by Kiley Dunbar
‘Good idea.’ She powered down the machine, and listened to its noisy fan and clicking hard drive die away into silence. She was suddenly aware of the gulls cawing from the bay outside.
‘Come on, lassie. I see ye have a drink, let’s get settled at the bar.’
With one last dismayed glance at the blank monitor, Beatrice lifted her glass and followed Seth. Just before they passed into the room where Gene and Kitty were deep in conversation, Beatrice reached for Seth’s arm, stopping him in his tracks, and she lowered her voice when she spoke.
‘Seth, does Kitty know Atholl and Gene, then? From before the Gaelic lessons thing, I mean?’ Beatrice asked.
‘Atholl and Kitty have been friends for years. She first holidayed here with her family way back in the eighties and that’s how they met. They’d fly their kites together on the beach.’
They both glanced towards Gene who was wiping the bar down and nodding as Kitty spoke animatedly to him. Seth’s eyes sparkled and he led Beatrice into the room.
‘My usual please, Eugene. Beatrice here was just asking me if you two played together as children.’
‘Oh, well… I was just wondering…’ Beatrice flustered, throwing Seth a wide-eyed glare. What was he playing at?
‘Och, no, it was Atholl that Kitty always played with. I was older than the pair of them,’ Gene replied, seemingly unfazed by Beatrice’s curiosity and the fact she’d been asking about what kind of relationships the three of them had.
‘Too cool to play with his wee brother and his pals,’ Kitty teased.
‘There’s nine years between me and Atholl,’ Gene explained.
‘We always thought you’d marry young Atholl.’ Seth perched on the stool he’d sat at the night before, his neck craning so he could see past Beatrice and direct his remark at Kitty, a mischievous whiskery smile making his eyes shine.
Beatrice heard Kitty laugh and witnessed the muscles flex in Gene’s freshly shaved jaw, almost imperceptible, but there all the same.
‘Och, no, Seth.’ Kitty let her glass settle on the bar as she wiped her mouth with a napkin. ‘It was never Atholl I had my eye on back then.’ This was addressed straight at Gene with a challenging grin before she returned her attention to her glass, the ice cubes chinking.
Now Beatrice understood what he was up to. Seth chuckled and sipped his dram, and a slow pink blush spread across Gene’s neck. Beatrice caught sight of it just before he snatched at Seth’s money and turned his back on them all to stab at the cash register’s buttons, long enough for a flash of inspiration to hit her.
She glanced at Kitty for the briefest moment and saw the dimples form in her cheeks and her lips pursing in a sly smile confirming her suspicions; she had liked Gene once upon a time, and there was still some lingering affection there, if she wasn’t much mistaken.
‘You’re not married or seeing anyone, are you, Kitty?’ said Beatrice, trying to sound as natural as possible, not helped by the little chuckle from Seth by her side.
‘Free as a bird,’ Kitty smiled, her straw still between her teeth.
Gene suddenly slunk away into the back room, telling Seth to ring the bell if anyone wanted serving, and Beatrice and Seth exchanged cautionary glances, but Kitty didn’t seem to mind their questions.
‘The bar certainly looks smarter, doesn’t it?’ Kitty said to Seth.
‘Eugene must have taken a long look at himself this last day or two since you arrived back in town, Kitty Wake,’ Seth replied.
Beatrice’s head snapped round at this. ‘Your name’s never kittiwake, is it? Like the bird?’ She was delighted.
‘It’s Catriona, the Gaelic version of Katherine, but my parents shortened it to Kitty, our surname being Wake. And it stuck, and I like it.’
‘It suits you,’ Beatrice beamed, her glass almost empty now.
‘I think so.’
‘Do you know what I think? I think Gene might have taken a shine to you in the years since he was an indifferent young man, Kitty Wake,’ Beatrice blurted, suddenly transported to a time when teenage hormones rampaged and high school matchmaking and gossip could set her up for days.
The rush that accompanied this regression was like the same sudden exuberance that follows teenage woes. Beatrice briefly wondered when the hormonal rollercoaster effect of her recent grief and sadness would wear off. It occurred to her it might be here to stay and she delved back into the bottom of her gin glass to slake away the notion.
