he goes to make it up with her.’ ‘But what did he do, what did he say?’ queried Sally. ‘Now, I can’t tell you that, can I? I mean it wouldn’t be right. Their quarrel is entirely their affair. But as I warned Ross, you can’t slight a woman like Lydia and hope to get away with it. On the other hand, I was always telling her when she kept going out with Craig ... a man of Ross’s temperament has to be handled very carefully. He may like to play about himself, but the woman he loves must be completely untarnished and his alone. Ah well, I mustn’t bother you with any more of my troubles. I had hoped Lydia might have become more friendly with you. She might have learned something from your gentler approach. Remember me to Mike when you see him!’ She went off down the hill. Sally watched her go. As usual she had learned so much and yet so little from Miriam’s conversation. Ross had been jealous, as Lydia had hoped, but apparently had been more unpleasant than Lydia had bargained for, so she had gone away. Another ploy, no doubt, to see if he would follow her. But would he be able to go? At the moment he was busy and couldn’t go. Three weeks he had said he would be here. Would that be too late? Somehow she didn’t think so, and she could imagine Lydia lying low in Edinburgh, making sure that her aunt and therefore Ross knew where she was. Sally shrugged and went on her way home. It was no concern of hers, but she couldn’t help feeling glad that Lydia had gone. Now it would be easier to avoid Ross because he wouldn’t be visiting the House on the Brae and she wouldn’t have to suffer seeing him with Lydia. In three weeks he would be gone again and peace and quiet would return to Portbride and her heart. But the trouble was, she thought dejectedly, her heart would keep remembering. Sally visited Mike again on the Friday night. He was in good spirits, full of stories about the nurses who attended him and about his fellow patients. He had little to say about Ross’s visit the previous evening, but plenty to say about the impending visit of his mother who would be arriving in Ayr the next day. ‘Oh, then I won’t need to come,’ said Sally. “Not unless you’d like to meet her,’ replied Mike. ‘Would you like me to meet her?’ she asked, and he grinned. ‘What a ridiculous conversation! Of course I would. You’ve been so good to me while I’ve been in here. And you were such a good companion before. I told her about you when I was home last.’

‘I’ll come if you really want me to,’ said Sally reluctantly. ‘I want her to see you and know you and find out as I have that you’re the sweetest, kindest girl I’ve ever known, and that I ...’ ‘Stop!’ cried Sally. ‘Why?’ ‘I don’t want you to say it. I don’t want you to say you’re in love with me, because it isn’t true. And I don’t want to hurt your feelings by saying I’m not in love with you.’ He had been holding her hand and when she had finished speaking his hand relaxed and no longer held hers tightly. She looked up in alarm. His eyes were closed. ‘Mike, I’m sorry. I’d give anything not to hurt you, but I have to be honest.’ His long eyelashes quivered slightly and so did the corner of his mouth, and she realised suddenly that he was laughing, only he couldn’t laugh properly because of the injury to his ribs. Slowly he opened his eyes. They gleamed with merriment. ‘You’re quite delightful ... and I love you. Not in the way you mean, but for your honesty. I’m glad you’re not in love with me, because that wasn’t in the plan at all ...’ He stopped abruptly and bit his lower lip. ‘What plan?’ asked Sally suspiciously. He frowned and did not look at her. ‘Dammit, now I’ve said too much, and I can’t think of any way of not telling the truth.’ ‘Then tell the truth.’ His eyes were very serious, unusually so. ‘All right. Ross thought it would be good for you if someone of the opposite’ sex took an interest in you, made you feel as if your scar didn’t matter, brought you out of yourself, restored your self-confidence. I suppose you represented something of a challenge to him. As a piece of psychotherapy it worked. It helped him too, because one of his problems has always been me.’ Mike’s mouth twisted with self-mockery. “You see, I always manage to get myself too involved with too many girls. Having you around to entertain kept me on the straight and narrow. ‘Only one thing worried me ... I was afraid you might get too fond of me. Very conceited of me, I know, but I didn’t want to hurt you and I knew very well that I wasn’t ready to settle down. That’s all. I’m sorry.’ It was true after all. Ross had deliberately pushed Mike at her. ‘There’s no need to be sorry. You have helped me, Mike.’ ‘I suppose I have. It worked up to a point, didn’t it? Until Ross went away, in fact.’

