Philip Gordon walked round the gaunt west wing of the Castle onto the sloping back lawns, looking for Caroline Maclean. She would be in her garden. It was midday and felt humid, though there was plenty of cloud cover. Looking westwards there was a view to the sea, down across the lawn, between sprawling rhododendron bushes; but little breeze pressed up from the Atlantic shorelines. He headed to his right, where the lawn pushed through some low fencing and, in one corner, a natural archway of roses.

He entered the garden, which had an open prospect to the sea at the near end, over the low fencing; but which swung, in a curve of soft grass and wonderful flowerbeds, over a bridge and onto a second lawn which was sheltered all round by mature trees and hedge, with tall ancient pines beyond.

It seemed so still and quiet there, coming through the first archway, as if he had escaped into a haven of peace and safety, away from anything hostile or spoilt. Sultry. He could smell the warmth of the grass and the seductive scents of petal, greenery and growth. To his left, four song-birds piped softly in an aviary in the corner from time to time. He could hear the occasional buzz of insects. But otherwise, it seemed so still and peaceful, like a paradise garden.

As he walked slowly forward, there was a small summerhouse in front of him, well-kept with flowers along the sill in the windows. Beyond, where a rockery dropped a few feet, a well-flowing stream cut across the whole garden, marking the entrance to the second, secret, garden which curved to the left out of sight. Approaching the bridge he could hear the snip of shears, which suggested Caroline's presence nearby.

He looked down at the stream, his hand resting on the warm stone parapet of the bridge. The waters chattered and chuckled over mossy wet stones and he could smell damp earth below. He followed the sounds of activity round an ancient sundial into the privacy of the secluded lawn; his tread soft now on the sprung grass. Caroline was standing with her back to him, at the furthest end, her thin body outlined in a white cotton dress against a spray of colours, blooms, beauty.

There were roses everywhere, and their perfume was almost overpowering, intoxicating. Their perfect forms, like the soft bodies of beautiful women, invited touch : yet what he could see, as he stood there and breathed it all in, was a beauty beyond the flowers; a sense of loveliness and wholeness, like the goodness and freshness of life as it must have felt on the first morning of creation - in the paradise garden indeed! So this was Caroline's retreat. It was like an island of beauty, hidden and sheltered from the rough highland wilderness, that encroached with its gorse, its ghillies, its guns, all around.

Again, Gordon felt the stillness that can almost be touched, felt, which seems to render everything momentary, present. Yet it was more a stillness of place and beauty, beckoning to the still heart of his being. Around the garden, hedges and trees cut off the outside world : the swish and rustle of the leaves just audible in the softest breath of air; though behind, lurking, the wilder creak and groan of the pines. There were, of course, no vegetables, but in the corner Caroline worked around a few raspberry canes. She had put down the shears and was pulling out a couple of nettles.

Hearing his approach she turned, tensely.

'They said I'd find you here,' he smiled.

'Ah, Philip! What do you think of the garden?'

'I think it's incredibly beautiful, Caroline. I think I could live here for ever.'

'Not in the winter, I fear.'

'Oh - I could stay in the summer-house : make it quite cosy...'

'I wish it myself, sometimes. Ah well, it's my little kingdom.'

She seemed on her guard, needing to say something.

'It's so still and peaceful here...' Philip continued.

'I wanted to have a little talk with you...' she embarked.

'Usually means you're going to break something bad to me,' Philip said cheerfully.

'Not exactly. You see, I have an old American friend coming this week. His name is Andrew Douglas.' She fingered her gloves. 'Now, we'll have a lot to catch up on; you know what it's like going over old times. Well' - she breathed in, smiling nervously at Philip - 'It won't be much fun for the children, so I wondered -' Get it out... 'Why not take the little buggers off for a few days?'

Philip blinked through his glasses.

'Get them off my hands for a bit, Philip?' she pleaded, making herself clear.

'Well, of course : that would be fine' he replied. Which was true, but there was something strained, troubled, though he tried to disguise it.

'I mean, they've been going on about this bloody treasure,' she continued. 'Well tell them you're going to look for it. I don't care if you're not back for a few days : just keep them out of my hair, yah?'

Philip helped himself to a raspberry.

