Cooper Jilly: Emily

I enjoyed staying at the castle, living in baronial comfort, and making the acquaintance of Rory’s black labrador Walter Scott, who had been living with Buster’s gamekeeper while he had been away. He was a charming dog, sleek, amiable, incurably greedy and not as well trained as Rory would have liked.

After a few days we went back to live in Rory’s house (very pretty it looked, after it had been cleaned up) and began marriage proper.

I didn’t find it easy. I was determined to be one of those wonderful little homemakers putting feminine touches everywhere but, as Rory remarked, the only feminine touches I added were dripping pants and stockings, and mascara on his towel.

I tried to cook, too. I once cooked moussaka, and we didn’t eat until one o’clock in the morning. But Rory, who was used to Coco’s French expertise, was not impressed.

I also took hours over the washing. There weren’t any launderettes in Irasa, and then it lay around for days in pillowcases waiting to be ironed; and Rory never seemed to have clean underpants when he needed them.

After a couple of weeks he said, quite gently, ‘With all the cobwebs, we seem to have formed a spider sanctuary here. You’re obviously not into housework, so I’ve hired a char, four days a week, and she can iron my shirts too.’

I felt humiliated but enormously relieved.

The char, Mrs Mackie, turned out to be a mixed blessing. She was wonderful at cleaning, but a terrible gossip, and obviously irritated Rory out of his mind. As soon as she arrived he used to disappear into the mountains to paint, and she and I sat round drinking cider and talking.

‘I’ve got a wicked bad leg,’ she said one morning. ‘I shall have to go and see Dr Maclean.’

‘Finn Maclean?’ I said.

She nodded.

‘What’s his sister Marina like?’

‘She’s no right in the head, although I shouldn’t say it. The old Macleans never had any money. Dr Maclean, her father, was a gud doctor, but he dinna know about saving. Marina married this old man for his riches, and it’s dancing him into his grave she is. Perhaps now young Dr Maclean’s come back he’ll keep her in order.’

‘Why’s he come back when he was doing so well in London?’

She shrugged. ‘Irasa has an enchantment. They all come back in the end.’

Irasa — Island of the Blessed, or of the Cursed. I could understand why none of them could escape its spell, and why only here could Rory find the real inspiration for his painting.

The countryside took your breath away; it was as though the autumn was pulling out all the stops before succumbing to the harshness of the Highland winter. Bracken singed the entire hillsides the colour of a red setter, the turning horse chestnuts blazed yellow, the acacias pale acid green.

With Rory painting all day, Walter Scott and I had plenty of time to wander about and explore. The island was fringed with wooded points like a starfish. Out of the ten or so big houses, on one point lived Rory and me, on another Buster and Coco, on another Finn Maclean and on yet another Marina and Hamish. The islanders’ white cottages were dotted between.

One afternoon in late October, I walked down to Penlorren, the island’s tiny capital.

Penlorren was a strange sleepy little town, exquisitely pretty, like a northern St Tropez. Wooded hills ringed the bay, but the main street was an arc of coloured houses, dark green, pink, white and duck-egg blue. In the boats the fishermen were sorting their slippery silver catch into boxes.

As I walked about I was aware of being watched. Suddenly I looked round and there was the blue Porsche parked by the side of the road: the same red-headed girl was watching me with great undefended eyes. I smiled at her, but she started up the car and stormed down the main street, scattering villagers.

‘Who’s that?’ I asked a nearby fisherman, and somehow knew he was going to answer, ‘Marina Maclean.’

I’d forgotten to get any potatoes and I went back to the main store. Three old biddies were having a yap, they didn’t hear me come in.

‘Did you see Rory Balniel’s wee bride?’ said one.

‘Pur lassie, so bonny,’ said the second. ‘She might as well have married the divil.’

‘There’ll be trouble ahead,’ said the third. ‘Now young Dr Maclean’s back again.’

Then they suddenly saw me, coughed, and started taking a great deal of interest in a sack of turnips.

The feeling of unease I’d had since the first night of my honeymoon grew stronger. Another fortnight passed. I had to stop fooling myself that our marriage was going well.

I was so besotted with Rory I wanted to touch him all the time; not just bed touching, but holding hands and lying tucked into his back at night like two spoons in a silver box. But Rory seemed to have no desire to come near me, except when he made love to me, which was getting less and less often.

I tried to kid myself he was worrying about work. I knew about geniuses, secretive, more temperamental, of finer grain than ordinary mortals, and more easily upset. I tried to talk to him about painting, but he said I didn’t understand what he was doing and, anyway, talking about it ruined it.

I was in the kitchen one morning. I had learned to be quiet when work was going badly, the clatter of a pan could drive him mad. He wandered in yawning, rubbing a hand through his hair, looking so handsome with his sleepy, sulky face, I felt my stomach tighten.

‘Do you want some coffee?’

‘Yes, please.’

Feeling more like a normal wife, I went into the kitchen, started percolating coffee, and sighed inwardly for the days when Nina and I had lived on Nescafé. I thought of the beautiful, haunted girl in the blue Porsche.

‘I keep seeing Marina Buchanan,’ I said.

Rory looked at me. ‘So?’

‘Not to speak to,’ I stammered. ‘She’s terribly beautiful. Shall we ask them to dinner?’

‘I’m sure they’d enjoy your cooking.’

I bit my lip. I didn’t want a row.

‘I’m sorry about my cooking. I am trying.’

‘Sure you are, extremely trying.’

‘Rory, please, what’s the matter? What have I done? You haven’t laid a finger on me for at least four days.’

‘You can count up to five? That is encouraging,’ said Rory acidly.

‘Most newly weds are at it all the time,’ I said.

‘We might be, if you were less unimaginative in bed. I’m surprised all your exes didn’t expect something a bit more exciting.’

I jumped back as though he’d hit me. Sometimes there was a destructive force about Rory.

‘God, you bastard,’ I whispered. ‘If you were a bit more encouraging, I might be less unimaginative. And if I’m no good in bed, why the hell didn’t you say so in the beginning?’

‘I was probably too drunk to notice,’ he said.

‘I hate you!’ I screamed.

I stormed out of the room, rushed upstairs and threw myself on the bed, bursting into tears. Five minutes later I heard a door slam and his car driving off down the road.

I cried for hours. ‘He’s only doing it to hurt me,’ I kept saying, trying to reassure myself. I got up, washed my face and wondered what to do next.

I thumbed through a magazine. You could have pulled corks with the models’ hair. I liked music but you couldn’t listen to records all day. I supposed I could put on a deeply felt hat and go for a walk.

I sat up, dismayed: I realized I was bored. No-one was more aware than I that boredom was a mark of inadequacy. People with inner resources didn’t get bored. No; as Rory had discovered, I’d got hidden shallows. I went to the fridge and ate half a tin of potato salad.