Mistakes We Make Read online

  He smiled to himself. Targets! Everyone thought lawyers made a mint. If only they knew.

  A shadow fell across his face as the track entered a small copse. In the last few days, the weather had changed and, although it was still August, the temperature had dropped appreciably. The sun had warmth, but the shade held portents of autumn.

  The track took a sharp turn to the right and emerged fifty yards in front of a metal gate.

  Adam slowed to a halt. There it was, only a hundred yards away – the farmhouse. A lump formed in his throat, catching him by surprise.

  Forgie End Farm was solid, square and undecorated – grey granite, hewn from local quarries and designed to withstand wind and weather.

  How many years was it since he’d last been here? He swung open the car door, walked slowly towards the gate, and studied the façade as if he were seeing it for the first time. The farmhouse had been built to be practical, a functional, serviceable home for a family. Three sash windows upstairs, two windows and a door on the ground floor, all neat and symmetrical, like a child’s drawing. The Georgians had a fine appreciation of symmetry.

  There was a small porch over the door, supported by two granite columns. The porch had obviously been intended to provide shelter from the driving rain as much as for aesthetic reasons, though these days the front door was hardly ever used – everyone entered from the yard at the side. The roof was steeply pitched to deal with rain and snow, and two large chimney stacks (one at each end) serviced the large fireplaces in the draughty living room and dining room. When had they last been used? Jean and Geordie lived in the kitchen, so far as he could remember.

  Adam had a lump in his throat again. You’d think the place had been in the family for generations, the way he felt about it, but Uncle Geordie had bought it just forty years ago.

  And that, Adam thought with a grimace, had been the start of the famous family feud.

  He snapped open the heavy metal latch and swung the gate open. Well, it would surely soon draw to an end, because Geordie was dying. Time to stop feeling emotional about the house and go and visit the man.

  ‘He’s quite good today,’ Jean said, drawing Adam into the large farm kitchen, the hub of the home. ‘Eh, laddie, it’s good to see you.’

  She stood back and looked up at him, her skin grey with tiredness, her eyes clouded with age. How old must she be? Only in her early seventies, not old by today’s standards. He hadn’t seen her since the wedding, when she’d betrayed nothing of the grief that must have dragged her down after her son’s death. And now here she was, dealing with yet another blow.

  Impulsively, Adam put his arms round his aunt. She felt fragile in his embrace, like a small bird. She allowed herself to relax into his arms for a moment, and when she pulled back, her eyes were unnaturally bright. She jerked her head away at once, too proud to show sadness – or fear.

  ‘The nurse has been and now he’s sleeping, but he won’t sleep for long. You’ll have some tea?’ She strode to the sink and turned on the tap. In so many ways she hadn’t changed, he thought. Still the tweed skirt – he could swear it was the same one she’d worn to Hugh’s funeral – still the sensible brogues. She was a farmer’s wife, and she looked like one.

  Best to tackle the difficult conversation head on. ‘How long has he got?’

  She lifted the Aga lid and set the kettle on it, then turned and leant against it, a well practised pose. She crossed her arms and looked him squarely in the eye. God, he admired Jean Blair. You had to have mettle to be a farmer, and if you didn’t have it when you started, you developed it or failed in the role – and she was tough.

  ‘You can never tell, not with cancer. It might be days, it might be weeks. It’s not likely to be months.’

  Adam sank onto a chair. He dealt with death every day – it was the inevitable by-product of a life spent dealing with wills and legacies – but he had not had to confront the messy, difficult process of exiting this world on a personal level since Hugh’s unexpected demise.

  ‘Oh. I hadn’t thought it would be quite so—’

  ‘So quick?’ She reached behind her, lifted two mugs off a mug tree and set them down on the worktop. ‘Do you know, an awful part of me prays he’ll last a few months, but that’s worse than selfish.’

  ‘Is he in pain?’

  ‘The morphine keeps it under control. Mostly. But it’s not good. If I were a more generous soul I’d pray for a swift release, but there it is. I’m not.’

  She pursed her lips into a tight line.

