Village Bay, St Kilda
Flora swept the hearth, the stone floor cool against her hands and knees as she tipped the ashes into the bucket. Even from inside the cottage, she was well aware of the progress the visitors were making up the street. She could tell from the ripple of excited voices and shy laughter that the villagers were performing the roles that had become something of a ritual whenever a tourist ship dropped anchor in the bay – Mad Annie and Ma Peg knitting socks at a ferocious speed as they sat on their stools; Crabbit Mary stoically carding the wool with her signature frown; Donald McKinnon and Hamish Gillies hauling boulders as they made repairs to one of the ancient cleits. The younger men made a show of strutting about with coils of rope looped over their shoulders, hands stuffed in their pockets, as if they might leap down a cliff at any given moment; time and tides permitting, they would hope to be urged by the visiting captain to give his guests one of their renowned climbing exhibitions. Only the dogs moved with any unselfconsciousness, but then, they cared little for the coins that crossed palms for these small displays of St Kildan life.
It had been a successful summer in that regard, the fine weather and calm seas bringing in the rich and the curious by the dozen, and the islanders had built up a small cache of coins that could be used at some point on the neighbouring isles. Though there were no shops or commerce of any kind here, over on Lewis, Harris and North Uist – some thirty-eight miles distant – there were markets, stores and farmers willing to trade, especially given that the landlord’s factor was so intransigent on his punishing terms.
‘Flora, quick now,’ her mother Christina said, rushing back into the kitchen with a flustered look. ‘Give me that pail, they’re almost here.’
Flora sat back on her heels and saw her mother holding out the broom. ‘How many of them are there?’ she sighed, getting to her feet and swapping the bucket for the sweeping brush, knowing exactly what was to be done.
‘Eight or nine, Old Fin thinks, but you know how his counting is.’
Flora moved past her mother and stood in the doorway, glancing down the wide grassy path towards the approaching party. Six people.
‘Eeesht,’ Christina tutted, reaching for the brush and trying to smooth the thick black braid that hung down Flora’s back; she had taken little care with it this morning and fine wisps sprouted from her hairline. ‘And, look, you’ve soot all over y’ face.’ Her mother reached up to smooth it away but appeared to succeed only in smudging it across her cheek. ‘Och!’
‘Not now, Ma,’ Flora said under her breath. ‘They’re almost here.’
Her mother fell back into the shadows as Flora began to sweep the flat rock that served as their front doorstep. Her younger siblings were at their lessons in the schoolhouse, her father and elder brother David up on Connachair, so the cottage was quiet and relatively calm for once.
With her head down as she worked, Flora saw several pairs of smart leather shoes step into her field of vision. She saw the sun glint off the nylon stockings one of the ladies wore, the swirl of punched leather decorating a pair of brogues, and she gave one or two more quick brushes before slowly straightening.
‘Good morning,’ she said politely, in English, for the tourists rarely spoke Gaelic, the language of the islanders. Six faces smiled back, that look of momentary surprise in their expressions as they took in the sight of her. It wasn’t a phenomenon she could explain clearly. There were no mirrors on the isle, save in the reverend’s house, and her only sense of herself was based off what she could glean from standing in the bay on a calm day, but there seemed to be something in the nuance of her features that set her apart – whether it was the curve of her appled cheeks, the fleshiness of her mouth or the flash of her green eyes she couldn’t be sure, but people stared at her with an intensity that often seemed to embarrass them afterwards. Regardless, it had its benefits, and she allowed herself a small smile as she saw the older gentleman of the group reach for his camera.
‘I say . . . would you be so kind as to oblige us with a photograph?’ he asked. Grey-whiskered and pale, with a slight palsy to his hand, he held up the small box which had caused such fear when the first tourists began to visit. Flora remembered her own grandmother gathering her skirts and running back into the cottage in fright when one was first set on legs and pointed at her.
