Marjorie Cunningham stood with her back to her husband, her arms wrapped tightly around herself in an obvious effort to deter his touch.
‘I really do not believe you did this.’
‘I thought you may have got used to the idea by now,’ Stewart murmured.
‘Used to it?’ Marjorie turned from the tall window, reaching for the floor-length gold damask drapes as though needing their support. Staying her hand at the last moment, she slid her long fingers across their surface, smoothing an invisible crease. Her eyes met Stewart’s only briefly. Then she resumed her stance, staring blindly across the mews to the distant dome of St Paul’s. ‘How could I possibly get used to it?’
‘It’s only a few days, Marjorie. I thought it might do you … do us both good.’
‘And you have absolutely no conception of how much I detest the place?’
Stewart bridled. ‘You never gave it a chance.’
Marjorie snorted, her thin nostrils flaring. ‘How much of a chance did you expect me to give it? Wasn’t it enough that you had to bring me back from our honeymoon anointed from head to foot in calamine lotion?’
‘It was a bad time for the midgies,’ Stewart agreed. ‘But it’ll be cooler now.’
‘Blizzards, I believe.’
Stewart sat forward on the chesterfield, leaning his elbows on his knees. ‘The weather’s fine now. Besides, there were blizzards here, too, Marjorie,’ he reminded her. ‘London’s not exactly the south of France.’
‘The south of France would be infinitely preferable.’
‘Why don’t you sit, darling? You shouldn’t be on your feet.’ Stewart’s tone, though light, could not disguise his weariness.
Marjorie whirled to face him. ‘Really! Your concern is touching. It doesn’t prevent you, however, from forcing me on to a filthy, noisy, unimaginably dreadful train to travel hundreds of miles to visit an unimaginably dreadful place. And all of this during the night, when you know how much trouble I have sleeping!’
‘It’s a fine train, Marjorie. People make the journey every night of the week. And Drumdarg is my home. It’s not a dreadful place. It’s a quite wonderful place.’
Marjorie raised both her hands and clamped her Alice band even closer to her golden skull. ‘How can you even think of it as home? Or have you forgotten that you chose to live here? Doesn’t it matter that you chose to live with me?’
‘Of course. Of course it matters.’ Stewart sighed heavily, weary to his very bones. ‘We’ll be back for Easter.’ He tried to force a jocular note into his voice. ‘I just want a wee look at the auld place.’
‘I hate it when you use that Highland slang, Stewart, and we’d better be back for Easter.’ With a last furious glance at her husband, Marjorie crossed the marbled floor and reached for the cut-glass doorknob. ‘We will not miss Veronica’s dinner party. We will not miss it, Stewart. I hope we’re clear on that.’
Marjorie closed the door behind her.
‘Bloody Veronica,’ Stewart muttered. ‘And bloody, bloody dinner parties!’
‘The bed’s aired now, Mrs Macrae.’
‘Right, Hattie. Make it up wi’ the white cotton sheets, and be sure to run the Hoover under it.’
‘I hoovered already,’ Hattie said. ‘I told you – a wee while ago.’
‘So you did. Och, I’m fair demented with it all.’ Helen jabbed the pot roast with a lethal-looking fork. ‘As sure as death, that Cunningham dame’ll still find something to complain about.’
‘But everything looks fine, Mrs Macrae. There’s no’ a thing she could find fault with.’
‘That one could find fault wi’ her own shadow,’ Helen snapped.
‘I’ll make up the bed,’ Hattie murmured. As she shambled towards the wide hallway, Helen caught her arm.
‘Thanks, hen. It’s good of you to come in on yir day off. Murdo’s meeting them off the sleeper on Tuesday morning, and I know it’s a day or two away, but …’ Helen sighed heavily. ‘I just want to be sure that we’re all prepared.’
Hattie raised a diffident smile. ‘It’s no’ as if I’m doing anything else,’ she answered.
Helen wiped her hands on her pinny and clapped Hattie softly on the back. ‘On you go then. You’re welcome to have yir dinner with us when you’re through.’