‘Not likely. He had his chances back in the day,’ said Kitty.
‘But he was such an obtuse laddie,’ Seth added knowingly. ‘He’d run a mile if ever a bonny lassie told him she liked him.’
‘Were there many?’ Beatrice tried to imagine a younger Gene shrugging off the attentions of queues of Highland lassies. Somehow she couldn’t quite picture it.
Kitty shrugged and drained her glass.
‘And he married someone else?’ Beatrice pushed. The idea that this sullen Scot could have his pick of two women; one a stunning university-educated language expert and the other a culinary genius, struck Beatrice as outlandish, but this was Port Willow after all, maybe miracles happened here as well as magic in the skies.
‘He was different back then. He was brighter… happier. He never knew I liked him, I’m sure, and I was only seventeen or maybe eighteen when I gave up having a crush on the daft beggar. He would never even have looked at me, anyway, what with the age difference. I was just a kid. Then he married his Canadian girl and soon after, I stopped coming to the village for summer holidays – too busy doing my doctorate by then.’
‘The brothers were the most eligible laddies in the village then, you know?’ said Seth, packing his pipe with tobacco and getting ready to leave, adding with a chuckle, ‘Asides from yours truly, of course.’
‘You’ve got a son, didn’t you say, Seth? Did you marry?’ Beatrice asked, enjoying his company and hoping to delay his departure.
‘I did.’ Seth settled on the stool once more. ‘Mary and I were married fifty-four years altogether. And I’ve missed her every day these last nine years she’s been gone.’
‘Oh, Seth, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be, lass. I was one of the lucky ones. Most of the lads in the village never married, or they went off down south or off around the world and Lord knows what happened to them, but they never returned to Port Willow so I imagine they found partners elsewhere. We’ve always had a problem of too many laddies and not enough lassies in this place. There’s no’ enough here to keep our smart, bonny lassies at home.’ Seth nodded his head to show he really was leaving, hopped off the stool and turned for the door. ‘Yes, I was one of the lucky lads,’ he said again with a smile as he left, letting the door swing closed behind him.
‘I remember Seth when I was wee,’ Kitty said, leaning her head conspiratorially towards Beatrice, though there was nobody in the bar to overhear her. ‘He and his wife didn’t get on, and she moved to the other side of the island once their son was at the high school. And every day he’d ride his bicycle over to visit her, and on Fridays he’d take a posy of flowers to her. They got on like a house on fire once they’d separated. It was quite the love affair, apparently.’
‘And they never moved back in together?’
‘And risk spoiling their romance? Goodness, no.’
‘Wow, that’s unusual. But what about you? Didn’t you meet anyone special?’
‘There were a few all right lads, but I haven’t met anyone special recently,’ Kitty conceded. ‘Most academic men aren’t ideal husband material, you see; always working late into the night, never taking their summer holidays even though they’ve earned them, chasing promotion and preferment, pfft! No thank you. And they seem to be the only chaps I get thrown together with in my line of work. The rest have been farmers and fishermen away from dawn till dusk. I have a theory that nice, available Highland blokes who aren’t out grafting twenty-four seven are like Brigadoon; one rises from the mists every one hundred year
s.’ Kitty laughed.
‘I know a bit about busy men,’ Beatrice said, but in a tone that told Kitty she couldn’t bring herself to say more. Thoughts of Rich swiped the breath from Beatrice’s lungs and she felt suddenly tired. Rich always worked so hard, doubly so since Beatrice lost her job. He liked the idea of breadwinning for her. All that work and long hours away from home must have taken their toll somewhere along the line, but she couldn’t pinpoint exactly when. Perhaps it had been slowly eroding their joint lives, eating away at their intimacy and their happiness day by day and they’d both been too busy to notice.
Kitty spoke first, calmly steering the conversation back to safer ground. ‘So, are you resolved to stay a little longer then? Maybe you’ll get as proficient as Atholl at the weaving if you give it a try?’
Kitty was pointing an elegant finger up above the bar and Beatrice followed its line.