‘Of course, sir,’ she said, assuming her customary position on the threshold of the low stone cottage, her hands resting on the top of the broom, chin tilted slightly and her right hip jutting to ensure something of her shape was captured beneath her thick drugget skirt.
She didn’t smile too brightly for the photograph, partly because the reverend didn’t approve of ‘overt’ joy, but also because she was aware of the two young men in the party watching her. As was typical, they drank her in like a cool glass of water, eyes scrutinizing as if her beauty was a mathematical equation that could be solved if they just knew the formula. Without looking at either of them directly, she established that one of them was shorter and more immediately attractive, with bright blond hair, a cleft chin and an intensity of focus that bordered on impolite. The other was drawn in paler colours: light brown hair, hazel eyes, a close-clipped beard and a way of standing with his shoulders pulled back that suggested a restrained nature. As the camera flashed, she decided they didn’t seem like brothers; something in the way they stood together suggested friendship, not brotherhood. The young women, though – eighteen and thirteen at a guess, standing close by one another, heads inclined in the same manner – had to be sisters?
‘And perhaps another one with us all?’ the gentleman asked.
‘As you wish, sir.’
The man glanced across at the older woman she took to be his wife. ‘It will be interesting to be able to show one of us with the natives, don’t you think, dear?’
‘Hmm,’ his wife breathed, unsmiling. ‘But then, who shall take the picture?’
Flora opened her mouth to offer her mother’s services – it might mean another coin – but the brown-haired man stepped forward.
‘I shall,’ he said, one hand outstretched to receive the Kodak.
‘But, James, then you shan’t be in the picture,’ the older of the two young women said.
‘I think the world will survive that, Sophia,’ he said simply.
Flora’s eyes swept over the young woman who had spoken, as the group assembled around her. She was wearing what Flora knew to be called a cloche hat – very fashionable – and a lavender coat with a dropped waist and a pea-green ribbon detail; her shoes were cut low at the front and there was a thin strap holding them on. Flora remembered too late that she was still barefoot – the islanders only ever wore boots in the very deepest depths of winter, or when visitors arrived – and she tried to curl her toes under, certain they must be blackened with mud, dirt and soot.
The man called James seemed to see the movement because he glanced up from the camera momentarily, his gaze dropping to her feet and a tiny smile flickering over his lips before he lowered his head again and told them all to say ‘cheese’. It was a custom Flora didn’t understand – what did cheese have to do with a photograph? – and she simply stared straight into the lens, wondering what it was he could see in that dark circle. She felt aware of the blond man by her right shoulder, standing so close she could feel his breath on her hair.
The camera flashed again and she felt herself released.
‘Thank you, miss. It’s kind of you to oblige us,’ the older man said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a few coins. Flora eyed them dully as he counted them out. Money bought treasures back where they lived, but here it would go towards a hoe or a sack of potatoes.
‘Yes, you’re very kind,’ the blond man said, catching her eye. ‘What is your name, miss?’
She looked at him and saw her own usual confidence reflected in his eyes. She could tell he was a man also used to second looks and lingering stares, and she felt the energetic spar between them. ‘Flora MacQueen.’
‘Flora MacQueen,’ he repeated, enunciating the words roundly as if liking the weight of them in his mouth. ‘Well, Miss MacQueen, we shall be sure to tell everyone your name when we recount our travels and show them these pictures.’
‘As you please, sir,’ she replied. She kept her tone diffident, but it was difficult to look away from him, and the moment began to draw out. The women of the group had their backs to them as they trod carefully over the smooth stones onto the street, and as the stare held, Flora had to force herself to break it and turn from him, if only because she sensed her mother standing in the shadows. She knew she’d catch a supper if she was caught being bold.
‘Come along now, Edward,’ the older woman said, glancing back finally, and he – the blond man – smiled as if something had been confirmed for him. He tapped a finger to his temple, doffing an imaginary cap, as he took his leave from her.
