Maggie Jordan

by Emma Blair

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

When most of Maggie Jordan's family are killed in a freak flood in the small coastal village of Heymouth, she is forced to find work in one of Glasgow's carpet mills. She becomes engaged to Nevil Sanderson, who suddenly decides he must go to Spain and join the Republicans in their fight against Franco. Although she struggles on without him, Maggie eventually realises her place is by his side and journeys to Spain to join him. But the newly promoted Nevil has become distant and ruthless, and is fiercely jealous of her new friendship with American journalist Howard Taft. Years later, married and with an eight-year-old daughter, Maggie has returned to Glasgow. Astonished when Howard reappears, bringing light and laughter back into her life, she is forced to take decisions - decisions which threaten to destroy even the vibrant and courageous Maggie Jordan. Praise for Emma Blair: 'An engaging novel and the characters are endearing - a good holiday read' Historical Novels Review 'All the tragedy and passion you could hope for . . . Brilliant' The Bookseller 'Romantic fiction pure and simple and the best sort - direct, warm and hugely readable. Women's fiction at an excellent level' Publishing News 'Emma Blair explores the complex and difficult nature of human emotions in this passionately written novel' Edinburgh Evening News 'Entertaining romantic fiction' Historical Novels Review '[Emma Blair] is well worth recommending' The Bookseller

Release date: November 24, 2016

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 512

Sample

Maggie Jordan entered Reception from the back door to find her best friend Susan staring out of the window. ‘Are you all right?’ she queried when she saw the expression on Susan’s face.

‘Come and have a dekko at this, will you. It’s right queer,’ Susan said without turning around.

‘What is it?’ Maggie asked, joining her at the window.

‘Just look at that sky!’

A heavy bank of clouds, very dark and tinged with deep red and purple, was creeping across the sky, while at the same time a lower bank was moving rapidly in the opposite direction. The overall effect was weird and uncanny.

‘I’ve never seen a sky like that in my life before,’ Susan said softly, wonder in her voice.

Neither had she, Maggie thought, feeling she could have stood there all day gawping up at it. For some unknown reason prickles sprang up all over her shoulders and down the length of both arms. She ran a hand through her wavy auburn hair.

‘At least it’s stopped raining,’ Maggie said. It had been bucketing down when she’d left home that morning.

‘Aye, but not long since. And there’s more to come, that’s obvious,’ Susan replied. She and Maggie worked at The Haven hotel where they’d been employed since leaving school three years previously.

Susan turned on Maggie. ‘Are you away then?’ It was Maggie’s half-day.

‘I am. And twenty minutes past my knocking off time. But lunch was pandemonium. I was fair run off my feet.’ She’d been waitressing in the dining-room for breakfast and lunch. Her duties weren’t merely confined to waitressing however; like all the girls at The Haven she did whatever was required of her from changing bed linen to washing dishes.

‘It’s been a busy summer right enough,’ Susan commented. It was already 12 August 1935.

‘Which has pleased Mr Lawler,’ Maggie smiled. Mr Lawler owned The Haven.

‘You can say that again. He’s been positively coining it since the season started.’

‘Aye. Last season was good, but this one is even better.’

Maggie changed the subject. ‘Now about tonight, are you still on for the pictures?’

‘Darned tooting I am!’ Susan enthused. ‘I wouldn’t miss Douglas Fairbanks Jnr for the world.’ The film playing at the local cinema was Chances, a war-time romance also starring Anthony Bushell and Rose Hobart.

‘I’m really looking forward to it too,’ Maggie smiled.

‘And we’ll have fish and chips afterwards. Just like always.’

‘Couldn’t do without the fish and chips,’ Maggie agreed. Her brown eyes suddenly twinkled. ‘I wonder . . .?’

‘Wonder what?’

‘If those two English lads from Northallerton will turn up at the pics? They said they might.’

Susan giggled. ‘I think you fancy that Tom. Can’t say I blame you, he’s very nice.’

‘He’s all right. Cyril’s nice too.’

Susan giggled again. ‘Cyril! What a name! But a lovely kind face and such broad shoulders.’

