Andrew Cameron was the son of Gordon Cameron, the owner and manager of the hotel and, as Bob had said, the chef of whom she had already heard such glowing reports. After a few seconds, during which she felt as though she was drowning in his intense blue gaze, she pulled herself together and smiled.

‘Bob has been singing your praises ever since we left Leeds,’ she told him. ‘I’m sure we are in for a veritable feast.’

‘Aye, I’ve one or two wee surprises up my sleeve,’ he grinned. ‘I like to ring the changes and try out new ideas. And on Friday night we have our special Scottish banquet…’

‘Let me guess… Haggis, followed by roast venison?’

‘Wait and see…! You’ll be here for the rest of the season will you, Maisie? Every three weeks, I mean, when the tour is here?’

‘I’m…not sure,’ she replied. ‘There will be a permanent replacement for Thelma eventually, but it’s not quite decided yet.’ It was intended, in fact, that she should fill in only for the next three weeks or so, but she was beginning to think that it might not be a bad idea to extend her time as courier…

Andy nodded and smiled. ‘You’ll see how you like us first, eh? Aye, well, that’s no’ a bad idea.’ His voice was easy on the ear, a gentle Scottish burr, not too pronounced, and with a friendly and sincere tone. She guessed he was in his mid-twenties, quite tall and reasonably handsome in a craggy sort of way; a younger edition of his father, with the same firm jawline and crinkly hair, the colour of pale corn.

‘Now – I mustn’t take up any more of your time. Here’s the key to your room, Maisie. It’s on the second floor. We’ve no lift, but the stairs are quite shallow and manageable for the older guests. Is that your bag? Very good; I’ll carry it up for you…’

She followed him up the stairs, carpeted, like the foyer, in the green and black tartan. The sun was shining through a stained-glass window on the first landing, depicting a Scottish warrior, casting shimmering lozenges of red, yellow and purple on the dark carpet.

‘That’s Rob Roy MacGregor,’ said Andy, following her gaze. ‘Somewhat stylised, no doubt, but he’s quite a hero round these parts, so he is. I hope you’ve been brushing up on your Sir Walter Scott?’

‘I have indeed,’ replied Maisie. ‘The Lady of the Lake and all that…’

‘Aye, and we’ve a likeness of her as well on the next landing… There she is,’ he said, when they had climbed the remainder of the stairs. ‘Lady Ellen Douglas, the original Lady of the Lake. I say a likeness, but no one really knows, do they, what she looked like?’ The stained glass portrayed her in a blue gown looking out from the battlements of a castle.

Maisie’s room was just two steps away. ‘There you are,’ said Andy. ‘Bathroom and all the necessities down the corridor… We’ll be serving a cup of tea for the guests in about half an hour or so, in the downstairs lounge. So I’ll leave you in peace now, Maisie. See you later…’

The room, quite small but adequate, was at the back of the hotel, overlooking a pleasant garden area. There was a paved terrace and steps leading down to a lawn, and beyond that a stream and a wooded area. She stood there for a few moments, drinking in the view across to the distant hills. These mountains of the Trossachs were not particularly high, but impressive for all that, bathed in the sunlight of the late afternoon. It was all so lovely, so peaceful… Maisie felt an inexplicable surge of happiness seize hold of her.

She turned away from the window, flopping down on the bed and shaking her head in bewilderment. If she were honest with herself she knew only too well the reason for the feeling of joy and light-heartedness that had come over her. A smile from a pair of blue eyes…

Eyes as blue as the bluebells in the woods in springtime, beyond Nixons’ farm; the blue of a summer sky; or cornflowers in the Rectory garden… Stop it, you silly fool! she admonished herself as all kinds of similes, the sort that you read in romantic stories, came into her mind. Whatever was she thinking about, allowing her head to be turned by a winning smile?