‘Thank you again, Miss MacQueen,’ the older man said, tipping the coins into her hand.
‘Enjoy your trip, sir,’ she murmured, her hands clasping the top of the broom handle as, enviously, she watched them go. She felt their perfumed presence withdraw, leaving her alone on the stone step. Their privilege was careless and lightly worn in the short length of the young woman’s coat and high heels; in the younger girl’s dress embroidered with colours impossible to find here. She watched Edward’s athletic stride as he sauntered off, his hands in his pockets, and felt something of her power return as he glanced back several times with a rapacious grin. James, the quiet one, didn’t look around. His back straight, he walked on as if he’d never laid eyes on her; as if she was forgotten already.
She frowned, but when Edward looked round once more, he winked, his eyes sparkling with unspoken compliments that put the smile back on her face.
‘How much did they give you?’ Christina asked, emerging from the gloom a few moments later.
‘A shilling and sixpence.’
‘Generous,’ her mother said. ‘I hope they’ll be as good to Ma Peg.’
Ma Peg fared as joint favourite on the island when it came to picture requests; her mother said it was down to their nominal matriarch representing the ‘true’ St Kildan spirit to the outsiders. In Flora’s case, by contrast, it was generally thought she was so striking, the visitors needed evidence of it, proof almost, as if she were a siren or selkie.
‘Hm, that young fellow was certainly full o’ himself.’
‘He’s just confident.’
‘Cocksure is what he is,’ her mother muttered, taking the coins and disappearing back inside the house.
Flora followed after her, watching her drop the coins into the old glass bottle on the shelf that served as their bank.
‘G’mornin’.’
They looked up as Effie swung in, the coil of rope looped over her shoulder like the rest of the craggers. Poppit, Effie’s brown-and-white collie, lay down at the door, nose between her paws as she watched her mistress from the threshold.
‘Eff,’ Flora smiled, relaxing at the sight of her friend. She was dressed in her late brother’s trousers and shirt, as usual, the cuffs rolled up and her skinny brown ankles sticking out. If Flora had thought her own feet were mucky, it was nothing to the state of Effie’s. ‘Where’ve you been? I didn’t see you at the burn.’
‘Feeding Tiny.’ Tending the bull was a sought-after position, earning the keeper an annual one-pound sum which could be paid in cash or negotiated off the rents. It was a job that usually alternated between households, but ever since her brother John’s death in a climbing accident two years earlier, leaving Effie as their family’s sole provider, a tacit agreement had been reached among the village men that the role would fall to her each year. ‘I saw the new boat come in.’
‘Aye. You getting ready to go up to the Gap? They’re big tippers, this bunch.’
‘Maybe. Hamish says there’s a big swell round the east side that’s too rough for the smack just now. He’s waiting on it to settle down first.’ Effie paced the small room restlessly, unable to sit still. She was like a small squally wind, always blowing through houses and tearing over the moors.
‘Well, then I hope it does, because having seen their clothes, I can assure you they’ll not have sea legs. Anything short of glassy will be problematic for them.’
‘Ugh, that would be so unfair,’ Effie protested.
‘Unfair?’
‘Aye. You get coins to just stand there and look fine; I have to actually work for mine – and I have to depend on the weather in order for the tourists to row round to see it.’ She gave a shrug. ‘Not fair.’
‘I’d hardly call it work!’ Flora scoffed, refusing to be riled. Effie loved nothing more than a disagreement; she missed having her brother to scrap with, and her home with her lame father was always quiet, always still, these days. ‘You’re never happier than when you’re swinging off your rope.’
There was a pause as Effie considered this. She was one of the finest climbers on the isle: strong but light, agile, dextrous and daring. Even though strictly speaking cragging was a man’s job, in the Gillies household there was no one else to catch the birds and retrieve the eggs they depended upon, and neither Effie’s pride nor her father’s would suffer relying on the charity of their neighbours.
