Rose lifted her gin and bitter lemon. She didn’t care to drink during the day, but this was definitely something to celebrate.
‘And you’re absolutely sure?’ she asked Olive.
Olive tapped her nose, and winced with the effort. ‘I have my sources.’
Maisie clapped her hands, then lifted her glass to chink it against Rose’s. Even Olive managed to join in, holding her neck with one hand as she downed a second sherry with the other.
The adjoining door to the shop was flung open, and Isla appeared in the café.
‘Is there any danger of getting a hand in the shop? Or are youse lot there for the day?’
‘Darling girl,’ Maisie called back, ‘you won’t be needing a hand in the shop till you have more than one customer at a time.’
‘There’s stock to be put away’
‘Then put it away.’ Maisie peered over her whisky sour. Doug had given her the recipe. It was such a cosmopolitan drink. But then Doug was really such a cosmopolitan man.
‘Yis better not be getting drunk,’ Isla said.
‘We’s better not be staying sober.’
‘Mai-sie!’ Isla protested, stabbing her aunt with a look.
Maisie swirled her drink in its tall glass – with ice, no less. ‘I’m joshing you, gal.’ She turned to Rose. ‘Isn’t that how they say it? In the good ol’ Yoo-nited States.’
Rose laughed, which seemed to enrage Isla even further.
‘You should be seeing to yir son,’ she remonstrated.
Immediately, Rose’s expression changed. ‘Barra? What is it, Isla? What happened?’
‘What happened?’ Isla gasped. ‘What happened?’ She continued to glare at Rose. ‘Mr Pascoe just died, that’s what happened! And Barra’s angel’s gone! And he didn’t save Mr Pascoe. That’s what happened!’
Rose’s hand flew to her throat. ‘Is he all right? Where is he?’
‘Don’t worry yirself,’ Isla declared. ‘He’s in the woods, and he’s a helluva sight better company than youse lot!’ With that, she slammed the door noisily behind her.
Rose stood, shrugging off Maisie’s arm. ‘I’d better go,’ she said, grasping her handbag.
‘Sit, Rose,’ Maisie urged. ‘Leave him be.’
Rose shook her head. ‘I can’t, Maisie. He’s been jist devastated wi’ the whole thing. I’d better go ‘n’ find him.’
‘Leave him be, Rose! He’ll have to sort this out for himself. It’s part of growing up, and he’s sore in need of growing up.’
It was Rose’s turn to glare at her friend. ‘He’ll grow up soon enough, Maisie. He needs me now.’
But Rose was held tight in Maisie’s grasp. ‘He does not need you now. What he needs is a friend, someone his own age, someone who’s a mite more companionable than us old fogies. And if I haven’t missed my guess, Isla’s been far more use to him these past couple o’ hours than you – or any of us –could be.’
Rose sat, but her eyes were worried still.
‘She’s right,’ Olive stated. ‘I’m no’ saying I didn’t believe him, mind, about this angel and everything. But it’s time his mind was on the lassies, Rose. He’d be less inclined to be wanting “other” company, if you see what I’m getting at.’
Rose didn’t answer, and Olive met Maisie’s gaze across the table. Imperceptibly, she nodded in the direction of Rose’s glass.
Maisie closed one eye, making a show of inspecting her own near-empty glass. ‘Refills all round.’
‘Oh no, Maisie. I’ve had enough. Really,’ Rose protested.
Olive remained silent.
Maisie patted her hand. ‘You’ve forgotten why we’re here.’ She smiled. Then she looked back at Olive.
‘Tell us again, Olive,’ she demanded. ‘Then we’ll have a wee top-up.’
Olive looked vaguely disappointed. ‘It’s hard to concentrate … with this neck.’
Maisie made a gargantuan effort. ‘Lubrication necessary,’ she prescribed, heading towards the bar.
Moments later she was back. Rose had another gin thrust in front of her – with lime, which she disliked. Olive had a vodka – with lime, which she found quite refreshing, and Maisie had God knows what.
‘Aren’t we all lucky to be here,’ Maisie said. ‘Whenever I get round to pondering the whys and the wherefores, I must admit I’m awed.’
‘You were always that,’ Olive said. ‘You were always odd.’
‘No.’ Maisie frowned. ‘Awed. I’m awed.’
Olive tried to nod. ‘Swhat I said.’
Maisie stretched, knocking the Van Gogh print above her sideways.
Rose pointed. ‘Yir picture…’
Maisie leaned back, reaching to straighten it and knocking it more lopsided than before. ‘A madman, they called him. To be that mad…’ She sighed.
Rose cast a worried frown in her direction, hoping Maisie wasn’t about to descend into maudlin reverie. She turned her attention to Olive.
‘OK. Tell us again, so I can get home to my bairn.’
