‘And you’re going to serialize your book for me, send it in instalments.’
She wanted to get to his car, even if it was tiny, crank the heating up, get on the back seat…
She heard him suck in air beside her. He looked very pale in the moonlight.
‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m great.’ He smiled, and he looked so nervous, so shy she couldn’t resist any longer.
‘Come here,’ she said.
She pulled him into an embrace and, with the wind whipping around them, so cold she could hardly feel her own lips, she kissed him.
29
2025
‘What was Charles promising to do?’ I asked after Morag had summarized this Hogmanay from the past. She had sounded so sad as she gave me the details it made my heart ache. It was the night she got pregnant and her brother died. Leaving him in that cave, it was the last time she ever saw him. I guessed she would have discovered she was pregnant a few weeks later. Then, presumably, she had contacted Lewis, who had gone to his dad, who had come back to Applecross to do a deal with Morag and her mum. Child support disguised as a payment for housekeeping duties. Now, nineteen years later, the baby was eighteen and that agreement was still in place. Morag had stayed quiet about Avril’s paternity all this time, though she must have told Avril at some point, presumably pressing on her how important it was not to tell anyone. They were reliant on Charles’s money. It was the tiniest drop in the ocean for him, but for Morag, it paid for her to live.
The snow continued to pummel the car and Morag drove at a crawling pace. The caves couldn’t be far now.
‘What was Charles promising? Oh, it was all to do with the arts centre. Have you heard about that?’
‘Not really. Charles mentioned it earlier. So did your mum. But I have no idea what they were talking about.’
‘I’m not surprised the Grants don’t talk about it. It was going to change this place. Transform it.’
‘Applecross?’
‘Yeah.’ We were driving at about ten miles per hour, snow filling the beam of the headlights like the world was dissolving into static. ‘The summer of 2006, Charles gathered everyone here together in the village hall and made this big speech. You’ve seen the manor house, right?’
‘That ruined place on the hill?’
‘Aye. That was where the landed gentry lived until they ran out of money and left it deserted. Charles was going to redevelop it and create a big, grand place where you could study anything from creative writing to sculpture and music. It was going to be a hotel, too, with part of it set aside as a retreat where famous writers and musicians could come and work.’
I could see immediately how this would have appealed to Morag and Jimmy. Famous authors and musicians, here in Applecross?
‘That doesn’t seem very Charles,’ I said. ‘I haven’t seen any sign that he’s into the arts.’
‘He isn’t. It was all Elizabeth. She was a patron of the arts in Birmingham, but you know she was Scottish? She wanted to give something back to her homeland. The Elizabeth Grant Arts Centre. They said it was going to attract visitors from all over the UK and Europe. Provide a massive boost to the local economy. They were going to put on concerts and exhibitions. On top of that, they were also going to offer bursaries to local talent.’
‘Like you. And Jimmy.’
‘Yeah. It was going to provide employment, too. Jobs forlocal builders and carpenters and plumbers during the development, then lots more jobs when it was up and running. I remember Charles at his presentation. He said it would create a reason for future generations to be proud of Applecross and give them a great reason to stay here. He was impressive. Everyone was taken in by it, including the local council, who had taken ownership of the manor house and the land it stood on. They sold it to Charles for a minimal amount. This huge chunk of land, as good as given away for nothing.’
A moment ago, she had sounded impressed by Charles. Now, that was replaced by bitterness.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘Elizabeth died.’
I could see the deep creases of stress on Morag’s brow. Hear the exhaustion in her voice.
‘At the time he announced the centre, she’d been in remission for a while. Lewis told me that everything seemed really good back then. His dad seemed more engaged, more enthusiastic, than ever before. The company was doing really well. Lewis told me he’d been excited about the arts centre, too. Charles had told him he could be involved. Be the poet in residence or something.’ Unexpectedly, she laughed. ‘He really was a terrible poet.’
‘And he didn’t know it?’
‘Ha. No. He saw himself as the next Byron or Shelley. He even had this ridiculous frilly shirt that he used to swan around in.’
