held hands at tea that evening, and said they wanted to get married. Mum and dad seemed quite happy. Fiona didn’t seem in the least surprised. Rory was nonplussed.
It was years before he made the connection between those tiny, rhythmically lapping waves, and that blushing, excited announcement.
CHAPTER 3
Gaineamh Castle, home of the Urvills once again, stands amongst the alders, rowans and oaks that cover the northern flanks of the Cnoc na Moine, due south of the carbuncular outcrop that supports the First Millennium fort of Dunadd, and a little north-west of the farm rejoicing in the name of Dunamuck. The castle, a moderately large example of the Scottish Z-plan type, with cannon-shaped stone waterspouts, has a fine view through the trees and across the parkland and fields to the town of Gallanach, which spreads round the deep waters of Inner Loch Crinan like some slow but determined beach-head of architecture somehow landed from the sea.
The sound of gravel crunching beneath a car tyre has always meant something special to me; at once comforting and exciting. Of course the one time I tried to explain this to my father he suggested that what it really signified was the easy rolling pressure the middle and upper classes thought it was their right to exert upon the multitudinous base of the workers. I have to confess that the entire counter-revolution in world affairs has come as something of a personal relief to me, making my dad seem no longer quite so remorselessly well-clued-up, but rather - if anything, any more - just quaint. It would have been sweet to tackle him on that subject at the time, especially given that Gorby’s unleashed restructuring had just resulted in the spectacular and literal deconstruction of one of the age’s most resonantly symbolic icons, but at the time we weren’t talking.
‘Prentice,’ rumbled the slightly bloated Urvill of Urvill, taking my hand and briefly shaking it, as if weighing my mitt. I felt for a moment the way a young bull ought to feel when the man from McDonalds slaps its haunch ... but then probably doesn’t. ‘So very sorry.’ Fergus Urvill said. I wondered whether he was referring to Grandma Margot’s death itself, her detonation, or Doctor Fyfe’s apparent attempt to up-stage the old girl. Uncle Fergus let my hand go. ‘And how are your studies going?’
‘Oh, just fine,’ I said.
‘Good, good.’
‘And the twins; are they both well?’ I asked.
‘Fine, fine,’ Fergus nodded, presumably allocating his two daughters a word each in his reply. Ferg’s gaze went smoothly to my Aunt Antonia; I took the hint, and (like Margot) passed on. ‘Antonia,’ I heard behind me. ‘So very sorry ...’
Helen and Diana, Uncle Ferg’s two lusciously lissom daughters, sadly couldn’t be here; Diana spent most of her time either in Cambridge or the least touristy part of Hawaii, which is the bit thirty kilometres away from the beaches - four of them vertically - at the Mauna Kea observatory, studying the infra-red. Helen, on the other hand, worked for a bank in Switzerland, dealing with the ultra-rich.
‘Prentice, are you all right?’ My mother took me in her arms, held me to her black coat. Still splashing on the No. 5, by the smell of it. Her green eyes looked bright. My father had been at the head of the reception line; I had ignored him and the compliment had been returned.
‘I’m fine,’ I told her.
‘No, but are you really?’ She squeezed my hands.
‘Yes; I’m really really fine.’
‘Come and see us, please.’ She hugged me again, said quietly, ‘Prentice, this is silly. Make it up with your father. For me.’
‘Mum, please,’ I said, feeling like everybody was looking at us. ‘I’ll see you later, okay?’ I said, and pulled away.
I walked into the hall, taking off my jacket, blinking hard and sniffing. Coming from cold into warmth always does this to me.
The entrance hall of Gaineamh Castle sports the business end of a dozen or so
It was years before he made the connection between those tiny, rhythmically lapping waves, and that blushing, excited announcement.
CHAPTER 3
Gaineamh Castle, home of the Urvills once again, stands amongst the alders, rowans and oaks that cover the northern flanks of the Cnoc na Moine, due south of the carbuncular outcrop that supports the First Millennium fort of Dunadd, and a little north-west of the farm rejoicing in the name of Dunamuck. The castle, a moderately large example of the Scottish Z-plan type, with cannon-shaped stone waterspouts, has a fine view through the trees and across the parkland and fields to the town of Gallanach, which spreads round the deep waters of Inner Loch Crinan like some slow but determined beach-head of architecture somehow landed from the sea.
The sound of gravel crunching beneath a car tyre has always meant something special to me; at once comforting and exciting. Of course the one time I tried to explain this to my father he suggested that what it really signified was the easy rolling pressure the middle and upper classes thought it was their right to exert upon the multitudinous base of the workers. I have to confess that the entire counter-revolution in world affairs has come as something of a personal relief to me, making my dad seem no longer quite so remorselessly well-clued-up, but rather - if anything, any more - just quaint. It would have been sweet to tackle him on that subject at the time, especially given that Gorby’s unleashed restructuring had just resulted in the spectacular and literal deconstruction of one of the age’s most resonantly symbolic icons, but at the time we weren’t talking.
‘Prentice,’ rumbled the slightly bloated Urvill of Urvill, taking my hand and briefly shaking it, as if weighing my mitt. I felt for a moment the way a young bull ought to feel when the man from McDonalds slaps its haunch ... but then probably doesn’t. ‘So very sorry.’ Fergus Urvill said. I wondered whether he was referring to Grandma Margot’s death itself, her detonation, or Doctor Fyfe’s apparent attempt to up-stage the old girl. Uncle Fergus let my hand go. ‘And how are your studies going?’
‘Oh, just fine,’ I said.
‘Good, good.’
‘And the twins; are they both well?’ I asked.
‘Fine, fine,’ Fergus nodded, presumably allocating his two daughters a word each in his reply. Ferg’s gaze went smoothly to my Aunt Antonia; I took the hint, and (like Margot) passed on. ‘Antonia,’ I heard behind me. ‘So very sorry ...’
Helen and Diana, Uncle Ferg’s two lusciously lissom daughters, sadly couldn’t be here; Diana spent most of her time either in Cambridge or the least touristy part of Hawaii, which is the bit thirty kilometres away from the beaches - four of them vertically - at the Mauna Kea observatory, studying the infra-red. Helen, on the other hand, worked for a bank in Switzerland, dealing with the ultra-rich.
‘Prentice, are you all right?’ My mother took me in her arms, held me to her black coat. Still splashing on the No. 5, by the smell of it. Her green eyes looked bright. My father had been at the head of the reception line; I had ignored him and the compliment had been returned.
‘I’m fine,’ I told her.
‘No, but are you really?’ She squeezed my hands.
‘Yes; I’m really really fine.’
‘Come and see us, please.’ She hugged me again, said quietly, ‘Prentice, this is silly. Make it up with your father. For me.’
‘Mum, please,’ I said, feeling like everybody was looking at us. ‘I’ll see you later, okay?’ I said, and pulled away.
I walked into the hall, taking off my jacket, blinking hard and sniffing. Coming from cold into warmth always does this to me.
The entrance hall of Gaineamh Castle sports the business end of a dozen or so
Similar Books
