Bring Me Home

by Alan Titchmarsh

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Romance

Synopsis

Standing at the door, Charlie Stuart welcomes his guests. Conversation and the clinking of glasses soon fill the air as friends and neighbours come together to toast the laird's happiness. But Charlie sees the truth behind the façade: the sacrifices made to safeguard the estate. And in a few hours the perfect afternoon will come to an end. The past is about to catch up with him, and it could tear his family apart…

Release date: March 13, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 352

Sample

Chapter 1

Castle Sodhail

June 2000

‘It takes patience to appreciate domestic bliss; volatile spirits prefer unhappiness.’

George Santayana, The Life of Reason, 1905

‘You really are the perfect family, aren’t you?’

Charlie Stuart was, for a fleeting moment, unsure whether to take the remark as a sarcastic assessment of the current state of his domestic life or as an innocent and kindly meant compliment. But registering the fact that the bearer of this dubiously couched commendation was a woman whose capacity for tact had, for the entire duration of her seventy years, been notable only for its absence, the situation pointed – somewhat surprisingly – to the latter. Nessie Mackintosh was a middle-aged divorcee who managed, by virtue of brass neck and a certain native insouciance, to appear at every village house party, in spite of the fact that few hosts could ever remember having invited her. She specialised in offering frank and candid appraisals as to the current state – emotional, financial and political – of every resident of the broad scattering of houses, large and small, that constituted her domain. This Sunday lunchtime she was behaving true to form.

‘I’m sorry?’ Charlie enquired, by way of clarification.

‘Well, Mr Stuart, just look at them. Every girl happily married; and to such eligible young men.’

Struggling to avoid choking on his glass of modestly priced Sancerre, the father of the three brides who were scattered about the large hall did his best to avoid baulking at Nessie’s less than accurate description of his sons-in-law.

‘Well, I suppose . . .’

‘A banker, a lawyer and a farmer. All necessities covered,’ she continued.

‘Now there’s only the boy.’

That was true enough. Charlie glanced across the room to where his son and heir stood, chatting to three other ‘eligible’ young women who seemed entranced by his company. It was at moments like this that he was tempted to intervene and warn them what they might be letting themselves in for.

‘Yes. Only Rory.’ He was lost in reverie for a moment, unsure whether to be jealous of his son’s ability with the opposite sex or sympathetic to the likely outcome of the day, bearing in mind the events of the morning.

‘But boys will be boys, won’t they?’

The trite, if ostensibly inoffensive, remark was the last straw. Fearing that unless he extricated himself from the company of the judge of his current domestic state he might commit if not another crime then certainly an unfortunate lapse of diplomacy, he murmured, ‘Will you excuse me for a moment; I think I need to fill some glasses.’ Nodding briefly at the unsuspecting source of his irritation, Charlie snaked through the assembled throng. Considering that there were now enough bodies between himself and the tiresome woman to affect some degree of camouflage, he made for the heavy oak door that was wedged open and slipped out onto the gravel drive. It was a June day; not a particularly pleasant one. The sky evinced little in the way of azure blue, preferring instead to opt for a more appropriate pale grey. Appropriate to his mood at least; but then to match that he needed thunder clouds and torrential rain. At this rate he might find his wish coming true.

He crossed to a lichen-encrusted bench under an ancient yew tree, flopped down and drained the last of the wine in his glass before leaning back and listening to the gentle murmur of voices from within the castle. It had been his for thirty years now – every grey stone and every strip of ancient mortar his to love and to cherish till death . . . well, there was no need to go there. Not again.

The events of the morning – events for which he was to blame – seemed to block out any kind of future. He half wished that he could change places with Rory, who seemed far more capable of a phlegmatic view of life; far more willing to accept what fate threw at him and to deal with things one step at a time. That had been his own approach, until that morning.

He looked up at the castellations and turrets that stood out ever darker against the leaden sky. What had they seen in the last hundred-and-sixty years? Worse situations than the one that faced him now?

