by Molly Macrae
For Cammy, Jenny, Jeb, Andy, and Jack—all the wild MacRaes
From the Inversgail Tourist Board’s Welcome to Inversgail brochure
Welcome to Inversgail—story capital of the Scottish Highlands! When you arrive, lift your hat to our statue of Scotland’s most famous storyteller: Robert Louis Stevenson.
Why not start your visit with a story about our name—Inversgail? The story begins with the small river that flows from sheep- and heather-covered hills and spills into the sea at Inversgail. There’s no question about the “inver” part of our name. “Inver” means both “river mouth” and “confluence of waters.” The river’s name, though, is the source of some debate. On modern maps it’s the Sgail. But once upon a time, and since maps of the area have existed, the name has been spelled Sgail, Skail, and Sgeul. Which is correct?
Some folk say that Sgail is an Anglicization of sgeul, a Gaelic word for “story.” Legend has it that a family of noted storytellers and bards lived in the area and the “Sgeul” folk believe the river was named to honor them. And because stories, storytelling, and mouths all go together, they find the name Inversgail particularly apt. Other folk say Sgail is a misspelling of skail, a Scots word meaning “to spill.” Rivers naturally spill their waters at their mouths, and thus the name Inversgail. A third group believes that inver—meaning both “mouth” and “confluence”— holds the key. The name Inversgail, they say, results from a confluence of meanings. The storytellers lived and told their stories beside the river, and the stories spilled from their mouths, just as the river spills into the sea at Inversgail. Which origin story should you believe? We leave that to you, our visitors, to decide.
Inversgail is a west Highland gem. We’re a resort town within easy distance of Oban, Fort William, and Dornie, located in the Argyll and Bute council area. Our natural harbor and white sand beaches are protected from the open sea by the western isles. Our summer waters are warmed by the Gulf Stream, inviting bathers and boaters. Hills rise behind our charming houses and shops, creating a picturesque backdrop and fulfilling the dreams of photographers and hillwalkers. Fishing and crofting are the traditional ways of life in and around Inversgail. Tourism and our tradition of good stories allow our lovely area to thrive.
A friendly word of caution—once you’ve visited Inversgail, you’ll want to call it home. But don’t worry. We’ll be here to welcome you!
1
And there’s no need to cluck your tongue at my back, either,” Christine said, not waiting for Janet to catch up. “You know well enough it’s time we went to see the house for ourselves and find out what the delay is.”
It should have been the best kind of morning the Highlands had to offer, and Janet Marsh was irritated that it wasn’t turning out that way. Proof of the day’s bright possibilities met her as she followed Christine Robertson out the door and down the steps of Yon Bonnie Books—their bookshop. Traffic along the High Street promised eager tourists. The breeze from the harbor carried the tang of salt and only a hint of fish. Water lapping the sand below the seawall matched the clear May sky, with no threat of rain. A swath of bluebells disappeared into the oaks fringing the banks of the River Sgail, and the river, not much more than a wide stream, splashed under the arched stone bridge she and Christine crossed. The hills rising behind the shops and houses and wrapping around the farthest ends of Inversgail appeared to embrace the village this morning, looking benevolent rather than brooding.
Janet wondered briefly about joining the bluebells and disappearing into the trees instead of following Christine down the street. “I don’t want to intrude—”
“We won’t intrude,” Christine said. The soft burr of her accent took on a sterner tone. “We will simply walk past the house. We might go so far as to knock on the door.”
“No knocking,” Janet said. Her Illinois twang had the advantage of sounding firm and final. “I agreed to give the renters another few days.”
Christine pulled up short. “Again? When did you agree to that? It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
Rather than look Christine in the eye, Janet admired the red-tiled roof of Paudel’s Newsagent, Post Office, and Convenience and pretended her short gray hair needed better arranging behind her ears.
“You’ve gone soft since leaving the States,” Christine said.
