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Synopsis

David Burnside is struggling to cope with caring for his two young children after the death of his wife. His estranged father dies, leaving him the cottage from his childhood. This is a godsend for his struggling family and David relocates to the remote cottage. He is assisted by his father’s solicitor Bran Ashburn to finalise the estate and ensure the home and land passes to him.

There are strange caveats to the will and estate and David learns he has mysterious tenants living in the forest he now owns. Events take a dark and twisted turn as David realises his tenants and his solicitor are not what he believed them to be. As danger threatens, David finds  that his life and that of his two young children are now at stake.

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

The fish lay on the stone step, consciousness fading from the black eye, as it pondered what its next existence would be. It gasped its last breath as gnarled fingers, skin yellowed and liver-spotted, curled around the cold silver scales. A voice, reedy and thin like a bitter winter breeze, whispered, “That’ll do fine.”

In the shadow of thick bushes a figure stood, silent as the grave. Waiting. It merged with the darkness as the twilight faded and the black of night enveloped the world. It watched the old man take the offering and was relieved.

 

Jock Burnside closed the old oak door of the cottage with his shoulder as he cradled the large sea trout in his arms like a long lost baby. This will make a grand meal. Can’t get much fresher than this. He shuffled down the hallway to the kitchen door, the wood aged and darkened like the beams and floorboards around it. Jock gently nudged it open.

The large kitchen was warm and inviting. An ancient Aga burned fiercely against one wall, providing heat for the whole house and a cooking stove. A pile of freshly chopped wood was stacked in the scullery adjacent, the heat from the Aga drying out any last pieces of moisture.

Jock laid the fish on the porcelain draining board which continued into a large sink, big enough to bathe a toddler or dog.

“Now then, ma beauty, let’s get you cleaned up and dressed.” With the ease of many years’ experience, he gutted the trout, taking two large fillets, and laying them to the side. The head and guts were placed carefully in a bowl, a treat for his cat, Coal.

Slicing the fillets in half, he placed three in freezer bags, the fourth was put into a Tupperware, to marinate in lemon juice and thyme. As Jock finished washing the four new potatoes and putting them on to boil, Coal strolled into the scullery, the cat flap swinging in the night breeze. With feline grace, Coal sniffed the air, taking in the aroma of the fish head and guts. Meow. The black cat rubbed up and down Jock’s legs.

“There you go, lad, a nice treat.” Jock put the dish down and watched with a smile as his beloved pet devoured the tasty morsel. He turned and attended to his own meal.

 

Freel Catkin stirred the soup pot, savouring the aroma. This, along with bread and butter would have to suffice for the meal tonight. Her son Tip played quietly by the warm fire, his scuffed and worn homemade toy still his prized possession. She smiled indulgently at the scene, a furrow of worry and doubt suddenly darkening her face and chasing the smile from her lips. What are we going to do? She sighed heavily, the weight of responsibility pulling the strength from her limbs.

“What’s wrong, mama?” Tip looked up as Freel wiped a tear from her cheek.

“Nothing, sweetie, just a bit of onion juice in my eye is all.” She forced a smile.

The sound of footsteps and the opening of the door distracted Tip from further questions as his father returned home.

“Daddy!” Tip launched himself into the strong arms of Tor Catkin.

“Hey nugget.” Tor swung his son around in a circle in the cramped room of their humble house. “Mmmm, that smells good.” He put Tip down, ruffling his hair as he ran back to his game. “Ah, my favourite.” He hugged Freel.

Keeping her voice low she whispered in his ear, “Did you pay the full rent?”

There was a hesitation before he answered, “Couldn’t manage the full amount so paid a token, just to see us by.”

Freel stiffened in his arms. “We can’t keep coming up short on payments. The current landlord, Jock, is lenient but you know what could happen. What if we’re thrown out, what will we do then?”

Tor pulled back, trying not to let frustration colour his words. “I know, I know. It’s just there’s not much work going about. I’m doing my best but listen, I’ll pay back double next month, I promise.”

Freel nodded, “You’d better. Look, maybe I could start doing something, anything.” She knew what the answer would be.

“I need you here, Tip needs you here.” He felt tears in his own eyes. “You’re still weak, you need time to recharge. I can’t lose you, Freel.” He buried his face in her hair, hiding his fear from Tip who had stopped playing and was watching the exchange.

“Well, then.” Freel took a deep breath in and lifted her chin, “You’d better set the table, dinner is ready.”

“That’s my girl.” Tor gave her a squeeze. He turned to Tip and convinced him to join in the game of putting out bowls and spoons on the rough wooden table in the middle of the room.

