you must have a car to drive and as it happens I have a spare.’ Before he left the kitchen he reached up to the hooks by the door and she found herself holding the keys to the old MX5 he kept tucked away in his garage.
Champagne flutes in hand, they wandered through the dusk and stood on the belvedere, looking down towards the water, listening to the cheerful babble of the weir in the distance.
‘I thought we’d be filming here, in my own kitchen, but the powers that be like the idea of setting it in the Highlands and Islands, perhaps using the kitchens of people who still cook the traditional foods. Old black iron stoves, that sort of thing.’
‘Are there still such people?’ Ruth asked. She was watching reflected lights dancing on the ripples. Somewhere behind them an owl hooted and they both looked round.
Finlay laughed. ‘That’s what my editor said. And the answer is, there are a few, though not for much longer, I fear. TV, the Internet, modern technology, they are all conspiring to wipe out the past. People’s grannies are no longer wearing long black skirts and checked shawls and aprons,’ he sighed theatrically, ‘as they are in my imagination; they have supermarket deliveries or fly to the mainland and go shopping in Inverness or Edinburgh or Paris! But, and this is the important part, the recipes do survive, and my show will do its bit to preserve and disseminate them.’ He shivered. ‘Come away in, it’s cold out here. Let’s eat.’
Having parked his car, Timothy had crept silently along the side of the house. It was almost dark now and he could see lights on at the far end of the building. The sound of the wind in the trees masked any noise he made as he sidled closer, keeping his back to the wall. There were creepers of some kind there; they provided cover as he reached the lit window and peered in. He could see into the kitchen. It was large and expensive-looking and Finlay was standing by the table talking to Ruth. He saw the champagne bottle and narrowed his eyes resentfully, wishing he dared press his ear against the window. He couldn’t hear what they were saying.
When they had moved into the next-door room and opened the French doors he froze, his back pressed into the trellis. If they looked to the side they would see him, but the sudden darkness after the bright light must have blinded them. They stepped outside, laughing, and walked down the grass away from the house without seeing him, leaving the doors open behind them. He hesitated. What was to stop him walking in?
The sound of the owl so close beside him freaked him out. It was eerie, like a horror movie. They heard it too. He saw them both turn. He held his breath. They seemed to be looking straight at him but in the dark they didn’t see him and after a moment they went back to their conversation, talking together softly and laughing as they stared out towards the river. His nerve had gone. He took his chance, sliding back round the corner of the house and out of sight. He knew where they were. He knew that, at least for now the house – his house – in Morningside, was empty.
HMS Tartar was a 28-gun sixth-rate frigate with a complement of two hundred men and officers. She sailed from Spithead on 28 March 1764. Tom had watched a burly sailor stow his sea chest in the cockpit down on the orlop deck with increasing despair. His new uniform of blue jacket and white breeches sat uneasily on his small frame and his buckled shoes hurt. He sat down on the chest, staring round in the gloom, his cocked hat clutched defensively on his knees. They were below the waterline here and the air was fetid and damp. He looked up at his new friend Jamie and bit his lip fiercely. He would not let himself cry.
‘You’ll get used to it,’ Jamie said wisely. ‘We all do.’ He spoke from several months’ experience as a midshipman. ‘We are lucky; we have a good captain and Lieutenant Murray is popular with the men.’
Tom wiped his nose on his sleeve and took a deep breath. ‘It didn’t sound like it, not from the way that sailor was swearing.’
Jamie laughed. ‘That was O’Brian. He is a bit of a troublemaker, but a good sort at heart. Here’ – he dived into the shadows and produced a canvas bundle – ‘this is your hammock. Let me show you how you hang it. Did you bring a pillow?’ As he moved around, the shadows cast by their only light, a candle stub stuck to an oyster shell balanced on the narrow table, leapt and flickered against the wooden walls of the compartment which served as cabin for the midshipmen, separating them from the rest of the crew. They staggered slightly as the ship moved restlessly beneath them and Jamie laughed as Tom threw out an arm to steady himself. ‘You will need to find your sea legs quickly, my friend. We’re still at anchor here!’ he crowed. He was right. As they headed out into the ocean swell, Tom began to feel sick. The feeling grew worse and worse until he thought he might die. Then one morning as he climbed, half asleep, out of his hammock at the beginning of his watch he found the feeling had gone. It never returned.
It must have been climbing trees on the edge of the River Almond and the Brox Burn at Kirkhill that had given Tom a head for heights, that and scrambling round the ruins at St Andrews, or hauling himself up into the ancient chestnuts and oaks and onto the crumbling walls of the priory on Inchmahome Island. Always, when he could, he had climbed.
As he looked up at the towering masts of the ship, the network of ropes, the huge billowing sails and realised that he was expected to climb up there, now, he felt a sudden surge of excitement. ‘Can you do it, boy?’ Lieutenant Murray looked down at him. There was a certain sympathy in the man’s eyes. He had seen too many boys quail and shudder and cling in terror to the lowest rigging.
‘I can do it, sir.’ Murray saw the glee there and recognised it as genuine. For once there was no bravado. ‘Up you go then. To the cross trees and wait there for further orders.’
‘Aye-aye, sir!’ Tom resisted the urge to spit on his palms as he had seen the sailors do. He must remember he was one of the young gentlemen and expected to behave with a certain decorum.
George Murray watched, shading his eyes against the sun, then he turned to Jamie who was standing beside him. ‘Better go with him. Keep an eye on him.’
Jamie saluted gravely. ‘Looks as though he was born to it, sir. I expect he could teach me a thing or two.’
The ship heeled slightly in the swell of the sea, heading south. On the quarterdeck the captain paused in his slow patrol. Hands behind his back and seemingly relaxed, he was watching the ship. Early days yet, but it was coming together well. His attention was caught by the movement at the foot of the main mast and he watched the two figures as they swarmed up the ratlines. He gave a barely perceptible nod. Young Erskine would make a sailor yet; and by the time he returned to England he would be a man.
‘It’s amazing.’ Tom was talking to Jamie at the end of their watch. ‘You can see the whole world from up there.’
Jamie scowled. ‘The whole sea, more like.’ He was not going to admit to Tom that he was still unhappy going aloft, clinging to the handholds, his whole body iced with fear.
‘It’s like being a bird, soaring high over the waves,’ Tom went on, oblivious. ‘The sound of the wind in the sails and the whistling of the rigging is like music. Doesn’t it excite you?’
‘No.’ Jamie sat on his sea chest and pulled off his shoes. His feet were covered in blisters. ‘These are too tight. I will have to see if I can swap them. The purser gets angry if we grow too fast! If I’m lucky, one of the lieutenants might have an old pair he doesn’t want any more.’ He groaned with relief as he stretched out his toes.
Down below the cockpit was full of the sounds of the ship, the creaking and easing of her joints, the slap of a rope against the masts, the surge of water beneath them in the bilges. Below deck they could smell the stink of it. From beyond the thin partition between them and the seamen’s quarters they
