by Jane Tulloch
“Think big. Think far away…” Could that possibly be an allusion to their next trip?
Chapter 10
Rest and Relaxation
The management meeting was drawing to a close. Some of the usual vexed issues around succession planning and recruitment had arisen and, once again, had been deferred to the next meeting. Miss Murray collated her papers and looked up,
“Gentleman, just to remind you that Louise and I will be off on our annual holiday for two weeks. We’re leaving on Saturday and won’t be back until the 14th of June. I trust you’ll be able to hold things together until then?” she asked challengingly. “No fighting boys!” she continued with a laugh.
Mr McElvey drew himself up stiffly, “I think you know you can count on us.”
Mr Philipson and Mr Soames exchanged glances. Miss Murray’s annual holiday was an ideal chance for Mr McElvey to rush through edicts which would not otherwise be passed. They well remembered the debacle last year when he instituted a system of staff fines for minor transgressions. Mrs Pegram had returned to a huge queue of disgruntled employees, much to the delight of Jim Hudson, the Union Rep. It had taken weeks to sort out and in the meantime the fining system was quietly dropped.
Miss Murray did worry about leaving her precious store but was aware that she had to go away for at least two weeks. This was not on her own account, but to allow the Glens and the Joshis time for a break. The Glens tended to go “doon the watter” when Miss Murray was away. Indeed, Mrs Glen had once memorably informed her quite earnestly that, “We do like to be beside the seaside.”
The Joshis had recently made contact with a distant cousin whose family were now located in Birmingham and they planned to visit. It had been years since they had seen the family. Mrs Joshi was particularly excited about the trip and the lodge house at Rosehill was a flurry of packing and baking special sweets to take with them.
Mrs Pegram and Miss Murray had not always holidayed together. For years Miss Murray would take herself off to one or other of the large resort hotels where she tried to blend in with the many large families enjoying the organised activities. However, her solitary state was heavily emphasised at meal times as she took her seat at a table for one. Staff were always particularly kind and tried extra hard to do their best for her, but somehow that made it worse. Eventually, she had confided this to Louise, who completely agreed with her. She generally went on holiday with her brother and his boisterous family. However, she always felt like a spare wheel or worse when her sister-in-law made her annual clumsy attempt to introduce her to an unattached male friend. The two women decided then and there to holiday together.
Some years they went abroad, often to the South of France or the Italian Riviera, but they got fed up with all the travel required. As Miss Murray put it, “It’s quite exciting on the way out, but the trip back with all our luggage to carry through the stations and the interminable railway journeys are just awful. I always arrive back tired out.”
“We could try flying?” Louise suggested when they were making plans one year, but Miss Murray wasn’t keen. She was surprisingly cautious, Louise thought. “What about a cruise?” she put forward.
“Maybe” Miss Murray replied noncommittally. “I’ll have a think about it.”
Naturally, by the time she made up her mind to go on a cruise around the historical sights of Greece, it was all booked up. Discussing this disappointment over coffee one morning, Louise hesitantly mentioned another idea. “Would you consider a very different sort of holiday?” she wondered. “More of a change than a rest.”
“Go on,” said Miss Murray, intrigued.
“Well I was wondering about the Outer Hebrides. Maybe a small island? We’d not have to do anything but read, walk, maybe do some bird watching or something? I’d like some thinking time. Just a bit of time out of ordinary life. I hear it’s like stepping back decades on some of the islands.”
“You’ve got this all planned out, haven’t you?” laughed Miss Murray.
“Well I have done a bit of research,” her friend admitted. Seeing Miss Murray’s interest, she continued, “I'd thought of Shepsay. It’s only small but it’s reachable by ferry and there’s a Bed and Breakfast where we could stay,” she added hopefully.
The ferry crossing on the MS Clonaghty was uneventful from a motion point of view. The sea was like glass. Margaret, as Louise felt able to call her when on their own, had worried about a recurrence of her girlhood tendency to ‘mal de mer,’ but all went well.