“Not soft. I’m treading carefully and trying to fit in. I don’t want to be one of those people who insist on things being the way they are back home, or try to impress people by throwing money around, or talk louder as if that will help people understand them.”
Christine put her arm around Janet. “You never behaved that way before and you aren’t going to start now. You and Curtis and the children were well liked all the years you came here.” Christine’s reassurance came to an awkward stop. Janet and her family had quit spending part of each summer in their Inversgail house when her husband, Curtis, a professor of economics, started an affair with one of his married graduate students. “Anyway,” Christine plowed on, “Mum and Dad remember you and that’s saying a lot, because half the time Mum might as well be away with the fairies. But to tell the truth, you and I are both strangers. All you have to do is listen to me to know that. I gave Illinois forty of my best years and Illinois paid me back by removing any trace of my lovely Scottish accent.”
The women looked at each other and sputtered. Christine’s native accent might have faded according to her aged parents’ ears, but few Americans would agree.
“It is true, though,” Christine said. “You should hear the dreadful things Mum and Dad whisper behind by my back. Except they’re both so deaf they only think they’re whispering.” She eyed Janet up and down. “You’re fine the way you are. All four of us are, and you and I and the girls are going to make a go of this move or die trying.”
“The girls” were Janet’s thirty-eight-year-old daughter, Tallie, and Tallie’s former college roommate, Summer Jacobs. The four women— mother, daughter, and longtime friends—were now business partners and the new owners of Yon Bonnie Books, to which they ambitiously planned to add a tearoom and B & B.
“Here’s a fashion tip, though,” Christine said. “If you want to pass undetected amongst the natives, consider wearing something other than your orange-and-blue University of Illinois hoodie.”
“The hoodie wouldn’t be a problem if you would listen to reason and put off this intrusion. At least until tomorrow. I’m going to the launderette tonight.” Janet congratulated herself for sounding only slightly defensive.
“And a trip to the launderette wouldn’t be necessary if you were already in your house, with your clothes and belongings out of their packing cases.”
“Keep your voice down. I’ll be in the house soon enough.”
“And so you should be,” Christine snapped. “You own the bloody place. If you’re not the least bit curious about what’s causing the delay, then you’re soft and daft. I’ll be in it soon enough, she says. We’ll have this sorted soon enough. Come on.”
Janet was about to protest but decided against it. Christine was right. She was curious about the delay keeping her out of the house she’d owned for thirty years. She and Curtis—Curtis the rat—had bought it after a sabbatical year at the University of Edinburgh and a summer holiday visiting the western Highlands and islands with Christine and her late husband, Tony. When Curtis had asked for a divorce, Janet engaged the best lawyer she could find and took the rat for as much as she could, including alimony, a decent lump sum (so decent it was almost indecent, which made her wonder what else the rat must have been up to over the years), and the Inversgail house free and clear. Jess Baillie, the estate agent handling the rental of the house, had begged for a few more days before turning it bac
k over to Janet. Janet liked and trusted her, and she’d agreed without asking for the explanation Jess hadn’t offered. But how could it hurt to walk past the house with Christine and see if the renters were at least packing?
“I knew you’d see it my way,” Christine said when Janet gave a single, sharp nod and set off down the High Street.
They walked side by side, two friends comfortable in their similarities and either happy with their differences or able to put up with them. Christine Robertson, spare and angular, had grown up in Inversgail, the daughter of a district nurse and the Inversgail Grammar head teacher. Janet Marsh, shorter and better upholstered, came from a family of central Illinois corn, soybean, and pig farmers. They’d each followed their husbands to the University of Illinois and met when Janet had been her son’s show-and-tell during third grade. Christine, by then a school social worker, had been walking past the classroom when Janet thrilled her son’s classmates by demonstrating her state fair prizewinning pig call. Over the years Christine would tell people they’d bonded over Janet’s reverberating sooey and Janet always returned the compliment by saying their friendship was cemented with Christine’s recipe for shortbread. Christine’s shortbread, they decided, would take pride of place as the first item on their proposed tearoom’s menu.