‘Right then,’ Olive began, happy to be the centre of attention once more. ‘Apparently, Raymond Mearns and Chrissie Falconer have been having a fling for quite some time…’
‘Chrissie Falconer,’ Maisie muttered. ‘Who would have thought…?’
‘Aye,’ Olive agreed. ‘A quiet wee wifie like that. Anyway, she went over to visit her uncle in Spain last year, and that’s when the plan was hatched.’
‘All that time ago,’ Rose said, tasting her gin and lime. It wasn’t that bad after all. You could get used to it.
‘So,’ Olive continued, ‘Uncle Ernie’s ready to retire from his bar, or whatever they have in thon foreign places.’ She smiled. ‘I remember Ernie well. A fine-looking man in his day. Course he did a midnight flit, left a pile o’ debt behind him.’ Olive shook herself from her reminiscence. ‘Still, he seems to have done well enough for himself out in the wilds. And here’s Little Miss Librarian and her fancy-man waiting in the wings – all organised wi’ passports, if you don’t mind!’
Maisie chinked Rose’s glass again, missing by a mile. ‘Cheers!’ she said.
‘Cheers, Maisie. Cheers, Olive.’ Rose grinned.
‘Aye well.’ Olive made a great show of twirling her empty glass. ‘I’d drink yir health if…’
‘Refills!’
‘No, Maisie!’ Rose held her glass tightly. ‘I couldna’ drink another drop.’
Maisie smiled indulgently, incapable of rising anyway.
Olive glanced pointedly at Maisie’s whatever-it-was. ‘Just say if you canna’ manage that.’
Maisie slid the glass towards her. ‘He’p ’self.’
Olive lifted it to her lips, swallowed, and grimaced. ‘How can you drink that, Maisie?’
‘Can’t. That’s how you got it.’
Olive drained the glass. ‘Ugh! It’s hellish.’ She wiped her mouth, and paused for a moment. ‘It took the sting from my neck just the same.’
Taking a deep breath, she resumed her story. ‘Well, gang, Mr Mearns and Miss Falconer departed on Wednesday afternoon, and “Will Ye No Come Back Again” will not be requested on Family Favourites this weekend – no’ by Sheena Mearns, anyway. No BFPO number there!’
‘Adios, Ray-mundo,’ Maisie howled.
‘Sssh!’ Rose laughed.
‘Not a’tall,’ Maisie retorted. ‘Shout it from the rooftops! Sheena Mearns got beaten by a pair o’ lisle stockings and the flattest feet since Dixon o’ Dock Green!’
‘Y’canna’ help yir feet,’ Olive reminded them. ‘Chrissie Falconer’s going to find it heavy going in thon tropical heat, and no mistake.’
‘Where is it anyway?’ Rose asked. ‘What part of Spain?’
‘Och,’ Olive said, ‘I never heard o’ it. And I canna’ imagine how they’ll make a success o’ a bar in a place wi’ the daft name o’ Benny drome.’
‘It’s Benidorm,’ Maisie corrected her. ‘Sandra told me.’
Rose pointed a finger at Olive. ‘That’s how you knew! Sandra told you. It’s the talk o’ Boots, more than likely.’
Olive looked annoyed. She prided herself in being first with the craic – any craic.
‘Well, so what if it is? Yis dinna’ know where Sheena Mearns took herself off to, when she found out.’
‘Where?’ Maisie and Rose asked together.
Olive studied her glass. ‘I don’t know. Yet,’ she said, her eyes twinkling. ‘But Sandra’s getting her job on the make-up counter. Sheena Mearns won’t be missed there, I can tell yis!’
Rose shook her head. ‘When did you hear all this, Olive? Sandra hadn’t got to Jen’s when you left.’
Olive’s face darkened. ‘Och, she came by at closing. Donald had an awful head on him. He was needing an Askit.’
‘And Violet was needing a slap,’ Maisie added.
‘Poor souls,’ Rose murmured. ‘It’s no’ like you, Maisie, to be hard on folks like that.’
Maisie’s eyes became misty. ‘I know. It’s just that Jen’s trying so hard … And to think we’ll never see Jim again.’
The adjoining door opened again. ‘Are yis still there?’ Isla called.
She never did get an answer.
Marjorie paced relentlessly. ‘Where are they?’ she demanded. ‘We have to be at the station by eight o’clock.’
‘They’ll no’ be much longer.’ Helen finished wrapping the sandwiches. ‘There now. At least yis won’t go hungry on the journey.’
‘There’s really no need,’ Marjorie insisted. ‘I won’t be able to eat a bite until we arrive home. I really don’t see the point of coming here at all. I’m no sooner recovering from the journey than we have to face it again. I can’t imagine what Stewart was thinking about!’
Helen bristled but said nothing. Another hour at best, and she’d have the house to herself again.
