Page 4 of A Scottish Country Escape

‘Lloyd.’

Her lavender-painted nails glinted as she laced her fingers together in her lap.

‘I did,’ I confessed after a pause. ‘I mean, I’m still bruised by the split, but it’s more resentment and anger about how unsupportive he was when Mum and Dad died. I couldn’t believe he could be so self-centred and uncaring.’ I ground my jaw. ‘I’m much better off without him.’ That was the last time I would lay my feelings out there for someone to stomp all over, as if they didn’t matter. If I couldn’t have the relationship my parents had, then so be it. I was better off on my own, anyway. At least I could rely on myself!

I jerked my head at what surrounded us as we drove on: the plumes of sage-green Scots pines and my particular favourite tree, the ash. I remembered Mum telling me that the ash tree was shrouded in mystery. In Norse mythology, it was called the Tree of Life, believed to possess healing powers and it could be burnt to drive away evil spirits.

My parents had undertaken one of those ancestry tests years ago and it had transpired that there was Viking blood on my mother’s side. I suppose I shouldn’t have been that surprised. Apart from inheriting my dad’s dark eyes, my features were of the Scandinavian variety, what with my blonde hair, fair skin stippled with the merest dusting of freckles over my rather snub nose and a slanting, winged angle to my cheeks.

‘He never really belonged here,’ remarked Gran, staring out of the car window. ‘Lloyd never understood what Fir Haven means to us country bumpkins.’

I indicated left, taking us past a crop of fields that were changing colour under the bobbing sunlight. ‘He never tried to make a connection with the place.’ I made a dismissive noise. He always compared Fir Haven to Edinburgh, and in his eyes it was usually found wanting. ‘Well, I’d rather be a country bumpkin than an unfeeling knobhead.’

She smiled for a moment, while she revelled in my features. ‘You’re getting more and more like your mother and I don’t just mean your looks.’

I dropped down into second gear as we slid past another car on the narrow country lane. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

The crops on either side of the road waggled their heads and the grass waved like long jade fingers.

‘Good grief!’ exclaimed Grandma, shifting herself bolt upright. ‘What on earth is going on here?’

She indicated an elegant hand ahead to where shards of bright yellow were peeking through the trees. As we drew closer, we realised it was construction machinery. There were also flashes of lime, which we realised, as we drove on, were from the jackets worn by builders.

‘This must be what Marjorie was talking about,’ said Gran. ‘Do you mind if we go up and see what’s going on?’

I shook my head. ‘Not at all. My curiosity is well and truly piqued now.’

As we drove towards a steel fence, Grandma’s eyes widened under her plucked brows. ‘Oh, you have got to be joking!’

I shot her a curious sideways glance as I swiped off my sunglasses and perched them on top of my head. ‘That’s where your council offices are.’

‘You mean that’s where they were.’

I drew up and stopped in a crude parking area beside two white transit vans splattered with mud.

I watched my grandmother hurry out, slam the car door shut, and scurry towards the site fencing.

Under the marmalade May sunshine, I locked my car.

‘Elle!’ hissed Gran. ‘Come and have a look at this.’

I negotiated the small grassy incline in my heels to stand beside her.

My mouth fell open as I took in what was happening. ‘Bloody hell!’

Chapter Three

Grandma had been a councillor up until around ten years ago and she had been based in the distinguished headquarters of East Carwood Council.

It boasted spectacular surroundings of woodland, a carpet of fields, and was in a prime location to enjoy the abundance of the local nature reserve close by without being intrusive. It was all arched windows and turrets – an architectural reflection of its Victorian influence.

It was where we were standing. Or at least it had been.

What had once been occupied by a member of the local judiciary in the mid-1800s, had now been transformed into an elaborate Gothic-style mansion, complete with new pointed windows and ornamental flourishes.

The flying buttresses of rearing horses complemented the wrought-iron balconies thrusting out from beneath several of the windows. It was dramatic; over the top, but spectacular.

Two excavators were parked close by the house and there were a couple of Portakabins with their doors flung open. A few site workers milled around, pointing at parts of the sprawling pile and engaging in animated discussions.