Olive rose to answer the door, grumbling to herself with every step. Her neck was wrapped in a length of red flannel, the traditional cure for all manner of aches and pains.
‘Pheugh!’ Sandy said, stepping backwards. That’s some strong linament you’ve got there, Olive.’
‘Come in, and stop yir moaning,’ she griped. ‘It’s no’ your neck that’s sore.’
Sandy stepped jauntily across the threshold, loosening his tie as he did so. ‘I came wi’ some good news.’
‘It’s me that’s needing good news,’ Olive said, motioning him towards a chair. ‘And sit straight. I’m no’ wanting yir hair-oil all over my antimacassars.’
He took off his suit jacket, and Olive moved automatically to hang it on the hall-stand.
‘What’s yir news?’ she asked, returning to settle gingerly into her armchair. ‘Don’t tell me. Mary Rankin won the snowball again.’
‘No.’ Sandy grinned. ‘I did.’
‘You? You won the snowball?’ Olive tutted in disgust. ‘The one day I wasna’ there. You probably got the ticket I’d have bought myself.’
‘It doesn’t matter whose ticket it was,’ Sandy informed her jubilantly. ‘The fact is, we’re sixty-eight pounds richer!’
‘We? Don’t tell me I’m finally going to get a sniff at yir money, Sandy Robertson.’
‘Och, Olive. I’ve been saving it up. I didna’ want to say anything ’til I had enough, but I’ve enough now. I’ve more than enough.’
‘Enough for what?’ Olive’s tone was guarded, her expression wary.
‘There was a hundred and forty pounds left owing on the house. Now I know that might no’ be a lot to some folks, but it’s a lot to me.’
‘Aye, isn’t it?’ Olive sneered. ‘It would be a bloody fortune to you.’
Sandy dismissed the slur. ‘Anyway, wi’ today’s winnings added to what I’d put aside from the rest, I can pay the house off.’
‘Bully for you.’
Sandy dived forward, landing on one knee in front of her. ‘So I’m asking you to marry me, Olive, and take me for yir own.’
Olive glared down at him. ‘Get up out o’ there, and don’t be depressing me.’
Sandy appeared nonplussed. ‘I didna’ think I was that mistaken.’
Holding her neck, Olive stared at him. ‘You’re no’ serious? Y’canna’ be serious.’
‘Why not? If Mad Hatters can do it, no’ to mention Doug and Maisie, what’s to stop us? I’m no’ getting any younger, y’know.’
Olive’s hand dropped. ‘You are serious!’
Sandy nodded.
‘What about my own house?’
‘Yir aye moaning about the rent the Forestry charges you. You could give it up easily enough.’
‘And you’d support me?’
‘I don’t get careless wi’ offers when it comes to money, Olive. You know that.’
Olive drew a deep breath. ‘I could think about it.’
‘Grand,’ Sandy said, trying to rise. His knee gave out, and Olive reached to help him. As he struggled to his feet, she realised that something in her neck had clicked into place. In any event, the pain had gone.
She began to unwind the red flannel. ‘I think I could manage a sherry.’ She nodded towards the sideboard.
‘Get yir coat on. We’ll away down to the Whig and join in the revelries. I’ll buy you a sherry.’
Olive sighed happily. ‘You must have taken a turn.’
‘Give us a kiss,’ Sandy prompted.
‘I’ll do no such thing,’ Olive retorted. Then she swept a glance in his direction. A stranger might have taken it as flirtatious, which was something Olive Tolmie had never been in her life.
‘No’ till we’re married,’ Olive said archly.
Maisie moved among her guests with the aplomb of a New York socialite. She was swathed from head to foot in shades of purple, her hair loosely woven with white plastic daisies, her feet encased in embroidered slippers which had recently had pride of place in the Oxfam window.
Chalmers had started a kitty, before remembering that he’d left his wallet at home. Rose, digging in her handbag, informed Helen that she might never see Venice at this rate.
‘Och, but it’s a grand thing to have something to celebrate,’ Helen said.
‘It is,’ Rose agreed. ‘Who’d have thought we’d be at a funeral one day and a betrothal the next?’
‘Indeed,’ Murdo said, keeping a watchful eye on Gallus who was wandering from table to table with a pitiful expression on his face, an empty bowl clenched firmly in his mouth.
‘If that dog gets any more to drink, he’ll be legless.’ Murdo shook his head. ‘He’s way ahead o’ me already.’
‘You didna’ have any bedders yet?’ Helen enquired of Rose, reaching to pull the bowl from the Westie’s mouth. He refused to give it up, and she sat back.
‘No. I think I might go a bit easier this year,’ Rose replied. ‘Chalmers thinks it would be a good idea for us to have the house … more to ourselves.’ Rose coloured and glanced towards the bar, away from Helen.
Helen smiled. ‘I’m right glad to hear it.’
The shrill of a telephone sounded through the wall, and Maisie asked the company’s indulgence while she stepped through to the café to answer it.
‘The Tatler, I’m sure,’ she gaily informed them.
Moments later she was back, beckoning Isla to join her.