He was a good-looking young man, to be sure, very friendly and personable, but to be so suddenly smitten, as she felt she had been… It was ages since a member of the opposite sex had had that sort of effect on her. Not since… Bruce. The thought of Bruce Tremaine, coming into her mind unexpectedly – she didn’t often, consciously, think about him now – gave her a jolt; she wondered momentarily, how he was faring. Had he married again, or was he engaged? She did not think so, or word would have reached her via the Middlebeck grapevine. The other young men with whom she had spent some time over the past few years – Ted, Colin, Mike Palmer, who was still waiting and hoping that she might have a change of heart – had been pleasant enough companions. Occasionally she had felt the stirrings of what she supposed was desire; it was good to be cherished and made a fuss of, and she had returned their kisses and embraces, but she had never felt, with any of them, that the friendship could ever develop into something more lasting.

You silly fool, Maisie Jackson! she told herself again. He will probably turn out to be married. He might even have a couple of kids; he was plenty old enough. Or, at the very least, a young man as attractive and agreeable as Andy Cameron was sure to have a fiancée or a steady girlfriend.

She had a quick ‘wash and brush-up’ in the bedroom washbasin, after locating the necessary little room down the corridor. Very few hotels had bedrooms with their own private baths and toilets, certainly not the hotels that Galaxy used on their tours. The cost of these rooms would be too expensive a price for clients to pay at the moment; but these ‘en suite’ facilities, as they were called, were gradually creeping into the larger, ‘posher’ establishments. It would be nice to have your own lav and bath, thought Maisie, but she could not see that happening in the near future.

She applied a fresh coating of cherry-red lipstick, the same colour as the stripes on her blouse, but did not change out of that and her navy skirt. She was still officially on duty, although it was customary to change later, for evening dinner. Then she went downstairs and located the lounge which opened off the entrance hall. It was a large room, much lighter and brighter than the foyer, with a red tartan carpet around the sides and a polished wooden square in the centre which she guessed would be the dance floor. There was a baby grand piano on a small stage at one end of the room and all around the carpeted area there were groups of comfortable chairs and low glass-topped tables. Most of the guests, it seemed, were already assembled, drinking the tea being poured out by a couple of waitresses with gay tartan pinnies over their black skirts.

Maisie sat down at a table with two middle-aged ladies she had met earlier in the week. She had met and spoken to everyone, of course, but these two were nice and friendly without being too effusive. Some clients could be rather demanding and overfriendly, thinking it gave them a certain amount of kudos, being well in with the courier.

‘Have a shortbread biscuit,’ said Beattie, one of the ladies, pushing a doily-covered plate towards her. ‘They’re delicious, aren’t they, Gladys?’

‘Mmm… I’m on my second one already,’ said that lady. ‘But we shouldn’t really, not if we want to do justice to our meal tonight… Oh look – I think Mr Cameron is going to talk to us.’

Gordon Cameron stood at the end of the room on the little dais to address them. ‘Once again, ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon to you. I hope you have all settled into your rooms. Any problems – extra pillows required, or if you would like an early morning wake-up knock at the door – just come and see us at reception. As I said before, we will do all we can to make your stay here a very happy one.

‘This is a family concern…’ He pronounced it as ‘concairn’ with the Scottish intonation that Maisie was finding so pleasant to listen to. ‘…myself, my wife, Jeanette, and my son, Andrew. Then there is Moira, our receptionist, and our small team of waiters and waitresses, plus the two assistant chefs who help my son. We all work together as a happy family…’

Maisie glanced around unobtrusively as he was speaking. There was no sign of Andy, but she assumed he would already be hard at work in the kitchen; nor, as yet, of the wife that Gordon had mentioned. She noted, too, with interest, that there was no mention of any daughter-in-law…unless, of course, she reminded herself, there was one elsewhere who played no part in the running of the hotel.