  ‘Aunt Jean, don’t ... you’re not a bad person. Of course you want to have him as long as possible.’

  Adam felt helpless. Molly would be good in this situation; she was terrific with people. It was one of the many traits that had attracted him to her – her brilliance was so much more than superficial gloss.

  He checked his thoughts. Why was he thinking of Molly? She was no longer available to him, had not been his since the invidious, slithering descent of their marriage into – what? – indifference? No, not that, never that. Yet he’d not noticed how badly they had let things slip. He blamed her long hours. Event management sucked up time. She’d never been there for him when he’d arrived home, late himself, stressed and unhappy. They’d become strangers.

  And then there’d been her affair.

  The kettle boiled, its whistle emitting a thin shriek.

  ‘Tea, Adam? Or coffee?’

  ‘Tea. Please. Can I help?’

  He jumped up. Action, any action, was better than sitting here wallowing in unpleasant memories.

  ‘If you fancy cake, there’s some in the tin over there.’

  He remembered the tin. Auntie Jean’s cake tin, the cream one with the pale green lid. There had always been something delicious in that tin. How many times had he and Hugh sneaked down in the middle of the night to raid it? Giggling like girls and sure their exploits would not be found out if only they were quiet enough. As if Jean would not notice that half her biscuits had disappeared, or that the cake had ragged edges!

  Emptiness grabbed at him. It was a day for unexpected emotions. He’d grieved for Hugh briefly, but in the course of his busy life, he had not missed his cousin. Now, in this kitchen, the beating heart of Hugh’s childhood home, he felt the lack of his presence with an acuteness that shocked him.

  ‘Lemon drizzle cake?’ He turned to his aunt. ‘You remembered it’s my favourite? I can’t believe you’ve made time to bake. You are a wonder.’

  The warmth in his voice was real, and something of his tone clearly reached his aunt. She smiled. ‘Geordie still gets pleasure from it.’

  ‘Geordie gets pleasure from what?’

  Adam spun round. His uncle was standing in the doorway, upright, smiling, but so gaunt that it took all Adam’s self-control to keep the shock off his face. The old collie, Caro, padded in at his feet.

  ‘My baking.’ Jean’s tone was light. She dropped a hand on the dog’s head. ‘Hi, Caro, you all right? Dogs have never been allowed past the kitchen in this house, but—’

  ‘—but she refuses to leave my side,’ Geordie finished. ‘You’d think I hadn’t much time left, eh?’

  Adam walked across to his uncle and took his hand, scarcely daring to shake it for fear the fragile frame would unknit and collapse in front of him.

  ‘Here, let me help you to a chair.’

  ‘I may be dying, but I’m not helpless yet,’ Geordie said, his smile so like Adam’s father’s that Adam almost winced. How could two brothers look so alike and yet be so different? ‘And yes, your baking does give me pleasure, Jean. I’ll take a piece of that cake. How’s that lovely wife of yours, Adam? No bairns yet?’

  Adam sucked in his breath sharply. Had he really been so out of touch with his uncle and aunt that they didn’t know about his separation? He cleared his throat.

  ‘Erm ... she’s still lovely. But I’m sorry to say that the marriage didn’t work out the way we thought it would. We’re living apart.’<
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  He lifted his mug. He didn’t want to look at their faces, because he didn’t want to see surprise or disappointment. But his words fell into silence, so that in the end he had to look up. Jean and Geordie were not looking at him, they were looking at each other. He could not read their expression, but the intensity of the exchange caught his throat.

  At last Geordie said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that, lad. Don’t tell me what happened. I don’t want to know. And I won’t lecture you about the “for better or worse” thing that we used to think was important. I imagine your mother’s done that already.’

  Adam stared at him miserably. He could find no words to answer his uncle.

  Jean said bluntly, ‘Is there someone else?’

  ‘Not for her, not now.’

  ‘And for you?’

  ‘No.’ The answer, out before he could consider it, surprised him. So what of Sunita?

  Geordie lifted his sliver of cake and nibbled at it. ‘Work going well?’ His face was skeletal, but his eyes were still bright and his mind was clearly as active as ever.