Charlie shuddered involuntarily and lowered his eyes to the milling throng who were now spilling out of the vast oak door and onto the powdered granite drive of the castle. They were laughing, most of them, happily lubricated by the passable Sancerre and unremarkable Merlot. He should be there really, thanking them for coming, wishing them well. But the girls would do that, along with their ‘eligible’ husbands. Eligible! He winced, and watched as they bade their guests farewell: Ellie, the eldest one, slender as a willow wand, her blonde hair brushing the shoulders of her smartly tailored jacket; her husband Archie, the banker, at her shoulder, smiling that knowing smile of his. It had always irritated Charlie. Well, once he had found out what Archie was really up to, anyway. An overheard phone-call, in which he was brokering some deal that was clearly of dubious legality, had left Charlie in little doubt as to his modus operandi.

On the other side of the door, Lucy, the middle of the three girls, who looked most like her mother, stood with her arm through that of her farmer husband, Richard – his cheeks as ruddy as those expected of a man who worked the land, his tweed suit the texture of steel wool and of a shade of green that would enable him to blend into the moorland and disappear from view – something he seemed to infinitely prefer to the agonies of being in company.

And where was Sarah? Charlie scanned the eddying throng to spot her, and then saw her being pulled out of the front door by Rory, intent on introducing her to the lucky girl – plucked from the trio – of whom his son was clearly enamoured. This was obviously the chosen one; the one whose future was about to be blighted. Rory would have wanted Sarah’s approval; as twins they seldom operated independently. Charlie had wondered at first why Rory had given his approval to Sarah’s marrying Nick – a high-flying lawyer whose sorties overseas would keep him away from her for half the year at least, until the obvious struck him – that Sarah would be closer to Rory that way and perhaps more reliant on him.

There was no sign of Nick today. Bangkok, Sarah had said, and her father had, once again, feared the worst.

‘The perfect family.’ The words echoed in his head. It was a particularly hollow echo. With one daughter married to a man Charlie considered an absentee shit of the first order, another to a pleasant but pathologically shy and monosyllabic farmer, and a third to a banker who steered a perilous course that teetered between litigation and corruption, ‘perfection’ was not the word that sprang most readily to mind. As Rory patted the bottom of his latest inamorata by way of farewell, it retreated even further. But they were his children and Charlie loved them in spite of it all. Loved them and vowed to take care of them, come what may.

Charlie leaned back on the bench, trailing his sleeve as he did so in a pile of fresh pigeon droppings. ‘Shit!’ he muttered. Then the particularly apposite nature of his exclamation struck him and he let out a bitter laugh. It was enough to attract the attention of his youngest daughter.

‘Daddy,’ called out Sarah. ‘Come and say goodbye to your guests.’ Sheepishly he rose from the bench and did his best to wipe from his sleeve the foul-smelling residue. He failed in his attempt, succeeding only in covering his hand with the astonishing quantity of glutinous muck.

Before he could warn her off, Nessie Mackintosh came forward to grasp his hand by way of gratitude for a lunchtime that had added immeasurably to her level of local intelligence. Try as he might to avoid manual contact, her single-minded intention triumphed and full contact was signalled by a soft squelching sound. She seemed oblivious to the aural and tactile qualities of the handshake – both of which combined to prevent Charlie saying anything at all by way of farewell. Instead, he simply stared at her with his mouth slightly open, as Nessie veered off down the drive with all the navigational skill of a learner driver on an icy road. The Sancerre had clearly taken effect.

Waving at the last of the departing guests, and aware that his hand was in dire need of highly perfumed soap and extremely hot water, Charlie turned towards the house. What should have been a feeling of relief at the departure of several dozen guests simply brought closer the impending revelation. Lunch would be welcomed, certainly; he could do with something other than wine inside him. But then would come the moment of truth.

They were all here now, except the errant Nick. Six out of seven was as much as he could expect nowadays; to get them all in the same place at the same time was nigh on impossible. Well, Sarah could pass on to Bangkok the news that he was about to impart to his children and two of their respective spouses. What would be their reaction, he had no idea. He had absolutely no previous experience of being a father who had to inform his children that the man they regarded as their reliable and unadventurous parent had done something which was likely to bring their world crashing about their heads. He had put off the evil moment for as long as he could. But the time had arrived when he had little alternative but to put them in the picture, before events themselves – and others who would relish the role – made his position all too clear.