‘What on earth is that? Atholl didn’t make that, did he?’
Kitty simply nodded.
In the dark space above the optics hung a wild-looking, chestnut-brown Lion Rampant and a white unicorn; twin symbols of Scottish sovereignty. Beatrice screwed up her eyes to make out the details. How could long willow whips become these light, airy, magical sculptures? Their delicate feet seemed to tread the very air they were suspended in; their broad, hollow haunches formed of nothing but tightly interwoven supple branches spoke convincingly of movement and musculature; their wild dark eyes, elegantly poised heads and pricked ears conveyed pride, stoicism and dignity.
‘Wow! So Atholl’s an artist?’ Beatrice couldn’t draw her eyes away from the sculpture.
‘One of the best, I imagine.’
A vague impression returned to Beatrice; it was becoming clearer now. Back at the But and Ben there had been baskets made of willow on the long table, and curved horns of plenty upon the walls filled with dried flowers and sculpted fruits, and many other curious objects which Beatrice had been too flustered, and perhaps too bloody-minded and stressed out, to see clearly.
‘Oh no.’ A memory hit her hard. ‘I think I insulted him. I said… I called his work “messing about with sticks” or something. I don’t remember my exact words, but I know I was dismissive and rude. And that’s not all he’s heard me saying. No wonder he’s sick of the sight of me.’
Other memories crowded in now, painful in their fresh clarity. She’d criticised the inn rooms that he and his brother must be proud of, even if they were a bit dated and dusty, and she’d taken one look at the place and said she was leaving, and she’d turned her nose up at the food last night – though, she felt she really did have a point there. Either way, the Fergussons had been hospitable in their own way and she’d wanted to run a mile. ‘Talk about getting off on the wrong foot!’
Covering her face with her hands and cringing did nothing to take away the embarrassment. It was the same mortification that seemed to accompany her everywhere she went at the moment and in the rare moments she was free from its restraints, she seemed to resort to taking big, bold swipes at the people around her, and especially at Atholl Fergusson. Beatrice looked through her fingers at Atholl’s willow sculpture again and groaned.
‘I have a feeling he’ll forgive you,’ said Kitty, in a low whisper. ‘But don’t let him get away with being a miserable ass, either. It takes two to willow weave, remember.’ Kitty was hopping down from the bar stool.
Before Beatrice knew what was happening, she felt the sea breeze from the open door behind her and Kitty was pressing a quick peck to her cheek. ‘I’ll be here most days if you need anything,’ she said in a low voice, and then she was gone.
Beatrice turned on her barstool only to see Kitty passing a steely-faced Atholl who seemed to be frozen to the spot on the bar room doormat, his cheeks ruddy from the building summer heat.
She turned swiftly back to face the bar and pressed her elbows into it, holding her face with her hands. Why was her breathing failing her, she wondered? Her chest tightened with the sound of his heavy steps approaching. He didn’t pass through the raised bar hatch, much to her surprise, but settled himself on the stool previously occupied by Seth, pushing aside the empty whisky glass with the back of his wrist, bared now he’d removed his jumper and rolled up his shirt sleeves.
Looking at her own glass, wishing it were filled again and offering her something to do with her hands, she felt Atholl’s eyes assessing her.
He cleared his throat in a low growl and when he spoke, his voice was gentler than she’d heard before. ‘I thought you might have called a taxi and left.’
‘Are there any taxis to be had on a Sunday in Port Willow?’
‘Good point,’ he said with a nod, before reaching his arm over the bar and running his hand along the shelf beneath, coming up with a clean glass.
Gene must have filled a jug with water and lemon and left it by the beer taps and Beatrice watched as his younger brother deftly filled his glass and lifted the jug to her own, his brows lifting to ask her assent. She nodded, and he poured. Silence filled the bar and they both drank.
‘I’ve, uh, I’ve come to apologise for shouting back there at the beach. You were frightened and I could have been… gentler. And I shouldn’t have sent you over the rocks. I don’t know why I did that, but I never expected you to meet with the cattle…’
‘I know. I haven’t exactly been an easy guest either. I don’t mean to be rude and awkward. That seems to be my default setting at the moment.’
