Keepsakes from the Cottage by the Loch (Loch Cameron #6)

Chapter 14

FOURTEEN

‘Did ye find the books yet?’ Dotty called from the stairs, and Tara swore under her breath, dropping the duster and polish and running to help her mother, who was stubbornly descending the Inn’s carpeted staircase with her new walking stick.

‘Mum! You shouldn’t be up!’ Tara scolded Dotty, but Dotty ignored her and continued making her way down the stairs.

‘If I have tae stay in that room another minute, I’m goin’ tae go batty,’ she complained. ‘Look at me! I’m so peely-wally, the walls’re jealous.’

Peely-wally was a favourite phrase of Dotty’s that meant pale or looking ill. She used peaky interchangeably.

‘Take my arm at least, then.’ Tara fought the urge to roll her eyes and guided Dotty to a chair. ‘Do you want tea? There’s some cake, as well.’

Tara had realised, since being home and looking after her mother, just how much tea Dotty drank in a day. If she didn’t have a pot on the go, then she wanted one.

‘Aye, but only if yer makin’ one.’ Dotty smiled tiredly at her daughter. She did look pale , Tara thought .

‘I will in a minute. I’m just polishing the bar.’

‘Aye, good.’ Dotty pointed to a shelf of old leather-bound books over the fireplace. ‘Those are the books I was tellin’ ye aboot. Belonged tae Aunt Agnes.’

Tara hadn’t been putting the fire on most evenings, because it was the summer. Her dad had said that was fine, but as soon as September began, they’d start burning logs again. People liked the cosy warmth of a fire on an evening, he said. She looked over, frowning.

‘Aye. I told ye. Those were her books,’ Dotty repeated, waving regally at the volumes from her chair. ‘Poetry, some novels. This an’ that. I always meant for ye tae have them, but they do look nice over the fireplace.’

‘I always just thought they were ornamental. I didn’t know they belonged to her.’ Tara went over to the fireplace, curious, and ran her finger along the bottle green, dark blue and tan leather spines of the books.

‘Aye. I did tell ye, but ye weren’t listenin’.’ Dotty tutted affectionately. ‘I always said, Agnes was bookish, like ye.’

‘Right, but I don’t remember you saying these were her books.’ Tara frowned.

‘I did! The other day when we were talkin’ upstairs.’

‘Oh. Right. Hmm. You know, we found a letter from Agnes at the primary school the other day. In a time capsule. I’ve been meaning to show you.’ Tara reached for her phone and opened the photos, showing Dotty the picture she’d taken.

‘Oh, my!’ Dotty said as she read it, putting on her glasses from where they hung around her neck on a chain. ‘And this was in a memory capsule?’ She handed the phone back to Tara.

‘Yeah. At the school. From 1941. Even weirder, we also found one from when I was at the school. Ramsay and I had both put little letters in there,’ Tara continued. She didn’t tell her mother that Ramsay had been there at the school, when the time capsules had been discovered. She was still processing it herself: seeing Ramsay Fraser twice in such a short period of time, when she thought she’d never see him again – well, she didn’t know what to think. Part of her was relieved, part of her wanted to scream at him, part of her wanted to hug him and not let go.

‘Really! Isnae that strange!’ Dotty marvelled. ‘What a scandal, aboot Agnes and the headmaster, though! I had nae idea.’ She passed Tara’s phone back to her. ‘Poor darlin’.’

‘So she was single all her life? Encouraging.’ Tara rolled her eyes.

‘A spinster, that’s what they used tae call it.’ Dotty ignored her daughter’s eyeroll. ‘Single. Yes. Why is that encouragin’?’

‘It’s not. I was being sarcastic. Because you always say I’m like her. So that means I’m destined to be alone,’ Tara explained.

‘Oh. Silly lass. We had this conversation before. You’ll never be alone. Agnes was a bit of an odd duck. She may have had a personal life, but she just never talked aboot it.’

‘So there was never a guy – or a woman – around? A partner?’ Tara probed. ‘Apart from Mr McLeish, as it turns out.’

‘No’ that I can remember, hen. She liked her own company. Or, she didnae like it, but was stuck wi’ it.’ Dotty shrugged. ‘Have a look at the books, you might like tae have somethin’ that was hers.’

‘I thought I was making you a tea?’ Tara raised a playful eyebrow.

‘Aye, right enough. In a minute.’

‘Fine. Let’s see these books then.’ Tara went to have a look at the shelf again. Dotty was right: there was a variety of poetry titles: Robert Browning, Christina Rossetti, Rupert Brooke, Siegfried Sassoon. Then there was a set of the Bront? sisters: Jane Eyre , The Tenant of Wildfell Hall , Wuthering Heights , Villette. Tara took down the dark blue leather-bound copy of Jane Eyre and flicked through the opening pages. ‘Oh, look. There’re notes here.’