‘I suppose when he left you felt you didn’t have to do what he said any more. That’s understandable.’ ‘I like that!’ exploded Mike. ‘I did my best, but even the best-intentioned person finds it rather dampening to talk to a girl who isn’t listening, who’s obviously thinking of someone else.’ Sally looked up sharply. ‘Was I like that?’ ‘You were dead, not physically but mentally. No responses at all. I tried making love to you, but it was like kissing empty space, and I’d like to know why. Who is it who occupies your thoughts so much, Sally?’ ‘No one,’ she lied desperately, and received a sceptical grimace. ‘Expect me to believe that. All right, I’ll let you off, but I have a feeling that whoever it is is the reason for you wanting to be like Lydia.’ Her initial reaction to Mike’s confession was anger. If Ross had been around when she had left Mike that evening she would have told him what she thought of him. She would have told him he was an arrogant, domineering, interfering bully who thought he could organise other people’s lives in the same way that he organised the work on his wretched site. He had come back to Portbride, had noticed her damaged face and shocked state and had decided he knew exactly what to do to cure her. And he had done it not out of the kindness of his heart, not because he was sorry for her, not because he liked her, but because she presented a challenge. But he wasn’t around, and she could only wait at the bus stop in the mellow golden light of a September evening, inwardly fuming until gradually her anger evaporated as her thoughts stumbled against Mike’s observation that the remedy had worked until Ross had left Portbride. Why should the remedy fail when Ross left? The answer was clear and unavoidable. The remedy had been Ross himself, aggravating and unpredictable. Aloof one minute, charming the heart out of her the next. From the moment of his arrival in Portbride he had shaken her out of her escapist rut. Although they hadn’t met often each meeting had stimulated her, bringing her step by step out of the shell into which she had retreated after the car crash. Then when he had departed again she had begun slowly, subconsciously withdrawing back into her shell, only to be shaken out again with his reappearance. It would seem that without him, she was nothing. The admittance of the fact that Ross was important to her brought relief. She realised that for the last few months she had been fighting a useless battle against her own instinctive inclinations. As a girl she had liked and admired Ross, had hero-worshipped him. He had gone away and for ten years she had pretended she had forgotten him, that she didn’t like him. But she hadn’t really forgotten him, she hadn’t really disliked him. He had been there at the back of her mind and every man she had met had been measured against him and found wanting. Growing up is a painful business, and Sally reckoned that in learning to accept the fact that she loved Ross she reached adulthood. Her love brought pain, as she had known it would. It was not returned in the way she would have liked. Ross would go away again and as far as she could see there wasn’t anything she could do about it. ‘Except go with him,’ whispered her heart cheekily. But that was silly. You can’t go with a person if he doesn’t invite you.

The meeting at the weekend with Mike’s mother went off pleasantly. Mrs. Searle had decided to stay in Ayr until Wednesday, so there was no need for Sally to visit Mike on Monday and Tuesday, but she promised to go in on Wednesday evening. When she saw the rain sheeting down on Wednesday afternoon she wished she had not committed herself, but the thought of Mike waiting and waiting spurred her on and she caught the usual bus. The weather slowed the bus down and it arrived too late for her to catch the usual bus to the hospital; the next one did not arrive until seven-thirty just as the wards opened, so she had no time for her tea and sandwich. Mike looked much better and he did most of the talking. His mother had extended an invitation to Sally to visit her when she was in London. ‘I’m hoping I’ll be convalescing by then,’ said Mike. ‘We’ll have a whale of a time, something to remember when we return to Portbride.’ He was holding her hand as usual, but as he squeezed it the smile on his face seemed to freeze. ‘Don’t look now, but I’ve a feeling we’re being watched,’ he warned in sepulchral tones, and as Sally twisted in her chair to see who was watching them he added, ‘Hello, Ross. I wasn’t expecting you tonight.’ Sally tried to remove her hand from Mike’s grasp, but he did not seem disposed to release it. Ross stood on the opposite side of the bed and looked down at Mike. ‘I’ve some news for you. I thought you might be interested to know that Dawson has gone ... conveniently transferred to another local authority at his own request. Consequently he’s ducked the responsibility of the accident at the site.’ ‘Well, the ...’ began Mike, stopping abruptly as he remembered Sally. She took the opportunity to free her hand and to stand up. ‘I’ll go now.’ ‘There’s no need,’ interposed Mike softly. ‘Ross doesn’t mind.’ ‘If you’d like to wait downstairs I’ll take you back to Portbride, Sally,’ offered Ross coolly, making it quite clear that he expected her to leave while he was talking to Mike. ‘No, thank you, I’ll catch the first bus. Goodnight, Mike.’ ‘Goodnight, Sally. Thanks for coming. Come again tomorrow, won’t you? We’ve a lot to plan for October, haven’t we?’ His voice trailed away on a suggestive note and she glanced at him in surprise. ‘You’ve forgotten something,’ he said. ‘What’s that?’ she queried. ‘My goodnight kiss.’