  This man, Adam thought, had the courage to do what I failed to do. Disliking the law, Geordie had defied his own father, taken out a hefty mortgage on the farm, and left the partnership to follow his dream. Easier, perhaps, with a brother – or at least, it must have seemed so at the time.

  ‘It’s a challenge,’ he said, a sense of loyalty preventing him from telling the whole truth.

  ‘Aye, I imagine it is. So’s farming.’

  ‘You’ve stopped the dairy?’

  ‘Had to. The price of milk plummeted. But you’ll know that, you’re not daft.’

  ‘I know. It’s a shame though, I always loved the cows.’

  ‘We miss them too. We were thinking of getting a few again,’ Jean said. ‘There’re some farmers making more of a success of the dairy business by not selling the milk. They add value to it instead.’

  ‘I can see how that could be done.’ Adam’s mind had leapt ahead of her words. ‘You’d have to process it in some way, make yogurt, or cheese or butter. Premium products. Maybe organic – could you go organic here, or would that take years?’

  ‘We’ve been organic for twelve years.’

  ‘Oh. That’s great. So—’

  ‘We can’t do it now, not with Geordie—’ Jean gestured at her husband.

  ‘I’ll be leaving her in the lurch,’ Geordie said. ‘Can’t be helped, but it leaves the farm—’

  Jean said, ‘I might have to sell it.’

  Adam stared at her, aghast. ‘Sell it? Sell Forgie End?’

  ‘What other option will I have? I can’t farm the place on my own, not even with help.’

  ‘No. I suppose not. I can see that.’

  He had a sudden vision of Molly in wellies and dungarees, her golden hair blowing in the wind, looking at him and laughing. Ridiculous. Even if they’d still been together, Molly had her own career. Ambition had always driven her, and her ambition was most certainly not to be a farmer’s wife.

  ‘Anyway, that’s our problem.’

  Geordie said, ‘I’d like to see your father, Adam. Make my peace. Does he know I’m ill?’

  An image of James Blair, his face a mask of stone, rose in front of Adam’s eyes. He’d invited himself to his parents’ house for supper, knowing that pleading his case would be easier with his mother there. ‘He’s dying, Dad,’ he’d said.

  ‘See him, James.’ Rosemary had rallied to Adam’s side. ‘Don’t go to your own grave with this rift on your conscience. He’s your brother.’

  But his father had simply turned and left the room.

  ‘He knows,’ Adam answered.

  ‘Ah.’ Geordie’s smile was rueful. ‘I see.’

  Adam was filled by a surge of anger. It was so stupid. Whatever had happened between them, Geordie was dying now. Simple humanity demanded reconciliation.

  ‘I’ll get him here, I promise,’ he said impulsively. ‘I’ll work on him.’

  ‘Don’t make promises,’ Geordie said, ‘that you can’t keep.’

  ‘I’ll keep it,’ Adam said grimly.

  He left soon after, full of nostalgia and longing, anger and sadness, assuring them he would return soon and vowing to bring James. It had been a difficult morning – more difficult by far than he had anticipated – and things didn’t get any easier when he finally made it back to the office.

  ‘Shereen James is pregnant,’ his father said abruptly, not even looking up. ‘We’ll need to get cover. Any ideas?’

  Shereen James was a junior secretary, but she was smart and knew the business well.

  ‘We could get someone from an agency.’

  ‘That’ll be expensive,’ James Blair growled. ‘Bloody maternity legislation.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Adam said warningly. ‘Prejudice is out of the ark, Dad. Women have rights, babies need their mothers. We’ll just need to get on with it.’

  ‘We should have employed a man.’

  ‘And don’t ever repeat that sentiment outside this room.’ Adam, shaken by his morning’s experiences, was in no mood to put up with his father’s waspishness. ‘This partnership has painstakingly built a reputation for fairness and gender equality and that’s important for our continuing business as much as it is just and proper.’

  James Blair looked up and gave a sudden smile. The smile, somewhat rare, changed his face when it came, showed a glimpse of the man Adam knew his father could be. Stress affected them all.

  ‘Hmmph. Well – any suggestions?’