‘Aye, true enough,’ she conceded, letting her indignation go in the next breath. If she was tempestuous, she was also good-natured and never one to bear a grudge.
Flora’s mother walked past them with the boiling pot. ‘Chatting again, you two?’ she tutted.
‘Shall I take it for you, Ma?’ Flora sighed, rolling her eyes. She was forever chided for being workshy.
‘No. I’ve to speak to Big Mary anyway. But you can go down to the rocks and fetch me some crotal. I want to do some dyeing of the bolts today.’
‘Aye,’ Flora nodded. She pulled the lichen cutter from the clay pot; it looked like a regular spoon, save for having one half of the scoop sliced off to leave a sharp, straight edge for scraping. ‘Come with me?’ she asked Effie.
‘Sure. I’m keeping out of Da’s way.’
‘His hip’s bad?’
Effie rolled her eyes too in confirmation as they wandered back out into the sunshine together. Flora was unable to resist stealing a glance up the street to see where the visitors were now. She caught sight of them outside the MacKinnons’, where Rachel, Mhairi’s mother, was giving a spinning wheel demonstration.
Flora looked for the signature flash of Mhairi’s red hair, but she was nowhere to be seen. ‘No Mhairi?’
‘Up at the lazybeds with Molly,’ Effie said, glancing up the street too.
‘Ah.’ Flora’s gaze snagged on the head of bright blond hair. He was far less interested in the spinning wheel than his female companions – Mother? Sisters? – and was trying to engage the attention of one of the dogs instead. Flora smiled, seeing how he teased it with a buttercup stem, the dog resolutely ignoring him.
‘Och, no,’ Effie groaned, following her line of sight. ‘Not another conquest.’
‘I’d hardly call it a conquest, Eff,’ Flora sighed, tossing her braid off her shoulder. ‘He paid to take my photograph, that’s all.’
‘That’s never all. I suppose he’s in love with you now?’
‘Not even close. We exchanged ten words. Less.’
‘Mm.’ Effie gave a tut and shook her head as they walked. ‘He looks like trouble, that blond one with the—’ She prodded her own chin with her finger. ‘You know what Mad Annie always says: a dimple on the chin, the devil within.’
‘Annie says a lot of things. Besides, I should be so lucky to experience his devilment,’ Flora said with a wicked smile of her own.
‘It’s like a sport to you, teasing all these men.’
Flora gave a coquettish smile as she tossed her hair back. ‘Well, I suppose it does provide a little amusement.’
‘Ha. You won’t be so amused when someone turns the tables on you one of these days.’
‘Never.’ She had no interest at all in any of the marriageable men on the isle, and the tourists were always gone from here far too quickly for any superficial attraction to develop into something more substantial.
They walked down the grass to the beach together. The tide was out, the waves slumping on the shore with a midsummer indolence, as if wearied by the endless sun. Flora looked out across the bay. It was the only viable landing point on the isle, the protected body of water created by the curving embrace of Dun, on the west, and the hulking shoulder of Oiseval Mountain on the east. The window between the two landmasses looked out to an empty horizon, only occasionally punctuated by a passing fishing boat or breached whale.
Flora sighed. An entire world existed beyond that blue line: a world where motor cars and talking pictures and electric lights were taken for granted; where people could buy their dinner and not hunt for it; where hair could be styled and coloured, and clothes didn’t have to be made from wool they had woven, from sheep they had first plucked. There was a world beyond that blue line where ease and comfort and beauty were givens, not luxuries.
She looked more closely at the yacht that had brought in this Edward and James and the rest of their party. It was far from the biggest they’d seen, but it still glistened with the patina of moneyed privilege, and the chandlery clinked melodically against the masts as the boat rocked gently in the bay. It was a bright, warm day but there was a sharp, gusting wind that threatened to build.