‘You can make do without it tonight,’ suggested Ross smoothly. ‘Sally is a bit shy of demonstrating in front of others.’ Her cheeks red with confusion, suddenly hating both of them, Sally bent and kissed Mike briefly on his cheek, glared at Ross and stalked out of the ward. The rain soon cooled her anger. During the short walk between the hospital and the bus shelter she became drenched. There was no one in the shelter and after waiting for a few minutes it dawned on her that she had missed the bus she had hoped to catch. Cold, damp and hungry, she began to wish she had waited in the waiting room for Ross. As he had said once before, pride wasn’t much use when the rain is coming down in buckets. It wasn’t much use being proud where he was concerned, she thought miserably. Her attitude of independence seemed to have no effect on him whatsoever. She thought of the comfort of the grey car, of riding back to Portbride with him through the wet countryside, of the security which his presence gave her, and then of the exciting tension which always built up between them when they were alone together. Perhaps she should go back into the hospital and wait. Perhaps she should grasp the opportunity to spend some moments alone with him, moments she might be able to make last for ever. While she hesitated some visitors to the hospital reached the shelter, exclaiming about the rain and shaking their umbrellas. Visiting time was over. Ross might be out and she might miss both him and the bus if she returned to the hospital now. A car swooshed past, sending up a spray of water, and she was glad she was wearing high boots. Another car came more slowly and stopped. The nearside door opened and Ross looked out and said crisply, ‘Like a lift?’ Sally looked down into hard blue eyes, aware that the women waiting behind her had stopped chattering and were watching with interest. ‘I know I risk being refused a fourth time by offering,’ he said, ‘but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. You look like a drowned kitten.’ Sally swallowed her pride, ignored his taunt and moved forward. He slid back into the driver’s seat and she sat down beside him and closed the door. ‘I half expected you to invite the rest of the queue into the car with you,’ murmured Ross as he guided the car away from the cub. You would have done at one time. Is it possible that you’re beginning to grow up at last? I suggest you take off your raincoat and remove your scarf and boots. You’ll feel more comfortable.’ She did as he suggested, throwing the raincoat to join his on the back seat. Ross turned on the heater, saying as he did so, ‘Now you see the advantage of a car over a Land-Rover. Sit back and relax. You’ll soon feel dryer and warmer. Are you hungry?’ ‘Yes. I missed the bus from Ayr, and I didn’t have time for anything in the waiting room.’

‘All for Mike,’ he commented. ‘I wonder if he realises how lucky he is.’ She sensed a note of censure in his voice as if he disapproved of her sacrificing her mealtime to visit Mike. ‘It’s the least I can do. He’s hurt and far away from his relatives.’ ‘I thought his mother came at the weekend. Did you meet her?’ ‘Yes, I did, but ...’ ‘But you’re still bent on making yourself a sacrificial animal on his behalf.’ ‘I’m not a sacrificial animal. I don’t feel that way at all,’ she said indignantly, then stopped abruptly and stared miserably out of the window. They were on the verge of quarrelling over Mike and she had intended to make the most of this opportunity. ‘No need to elaborate on how you feel. I can guess,’ he answered coldly, stopping the car at some traffic lights. Aloof and withdrawn, he watched the lights, waiting for them to change colour. Sally wondered how she could get through to him. For once he looked tidy in a white shirt and bluish-grey tweed suit. His hair had been flattened by the rain, so it was not as unruly as usual, but as it dried the front lock began to slide forward and she found herself wondering what he would say if she put out a hand and pushed it back. She sighed heavily. He did not look at her nor did he make any comment. He was far away. She couldn’t reach him at all. She must try to think of something which interested them both ... like the wind on the moors and the sun and the rain ... and maybe their minds would meet again. But if he was thinking of Lydia there wasn’t a hope. She noticed with surprise that they had entered Ayr and that instead of turning left after passing the statue of Robert Burns, the Scottish poet, they were passing down the main shopping street, past the tall grey Wallace tower which loomed over the pavement, an unusual memorial to an unusual hero. ‘We’re going the wrong way. We should have turned left by the Burns statue,’ she blurted. Surely Ross knew his way back to Portbride. ‘I’m going the way I want to go,’ he replied calmly as they stopped at more traffic lights. ‘I’m sorry if it isn’t agreeable to you.’ The traffic lights changed to green and the car turned right over a stone bridge which spanned the River Ayr. ‘Where are we going?’ she demanded. ‘We’re going to eat. You said you’re hungry. I’m ravenous, so I thought we’d eat together in a leisurely, comfortable manner. To put it concisely, I’m taking you out to dinner.’ ‘Oh!’ For a moment she was so confused she could think of nothing to say. She ought to be pleased and flattered, but all she could think of was that in her short tartan kilt, sweater and raincoat