He walked steadily towards the door, then stopped and looked up at the sky. Several seconds passed before he did something quite out of character: he was a man not given to dramatic gesture, but on this occasion he raised his arm and with considerable force threw his glass at the wall of the castle and watched it smash into little pieces.

For a moment he stared as the shards of glass plummeted from the unyielding granite. Then he buttoned his jacket and walked indoors.

Chapter 10

Oxford

Easter 1970

‘Surprises are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable.’

Jane Austen, Emma, 1816

The dreaming spires of Oxford were barely visible though the fine drizzle as Charlie walked purposefully down St Aldate’s towards the tower of Christ Church where Gordon had suggested they meet. He was surprised to discover that he was nervous, apprehensive even, of meeting the boy – now man – that he had shared a room with for the better part of two years. But, as he reminded himself, even then there were things they did not tell each other about; feelings they did not share.

It was Gordon who had written and suggested that they meet. Now that his father had retired from North Sea Gas and moved with his wife to the Home Counties, he had little need to visit Scotland and had found a flat with three other Christ Church students just off the Woodstock Road.

Much had happened in the intervening two years, certainly as far as Charlie was concerned. There were various bits of news he had been storing up, unwilling to commit to paper in the erratic correspondence that flowed between the two students. Gordon, it seemed, was still on his own, without a regular girlfriend. Charlie had not mentioned Eleanor at all in their exchanges and had been relieved that Gordon, too, had fallen silent on the matter.

And then he saw him; leaning against the arch of Tom Tower; still the same, gawky angular Gordon, one leg bent up against the wall after the fashion of a heron, both hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets, his lips muttering words that were indecipherable over the steady flow of traffic.

‘Hello!’ said Charlie.

Gordon looked up, coming to, it seemed, after a long journey into his thoughts. ‘Hello, old chap! How nice to see you!’ They shook hands heartily, and Gordon clapped Charlie on the back by way of greeting. ‘You’ve not changed a bit. Yes you have; your hair’s longer.’

‘Everybody’s hair’s longer,’ retorted Charlie. ‘Even yours.’

‘Oh, nothing to do with style, just that I keep forgetting to have it cut. How have you been? How are things north of the border? How’s your love life?’

‘Do you want me to answer those questions separately or all at once?’

‘As you please, Charlie, as you please. Gosh, it’s good to see you. “Since man with that inconstancy was born, to love the absent, and the present scorn.”’

‘The same old Gordon. Who said that then?’

‘Aphra Behn.’

‘Aphra who?’ asked Charlie, grinning.

‘Surely you?’ then, realising he was no longer among his current intimates, Gordon explained gently, ‘No, of course you wouldn’t . . . She was the first female in England to become a professional writer. Beat Miss Austen by a couple of centuries. Born in 1640.’

‘You’re taking your English Lit. seriously then?’

‘Every bit as seriously as you are taking your Agriculture.’

‘Estate Management.’

‘I stand corrected. Anyway, we’re getting wet. What say we go for a jar in The Bear and grab a bite before you come back and dump your bag?’

Gordon’s habit of talking as though he were the love child of Oscar Wilde and P.G. Wodehouse seemed more pronounced than ever now that the two former room-mates no longer saw each other on a daily basis.

‘Sounds good to me,’ replied Charlie.

It was a short walk to The Bear, which Gordon informed his former schoolmate, waving his hands in the general direction of its upper storey with a proprietorial sort of air, was the oldest pub in Oxford. Charlie liked the atmosphere, and the quality of the beer, but was mystified by the vast collection of ties that adorned the walls, each with a paper label.

‘A tradition,’ explained Gordon. ‘One that started about fifteen years ago. Oxford’s like that. There was the story of a don who said, “As of tomorrow it will be a college tradition that we do not walk on the grass in the quad.” And it was; simple as that.’

‘Sounds a bit posey to me,’ murmured Charlie over his pint of bitter.

‘Yes, but classy posey. Cheers!’

‘Cheers!’ Having slaked his thirst, Charlie leaned back and looked around him. ‘So this is where you’re at now?’

‘This is my milieu. The city of dreaming spires and dreaming students.’

‘You don’t look any different.’

‘Don’t I?’ asked Gordon, absently, scrutinising the bar menu propped up on the small round table.

‘Well, a bit. Taller, if anything. Even more ramshackle.’

