House of Spines Read online

  ‘Aye,’ he answered, most of his attention still in Quinn’s office.

  A musical note sounded and the doors opened. Ranald paused to allow the woman to enter before him. He followed. She pressed another button and the lift began its ponderous descent to the lobby.

  Bugger me. A house. No, not a house. Newton Hall in Bearsden.

  The doors pinged open. Before the old lady walked out, she reached out a hand and gripped Ranald’s forearm. With a mournful expression, she said, ‘Just remember, son, however bad you’re feeling right now, all this will pass.’ She offered him a smile. ‘Look after yourself, eh?’ And with her pronouncement made, she turned and walked smartly to the front door.

  Ranald followed her with his eyes.

  All this will pass? What the hell was she going on about?

  Then he thought about where he had come from. The dazed expression he was undoubtedly wearing. The old dear must have thought he was dealing with some bereavement. The lift doors sounded a warning they were about to close. He jumped out before they did and made his way out of the building and onto the street.

  He was greeted by a burst of noise. Buses and taxis motored past. Crowds of people bustling through that present minute of their lives.

  The sun was shining. He turned his face up to it and felt the heat; had that mournful, Scottish thought that this moment was the only summer they might enjoy. He shouldered off his tweed jacket. What had he been thinking? That some stuffy lawyer would be impressed by it, rather than by his usual Superdry waterproof?

  Ranald looked to his right at Central Station, then turned to his left and faced the shopping mecca that was Buchanan Street. While he had been inside talking with Quinn, finding out that his life was about to change, the rest of the world had been sailing on, taking absolutely no notice.

  He palmed his trouser pocket to locate his phone. He pulled it out and pressed a number. It was answered quickly.

  ‘What’s up, Ran?’ The familiar voice filled his ear.

  ‘You’re never going to believe this…’ he began and only then noted the sense of excitement he was feeling.

  Once he’d arranged a meeting and hung up, the thought occurred to him: the first person he’d decided to call – out of everyone he knew – was Martie.

  He turned around and began to walk towards the train station. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to Bearsden. How did he even get there?

  By now he had come to the junction where Gordon Street met Renfield Street, and there, in front of the green Victorian portico at the station entrance, was a line of taxis. He was going to be saving five hundred a month on rent; surely he could afford to take a taxi on this occasion?

  There was a small queue of onward travellers waiting patiently for their rides. He stood behind a family: mum, dad and two-point-four children. The point-four child was an infant in a papoose-type arrangement fastened to its father’s chest; looked like it was only weeks old. Tiny head covered in a dark fluff. Eyes screwed shut. Mouth pursed in a dream-filled pout.

  It wasn’t like him to notice such things. His default position was to look at kids and adopt the warding-off stance of a vampire hunter.

  He felt his connection to the ground. Noticed his head was higher than normal. So this was what a good mood felt like? He had been in such a rush for his 9:00 am appointment that morning he’d forgotten to take his happy pill. Should he ask the taxi driver to take a detour to his flat in Shawlands so he could collect it?

  Nah, one day off the meds shouldn’t cause him any problems, surely?

  A memory of the first couple of weeks he’d been on these current pills flashed into his mind. He’d been in a supermarket on day two. Mentally numb. Walking at a shuffle. Wondering how to form a smile of thanks when the cashier offered him his change. His doctor had reassured him that these side-effects would pass. He couldn’t say how long they would take to fade, but surely they were better than the suicidal thoughts Ranald had experienced on the previous drugs?

  Now, momentarily, he worried that a day or two off his pills might reintroduce that numb state of mind. Then he dismissed the thought. Things were looking up. His life was changing for the better. A little more cash. A new home.

  And Martie had agreed to come over and have a look.

  He felt a stir of excitement.

  Yes. Things were definitely on the up.

  The taxi driver was sharp-eyed and as lean as a marathon runner. Every now and then he’d take his eye off the road and study Ranald in the mirror. Normally, Ranald would resist making conversations with taxi drivers. But today the driver had him at ‘Where to, mate?’ and even before they’d reached St Vincent Street he’d told him everything.