Isla, who had taken it upon herself to refill the little glass dishes of nuts and raisins, paused from her chores.
‘Me?’ she mouthed.
Maisie waved even more vigorously, dislodging a daisy, which fell from her hair and disappeared into the mass of her bosom.
‘What?’ Isla demanded, closing the bar door behind her. ‘What is it?’
‘Sit!’
‘Stop it, Maisie,’ Isla said, her voice concerned. ‘You’re scaring me.’
‘Oh, darling girl, do not be afraid. I am about to impart the best, the most exciting, news of the day – except, of course, for my own.’ She flourished her arms in a mock curtsey and came to stand behind her niece, her hands pushing Isla firmly into the chair.
‘Guess who just called?’
‘Who?’ Isla’s voice was sullen again.
Maisie swung herself round to face the girl, lifting Isla’s chin towards her.
‘Your mother just called. My dear sister Fiona. Soon-to-be-divorced Fiona!’
‘It seems your less-than-beloved stepfather got his jotters. A search of the cubby-hole he called his office turned up quite a few items of underwear. Guests’ underwear. Female guests’ underwear.’
‘I knew it. I knew it!’
‘Thou wert not mistaken,’ Maisie continued. ‘Your mother, shocked and upset, but apparently not all that surprised, decided to take a look round the house.’ Maisie’s voice grew very quiet. ‘Isla,’ she said gently, ‘he had some of your knickers in his tallboy.’
Isla stared at Maisie for a long moment. Then she shivered, her eyes as dark as coals.
‘The creepy bastard!’
Maisie rubbed Isla’s hand with her own. ‘The creepy bastard was sent packing!’ she said, her own eyes gleaming now. ‘And my dear sister, your mother, will be here next week. She has to work over Easter, it’s a busy time at the hotel. But she’s taking the bus first thing Wednesday morning. She’ll be here by lunch.
‘Oh, and I forgot to add,’ Maisie’s smile spread even wider. ‘She said to tell you she loves you.’
Isla looked disconcerted, then she shrugged. ‘So here we go again.’
‘Isla?’
‘Och, Maisie, I’m glad. Really, I am. But she’ll no’ be long without a man. I want to stay here, work with you and Doug.’ She shrugged again. ‘Mam’ll manage better without me and, to tell you the truth, I’ll manage better without her.’
Maisie frowned. ‘You have so much to offer, Isla. Why would you want to be hiding yirself away here?’
‘I don’t think I would be.’ Isla was indignant at the suggestion. ‘We have a business to get going. You’ll need decent staff.’
Maisie shook her head sadly. ‘I’m afraid…’
‘What?’ There was real panic in Isla’s voice now.
‘I’m afraid that we would be wanting a bit more than decent. We’d be wanting the best.’
‘Ohhh!’
‘So, you’ll take the job then?’
Isla threw her arms around Maisie’s neck, and held on for a very long time.
‘Hi, Mrs Pascoe.’
‘Barra! You scared me.’
‘Sorry. I did wave. I didn’t think you’d seen me, though.’
Jennifer trailed a hand across a sapling. ‘I felt like a walk. It’s been a long day.’
‘You’ve no’ been into the Whig?’
‘Not yet,’ Jennifer said. ‘I didn’t feel up to it.’
‘Aye,’ Barra answered, walking back up the forest path with her. ‘I can understand that you wouldn’t.’ He smiled at her. ‘We had a great picnic the day.’
Jennifer stopped to breathe in the evening air. ‘That’s nice. So, what are you doing here? By the sounds of it, there’s a grand party going on down there.’
‘Och, they’ll be there for a while yet,’ he said. He turned to her, resting a hand lightly on her arm. ‘You know they haven’t forgotten? About Mr Pascoe, I mean?’
Jennifer sighed. ‘They say life goes on, Barra. It certainly seems to – in Drumdarg.’
‘But they’re no’ meaning to be … disrespectful.’
‘I know that,’ Jennifer said, moving forward quickly. ‘But you can’t blame me for not feeling up to a party just yet.’
Barra caught up with her. ‘Of course not.’
She stopped, turning to him once more.
‘Barra. Would you mind? I’d really like to be alone right now.’
‘Sometimes it’s better to have company, someone to talk to.’
‘Please don’t,’ Jennifer interrupted. ‘I know you mean well, but…’
‘Mrs Pascoe, I’m sorry for all the bother,’ Barra interrupted, his voice earnest. ‘I was jist hoping…’
Jennifer had stopped again, but now she was holding his gaze, her eyes almost feverish.
‘Barra, this Jamie, what did he look like?’
‘He was quite tall,’ Barra began, his voice hesitant. ‘And he had wide blue eyes, and long curly hair.’
‘What colour?’
‘Blond. He had blond hair. And he had this great smile, Mrs Pascoe.’ He rushed on, anxious to tell her now. ‘It was jist brilliant when he smiled. You couldn’t notice anything else…’
Jennifer held out a hand to stop him. Then she rubbed her eyes. ‘I … I had a dream. At least … I fell asleep, after everyone left. And I …’ She moved forward, and then stopped, as though she didn’t know in which direction to go.