Hattie beamed. ‘Thanks, Mrs Macrae. I’d like that fine.’
Helen shook her head sadly at Hattie’s retreating back. Poor Hattie. Believing some phantom Valentino was going to appear out of the blue and take her off to God knows what. It’s a pity it’s just a dream, Helen thought, for if anyone deserved looking after, it was Hattie Macaskill.
Still, she surmised, everyone needs their dreams, and as far as Helen was concerned it was Hattie’s dream which kept her this side of madness, not the other way about as folks seemed to think.
She began filling the sink, dumping a potful of potatoes into the water, potatoes which Murdo had plucked from the ground that very day. She inspected them for a moment, already looking forward to the sweet taste of them drenched in good Scottish butter. ‘You’re a bonny lot,’ she stated, her good humour returning. Switching on the wireless, she tutted as Tom Jones burst forth with ‘It’s Not Unusual’.
‘That’s enough of you, you vulgar trooshter,’ she said, turning the dial until she found something more to her liking. On this occasion it was the Bachelors’ version of ‘Diane’.
Helen hummed along as she began scraping the tatties. That’s more like it, she thought. Good clean-cut boys, they were; their mother would be proud of them. She heard a movement in the hallway and leaned backwards, expecting to see Hattie returning from her chores.
The light streaming through the open front door blinded her for a moment, and she called out, ‘Are you finished upstairs already?’
A figure, smaller and thinner than Hattie’s, came towards her. As he reached the kitchen door, Barra knocked on the doorframe. ‘Hi, Mrs Macrae. It’s me, Barra.’
‘So it is,’ Helen remarked. ‘Well, come away in. There’s an apple tart in the oven. It’ll be ready by the time I finish the tatties. Was it the smell that brought you over?’
‘No,’ Barra replied, standing in the doorway. He sniffed the air, relishing the warm sugary aroma. ‘But it smells great just the same.’
Helen cocked her head towards the big wooden table. ‘Sit yirself down. I’ll no’ be long at the sink.’
Barra did as he was told.
‘Is the tart for yir dinner?’ he asked.
Helen smiled at him over her shoulder. ‘No. It’s to be enjoyed when it’s ready. And there’s aye a spare slice for a passing stranger.’
‘I didn’t get a chance to come in and see you the last couple o’ days,’ Barra apologised. ‘There’s been a lot happening.’
Helen finished with the potatoes and set them in a large pan of water. As she drained the sink and collected the scrapings, she turned towards Barra.
‘Hand me one o’ them newspapers,’ she instructed, indicating the neat stack by the log basket. Barra brought one to her and Helen wrapped the scrapings in it, placing the parcel in a tall bin by the corner of the larder. ‘Now,’ she said, wiping her hands on her pinnie and pulling out a chair. ‘What is it that’s kept you from the door?’
Barra grimaced. ‘You might no’ believe it, Mrs Macrae,’ he said hesitantly.
‘At my age there’s not much left that I don’t believe, Barra,’ Helen assured him.
Barra took a deep breath. ‘Well, after I left here on Friday, after I spoke to Hattie, and after I saw Mr and Mrs Pascoe and went into the Whig, and …’
‘Barra,’ Helen interrupted him, ‘The tart’s coming out o’ the oven in five minutes. D’you think you could tell me before then?’
He grinned. ‘I was getting to it. Anyway … Anyway, I met an angel,’ he finished, an earnest expression sweeping the smile from him.
Helen lifted an arm to the table, and rested her cheek on it. ‘I thought it was today the Gillespie girl was arriving,’ she said, a mischievous gleam in her eye.
‘No.’ Barra shook his head. ‘Not Isla. She did come today. Isla’s great, but she’s no’ an angel. This was a real one.’
‘Who are we talking about then?’ Helen asked, the faintest note of impatience creeping into her voice.
‘Jamie. He’s a real angel. I met him in the woods, on Friday. I’ve met him since, of course, but he comes and goes a lot,’ Barra finished ruefully.
Helen ran a hand across her brow and sighed again. ‘I hope it’s no’ catching,’ she remarked, rising to open the oven door.
‘What?’