He certainly had those Maggie thought, broad as the proverbial barn door. Tom’s were broad, but not a patch on Cyril’s.

‘We must make sure we get there before the start of the programme,’ said Maggie, giving Susan a wink.

‘You mean while the lights are still up?’

‘Precisely,’ Maggie nodded.

‘So that if they’re there they’ll see us.’

‘And hopefully join us.’

Susan giggled a third time. She was about to say something further when the telephone rang.

‘I’ll knock on your door at quarter to six,’ Susan said as she hurried to answer it.

‘I’ll be ready.’

‘Good afternoon, The Haven hotel,’ Susan said into the telephone, waving to her as Maggie left Reception through a wooden flap which was part of the counter.

Outside the hotel Maggie turned up the collar of her mac. Straight home? she wondered, then decided she’d go down to the front and see if her dad was there. She’d have a natter with him if he were, something she often did on her half-days.

The air had a peculiar smell to it, she noted, as she made her way down the street towards the front and the spot where her dad tied up his boat. It was a metallic smell that you could somehow taste, which she found quite unpleasant.

‘Hello Maggie, and how are you the day?’

The friendly voice belonged to Mrs Caskie who lived just along from Maggie and her family. ‘Fine, Mrs Caskie. What about yourself?’

‘I’m not too bad, thank you. Mustn’t grumble. What an awful day, eh?’

‘Awful,’ Maggie agreed.

‘And this August too.’ Mrs Caskie shook her head. ‘If it wasn’t so warm it would be more like November or December.’

Maggie glanced up as lightning flickered across the sky, followed seconds later by a loud crack of thunder.

Leaving Mrs Caskie, Maggie waved across the road to Clarice McKechnie who was a year older than her and was engaged to a lad from Oban whom she was marrying early in the new year.

It started to rain again, a light drizzle that caused umbrellas to pop up all over the place.

When she reached the front, Maggie stared out to sea. The sea was a dull murky green, and angry. Waves broke on the shore and eventually expired in a froth and myriad of bubbles.

There wasn’t a seagull to be seen Maggie suddenly realized. At this time of afternoon there were usually hundreds swooping and screeching overhead.

Charlie Jordan was sitting beside his boat enjoying a pipe while he repaired some tackle that had been damaged. A blackboard set on an easel at the rear of his boat proclaimed, Fishing Trips, Shark Fishing a Speciality.

‘It’s yourself, Maggie,’ Charlie smiled as she came up to him. ‘I wondered if you might come down and say hello.’

‘How’s business?’

He pointed a horny finger at the sea. ‘Anyone taking a small open craft out on that needs his head examined. I wouldn’t even chance it by myself, far less take holidaymakers with me.’

Further along the shoreline a wave crashed, followed by another, louder than the last.

Maggie exclaimed when spray lashed against her face.

‘I’ll walk you back if you like. I only hung on here thinking you might turn up,’ Charlie said.

‘What about the boat?’

‘Tide’s on the way out so she’ll be all right for now. I’ll come back and check the situation this evening.’

Maggie gazed at the twenty-foot-long boat that was her father’s main source of livelihood. She was called Lucky Lady and had originally been bought by grandfather Alec, some forty years ago. During the season Charlie used the boat to take holiday-makers out on fishing and pleasure trips. Out of season, he fished by himself, selling his catch on the quayside to the fish agents and passers-by.

Mid-winter he carved figures in wood and whalebone, the latter called scrimshaw, which Mr Lambie, who owned Lambie’s Shop & Gift Emporium, sold for him, taking a percentage profit from every item bought.

Charlie’s scrimshaw was particularly beautiful, an art that had taken him years to perfect and of which he was extremely proud. He had the whalebone sent to him from the port of Leith from where several whalers operated.

‘So what do you make of this weather?’ Charlie asked.

Maggie shifted her attention from Lucky Lady to her dad. ‘You tell me.’

Charlie secured the tarpaulin with a length of hairy string from his pocket. ‘It’s going to get worse before it gets better. I’ll bet on that.’

