The Things We Do to Our Friends(56)
I remember Tom Landore’s expression. That look of complete disbelief as he saw me and then something else that I didn’t think to question.
I could have gone back in. Said something to him to find out exactly what that expression meant. Events could have all worked out differently if I had, and certain things could have been nipped in the bud right there. Then again, everything might have turned out exactly the same, because at that point I don’t think anything would have stopped me going to the Highlands.
46
We set off a few days later. I always used to classify the countryside as one place. The Dales or the Moors, it was all just “not the city”—some combination of hills and fields that meant little to me. The countryside in England was highly controlled compared to France, where things grew wild in the sun. When I’d stayed with my granny, on the way to her house it was all carefully mown fields that framed the side of the train tracks. A meadow with a pond or a hill with a winding footpath. Everything felt staged, like if you touched it you’d realize it was a painted scene.
Scotland, and this trip in particular, showed me a new kind of geography. The land up close had a sharpness to it, as if someone had taken one of those undulating hills and torn chunks from it, bitten off sections hungrily, stripped it to the bone to reveal craggy rocks and water and marshland. The peaks stretched up away from the road, like we were buried deep in the valleys. I remember the views of a loch that went on for as far as the eye could see, and huge birds soaring over us. Pine trees in the air; the smell of bonfires too, which always reminded me of sitting on Tabitha’s roof.
Soon there were no other cars around at all, and Samuel accelerated with glee.
There was none of the dread I’d felt when we’d gone to Minta’s house—the only other real group excursion we’d done—but the mood in the car was subdued.
“You know I saw Tom Landore, don’t you?” I said after we’d been silent for a long time. I hadn’t wanted to make a big thing of it, after all, and despite the fact I thought I’d handled the moment well enough, I also knew I needed to raise what had happened.
Pressed close to me, Tabitha’s leg tensed.
“Yes, we saw him too—he was at the ceilidh, wasn’t he? You didn’t speak to him, did you?” she asked mildly.
“No, I left with you both.”
She knew that, surely.
“Oh, that’s good. Best not to talk to anyone when it’s all over.” She continued to murmur “good” to herself, and I saw Samuel try to catch her eye then give up.
Ava was sitting in the front seat, her hair swept up. Straight-backed and giving nothing away. Samuel seemed about to say something, but he didn’t manage to quite get the words out, he just swallowed, and the drive continued in a silence that I wrote off as tiredness. We had all been working hard—it was no wonder we were a little fractious.
Eventually, we pulled up to a small coach house set to the side of the road next to large gates. Tabitha perked up and started fidgeting. She’d been staring listlessly out of the window at the scenery up until now, but she came to life when she saw a man come out of the building to greet us.
He asked for our names. We gave them to him—fake, forgettable—and he went back into his little house and pressed something, concealed to his side under a desk, at which point the gates crept open automatically. Amazing how they could be unlocked by the most tentative of family connections. An estate squirreled away with gates and codes and staff. All you needed was to know the right person, for someone to vouch you were good for it, and the world opened right up. You could take it all, as much as you wanted.
We continued our drive slowly across uneven gravel on a driveway that swept in a gentle curve toward the main house. I heard Tabitha’s sharp intake of breath as she took in the views. She grinned conspiratorially at me. I knew she was excited—so was I.
Various expensive-looking cars were peppered untidily across the drive. Whoever was inside, it appeared they’d abandoned them, or valet parking hadn’t materialized. One was bright red but the rest looked faded in muted colors—mustards and greens and pale grays: vintage cars. The grounds were clearly expansive, acres and acres of land. Up close, the house was breathtaking, all somber white stone and rows and rows of little windows. There were turrets and spires that had been tampered with over the years, a hodgepodge of styles added haphazardly. Grand and chaotic.
Samuel pulled up and jumped out to retrieve our bags for us from the boot.
“Are you really going straight back?” I asked. He planned to drive back to Edinburgh and pick us up in a few days’ time.
“Things to do, people to see,” he said, handing me my bag.
As he drove away, a group of men emerged from the woods.
47
My breathing quickened in anticipation as they trudged toward us in a cloud of camouflage. There must have been about ten of them—a hunting party. It was a quick march and they seemed unsurprised to see us. I found it hard to make out their faces, which were obscured by hats and beards, but I could certainly see the long, tan gun cases slung over their shoulders.
As they came closer, they surveyed us in silence, and Tabitha stared back, fascinated by them.
Two groups. Them and us. We were far smaller, though, just the three of us.