by Kiley Dunbar
‘That “fiddling about with sticks and twigs” is my attempt at starting a willow-weaving business of my own.’ He crumpled the wrappers from her sticking plasters into a soft fist before stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets and turning away from her, seemingly surveying the whitewashed wall.
Beatrice blinked at him in the dim light and he kept talking, low and slow.
‘You’ve come all this way just to insult my inn rooms, fluster my brother and ask for your money back? You’ve barely seen the place.’
‘What’s there to see? Rain, midges, mad cattle charges. I just want to go…’ She almost said ‘home’, but the word didn’t come.
‘Well, there’s no refunds to be had. Go if you wish, but I’ve a bedroom and a classroom empty for more than a week now.’
Beatrice stood, feeling the big square dressings on both her kneecaps crinkle and pinch as her legs straightened. Again with the feeling ridiculous. Leaving her barely touched whisky on the table, she made for the door. ‘I thought I needed a change of scene. I was wrong, OK?’ It’s something else I need, she thought, but what, she had no idea.
‘Well you’ll never find out what it is you’re after if you keep running from pillar to post.’ There was consternation written across his face.
Her neck stiffened. Could this guy read her mind, and what was it to him, anyway?
‘You don’t know the first thing about me,’ she snapped, riled that he’d pinned her so accurately.
‘I know you wanted to come here at some point. And maybe it’s no’ what ye expected, but if you let yourself enjoy it, ye might find you’d like to stay out your holiday wi’ us, and ye might learn a few things too.’
‘The last thing I need is another smart-mouthed man telling me what I need.’ She fumbled with the latch on the low door and made sure not to bump her head on the frame as she flounced out.
Pulling the door closed behind her, she faced the wide circle of blue in the bay and inhaled the fresh, warm, salty air. But the buoying feelings of decisiveness, authority and self-righteousness she’d expected to come, didn’t arrive. Instead, she felt a shrinking smallness, and then shame.
Why was she behaving like this? Who was she?
Inside the cottage, Atholl watched the door slam, shaking his head and instinctively raising Beatrice’s glass to his lips, draining it dry and holding back the urge to throw the glass into the fire grate and watch it shatter.
As Beatrice slunk down the cottage garden path, defeated and embarrassed, she spotted a painted wooden sign to her left pointing along a wide, dry path between two grassy meadows alive with butterflies. ‘To Port Willow’ it read. She cursed Atholl Fergusson and the wicked sense of revenge that had made him urge his docile brother to send her down the rocky road, and she found herself cursing his handsome face and his haughty, straight-talking manner too.
How dare he antagonise her like this? When she’d been through so much recently? When she was so fragile and so alone? But, of course, he couldn’t know. She had never told anyone about her lovely mother, her lost job and her precious baby boy. Sorrow had piled upon sorrow for months now and it all weighed invisibly on her shoulders, but she had no intention – or indeed any means – of starting to talk about it all now.
Walking at a pace along the path her heart thumped as she remembered what a fool she’d made of herself on the beach. ‘Stick to the rocks,’ Gene had told her. He must have known about the cows and even though his brother wanted him to send her on a fool’s rock climb, Gene didn’t want her flattened under-hoof. These Fergusson brothers would be the death of her. How she hated them and their ridiculous inn.
A sleek brown hare shot across the path a few paces ahead of her. Breaking her stride she tried to follow it with her eyes but found it was already hidden in the long meadow grass dotted here and there with bobbing blue cornflowers.
The moment allowed her a chance to stop and breathe.
Glancing back to the But and Ben behind her, she considered walking back in there and letting Atholl know how reckless he’d been, how dangerous his stupid ploy was, but instead of picturing herself spitting fire at a repentant Atholl Fergusson, she saw him kneeling at her feet cleaning up her grazed legs and was struck by the memory of his gentle touch. Her cheeks burned as she turned back for Port Willow, shouting into the still, warm air. ‘Everything about this stupid Scottish trip was a mistake!’