  ‘What does Agnes think?’

  Agnes Buchanan, chief cashier at Blair King, had been with the firm since she’d left school, heaven knows how long ago. Forty years? There wasn’t an employee off sick or a paperclip ordered but Agnes knew about it and had calculated the effect on the balance sheet. James always referred to her as ‘our rock’ or, in private, and with a drink in him, as ‘the rock of ages’.

  ‘She suggested Sheila Huffing, the girl who left a couple of years ago to have a baby, but apparently she’s not keen to come back to work.’

  Adam had an inspiration. ‘There’s that girl who left last year. Caitlyn ... Caitlyn Murray? I never did understand why she moved on. Some family problem, I think.’

  ‘Was she any good?’

  ‘I’ll check. I know people were sorry she left.’

  ‘Fine.’

  James looked down at his papers again, his tone a dismissal.

  Adam stood and watched him. He looked so like his brother, or at least like the Geordie Adam remembered before the weight fell off. Was this the moment to tackle him about the visit again?

  No. Not at work. There were too many distractions, too many stresses.

  ‘I’ll get on to it right away,’ he said.

  Chapter Eleven

  Molly’s father, Billy, lived in a small bungalow in the Edinburgh suburb of Fairmilehead. South of the city centre, high on a slope just below the Pentland Hills, it had been an ideal home for the two of them after her mother Susan died. Logan had been twenty-one and already at university, Molly just fourteen. At first she’d moaned about leaving Hailesbank, but it was more convenient for Billy’s work and she’d soon adapted to the change.

  Molly drew up outside and turned off the ignition. Billy kept the place neat. He had been a watch and clock repairer and was by nature meticulous. Precision was his hallmark. He had been forced to learn other skills after Susan died. Cooking – well, he’d never quite mastered that because multi-tasking was not his forte. The carrots would be perfect, but fifteen minutes before the potatoes were soft enough and a full half hour before the meat was ready. He’d managed the laundry. The ironing took him ages, but Molly’s school shirts had always looked brand new. And, to her surprise because she’d thought he’d dislike the inevitable dirt, Billy had really taken to gardening.

  She surveyed his work. Neat stone steps up to the front door, three shallow terraces on each side of the path, planted out with alpines and heather
s, their colour split by strips of perfectly mown grass. How long would he be able to go on gardening? Or cooking or ironing, for that matter? He was only seventy today – not old by any means, but all those years of close work had taken their toll. Billy’s sight was failing and he’d been told that total loss of vision was probable.

  Molly opened the car door and stepped out. They were due at the restaurant by one and she wanted a chat with her father first.

  ‘Happy birthday, Dad! You’re looking terrific!’

  Billy Keir grinned at his daughter, his eyes huge behind his thick lenses. ‘Thanks, love. You don’t look so bad yourself.’

  Molly examined him. He’d always dressed neatly, though in recent months she had begun to notice small signs of neglect – a spot on his shirt front, a loose thread on his cuff, tell-tale evidence that worried her. Today, though, he had clearly made a supreme effort. He had donned his best suit, his white shirt looked as though it was straight out of the packet (it probably was) and the burgundy and dark green diagonal-striped tie he’d picked, though on the dull side for Molly’s taste, was knotted perfectly.

  ‘Logan and I have got you a present,’ Molly said, stooping to kiss his cheek – her father was a good six inches shorter than she was, ‘but we’ll give it to you at lunchtime, if that’s OK.’

  ‘Very mysterious.’ Billy beamed at her. ‘I hope you haven’t gone to too much expense. I’m an old man, you know. I don’t need anything.’

  ‘Maybe you don’t need anything,’ Molly said, taking his hand and leading him through to his kitchen, ‘but you deserve to be spoilt. And today, spoilt is what you’re going to be. Coffee? I wanted a chat before we leave.’

  ‘That sounds ominous.’

  ‘Not ominous. Just something I need to sound you out about.’

  ‘Spit it out, love, forget the coffee. It’ll only make me want to pee,’ Billy said, lowering himself stiffly onto one of the tall stools by the breakfast bar.