  ‘Lucky bastard,’ the driver said. ‘It’s like something out of a book.’

  ‘Aye. Good things happen to other people,’ said Ranald. ‘No me.’

  ‘Mind you…’ The driver threw him a sad expression via the mirror. ‘Like my old mammy used to say after a sunny day – we’ll pay for it tomorrow.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Ranald, reluctant to have anyone inject a note of negativity.

  ‘Just sayin’,’ replied the driver, ‘there’s always a price.’

  Piss off, thought Ranald, and stared out of the window to indicate that the conversation was over. If he was going to ‘just say’ rubbish like that, he could keep it to himself.

  After a few minutes silence the driver piped up again: ‘So this guy was like an old uncle?’

  ‘My mum was his niece, apparently,’ Ranald answered. He had trouble holding onto his resentment towards the driver, such was the power of his new state of mind. ‘She had the audacity to want to marry a working-class guy, and her family disowned her.’

  ‘That’s tough, man.’ Pause. ‘Families, eh?’

  Ranald nodded his agreement. Rubbed his hands together. They’d be drawing up at the house soon, and his excitement was mounting.

  ‘Might mean you’ll be able to get yourself a woman then, eh?’ asked the driver. ‘I mean to say … if you were married and inherited this house, your wife would be with you. So I’m guessing you’re single. But women will be flocking round you now. Another bonus.’

  ‘Keep your eyes on the road, Sherlock,’ answered Ranald. He wasn’t going to let the driver puncture his good mood again. ‘The ex is coming over for a nosey later.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’ said the driver. ‘Watch out for that, mate. Your marriage ended for a reason. A posh new hoose willnae paper over the cracks.’

  ‘Fuckssake, mate. You don’t half know how to put a dampener on stuff,’ Ranald replied, knowing, though, that the man was making sense. He shook his head. That was Glasgow for you. Intrusive and interested. At times not a good combination.

  ‘Here we are, mate,’ said the driver as the car slowed and his brakes whistled their protest. ‘I’ll just go in the drive.’

  There was a drive? Ranald sat forwards in his seat and looked out of the window.

  The first thing he saw was a low wall bordering the road. Beyond that, mature trees of varying heights, a sweep of lawn and, a curve of pebbled drive.

  And there. As large as a monument to a lost love.

  The house.

  3

  The driver gave a low whistle. ‘You lucky, lucky bastard.’

  ‘You sure this is the right place?’ asked Ranald.

  They both craned their necks to look at the expanse of the building. All Ranald could take in were two, no, three rows of large windows; a red sandstone façade topped at one corner by a tower or turret of some sort. And in front of him a giant, dark, wooden door, flanked by two massive carved lions.

  Oh, and what would you call that? A porch? It couldn’t be as basic as a porch, he thought. There were four twenty-foot-high pillars holding it up.

  ‘This is the address on the wee piece of paper you gave me.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ said Ranald.

  ‘I just might, if I can move in,’ laughed the d
river.

  ‘I suppose I better go have a look then,’ said Ranald as he sat further back in his seat.

  The driver chuckled, stepped out and pulled open the passenger door. ‘At your service, m’lord,’ he beamed.

  Ranald climbed out of his seat. Once he was standing – he couldn’t help but note the satisfying crunch of the gravel under his shoes – he pulled out his wallet.

  The driver held up a hand. ‘Naw, mate. This one’s on me. It’s fair made my day, so it has. I’ll be telling folk about this ride for years.’

  Just then the front door opened and an old couple stepped out. They were about the same height, with matching expanded waistlines. He was wearing a pair of dark-green overalls. She had a white apron over a simple black dress.

  ‘You’ll be Mr McGhie,’ said the woman as she took a step forwards, holding her hand out. ‘I’m the housekeeper, Mrs Hackett. And this is my husband, the gardener, Danny.’

  Thinking it was strange how she had given herself the title of Mrs, and her husband was reduced to the more informal Christian name, Ranald stepped forwards and took her hand.

  ‘Hello,’ Ranald said.