A sharp, wry laugh shook Atholl’s shoulders. ‘I might be guilty of something similar myself.’ He drank quickly from the glass, and Beatrice nodded with a smile, her eyes cast down, muttering an apology which Atholl waved away.
‘My question to you, Beatrice, is what do we do about this? Can I make amends? Will you stay if we try to make you happier?’
‘Don’t be nice to me,’ she blurted out. Her lips quavered without her permission and she wondered if she was going to cry. Biting her bottom lip, she looked down at her glass.
With a look of sudden recollection he reached into his shirt pocket, retrieved her phone and placed it on the bar. ‘Echo brought me this. It’s quite sandy and I suspect it’s had a drink o’ water.’
‘I must have dropped it when the cows started running at me.’ She was relieved at the shift in focus and pursued it. ‘Am I the first visitor to cause a stampede?’
The light flashed in her irises and Atholl must have caught it because he broke into a smile too. ‘That I know of, aye. That’s the most excitement seen at the coral beach since a U-boat ran aground there in the forties.’
Beatrice scanned his face. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the crackle in his voice were all she needed to push her over into laughter too. She shook back her by now very messy hair and laughed in unrestrained relief.
‘I imagine I was quite a sight.’
‘You can say that again. I feared for a moment that the beasts would disperse and I’d find they’d crushed the life from ye, but I knew Echo was in amongst them and he’d no’ let that happen.’
‘Where is he now?’
Atholl tipped his wrist, looking at his watch. ‘Well, it’s after two, so he’ll be down at the chippy waiting for his lunch.’
‘Really?’
‘Like clockwork. Jim Tosh will gie him the leftovers before he closes up. Echo’s a wandering dug but he’ll no’ go far from the high street at lunch times, never knowing if he’ll miss a bit o’ battered haggis or a sausage.’
The pair smiled at one another, warmth and sleepiness spreading through Beatrice.
‘So, what do you say? Will you let us make it up to you? Stay a day more?’ he said.
The idea did hold some appeal now Beatrice had seen the broad sky over the bay and tasted the clean salty air and the sweet gin. Atholl was leaning a little closer now, a note of entreaty in his voice. ‘And if you can put up with me, I would verra much like to give you that willow-weaving lesson and we could hae some lunch at the same time… should
you like it?’
‘Well… all right, then. I will stay one more day. Just promise you won’t try to feed me any of that battered haggis from the chippy. It might be all right for Echo, but…’
‘Hey, don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it,’ Atholl said with a smile.
Chapter Nine
Monday: A Morning’s Willow-weaving
Atholl guided Beatrice through the willow field that backed on to the But and Ben above the coral beach. The morning sun was already high in the clear blue sky and Beatrice was glad she’d chosen to wear her long black sundress, factor thirty and dark shades, and even more glad Atholl was in dark cords that looked as though they’d been softened by washing a thousand times and a t-shirt that perfectly showed off his biceps speckled with light freckles.
Echo darted in and out of the long rows of willow and Beatrice told herself it was the dog’s excited tail-wagging that was distracting her and not the way the sun struck Atholl’s blue eyes and fine cheekbones. Atholl was describing the work that went into the care of the willow. She tried to concentrate.
‘I cut them back to the ground every year and these tall, supple branches grow straight up to the sky. Fourteen feet is what I’m aiming for, perfect for basketry, and there’s three different varieties growing here for a choice of colour and strength.’
‘I didn’t know people farmed willow. They look so strange in the landscape… so unexpected?’
‘Folk have been weaving willows for their dwellings for thousands of years. Everywhere in the world has its own version of it; grass, leaves, or branches. People have always weaved natural materials to make the basic things they need for survival, be it clothing or shelter. Once upon a time, and not so long ago neither, every community in the British Isles would have its own wee parcel o’ land for willow cultivation, but that way of life is over now.’
Beatrice wanted to tell him she liked the way his eyes were shining with enthusiasm but felt she couldn’t, so instead she smiled and let him talk as they wandered through the maze of willow.