More lightning flickered overhead, followed this time by several cracks of thunder, each a tearing whiplash of sound.

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Maggie replied.

He snorted, and rubbed his nose with a finger. ‘There’s a funny smell been about for—’

‘A sort of metallic smell?’ she cut in. ‘I noticed it when I left the hotel.’

He considered that, then nodded, ‘Aye, metallic. That describes it exactly.’

‘And you can taste it – at least I can.’

Charlie stood up. ‘I can too. What we both need is a good strong cup of tea to wash it away. So let’s go on home eh?’

‘Anything you want me to carry?’

He shook his head, and started walking away from the boat, Maggie falling into step beside him.

‘Is it the pictures tonight?’ Charlie asked as they reached the road that ran along the top of the shore.

Maggie nodded. ‘Susan and I are going. Douglas Fairbanks Jnr is in the big film so it should be good.’

Charlie thought of the kinema, the dear old kinema! and smiled to himself. It was years since he’d been there, but there had been a time when he’d gone every week, sometimes twice. He and April, Maggie’s mum, had done a great deal of their courting in the back seats of the stalls.

There had been no sound in those days of course, twenty odd years ago now. Mrs Wedderburn had been the piano accompanist, a reed of a woman who wore wire-framed spectacles and reputedly drank like a fish.

His smile widened as many fond memories came flooding back. He must go to the kinema again soon, he and April. And perhaps, though he doubted she’d agree, they could sit once more in the back seats for old times’ sake.

They stopped briefly at Smellie’s tobacconist while Charlie bought a half ounce, then continued through the drizzle to the narrow cobbled street where their cottage was.

‘I’m back!’ Charlie yelled as he hung up his oilskin coat.

‘Me too!’ Maggie also called out.

Wee Charlie, aged seven and the youngest in the family, appeared out of the parlour where he’d been playing. He had an impish look about him, and the most beguiling manner, a combination which never failed to capture the hearts of all who came into contact with him.

‘Hello horror,’ said Charlie, clapping his hands and gesturing Wee Charlie to come to him, which Wee Charlie did at a run.

Charlie laughed as he gathered his only son into his arms. If there had been room in the hallway, he would have swung Wee Charlie round in a circle.

‘Miss me horror?’ Charlie demanded.

‘Not in the least, Dad,’ Wee Charlie replied, teasing him. He might be young but he still had a highly developed sense of humour.

Charlie feigned outrage, then hurt. ‘What! Not at all?’

‘Not at all. Though . . .’ Wee Charlie trailed off.

‘Though what?’

‘If you were to give me a ha’penny I might tell you different.’

Charlie laughed, and gently cuffed him on the head. His son was a continual source of amusement and delight to him.

‘Get away with you, you Philistine!’

‘All right, make it a farthing then,’ Wee Charlie instantly retorted.

‘I’ll make it a smack on your backside for cheek if you’re not careful,’ Charlie declared, joking as well.

Maggie went through to the kitchen where April was rolling pastry and Pet, her fourteen-year-old sister, paring and cutting up apples. The remaining member of the family was her big sister, Laura, who was married and living in Glasgow.

‘Apple tart or pie?’ Maggie queried. She loved both.

‘Tart and some jam turnovers,’ April replied.

‘Yummy,’ Maggie said as Charlie and Wee Charlie, arms twisted around one another, came into the room.

‘I thought you’d be back early,’ April said to Charlie.

‘I only hung around as long as I did thinking Maggie might come and see me, which she did,’ Charlie replied.

‘Have you heard the thunder?’ said Pet to Maggie, and gave a mock shudder. She was terrified of thunder.

‘Are the rivers up?’ April asked Charlie. She was referring to the North and South Heys which flowed from their source at Ranlodden Moor towards the six-hundred-foot hills that towered over Heymouth.

‘A bit, but not as much as they might be considering the rain we’ve had,’ Charlie answered.

That was all right then, April thought, and got on again with her pastry rolling.

‘I’m dying for a cup of tea,’ Charlie announced.