There were several slight contretemps, however, with a rather pushy young man who elbowed past rudely at the rails as they drew away from Oban; he wanted to take a last photograph. Margaret and Louise exchanged looks with raised eyebrows and Margaret whispered, “American!”
Louise responded, “Typical!” They turned away from the side of the ship, shivering slightly in the sea breeze and, opening the heavy door, entered the lounge. They sat for a moment looking around, then Louise said, “How about a drink? The bar windows have better views.”
“Good idea. Soft drinks only for you though,” Margaret said reprovingly as they stood up and moved towards the door of the ship’s bar.
“I know,” laughed Louise, pushing the door open. They scanned the crowded room looking for a seat. There was space for two on a bench seat under a window. They moved towards it, threading their way between the crowded tables. When they reached it, Margaret turned politely to Louise to indicate that she should sit first, but at that exact point the American slipped deftly into the seat and placed his photographic gear on the remaining space. The two ladies looked at him askance.
“Excuse me young man but we were just on the point of sitting here,” burst out Margaret.
“You snooze you lose,” he replied unconcernedly rifling through his camera bag. Finding the booklet he was searching for he looked up. “Hope you find somewhere to sit though. You look like you could do with a rest.” Appalled at his rudeness, the ladies gasped. Margaret opened her mouth to tell him what she thought of that particular comment but, to Louise’s relief, thought better of it. Other passengers were beginning to stare and so the ladies retreated to the lounge.
“Well, really.” Louise exclaimed. The barman, who saw what happened, came to see if he could bring them a drink in the lounge.
“No thanks. I just don’t feel like anything now,” said Margaret gloomily. Not a great start to the holiday, she thought.
Louise nosed the Austin cautiously out of the ferry’s hold and down the steep ramp. Ahead of them, a trickle of cars disappeared up a narrow road and veered off to the left behind a low hill. A rather seedy-looking pub crouched immediately to their right as they left the short pier. Already the ferrymen could be seen running in for a quick drink before setting off back to Oban.
On either side of the road an assortment of cottages and other smallish buildings were spread out in a haphazard manner. As the car progressed slowly along, they noticed a garage, a doctor’s surgery and a newsagent. On a hillside further up the road a church and its attendant manse looked down on the little township. There were few people about; just some children who watched the ferry’s arrival and disgorging of passengers and cars with listless interest. It was clear that Shepsay lacked something in the way of entertainment.
Louise drove up the hill. The road followed the rocky contours of the rugged island. They were booked to stay with a Mrs McNeil at Farbost. She had been assured that if they followed the road around the island, they couldn’t fail to spot her house: it was white. Margaret eagerly looked about her as they drove slowly on. The road was narrow with just a few passing places and Louise, who was a nervous driver and dreaded meeting a car coming in the opposite direction, watched the road closely. They passed several small crofts, each time urged on their way by suicidal collies who rushed straight at the car barking wildly and chasing them down the road. Every house was painted white.
Eventually, after what seemed like many miles, but was perhaps only te
n, they saw a little sign by the roadside announcing that they had arrived at their destination. “Farbost, Bed and Breakfast and Emporium”. “Hot and Cold available” was added as a further inducement to any potentially reluctant customer. Margaret frowned. “Oh Louise. Where have you brought us?”
Smiling brightly, Louise responded, “A change is as good as a rest and look, they have hot and cold,” she pointed out.
“Hot and cold what though,” Margaret responded, but couldn’t continue as a little woman had emerged from the house and was knocking on the car window.
“Are you the ladies from the city?” she enquired in a strong west Highland accent. She introduced herself as Mrs McNeil. “Welcome, welcome. Come away in and we’ll have a wee cup of tea.”
