Page 16 of The Cottage in the Highlands

We had met when he was working as a news reporter on Musicala Radio, a regional station. Frances had introduced us when she held one of her house parties. I think she’s never forgiven herself for the fact that she got us together in the first place.

Things moved quickly and before I knew it, I was staying over in his flat in Glasgow a few nights a week, which overlooked the Clyde. But working for the ad agency was taking its toll and when I decided that I wanted to go for the reporter job at The Silver Ness News, he wasn’t best pleased. “A parochial little paper,” he’d smirked. “Haven’t you got loftier ambitions than that, L?”

In time, he was getting the bigger, more prominent stories at the radio station and often moaned that I had taken nine steps back, returning to Silver Ness, rather than moving forward.

In the end, he just announced one snowy night in January over a bottle of Chianti, that he had applied for and been offered a TV news reporter job in the Midlands and that was that. Over. Done.

He had slipped his hand in mine, tipped his head to one side like a pet budgie, and slimed that he would always love me, but he wanted to break into TV and he knew I would understand!

I remember travelling home on the train that same night with random items I’d left over in his flat – toothbrush, shampoo, deodorant, underwear – in a carrier bag and my mascara streaming down my face.

I gave myself a mental shake to loosen the pictures of Miles floating around in there. He didn’t deserve the head space.

“That one is all teeth and coiffed hair,” remarked Dad not long after we split up. “I was never keen on him. He’s got about as much depth as a puddle.” He was proved to be right.

As I drove towards Drummond and Merry Wood, I rehearsed in my head what I was planning to say to the bad-tempered woodland woman, if she happened to be on patrol again.

I suspected she wouldn’t be forthcoming. She had been off-hand and rude during our first encounter, so I didn’t see that changing any time soon. The fact she also knew I was a journalist wouldn’t help my case either.

The country lanes slid past in a haze of streaky early evening sunshine. The hedgerows rustled and shimmied in the autumn chill.

The fields Harley had been charging through loomed up ahead on the right-hand side of the road with the trees, some still clinging to their leaves by their fingertips, shadowing them.

I eased my car into the kerb at the picnic area again and clambered out, recalling the house was a good distance ahead and through the woodland facing me.

I began to make my way through the rushing grass, striding with a confident purpose that I didn’t feel. I didn’t think for one minute that the intimidating woman would be willing to tell me anything, but I wasn’t a proper journalist if I didn’t at least try.

The element of surprise might work on Mrs Scary. Then again, she might take after me with her hissing black cat and broom.

It was funny how things could turn around. One minute, you’re bobbing along with your life and the next you’re staring unemployment in the face and creeping through woodland.

I trampled on, my walking boots squashing the grass and reeds flat before they bounced back up again. If my recollections were correct, Merry Wood was up ahead, past those hillsides with the purple heather.

I propelled myself on until I came face to face with a thicker set of trees. I pushed on through, finding myself staring at Merry Wood again, as it rose up into the pastel sky.

The evening light sifted through the front garden, casting a soupy glow down on the hot-pink and violet clumps of heather growing there. The back garden gave only a tantalising glimpse of fading scarlet leaves over the top of the towering, wooden fence.

I took another look through the windows. Everything was as I remembered it; still, dusty and empty.

I then turned and looked down through the woodland to where I suspected the scary lady lived. It must be down there. I recalled puffs of chimney smoke. There were no other houses around here for miles.

I moved off and away from Merry Wood and it took only a couple of minutes of traipsing through the rustling undergrowth until I was confronted by a small immaculate farmhouse.

It was all pitched roof and stone built, with a rugged façade of sash windows. There was a deep-grey painted front door and assorted potted plants. A white garden bench sat near the entrance.

I made my way up the flagged stone steps and turned around to look over my shoulder. The view from here was straight through the trees and across to Merry Wood. It was just a stone’s throw away.

I lifted my hand and although guessing I wouldn’t receive a warm welcome, knocked on the door anyway.

I almost fell backwards when a cross face shot up at the nearest window pane. “Who is it? What do you want?”

When she saw me standing there, sporting a hopeful smile, she vanished from the window and yanked open her front door. “Oh. It’s you.”

I had received more enthusiastic welcomes in my time, it had to be said.

“I’m sorry to trouble you…”

She folded her thin, pale arms across her apron. “Not lost that dog of yours again, have you? You know, you ought to keep her on a lead. She could end up down a fox hole.”