‘I’ll make it,’ Maggie told him, crossing to the range where the kettle was boiling, as it was more or less constantly throughout the day.

‘Can I have some lemonade?’ Wee Charlie asked hopefully.

‘Yes,’ replied Charlie.

‘No,’ said April simultaneously.

April looked at her husband. ‘Don’t you go spoiling him now. He had a glass earlier on.’

Charlie gave his son a wry smile. ‘Sorry, wee fella, but if your mum says no then no it is.’

‘Oh Mum!’ Wee Charlie complained.

April glared at him. ‘Don’t you start now! Don’t you start.’

‘Come with me – I want to show you something,’ Charlie said to Wee Charlie. He’d just remembered he had a couple of toffees in his oilskin coat pocket. April might have forbidden Wee Charlie to have any more lemonade, but she’d said nothing about sweets.

‘Half fill this from the tap, will you,’ requested April, passing Maggie a saucepan.

Maggie thought of Tom from Northallerton and hoped he would come to the pictures that night. He was in Heymouth for another eight days and . . . She exclaimed in surprise as water ran into the saucepan.

‘What is it?’ April asked, glancing around from what she was doing.

‘This water’s filthy. Just look at it!’

Wiping her hands on her pinny April came over to the sink. Sure enough, the water gushing from the tap was the colour of brown sauce.

‘Well that’s never happened before,’ April mused.

Maggie emptied the pan. ‘We certainly can’t use that. So what are we going to do?’

‘It will probably clear itself before long,’ Pet commented from across the kitchen.

‘It might. Then again it might not,’ said April. ‘If the system has broken down it could take days for it to be sorted out. What a nuisance!’ she muttered darkly.

‘I’ve an idea. To be on the safe side why don’t we stand the zinc bath out the rear and let that fill up with rainwater?’ Maggie suggested.

‘That’s a thought,’ April nodded. Looking out of the window she saw that the drizzle had become heavy rain. The zinc bath would soon be filled.

Charlie came back into the kitchen and was told the news. He frowned as he stared at the brown water still gushing from the tap.

‘I presume it is the system and not us in particular?’ April queried.

‘Has to be the system,’ he confirmed, wondering how on earth this had come about.

‘It was working a few minutes ago,’ Pet stated.

‘It’s over an hour since we last used the tap,’ April corrected her.

Pet’s brow creased. ‘Seems like just a few minutes ago.’

‘It’s been over an hour,’ April repeated for Charlie. Then told him about Maggie’s suggestion of putting the zinc bath out the rear.

‘I’ll do that right away,’ he said.

Maggie turned off the tap as there was no point in letting it continue to run.

When Charlie returned, he instructed Pet, ‘Run over the road and knock on the McDougalls’ door. Ask them if they’re having the same problem.’ To April he explained, ‘I believe they’re on different pipes to us so it’s just possible their water might be unaffected.’

‘Send Wee Charlie. I’m busy with these apples,’ Pet answered, quite the little madam.

Charlie didn’t reply, just gave his daughter a stare – which was enough. She hurriedly left the room.

A few minutes later Pet was back. ‘Their water is just as bad. I told Mrs Mack about us putting the zinc bath outside and she said she’ll do the same.’

‘You never know the minute till the minute after,’ murmured April, shaking her head.

‘Who else for tea?’ asked Maggie. April and Pet declared they’d have a cup.

‘And a biscuit?’ said Charlie.

‘There’s a bought tipsy cake in. You can have a slice of that,’ April told him.

Charlie’s face lit up. Tipsy cake was a great favourite of his. While they were drinking their tea and talking about the filthy tap water, there was a knock on the outside door.

‘I’ll get it!’ Wee Charlie yelled through.

‘Mr Lawler!’ Maggie exclaimed, jumping to her feet when her boss appeared in the kitchen.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you on your half-day Maggie, but I sorely need your help,’ Lawler explained.

‘Here, let me take that from you,’ said Charlie, reaching for the bowler hat Lawler was holding.

‘That’s kind, Mr Jordan, but I can’t stay,’ replied Lawler, hanging onto his bowler.

