Helen glanced at the clock. Murdo would be back from the station any minute. She put the kettle on to boil and checked the silver tray. You could see yir face in it, she assured herself. Nothing to worry about there.
Carefully, she placed the starched doily on the tray and arranged the Spode tea service on top. Three newly plucked tulips, butter yellow and wet with dew, were pushed into the matching china bud-vase, and a plate of freshly baked scones thick with home-made strawberry jam finished it off.
‘Right, yir Ladyship,’ Helen addressed the air, ‘if that doesna’ put a smile on yir Sassenach face, nothing will.’
The scrunching of wheels on the gravel signalled the return of the Rover and Helen raced across the hall, eager to welcome Stewart Cunningham home – albeit with the unwelcome addition of ‘herself’.
Murdo already had the boot open, lifting out two well-worn leather suitcases, while Stewart leaned into the back, extending a helping hand to his wife. As Marjorie stepped on to the gravel, Stewart turned. Seeing Helen in the doorway, he loped up the steps, reaching for her hand with both of his own.
‘Welcome home, Mr Cunningham.’ Helen smiled.
Stewart Cunningham looked down at her from his elevated height of six foot four, his face creased in a smile of pure pleasure. ‘Oh, Helen, it’s so good to see you. I haven’t half missed you both.’
Gallus was howling in the back garden, furious at having been left tied to the kennel and anxious to get in the middle of all this excitement as soon as possible.
‘What is that excruciating noise?’
‘It’s Gallus, Mrs Cunningham,’ Murdo replied, closing the boot. ‘I’ll get him in a minute.’
Helen surveyed Marjorie Cunningham. She’d been secretly hoping that time and distance had exaggerated her dislike for the young woman.
It hadn’t.
In fact, Helen noted that Marjorie Cunningham’s long nose looked more pinched than ever, and her eyes, intractably hostile, seemed so pale as to appear almost colourless.
‘I’ve a wee cup o’ tea ready,’ Helen said, tucking her chin into her neck in an effort to disguise her renewed animosity. ‘Come in and get comfortable. I’ll bring it through to the …’
‘I need to rest,’ Marjorie interrupted. She gave an exaggerated shiver. ‘This country always seems so cold!’
‘It’s quite a beautiful morning, madam,’ Helen stated. ‘I’m sure it’s just that you’re no’ used to the pureness o’ the air.’
Marjorie ignored the comment, sweeping up the steps and past Helen. Stewart moved briefly to follow her, but Marjorie extended an imperious hand behind her.
‘By myself, Stewart, if you don’t mind. I didn’t sleep a wink on that dreadful journey.’
Murdo hobbled up the steps, setting the two pieces of luggage in the hall and placing a small holdall case on top. Marjorie paused, returning to grab the holdall before ascending the carved staircase.
‘I’ll bring the cases up,’ Murdo puffed.
‘Please don’t bother,’ Marjorie called back. ‘Stewart can see to that later. I really do not wish to be disturbed.’ She negotiated the landing and disappeared from view, her sharp footsteps muffled by the ancient Axminster.
Stewart cocked his head, a worried expression pulling his fair brows together. ‘She’s been a little under the weather,’ he murmured.
That one will always be under the weather, Helen thought. There’s no’ a sunny bone in her body.
‘Well, we’ll soon put that right,’ she replied. ‘Some fresh Highland air and we’ll have her good as new in no time.’ Helen held Stewart’s arm as they walked towards the kitchen. ‘You’re looking a bit peely-wally yirself if you don’t mind me saying so,’ she informed him.
Stewart smiled, and patted her hand. ‘It’s deliberate, Helen. I was hoping you’d take pity on a poor weak soul, and insist on forcing some of that delightful cooking into me. A good pan of your Scotch broth would be just what the doctor ordered.’
Helen returned the smile, pleased at the compliment. She held open the drawing-room door and waited for Stewart to enter. ‘I’ll bring yir tea through.’
Stewart stared at her, an injured expression on his face.
‘Och now, Helen Macrae, don’t be relegating me to the parlour already. Am I no’ good enough to sit in yir kitchen any more?’
Her kitchen!