Marjorie strode to the front door and gazed down the drive, her arms wrapped around herself as though it were the middle of winter.
‘There’s absolutely no sign of them!’ she declared, returning to the kitchen. She sat, crossing her legs, one heel tapping impatiently on the linoleum.
‘You have to understand, madam, that Murdo won’t have the occasion to spend time with Stew … Mr Cunningham, for a while to come. And you know how men are, when it comes to the fishing.’
‘Indeed I don’t. My husband has no need of fishing companions in London!’
‘Well, Mr Cunningham’s a bit more than a companion to Murdo. He’s more like a son…’
‘Hmmph! Hardly that.’
Despite the rebuff, Helen continued. ‘… The son we never had.’
Marjorie stopped tapping. She lifted a hand to inspect her freshly manicured nails. ‘I understand you have no family of your own?’
Helen held her breath. This might be her last chance, her only chance. And she had promised Stewart. She turned to look at Marjorie, but the woman steadfastly avoided her eyes. There was an interest there, though, Helen determined, even if Marjorie was doing her best to conceal it.
‘No, we never did have. I had several miscarriages, and eventually time took care o’ the rest.’
‘Several?’ Helen could see that Marjorie had had difficulty with the question.
‘Five, all told. The first four were early enough. But we were hopeful of that last one.’ Helen’s voice became softer. ‘A wee lassie, it was.’
At last the younger woman met her eyes. ‘Five …’ Marjorie drew a long, ragged breath. ‘I don’t think I could manage … five. I lost our second child a month ago.’ She stared off into a place far beyond Drumdarg.
‘It seems one is not supposed to grieve after a miscarriage, Mrs Macrae. One is supposed to get on with one’s life, and try again. I don’t think I want to … try again.’ With great precision, Marjorie straightened the hem of her skirt. ‘I can’t bear it, you see – and it’s such a disappointment for Stewart.’
‘Well, madam, the men don’t quite understand it, do they? I believe Murdo was at the end o’ his tether with our own “disappointments”. But I couldn’t help him. I was grieving, just like you, and I hardly thought to notice that Murdo was suffering too. I’d been wrapped up in myself – and the loss – for so long.’
Helen paused. ‘And then, he was late coming back to the house one night. He’d gone fishing that morning – a day much like today, it was. I remember I was quite furious with him. I thought, there he is – away enjoying himself, and here’s me on my own, wi’ nothing in the world to look forward to.
‘And I was so tired. I never did get used to the tiredness,’ Helen confessed. ‘Anyway, the rage burned in me all day and, finally, I set out to find him. It was growing dark, and he didn’t see me coming along the path. His head was in his hands, and his shoulders were shaking. At first I thought he was laughing, but as I came closer, I could see that he was crying.’ Helen’s eyes filled with the memory.
‘Murdo’s the old-fashioned sort, madam, as you’ve probably noticed. I’d never seen him cry before, and it hurt me – more than you can imagine. By the time I reached him, I was crying too. We just sat there holding on to each other, until long after dark, and in our own way we came to terms with all of it that night.
‘You see,’ Helen continued, ‘it wasn’t that he was missing the babies so much. Oh, he wanted them too – there was no question about that. But it was me he was really missing. Men get so used to us being there that when we shut them out – for whatever reason – well, then, they get … a wee bit lost.’
Marjorie reached as though to touch the older woman. Helen caught the movement, and might have responded. For a few brief moments, they had joined together in the ancient company of womanhood. But centuries of difference still conspired to keep them apart and, slowly, Marjorie’s hand dropped back into her lap.
‘Don’t fret, lass,’ Helen said then, her voice gentle. ‘If you love each other enough, you’ll come through. But do yir grieving together. It’s less lonely that way.’
Marjorie swallowed. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘Go home and enjoy yir Easter. And don’t be afraid to share yir worries wi’ God, Mrs Cunningham.’ Helen smiled. ‘He’ll be up all night anyway.’
Marjorie returned the smile, and Helen caught a glimpse of the beauty hiding behind the pinched features.
‘That’s more like it,’ she said, bustling towards the hall. ‘And if I’m no’ mistaken, that’s our menfolk coming up the drive.’
Marjorie followed, stepping back as Gallus hurled himself into the house, skidding across the polished floor. Marjorie raised her arms in automatic protest, then bent to bestow a single nervous pat on the Westie’s head.
Murdo and Stewart watched in amazement. ‘I’m sorry we took so long…’ Stewart began.
‘We have plenty of time,’ Marjorie smiled back.
Stewart’s look of amazement deepened. Helen reached to take his waders from him, nodding imperceptibly as she did so. He passed her a look of such infinite gratitude that she couldn’t help herself.
She clasped him in her sturdy arms, and gave him a hug.