They began working at the exposed rocks, Flora using the spoon, Effie using her nails to pull and scratch at the tufts of ochre lichen that trailed over them – her hands were incredibly strong from climbing. They stuffed what they could find into their deep skirt pockets as they chatted.
‘Hm, slim pickings here,’ Effie muttered after a while. ‘Everyone’s had the same idea.’
‘Aye,’ Flora agreed, sitting back on her heels. Her mother would not be impressed; there was barely enough here to steep in a pot of tea, much less dye a bolt of tweed.
‘You’ll need to go further out. Over there will be good plunder, I reckon,’ Effie said, jerking her chin towards a point beyond the featherstore, towards the Oiseval headland. ‘The rocks are too slippery for the likes of Crabbit Mary. She’ll not risk her neck for some moss.’
‘Come on, then,’ Flora sighed, gathering her skirt.
But Effie shook her head. ‘I’d better get back and check whether this climb is happening. We need the coins.’
They parted at the featherstore, Effie handing over her paltry harvest, and Flora made her way towards the rocks. The low tide meant everything was extra slippery, thick strands of frilled kelp draped on slick boulders, and she hitched her skirt up and scooted on her bottom to a point just above the water line. Humming to herself, she began to scrape and scratch again, oblivious to the crabs scuttling away and the fulmars and shearwaters wheeling overhead.
She had been working for an hour or so when she heard voices on the water and looked up to see the visitors being rowed to the yacht. Leaving already? She was disappointed.
Also surprised. She looked out to sea and saw the heave of a swell rising up, white horses in the open water beyond. If getting ahead of the rough sea was their intention, that time had already passed. Hamish Gillies and Norman Ferguson were rowing them out with their typical vigour, and she stopped working as she saw that mop of bright blond hair again; Edward was leaning back on his elbows, his face tipped to the sky as he basked in the sunshine. He looked like a man for whom life was jocular and affable. The higher-pitched voices of the younger girl and the young woman in the lavender coat came to her ear, though she couldn’t make out their words.
Flora watched as they reached the vessel and their captain affixed the ladder. Embarkment was rarely an elegant process and she was vaguely amused as she saw the ladies flounder, arms outstretched, hands grasping as they squealed. Edward, by comparison, bounded aboard, disappearing below deck almost immediately.
Flora felt a stab of disappointment that he didn’t even glance back to shore, as if for a final sighting of her. They were leaving early, far earlier than most visitors; the journey here was so long and arduous, most visitors were in no rush to get back on the water again for several hours, if not days.
‘Oh . . . Miss MacQueen, isn’t it?’
She whipped round, startled by the polished voice that – even without looking – she knew didn’t belong here.
‘Mr . . .’ She stared back at the quiet man and realized she hadn’t spotted his absence on the boat, her gaze fixed upon Edward.
‘. . . Callaghan.’
‘You’re . . . but you’re . . .’ Confused, she swung a pointed finger vaguely between him and the boat.
‘Yes. They’ve gone for a rest. It was a . . . difficult crossing.’
‘Oh.’ She looked back at the yacht, all passengers now on board and her neighbours rowing back for the shore. She realized her bare legs were on full display and she threw her skirts down with rare modesty.
He cleared his throat. ‘Unfortunately, the captain doesn’t think we’ll be able to leave this evening after all, so they’ve decided to clean up and eat something before coming back to shore for a more . . . comprehensive experience.’
Flora’s eyes narrowed at his choice of words. Comprehensive experience? Did they think they would be dining with Vikings? Walking with dinosaurs? Did they believe the islanders’ hospitality was a given? Plenty of times unwelcome visitors had been left on the water, sometimes in the wildest of weathers, the village men refusing to launch the smack to bring them in. When the reverend himself had first arrived, he’d fallen foul of Old Fin, castigating him for his pipe-smoking, and had had to unload his belongings himself in a rough sea when the other men had taken sides.
She sighed, feeling sanguine today and deciding to let his condescension wash over her instead. She glanced out to open water again. ‘The sea does look restless.’