In that instant, Helen’s burdened heart relaxed, letting the warm flow of relief flood her veins. For she knew that this young man, who had spent so many hours of quiet contentment at the big wooden table in her kitchen, could never do anything to hurt them.
It wasn’t in him, not Stewart.
‘Och, it’s glad I am to see you, Stewart. Welcome home, lad,’ Helen breathed, her eyes misting.
‘He should be in the hospital,’ Violet insisted. ‘I can’t imagine why that doctor doesn’t demand it.’
‘He wants to die in his own home, Violet,’ Donald said.
‘Stop that! I won’t listen to you. I won’t.’
Donald reached across the back of the sofa and pulled his wife tightly to him, ignoring the resistance he felt in the stubborn rigidity of her body. ‘Yes, you will,’ he said softly. ‘I know how badly you want to believe otherwise, Violet, but you’re not helping him like this. Jim’s accepted it, and so has Jennifer. We have to do the same.’
‘I can’t, Donald. I can’t take this. It’s too hard.’ Violet’s mouth quivered briefly, but her eyes were as dry as the desert. Although Donald Pascoe had sobbed long and often since learning of his son’s illness, he had yet to see the tiniest tear escape his wife’s eyes.
Violet Pascoe detested weakness in any shape or form – and in herself most of all.
The sound of the front door opening and closing reached them, and Jennifer appeared in the living room. ‘That’s the nurse gone,’ she said. ‘You can go through and see him now.’
Violet rose immediately, but Donald remained seated.
‘Is he fit to see us?’ he asked.
Jennifer raised a shoulder. ‘He’s very weak.’
‘Then we’ll let him rest a while.’ Donald reached to take Violet’s hand. ‘We can look in on him later.’
Violet whirled, tugging her hand free. ‘You can stay here if you like. I’m going in to see him.’
Jennifer held the door open. As Violet came level with her, she reached to touch her mother-in-law’s arm. ‘He really is very weak, Violet. If you would just sit quietly … give the injection a chance to …’
Violet shrugged Jennifer’s touch away, marching towards the bedroom as though she had never heard the words.
‘Come on, Jen.’ Donald sighed, rising at last. ‘I think we deserve a cuppa.’ He ushered her towards the kitchen and held a chair for her to sit. ‘You look washed out,’ he said.
Jennifer nodded. She had never had to pretend in front of Donald Pascoe. Her hand sought his as he pulled out the adjoining chair, and she held on to him, relishing the comfort of a healthy human touch.
‘Look, Jen, I know it’s an extra strain on you, us being here. If you’d prefer, we can find somewhere in town.’
‘Oh no! No, Donald. I couldn’t think of it.’
‘Please, Jen, listen now. I love my wife dearly, but I know she’s not making any of this easier. The way she spoke to you yesterday … and poor Graham. He was just trying to keep things going, and she barely gave him the time of day. I’m surprised he stayed as long as he did.’
Donald gently pulled his hand from her grasp and rubbed it wearily across his forehead. ‘All of our lives, I’ve been able to settle her down when she gets too … carried away with herself. But I’m getting nowhere with this, Jen. I don’t know what to do any more.’ His voice cracked. It was almost more than Jennifer could bear.
She shook her head. There was so little left in her now that she could hardly speak. Donald Pascoe was crumbling before her, and she couldn’t help him. A tiny knot of fury formed in her throat.
Violet Pascoe was destroying the last hours any of them would ever spend with Jim. Jennifer doubted that she’d ever find it in her heart to forgive her.
The doorbell rang, making them both jump. Jennifer ran to answer it, afraid it may have disturbed her husband.
‘Not now, Barra. I told you yesterday …’
‘I know, OK? But I was just wondering if you needed any messages. Mam’s always needing extra when she has the bedders. I thought, if there was anything you were needing, anything at all …’
‘Thanks anyway, but Graham brought me a few things yesterday, and Sandra’s coming out tomorrow afternoon with Mam and Dad. They can pick up what I need in the town.’
‘But I’ve got my bike,’ Barra interrupted, pointing to the fence against which his black Raleigh rested. ‘I could be down to the Whig and back in no time.’