and high boots she was hardly dressed for dinner in an expensive hotel. ‘But Aunt Jessie will be expecting me. She’ll have my supper ready. I’m sure she’ll invite you in to eat too,’ she suggested. ‘No doubt,’ he said dryly, ‘and we’d eat to the accompaniment of her history of the day’s events in Portbride. And then not being as tactful as Hugh, she would sit and wait until I left and once again all the things which you and I have to say to each other would be unsaid.’ They were passing through the seaside resort of Prestwick. Sally blinked at the sturdy red and yellow sandstone villas which lined the roadway. ‘Have we much to say to each other?’ she asked. ‘I think so. Why do you think I came back to Portbride?’ ‘To destroy Winterston House. You said so,’ she replied innocently. ‘We could talk going home in the car. You don’t have to buy my dinner just to talk to me. Aunt Jessie will be worried when I don’t turn up on time.’ ‘Damn Aunt Jessie!’ he said explosively, unkindly. ‘When are you going to untie the string which attaches you to her and Hugh? I can’t talk properly when I’m driving and when I’m hungry, and although I appreciate your thrifty outlook, will you please remember that I’m doing this because I want to do it, not because I have to. I want to eat in a civilised manner with soft lights and good service, and I’d like your company. How often do I have to say it before you’ll understand?’ He had deliberately reminded her of the night they had gone to the fairground, and the old familiar excited anticipation tingled in her veins, the feeling that something exciting would happen and which she associated with soft summer nights. Strange that she should experience it tonight when the soft September rain was blotting out the sky. They skirted the airport in a silence disturbed only by the swish of windscreen wipers. A double row of lights, fuzzy with rain, appeared on the right, close to the ground, looking like starbursts against the murk. Then they were past the runway and on a darkened country road which led to the sea. The hotel Ross had chosen was well-known. It was almost on the shore and in front of its walls the unseen sea lapped at a rim of sand. Inside there was warmth and the type of hushed luxury which is conveyed by thick fitted carpets, velvet draperies and exotic arrangements of potted plants. In the dining room they sat by the great curved window which in daytime offered an extensive view of the Clyde Estuary and the Island of Arran, but which was now covered by curtains. While Ross studied the menu Sally looked about her with interest. There were several couples dining tete-a-tete at the candlelit tables. There was also a group of businessmen talking and eating with gusto. Further away there was a birthday party being held, judging by the mixture of people sitting around a long table on which there was a large cake covered with small lighted candles. Most of the women dining there were in evening dress and were obviously groomed for the

occasion, and she wished she had had time to prepare properly for this, her first dinner date. That was if it could be called a dinner date, she thought with a smile, thinking of the way she had been invited. In fact an invitation had not been issued. She had been told she was going to eat because they were both hungry and because Ross wanted to eat in a civilised manner. The whole arrangement was so typical of Ross that she couldn’t help smiling. ‘Why are you smiling?’ The abrupt question jolted her temporarily as she realised he had been watching her without her knowing. ‘I was thinking of you, and of how you always seem to do everything on the spur of the moment, and yet you expect a person to fall in with your plans immediately.’ He raised his eyebrows as if surprised by her comeback and murmured, ‘You should be used to me by now. But I don’t expect you to fall in with my plans. You always have an option.’ ‘What option did I have tonight?’ she challenged. ‘I had to come here because you were driving.’ He smiled at her, that slow tantalising smile which narrowed his eyes and which made her want to box his ears and love him at the same time. ‘You didn’t have to come into the hotel. You could have stayed in the car until I’d finished eating, or you could have walked back to Ayr. I wouldn’t have forced you to come in here. I can assure you I don’t go in for cave-man antics. I don’t want anyone to come anywhere with me against their will, least of all a woman. An unwilling woman is as bad as one who is scorned—sheer hell.’ Sally shifted uneasily in her chair. For all his smile he seemed to be deadly serious. ‘You’re making fun,’ she suggested warily. “No, I mean what I say. If you don’t want to dine with me say so and I’ll call a taxi to take you back to Ayr ... although I should think you’ll have missed the bus back to Portbride by now. So perhaps waiting in the car is for you. But somehow I don’t think you’re exactly unwilling, only perturbed about extraneous subjects such as Aunt Jessie and the way you’re dressed.’ ‘Och, how did you guess?’ ‘From the way you studied the other women and then glanced at your own clothing. Why worry about it? I like the way you look and I’m buying your dinner. Now let’s choose something to eat, shall we?’ It was while they were eating the first course of deliciously tender smoked Scotch salmon that Ross asked abruptly, ‘Mike tells me you’re going to visit his home while you’re in London.’ ‘His mother invited me. He hopes to be at home convalescing then.’