Over tea in the low ceilinged, immaculately clean and fully knick-knacked sitting room, Mrs McNeil outlined the rules and regulations for their stay. Breakfast was at 8am sharp. A sandwich lunch would be provided and the evening meal would be at 5.30pm. A late supper would be brought through to them at 10pm. She trusted that would be acceptable. It was. The ladies departed for their bedrooms. On the inspection of which, each was uneasily aware that, judging by the overflowing drawers and bulging wardrobes, the family had been recently evicted to make way for their guests.
After unpacking (as much as possible), the two ladies went out for a walk. They found themselves accompanied by a silent and dejected collie. He cringed from their attempts to pat him but followed determinedly as they walked across the machair to the beach. It stretched out on either side in a pearly white strand, leading on to an almost unnaturally blue sea. Gulls wheeled overhead. The fresh breeze from the sea made conversation difficult, but neither wanted to speak, just to absorb the natural beauty of the place. Looking back at the cottage, they could see that an awkward extension was attached to one side. It looked temporary and had a sway-backed roof, but was nevertheless connected to the cottage by overhead wires for the electricity and a telephone line.
“That must be the Emporium,” Louise said, stating the obvious. They set off back to the cottage, the depressed dog at their heels.
The next few days passed in the peaceful, rather passive enjoyment of doing nothing in particular. This was a real treat for the two ladies who were usually so busy. They lapsed into a gentle routine of gigantic breakfasts, huge picnic lunches and colossal evening meals with a final mammoth snack before they staggered, replete, to bed and slept like logs. They were stunned by the sheer quantity of food they consumed. They walked in the fresh air, watched birds, took photographs and tried to sketch some of the old buildings they found scattered around the island. Little by little they succumbed to island time: measured by meals, Sundays and the ferry timetable.
One fresh morning, returning from a pre-breakfast stroll down to the beach, they were met by the sight of an agitated Mrs McNeil in her best coat peering anxiously at them. She was holding a small suitcase. Clearly there was some sort of problem. Breaking into a trot, Louise got there first. “What’s up Mrs McNeil?” she asked.
“It’s my daughter, Dolina, in Glasgow. The baby’s come early. I’ll have to get down there to help out with the other children. I’m afraid you’ll have to go. If you pack quickly we can catch the ten o’clock ferry.”
Her thoughts racing for what felt like the first time in days, Margaret rapidly assessed the situation. “No, you go, we can fend for ourselves. You can trust us.” She looked reassuringly at the little woman.
“I do, I do, it’s not that. It’s not just the house. It’s the shop too,” she sighed.
Margaret and Louise exchanged glances. Louise nodded as Margaret continued, “We’ll run the shop if that would help,” she offered bravely. The three women looked at each other. “We’ve experience in that sort of thing,” Louise cut in. Mrs McNeil, by now desperate to get away, thrust a set of keys into their hands and set off for the bus stop where the little bus had been waiting for her, the driver alerted to her predicament by the island bush telegraph.
After a scratch breakfast, the two ladies went out to inspect the ‘Emporium,’ their temporary new empire.
The shed in which it was housed was chilly and the atmosphere slightly damp. The light from the single bulb dangling dangerously from the ceiling cast a feeble glow over the disparate range of products. There appeared to be no particular logic to the display and tins of beans were interspersed with boxes of Elastoplast and teabags. Everything in the shed was rather dusty with tatty packaging and out of date labels.
Margaret and Louise exchanged glances.
“This will never do,” said Margaret. “We can do Mrs McNeil a big favour by sorting all this out and organising the shop into a more efficient display and layout.” She eyed the ancient till and prodded its keys. “We’ve no float either. I just hope the customers will have change, or maybe there’s still some in the damned thing but I can’t work out how to open it.” She frowned.
Meanwhile Louise disappeared into the house, re-emerging some minutes later with a bucket of hot water and a sponge.
Margaret tussled with the recalcitrant till and then joined Louise who had set to trying to clean and impose some logical order on the shelves. The two worked with a will; by 11am they felt ready to face any customers and Louise threw open the door. The depressed collie standing guard outside looked at them and sighed. No one else was in sight. After a while Margaret went to make a cup of tea as Louise sat behind the makeshift counter. On Margaret’s return she looked enquiringly at her, “Anything doing?”