Gordon Cameron was telling them that the Cameron Hotel had been in the family for several generations, handed down from father to son. ‘Aye, once we’d settled down and stopped fighting one another we decided on the more peaceful occupation of looking after tourists. The Camerons of old belonged to a warrior clan, you ken. Aye, we were loyal to the Stuart cause. No doubt you’ll have seen our window to Bonnie Prince Charlie. But I can assure you that we are now loyal subjects of His Majesty King George the Sixth, God bless him. There he is, to prove there’s no ill feeling…’

On the wall opposite the windows there were three large pictures; a portrait of King George and Queen Elizabeth in ceremonial dress; a photograph of Princess Elizabeth and the Duke of Edinburgh on their wedding day; and a painting of Balmoral Castle, Queen Victoria’s favourite Highland retreat.

They were informed of the times of breakfast and dinner and of the events that were planned for the evenings when they returned from their tours. This evening there would be an informal get-together in the lounge; Scottish dancing would take place on Thursday; and, to end the week, there would be a banquet on the Friday evening, followed by an entertainment of singing and dancing.

Maisie leaned back in her comfortable chair, sipping her orange juice and listening contentedly to the voices around her, all joining in heartily with the familiar Scottish songs and ballads. Andy was leading the singing, strolling round from table to table with a microphone in his hand, inviting people here and there to join in or sing a line or two on their own. Many were too inhibited to do so, but those who did were rewarded with a cheer from the folk sitting near them.

Jeanette, Gordon Cameron’s wife, was seated at the piano, and she seemed to be able to play anything that was requested. She was a bonny, plumpish woman with merry brown eyes, and hair as dark as her husband’s and son’s was fair. Both of them, Mr and Mrs Cameron, appeared to be in their late rather than early fifties, putting them at well turned thirty, Maisie surmised, when their only son Andy was born.

Maisie joined in with the songs she knew, but not too enthusiastically at first. She didn’t want people to think she was showing off; although she knew she had a good voice and, what was more, that voice was longing to be heard. Singing was a pleasure she had not had much time or opportunity to indulge in of late. Oddly enough, as she heard the Scottish songs she had not heard for years, she was transported back in memory to the schoolroom in Middlebeck and the singing lessons with the headmistress.

Charity Foster had not been much of a pianist, but she had done her best. The children had sung along lustily from their little red books of words, their voices getting louder and louder to compete with Miss Foster’s heavy chords on the piano.

they had chorused, having little idea of what the words meant, but it was a good tune.

Or ‘Charlie is me darling…’ Maisie remembered the sly glances of the little girls to one another, as there had been a handsome lad in their class called Charlie, and he had blushed crimson each time it was sung. And another favourite had been ‘The Bluebells of Scotland’…

Those must have been the warriors who had not supported the Stuart cause, she pondered now. But they had been given no inkling as children as to the history behind the words; she had picked that up much later through her own reading. But why was Andy singing it, she wondered, if his clan had supported the Stuarts? Probably because it was just a jolly good song, now, as it had been in the schoolroom.

Andy was into the songs from the Hebrides now, which were not quite so familiar to most of the guests.

‘Westering home and a song in the air,’ he sang in his pleasant tenor voice as he came near to Maisie’s table. She returned his smile, then decided to throw caution to the winds as she joined in with the next verse.

He smiled his approval at her when they came to the end of the song. ‘And a round of applause, please, ladies and gentlemen, for our charming courier, Maisie.’ He nodded confidently. ‘And we haven’t heard the last of that lovely voice, I can promise you that… I’ll see you later,’ he said quietly, leaning down to speak to her. ‘I didn’t realise you could sing. Would you sing for us, please, tomorrow night, or Friday. Or why not both nights?’

‘I’ll… I’ll think about it,’ she replied, finding herself blushing a little. ‘Yes…probably I will.’

He nodded his approval at her again before addressing the audience. ‘Thank you, Maisie… And now, ladies and gentlemen, my mother, Jeanette, will entertain you on the piano. Just background music whilst you chat to one another. Thank you all for being such a nice friendly crowd. I can see we are going to have a grand time together these next few days.’

Maisie was sitting with Bob the driver, the two ladies, Beattie and Gladys, whom she found comfortable and easy to get along with, and another married couple whom she had spoken to rather more than the others, as they occupied the front seat on the coach, next to her courier’s seat.