‘Yes. The captain believes there’ll be a window tomorrow.’
‘To escape us?’ She arched an eyebrow.
‘Well, for the ladies’ sake, we must err on the side of caution. I don’t think any of them would describe themselves as adventurers.’
‘How disappointing for you.’
He looked puzzled. ‘That they’re not adventurous?’
‘That you’re stuck here overnight.’
‘Not at all. I’m rather pleased.’
‘You are?’ Flora tipped her head to the side, regarding him more closely. Though he had none of Edward’s bold, flirtatious nature, there was a look of interest in his eyes that she knew well; it came and went like a sputtering flame, but it was there nonetheless. She preened a little. It had been a bruise to her ego to be overlooked by him earlier, but he probably understood he could never compete against his friend’s charisma. ‘And why are you so pleased about staying here?’ she asked coyly, though she already knew the answer.
‘Now I can look for some fossils.’
There was a pause. ‘Fossils?’
‘Yes, it’s a hobby of mine,’ he nodded, looking out across the rocks. ‘Fossil-hunting.’
‘. . . I see.’
‘I expect you know the archipelago is part of a volcanic caldera?’ His eyes gleamed with academic delight as he glanced down at her.
‘Aye,’ she murmured, although the details had never interested her.
‘The volcano was active in the Paleogenic period, producing intrusive igneous rocks. By definition they’re largely crystalline so I’m hopeful of finding some quartz or feldspar while I’m here.’
‘I see,’ she said again. Her voice was deliberately flat but he appeared not to notice.
‘I asked one of your neighbours where I might find the best place for rockfalls and they said just below McKinnon’s Stone, past the featherstore. Am I in the right place?’
Flora scowled at him – she had never spent a single moment of her life considering the rocks on her island home – as he stared back at her with a placid smile. How could he be so oblivious to her affront?
‘McKinnon’s Stone is further along, over there.’ She pointed in the direction of the headland, completely dotted with rocks, boulders, chippings and scree. If it was a distinctive landmark he was looking for, he wouldn’t find it.
‘I see . . .’ James Callaghan looked across for a moment. ‘Over there, then . . . somewhere . . .’ He looked back at her with a baffled smile that begged for more assistance, but she offered nothing further. ‘Very well, then, I shall head in that direction . . . I apologize for disturbing you.’
‘You didn’t disturb me,’ she muttered, turning back indignantly to the rocks at her feet.
‘No?’ He hesitated. ‘What is it you’re doing here?’
With a sigh, she reached into her bulging pockets and pulled out a clutch of ochre-coloured lichen. ‘Fetching crotal for dyeing the tweed.’
‘That sounds fun.’
She shot him a withering look. ‘Not really.’
‘Oh.’
She relented a little; her pretty pouts usually elicited a kind of desperation in men, but her tart manner was gaining no traction against his benign demeanour. He seemed genuinely oblivious to her sulk. ‘It’s getting harder and harder to find, is all,’ she said. ‘It takes a long time to grow, and we all need to use it for the rents.’
‘The rents?’
‘Aye, the tweeds we weave. People don’t want brown cloth. The fashions are for colours now.’ There was a little bite to the last words as she remembered the young woman’s lilac coat.
‘That must be quite a pressure, with it being a finite resource.’
She shrugged again as she began to scrape with the crotal spoon. What did he care? ‘It’s the same with the peats – getting harder to come by; but I’m sure we’ll manage.’
The bell began ringing from the schoolhouse, signalling the children’s dinner time. Flora’s tummy grumbled but she was used to that and didn’t stir from her position on the rocks.
He half turned away, then turned back again. ‘Miss MacQueen, I wonder,’ he mused. ‘Would it be helpful if I were to pay you to be my guide in looking for this McKinnon’s Stone?’
‘Helpful?’ Flora bristled. ‘I don’t need your charity, Mr Callaghan.’
