Weepgate
The island of Innis Holcroft was one of a few islands that resided in one of Scotland’s largest lakes, Loch Awe. As popular as the lake was, Holcroft existed in virtual anonymity. With its location in Loch Awe’s remote northern section and the fact the island was consistently hidden behind a thick wall of fog, it was oft left forgotten.
A characteristic that Lord Morgan Hale had grown quite fond of over the years. His ancestral land on Holcroft comprised of over one hundred acres of forest and farmland and at the center of all was Stonehill Manor.
It’s well-kept gardens of fragrant flowers, looming trees and manicured lawns decorated the outside of the venerable mansion. It was designed in 1821, by the architect James Gillespie Graham for Lord Vernon Hale, a Member of Parliament.
Upon his death in 1838 it was passed to his nephew Douglas who adopted the surname of Hale; a pre-requisite of the Stonehill ownership.
The house remained under Lord Douglass’ immediate family line until 1970 when his great-granddaughter, Glynis Hale died unmarried and without children at the age of eighty.
With no heir to take over the Manor, both acquisition and demolition was scheduled for 1972 and the family title would become officially extinct. Then on December 2nd of that year, two weeks before the state auction, Morgan Hale entered a courthouse in Kilmartin as if materialized by the estate itself, stating claim to the property on Innis Holcroft and proof of family heritage. It was revealed that Lord Vernon Hale had a direct lineage after all in the form of a pregnant mistress from New York City that he had suppressed successfully.
When Morgan arrived on Holcroft Island, Stonehill was understandably showing signs of decay but he was determined to repair any weaknesses to insure the manor would be around for ages to come.
Inside, the Baroque-style rooms were dripping in grandeur with sparkling chandeliers, one-of-a-kind frescoes, and gilded furnishings. Oil paintings decorated the Main Hall, the majority being original works by Scottish painters, Sir Henry Raeburn and Sir John Watson Gordon. They depicted the Hale Family as they were before Stonehill, which was pale, wealthy and visibly miserable.
In the massive sitting room in the left wing had tapestry covered walls where 18th century crown derby coffee set rested on a late 19th century game table. The art included Scottish landscapes by Archibald Kay and sculptures by Robert Bryden which by aesthetic standards were by far the superior artwork.
The second floor’s years were more more apparent than the first. Years of neglect had left its once stunning twelve bedrooms a haven for termite rot, vermin, and mold. It was Morgan’s intention to conquer that task by the following year but as his modest inheritance dwindled rapidly, several house projects had fell to a slow crawl. Regardless, the Manor was a gallant showcase of a powerful lineage stretched throughout generations but the most intriguing section of the house had yet to be revealed to Morgan.
By the time August had found its way to 1978, the Hale name had become maligned and all but denounced from history. Rumors had devolved to it’s final heir whom resided behind Stonehill’s walls alone writing at his desk in his favorite drawing room. He was a struggling author who had become an heir
Since Morgan inhabited only a few rooms throughout his day, the need for a large staff to run it was wholly unnecessary. Which was a godsend since the total populace of Holcroft was around seventy two lives. The most of them living in or around a tiny coastal hamlet by the name of Pintonory.
Morgan’s meager staff of predominantly mainlanders and foreigners consisted of a cockney cook named Bearky Grieves, two maids, the Sisters Cromwell (Bette and Yvette), the groundskeeper from Florence, Sergio, the night watchman from Pintonory, Gavin and the brilliant if not austere butler from Jamaica, Terrence.
The day Rachel Sloane arrived at the front door of Stonehill Manor, Lord Morgan Hale had been pounding away at the keys of his battered Olympia typewriter for most of the night. Terrence entered the sitting room carrying an ornate tray with a large porcelain mug of steaming coffee. His austere, lengthy presence cut a swathe of much desired normalcy into the room. Morgan’s mind had been spread far too thin and it was felt in the thick, pungent air. There was a feeling of melancholic madness that only a writer in the throes of it could truly understand. Terrence, a former journalist for the Daily Gleaner in his homeland of Jamaica was one of them.
“Up all night, Mr. Hale?”
Terrence spoke in his own “sophisticated” version of the patois dialect.
“Inspiration came in brief glimpses-
I didn’t want to miss any of it.”
Morgan’s voice was groggy and hoarse from a night of smoking cigarettes. The ashtray on his desk was mounted up into a near impossible pile. Terrence took immediate action and dumped it into a nearby wastebasket. He carried over to a watering can that was tucked behind a bevy of potted plants near the large bay window.
