A boy woke from his day-dreams, half-surprised to find himself back in the present. He swept his light brown hair from a soft face, almost feminine in its features, and returned doe-eyed to the classroom and its History lesson. The bright sunlight, which had awoken him, was slanting across his desk; his skin moist from the warmth of the day.

'Ah! Alasdair! You are back from the hills! The red-coats didn't get you, I see.' The class chuckled. The teacher, Philip Gordon, smiled kindly through his thick-lensed glasses, which he took off to polish. A young man of twenty-nine, Gordon had arrived at this Scottish boarding-school as a new graduate and had brought with him a sensitivity and an imaginative style which was in many ways at odds with the tribal fetish for rugby, cricket and all things masculine, upon which the ruling caste seemed to him to be founded. When Stratheden had taken girls, to offset falling numbers, it had upset many but had suited his temperament well. He looked up at the class again.

'To summarise, before you all depart for your tropical islands and safaris' - the class groaned - 'By September 1746, Bonnie Prince Charlie had been on the run in the hills and islands of Scotland for five months. Pursued relentlessly by the redcoats, he had finally arrived at Loch nan Uamh - what does Uamh mean, Maclean?'

'Cave, Mr Gordon' the boy replied, now alert.

'He had finally arrived at Loch nan Uamh, to be collected with a party of friends and carried to safety in France. What followed was not a happy tale : his supporters in Scotland waited in vain for his return. His personal life suffered a series of broken relationships and affairs. Added to this, his taste for alcohol led in the end to his death.'

The class was not really attentive, which - to be fair - was understandable in the last lesson of the summer term. Posters of redcoats and Bonnie Prince Charlie gazed down from the walls, along with maps and displays of tartan. Gordon had taken trouble to appeal to the imagination. But at this moment, the allure of the summer was almost impossible to resist. A red-haired girl stared longingly outside at the sun. A boy, with a pencil in his mouth, was checking a cricket scorebook and working out averages. At the back, one or two of the eleven-year-olds were in contact via eye-signals and finger-gestures, in a state of red-alert for the final bell.

Alasdair Maclean shot a glance across at his friend, Harry Baxter, who smiled grimly and tried to follow what the teacher was saying. Harry was small, tough, and deeply reserved : the result of an awful family history which had left him hurt, scarred, reluctant to get involved. He shook his mop of tousled fair hair to one side and tried to snatch lifelines of meaning from Gordon's closing narrative.

'So what did Prince Charlie leave to posterity? A legend, a romantic story that - though his cause was lost - has captured the imagination ever since. Why do you think that was?'

Alasdair acted as representative for his friends, who recognised that the Prince had captured his imagination at least, and were glad for anyone to fight their battles for them, as long as they could escape into exile themselves as soon as possible.

'The thing is,' said the boy with feeling, 'there was something about his personality that appealed to the ordinary highlanders, once he was away from all those royal courts. You know - he ate with them, drank with them, genuinely seemed to get on with them better than he got on with the aristocrats. And for five short months, when he went on the run in the heather, he seemed to be set free to really be himself. He seemed to live up to the best in his character. I think, in a way, a lot of people wish they could really be themselves instead of pretending to be something else.'

Gordon had been listening to the child, in deep thought himself. He had felt increasingly compromised in his own work, with his colleagues, with himself. Slender fingers played with the chalk on the table, his nails long and well-formed. He felt a strong empathy with this boy, who preferred History to sport, who seemed so ingenuously gentle and sensitive. Yet at the last parents' meeting, all the boy's father had asked was, 'When will he be selected for the cricket-team? When is he going to toughen up?'

'And of course,' continued the teacher, 'he left behind the mystery of a hidden treasure that has never been found.'

The treasure! Ah, the Loch Arkaig Treasure! How Alasdair had scoured the maps, following in Prince Charlie's footsteps, chasing in his tracks in search of that hidden gold! He knew the story inside out : how two French ships had picked up earlier survivors of Culloden on May 3rd, but had also brought a substantial sum of gold to help finance the Jacobite cause. Thirty-five thousand louis d'or. Much of this consignment had never been accounted for. Some said it was buried along the shores of Loch Arkaig.

He had turned it over and over : who had handled it and where had it been? Three men were allegedly involved in its distribution. Murray of Broughton, Cameron of Lochiel and, lastly, Cluny Macpherson. It must have been carried from the sea through the safe hill-paths which Charlie himself had used. But then ... 250 years ... and nothing. Perhaps it lay hidden still, just awaiting discovery. Just awaiting discovery.

In this quest, Alasdair found himself alive, wholly engrossed at the prospect of gold lying hidden somewhere in the mountains beyond his family home. Gordon understood his pupil's zeal. The hunt for treasure - surely a primal instinct - might drive people to obsession, almost to a kind of madness. And at the end of it all beckoned that prospect of a moment of discovery, a moment of triumph.