‘Would you be very disappointed if he was sent to another site when he’s better?’ ‘But why shouldn’t he return to Portbride?’ ‘If the other man who has been sent to take his place is satisfactory, there’s no point in his returning, and the company could use him in South Wales and will send him there if I recommend that he should go there.’ ‘Will you be going back there too, when you’ve done your work here?’ He did not reply at once because the waiter returned with the second course and there was the usual ritual of vegetable serving and wine-tasting. The waiter departed and Sally began to eat appreciatively. Cautiously she sipped some of the red wine, wrinkled her nose at the taste and sipped some more, then repeated her question. ‘It depends on the behaviour of certain people,’ replied Ross non-committally, and Sally thought of Lydia and remembered her saying that Ross was ambitious. She took another sip of wine. It made her feel warm and even more capable of saying what she felt. She must tell Ross where Lydia was, then he would be able to go after her and make it up with her. ‘Lydia says you’re ambitious and that she’d like to be the wife of an ambitious man, someone who knows where he’s going. And you know where you’re going. If the South Wales site is bigger, that means promotion, doesn’t it, so I expect she’d be glad to go there with you. She’s in Edinburgh.’ Ross put down his knife and fork and reaching across the table took the wine glass from her hand and placed it beside his plate. ‘I might have known,’ he said. ‘You’ve drunk it too quickly and it’s gone to your head. It’s a wonder you haven’t developed hiccups.’ Resentful because he had taken the wine from her, Sally had to admit that she felt slightly light-headed, so she concentrated once more on eating. ‘Who told you Lydia had gone to Edinburgh?’ he asked. ‘Miriam. Didn’t you know? I thought Miriam would have told you. Lydia has gone to stay with friends. Evidently she was very upset after quarrelling with you.’ ‘So you know about that too,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, and she’s probably feeling very miserable and unhappy. Won’t you go and see her and make it up?’ For some reason Ross looked extremely exasperated and Sally braced herself for a scornful comment. But when he spoke he sounded very reasonable. ‘Not yet. If I’m not mistaken, Lydia will have company. Craig Dawson will keep her entertained.’ ‘But isn’t that all the more reason why you should go and see her?’ said Sally, plunging deeper

into the mire. ‘Craig might ask her to marry him.’ ‘And she might accept? Is that what’s worrying you? But I thought you’d got over your liking for him and that you preferred someone else.’ ‘I have ... I do. It’s you I’m thinking of. If you don’t go after her you’ll lose her.’ He eyed her speculatively, and rather dismayed by the shrewdness of his glance, Sally ate busily. ‘Are you by any chance trying to organise my life for me?’ he drawled quietly. ‘I’d be doing no more than you’ve been doing for me,’ she retorted. ‘Ever since you came back to Portbride you’ve tried to organise my life, and you needn’t bother to deny it. Mike told me you introduced me to him deliberately because you thought I needed help.’ ‘I’m not denying it. You did need help, and I hadn’t the time to do much about it, so I recruited Mike. It kept him out of mischief at the same time. I thought it was an excellent idea, and I do still. You’re much better, not half so sorry for yourself.’ Sally was speechless. It seemed she couldn’t win. He was impregnable, and he always had an answer. ‘I’m rather sorry, though, that you’ve tumbled to the truth, and I hope that you won’t let it affect your feelings where Mike is concerned. Now to get back to my original question. Will you be disappointed if Mike doesn’t return to Portbride when he’s better?’ said Ross. Desolation crept into Sally’s heart as she imagined Portbride without Ross, without Mike. ‘I would miss him very much,’ she replied honestly. ‘Then I won’t recommend that he should be sent there, and suggest that he should return to Winterston instead.’ He spoke firmly, finally. Coffee was served and drunk in silence. Ross appeared to be more interested in the brunette sitting at the next table than in reopening the conversation. Sally looked at him enviously. He was free. Free to stare at a woman admiringly if he wanted to. He lived for the moment, taking pleasure where he found it, never looking back. The meal was over. The bill was paid and they went out into the cool damp night. They travelled in silence back the way they had come, through the empty gleaming streets of Prestwick and Ayr and out on to the dark road which went south. Eventually Sally roused herself sufficiently to say, ‘I’d like to see Winterston House before it’s destroyed.’ ‘Well, you’re not going to see it again,’ replied Ross curtly. ‘It’s not safe, and if I catch you going there for a last sentimental glimpse I shall have no hesitation in punishing you.’ She was no further forward. He still regarded her as a child. Presumably that was why he

thought he could organise her life for her. Silence settled again and she was suddenly panic-stricken. This was her last chance to be alone with him. This was the moment she should make last for ever, but he seemed further from her than ever. ‘Will you leave as soon as the house is destroyed?’ she asked He gave her question some thought before answering. ‘We shall start knocking it down on Saturday morning, and I think I might as well leave soon after. Once the demolition is under way Charlie Burnet can take over. There isn’t much point in me staying longer. I’ll go ... which should please you.’ He sounded so final about everything, as if there was no possibility of him changing his mind. Earlier this evening she had been hopeful. What had happened to dash those hopes? Nothing, really. They had been ill-founded, another case of wishful thinking. The lights of Portbride appeared as she struggled wildly to find another opening. But they were through the main street and going up the brae before she managed to say diffidently, ‘Ross, that night I told you to go away, I didn’t mean I wanted you to go away from Portbride. I meant ...’ ‘What does it matter now?’ he interrupted. ‘That’s past, over and done with. Why bother to rake it up now?’ He stopped the car and was out and opening the door on her side before she had time to recover from the chilling effect of his words. She stepped out, haunted by the memory of the other times they had parted company. ‘Thank you for the dinner,’ she said. ‘Did we say all the things we had to say to each other?’ ‘We managed to untangle a few knots,’ he replied coolly. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll have time to see you again before I leave on Saturday, so we’d better say goodnight and goodbye before Aunt Jessie makes her appearance.’ With a swift deft gesture he tilted her face up and kissed her firmly on the mouth. The front door opened and they moved apart. With a wave of his hand in Aunt Jessie’s direction Ross moved away to the car, calling out in his derisive fashion, ‘Don’t say it, Aunt Jessie. I’m going. Goodnight.’  