The church spire of St Magnus’ came into view in the distance, an easy walk now along the gently sloping meadow path. She set off once more planning to hide away all day and take the first train home tomorrow. Nobody need ever know about how she booked a spontaneous getaway to the Scottish Highlands at a moment’s notice, just so she could escape the resounding emptiness of her life. One more day here and she’d be home to watch the men load the van with Rich’s gym equipment, and to pack her own belongings into boxes, readying herself to hand over keys to her house’s new occupants, and then – what? She had no idea.
Chapter Eight
A Lion and a Unicorn
‘You down there, are you all right or am I calling the coastguard?’
Even through the fog of tears and the headache that crying her heart out always brought on, Beatrice registered how the harshness of the woman’s words were softened by the trilling Highland accent.
‘You’re not dead, are you? I’ve no mind to be hauling a body up the sea wall today, I’ve got my fish supper to eat.’
Beatrice craned her neck and looked directly above her. Red hair tumbled over the Port Willow bay sea wall like Rapunzel, and a broad, kind smile greeted her. The sun shone behind the woman’s head in a halo. It was the woman from the bar last night, the one Atholl had been so friendly with. Beatrice shielded her eyes and cleared her throat. ‘I’ll be all right, thanks. I’m fine.’
‘Righty-o.’ The woman pulled her head back over the wall and disappeared from view.
‘Oh! She really has left.’ Beatrice might have imagined that when someone happened upon a strange woman blubbing over an abandoned lobster pot against a sea wall at low tide they’d be a bit more insistent about helping out.
She wiped the tears away with her sleeves and pressed the heel of her hands into her tired eyes. Maybe if she sat still long enough the headache would eventually clear and she could drag herself off this beach and into the inn behind her where she could sleep away the rest of the day in peace.
The approaching footsteps over sand and shingle and someone coming to a stop a few feet away told her she’d have to pull herself together sooner than that.
‘Here, I didn’t know if you were a tea or a coffee girl, so I got one of each.’
The redhead had walked along the sea wall and down the steps to her rescue after all. Before Beatrice could say anything her companion was sitting beside her, mirroring Beatrice’s position by resting her back against the wall.
‘There’s a coffee shop here?’ Beatrice asked in surprise, reaching for a cup. ‘I’m most definitely a coffee girl, if you don’t mind. Thank you.’
The takeaway cup was handed over and Beatrice took a long, appreciative drink.
‘There’s a café in the back of the general store along the front. Haven’t you been in yet?’
‘Not yet,’ she said with a sniff and knowing she wouldn’t set foot in the place in the future either. ‘This is just what I needed.’
‘Nothing like a cuppa,’ the woman smiled sagely, crossing her long legs at her ankle boots and looking out to sea.
There was kindness in that, Beatrice thought. When someone’s been ugly-crying and has the blotchy red face and snotty nose to show for it, the nicest thing to do is sit close and avert your eyes.
‘I’m Kitty,’ the woman said to the blue sky.
‘I’m Beatrice. I don’t normally do this sort of thing.’ Beatrice ran through the number of times she’d found herself doing exactly this sort of thing in recent months; crying in the supermarket aisles, in the queue at the bus stop, and that
time she’d worried the dental hygienist by sobbing in the waiting room for no discernible reason.
‘Everybody needs a good weep sometimes,’ Kitty soothed. She let Beatrice drink her coffee and the pair watched a boat bobbing at the entrance to the bay as a young man threw a fishing line from its prow.
‘Hungry?’ Kitty asked.
‘Famished, actually.’ How strange, Beatrice thought, after Gene’s big breakfast this morning. ‘It must be the sea air.’
‘Good, because I’ve got these and there’s no way I’ll manage them by myself.’ Kitty unwrapped the paper parcel and the smell of fish and hot vinegar swirled around them.
‘Now that is what I call fish and chips.’ Beatrice turned to her companion with a smile. ‘Thanks, I might just try one or two bites.’
Kitty nodded contentedly and they made a start on their impromptu meal, listening to the gulls spreading the word there were potential fish supper scraps to be had.
‘You’ll be lucky,’ Kitty called to the largest and boldest gull, who was side-eying their lunch a little way off down the sand, making Beatrice laugh.