Louise shook her head. “We’ve been open for ages now and not a single customer.”
Margaret grimaced. Suddenly the dog sneezed, startling them. They looked up at this and saw a lone figure, well wrapped up, making his or her way down the path to the shop. The ladies sprang to attention as s/he entered. “Good morning,” they chorused brightly and rather too hopefully.
“You’ll be the ladies playing at shops?” the lone figure, now revealed as a tiny elderly man, stated, ignoring their greeting.
“Well I don’t know about playing,” said Margaret defensively, “We’re holding the fort for Mrs McNeil if that’s what you mean.”
“What can we help you with today?” cut in Louise smoothly.
“Nothing,” came the reply. “The Co-operative van will be here soon.” With that he turned and walked off back up the path, leaving the ladies dumbfounded at his rudeness. He wasn’t the last to visit though. Over the course of the long day there was an irregular trickle of customers each on some feeble pretext, but plainly just there to have a look at the ‘ladies playing at shops’. The friendliest of them went so far as to speak directly to Margaret.
“What have you done to Christina’s good shop? Ah canna find onything.” She looked accusingly at them.
“Well, what was it you were wanting?” asked Louise. “Maybe I can help?”
“How do I know what I want until I see it?” came the logical response, “and I canna see it,” she finished triumphantly, staring at them through narrowed eyes.
Louise rose to the occasion, forestalling Margaret’s likely exasperated response, “Well, do please feel free to have a lovely browse through everything.”
“A browse is it? A browse? Well I never did.” With that the woman walked out shaking her head and muttering to herself about never thinking she’d see the day, and her in Christina McNeil’s good shop too.
Margaret and Louise looked at each other in dismay. “This is pointless.” Margaret burst out. “We’ve been here all day, given the place a good tidy up and sort out and not sold a single thing. I think we should just shut up shop for the day.” Louise agreed. Locking up the front door and switching off the light, they left by the back door directly into the house, the dejected dog at their heels mirroring how they felt. Perhaps things would be better the next day.
It wasn’t. The rain beat down on the tin roof and the two women peered out hopefully through the rain streaked window. Margaret brought out her book
. Louise made even more tea. Still no customers. The dog, now thoroughly bedraggled, refused to leave his post outside the door.
Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity outside. The dog barked loudly and a family in brightly coloured raincoats burst in, anxious to get out of the rain and avoid the dog.
“Blimey what have we here!” exclaimed the man looking around him.
“Who cares? It’s a shop,” replied his wife. The three small children scurried around turning over packets of biscuits and crisps, eagerly reaching for sweets and chocolates. Margaret struggled to keep an eye on them all. The mother engaged Louise’s attention as she went through a long list of items, none of which they seemed to stock. As she finally came to the end, each item leading to a sorrowful shake of Louise’s head, she burst out exasperatedly, “What no garlic? No couscous? Where am I? The end of the world? For God’s sake! This is the most useless shop in the most useless place I’ve ever been! This is the last time I let you choose where we go on holiday.”
The last comment was fired at her husband who was apologetically rounding up their unruly children.
The husband thrust a £1 note into Margaret’s hand for the sweets the children had grabbed and started to consume. It didn’t cover the amount, but they were glad to see the back of such unhappy customers.
Just as they were recovering from the confusion, the door was flung open and a dishevelled figure shot into the shop, slamming the door behind him. “Damn that doggone dog,” he exclaimed, ruefully looking behind him. “He bit me! He got me on the wrist.” He thrust his wrist towards the ladies now safely behind the counter. A red semicircle bore testimony to this.
“Oh dear. I’m so sorry,” Louise began, “It’s not like him.” She considered, “Well I don’t really know. He’s not our dog.”
“Well you should get rid of him,” was the snapped response, “No wonder you’re struggling for customers.” He looked scornfully around the shop at its sad, depleted shelves. “Some shop!”