‘Surely you’ll have a cup of tea with us?’ April smiled. ‘As you can see it’s already made.’

Lawler shook his head. ‘I’d love to but I’m afraid I just don’t have the time. I must get straight back to the hotel.’

‘So what can I do for you, Mr Lawler?’ Maggie queried.

‘As you know it’s the twelfth, the start of the grouse season, and I ordered thirty brace from the Ranlodden Estate which are supposed to be collected about now. They’re on tonight’s menu.’

Maggie nodded. The grouse were to be a special feature on the menu.

‘The plan was for Bryce to drive up and get them, but he’s up to his eyes in trying to draw substantial amounts of water from our well. The normal supply of water has turned brown and unusable.’ The Bryce he was referring to was the general handyman.

‘Same here,’ Maggie commiserated.

‘I would have driven myself except we’ve had a party of Australians land on us looking for accommodation on the off-chance. We’re able to put up most of them, while the remainder I’ve sent round to The Beach Hotel.’

Here Lawler pulled a face. He loathed turning business away. He went on. ‘And as you know Mrs Lawler has gone to . . .’

‘Are you asking me to collect the grouse for you?’ Maggie interrupted with a smile.

‘I’d be ever so appreciative if you could, lass. And as I’m putting you out on your half-day I’ll make it up to you, there will be something extra by way of a thank you in your pay packet on Friday.’

Maggie had always wanted to drive and passed her test first time. She often drove errands for Lawler.

‘I’ll be happy to go for you, Mr Lawler. To be truthful I’d nothing special planned for this afternoon anyway.’

‘Oh that’s good of you, Maggie! Thank you very much. I do appreciate it,’ he replied gratefully.

‘Where’s the van?’

‘Outside. I brought it over for you,’ Lawler said, groping in a pocket. He produced the van key on a ring, which he handed to Maggie. ‘It’s just been filled up with petrol so you’ve no worry there.’

‘I’ll leave right away,’ Maggie promised.

‘You’re a darling!’ he beamed.

Lawler rubbed his hands together. ‘Right then, I’ll away back to the hotel and see how those Australians are settling in.’ To Charlie he said in a confidential tone, ‘Strange people the Australians. Very brash and loud, though nice and friendly with it. No class though, certainly none of that.’

Maggie smiled to herself. Lawler was renowned as a snob which was in total contrast to his wife. But then Mrs Lawler came from a ‘good’ background, while it was well known that Lawler was an entirely self-made man.

Maggie saw Lawler out, then returned to her tea, finishing it in a single swallow. ‘I’d better scoot then,’ she said.

‘Listen, I’ve got nothing special planned for this afternoon either. Do you mind if I come with you?’ Charlie asked unexpectedly.

‘Not at all, Dad. I’d enjoy the company.’

‘Good.’ Then to April, ‘I’ll have a word with Parkinson the gamekeeper if there’s anything you’d like. How about a couple of rabbits?’

‘We haven’t had rabbit for a while. They’d make a change. And how about a brace of grouse for ourselves? We could have them on Sunday as a treat.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Charlie nodded.

Maggie and Charlie went out into the hallway, where she put her mac back on and he his oilskin coat. ‘I haven’t been up top for some time,’ he said.

‘Can I come?’ Wee Charlie asked, having appeared out of the parlour.

‘If you like,’ smiled Maggie.

‘Och, I don’t think I will then,’ said Wee Charlie contrarily.

‘You’re a horror,’ laughed Charlie, tickling his son under the chin.

‘Will you play with me when you get back, Dad? I’m playing knights of the round table.’

‘I’d love to,’ Charlie agreed.

‘Promise? Cross your heart and hope to die?’

‘Cross my heart and hope to die,’ Charlie stated solemnly.

‘You can be in charge of the baddie knights and I’ll be Sir Lancelot, the bravest and best knight of all.’

Charlie was chuckling as they left the cottage. ‘What a boy!’ he said. The game with Wee Charlie would be fun – they always were.

The van was old but a good and reliable runner. Once they were under way Charlie pulled out his pipe and lit up.