‘That’s a good farming word. “Ramshackle.” You make me sound like a rusty combine harvester.’

‘I told you; I’m not a farmer.’

Gordon held up his hands. ‘No. I’m sorry. You’re in manage­ment.’

‘Estate management.’

‘Now if you keep going on about it, Charlie, I shall assume that you have a chip on your shoulder.’

Charlie laughed. ‘I haven’t. I just don’t want you to get the wrong end of the stick.’

‘OK, OK – I promise not to call you a farmer any more. “O fortunatos nimium, sua si bona norint, Agricolas!”’

‘What?!’

‘“Oh farmers excessively fortunate if only they recognised their blessings!” Virgil. ’

‘You know, a fellow could get tired of this.’

‘Oh, many have, Charlie, many have. But it doesn’t stop me. It prevents me from sinking into a slough of despond.’

Charlie took another pull on his pint. ‘You get fed up then? Here in Oxford? Your dream city?’

‘“At night in my dreams –’’, but no; you’ll only tell me off for not being original.’ He took a gulp from his pint glass, replaced it on the table and muttered, ‘Dreams are not all they are cracked up to be.’

‘Oh dear. That doesn’t sound very hopeful.’

‘No. But, hey! We’re not here to be miserable; we’re here to share news, scandal and gossip. What’s yours?’

Charlie filled Gordon in on the developments of the last two years; the ups and down of the college course and the real meaning of Estate Management. He was aware, at times, that Gordon’s eyes became glazed, and when that happened he tried to spice up his narrative with nuggets that would make his old friend laugh. When Gordon laughed, the brief years that had elapsed fell away, and they were schoolboys once more. But as they talked over a large plate of beef and onion sandwiches, Charlie observed a more haunted look in Gordon’s eye. One he could not remember noticing before.

At first he thought that he must be imagining things; that Gordon was just older, more mature and that he had the weight of Oxford and his parents’ academic expectations upon his shoulders; it was not surprising that he looked tired, preoccupied, hunted. If anything, he was more flamboyant when he was in full flow. Not only did he sound like Oscar Wilde when he launched into one of his aphorisms or literary bon mots, but thanks to the length of his hair – due, he insisted, to having no time to visit the barbers – he even looked like him.

Eventually Charlie asked, ‘So no woman on the horizon then?’

‘No. Not even the far distant horizon. But there we are.’

Charlie realised he could put off the moment no longer. He eased into it gently. ‘You don’t write to Eleanor any more, then?’        

‘Good God, no! That petered out years ago. The letters stopped coming as quickly as they started and that was that.’

‘All down to horse riding really, I suppose,’ offered Charlie.

‘Yes. That was a good ruse, wasn’t it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Saying that I rode horses.’

‘You mean . . . you didn’t?’

‘No. Well, not regularly. I’m afraid I told a bit of a fib there. I had an uncle who had – this’ll make you laugh – a farm, and when I was a kid I’d go there in the summer holidays. I’d ride then, but I hadn’t really been on a horse for . . . ooh . . . ten years.’

‘But you said—’

‘I know. I lied. Sorry. But it did get me out of the house and away from your . . . well . . . you know . . .’

Charlie was speechless for a few moments. Then he said softly, ‘I had no idea.’

‘No,’ said Gordon, with a note of apology in his voice. ‘I hated lying about it but it was quite tense – the atmosphere between you and your step-mum.’

‘I feel dreadful. Inviting you there and putting you through all that.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t all bad; when we had the chance to be on our own, to talk on our own – which wasn’t very often, I’ll admit – I had a great time. But I do sympathise with you; Charlotte was hard work, to say the least.’

‘Not past tense, for me,’ muttered Charlie.

‘No. Anyway, all that is in the past and I haven’t seen or heard from Eleanor in ages, so there we are. What about you?’

Charlie was still recovering from the revelation and took several moments to marshal his thoughts. ‘Well, Eleanor and I—’

Gordon butted in, ‘Are together?’

Charlie looked surprised. ‘How do you know? I mean . . .’

‘It was obvious; to me at any rate. She didn’t have eyes for anyone else, and neither, I suppose, did you.’

‘But even I didn’t know . . .’

