Frere Richard - Maxwells ghost: an epilogue to Gavin Maxwells Camusfearna

MAXWELL'S GHOST:

An Epilogue to Gavin Maxwell's Camusfearna

This eBook edition published in 2013 by

Birlinn Limited

West Newington House

Newington Road

Edinburgh

EH9 1QS

www.birlinn.co.uk

This edition first published in 2011 by Birlinn Ltd

Originally published by Victor Gollancz Ltd, London, 1976

Subsequently published by Balnain Books, Nairn, 1994

Copyright Richard Frere, 1976

The moral right of Richard Frere to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-78027-011-1

eBook ISBN: 978-0-85790-745-5

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

CONTENTS

LIST OF PLATES

A BOUT A YEAR after the last events described herein, and while the book itself was no more than a twinkle in my mind's eye, I called in to a country pub on the road to Camusfearna. The day was bright and the sun strong: I wore sun-glasses which I had been often told increased the impression of a certain resemblance.

In answer to my tap upon the bar counter there emerged from the wings the wife of the proprietorknown by custom to my late employer and to mewho gazing at me with a combination of joy and disbelief said breathlessly: Major Maxwell, is it yourself? It is indeed a wonderful thing to see you. I was told that you had died.

Before I could explain her mistake a young stalker, filled to the brim with whisky and the sense of importance that goes with it, wobbled to his feet and pronounced: That's no Maxwell, though it looks like him. Maxwell's dead, right enough. Yon's his ghost!

PROLOGUE

T HAT S G AVIN M AXWELL , remarked my friend, and to him: Gavin, this is Richard Frere, of whom I told you.

Whatever had been said of me had obviously made no impression, for the man thus addressed turned to greet me without enthusiasm or interest. He wore the darkest of dark glasses which completely hid any critical change in his expression, but his general mien and the flat tone of his voice suggested clearly that the making of new acquaintances was not one of his delights. How do you do? he said briefly, and prepared to move away. My friend made a brave attempt to keep the conversation alive; he had promised me this introduction and wished to give the event full value. As he did so I idly studied the author of the much commended Ring of Bright Water.

He was of middle height and held himself strictly; the handshake he had given me grudgingly had yet been firm. The uneclipsed part of his face was pleasing, the chin strong but not aggressive, the mouth sensitive with but a hint of weakness; the skin of his cheeks and the broad forehead were much less weathered than one would have supposed in a man who divided his time between arid Africa and the salt-slinging wind and rain of our own west coast. His face was indeed remarkably unlined for a man who was nearly fifty, and his hair was thick and without a trace of grey.

His manner was abrupt and uneasy, offhand in a random way, and consequently touched the edge of rudeness. I felt that here was a man who liked to prepare himself for meetings; chance encounters held no charm for him. Soon he made it clear that he wished to talk no more and stalked away in a kind of outrage, like the offended ghost of Hamlet's father, to take shelter behind his spectacles in a quiet corner of the bar.

At this time I knew very little about him. My wife Joan had met him once beforeat Glenelg, where our friend lived. The friend had a fair amount to say about him and much of it was a condensed and modified version of the wild rumours that build up around anyone who is unusual or eccentric in a thinly-populated countryside. It was said that he drank like a fish, spent money like water, tipped massively with some condescension, drove his powerful car with fury and to the public danger, and, it was added with a snigger, was always surrounded by young boys. Few of the local rustics had much good to say of him except to his face, for with many notable exceptions they are an envious race who distrust what they cannot comprehend and are disapproving of success. Years before, as I had read in Harpoon at a Venture, his shark fishing venture had failed; I warrant they liked him better then. The West Highlander has a high regard for disaster, which he ascribes to a mark of recognition from his sombre God, a special token of interest if not actually of love.

None of this was any particular concern of mine in the spring of 1962, and within a few days I had almost forgotten the churlish seeming author and had little reason to expect that I would ever come across him again; but Fate has a capricious way with her and Chanceif not always a fine thinghas often something unexpected to offer.