‘It’s like a winter’s afternoon, not a summer’s one,’ commented Maggie, switching on her lights.

Charlie nodded. In all his years he’d never known an August day quite like it.

They drove into the High Street, then turned into Bridge Road, which crossed the North Hey.

‘That river has risen quite a bit since earlier on,’ murmured Charlie.

Maggie glanced sideways at the river, having been concentrating on the fairly heavy traffic. It was now well up, and flowing very fast indeed. The South Hey would be the same, as they both acted in tandem.

She sniffed. ‘And that smell’s got worse.’

It had indeed, Charlie thought. He wondered if it were connected in some way with the fouling of the water system.

Charlie spotted and waved to Don Gillies, a drinking partner of his who also arranged fishing and excursion trips during the season.

Don waved back and then gestured towards The Bell Inn where he was clearly heading. Charlie shook his head and mouthed the word ‘Tonight!’ Don gave the thumbs up.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to join him?’ Maggie asked, having caught this little exchange. ‘I can get your rabbits and the brace of grouse. Nor will I be offended, I assure you.’

Charlie gave her a thin smile. ‘It’s a matter of economics, lass. I would like to go with Don, but don’t feel I can afford the pub twice in one day. I’ll have my pint this evening.’

A few minutes later they were starting up Heymouth Brae, the road that connected Heymouth with the summit and world beyond.

The brae was extremely steep, bordered on either side by meadows and patchy woodland. In the old days it had taken six horses to haul a vehicle the two thousand yards from the bottom of the brae to its top.

Charlie watched as Heymouth and the sea dropped away beneath them. A holiday-maker had once described the ascent to him as ‘like going up to Heaven’. It was an apt description.

They passed a house which seemed to hang perilously onto the hillside. The Thorns lived there, newcomers who’d only moved in the year before.

‘When you get to the summit can you stop in the lay-by?’ Charlie requested.

‘If you want.’

He puffed on his pipe.

‘Any particular reason?’ she probed.

‘It’s a grand view. Is that particular enough?’

Maggie laughed. ‘Aye, all right then.’

She was amused by his dry tone. Not for the first time she thought her father would have made a wonderful actor.

The van laboured its way up the final stretch of the brae, its engine protesting at the strain. They were now at the summit and Maggie pulled into the lay-by, positioning the van so that they overlooked Heymouth.

Maggie stared at people walking about far below, tiny creatures that could hardly be recognized.

There was The Haven, and to the right, the kinema where she’d be going later. She gazed at the stubby brick lighthouse, which was over two hundred years old, and had been built to guide the fishing boats home safely to harbour.

She shifted her attention to the main car park which was full. There were a lot of holiday-makers currently in Heymouth, as it was an extremely popular resort.

Someone had ‘discovered’ Heymouth years before, and the beauty of this little fishing village cast an irresistible spell on those who, undaunted by its remote situation and the lack of organized transport, began to stream in from all over Britain. In time, the ever-increasing number of visitors had opened up an entirely new source of income for the Heymouthians, and instead of having to depend on fishing as their primary source of income, they found the tourist trade was theirs for the developing.

‘It’s a view I never tire of looking at. I think it must be one of the most beautiful in the world,’ Charlie sighed.

‘Do you think you might be biased, Dad?’ Maggie teased.

‘Of course I’m biased! But I also believe it to be true. As far as I’m concerned what we’re looking at could be Paradise itself.’

Paradise itself! ‘Even in this gloom and with the rain pelting down?’

‘Even in this gloom with the rain pelting down,’ he confirmed defiantly.

Leaning across she kissed him on the cheek. ‘You’re lovely, Dad. A 100 per cent gold-plated smasher. I think comparing it to Paradise is a bit strong, but I know what you mean.’

‘Does that mean you agree or disagree with me?’

She smiled. ‘It means I know what you mean. Now we’d better get on if Mr Lawler is to get those grouse in time.’ And with that she reversed the van, turned it round and drove back on to the road. Soon they turned down a side road which led to Drumbreck House where Sir Ewen McLay lived. He owned Ranlodden Estate, which consisted of all thirty-nine square miles of the moor.