They sat together, eating their bread and soup, savouring each mouthful, and trying to make one bowl last like a three course meal. All were still hungry but pretended to be so full they couldn’t eat another thing.

It didn’t take long to clear the scored and worn tabletop, Freel washing the dishes with water heated from the log fire. Then they sat down together, Tor telling stories, making them laugh and gasp in wonder. Their only light came from the flickering flames in the hearth.

As Tip gave in to sleep, his father carried him to the pull-down cabin bed on the wall next to the fire. A safe and warm place to slumber. Then he and Freel sat together staring at the flames, each one lost in their thoughts.

Finally Freel spoke. “What are we going to do Tor? This landlord is old. I know he is kind and understands we are struggling. He doesn’t make demands, doesn’t pressure us, but…” She looked up into her husbands troubled eyes. “What will we do when he dies? Who will take over? What if they’re not as understanding? We may lose everything. No home, no food, no shelter. Oh Tor.” She buried her head in his chest and sobbed.

“Hey now. Enough of that.” Tor lifted her chin and kissed her. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. No sense in worrying about things that haven’t happened.”

“Well somebody has to worry.” Freel leaned back, irritation rising in her, “We can’t all walk around with stars in our eyes and dreams in our hearts. We need to think about Tip.”

“You don’t think I’m not worried too?” Tor wasn’t prone to anger, his easy-going nature was hard to break, but things had been so tough lately, even he was pushed to his limit. “All I do Freel is work and try my best. It’s not my fault things are tight. Don’t you think I want more for us, more food, more fun, more peace?” He shook his head and Freel hugged him close, realizing he was at breaking point.

“You’re right, my love. Let’s go to bed, things will look better in the morning.” She led him to the other side of the room where a larger pull-down bed was waiting. They slipped under the handmade quilts and fell into a troubled slumber.

 

Jock sat in his favourite armchair next to the blazing fire. Coal was curled up in his lap, watching his human. Jock never failed to admire the rare phenomena that was Coal. A black cat with sapphire blue eyes was as rare as hens teeth. But, here he was, sitting quietly on his lap, staring at him with those enigmatic orbs.

He remembered the day Coal had wandered into his life. It wasn’t long after he had buried his Jeanie, and grief threatened to overwhelm him. He had been in the back garden, staring at the vegetable patch and wondering if there was any point on continuing this existence, when, as if by magic, Coal had strolled out of the small woodland behind his cottage. Jock often wondered if his tenants had somehow sent him to keep him company, to give him a reason to go on. Coal had done just that for seven years. Jock had no idea how old he was when he arrived but he still looked young and fit and this concerned him. “What are we going to do with you when I’m gone, old friend?” He stroked the cat fondly and was rewarded with a deep, resonating purr.

Coal looked round and stared at the photograph on the mantlepiece, a young couple holding two babies and smiling with joy. Jock followed the cat’s gaze. “Aye, yer right there, Coal.” His voice wavered. “But I’m a stupid old fool who has burned that bridge.”

Coal looked into Jock’s eyes then gently laid a massive paw on his face. Meow. Jock smiled, “Maybe I should.”

 

Davie Burnside tucked his children in for the night. They still shared a room, Marcie in her pink bed and Mitch in his blue. Davie hated cliches but his daughter was a very girly girl and Mitch, well, he was the best big brother ever. He was only a year older than his sister but had taken to his role as protector and friend with gusto. Davie hoped this would still be the case as they grew up. He felt his throat tighten and tears well up in his eyes. After switching on their night lights and leaving their door slightly ajar, he made his way to his own room, alone.

The darkness of the room mirrored the darkness in his heart as he wept silently, his body heaving in sobs, a picture of Demi clutched in his arms. It had been almost a year since the cancer took her. A year of mind-numbing sorrow that threatened to consume him. The false smiles and reassurance he gave to his kids weren’t fooling anyone. He was broken.

Davie worked from home as an architect. He was freelance, not affiliated with any large firm and when the economy was good, work was plentiful. Now it seemed that his wife’s illness was the herald of dire times. With two young children of four and five, he struggled to juggle work, childcare and hospital visits. On her good days, Demi did her best. But those good days became less and less till they finally stopped and so did she.

Now, work was meagre at best. With bills to pay and a mortgage that threatened to reclaim their small two-bedroom terrace, Davie was at his wits end. He rocked back and forth, his chest heaving with each sob, his cries stifled into his sleeve lest he wake the kids.