'Don't worry, Caroline - we'll have a wonderful time. They've been dying to do something like this. It will be an adventure.'

She did not see it, but he felt rather cool and put out. Keep them out of her hair? They hadn't long come home. But his humour returned. For he could tell that she was under some stress, and maybe it would indeed help. He hoped so.

'Where are they today?' she enquired, tidying up.

'Oh - down by the river as usual : they love it down there.'

'I don't know where they get their energy from,' she laughed, then frowned. 'What about this Wiggy character they met yesterday? They keep on talking about him. He sounds a bit dubious to me - what do you think?'

Gordon shrugged. They had certainly been full of it, when they got home for tea the previous day. 'Yes, I did wonder about him,' he said, 'but, well, Roberta reckons he's a nice enough chap, and she's usually a good judge of character.'

'Yes she is...' Caroline conceded. 'Still, keep an eye out. You always have to keep an eye on things,' she said thoughtfully, spotting another nettle and plucking it out with her bare hands. 'Or things can get out of control.'

She felt tired, drained : the heat, perhaps.

'Fancy a drink?'

'A long, cool one' said Gordon. 'Yes, that would be nice.'

They strolled over the lawn, the roses blooming about them, in a haze of colour and scent, and the grass springing underfoot. They crossed the bridge, talking cheerfully, and made for the archway that led to the Castle. As they passed the aviary, Philip Gordon became aware of a bird in a fluster of wings, flying at the caging and trying again, looking for flight, for freedom. And so he walked through to the wilder estate with its sweep of heather and whisky burns. The garden was wonderful, beautiful, a peaceful retreat; and yet perhaps there was something a little contrived, constrained. After a drink, he would set out into the wilds and look for the children, and this...Wiggy.

He raised his eyebrows to himself, wondering what manner of vagrant the children had befriended.

Down by the River Tornish, where the hill runs free and the moor is ungovernable, the children had conquered the fallen tree again, and were in their newly-discovered kingdom once more : neglected, forgotten, lovely. The day was overcast, almost thundery, as they traced a trail up the far side of the river as before.

They decided on another 'ambush' - as Wiggy had called it - and closed in like commandos, all three crawling round to the back this time, edging softly forward on their stomachs, signalling to each other in silence. They felt close and tied by some great adventure : the victims, redcoats, reclining unawares down below.

The other man - not Wiggy - 'the man with the gun' as Harry would have it, seemed ill-at-ease in this hostile environment. He waved his hand to brush aside the midges, edgily. Once again, he was positioned some distance away from his friend, and they resolved to 'take him out'. It seemed a kind of child's justice for his surly attitude the previous day. Besides, it might cheer him up when he realised it was a joke.

The day was sticky and humid, and he had taken his jacket off and left it three or four yards away, by the fringes of the heather. An arm reached out, Alasdair's, and the jacket passed into the undergrowth. Harry had a point to prove. He reached for the inside pocket and felt a hand-gun in his palms, like a priceless antique treasure. They stared wide-eyed and amazed, Alasdair mouthing 'Bloomin' Nora', Harry whispering 'Sugar!'

Roberta held a hand over the shining metallic totem, placed a finger to her lips and slowly lifted the prize. She moved to replace the gun in the jacket, but hesitated a few seconds to look at it and feel it, fascinated, spell-bound by its power. Then she lay it carefully in the pocket, as one might lay a body to rest, and folded the material over. They looked at each other excitedly.

Now for the charge to the pre-ordained cry. Suddenly, rising from the thick scrub, yelling 'Claymore!', they crashed and staggered down on their victim. Mixing shouts of 'Get him' and 'Hi!' in their ingenuous child-like assault, they disarmed Chalmers through utter confusion, leaving him sprawling on all fours, dazed and disorientated.

Wiggy, who had been reading a book, looking mildly depressed, cheered up when he saw them emerging from the heather; and rose forward, with a slight limp, to greet them.

'How do you do that?' he asked. 'How do you manage to get so close without Chalmers seeing you?' and aside, 'Are you alright, Chalmers?' to which he replied 'Yes sir.'

'Children are better at merging into the landscape than grown-ups' Roberta asserted.

As Chalmers got up and brushed himself down, Alasdair said, 'We thought we'd come and see you again.'

'Well, so I see.'