‘First we’ve got poor Hattie seeing some actor in her dreams, and thinking he’s coming to whisk her off into the great blue yonder, and now we’ve got yirself seeing angels in the woods. It’s a wonder I’m no’ wrong in the mind wi’ the pair o’ yis.’
‘It’s no’ like Hattie’s dream, Mrs Macrae. This is real!’
Helen removed the tart and placed it on the counter. ‘Och well, don’t go telling Hattie her dream’s no’ real, there’s a good lad,’ she warned him. ‘Poor soul’s got enough to contend with. Oh … there you are.’
Hattie stood meekly in the doorway. ‘That’s the room ready, Mrs Macrae. Hello, Barra.’
‘Hi, Hattie.’ Barra smiled back. ‘How y’doing?’
Hattie looked down and away from him. ‘Fine, thank you.’
Helen, unsure how much Hattie had heard, busied herself at the sink. ‘I’ll stick the kettle on,’ she said briskly. ‘We can all have a fly cup before Murdo gets in and demolishes that tart on us.’
‘That’s all right, Mrs Macrae. I’ll come back up when the dinner’s ready.’
‘Nonsense. You’ll have a wee cup o’ tea right now. Won’t she, Barra?’
‘Aye.’ Barra beamed. ‘A strupach.’
Helen ruffled his hair. ‘That’s right, laddie. A strupach it is.’
Barra jumped up and held out a chair for Hattie. ‘Your Highness,’ he said, grinning.
Hattie sat down, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. ‘Och, Barra. You’re always tormenting me.’
‘No I’m not,’ he answered softly. ‘I wouldn’t do that, Hattie.’
The note of hurt in the boy’s voice stabbed at Helen’s heart. She felt the sudden prick of long-forgotten tears, and placed a gentle hand on Barra’s shoulder.
‘Yir as good as gold, Barra. So y’are,’ she murmured.
God, what’s got into you now, Helen silently reprimanded herself. It’s that bloody wife o’ Stewart’s got you all through-other. Shaking her head in annoyance, she turned her attention back to the tart.
‘You’ll like the story he’s brought us today, Hattie,’ she said. ‘Barra claims he’s met an angel.’
Barra sighed. ‘It’s true. I did.’
Hattie’s eyes flew at him, filled with the deepest dread. She threw her chair back and headed for the door.
‘I’ll … I’ll come back later,’ she cried, her voice full of panic. By the time she reached the front door, she was lumbering along with a frenzied gait, running to escape them both.
‘What on earth …?’ Helen stood there, holding the tea caddy in one hand, a teaspoon in the other.
‘What happened?’ Barra implored. ‘Did I scare her?’
‘It seems you did,’ Helen answered, laying the caddy down. ‘Though I can’t imagine …’ Then she rapped the counter with the spoon. ‘Of course. Angels!’
‘What about them? What’s wrong with her?’ Barra’s own voice sounded panic-stricken now.
‘Her mother,’ Helen answered. ‘She’d be thinking that bitch came back to haunt her!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Barra said, looking abject. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten her.’
‘I know, son. I know you didn’t.’
Helen sounded distracted, but forgiving. Definitely forgiving. Barra seized this new opportunity. Avoiding her eyes he suggested, ‘Course, her mother must’ve been a bi … besom – to get herself killed like that.’
Helen sat down, all thought of making the tea gone. ‘Well, it was a long time ago, and it’s no’ for us to be repeating old gossip.’
‘It’s not,’ Barra agreed, eager to do just that. ‘So were youse here? When they put her on trial?’
‘No, laddie, it was before me and Murdo arrived. But they were right to let her off.’
‘Aye. Imagine anyone believing Hattie could murder her own mother,’ Barra snorted. ‘She should never have had to go to the jail. Putting her through all that – just to let her off. It’s … sinful. It’s sinful, really.’
Helen pursed her lips. ‘Well, now, Barra, she wasn’t acquitted exactly. The case was “Not Proven”. It’s a verdict they have in Scotland when the jury’s no’ sure if someone’s guilty or …’
‘I know what it is,’ Barra interrupted. ‘But Hattie couldn’t have done anything like that. She couldn’t!’