Finally, exhaustion took over and he curled up under the duvet, a pounding headache and stuffed-up nose his only reward for venting his grief. Tomorrow will be better. He tried to build himself up. Today you’ve survived, Davie, the kids need you. Oh God, what will I do if I lose the house. I can’t lose my kids. Trying not to let total despair consume him he forced himself to think positively, an uphill task at best. Now, come on, it won’t get to that stage. Something will turn up.

 

Jock rose early. It was the habit of sixty years of work and despite his ten years of retirement, his body was accustomed to the rhythm. The entire roof-space of the cottage had been converted into two bedrooms and bathroom. Downstairs what had been a modest dining room was set up as a third bedroom with an ensuite.

Jock knew that at his age it would have been more practical to sleep downstairs, but this was the bedroom he and Jeanie had shared for fifty years, his son Davie sleeping in the other room till he had moved out and got married.

He dressed slowly, his body complaining about the movement. Coal lay on the bed and watched, like a black sphynx, inscrutable. Jock made his way slowly down the narrow staircase, studying each step as he went. “This carpet is about as done as me,” he mumbled. Coal waited patiently at the top of the stairs till the old man had reached the bottom, then he padded down regally to join him in the kitchen.

“Now then, lad, want some biscuits for breakfast?”

Coal purred in reply and Jock obliged. As his faithful friend ate, Jock made his own meal. A nice bowl of porridge, cooked from scratch with oats and milk and a pot of tea to wet his whistle. As he stirred the porridge in the pot his mind wandered back to what arrangements he should make in case something happened to him.

It wasn’t just his cat he was worried about; it was his tenants. They struggled to make ends meet and the arrangement they had come to suited them both. As long as they were left alone and to their own devices, they would pay some form of rent regularly each month. If they were a bit short the rent would be less, but if they had plenty they would pay generously.

Jock and Jeanie had been more than happy to keep the same arrangements with their tenants as his father before him, the previous house owner. In fact, Jock had never met the tenants face-to-face. Part of the agreement was that they were left alone and it was Jeanie who had dealt with them via notes left on the back door.

Although Jock’s income was frugal, he was not destitute. He had heat, light, and food. The cottage was paid for and his pension covered council taxes. Any repairs needed for upkeep of the old house was covered by his savings that he topped up every now and then. That was why he could turn a blind eye when his tenants came up short. Jock understood hardship and they would always make up for any debts owed.

His eyes strayed to the photograph on the mantlepiece, a wave of shame washing over him. How did I leave this so long? Will he ever forgive me? Jock made his way to the kitchen. He opened a drawer in the old dresser, the plates on the shelf rattling slightly as the wooden slides stuck through lack of use.

He drew out a tattered document wallet, the string faded and stiff. Setting it down on the table he opened it. The slightly yellowed paper fluttered as though stirred by a breeze. The top sheet was the original agreement with the first occupiers of the cottage and the tenants. The writing was spidery, the ink still bright and clear, gold leaf decoration around the edges. He put it to one side, the words had been memorized long ago.

His hand carefully removed the last A4 lined sheet from the bottom of the pile. Jeanie had started it just after they had moved in and when she passed, Jock had continued. After their boy left and got married, the damage had been done, Jock’s stubborn nature preventing him from making amends with his only son. Now, as he looked back, he could see how such a stupid thing had been blown out of proportion.

Jeanie had been so happy when her boy met the love of his life and married. They settled down quite a distance away from the old cottage and this Jock supposed was how it all started. Young people had busy lives. Both of them were career minded and were trying to make a name for themselves. They didn’t have time to visit two old codgers living in the middle of nowhere.

It was when Jeanie fell ill that the bitter blow was struck. Jock had tried to get his son to come and visit but there was always something else, something more important. In hindsight, Jock realised he had played down how serious it was for Jeanie and when she died it was sudden. Jock had tried to contact his son to tell him but found out via the house sitter that they were on holiday. They missed the funeral. Jock never forgave him. He made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with him or his wife and never to speak to him again.

It was five years after that dreadful day that Jock found out he was a grandfather and a year later another grandchild was born. He didn’t hear from his son of course, it was Demi, his wife, who had sent the note. She sent the photograph that took pride of place above the fire. Every year she would send a card with a short note to say how the children, Mitch and Marcie, were getting on. She tactfully never mentioned David.

She hadn’t written to Jock for some time. He shook his head in sadness, it seemed as though even Demi had given up on him. He was furious with himself for refusing to reach out, even if it was just acknowledging the notes.

Picking up his pen the began to write an addition to the legal papers.

To my son David and my daughter-in-law Demi…