  Her grip was strong, her skin florid – she looked like she’d been living and working on a farm most of her days. But there was a stern cast to her expression as she studied him. Ranald imagined the message she was trying to get across: I have my ways and you better not make my life difficult.

  ‘Danny,’ the gardener said, as if he’d suddenly remembered his manners. He held a hand out. Ranald took it and nearly had his knuckles ground into a dust. While they shook hands Ranald was aware that the older man was yet to meet his gaze.

  ‘C’mon inside, Mr McGhie,’ Mrs Hackett straightened her back and clasped her hands over her large belly. ‘Time for you to see what your mother deprived you of all these years…’

  Ranald bristled at Mrs Hackett’s words, determined he should defend his mother. But as he opened his mouth to do so, he felt something being slipped into his back pocket. He turned to see the taxi driver walking away.

  ‘Just my business card, Mr McGhie,’ he shouted over his shoulder, giving Ranald his title with some glee. ‘Give me a call when you need to go back into town, eh?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Ranald. ‘And thanks. Really appreciate it.’ Then, deciding that this time he would allow Mrs Hackett her jibe, eager to experience his new home, he turned and followed the Hacketts inside.

  The hall was the size of a tennis court. And in the middle sat a large, oval, marble-topped table, bearing a vase of white lilies. The walls were timber panelled for three-quarters of their height and the same wood had been used to construct a large, ornate fireplace on the far wall, a pillar at the stairs and the bannister. The huge space seemed oddly dim and gloomy to Ranald, despite the light streaming through the massive windows.

  The window opposite the fireplace, halfway up the wide staircase, was like something out of a cathedral: stained glass portrayed a scene straight from the classics – a Rosetti-style maiden, with long amber hair and wearing a white, off-the-shoulder dress, was riding on the back of a swan across a watery landscape.

  ‘It’s based on the legend of Leda and the Swan. Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Hackett with a proprietary tone as she followed his gaze. ‘Mr Fitzpatrick was incredibly proud of that.’

  ‘Stunning,’ said Ranald, nodding his head in appreciation. He looked around, wondering what he should do next, where he should go. How else he could absorb exactly what was going on.

  Perhaps realising what he was thinking, Mrs Hackett laid a hand on his forearm. Then she removed it with a little cough, as if internally reprimanding herself for crossing a boundary. ‘There’s a lot to take in, Mr McGhie. That door…’ she pointed to the right of the stairs ‘…is a reception room. Visitors to the house are taken there, but you can investigate that at your leisure, the main thing is you need to know where to eat, where to sleep and where to relax. Everywhere else, as I said, you can explore in your own time. But first…’ she turned and beckoned him to follow ‘…the kitchen and a cup of tea.’

  At the far end of the hall was a door. This led onto a wide corridor. Here, the walls were painted dark green to waist height and white above that, with an ornate dado rail separating the colours. Here and there, white plaster Doric half-columns were set into the walls. Under their feet was a racing-green carpet, its pile so thick their footsteps were soundless.

  ‘There is the smoking room.’ Mrs Hackett opened one door for Ranald to get a glimpse of a high ceiling and dark wood panelling. The room was dotted with chairs covered in blood-red leather. Either side of a window there were bookcases full of leather-bound volumes, and despite the size of the window there was little light getting into the room. The view from the window was of the front drive and Ranald suffered a stab of anxiety. This was all too much for him. He didn’t deserve any of it. He should phone the taxi driver before he was too far away.

  He picked his phone out of his pocket. No signal. And before he could say or do anything else Mrs Hackett had stepped across to the other side of the corridor and opened another door. ‘This is the ballroom.’

  He took a step inside and heard the sound of his heel on the parquet floor echo through the large space.

  ‘The family had many a grand occasion in here,’ said Mrs Hackett with an almost self-congratulatory tone. Three floor-to-ceiling double windows lined the far wall, looking out onto a wide stretch of lawn bordered by oak trees. The other walls contained large mirrors set into ornate plasterwork.

  Ranald felt uncomfortable with the grandiosity of the room and he stepped back out into the corridor closing the door behind him, with the thought that this was one space he wouldn’t be re-visiting.