The others had piled out, and Philip Gordon was pinning up some posters to the right of Prince Charlie. Alasdair stirred himself and made for the door.

'Polar exploration next, Maclean. More suited to the winter terms. Peary? Have you heard of Peary?'

'Do you think we might go to look for the treasure?' he replied, ignoring the other question. 'Seeing as you're staying with us for the summer?'

Gordon blinked through his glasses.

'What? Metal-detectors and that sort of thing?'

'Well, no, but - we both have theories don't we? Supposing one of us is right. And, besides, just to follow in his footsteps and take to the heather like he did...'

'It sounds good, Alasdair.' Gordon smiled.

'It would be wonderful' the boy replied. 'No school, no rules, just adventure and friends and the summer ahead!'

'Freedom!' said Gordon, as they made for the door together. He was not very tall, but caught his head on a side cupboard all the same. 'Ow!' said Alasdair in sympathy, and the teacher laughed in self-deprecation. They laughed to be free from formality and because they accepted one another.

Outside, the sun shone down dutifully on Stratheden School, giving an appearance of elegance to its aging masonry, and of ancient establishment - although the school had, in fact, been founded in 1934. Orderly borders lined the driveway that led to the courtyard, the geraniums on parade in neat lines, almost unnaturally red in the glare of the sunlight; and boarders by their cases, just dismissed, breaking ranks to greet parents and be inspected, spilling out over the lawn in relative freedom.

Beyond, cedars and ancient pines rose calm and unchanging above trimmed hedges, and the slightest of breezes sighed in their huge boughs.

Caroline Maclean and The Headmaster strolled down the gravel driveway, wealthy-looking parents and their children coming and going in both directions, lightly brushing past in expensive dresses and sporty jackets.

'The summer holidays!' he philosophised. 'All is well with the world!'

Mrs Maclean acquiesced and smiled politely.

'Oh good morning!' he called out. And aside to Caroline, whispered 'Relative of the Earl of Airlie.'

The Headmaster was a short man, with thinning hair swept over from ear to ear to disguise itself; but, apart from a habitual sniff which he attributed to hay-fever, had about him an air of control and benevolence - probably in that order - which defied challenge. With his Labrador dog at his side, and loving family in tow somewhere back down the drive, he represented to the parents the family values and stability that were under so much threat these days.

'Take young Harry Baxter for example. So good of you and your husband to take him under your wing this summer.'

'Sometimes families seem to break up for no apparent reason,' she mused, adjusting her hair carefully. He smiled benevolently out at her, with eyes, almost vacant, betraying no feelings.

'And here's Gordon to fetch you! Now have a simply splendid summer, Mrs Maclean. A simply splendid summer.' He spied a new parent and had started homing towards her, as he spoke. 'Oh' he said, turning, 'Tell Alasdair I shall expect to see him in the three-quarters next term. And send my regards to your dear husband. Good day.'

'The thing is,' Caroline said to Gordon, as they made for the shade of the cedars to escape some of the oppressive heat, 'he's right you know. About standards and manners, I mean.' The shadows and sunlight under the great branches played on her beautiful cotton dress, across her long fair hair, neatly tied back. 'Little things matter. It's important to teach children social graces and courtesy, so they conduct themselves properly in the right circles'.

Gordon blinked.

'And what circles are those, Mrs Maclean?'

'Please call me Caroline if we're spending the summer together.'

'What circles are those then, Caroline' repeated Philip Gordon, whose directness was delivered with a whimsical good humour that amused rather than offended her.

'I shouldn't have to tell you - you inherit a way of life. And you're bound to mix with a group of people who understand that way of life.'

'The ruling classes?'

Caroline looked up to heaven.

'I don't think you can rule anyone these days, do you? But if the foundations of a society are allowed to break up, then everything will collapse. Nobody wants that.'

He saw through her, as she lectured him. There was openness and givenness in her responses to people, if you looked behind a certain hardness born of duty. But duty could be a harsh taskmaster. Her underweight form seemed to suggest a self-abuse, almost, and he was sorry.

'Sounds rather apocalyptic. But I know what you mean.'

'You have to be practical,' she sulked.

'Do you?' he teased. But he understood. He too came from a good family, was an inheritor, though not on her scale. Her father owned large estates in the south, and she had married into one of the great Highland families, shouldered with centuries of tradition.

'It's not so much the land or privilege you inherit, as the practicalities. My father taught me that.' He plucked a rose from the sacrosanct shrubberies and presented it to her on impulse in mock vasselage...

'For Sir Walter Clifford's daughter and her beautiful garden,' he smiled. Her garden where she recoiled from brutality to find beauty : he had seen it and it was her place of recess, of retreat from the tide of barbarism.