Jennifer looked thoughtful. ‘I’m not sure if I have enough bread to last… And a few tatties …’
‘Great. Gi’me yir list. It’s no bother. None at all.’
Jennifer opened the door wider, a fragile smile signalling her surrender. ‘Come on in, then.’ She raised a finger to her lips. ‘Quietly, though.’
‘Hi, Mr Pascoe,’ Barra said as Donald appeared in the living room. ‘How’s Mr Pascoe? The other one – yir son?’
Donald glanced at Jennifer. ‘You’re Barra?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Donald replied. ‘I haven’t seen you for a while. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. I missed yis last time you were here. I like yir car.’
Donald moved closer, smiling too now. ‘So do I, son. You know, when I was your age, I didn’t even have a bike.’
‘Och, don’t tell me. Y’had to walk ten miles through the snow just to get to the school.’ Barra grinned.
Donald’s bluff good humour had returned. ‘As a matter of fact … no, I didn’t.’
Barra looked a little shame-faced. ‘Sorry, Mr Pascoe. It’s just everyone tells you that.’
‘They do.’ Donald’s laugh boomed forth. ‘I’ve heard it myself.’
‘So, how’s Mr Pascoe?’
Violet launched herself through the living-room door. ‘What is going on? Jim’s trying to rest!’
‘Sorry, Mrs Pascoe,’ Barra said fearfully, stepping backwards. ‘I was just wondering … how he was?’
Violet shot a glance of pure malevolence at her husband. ‘Is there anything to be laughing about?’
‘For God’s sake, Violet,’ he answered. ‘Are we so beyond it, we can’t even have a laugh?’
‘Who are you?’ she demanded, pointing a well-manicured finger at Barra.
‘Barra Maclean. I’m here to get the messages.’
Violet looked at Jennifer uncomprehendingly. ‘The messages?’
‘Barra’s going to pick up a few things at the Whig for me,’ Jennifer said, her voice quiet.
‘How’s yir son?’ Barra persisted.
Violet’s glare deepened into loathing. ‘I … I … Does he have to be here?’ she appealed to Jennifer.
Jennifer was closing the desk, her purse in her hand. ‘You won’t need a line, Barra,’ she said, pointedly ignoring her mother-in-law. ‘Just a loaf, a couple of pounds of tatties. And get half a dozen eggs if they’re fresh.’
‘Aye, they’re fresh,’ Barra replied. ‘I met Dunc Macpherson on the road earlier. He was bringing a pannier o’ them to Maisie. He’s got some nice big duck eggs, too. He was saying he got a couple of double-yolkers last week.’
Violet shuddered.
Barra looked at her. She was the type who could frighten you with a look, if you hadn’t had to withstand being beaten up by the Yaks. Maybe she just needed cheering up. ‘D’you know what Pascoe means?’ he asked.
‘What?’ Violet’s eyes were crazed as she lowered herself into the bucket chair.
‘I looked it up. It means Easter child,’ Barra confided. ‘Isn’t that great, with Mr Pascoe having his birthday?’
Jennifer caught Barra by the arm and steered him to the door. ‘Here, Barra,’ she said, pulling out a pound note. ‘Take your time. I’m no’ in a hurry.’
Barra stood on the top step, a little surprised at how quickly the door had closed behind him. Violet’s voice could clearly be heard.
‘He’s asleep. The pain’s gone, at least for now.’
Barra walked down the path and headed for the Whig, his mind busy with this latest piece of information.
Good then. Wasn’t it Jamie at work after all?
Barra entered the shop. Isla was behind the counter while Olive, perched precariously on a set of steps, attempted to dust a high shelf which contained the iodine, Askit powders, Syrup of Figs, and other manner of cures. Barra stopped, horrified.
‘What’re you letting her do that for?’ he demanded of Isla.
‘What’s it got to do wi’ you?’ she demanded in return.
‘She shouldn’t be up ladders!’
‘You get up it then,’ Isla retorted furiously.
‘Is that you, Barra?’ Olive asked, pausing briefly.
‘Aye. C’mon down. You shouldn’t be doing that at your age!’