‘You don’t know how badly her mother treated her, son,’ Helen said softly. ‘If she did do it, no-one round here held her at fault.’
The kettle whistled cheerfully. Helen rose. ‘Anyway, it’s ancient history. I think it’s best left in the past where it belongs. Still,’ she added, ‘it might no’ be a good idea to be talking to Hattie about angels and the like. You can see the effect it has on her.’
Barra nodded. It seemed no-one wanted to tell him what had really happened to Hattie – nor to hear about angels!
He turned to look out towards the gatekeeper’s cottage. ‘Maybe Jamie’s here to help Hattie too.’
‘Jamie. My angel.’
Helen leaned against the stove and turned back to Barra.
‘Y’know, son, everyone says you’re yir mam’s spittin’ image, but there’s a lot o’ Chalmers in you.’ She opened the oven door and removed the tart. ‘Aye, you’re a thrawn wee divil when you get something in yir head.’
Barra grinned, already tasting the tart. ‘It’s no’ just in my head, Mrs Macrae.’
Helen looked askance.
‘It’s all in yir head, Barra. Keep it there,’ she warned.
‘Have you made a reservation?’ Maisie asked, sweeping an arm around the empty café.
Graham looked thoughtful. ‘I’m afraid not. But I don’t mind waiting for a vacant table.’
Maisie roared with laughter. ‘Grab a pew. I’m just getting ready to open the bar. Doug’ll be down in a minute. In the meantime,’ she said, ‘I’ll have our hostess take your order.’
Isla sauntered across from the server where she’d been twirling the sauce bottles so all their labels faced outwards, a bored expression on her face.
‘You can have what’s left of the pancakes and fancies. You’re borderline for afternoon tea, though,’ she stated. ‘There’s some fish, if you want that,’ she added in a desultory fashion.
Graham raised his eyebrows. ‘No “May I take your order, sir?” Or what about “Would you care to see the menu now?” Am I to be extended no interest at all in my culinary comfort?’
Isla stared off at a spot beyond Graham’s shoulder, and sighed.
He caught Maisie’s eye. She raised her eyebrows, conveying an expression of hopelessness. ‘Isla’s getting out of the kitchen this year. We’ll be training her in the art, so to speak.’
Graham smiled. He’d been aware of the girl’s crush on him when she was in Drumdarg the year before. It disappointed him only slightly that she’d obviously outgrown it.
‘Actually, the fish sounds good. What is it?’
‘Haddock. Haddock, peas and chips. D’you want it, then?’
‘Served with your own fair hands, I hope?’
Isla headed for the kitchen. ‘Don’t get yir hopes up.’
Maisie stepped aside to allow Isla to pass. ‘She’ll do fine when she settles in again,’ she confided, coming to sit by Graham. ‘You might have a bit of a wait, though.’
‘Has it been busy then?’
‘Not specially. A few folks in all at once, and then it died a death. I don’t know if the good weather brings them in, or keeps them away. Still, with Easter at the weekend we should see a bit of an improvement.’
‘Has Rose any bookings yet?’
‘Och, she doesn’t bother with bookings. If she doesn’t get passing trade, her cronies in Craigourie usually send some folks her way. Though they’ve no idea they’ll be having young Barra to contend with when they get there,’ Maisie added.
‘He’s certainly different from most boys his age,’ Graham agreed. ‘Still, he’s a cracking lad. Always the same, you know? He never seems to let anything get him down.’
‘Well, he scared the shite out of Doug today. I still haven’t got to the bottom of it.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, Barra’s convinced he met an angel in the woods. I think Doug was ready to go along with this latest nonsense, until Barra started shouting at him.’
Graham laughed. ‘Barra? Shouting?’
‘Well, of course no-one’s believing him, and poor Rose must be demented with it all, but he’s quite insistent. You know Doug gets a bit … vague sometimes, and I think Barra lost the head with him.’ Maisie laughed. ‘Poor Doug, the last thing he needs is some fairy story. He has to stretch his imagination quite enough, living with me.’ She was smiling still, but there was a bitter-sweet sadness behind her words.