They drove in silence, Charlie contentedly puffing on his pipe, the only sounds being the patter of rain on the van roof and the brushing of the windscreen wipers.

‘Look!’ said Charlie suddenly, pointing out of his window.

‘What?’

‘The sheep in the burn.’

Maggie stopped the van so she could see what he was talking about. The burn was swollen, the sheep in question bobbing up and down in the middle, apparently held there by something under the water.

‘Is it alive or dead?’ Maggie queried.

‘Can’t tell from this distance.’

‘You want to go over there then?’

‘If it is alive we might be able to help.’ Charlie glanced at his daughter. ‘I’d hate to think we passed on by if the beast is suffering.’

‘Come on then,’ she said and, opening her door, hopped out.

The moment they stepped on to the moor itself their feet sank almost to the ankle. Their feet made loud sucking noises as they tramped over to the burn.

The branch of a tree, embedded in the bottom of the burn, was supporting the sheep which had become firmly wedged against it.

Maggie blinked and wiped the rain from her face. ‘It’s as dead as a dodo,’ she said, referring to the sheep.

Charlie stared at the sheep, whose eyes were wide open while its mouth was pulled back to reveal two rows of large, yellowy teeth. A cold shudder ran through him. ‘It’s dead all right. Drowned probably.’

They stared at the dead sheep for a few seconds longer, then went back to the van. As she got in, Maggie glanced up at the sky. The heavy bank of clouds was still there, the areas of red and purple had expanded, their colours now violently intense. In the distance lightning flickered. For some reason it made Maggie think of silent music, each flicker a celestial note.

Between there and Drumbreck House they came across a number of swollen burns and encountered streams where no streams had existed before.

It was with relief that they reached Drumbreck House, parking among the outbuildings where they hoped to find Parkinson, the gamekeeper.

Inside the first, they came across Bob Merryfield, chief ghillie, sorting out part of the day’s bag.

‘Mr Parkinson is with Sir Ewen in the big house, but he’ll be along in a few minutes,’ Bob informed them after Maggie explained why she was there.

‘Terrible day,’ commented Charlie by way of making conversation.

‘Terrible indeed,’ Bob agreed. ‘The “guns” had to call it off by mid-day.’

‘The weather?’ asked Maggie.

‘Partly that, and the birds themselves. They just refused to be flushed.’

Maggie immediately thought of the lack of seagulls she’d noticed when she’d been down at the sea-front. She was about to mention it when Parkinson appeared. He was positively grim-faced.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Parkinson. Mr Lawler has sent me from The Haven to collect the thirty brace of grouse he ordered,’ Maggie said with a smile.

Parkinson snorted. ‘There will be no thirty brace for Lawler the day. I can let you have eight brace, and that’s all.’

‘Only eight!’ Maggie exclaimed, disappointed.

Charlie saw his brace disappearing down the plug-hole.

‘Eight brace and Lawler’s lucky to get that. I’ve never known such a disastrous twelfth!’ Parkinson replied.

‘Sir Ewen won’t have been pleased,’ Charlie said. Sir Ewen was a fanatical sportsman.

‘He was cross enough to spit. Nor were matters helped by the fact he has two very important business associates here whom he’d guaranteed an excellent day’s shooting. They didn’t get a single bird between them.’

‘From the way Himself carried on you would think it was all our fault,’ Bob Merryfield grumbled.

Parkinson frowned at the chief ghillie.

‘Well, it’s true!’ persisted Merryfield.

Parkinson agreed, but considered it disloyal of Merryfield to say so in front of outsiders.

‘Are you sure you can’t do me more than eight brace?’ Maggie suggested, trying to cajole Parkinson.

‘I’m sorry. Normally there’s no problem filling all the orders I get from the Heymouth hotels and others in the area, with dozens of braces over and above that to send to Edinburgh, Glasgow and London. But not this year. The bag has been far and away the smallest in my lifetime. And in fact, I overheard Sir Ewen say it’s been the smallest