'In case you were lonely...' Wiggy smiled, humoured and disarmed himself by these children and their innocent friendliness.

'Do your parents know you're here?'

Roberta replied, 'Mr Gordon looks after us, but he lets us explore on our own.'

'Is Mr Gordon a gamekeeper?' Wiggy asked. They laughed to one another, at the merry thought of Gordon gralloching a stag.

'No,' said Alasdair, 'a teacher, but he's looking after us, because mummy and daddy keep having arguments.'

'Alasdair!' Roberta complained.

'Well it's true. That's why he's staying the summer : to keep us out of their way.' Wiggy seemed touched and concerned by this admission, and looked at them all more closely.

In a lowered voice, with sad kind eyes lowered too, he whispered, 'I expect your mums and dads love you very much, whatever you think.'

Harry strolled off, quietly.

'My dad says I've got to toughen up,' said Alasdair. 'Then I expect he'll love me.'

Wiggy frowned sadly and clenched his teeth. He stroked the boy's hair, nut-brown and dishevelled.

'Too many people toughen up,' he murmured. 'That's half the trouble.'

Meanwhile Harry, half-watching Chalmers all the time, poked around the rods and peered in the hamper. Wiggy, trying to shake off a feeling of depression, proposed 'Lunch! Would you like to share lunches with me? I'd be extremely glad if you cared to join us.'

The children looked at one another, contemplating the marmite sandwiches squashed in their packs, which constituted their contribution. Wiggy, at the same time, walked across to the hamper and said to Harry,

'Come on! Help me pull it over here.'

Harry, at a loss, did as he was asked, and the kind but doleful host opened the picnic-basket with a flourish and, grinning, announced that luncheon was served.

Their eyes looked as if they beheld wonders, at the gammon, pavlovas, and fruits inside, and Alasdair gasped, 'Wow! Thanks Wiggy!' At once, the world seemed to stop turning. Roberta buried her head in her hands.

The man, too, stopped in his tracks. He looked to Roberta (who was suffering acute embarrassment), raised a fore-finger and in an amused and friendly voice, said 'Em... what did he say?'

'I'm sorry. It's a term of endearment, that's all. We didn't know what to call you, you see, so...we...thought...'

'Wiggy!' he spelt it out.

Roberta nodded her head, non-plussed. She bit her lower lip.

The man, no less non-plussed, stood still and gazed, in silence.

'Wiggy?' he checked, in a quieter voice.

Roberta gritted her teeth in mock terror and some substantial apprehension and confirmed, shoulders shrugged : 'Wiggy, Wig-Monster, Nice Old Wiggy, Wiggy the Incredible, Wigster, Wiggo the Wonderful... I prefer just plain Wiggy myself.' They all burst out laughing simultaneously and, as food fit for a king was passed round, the man gave his consent and nodded.

'Wiggy let it be then. Wiggy. Wiggy. It has a good ring about it, don't you reckon? Rather distinguished, rather unusual, sort of reserved for someone special.' Which was perhaps the point.

He was an uncommon good sport, Roberta thought : taking it like that, laughing at himself. They tore into the food with the kind of appetite that only fresh air and exercise can promote, chattering, laughing; the kind man wholly sympathetic : almost relieved to have some different company. And when a few minutes later Harry asked in his dead-pan voice 'Um, Wiggy, could you pass an orange please?' neither of them noticed the name at all, which meant that it had comfortably arrived.

However, a few minutes later, Wiggy's mood changed when he saw Harry abandon a wrapper in the heather behind him.

'Now that annoys me,' he said quite angrily. 'Don't you see, it just spoils the place for the next people who come along?' He rose and picked it up himself, putting it in the basket. 'It just isn't necessary, is it?' He stalked around, with the remains of his limp.

'And look! Here's a can someone else left lying around last year. Do you see? It's still here! It really annoys me. I mean, does it hurt for one to carry one's own litter home?'

The children, who had not expected this flash of strong feeling, seemed to respect what he was saying, and nodded their heads in agreement. Looking around them, the hillside really was too lovely to be defaced by litter. He was pleased. He had made his point and they understood. His eyes switched from admonition to delight and beamed.

In higher spirits and child-like abandon, he turned to his companion. 'Here Chalmers! Do you want a bite to eat? Did you bring that wine?'