‘My goodness, Maisie; you’ve been hiding your light under a bushel,’ said Hilda, the lady from the front seat. ‘Hasn’t she, Jim?’

‘Aye, you’ve got a grand voice,’ said Jim. ‘And you mustn’t be shy, lass. We’d love to hear you sing for us. Of course you’re not shy, are you, not really? You couldn’t be, not in the job you’ve got.’

‘No, that’s true,’ replied Maisie. ‘I must admit that shyness has never been one of my problems. When I was a little girl I had far too much to say,’ she laughed. ‘I was a bit dropped on, though, when Andy asked me to sing tomorrow. I’ve no music with me, but I expect Mrs Cameron – Jeanette – will be able to play whatever I choose. She’s a lovely pianist, isn’t she?’

‘She is that,’ replied Bob as they listened, with one ear, whilst they were talking together, to the gentle lilting piano music. Jeanette had a touch which made the keys sing as she played the familiar tunes – not Scottish ones now – from well known musical shows: The Desert Song, Bitter Sweet, The Maid of the Mountains, and, more up to date, Oklahoma.

‘They’re a talented family altogether,’ Bob continued. ‘Mr Cameron, the boss, he plays the bagpipes. I dare say he’ll give us a tune – if you can call it a tune,’ he grimaced, ‘on Friday night when we have the banquet. Not much in my line, bagpipes; it sounds more like cats yowling, but he’s good, I’ve got to give him that. And I told you about Andy and his singing, didn’t I?’ It was Maisie that he was talking to. The other four were now engaged in a discussion of previous coach holidays they had enjoyed, always a favourite topic of conversation.

‘Yes, you did,’ said Maisie, ‘but I didn’t realise he was also the chef. As you say, he’s…very talented.’

‘You enjoyed the meal then? Well, I could tell you did,’ Bob chuckled. He and Maisie had sat at a little table for two, where they would take all their meals. Hotel managers realised that enough was enough; when you had been with the passengers all day you enjoyed a little privacy at meal times.

‘It was superb,’ she replied. The mushroom soup, tender lamb steaks baked with potatoes and leeks, and the light lemon sponge to finish with, had all been delicious. ‘I shall have to watch my waistline, though. I think I’d better ask for a small portion tomorrow night, especially if I’ve to sing afterwards.’

‘If you’ve got the will power,’ laughed Bob. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t when it comes to food. My wife’s complaining that I’ve got what she calls a beer belly, but I tell her it’s certainly not the beer. Ne’er mind, eh? I shall have a jolly good walk around on Friday, when it’s my free day, to get rid of some of these extra pounds.’

‘Is that what you usually do? I suppose you have quite a lot of time to kill, don’t you, on these tours?’

‘Aye, there’s all the waiting around while you’re visiting your castles and what-have-you; and Henry Galloway insists that we have one day off on each tour. That’s the rule, of course, with all coach companies, but whether they all keep to it is another matter. I’m not easily bored, though. I can always find summat to do to pass the time. I don’t get fed up with my own company. If you find your own company boring, then other folks will as well, that’s what I always think.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed Maisie. ‘But nobody could find you boring, Bob, that’s for sure… Tell me – Andy Cameron, is he married?’ She spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, or so she hoped, determined not to reveal that she was really the slightest bit interested. But Bob’s humorous grey eyes twinkled and he gave a chuckle.

‘I thought it wouldn’t be long before you asked me that.’ She raised her eyebrows in a casual manner.

‘No reason, Bob, honestly. I just wondered, that’s all.’

‘No, he’s not married, Maisie,’ he replied, quite seriously, ‘and he’s not got a lady friend at the moment, at least not as far as I know… I wouldn’t blame you, lass, if you fancied your chances there,’ he whispered. ‘He’s a grand lad; not just good-looking, he’s a really nice bloke an’ all.’