  CHAPTER EIGHT   awoke early on Saturday morning and lay for a few minutes wondering about the day which lay before her. Slowly her sleepy thoughts crystallised and she turned her head on the pillow and closed her eyes in an effort to escape. Today they would start to knock down Winterston House and Ross would leave. In the words of Stevenson he would ‘go for ever and come again no more’. Sally

It was a mistake to remember the sad words of the poet, because sleep fled completely and she was fully awake to the discomfort of thought. Ross would come again no more. There was no way to hold him. While Winterston had stood there had always been the chance of his return. But this morning Winterston would be partially destroyed and its roof would soon be in the dust. Sudden impulse made Sally fling back the bedcovers and go to the window. She pulled back the curtains and looked out. Early morning sunlight sparkled on the water and caressed the hills. In the harbour the lifeboat gleamed with reflected light from the water. On the Winterston shore she could just make out the untidy man-made heaps of earth defacing what had once been landscaped parkland. Sunlight glittered on the aluminium trailers and the yellow earth-moving equipment. In the midst of the upheaval the old house was an anachronism, its baronial architecture seeming fussy and unnecessary rather than romantic. In a few hours it would be gone ... and so would Ross. Again impulse turned Sally away from the window towards her clothing. Quickly, as if she had no time to lose, she dressed, grabbing jeans, shirt and sweater. Moving quietly so as not to disturb Aunt Jessie and her father, she tiptoed downstairs into the kitchen. There she poured herself some orange juice, and taking an oatcake from a tin in the cupboard unlocked the back door and went outside to the garden shed. It did not take long to pull her bicycle from the back of the shed and inspect it. She hadn’t ridden it since the car crash, so it was dusty and the tyres were flat. Hoping they were still intact, she pumped them up with a hand pump until they were hard. Then she listened to them. There was no hissing noise from the valves, so she assumed that they were all right. She wheeled the bicycle through the front gate and hopped on to the saddle. Soon she was free-wheeling down the brae with the cool morning air fanning her cheeks. She rode round the head of the harbour and out on to the Winterston road. Going was rather difficult because heavy vehicles had played havoc with the surface. But there was pleasure in the ride, a sense of freedom which she had not experienced for a long time. A feeling that she was once more herself doing what she wanted to do because she wanted to do it. It wasn’t the first time in her life she had left home early in the morning intent on finding adventure, and she could not help thinking how much better it suited her to act rather than to stay at home and mope.

At last she arrived at the place where the big bastion of rock had once jutted out into the road. It had been blasted and some of it had been removed. The remaining rock looked raw, but it was still colourful, glittering pink and purple in the morning sunlight. It was true the lovely silver birch had gone, but the whole area had been tidied and many plants had been replanted. By next spring Sally knew the bushes would have recovered and would be flourishing and no one would guess that the place had not always been as it was now. Cheered by the thought that it was possible for man to improve on nature at times, she cycled on to the entrance to the drive. The old gateposts had disappeared. The driveway had been re-surfaced and to one side of it there was a wooden shed. From the shed a lifting barrier barred the way to strangers. Through the window of the shed Sally could see a man in a peaked uniform cap. Presumably he was there to stop strangers from entering. A slight mischievous grin quirked her mouth, and moving into the trees beyond the entrance to the drive she propped her bike against one, then leaving it there began to make her way through the woodland in the direction of the house. She came out of the trees where she had expected, just behind the house on the south-east side. A temporary barbed wire fence had been put round the house to prevent anyone from approaching it too closely. Skirting round the fence, Sally made her way behind the house to the west side. She was shocked by the sight of it. The whole wall was down, lying in a mass of stone and rubble, leaving the rooms exposed. Beams of rotten wood, torn and ragged, stuck out and a smell of dust and decay polluted the morning air. It was quite obvious that the destruction of the house had already begun. To reach the front of the house Sally had to climb over the heap of rubble. It wasn’t difficult, but as she reached the other side some stones tumbled down and rolled down the slight slope, attracting the attention of two men standing on the remains of the lawn. The noise of a crane starting up drew Sally’s attention and she turned to watch the long jib of a big crane swing out. Dangling from the end of the jib was a rectangular iron weight. It was being swung away from the house, presumably with the intention of swinging back to knock down a wall. Sally watched, fascinated. Then she became aware that someone was shouting. She turned. One of the men, the bigger of the two, was running towards her. He was waving his arm as if directing her away from the house. Sudden realisation that she was in danger made Sally start to run towards the man, whom she recognised as Ross. He reached her, grabbed her arm and pulled her along with him away from the house. Then without warning he pushed her down on the ground and flung himself on top of her. There was a dreadful cracking sound, a rumble of falling masonry and dust and stone showered down. ‘What’s happened?’ Sally asked the ground against which she was pushed so hard by the weight of Ross’s body. The pressure on her back eased at once