‘I won’t pry,’ Kitty said eventually, after licking salt from her fingers. ‘But I’m a very good listener if you have a sorry tale to tell.’
Something in her quiet warmth told Beatrice that Kitty would also be good at keeping her tale to herself, but there was no way she would blurt it all out, not to a stranger, and especially not when her spirits were reviving under the noon sun and blue sky.
‘I’m OK, honestly. Just had a bit of a morning.’
‘Och, tell me about it. I’m supposed to be starting my Gaelic lessons next week but that daft Eugene Fergusson has messed up the bookings and I’ve no one to teach.’
‘Ah!’ Beatrice’s eyes widened as she turned to face her companion. ‘You’re the Gaelic tutor. I was one of your students. Now I’m a willow weaver, apparently. Well, I was… I’m leaving tomorrow.’ The words didn’t carry much conviction as the sea breeze took them away.
Beatrice felt rooted to her peaceful spot at the foot of the sea wall and the view of Port Willow bay seemed to be opening itself out before her for the first time as the sun at its zenith made the landscape shine. Low rugged hills, white cottages, a great grey-walled castle on the shore opposite and a Lion Rampant flag flying from its turrets presented themselves to her.
To top it all off a thin, watery rainbow stretched across the sky. It hadn’t been there a moment before, Beatrice could have sworn. The brightly painted, colourful boats bobbing out on the water reflected the sunlight and cast their own glittering, broken rainbows through the water. For a moment, Beatrice let herself imagine the effect was nothing to do with science and refraction and more to do with magic.
‘I hadn’t realised how pretty it was here.’
‘Sometimes you need to sit still and just look,’ Kitty said, sipping her tea, scanning her eyes lazily along the horizon.
‘So what will you do now you’ve no students?’ Beatrice said, breaking off a satisfyingly large chunk of flaky white fish in crisp, bubbled batter.
‘It’ll work itself out, I’m sure. I had a week’s holidaying planned first, just relaxing in Port Willow, and Atholl’s brought me in until the end of September and I’m sure he’ll sort some students out for me, so I’m not going anywhere and I have plenty of uni work to be getting on with in the meantime.’
‘Seth mentioned you worked at a university.’
‘Ah, yes, the all-seeing Seth.’ Kitty spoke through bites of their lunch. ‘I saw him grilling you last night. He doesn’t miss much. I run the Gaelic programme at a uni about thirty miles north of here. It’s a lovely job and I have my summer free to do things like this.’
‘Sounds ideal.’
‘I think so.’ Kitty’s eyes swept along the bay. ‘This beats any gap year beach in Thailand or summer holiday job in a library, or whatnot.’
They’d come to the bottom of the chip wrapper already and between them had greedily hoovered up most of the batter. Kitty threw a scrap to the patient gull who rewarded her with a loud caw before snatching its prize and flying off along to the jetty at the far end of the beach.
‘I tell you what would go down well as a pudding,’ Kitty’s eyes glinted. ‘A gin and tonic.’
‘Well, I don’t know about Gaelic, but now you are speaking my language, Kitty.’
‘Come on then.’ She helped haul Beatrice up from the sand.
‘Let’s see if Eugene Fergusson can still pour a good mixer.’
‘Let’s. Do you think he’ll let me use the inn computer? I need to let my sister know I’m not going back to Warwickshire today after all, but I’ve lost my mobile with her new number in it.’
‘I’m sure he’ll no’ mind.’
‘Kitty? Thank you… I really needed to see a friendly face today.’
‘My pleasure.’ Kitty smiled warmly. ‘Umm, Beatrice?’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘Is your bum as wet as mine?’
She reached a hand behind her and grimaced. ‘The sand was quite damp, wasn’t it?’
Their laughter resounded across the bay, and when Beatrice stumbled over the top step onto the road Kitty caught her arm and held it fast all the way to the door of The Princess and the Pea Inn.