She took the book over to Dotty and showed her some of the pages. In a meticulously neat copperplate hand, Agnes had written her name on the top right-hand corner of the title page. Tara frowned as she looked at the date the book was published: 1921.

‘These were already quite old when she got them,’ she said. ‘Agnes was in her twenties in 1941. That was when that letter was dated.’

‘Hmm. She may’ve inherited them, bear in mind.’ Dotty rested her head on the back of the chair. ‘I dinnae know much aboot Agnes’ parents, but I do remember my mum sayin’ Agnes’ dad was a doctor. They were keen on education, I think, even for Agnes, an’ that wasnae that common at the time.’

‘I guess that’s why she became a teacher.’ Tara looked back at the book, flicking through the pages. Further into the book, Agnes had written tiny, crabbed notes at the margins of the tissue-thin pages of the aged paper. ‘Hmm. Listen to this. She’s underlined some things. I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will.’

‘That’s Agnes, all right,’ Dotty chuckled. ‘Ye can tell from that letter she wasnae aboot tae take any funny business from anyone.’

‘Right.’ Tara nodded, flicking through more pages. She read some more underlined passages aloud. They were all about finding a soulmate, it seemed: Charlotte Bront? called it a good angel.

‘That’s romantic,’ Dotty sighed. ‘Yer father’s never said anythin’ half as romantic as that tae me.’

‘ Mum. You love Dad, and he adores you.’

‘Aye, I know,’ Dotty admitted. ‘He’s a good man. Still, a girl likes a bit o’ romance, every so often.’

‘Hmm. Here’s another one. It is madness in all women to let a secret love kindle within them, which, if unreturned and unknown, must devour the life that feeds it .’

‘Maybe that was about the headmaster, Mr McLeish. She mightae felt like that aboot him at first,’ Dotty said, thoughtfully. ‘She was just a young girl, inexperienced. He was older, married. He took advantage of her, poor thing.’

‘Yeah. It does look that way.’ Tara continued turning the pages. ‘It would be nice if Agnes had found love, you know? To make up for her terrible time with Mr McLeish.’

Tara thought about what it must have been like to teach at the tiny Loch Cameron primary school. She wondered how many pupils there had been in Agnes’ time. She could imagine class sizes of around eight, or maybe, then, there hadn’t been year groups in the same way as there were now. Tara had the sudden vision of Agnes reading to a group of children of different ages, spellbinding them with her own passion for books.

‘Aye. She was clearly a romantic soul.’ Dotty shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

‘It’s like she was taking strength from this book, though. She’s underlined this: I can live alone, if self-respect and circumstances require me to do so. I need not sell my soul to buy bliss. I have an inward treasure born within me, which can keep me alive if all extraneous delights should be withheld or offered only at a price I cannot afford to give .’

‘Good advice fer anyone. What’s this book again?’

‘ Jane Eyre. Charlotte Bront?.’

‘Well, that Charlotte Bront? was a bit o’ a feminist, I’d say. Good for her.’ Dotty nodded. ‘I might read it.’

‘I guess she was a feminist, in her own way. It’s a book about love, but it’s also about an independent woman who refuses love if it isn’t on her terms. Are you a feminist, Mum?’ Tara didn’t think she’d ever heard Dotty use the word before.

‘O’ course I am. Silly question,’ her mother scoffed. ‘ You girls now think ye’ve got it hard. Think about what it was like in Agnes’ day. An’ in my day. Let me tell ye, it wasnae easy, bein’ a woman in Scotland wi’ the likes o’ Paul bloody McLeish around every corner, an’ men tellin’ ye yer place was at home, mindin’ the bairns. I’ve never let a man get the better o’ me an’ I never will. Part o’ the reason I fell fer yer father was that he always treated me like a queen. If yer no’ the queen, lassie, then forget it, because he’s no’ the king ye’re lookin’ fer.’

‘All right, I only asked.’ Tara held up her hands in a mock defence. ‘I know, I know. It’s not as easy as all that to find a king, though. Believe me.’

‘Ye havenae tried, as far as I can tell, poppet. No’ since Ramsay,’ Dotty said, her tone softening. ‘Listen. All I want is fer ye tae find someone who’ll treat ye like a queen. I want ye tae stand upright an’ have the gumption that Jane Eyre had. That I had to have in my life, hen. I know ye’ve got it in ye.’

Tara was touched. She was so used to thinking that Dotty wasn’t really in her corner that she hadn’t stopped to think that her mother really might be.

‘I have tried to find someone. You don’t know what it’s like out there,’ Tara argued, but she knew it was a lie. She’d hardly dated at all in the past ten years. She’d told herself that she was concentrating on her career, but she knew, deep down, that wasn’t true.