“I’m surprised we were not awak
ened by a house fire.”
Terrence said coyly as he poured some of the water into the basket.
“I do apologize. I was in a bit of a fugue state which I’m sure you can relate to.”
“I was journalist in Jamaica, remember?. My entire career was a fugue state.”
Morgan gave him a wry grin and took the coffee with a nod of gratitude. He leaned back at his desk chair
“I feel like I’m getting somewhere finally but it’s so much more difficult than my first book.”
“You know the old adage, I’m sure but it bears repeating. You have your whole life to write your first book and a year to write your second.”
“It’s a bit trite but so fucking accurate.”
Morgan took a hearty gulp of this coffee and then lit up a cigarette. Terrence took a step back, his tolerance for second smoke being minimal.
“In other news, the fishermen have taken over the hamlet again.”
“It happens every year, Terrence-the salmon are
spawning or something like that. Besides it’s not my land.”
“It’s not theirs either.”
“Good point. Well, if anything close to what happened last year happens again I’ll call the consttipale in Kilmartin. Until then, we keep to ourselves.”
“Yes, sir.”
Morgan knew Terrence disagreed but it was the only decision that made sense at this point. Perhaps, after an afternoon nap his mind would change otherwise but until then doing nothing seemed like the correct choice.
When Morgan inherited Stonehill Manor and it’s one hundred acres, he was unaware of a small uninhabited fishing village on the island’s north shore. It was called Keepgate and it was once a thriving place for the local fishermen until the commercial fishing barges took over the seas. It soon fell into disrepair and the businesses of the town escaped their debtors by moving deep into the mainland. It had since become a hold up once a year for the last surviving fishermen, a place to drink to their sorrows and their empty nets away. The locals have renamed it, “Weepgate” and it had been so for close to a decade.
A year ago a gaggle of highly inebriated fellows decided to leave their lodgings at Weepgate and visit Stonehill Manor. Evidently, the visitation was a common occurrence since the Manor laid dormant for so many years. The noise of the drunken men clamoring inside the kitchen awakened both Morgan and Terrence. Both men drew their guns at the inebriated trespassers who reacted with the type of arrogant laughter that only numerous gulps of whiskey can derive. A stand-off formed in the kitchen between the two men and at least six pie-eyed fishermen. As they approached Morgan and Terrence shouting racist slurs and other vile speech, a short fellow, with red, swollen face pushed himself to the front of crowd. His nearly maroon face was framed with a stringy, white beard stained cigarette-yellow around the mouth. He rocked side to side, waving his hairy arms as if he was plummeting off a building. His name was Kef Greenly, the leader of sorts and he seemed clear-headed enough for Morgan to explain his situation and the inheritance.
Terrence rolled his eyes, knowing full well Morgan’s words of logical diplomacy would fall onto deaf ears.
The group seized with a guttural laughter that was unhinged and merciless.
Terrence steadied his rifle, slowly backing up to get everyone in his view. He beckoned the tall one with the bad teeth over with the others whom complied immediately. Morgan suspected their liquid courage was running low and an ample dose of logic was setting in.
“Aye, we get the message, dar…” Kiff censored himself from spewing out yet another bout of bigoted garbage.
“Welcome to the neighborhood.
Perhaps we’ll meet again next season.”
Kiff raised his hands and brushed his crew off like feral cats on a fence and they left through the kitchen door. Morgan could hear them trip over themselves with a slew of unintelligible mutterings that faded into the night’s chilly void.
It was indeed the last time they ventured up to the Manor and in a month’s time they had all packed up and shipped out for another precarious bout of fishing the lake.
A year later, seeing the glow of campfires and rusted ships anchored to the shoreline, Morgan could almost imagine how the island was decades prior. He never dreamt of owning such a place but it fit him like a strange coat. A coat tailored by his ancestors, whether they could see through the veil of death or not, Morgan was grateful for it. His American upbringing never quite suit him which was why he took up writing in the first place, to escape to a world of his own design. Something dawned on him, perhaps the reason for his sudden difficulties in imagining new worlds was because he no longer had to.
Was he going about this all wrong? Was his second novel here behind these cracked walls, and upon these creaking floors?
He lit up a cigarette to ponder this revelation and stared through the bay window at the morose plumes of fog rolling in off the lake.