‘Yes, he does seem…very nice,’ agreed Maisie. She and Bob exchanged a conspiratorial smile before she went on to change the subject.

‘So…we’re off to the Trossachs tomorrow, Bob, and Loch Katrine. It’s all new country to me, so I will be relying on you to find the way around. I’ve got my spiel ready, but it’s more of a relaxing day tomorrow, isn’t it? I must be careful not to overdo the talking… The highlight will be the steamer trip round the loch, won’t it? Then we stop for lunch at Balquhidder, don’t we?’

‘Aye, that’s right…’

Jeanette Cameron was playing Ivor Novello melodies now; ‘Perchance to Dream’… Maisie stopped talking and listened as she heard the familiar strains of ‘We’ll Gather Lilacs’, the song she had thought of as ‘my song’. Bruce had asked her to sing it at his twenty-first birthday party, which had turned out to be his engagement party. And so it had never become ‘our song’, hers and Bruce’s, as she had hoped at one time that it might. Perhaps she could sing it tomorrow night…

But as the memories came flooding back she knew it would not be a good idea. She was remembering the English lane of the song which had always been, in her mind, a lane way beyond Tremaine House and Nixons’ farm. A lane that was white and fragrant with blossom in springtime; gold and brown and russet in the autumn, with ruby red berries glistening in the hedgerows; and sparkling silvery white when the first frosts and snow arrived. A lane she had wandered along with Bruce…and Audrey and Doris as well, of course. But that was all a long time ago, or so it seemed to her now. It was time to move on and, maybe, to start gathering new experiences, the memories of the future. ‘We’ll Gather Lilacs’ was part of the past…

She was pensive for a few moments, lost in her thoughts and memories… Jeanette was playing something different now; tunes that were not quite so familiar. She listened carefully, frowning to herself a little. Then she recognised the music. It was from Brigadoon. Of course it would be; the Scottish musical show that had been performed on Broadway and later on the London stage, about a village that only appeared – what was it? – once every hundred years?

‘It’s almost like being in love…’ she hummed along to the melody. No, she couldn’t sing that one. People might start to get the wrong idea! Jeanette moved on to a different melody, one that Maisie had always thought was a charming song. She had sung it along with the radio many times, but she had never sung it as a solo. It was a long time, in fact, since she had sung a solo at all.

‘And all I want to do is wander, through the heather on the hill…’ She mouthed the words, singing them softly to herself. Yes, that’s the song she would sing; ‘The Heather on the Hill’.

‘A penny for them,’ said Bob suddenly. She gave a start.

‘Sorry, Bob; were you saying something?’

‘No, not really, but you were miles away,’ he laughed. ‘I reckon they’re worth more than a penny, eh Maisie, your thoughts?’

‘They might be…’ she answered. ‘As a matter of fact, I was thinking about what I’m going to sing tomorrow night. And now I’ve decided. Would you excuse me please, Bob? I’ll just go and have a word with Mrs Cameron.’ That lady was now taking a well-earned rest from the piano, and was drinking an orange juice that someone had bought for her. ‘And then I think I’ll turn in. It’s been a long day and I want to be fresh for tomorrow.’

‘Aye, all right, love,’ said Bob. ‘That’s very wise. I shan’t be long after you. Goodnight, Maisie…’

‘Goodnight, Maisie,’ echoed the group of passengers. ‘See you in the morning…’

Jeanette said she would be delighted to accompany Maisie the following evening, and she lent her a copy of the music. Maisie wanted to be sure she knew the words off by heart; it was so unprofessional to sing from a copy. She had been hoping that Andy might reappear to discuss it with her, but he was nowhere to be seen. He had said, ‘See you later…’ but perhaps that meant tomorrow…

Breakfast the following morning had a Scottish flavour. Maisie said no to the oatmeal porridge and the potato cakes, but was unable to resist the finnan haddock – which the Scots called ‘finnan haddie’ – poached in milk and butter. It was a pleasant change from bacon and eggs, in fact she had never tasted such delicious fish.