‘Have ye? Ye havenae brought anyone home.’ Dotty pointed to a teal velvet pouffe next to the chair she was sitting in. ‘Move that fer me, there’s a love. Help me put ma feet up.’

Tara moved the pouffe and knelt down to gently raise her mother’s ankles onto it.

‘I haven’t met anyone that I wanted to bring home.’ That was, at least, honest. She hadn’t, but she also hadn’t been looking for anyone.

‘Well, Agnes mightae been a spinster, but there’s no need fer ye to be, Tara.’ Dotty put her hand on Tara’s, on the armrest of the chair. ‘Listen tae yer mother. I raised ye tae be a strong woman. Like Agnes, like me. Ye’ve got that in ye: like that passage in the book says, yer strong in yerself. But I also raised ye tae enjoy life, hen.’ Dotty looked uncharacteristically reflective for a moment.

‘I do enjoy my life,’ Tara protested.

‘Aye, but it’s in a reserved kindae way, now. When ye were dancin’ – wi’ or wi’out Ramsay – ye were so free, so happy. I used tae love watchin’ ye, up on stage. An’ it wasnae aboot the prizes an’ the trophies. Or even aboot winnin’. It was aboot takin’ joy in life.’ Dotty shifted, a grimace of pain crossing her expression. ‘All I want fer ye is tae have that joy again.’

‘I want that, too,’ Tara said, quietly. ‘But I don’t know how. It’s like I lost it and I’ve never been able to find it again.’ Unexpectedly, tears welled up in her eyes. ‘Sorry, Mum.’ She wiped them away. ‘I don’t know where that came from.’

‘Don’t ye ever be sorry, poppet. Not ever, not to me.’ Dotty gathered her daughter into a fierce, tight hug. ‘I just want ye tae be happy. That’s all a mother ever wants fer her daughter.’ Dotty took the book from Tara’s hands and flicked through it, thoughtfully. ‘Ye know, I always told ye, ye were like Agnes. Because ye always loved tae read. But it’s different times now, ye have tae remember. An’ just because Agnes may have had her heart broken, an lived like a spinster forever after that, ye dinnae have tae. We all make our own destiny. Yours can be full o’ joy again, if ye want it tae be. Okay?’

‘Okay, Mum.’ Tara, still kneeling, rested her head on Dotty’s lap. It was something she hadn’t done since she was a little girl, and the memory of her childhood self rose within her. Dotty was right: she had been full of joy, once. She longed for that feeling again.

‘Awww. Bless your heart,’ Dotty said, and stroked Tara’s hair. ‘My little one. You’ll always be my little girl, Tara. But you’re a woman now, too. Ye can find yer joy again if ye look fer it.’

‘But I don’t know where to look,’ Tara replied. Her hand went to the two hearts around her neck and clutched them.

‘What’s that?’ Dotty reached for Tara’s hand. ‘Oh, my goodness. I didn’t know you were still wearin’ that.’ Her eyes widened.

‘Yeah. I just forget it’s there.’ Tara tried to make nothing of the fact that she was still wearing the pendants.

‘Aww. Ramsay and you used tae wear them. And… that’s right. He gave ye his half.’ Dotty’s eyes misted. ‘Darlin’…’

‘Mum. It’s okay. It’s just habit. I should take them off.’ Tara tried to deflect her mother, but Dotty just gave her a look that said , you can’t fool me.

‘Well, ye could try dancin’ again,’ Dotty said. ‘I never saw ye so happy as when ye were in yer little dance outfit, jumpin’ away on the stage.’

‘Maybe. It was so long ago, though. I’m so out of shape,’ she replied.

‘Nonsense. Ye look great, an’ it wouldnae take long fer ye tae remember it all.’ Dotty patted Tara’s head, and Tara sat up, back on her heels. ‘Now. Off ye go an’ make me a cuppa, an’ then when yer finished fer the day, go an’ look up some dance videos on the internet an’ get back intae movin’ yer body. God knows, darlin’, one o’ these days, ye’ll be in yer sixties an’ broken yer leg an’ sittin’ in a chair, an’ it willnae be so easy.’

‘I guess I could,’ Tara said, reluctantly.

‘That’s the spirit! I think ye definitely could,’ Dotty said, her tone brisk. ‘Okay. Tea! Off ye go, poppet. Ma little twinkle toes.’

It didn’t do to argue with Dotty Ballantyne, and so Tara got up and went to the kitchen. But, though it pained her to think it, maybe her mother was right. Tara hummed one of the old Scottish tunes that she had used to dance to, and stepped through the familiar foot positions. Dotty was right: it was all still there, in muscle memory. It felt good to dance. All of a sudden, she wondered why she had taken so long to remember that.