She smiled more openly at his harmless impropriety. He was not unattractive, but didn't seem predatory. She had remembered that from his previous visit to the Castle for the garden party. Something about him afforded her a degree of intimacy without complications. He was like some of her women friends, and lacked the boorishness of so many of Fraser's associates. There was something delicate and pleasant in his manly demeanour.

'It will be good to have you at the Castle this summer' Caroline said straightforwardly. 'It's so kind of you to take on the youngsters like this. I'm sure they're going to have a wonderful time!'

'Let us just say, I have a special affection for your children ...'

'And they for you, Philip. They always talk about you. To tell the truth, things are a bit rough at home at the moment, and I think it will help if you can take the kids off, while matters get sorted. Keep them out of our sight a bit, yah?'

Philip looked straight into her, but unobtrusively, and murmured, 'I do hope things can be sorted for the best.' Yet it went too far and he had to withdraw his stare.

'Oh no!' exclaimed Caroline, retracting. 'Not anything like that. I mean, Fraser and I are bloody well-matched socially and - well we couldn't do without each other. God! not like poor Harry. Imagine both parents running off like that, and just leaving the little sod.'

'I'm glad you're taking him in for the summer.'

'The least we could do when we've known him so long.' Alasdair was running towards them, with Roberta beyond. 'Besides, it will be good company for Alasdair. They get on well together.'

The boy arrived, panting, and urgent. 'We're going to hunt for Prince Charlie's treasure, and we're sure we know where to find it, well I'm sure and Mr. Gordon's sure, though we're not sure about the same place together ...' a cascade of romance pouring forth from his heart, the boy swinging round, and the sway of the leaves, as a breeze got up from the West, from the Hebrides. 'And we thought we could mount an expedition, with Harry and Roberta as well. Please say we can go!'

'Lovely dear,' Mrs. Maclean proffered, her mind elsewhere, not engaged with this children's nonsense, still thinking about her previous conversation. She looked up to see her daughter Roberta racing up, eager, impulsive.

'No more school dinners for ten weeks!' she shouted, fists clenched triumphantly in front of her. 'Vile, disgusting school meals!' she added, trying to provoke Gordon, and taunting him with her pointed finger.

Mrs. Maclean frowned disapprovingly, and reached out for an embrace, but her daughter rejected the advance, and swung round her teacher, leaning back against the trunk of the cedar, her legs wide apart, long black hair shaken loose over her brow. She breathed in and exulted in the day. She was tall for twelve years old too, her legs long and coltish, and she looked Amazonian, even through her glasses : yet was intensely studious as well - so studious that she could have sustained hostility at a school like this, except that she was emotionally strong and self-sufficient, and other pupils liked her common-sense and matter-of-fact good company.

Gordon had tried to determine what made her distinctive : quite different, in fact, from any of his other pupils. Certainly, she was sharply intelligent and worked with immense determination. But, no, it was her imaginative capacity that would make him catch his breath from time to time, as he corrected books in the deeps of the night : her givenness to imaginative realms, relationship with them, openness to a world of beauty where she seemed to respond, to feel, and to be wholly involved.

He imagined Caroline Maclean might have been like this once, herself : have known long ago perhaps that overshadowing of beauty that might take place just once, uniquely, at an age of awakening? Before the practicalities became too insistent? Certainly both children, seemingly, sought freedom, or shelter, in imaginary worlds. Only, Alasdair's was more directed, tangible, packed with action; while Roberta's was wilder, indeterminate and less controlled.

Mother and children now were talking fondly, and catching up with news, as they went to the car.

'Is Daddy taking the yacht out this summer?' Roberta asked.

'No, Daddy is pretty busy at the moment, one way and another.'

'Daddy is always busy,' said Alasdair, sadly.

'How is your cello-playing coming on, Roberta?'

'Mrs. Cunningham says I can sit the exam next term.'

'Has Rosie had her foal yet?' asked the boy.

'Mr. Gordon tells me you ran in the 800 metres ...'

'I came sixth.'

'At least you ran.'

Philip Gordon had gone to fetch Harry, and Caroline collected the car and drew up at the front of the school to pick up the trunks. A couple of games teachers were larking about with some of the boys. Harry arrived in the doorway and rubbed his eyes as he stepped from the shadowy porch into the full light of the sun.

A tall middle-aged woman came striding towards him, trying to maintain her composure. Further down the drive there was a sound of clamour and a crowd was assembling.

'Someone has run over The Headmaster's dog!' she proclaimed. It was as if the natural order had been overthrown. He would certainly have to get another. 'How can anyone not see a dog?' she asked Harry.

The boy didn't answer. He tilted his shock of corn-stalk hair to one side and looked utterly dazed by the question.

Caroline ushered him to the car and told her children not to gawp out of the windows. As Gordon lifted the cases into the back she noticed, looking upwards, cracks in mortar, and ivy which needed cutting back, encroaching up guttering. Somewhere in the back of her mind, it troubled, disturbed her.

* * *