Andy, she presumed, would be busy in the kitchen. She guessed he would be not merely busy but rushed off his feet, cooking breakfasts not only for the coach party, but for several private guests as well, about fifty people in all. And the breakfast menu was quite extensive, with eggs cooked in a variety of ways – boiled, fried, poached or scrambled – as well as sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes and black pudding, in addition to the bacon.

They were all assembled in the foyer by nine-thirty ready to start their day’s tour, waiting for Bob to bring the coach round from the parking spot at the back of the hotel. It was then that Andy appeared at Maisie’s side. She felt a sudden surge of happiness, and an excitement which she knew she must not reveal too openly. In fact she must try not to show at all the effect that his sudden presence had on her; she was not some silly teenager.

‘Maisie…’ He put his hand on her arm and she felt a tingle right through her. ‘I wanted to catch you before you set off.’

‘Oh…hello, Andy,’ she said easily. ‘You want to know about my song, do you? Yes; I’ve decided I’d quite like to sing for you all, but don’t expect too much, will you? I’m rather rusty; it’s ages since I sang in public.’

‘Och, you’ll be fine; I know you will. My mother has already told me what you’ve chosen, and very nice too. That musical is a particular favourite of mine. Have another one up your sleeve, though, won’t you? They’re sure to want an encore… Ah, here’s Bob now, raring to go.’ The driver was sitting at the wheel with the engine running. ‘Enjoy your day, Maisie… Have a good time everyone,’ Andy called to the rest of the crowd as they went out of the door and started to mount the steps of the coach. ‘See you all later…’

‘Goodbye, Andy…’ they chorused. And after Bob’s cheery good morning to them all they were quickly on their way.

The area known as the Trossachs was a stretch of country some five miles wide which was often known as ‘the Highlands in miniature’. It was a most beautiful region of craggy hills and sparkling lochs, birch-covered mountains, tumbling streams, moorland and glen, all contained in a smallish area. Maisie told her passengers how tourists had started to come to the Trossachs at the beginning of the nineteenth century when Sir Walter Scott wrote his novel, Rob Roy and his epic poem, The Lady of the Lake. She told them the tale of Rob Roy MacGregor who stole sheep from the Lowland pastures to feed his clansmen. He was a fierce Jacobite follower, and his reputation was similar to that of England’s Robin Hood, one who stole from the rich to give to the poor. Strangely enough, he did not suffer a violent death, and after being pardoned he spent the rest of his days in freedom in the little village of Balquhidder.

‘We will be visiting his grave later today,’ said Maisie, ‘but now, ladies and gentlemen, I am going to stop talking and let you enjoy this beautiful scenery in peace.’ That was what she wanted to do herself. It was her first visit to the Scotland north of Edinburgh, and she had not imagined anything quite so awe-inspiring.

It proved to be a memorable day, with a memorable evening to follow. After the meal – which included the roast beef that Bob had been looking forward to all week! – a troupe of Scottish dancers came in to entertain the guests, dressed, of course, in their kilts of various tartans. The Cameron men, Gordon and Andy, were also wearing their kilts in the Cameron tartan of their ancient clan. This was a bold red and black, complete with sporran and worn with black velvet jackets and lace jabots.

Maisie’s eyes, try as she might to prevent them, kept straying towards Andy’s striking figure as he sat nodding his head in time to the rhythm of the dancing. ‘The Eightsome Reel’, ‘The ‘Dashing White Sergeant’, ‘Strip the Willow’, ‘The Duke of Perth’… The troop performed them all so expertly, their kilts swirling, their feet darting in and out, the men just as light and graceful in their movements as the women. And then the audience was invited to join in an eightsome reel. It was tremendous fun, and although some of the guests appeared to have two left feet, it was obvious that Bob had done it before. Maisie, too, felt she acquitted herself very well; she had had a little experience of Scottish dancing at the school lessons they had shared with the boys. Towards the end of the dance she partnered Andy, and he smiled and gave her a friendly wink before he whirled her round so fast that her feet scarcely touched the ground.