‘And what, Mrs Pascoe? Did you dream about him? Did you dream about Jamie?’ Barra kept his voice low, as though aware that the first hint of excitement in his voice would startle her into leaving.
‘I’m not sure. It wasn’t like a dream. There was this boy beside me. We were walking together … like you and me, just now. It seemed like we were here – here in the woods…’
Jennifer looked up towards the clearing, and Barra’s eyes followed. For a second he almost expected to see Jamie there, but the clearing was empty.
Jennifer gulped in the warm air, as though she were having trouble breathing. ‘… Then I turned to look at him properly – and he changed.’ Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper and Barra leaned further towards her, trying to catch the words. ‘It was Jim. It was Jim, Barra.’ She looked at him again and, though her eyes swam with tears, they were clear. Clear, and shining bright.
‘He looked so happy, Barra, and he held out his hand and touched me. So lightly, and yet … I woke then, and there was this warmth all over me. It was right through me.’ Still, Jennifer held his gaze. ‘It was Jim. And, Barra…?’
‘What?’ he whispered.
‘… He had the most beautiful crop of hair.’ She collapsed against him, sobbing.
For the first time in his young life, Barra held a woman in his arms. He too felt his throat catch, and had to struggle to get the words out.
But they came out, just the same.
‘I knew he’d have hair for his birthday.’
‘Sit yirself there,’ Barra instructed. ‘Mam’ll see to you.’
Jennifer surrendered, smiling at Helen and Rose as she took her place at the table.
The two women reached for her, each holding a hand in silent support. They were there. They always would be. It was that simple.
‘What’ll you have, hen?’ Murdo enquired kindly.
‘Nothing, thanks,’ Jennifer replied.
‘Och, you’ll have to have a wee dram. It’s Easter.’
‘A wee one,’ she said.
Graham brought the tray of drinks to the table, distributing them carefully. ‘If I have to keep up wi’ them, it’s only fair you should,’ he whispered in her ear.
Jennifer raised her glass, and looked up.
‘Happy birthday, Jim,’ he mouthed.
Jennifer smiled and nodded, unable to speak.
She lifted her glass.
Happy birthday, my darling.
Isla was leaning across the bar, making a point of ignoring him.
‘Are you enjoying yirself?’ he asked.
Andy Blackwell was squeezing the life out of an accordion in the far corner, while his brother whipped out an accompaniment on the fiddle.
‘It would be better if they could play a decent tune,’ Barra remarked.
‘That two’s for the chop when we open the bistro,’ Isla remarked, somewhat unkindly. The brothers were the pride of Drumdarg.
‘What’s a bistro?’ Barra asked.
‘God, yir ignorant.’
Barra grinned. ‘D’you like Sandie Shaw?’
‘She’s OK. I prefer Dusty Springfield. I wish I knew where she gets her mascara.’
‘You don’t need mascara.’
Isla finally turned her attention to him. ‘If you say anything…’
‘You’ve got beautiful eyes. They’re the mirror o’ yir soul.’
‘They’re what?’
‘God, yir ignorant.’ Barra laughed.
‘They’ll all be mirack in an hour,’ Isla stated, careworn and weary. ‘Would you want to listen to my records?’
‘Great! We could get a dance.’
‘Dance? With you?’ Isla sneered. ‘I hope yir better than that.’ She nodded at Sandy and Olive, who were engaged in a waltz of sorts. Olive’s feet had apparently found a life of their own.
‘Och, I’m way ahead o’ them’ Barra replied. ‘Watch this.’
He broke into a few tap steps.
‘Where d’you learn that?’ Isla asked, making a decent show of hiding her admiration.
Barra grinned. ‘From a friend.’
‘I’m impressed,’ Isla said, though her tone left room for doubt.
‘What about it then? D’you want to dance?’
‘Get going! Yir far too young for me, Barra Maclean.’
Barra’s face fell and he bowed his head, unable to hide his chagrin.
‘But we don’t have to be dancing partners. We could still be friends…’ Isla took pity on him.
‘Aye,’ Barra agreed, a great deal happier. It was a start. ‘I’d like to listen to yir records, anyway.’
‘I have to leave the door open,’ Isla warned. ‘Maisie’s rules.’
Barra coloured. ‘Rules is rules.’
‘C’mon then.’ Isla stepped towards the door but Barra raced ahead, holding it open while she passed through.
Isla turned. ‘A gentleman!’ she exclaimed. ‘Yir a gift from the gods, Barra Maclean.’
Barra pulled himself to his full height, unconsciously reaching to flatten his curls as he closed the door behind him.
Rose had watched the whole exchange. Something tickled her mind, refusing to make itself known. Then she remembered.
It was her favourite song, Nat King Cole’s ‘Nature Boy’, with its story of that strange enchanted boy. Well, her own ‘enchanted boy’ had just followed Isla up the stairs!
She frowned – a mother’s frown. Then she too straightened her shoulders, glancing towards her husband.
Chalmers was smiling back at her. He raised his glass in silent salute, and she returned the gesture.
No sense worrying about it, Rose Maclean, she told herself. No sense at all.