* * *
‘Did the bar look like this last night?’ Beatrice said, glancing around. Had there been sparkling white fairy lights strung in taut, neat lines along the bar shelves causing the glassware and whisky bottles to glimmer? And the table tops now gleamed with heady scented beeswax. Weren’t they sticky and dull yesterday? And…
‘Gene? You’re looking smart!’ Beatrice couldn’t help grinning at the sheepish look on his face as he swept a cloth inside the pint glasses.
‘It was those Geordie women, wasn’t it? The hairdressers. Practically ambushed me, they did. After breakfast. Something about not being able to forgive themselves and calling me a follicle criminal, which I didnae much appreciate. Anyway, they did this to me.’ He ran a hand over his shorn head.
‘I like it,’ Kitty said immediately, before ordering two GlenWyvis Highland gins with full fat tonic and orange peel, which Gene efficiently set about preparing.
‘You look ten years younger now,’ Beatrice chipped in, and she meant it. ‘And has the bar had a bit of a makeover too?’
‘It needed a going over, I think,’ Gene replied, looking round the room with a little spark of pride in his eyes. Beatrice wondered if he was standing even taller than he had this morning; he seemed to tower over the bar.
‘Atholl will be pleased,’ said Kitty.
Beatrice caught Gene’s eyes flicker briefly towards her own, and she was glad to see the look of shame.
‘That reminds me, I’ve a bone to pick with you, Eugene Fergusson.’
‘There’s no need. Atholl came storming in here an hour ago looking for ye, said you hurt yourself on the rocks. I’m sorry, I didnae mean you any harm directing you over Rother Path. It is a braw walk and safe, usually. I think it was just his wee joke, really. Are you all right now?’
After the dulling effects of her torrent of tears, the fresh air and summer warmth and her deliciously satisfying feast of salty, yummy fat and carbs there was no fight left in her.
‘You’re both lucky I didn’t get flattened, but I am all right. Echo saved me, just like you said, though I never called for him. He found me.’
Gene was shaking his head. ‘Atholl sent him ahead. He’d watched the whole thing happening from the But n’ Ben window and he set the mutt running, knowing his own feet wouldn’t carry him as fast. But my brother reached you all right, in the end, I hear?’
‘That’s right.’ Beatrice fought the colour rising in her cheeks, hoping she was still blotchy and pink enough from the morning’s excitement and tearfulness to mask her blushes.
‘On the house.’ Gene set two tall glasses on the bar, breaking the buzz of tension in the air, and reminding Beatrice she had a favour to ask.
>
‘Gene, do you mind if I use the inn computer, just for a second?’ she asked.
‘Go right ahead, the reception machine is on.’
‘No password or anything?’
‘Eh, no. Should there be?’ He shrugged as though the suggestion were an odd one.
‘OK, back in a sec. Thanks, Gene.’ Beatrice hopped off the stool, taking her drink with her.
The reception was empty – no sign of any guests, or Atholl, thank goodness. So he’d come looking for her, had he? She wondered if the warmth in her chest was caused by the first few sips of gin or the knowledge that he’d wanted to see her, no doubt to apologise.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the need to concentrate on remembering her Facebook password. Angela was far more likely to log in to her social media accounts than she was to check emails during her cosy days at home with baby Clara. She thought hard, searching her memory and taking the opportunity to straighten the antlers hanging on the wall behind her. ‘That’s better. Right, password, password…’ It had been many months since she’d had to log in but after two failed attempts she struck upon the right one. ‘Ah, there, I’m in,’ she told the empty room.
And there on the screen was her profile picture, posted back in the spring and unchanged since that happy, relief-filled day when she’d had the early scan and all had been well. There was Rich, grinning and proud, holding the sonographer’s wand, and Beatrice, her stomach bare and glistening from the gel, caught gazing at the moving image on the screen.
‘Oh, no.’ Beatrice felt the blood draining from her face and clicked frantically at the little cross in the corner of the pane, trying to close the page but finding the screen frozen. ‘The damn thing’s crashed! Does nothing work in this bloody place?’
‘Very little,’ came a soft voice from the door. ‘’Ow do?’ said Seth, making his way for the bar room. ‘That thing’s always on the blink, best to shut it down and try again later, that’s what Atholl always does.’