‘No, I know. I only meant, well . . . you’d be doing me the favour, actually. I’ve no more idea of where to look than I had before, and I wouldn’t feel quite so bad for wasting your time if I were at least able to pay for it.’
She stared at him. He didn’t seem to understand that most men, desperate to find any opportunity to be with her, would gladly pay her to walk with them. Instead, he was paying her to help him find rocks?
‘I’m afraid I can’t. I need to bring this back to my mother.’ She patted at her bulging pockets. ‘She’ll be waiting on it.’
‘I see.’ He looked back towards the village; the children were streaming out of the schoolhouse, eager for their dinner. ‘. . . Unless one of them could take it back for you?’
She looked over at the children, then back at him quizzically. ‘I don’t—’
‘Quickly,’ he said, with a click of his fingers. ‘Before they’re gone.’
Flora felt her temper flare at the gesture, his peremptory attitude; she was beginning to think she’d got him all wrong – he wasn’t quiet but sullen; not restrained but haughty; not dignified but arrogant.
‘Would a pound suffice?’ he asked, noticing the flush spreading over her cheeks.
A pound? For her to take him to McKinnon’s Stone? She didn’t know what treasures he hoped to find there but she knew he’d be sorely disappointed; anything of value would have been discovered by the islanders long before now.
Not that that was her problem.
She turned back to the schoolchildren.
‘Bonnie!’ she called.
Her six-year-old sister turned at the sound, running over to them without a second thought. ‘What is it, Flossie?’ she asked in their customary Gaelic. ‘Who is that?’
‘A pompous, arrogant dullard,’ Flora muttered back in the same, crouching down on her heels to Bonnie’s level and pushing her hair back behind her ear. There was a smudge of chalk on her cheek and Flora wetted her finger to clean it off. There were twelve years between them, but Flora doted on her little sister.
‘Why does he keep looking at you?’
Flora sighed. ‘Because he’s also rude.’
Callaghan intruded.
‘Bonnie, is it?’ he asked, enunciating the English words carefully and dropping down into a crouch. ‘May I ask for your help?’
Bonnie blinked back at him, eyes wide, silent as he held up a silver sixpence.
‘If I gave you my shiniest coin, would you take the crotal in . . .’ He glanced at Flora. ‘. . . Flossie’s pocket and deliver it to your mother?’
Flora felt her cheeks burn. Perhaps he had simply, fortuitously, picked up the word ‘Flossie’ and understood it to be her nickname, but something about the look in his eyes told her he had understood her perfectly well.
She swallowed as she emptied her pockets, stuffing the crotal carefully into her little sister’s cupped hands. ‘Be careful, now,’ she said. ‘And watch your feet when you’re walking. It’s taken me over an hour to gather this – I don’t want to see it scattered all over the street when I get back.’ She kissed Bonnie on the forehead.
‘What shall I tell Mama?’
‘That I’m showing one of the visitors McKinnon’s Stone. He’s looking for fossils and he’s giving me a shiny coin too,’ she said clearly. It was important her mother knew she was earning money, or else she’d set the young men of the village after them. The matter of Flora’s ‘honour’ was taken very seriously indeed.
‘Yes, Flossie,’ Bonnie said, wheeling on her heel and running off, patently taking no care at all about where she put her feet.
Flora looked back at James, to find him already staring.
‘You speak Gaelic,’ she said stiffly, after a moment’s pause.
‘Yes. My father insisted I learned . . . Surprisingly useful,’ he said after a pause, no hint of levity in his voice.
She stared back at him, holding her chin a little higher. She would not apologize. She would not. He had been rude and insulting throughout their conversation. What did she care if he had caught her doing the same?
‘Shall we then?’ she asked, beginning to lead the way to the headland path.
He simply nodded in reply, though that ghost smile seemed to tiptoe behind his eyes again, determined not to be seen.