“Look, isn’t that Rab MacGregor?” Janet asked. She’d caught sight of a sandy-haired man and a sandy-colored Cairn terrier sitting on the seawall, faces turned to the sun like basking cats. In fact, there were two cats splayed on the wall, soaking up their share of the sun, beside the man and dog. From that distance, the ages of man, dog, and cats were equally inscrutable. “We should offer him the job at Yon Bonnie now, while we have the chance.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to advertise?” Christine asked. “Cast a wider net? The cats look more alert than he does.”
“He always did fine work for us at the house,” Janet said. “I don’t see why he wouldn’t be as good at general cleaning and odds and ends at the shop, too. Besides, he’s always been nosy. He might be able to tell us something about the house. Hullo there, Rab!” she called. “Rab MacGregor!”
Rab looked around, and Janet waved so he’d know who had called his name.
Christine waved, too, and then stopped. “Did he just—” But the rest of what Christine said was lost in the noise of a motorcycle speeding past.
A day coach followed the motorcycle, frustrating the women by idling in front of them. They heard the magnified voice of the onboard tour guide telling her group what time and where to meet the bus later in the day and pointing out the public toilets. When the bus moved on, only the cats still basked on the seawall across the street.
“Where’s Rab?” Janet asked. “Do you see him? I’m sure he heard me and saw us wave.”
“He did. And then his eyes nearly popped out of his head. I think he’s done as good as his name and scampered.”
“As good as his name?”
“Rab, short for Rabbit, and it’s what they do—leap and run.”
“I thought boys named Robert were often called Rab.”
“That shows you’re not as nosy as Rab.” Christine scanned the seawall and street. “He got the name as a boy because he was fast off the mark in footraces. Good at jumping, too. But his name is Rupert. Blasted bus and blasted Rupert. He probably slipped over the wall when the bus stopped in front of us. Leapt and ran. And I’d like to know why.”
“We don’t know that he saw us,” Janet said. “Maybe he had someplace else he needed to be.”
“Not from the looks of him before he saw us, which he did.” Christine looked ready to cross the street and organize a search party for the absent handyman.
“If you still want to be nosy about the house, let’s get it over with,” Janet said, “so we can get back to the shop.” She started walking. “Honestly, I never knew you were so suspicious.”
“Of course I am.” Christine checked the seawall one last time before catching up to her. “If one of us is going to be soft, then the other one needs to be suspicious.”
“I don’t see the connection,” Janet said, “and I don’t want to argue about it.”
“Explaining isn’t arguing.”
“And I won’t like your explanation if the gist of it is that I’m soft. A person who figures out how four women can buy a business in another country and relocate three thousand six hundred and forty-three miles to run it is not soft,” Janet said.
“You’re right.”
“There were hurdles covered in ridiculous amounts of red tape every step of the way and I got us over them.”
“You did,” Christine agreed.
“Do you have reservations? Are you sorry we took the plunge?”
“No. That answers both questions. What about you?”
“No. But I think we should add an addendum to our agreement stating that we ask each other those questions once a month.”
“Once a quarter,” Christine said. “The longer stretch will account for short-term vacillations of spirit. We’re all bound to have small doubts and low periods from time to time.”
“Only natural,” Janet said. “I worry especially about Tallie and Summer. But we’ve had this conversation before. Please don’t turn into a bully.”
“As soon as your confidence in the way Jess Baillie is handling your property begins to waver, I’ll revert to the cozy, comfortable Christine Creampuff you know and tolerate. In the meantime, I’ve got your back.” She took Janet’s arm as they continued down the street. “I love that phrase, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually said it before. Thank you for giving me a reason.”
“Always happy to help.”
