Two Kinds Of Truth(29)

On the wall, there’s a large coat of arms. The McKinley crest is red, emblazoned with two stags, both standing tall on their hind legs. I’m reminded of Callum’s heritage, of a family tree which originated on the rocky Hebridean islands. Their name is said to go as far back as the tenth century.

I know little of my own. My parents were killed in a car accident when I was just nine years old. Their death left me with no family. I’d been in the car with them when it happened, but I have no recollection of the accident. My only memory is of being in hospital and of the kind nurse who tended to the severe cuts and bruises I suffered. I clung to her as though she was a lifeline, but it was no use. Within days she’d been sent to another ward and I was left to fend for myself.

A strange man with narrow eyes and large black glasses came to visit me whilst I was still in hospital. He carried a shiny black briefcase with a gold-plated combination lock. He opened the case to reveal a thick wad of official paperwork. He explained to me, in words which I was too young to understand at the time, that I was deemed far too old for adoption and therefore fell under the care of Social Services. He checked my details, my date of birth and my last known address, before taking my hand in his and guiding me to his car, a sleek racing green Jaguar, as I recall. I sat on the cold back seat, fearful of where I was heading—terrified of being left alone. The fear, and the abandonment I felt that day, has never truly left me.

I stand up and go over to the mantelpiece, from where I pick up a photograph of Callum’s mum and dad, both living in America now. I glance over at Callum. He’s discussing with Jamie the undoubted demise of Bradley O’Conner. I glance back at the photograph, staring down at a woman who barely finds the time to speak to her sons twice a year.

I brush my fingertips across the glass, over her face, as though this gesture will enable me to touch her physically.

“Can ye see a resemblance?” Alasdair asks, close to my ear.

I replace the picture and turn towards him.

“Yes, I can; it’s the curly auburn hair.”

“Aye, and the shape of the eyes. Dougal ne’er got a look in.”

I glance at their father. He’s a thin weedy man with a long neck and jet-black hair.

Alasdair’s right: the twins look nothing like their father.

“Have you heard from your son or daughter-in-law lately?” I ask.

Alasdair shakes his head and sighs. “Are ye kidding me! They’re both too busy dinin’ with the president of the United States to think about the likes of us.”

I too let out a sigh. “I understand what you mean. They didn’t even make it to our wedding. She wrote us a letter, explaining that, with his dad being in the oil business, they couldn’t possibly get away at such short notice. Strange, considering we gave them eight months. More than enough time, I would have thought, to make any crucial arrangements so they could attend their own son’s wedding.”

Alasdair pats me gently on the hand. “It pains me to admit it, but they’ve grown a wee bit big for their breeches. However, their loss is my gain.”

I cup his hand in mine. He’s been a wonderful father figure to both Callum and Jamie. It must have been hard for the boys, though, to live at boarding school for most of their young lives and then to come home to just one grandparent. He raised them to work hard and be independent young men, and although he doesn’t have much money, Callum would never ask his parents for a penny.

I let go of Alasdair’s hand and he heads over to the drinks cabinet. To my surprise, he pulls out a bottle of Bollinger.

“I think we should toast Lord Fornhill for coming to his senses,” he declares, unscrewing the small metal cage that protects the cork. He throws it onto the counter before forcing the champagne cork out with his thumbs. “May he come to realise that a McKinley is always the right man for the job.” The cork flies into the air and hits the ceiling with a pop.

I clap my hands in celebration and stare over at my husband. He’s beaming from ear to ear, and I can honestly say I’ve never seen him look so proud.

Alasdair pours the bubbly into four crystal flutes, coming over and placing one in my hand. He gives me a wink.

“I always have a bottle handy. Ye ken? Just in case.”

I don’t catch his meaning, not at first, but then, to my horror, he gently pats my tummy. My heart skips a beat as I realise what he’s been trying to say. I suddenly feel like my life has no purpose without the child Alasdair’s expecting to appear at some point in my married life.

He turns away, unaware of the pain he’s caused, and offers a glass of champagne to Callum. “Ye see, boy, ye just needed a little patience. If this here Lord Fornhill has his wits about him, he’ll be thanking ye for taking him on.”

Alasdair thrusts a glass into Jamie’s hand and we all move to the centre of the room, so we can toast Callum’s success.

I refuse to let Alasdair’s innocent comment ruin the entire evening. It’s tough, but I’ll have to learn to live with unexpected remarks like his for the rest of my life.

“To Lord Fornhill,” Alasdair cries.

“To Lord Fornhill,” we echo and raise our glasses into the air.

I sip my drink and the bubbles go up my nose. I laugh out loud, rubbing my nostrils to relieve the tickle.

“You’re supposed to drink it, not snort it,” Jamie chuckles, and I suffer a fit of the giggles.