44 Scotland Street: "I love it. I want to live here THE ARGUMENT about hills in Denmark, as absurd as it was unnecessary, did not persist. Elspeth, who as a teacher had been able to handle Tofu and Olive, not to mention Larch, now used the same techniques to put an end to the unseemly dispute between Matthew and Birgitte. "Now listen," she said, "we're not here to fight with one another about how high any particular hills are, or whether there are any hills at all." "That's right," muttered Birgitte. We are not. Matthew drew in his breath sharply. "I didn't start it," he protested. I was merely driving along ... "Nobody started it," Elspeth interrupted. Nobody's to blame. "That's right," said Birgitte. Matthew received a warning glance from Elspeth. "And so," she went on, "I suggest that we just carry on with our journey. The more time we sit here arguing about Munros and things like that, the less time we'll have to look at this house we're buying. Matthew frowned. "We haven't decided yet," he said. We're just looking. Elspeth acknowledged that this was so. At the same time, she had a strong feeling about the house, she revealed - an instinct, in fact. "I really liked the photograph," she said. And I've always liked Nine Mile Burn. It's the light, I think. She was right about the light, Matthew thought. He had always liked the light on that side of the Pentlands - a light that came from the south-west, that seemed to grow softer and bluer as one looked down towards the Lammermuirs. And the thought of living out of town appealed to him, especially as this stretch of country was so close to Edinburgh as to be virtually its back yard. He liked the villages hidden in the tiny, crooked glens that one found on these fringes of the Borders. He liked the short horizons in these glens; the occasional views of higher hills in the distance; the secrets of small villages that seemed to have changed so little over the years; the names that spoke of distances and colours and the points of the compass- Nine Mile Burn, Silverburn, West Linton. One might turn a corner here and move from a timeless world of agriculture - from cultivated crops or sheep pasture - to a landscape on which quite other human uses had left their mark: old mines, disused shafts; flattened, ancient bings, mounds dug out by men whose lives had been spent in darkness, danger, and poverty. He imagined how, in a hundred years from now, our own tenancy of this part of Scotland, might be similarly written across the land. Would there be broken piles where once had stood our ugly, scarring wind farms - monuments to the temporary, to the thoughtless destruction of natural beauty, to the vainglorious pursuit of quick returns? Would there be great bundles of knitted wire where power cables once had marched across the sky? Would there be... "That's it," said Elspeth. Just up ahead. Matthew abandoned his reflections on the fate of the Scottish countryside to concentrate on identifying the turning that would lead them off to their new house. The road down which he turned was a paved one, but had not fared well in the severe winter of the previous year; here and there potholes made it necessary for them to slow to walking pace, while at the edges, the grass, untamed, encroached on the tar. A hedge, unkempt and now sprouting skywards, initially obscured the view on either side of the road but this now gave way to a bedraggled sheep fence. And there, at the end of an unpaved branch off this road, was the house they had seen in the newspaper advertisement. Elspeth gasped. "I love it," she whispered. I want to live here. Matthew took one hand off the wheel and rested it momentarily on her knee. "Darling," he whispered, "if this is where you want to be, then so do I." "What was that?" asked Birgitte from the back of the car. What did you say? I didn't hear you. "I was talking to Elspeth," said Matthew, through clenched teeth. "I know that," said Birgitte. But I didn't hear you. Elspeth now turned in her seat and smiled at Birgitte. She made a gesture of silence, placing an upraised finger to her lips. The house was approached by a long drive that culminated in a small turning circle before the front door. There was another car there already, an old Bristol in British Racing Green, and Matthew drew up behind this. "That'll be the owner," he said. They got out of the car and approached the door. Matthew looked up at the roof - sound grey slate, he noted - and at the guttering that ran along the front. This looked solid and in good enough condition, he thought. At each end it led into a hopper, a lead tray that served to collect the water before consigning it to a downpipe. These hoppers were decorated with a small ornamental thistle that had been cut out of lead, layered to give relief, and then stuck back on. "Look," he said, nudging Elspeth. Look at the thistles. Elspeth glanced up, and smiled at Matthew. "Don't you love them?" she asked. He loved thistles. The front door had a thistle too - a large brass thistle made into a knocker. As Matthew leaned forward to examine this, the door was suddenly opened by an impressive-looking man in a kilt. They looked at one another in momentary astonishment. Then Matthew recovered his composure. "Oh," he said. Is this ... is this your place? We hadn't expected ... The Duke of Johannesburg burst out laughing. "What a pleasant surprise," he said, gesturing for them to enter. I had no idea when the agents phoned that it would be you coming out to view the property. Well, it just goes to show doesn't it? Birgitte looked puzzled. "Excuse me," she said. What does it go to show? The Duke looked enquiringly at Matthew. "This young lady," Matthew said, "is Birgitte. She's an au pair. The Duke inclined his head courteously in Birgitte's direction. "She's Danish," Matthew went on. Birgitte, this is His Grace, the Duke of Johannesburg. Birgitte's face revealed her surprise. "A duke?" she said. That is very exciting. I have never met a duke before. I've met a count, of course, but ... "But they don't count," interjected the Duke, and laughed. "Excuse me?" said Birgitte. "British humour," said the Duke airily. Pay no attention to it. That's what I always tell people who visit this country. Pay no attention to the humour. Looking after children, as Big Lou is soon about to discover, is a hugely demanding job. For Matthew, it's one that is made easier by being able to afford not only one but two au pairs to look after their triplets. Already, the Danish au pair Anna has proved her worth to both Matthew and Elspeth. Now she is joined by a 19-year-old compariot, Birgitte, who is both biddable, cheerful, and tidy. Sometimes, however, Birgitte doesn't make enough allowances for the differences in taste between Scotland and Denmark. Never having had Marmite, for example, she tastes a spooonful and wrongly concludes that it has gone off. Ditto with a half-eaten haggis in the fridge. Ditto with Matthew's supply of Patum Peperium. Proof, if ever was needed, that good intentions don't always work out .... Perusing the property pages in The Scotsman, Elspeth comes across an advert for a seven-bedroom 18th century farmhouse in the Pentlands. There'd no indication of price - it just says "guess" - but it certainly looks appealing. The trouble is, no sooner has Matthew fixed up an appointment to visit it then the Danish au pairs seem to have everything planned out. There will have to be a stable, says Birgitte, so she can teach the triplets to ride. There will have to be more than one pony, because they get so lonely. Suddenly Matthew realises that she is planning to stay with them for many years, and he can't work out whether or not that will be a good idea.