Chalmers reluctantly joined in, and set about opening a white wine from the cool-box. It was the first they had drunk all week. Wiggy asked the children about school, and shared in their love of history.

'Mr Gordon says we might go and look for the treasure of Bonnie Prince Charlie,' Alasdair was saying between bites of a roll.

'Do you reckon he was a good chap?' Wiggy replied.

'I do. Those Hanoverians didn't even have a right to the throne.'

Wiggy raised his eyebrows.

'You'll have to excuse him!' said Roberta. 'He's a bit of a Jacobite.'

'What about you, Harry? What do you think?'

Harry just shrugged, kicking at a rock.

Roberta looked at Wiggy, curious.

'How did you remember his name?'

'Oh, I don't know. I remember people by their faces, their eyes mostly.'

She looked at his eyes, and noticed that he did not avert his gaze like most adults. He looked tired and drained, as she had observed before, but she discovered - in a moment of deeper recognition - a stillness, almost passivity; an openness to others and to his own deep self. She recognised, rather than defined in such words, the receptive capacity to listen, encounter, co-exist with another, a deeper world. And looking at her, he recognised the same. In one so young : she seemed lively, brilliant, in touch.

'In touch,' he thought. 'How I long to be in touch once more : with myself, with the world around me.' How the harmony was broken and the contact lost by so many obstructions, barriers, obligations.

'So would he have made a good king,' he continued, returning to the surface, 'Your Prince Charlie?'

'I think so,' said Alasdair thoughtfully, 'because he got on with ordinary people. He didn't just say, well because you're not rich, you don't matter.' Wiggy leant forward:

'That's important.' Roberta was watching him closely.

'I mean, when he was escaping from Culloden, he had to live really rough, like one of those people you see on the streets. Have you seen them, Wiggy?'

'I have. I have seen them.'

'Yes, well he sometimes slept rough, or in ruined huts; and he had no fancy food; and he took his share of everything with his friends.'

Wiggy approved of the thought of a bit of rough living in the heather : so much these days seemed plastic, superficial, facile.

'And does that make a good King?' he asked.

'Yes.'

The simplicity and clear vision of childhood.

Harry was cutting some heather roots with his pen-knife and Wiggy, partly in an attempt to befriend him and partly to save the boy's fingers, said, 'I say, Harry, come over here and show me that knife!'

Harry shuffled over suspiciously, thinking at first that the man was going to take it away. He handed it to him distrustfully.

'What are all the different blades for? Can you tell me?'

'Well, this one's for whittling really; this one's for taking a stone out of a horse's shoe...'

'Used to have a knife like that myself,' said Chalmers, feeling more jocular. 'Had fifteen different blades. It was a corker!'

'This one's for gutting fish' continued Harry, eyeing Chalmers who was helping himself to more wine.

'Oh!' Wiggy sighed. 'I'm afraid I haven't got any fish for you to gut. They don't seem to be biting...'

'You're not very good at catching fish, are you?' Roberta said bluntly.

'You'd better teach me,' he teased, handing the knife back to Harry. The boy got up and wandered to the bend in the river, to get some space.

'It's Gordon!' he suddenly shouted. Chalmers got up.

Gordon was approaching in the distance, on the opposite bank of the river, calling them back. The children turned and looked over to Wiggy in dismay.

'Grown ups!' they seemed to chorus.

Wiggy nodded.

They gathered their packs, Wiggy helping Harry into his, and tightening the straps.

'Oh well! I hope you find your treasure! In these hills, you say? I shouldn't wonder.'

'Come on!' said Roberta, bossily.

And they departed.

'We're not to mention the gun,' she whispered. 'It'll only upset them, and then they'll stop us coming here.'

'I told you he had a gun,' said Harry.

'Well forget it. He didn't. Alright?'

They waved back at Wiggy who was watching them weave a course through a maze of dried-up bog, and shallow stream-beds. Soon, being children, they were quite pre-occupied with the excitement of showing the fallen tree to their teacher. And they left the other adults far behind. Wiggy looked up at the hills, watching a hind running free on the heather and crossing the horizon. The glen rose, wild around him, and the mountains stretched back deep into the wilderness. He thought about the children and he sighed.

* * *