Graham drew a deep breath. ‘Maybe the bar’s not the best place for him, Maisie. Have you thought about that?’
She straightened, scrutinising Graham’s face. ‘If I thought there was even a hint of criticism there …’
‘You know me better than that, Maisie.’
‘Aye,’ she warned. ‘I hope so.’
‘I just had a thought that you might have … more of a future … away from the Whig.’
‘Hmmm. And I suppose Mr Buchanan of Atkinson & Co had nothing at all to do with this newfangled thought of yours?’
Graham leaned back and shrugged. ‘Caught red-handed.’
‘That you are, Mr Kerr. That you are.’
The two surveyed each other for a moment. Maisie was the first to speak. ‘I told him I’d think about it. No more.’
Graham sat forward again, cocking his head. ‘I have to ask, Maisie. Why did you agree to think about it? What would you do without the Whig?’
It was Maisie’s turn to shrug. ‘Take a cruise. See the world. Spend some time with Doug.’
‘But you spend all your time together now.’
‘No we don’t,’ Maisie replied, the sadness more evident now, inverting the natural crescent of her mouth. ‘We work. We eat – I eat. Doug drinks. Then we sleep – together, and alone.’
Graham guessed at Maisie’s meaning, and looked away.
‘So,’ he said at last, ‘you’re looking to take a very long honeymoon?’
‘You’re far too clever for an accountant,’ Maisie retorted. ‘Anyway, it’s just a thought. If I can keep Doug drunk enough for long enough, he just might marry me!’
‘He’d be a fool not to,’ said Graham, and the sincerity in his voice banished Maisie’s melancholy.
‘If Atkinsons don’t have your nose to the grindstone for the next ten years, you’re invited to the wedding. Bali, I thought. They like fat women there.’
Isla returned, a dish-towel shielding her hand from the heat of the plate she set before Graham.
‘There y’are,’ she said, thumping the plate down.
Graham looked up in surprise. ‘Would it be too much bother to have some coffee with it? A slice of bread and butter wouldn’t go wrong either.’
Maisie rose, chuckling. ‘I’ll get it, Isla. You can stay and keep Graham company for a minute.’ Isla glanced at Graham, an expression of total indifference indicating her lack of enthusiasm at the prospect.
As Graham reached for the vinegar bottle, Isla rested one hip against the table and folded her arms across her formidable chest. ‘Is that your Triumph out the back?’
‘Aye. A Vitesse. What d’you think?’
Isla raised her eyebrows, fractionally more interested. ‘Is it new?’
‘No,’ Graham answered, tucking into his supper. ‘But it’ll do just fine till I can afford a Jag.’
‘Like your friend’s?’
Graham frowned. ‘What friend?’
‘Jim Pascoe.’
Graham cut into the snow-white fish, and raised a portion of it to his mouth. ‘Jim has a Mini, Isla. In fact it’s the same one he had last year when you were here.’
‘Well, there’s a Jag at his door now. I saw it when I went out for some air earlier.’
‘When earlier?’
‘About quarter to five. Just before you came in. They must be having visitors.’
Graham pushed his plate away and stood, just as Maisie reappeared with a plate of freshly buttered bread and a cup of coffee.
‘How much do I owe you, Maisie?’
Maisie frowned. ‘You don’t like it?’
‘Oh no. It’s fine, really. Isla was just saying she’d seen a Jag over by Jim’s house. I was going over there after …’ Graham seemed totally distracted. ‘It must be his parents, Maisie. Donald Pascoe drives a Jag.’
Maisie stopped, the awful realisation dawning on her, just as it had on Graham. ‘Aw, God. Surely not so soon?’
Graham dug in his pocket. ‘I was just there yesterday,’ he muttered, his voice ragged with concern.
‘Never mind that,’ Maisie said, waving away the pound note. ‘Just let them know we’re here if there’s anything … Anything at all.’ She squeezed Graham’s arm. ‘Go through the kitchen,’ she advised. ‘It’s quicker.’