Janet noted the familiar businesses she’d passed or stopped in each of the summers she’d spent in the village—West Highland Wool, Howitt & Dugdale Solicitors, W. Brockie Greengrocer, MacBrayne’s Pub. They were family-run and they’d occupied the same buildings for so many generations they might have been mortared into place with the stonework when the buildings went up. There were new businesses, too. Skye View Sea Kayak had moved into a building formerly occupied by a video store. Two shoe shops, rivals for decades, were now an Internet café and an outdoors shop. Janet was happy to see the optimism of the newcomers, but when she and Christine came to the chiropodist, the chemist, and the cheese shop—the trio her children had dubbed “the chops”—she was just as glad for the vigor of the long established.
A young woman came out of the cheese shop as they passed. She held the door open while a boy and girl jostled their way out along with the smells of cheddars, blues, and farmhouse.
“Mull Cheddar,” Christine said in a reverent whisper. She dropped Janet’s arm and spread both of hers, breathing in deeply and luxuriously. “I have so missed Isle of Mull Cheddar.”
“You should’ve been called Mouse,” Janet said. “We’ll stop and get some on the way back. Oh, my.” She’d started walking again, but immediately took two steps back, bumping into Christine, who gave a squeak.
“Sorry,” Janet said, “but look who’s moved her office out of Buchan Place and onto the High Street.”
Christine stepped around her and read the brass nameplate beside the door of the business next to the cheese shop. “‘Jess Baillie, Estate Agent.’ She’s moving up in the world. You didn’t know this?”
“You’d think I would, but no. Good for her, though, right?”
“And handy for us. We can still go by your place, if we want to, but as long as we’re here, let’s intrude on Jess first.”
Janet caught her arm. “Not me. You.” Christine’s mouth opened and Janet rushed to get her reasoning in first. “If I go in and give my name to her assistant, and if there really is something going on, we might not get anywhere. Jess might have told her she doesn’t want to see me. And if she catches sight of me before I see her—”
“Aha. Got you. Wait here out of sight. I’ll go and act the perfect mouse. And may I just say, Janet Marsh, Inversgailian incomer and
soon-to-be successful bookseller, welcome back to the Sisterhood of the Suspicious.”
2
Christine came back out of the estate agency in less time than it took Janet to remember how to check her phone for missed messages.
“That was suspiciously fast,” Janet said, giving up on the phone and slipping it into the back pocket of her khakis. “What could you possibly learn in three minutes? Or even twice that?”
“The assistant’s name is Rosie. She’s hardly more than a schoolgirl. She’s open, friendly, and chatty.” Christine ticked those points off on her fingers. Then she drummed the fingers against her lips for several seconds before going on. “She might be more chatty than usual because she’s lonely. Or maybe I’m slipping back into my school social worker mode and overanalyzing. Anyway, Jess hasn’t been in the office for the past two days. With no notice and without giving a reason.”
“Does she have to give a reason?” Janet asked. “Maybe it’s personal and she doesn’t want to tell chatty Rosie.”
“Rosie says it isn’t like her.”
“How well does she know her? I’ve dealt with Jess for the last seven or eight years and she’s always been reliable.”
“She didn’t tell you why the renters need more time to clear out of your house,” Christine said.
“That doesn’t make her unreliable. Besides, I didn’t ask.”
“Maybe you should have. Or when you hung up your reference librarian hat, did you forget the art of asking essential questions?”
Janet looked at the toes of Christine’s tennis shoes, now six inches from the toes of her own favorite old leather shoes. Hers could use a lick of polish, she noticed. Her sense of personal space could use another twelve inches, too, but she moved forward an inch, tipped her chin up, and met Christine’s blue gaze. “I would make you blink first,” she said, “but I have this terrible crick in my neck.” She closed her eyes and massaged the back of her neck—which didn’t hurt in the least. “I’m sure it’s from not sleeping in my own bed with my own pillow.” She dropped her hand and smiled. “You’re a good advocate, Christine, and I appreciate your help with the house.”