  Further down, Mrs Hackett indicated another door. ‘Here is the library.’ She stopped so suddenly that Ranald almost ran into her. ‘But in truth, Mr McGhie, the entire house is a library. The man was a book-obsessive.’ She pursed her lips, allowing a little bit of warmth to leak into her expression: her version of a smile, Ranald guessed. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased Mr Fitzpatrick was when he found out you were a writer.’

  Further down, the corridor turned to the right, leading to a large white door. Mrs Hackett pushed it open and entered. ‘And here,’ she said, somewhat unnecessarily, ‘is the kitchen.’

  It was large enough to house Ranald’s entire two-bedroom flat. In pride of place was an expansive dark-green Aga with – he counted the doors – four ovens. Who needed four ovens? Again, the room was bright, thanks to light flooding in from the large windows.

  ‘It’s seen better days,’ said Mrs Hackett, marching to the far side of the room and the kettle. ‘But it has everything you’ll ever need.’ She held the kettle up to judge the amount of water it held, then put it back down and flicked on the switch. ‘Coffee or tea?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye,’ said Ranald. ‘Please.’ Then he took notice of the question. ‘Coffee.’

  She bustled to the fridge and pulled out a plastic bottle. ‘Mr Quinn told us you would probably be coming over today, so I took the liberty of doing a small shop for you: milk, butter, et cetera. Just some essentials.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Ranald, while thinking, Well, that was grudged.

  ‘It’s on your account,’ she said, her tone suggesting it would be unlikely to happen again. ‘Have a seat,’ she indicated the large pine table, with enough seating for ten adults. ‘Just so you know, after this cuppa you’re on your own. I clean. I don’t cook. Okay?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Danny and I are not your servants, Mr McGhie. It’s important you appreciate that from the off, and then there’ll be no awkwardness, yes?’ She pulled a mug from a cupboard and located the jar of coffee. The kitchen was filled with the sound of the kettle reaching the boil. Then, the chime of teaspoon on china as she stirred.

  As Ranald sat down he realised that Danny hadn’t joined them. He looked back at the door as if he expec
ted to see Danny standing there like a sentinel. Mrs Hackett placed a steaming mug on the table and stood behind a neighbouring seat.

  ‘Questions?’

  ‘Aye, loads,’ said Ranald, reaching for the mug. The act of bringing it to his mouth, testing it for heat and sipping, was enough to centre him in the room. ‘This has all been a bit of a mind fu—’ He stopped himself from swearing, not sure how Mrs Hackett might take it.

  She gave him a small nod, acknowledging his effort at restraint.

  ‘Mr Fitzpatrick took care of us handsomely,’ she said. ‘At the far side of the grounds is a converted stable. A lovely two-bedroom house where Danny and I live. We were gifted it in his will. We own it now,’ she said with degree of steel.

  Message received, thought Ranald. Don’t mess with Mrs Hackett. Still, he could understand her setting out the situation from the start. After so many years working with one person, her and her husband must be concerned that their lives might change.

  ‘The Fitzpatrick Trust pays our wages. I tend the house, Monday to Friday, nine till noon. Danny looks after the outside: house and grounds. In the summer, he works all hours. In the winter, just as much as the place needs.’

  ‘Everything is immaculate,’ Ranald said, taking another sip. ‘From what I’ve seen.’

  Mrs Hackett gave a small nod. But it seemed she took no pleasure in the compliment – was simply acknowledging it as an obvious truth.

  ‘What can you tell me about my great-uncle?’ asked Ranald, settling into his seat.

  ‘He was ninety-nine when he died. Can you believe it? Just a few weeks off the century.’ She shook her head. ‘We’ve been with him for over forty years.’ As if by magic, a hanky appeared in her hand. She dabbed at the corners of her reddening eyes. ‘I miss him every day. Such a gentle man.’

  Ranald took this to be her expectation of how he should behave as much as a character description.

  She shook herself, pocketed the hanky and stood up. ‘Ready to see more?’

  ‘Please,’ Ranald said with a quick look at his half-full mug.