‘That’s enough, I think,’ he laughed as the dance came to an end. ‘I mustna exhaust you. You must get your breath back before you sing. And so must I. Come along now and I’ll buy you a drink.’

The dancing had finished and it was time for a break before the second half of the evening’s entertainment began. There was a small bar area, licensed only to serve drinks to guests who were staying there and not open to the general public.

‘I’ll stick to orange juice,’ said Maisie. ‘I must keep a clear head while I’m singing. I don’t drink much apart from fruit juice anyway when I’m doing this job, although the passengers are continually asking me, ‘What will you have?’

‘Aye, so I can imagine,’ said Andy, who had also decided to drink orange juice. ‘They’re always asking me if I’d like “a wee dram”! But I’m no’ a true Scot, at least as far as the whisky is concairned. I can take it or leave it… Now, Maisie Jackson, tell me all about yourself…’

She suddenly felt shy, an unusual state of affairs for her, and a little confused. She could feel herself drowning in the intense blue of his eyes; it was the way he was smiling at her so eagerly and encouragingly. She gave a little laugh. ‘What do you want to know?’ she asked.

‘Anything, everything…’ he shrugged.

Once she had started she found it easy to talk to him, but then Maisie had never found it difficult to talk; and Andy was a good listener, joining in with his own comments and repartee. He very soon knew the outline, if not all the details, of her life story. Her time as an evacuee and eventual settling down in Middlebeck; her decision to leave school early and work at a travel agency rather than go to college as her mother had wanted her to do.

‘But I think she’s realised now that I made the right decision,’ she said. ‘Mum only wanted what she thought was best for me.’

‘Parents always do,’ said Andy. ‘Mine were the same. It was more or less taken for granted, of course, that I should go into the family business, but they wouldna have insisted if I’d been dead against it. At least, I dunna think so… But as it happened I never wanted anything else but to be a chef, like my father. He was the chef before me, you ken, but he made sure I had the proper training, and not just what I learned from him. I did my training at Gleneagles; and now…here I am, and here’s where I’ll stay, I suppose. But you can’t always see what’s round the corner, can you?’ She could not fathom, at that moment, his enigmatic smile.

‘So, Maisie…you’re not really a courier? But you obviously enjoy it. You’re good at it too, and I can tell that the clients like you. Is there no’ a chance you might decide to carry on with it? Won’t you find office work rather tedious after you’ve been on the road?’

Yes, so I will; I know I will…said a small voice inside Maisie’s head. How on earth would she settle down to routine after all this? But another voice was warning her not to read too much into what Andy was saying. He was just being nice and friendly; he was not begging her to stay…

‘I really can’t say,’ she answered. ‘There is a lot to consider, and this job – the courier’s job – is not as permanent as being in charge of an office. Anyway, I’ve promised to fill in for the next few weeks, and then…well, I will have to see. But I may well be back in three weeks’ time…’ she added quietly.

‘I certainly hope so,’ he replied, smiling at her in the way that made her heart turn a somersault. ‘Now, Maisie…are you ready? I think we’ll start with your solo, then you won’t have time to get nervous. OK?’

‘Yes… OK, Andy,’ she replied.

He jumped up and moved over to the stage. ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, when the noise had hushed a little, ‘we have had the dancing, and so…on with the singing. And this is the moment you have all been waiting for. Here is Maisie, your courier, and she is going to sing for us one of the lovely songs from Brigadoon. Here she is – Maisie Jackson.’

She could feel the warmth of their applause even before she started to sing, and the slight fluttering of nerves that she had been experiencing vanished completely. She smiled across at Jeanette who played the opening bars. Then she began.

It was a most evocative song and she was aware, from their smiling faces, of the emotional response of the audience. She sang it through twice, as she had agreed with Jeanette. When she reached the last line of the song she realised that Andy had come onto the stage and was standing next to her. He gently took hold of her hand and joined in the last line with her.

As they finished they smiled at one another as the audience clapped and cheered.