‘In the springtime, there’ll be lambs,’ I tell her.
‘Lat,’ she says, approvingly. Her speech really is coming on in leaps and bounds.
When we first got here, I would walk with her on the more solitary path that leads from Keeper’s Cottage up through the pine trees to Ardtuath House. The ‘Big Hoose’， as it’s known locally, is shut up most of the time, only used very occasionally for shooting or fishing weekends. But there was something so bleak about the fa?ade of the deserted house, with its forbidding, darkened windows and air of abandonment, that it made me want to seek out happier places to walk. My mood is low enough already without any additional dampeners. And so we’ve taken to heading towards the village, the risk of having to be sociable being a lesser evil than the risk of complete and utter despondency.
We walk past the row of cottages, where we are usually accosted by someone weeding flowerbeds or trimming hedges in their front garden. Daisy enjoys the attention, even if I do not.
I nod and smile, responding to the social niceties. ‘Yes, she’s getting bigger every day. Yes, thanks, we’ve settled in fine. I know, isn’t it a grand day for a walk?’ And all the time I’m hoping that my smile is doing a good job of hiding how desperately lonely I feel. While I know I should value these simple daily connections, to my mind they only serve to emphasise my feelings of being an outsider.
Bridie Macdonald is almost always around. Sometimes she’s pottering in her garden, but occasionally she’s indoors and will rap on her window as we walk past, shooting out to join us, as she does today. ‘Good morning, Lexie. And Daisy – look at these rosy wee cheeks! It’s surely doing you both the world of good being up here in the fresh air. Much nicer for kiddies than a city, eh, Daisy? I was just about to pop to the shop for a pint of milk so I’ll chum you along the road. Wait there a moment while I get my purse.’
Inwardly I sigh, knowing that our progress will be even slower as she questions me about all manner of things, from the state of Keeper’s Cottage to the whereabouts of Daisy’s father （boundaries being an unknown concept to Bridie Macdonald）。 And the inquisition will be interrupted at regular intervals as she stops to hail a neighbour and exchange snippets of local news. ‘Have you heard, Marjorie’s off for her operation next week? I know, it’s taken long enough to get a date. And apparently they’re fixing the road over at Poolewe. There’ll be all sorts of hold-ups, so leave time if you’re going that way. Has Euan got that boat of his back in the water? Oh, he’s off out in it today, is he? Is it scallops he’s after? Well, tell him I’ll take half a dozen if he has them. You know Lexie Gordon, don’t you? Yes, she’s come home – back where she belongs at last. And this is wee Daisy – isn’t she gorgeous!’
There’s something proprietorial in the way Bridie says all this. I feel myself bristling slightly and have to remind myself that she was one of Mum’s oldest friends and has always been a lynchpin of the community. It’s only natural, and she means well. Behind my smile, my defences are well and truly up, though: the emotional brick wall that I use to keep people out.
We amble onwards, along the road that winds its way beside the loch.
‘So, Lexie, will Daisy’s daddy be joining you here soon?’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘His work keeps him in London.’ At least I can say that in all honesty.
‘Och, that’s a shame. You’ll be missing him.’ Her eyes dart again to the third finger of my left hand, which is very obviously lacking any sign of a ring – engagement, wedding or otherwise.
I decide I might as well come clean. At least then it’ll put an end to Bridie’s questions. ‘Actually, we’re not together any more. He turned out not to be the paternal type. We split up before Daisy was even born.’
We walk on for about ten paces while Bridie digests this. I’m bracing myself for more questions, but in the end all she says is, ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that. It’s hard bringing up a wee one alone. Of course, poor Flora knew that as well as anyone.’
Seizing this welcome tangent, I divert Bridie with a well-placed question of my own.
‘I’ve been wondering about that,’ I say. ‘You must remember the war years, how my parents met. Everything that happened. Mum never spoke about it all that much. I know my dad was in the navy and he died in the war, but that’s about it. Apart from his photo on the mantelpiece and his name on the Mackenzie-Grants’ stone in the graveyard, there’s not much I know about him. Could you tell me, Bridie?’