as he sat up. ‘That was part of the front of the house falling down, you little fool,’ he rasped. ‘You can sit up now. There’s no more danger for the time being, and you can explain why you’re here at this time in the morning.’ She sat up and looked at him. The yellow construction helmet was pushed to the back of his head. His face was pale under streaks of grey dust and his eyes were blazing blue. Rather intimidated by the fury which leapt and flickered in his eyes and by the grim set of his mouth, Sally stammered a little. ‘I didn’t think you’d be working so early. I came to see the house before it was knocked down.’ ‘I thought I told you not to come near it, that it wasn’t safe. I might have known you’d do the opposite to anything I suggested.’ Sally looked past him at the broken, windowless house. Part of the front wall had gone, leaving a jagged broken edge which completely destroyed the bland, pretentious facade of the house. Now it was really a ruin and the Winterston House she had known all her life had ceased to exist. ‘I had to come,’ she replied simply, looking straight at Ross again. The anger was dying from his face and he looked pale and weary. ‘What did you do with the love-seat?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t forget. It’s loaded on to a truck, and on its way to you,’ he replied. Getting to his feet, he held out a hand to help her to stand up. ‘We’ll go to the office and I’ll get Charlie Burnet to send some tea.’ Burnet, who was the other man who had been standing watching the demolition operations, was a short stocky man. He stared curiously at Sally when Ross introduced her, nodded at Ross’s request for tea and went off in the direction of one of the trailers. The office was in a long hut at the end of a corridor bordered by rooms furnished with desks and filing cabinets which were deserted. The Saturday morning silence was sunlit and dustladen. The fairly large room into which Ross took her was furnished in a surprisingly comfortable way. The floor was covered by a red carpet. The wall facing the door was lined by a bookcase and a filing cabinet. Facing the window was a big desk behind which there was a large leather covered swivel chair. ‘Here, sit in the ejection seat. It’s the most comfortable in the room—or on the site, for that matter,’ said Ross. Sally sat on the edge of it. ‘Why do you call it that?’ she asked. He removed the yellow helmet from his head and put it on the bookcase. Then he ran a hand through his hair with a weary gesture and took a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his donkey jacket. Unlighted cigarette between his fingers, he leaned against the bookcase and once again she sensed hostility in his attitude as he looked at her.

‘I call it that because no one has ever stayed in it for long. Brian Wood had it on the last site he was in. Then I was in it here, then Mike, then Burnet, then me again ... and after today Burnet again, for a while.’ He lit the cigarette. He was still pale, although Sally thought that the dust-streaks on his face might make him look like that. His oblique reference to his imminent departure depressed her and she had a sudden urge to leave. ‘I don’t really need any tea ... I’m not shocked. I could go straight home now,’ she said, half rising to her feet. ‘Sit down,’ he ordered curdy. ‘How did you get on to the site?’ She sat down, realising that he must be more concerned about an unauthorised person being on the site than he was in her immediate welfare. ‘Wasn’t there anyone on duty at the barrier?’ he rapped. ‘Oh, yes, there was. Please, Ross, it wasn’t his fault. I waited until he wasn’t looking, then dodged into the woods and dumped my bike and walked through to the back of the house. I’ve been so many times I know my way.’ He stared at her intently for a moment, then a slight smile softened the expression on his face. ‘I suppose you do, you little poacher,’ he accused, calling her by the name given to those who trespass for game and fish on private land. ‘Still, it was a risk you shouldn’t have taken. You could have been killed or badly hurt if we hadn’t seen you. It must have been some sixth sense which made me turn round when I did. You may not be shocked, but I am!’ Sally’s eyes opened very wide. He was shocked because she might have been killed. Did that mean, could it possibly mean that...? She was unable to voice her question because the door opened and Burnet arrived with a tray bearing two mugs of tea and a bowl of sugar and a jug of milk. He put the tray on the desk, smiled kindly at Sally, gave a sidelong glance at the silent stone-faced Ross and departed without a word. Sally put milk and sugar into one of the mugs and began to sip. She had decided after all that Ross would have been shocked anyway, no matter who had been in danger, because he was responsible for whatever happened on the site, so she did not ask her question. Ross moved to the desk, stubbed out his cigarette, spooned sugar into the other mug of tea and drank some. He said abruptly, ‘I wish you hadn’t come. It would have been easier for me if you hadn’t.’ There was such a savage note in his voice that she braced herself mentally for the punishment he had threatened to give her if he ever found her near the house. Her depression deepened as she realised that she had caused him trouble and that he would now go away with