Gordon studied him. ‘No. You always were a bit slow on the uptake, where women were concerned at least. It was obvious to me.’

‘Even when you were, you know, writing to one another?’

‘Yes; I could see why she was doing it, but I tried to avoid you finding out – I didn’t want to be part of the calculated approach.’

Charlie sought reassurance: ‘So you knew she was writing to you to make me jealous?’

‘Yes. It was as plain as the nose on your face. But I didn’t really want to toe the line and play my part.’

‘I see.’

‘Oh, there was nothing malicious about it; just classic feminine wiles. It was rather sweet, really; Eleanor thinking that if I droned on to you about the fact that she and I wrote to one another you’d get all macho and threaten to punch my lights out or something. I didn’t want it to get in the way of our friendship so I didn’t mention it. Not until it was too late for you to do anything about it, anyway, and by then we’d come to the parting of the ways and I knew you’d be able to step into the breach.’

‘I saw the letters in your drawer.’

Gordon looked shocked. ‘You mean you went through my things?’

‘You know me better than that. Effie wanted the key to your trunk to drop off some linen you’d asked her to launder and the only place I thought it could be was in your private drawer. I didn’t find it, but I did see the bundle of letters and I recognised the writing. That’s all. I didn’t look at them. I didn’t want to.’

‘Well, that’s a relief; I wouldn’t like to think that after all these years my judgement of you had been at fault. Mind you, that does mean that you had your little secret, too. We were both hiding something.’

‘Yes; but for all the right reasons – because we didn’t want to upset one another.’

Gordon sighed. ‘What a delightful pair we were.’

‘Are, more like.’

‘Quite. So you and Eleanor are still together “after all these years”, in spite of being at opposite sides of God’s own country?’

‘’Fraid so. We have our ups and downs, but they are usually due to irritation at not being together.’

Gordon looked at Charlie with his head on one side. ‘So is this it then, do you think? Till death us do part and all that?’

‘Yes. I think so. I hope so. She’s just . . . well . . .’ he laughed softly, ‘wonderful. I mean, when I’m with her I feel whole, happy, content, all those things you’re supposed to feel when you’re . . .’

‘In love?’

‘Yes. In love. Go on, take the mickey; I don’t care.’

Gordon leaned back in his chair and smiled. ‘I’m not going to take the mickey. Good for you. If you’re happy with your first love at the tender age of twenty, for God’s sake make the most of it; there are plenty of us who are not.’

‘Oh. You mean you’re not?’

‘Charles Angus Rory Stuart, I doubt if I will ever be really, truly, deeply in love. Not in the way you are, anyway. But I’ve come to terms with it. I’ve learnt to live with it, for better, for worse, though I know you’ll never hear me saying those words. Not in a church at any rate.’

‘You won’t marry then?’

‘No.’

‘Never?’

‘No. Not the marrying type, Charlie.’ Gordon looked him directly in the eye and Charlie realised, at last, what his old school chum meant.

Eventually, and after what seemed like an age, Charlie said: ‘You mean . . . ?’

‘Yup.’

‘Oh bloody hell. I never thought. I mean, we shared a room. You never . . .’

‘No, of course I never. What do you think I am? I knew you weren’t, so . . .’

‘But you’ve asked me here for the weekend, to Oxford . . .’

‘Yes, Charlie, I have.’ Gordon lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘But there’s no need to panic. We’ll have separate rooms and you’ll be in no more danger than you were when we were at school.’

Gordon could see the colour draining from Charlie’s cheeks. ‘Oh dear; I shouldn’t have told you. I should have kept you in the dark. You’re clearly not ready for it.’

Charlie protested. ‘Of course I am. I’m a man of the world. Well, a small part of that world but . . . it’s just that it’s come as a bit of a surprise, that’s all.’

‘Shock, more like,’ said his companion.

‘All right then, a shock. But that doesn’t mean I can’t get over it; that I won’t get over it.’

‘So we can have a good weekend, and not a repetition of that Easter in your castle with the Witch of Endor.’

Charlie found himself trying to suppress a laugh.

‘That’s better, Charlie. Cheer up, chicken. It’s not the end of the world. I’m just the same old Gordon, except that now you know me rather better than you did. There’s no danger of me. . .