Olive began her descent. ‘Och, it’s good of you to bother, Barra. It’s a pity there’s no’ more like you.’ She hurled the condemnation in Isla’s direction.
Isla lifted both arms shoulder-high, throwing her palms wide in mock supplication. ‘Mea culpa. Mea culpa.’
Barra turned. ‘I didn’t know you were Catholic.’
She frowned. ‘I’m not, stupid. Besides, she wouldn’t let me.’
‘Why not?’ Barra asked, turning back to Olive.
‘You canna’ set a lassie to do a woman’s work.’
Isla sighed and closed her eyes, her head moving in time to a silent melody.
Barra regarded her for a moment before catching on to the rhythm. ‘Herman’s Hermits,’ he said.
Isla’s eyes flew open. ‘Which one?’ she asked.
‘“I’m Into Something Good”.’
Isla looked impressed. Very impressed.
Barra grinned back at her.
Olive was busy shaking the bright yellow duster, releasing all the dust she’d collected back into the air. It distracted Barra briefly. Mam did that too sometimes. It had never made any sense to him.
‘You let all the dust go,’ he told Olive.
‘You’re weird,’ Isla commented, resting a hand on her hip.
Barra hadn’t expected that. His eyebrows fell.
‘No, I’m not. I’m not weird.’
Isla closed her eyes again, the trace of a sneer on her glorious mouth.
‘Aaagh!’ Olive wailed, clasping a hand to her neck.
Immediately, Isla was at her side. Barra took two racing steps to the end of the counter, lifting the hatch and letting it clatter loudly behind him. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘That’s my neck out,’ Olive groaned. ‘Ah, God, it’s sore.’ Her head was rigid, carefully scanning the area above her right shoulder.
‘Can you look at me?’ Barra asked, pushing Isla behind him and out of his way. Isla raised an automatic fist at his back but then retreated, folding her arms across her bosom. Her expression was clear. If anyone needed their neck twisting, it was Barra Maclean.
‘How can I look at you with this neck?’ Olive cried plaintively. She sat on the ladder, her ample behind squeezed between the second and third steps.
‘But I’m needing messages,’ Barra said, a slight note of panic in his voice. ‘It’s what I came for.’
‘Isla can see t’you.’ Olive rose gingerly and headed towards the café door. ‘I’m off through to get Maisie to rub some o’ that linament on me. It worked the last time I put my neck out.’
‘She’s upstairs wi’ Doug,’ Isla called out. ‘You’d better give her a shout from the bottom o’ the stairs.’
‘I hope this is mended before the bingo,’ Olive mourned. ‘I’ll no’ be able to see my numbers if it’s no’ better by Sunday.’ With that she disappeared through the adjoining door and into the café.
Barra returned to the front of the counter, happily prepared to let Isla ‘see to him’. She was watching as Olive disappeared from view. ‘It’ll no’ be “eyes down”,’ she remarked. ‘It’ll be like the army – “Eyes rrright!”’
Barra laughed. He couldn’t help it. Wasn’t it great to be laughing with Isla?
‘You’ve lovely eyes yirself,’ he said. He bit his lip as soon as he’d said it. He didn’t even know where the words had come from.
Isla looked down, her hollowed cheeks with the mystery in them turning pink. Barra thought she had never looked lovelier.
‘No-one’s ever noticed my eyes before,’ Isla said.
‘I don’t know why not,’ Barra said, amazed. ‘It’s the first thing anyone would notice about you – after yir chest.’
‘Get OUT!’
‘Wh …?’
Isla made for him.
Barra took off but she chased behind, catching up with him as he reached the door. A hefty shove landed him out on the pavement.
For the second time that morning, Barra turned to face a closed door. He shook himself, trying to come to terms with this latest indignity, and looked around.
He reached for his bicycle, knowing he’d have to go all the way to Craigourie for his messages. He didn’t relish the thought. The Yaks would most definitely be hanging around the High Street.
After all, it was their holidays too.
As he headed towards town, a thought struck him. He wondered if Jamie was aware that Olive had hurt her neck, and if so, could he possibly mend it by Sunday. After all, it would make up for not mending her feet.
He would have to ask Jamie the next time he saw him.