his impression of her as an irritating pest deepened and exaggerated. ‘I’m sorry ...’ she began to apologise, when he cut in with, ‘I don’t like saying goodbye. To have to say it twice is asking too much of anyone.’ Her ears throbbed as her heart quickened its beat. Ross drank some more tea. Blood showed on one of his knuckles. He must have grazed it when he flung himself on top of her. He lowered the mug and Sally looked higher into his wary blue eyes. In that moment the courage which had deserted her for so long surged back. ‘You don’t have to say goodbye to me again,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I could come with you when you go.’ It was said at last. She had offered herself, and if he rejected her she would accept defeat and go home. He put down the mug on the tray so sharply that tea slopped over the rim, and half sitting on the desk leaned towards her. “You can’t possibly mean what you say,’ he replied incredulously. ‘You must be more shocked than you think. Why, only last week you told me you would never leave Portbride.’ ‘I do mean what I say,’ she insisted. ‘I was confused when I said that ... I didn’t know, I didn’t realise. Och, you’ve been so horrid and distant since you came back.’ ‘That’s because I’ve been jealous of Mike,’ he admitted slowly. ‘But why? I don’t understand ...’ He smiled rather ruefully. ‘No, I don’t expect you do. I didn’t myself at first ... I can’t even tell you when it began to happen. When I first came back to Portbride I was rather upset to see what the car crash had done to you and I wanted to help you. I found that to a certain extent I enjoyed your company, but that my previous relationship with Maeve tended to come between us. I thought that if Mike could restore your confidence while I managed to remove Maeve, then perhaps you and I could make more progress. But the idea of using Mike to restore you to health seemed to have boomeranged, and everything became complicated by the appearance of Lydia. On top of which you told me in no uncertain terms not to touch you and to go away. I decided that I was a fool for chasing rainbows, and took the opportunity of the problems at the South Wales site to go. I had no intention of returning.’ ‘I only told you to go because I was afraid you might love me and leave me,’ said Sally in a low voice. ‘I didn’t think you would go right away.’ ‘D’you know why I came back?’ he asked urgently. ‘You’ve asked me that before ... to destroy Winterston House.’

‘Someone else could have done that. No, I was given another choice. Stay in South Wales, or return here and let Mike go there. For once in my life I had difficulty in making a decision ... and all because of you. I kept thinking how much I would like to come back here and spend the next year with you. I even thought of buying a cottage where we might live together if all went well. So I came back to find out if there was any basis for my dream. I discovered that you were more concerned about Mike being hurt ... and had some totally erroneous ideas about my relationship with Lydia.’ ‘I couldn’t help that,’ Sally defended herself. ‘Lydia herself told me that she was going to join you in South Wales. I thought you must have made an arrangement with her before you left.’ ‘No arrangement was made. Sally, are you sure about Mike?’ He sounded oddly diffident for Ross and she realised she would have to work hard to convince him that he was the only person for whom she had ever felt this ardent emotion, this mixture of tenderness and passion. ‘I like Mike,’ she said quietly, ‘but it wouldn’t worry me if I never saw him again. I came here this morning because I realised that if you went away again life would be dismal and hollow. Please, Ross, let me come with you when you go.’ He slid off the desk and walked round to her and taking her hand pulled her to her feet. With one hand he caressed her scarred cheek and then bent to kiss her. His mouth was gentle at first, cool and seeking, but as she responded wholeheartedly he began to caress her more ardently, so that her shyness evaporated and she responded more fully. At last he raised his head and grinned down at her. ‘You may not believe me, but this is the first time I’ve ever made love to anyone so early on a Saturday morning. There’s no need for you to come with me, because I’m going to stay. Mike can go to Wales. I’ll tell the company that this is a much better place for a honeymoon. What do you think of Gimlet Cottage as our first home?’ ‘So that was why you were so interested in it!’ exclaimed Sally. ‘And I thought you wanted it for you and Lydia. I should like to live there as long as you’re with me.’ ‘It won’t be for long, Sally ... only until the site work is done. That’s why it’s important for me to know if you can bear to leave Portbride, because I couldn’t leave you behind. We can keep the cottage as a place to come back to ... to refresh ourselves. We can bring our children to it, so that they too can learn to appreciate the wind and the sun and the rain. Will that suit you?’ For answer she kissed him impulsively and his arms tightened around her as he returned the kiss. But he raised his head quickly and glancing round the room made a grimace of distaste. Then he looked down at her and she recognised the expression in his eyes, the mixture of challenge and amusement. ‘Let’s get out of here. I know of far better places among the hills where we can make love on a lovely sunny morning like this. Coming?’ This time the old familiar invitation had no careless, throw-away overtones. This time he did not set off without her. ‘I’m coming,’ she answered.

And together, hand in hand, they walked out of the office down the corridor, and out into the September sunshine.