by M C Beaton
So it was decided they would all go. Sean would knock at the door and they would hide.
“Who can that be?” asked Mrs. Gallagher as she heard the knock at the door.
“I’ll go if you like,” said Morag.
“No, it’s all right.” Mrs. Gallagher opened the door and looked down at the trembling figure of Sean. “Is Morag here?” he asked.
“Come in,” said Mrs. Gallagher.
“He hasnae come out,” whispered Kirsty. “Maybe she’s putting them both in the pot to boil them for her supper. I’ll creep up and peek in the window.”
The others clutched one another as Kirsty crept up to the window. At lasts he came running back, blonde hair flying, cheeks red in the frosty air. “They’re sitting at the fire eating fruitcake,” she gasped. “Fruitcake with icing on top.”
Mrs. Gallagher opened the door and saw the group of schoolchildren, all professing to be friends of Morag. Mrs. Gallagher knew from Morag that the girl craved friends and was shrewd enough to know why this lot had come round. She knew her local reputation.
“Come in,” she said. “There’s plenty of cake and lemonade. But first, you’ve got to give me your phone numbers and I’ll phone your parents and let them know where you are.” She wrote down the phone numbers and names and went to the phone in her parlour. When she returned to the kitchen, Morag was surrounded by chattering children.
“I’ll give you all some cake,” said Mrs. Gallagher, “and then you can all help me to put up the Christmas decorations. I’m a bit late this year.”
When had she last put up decorations? she wondered, looking back down the years. She cut generous slices of fruitcake while Smoky purred on Morag’s lap.
Hamish phoned Maisie Pease. “I’ll be setting off from the war memorial tomorrow,” he said. “Pick you up at one-thirty.”
“Grand, Hamish, I’ll see you there.”
She rang off and then stared at the phone. How odd? Why wasn’t he picking her up at the schoolhouse? She looked through to her neat kitchen where a large turkey lay waiting to be roasted. She had bought a large one to make it look really Christmassy in a Dickensian way. It was too large, she thought. She would be eating turkey for a month.
Jessie and Nessie Currie set out arm in arm for their usual tour of the village. They liked to keep an eye on everything that was going on. As they passed Chisholm’s garage, Ian was hosing down the minibus.
“It’ll freeze in this weather,” said Nessie.
“Freeze in this weather,” echoed the Greek chorus that was her twin sister.
“Just getting it ready for Macbeth,” said Ian.
“And why would he want a bus?” asked Nessie.
“Don’t know. But he’s booked it for Christmas day.”
The sisters headed for the police station, eyes gleaming with curiosity. Then Nessie grabbed her sister’s arm. “Look at that!”
Angela Brodie was pushing a pram along the waterfront. “Herself is past having the babies,” exclaimed Nessie.
“Herself has never been able to have the babies, the babies,” said Jessie.
They crossed the road and stood in front of Angela. “Who does the little one belong to?” asked Nessie.
“Me!” said Angela with a smile, and pushing the pram around them, headed for home.
“It is the fertility treatment,” said Nessie.
They went to the kitchen door of the police station. Jessie peered round Hamish’s tall figure. The kitchen seemed to be full of fishermen.
“What’s going on, what’s going on?” asked Jessie.
“Crime prevention meeting,” said Hamish curtly. “What can I do for you?”
“You hired a bus for the morrow,” said Nessie. “Why?”
“I’m taking some people down to an old folks home in Inverness for a Christmas Day concert.”
The sisters looked at each other. Then they said in unison. “We’ll come.”
Hamish wanted to be rid of them. “All right,” he said. “The bus leaves the war memorial at one-thirty.”
“We’ll be there.”
I don’t want them, thought Hamish, but if that pair is determined to come, there’ll be no stopping them.
At two in the morning on Christmas day, there was a wickedly hard frost, which turned the whole landscape white. Silently and quickly Hamish and the fishermen set to work. Archie paused in his labours to whisper to Hamish, “What will you say if Strathbane finds you out?”
“I’ll say I’m testing them,” Hamish whispered back. “To see if they work. It’s the one day only.”
Christmas day. Morag struggled awake and switched on her bedside light. She knew she should not hope that Santa had brought her anything, but she wistfully thought it would be wonderful if just this year he had decided to stop at her home.
She climbed out of bed and drew back the curtains. Then she let out a gasp. It was snowing, large feathery flakes falling down from a black sky.
But not only that. She rubbed her eyes and looked again. The Anderson house was at an angle so that the windows faced down the waterfront. Fairy lights were winking and sparkling through the snow, and by the memorial was a large Christmas tree, also bedecked in lights.
She hurriedly washed and dressed and was about to rush from her room when she saw a bulging stocking hanging on the end of her bed. Wondering, she tipped out the contents. There was a giant bar of chocolate, a small racing car, nuts and oranges. Santa must have come. Her parents would never have allowed her chocolate.
She went into the sitting room. Four packages wrapped in Christmas paper stood on the coffee table. Eagerly, she opened them up. Three labels said TO MORAG FROM HER MOTHER AND FATHER. In one package was a smoky blue Shetland scarf, in another, a bright red sweater, and in the third, a doll with blonde hair and blue eyes. The fourth package was from Mrs. Gallagher and contained a handsome wooden box of tubes of watercolors and brushes, and along with it came a large drawing book.
She was about to run and find her parents, when she distinctly heard sleigh bells outside and a great voice crying, “Ho, ho, ho!”
“Santa!” Morag ran to the front door and jerked it open. The snow fell gently and the lights of a transformed Lochdubh glittered and sent their reflections across the black loch. She looked up at the sky but there was no fleeing sleigh. Then she saw the parcel lying on the doorstep. The label said TO MORAG FROM SANTA WITH LOVE.
She carried it into the sitting room and squatted down on the floor with the parcel on her lap and opened it up. It was a large stuffed grey-and-white cat, like Smoky, with green glass eyes.
Morag ran up to her parents’ bedroom and threw open the door. Her parents struggled awake as the small figure of their daughter hurled herself on the bed, hugging them and kissing them and saying, “It’s wonderful! I’ve never been so happy in all my life!”
And Mr. Anderson, who had been prepared to break the news to his daughter that there was no such person as Santa Claus, followed by his usual lecture on the pagan flummery of Christmas, found his eyes filling with tears as he hugged his daughter back and merely said gruffly, “Glad you’re happy.”
In the police station, Hamish Macbeth put the tape recorder with the sound of sleigh bells and ‘Santa’s’ voice along with the chain of small gilt bells he had borrowed from Angela on the kitchen table. Time to get a few hours’ sleep before the journey to Inverness.
In the cottage next to the schoolhouse, Maisie Pease had a leisurely bath, and then began to dress with care, first in satin underwear and then in the cherry-red wool dress. She looked thoughtfully at the large sprig of mistletoe hanging over the living room door. She would point at it shyly and he would gather her in his arms. “You’relooking bonnie,” he would say before his lips descended on hers. She gave a happy little sigh and went to look out of the window. Where had all the lights come from? They sparkled the length of the waterfront. The snow was falling gently and she hoped it would not thicken and stop them from going.
&n
bsp; She tried to eat breakfast, but excitement had taken her appetite away. How slow the hands of the clock moved. She waited and waited as the sky reluctantly lightened outside. She looked out of the window again. The snow had stopped and a little red winter sun was struggling over the horizon. Ten o’clock in the morning. Three hours to wait. Maisie switched on the television set and prayed for time to speed up.
Angela Brodie opened the door to the Currie sisters. “Happy Christmas!” cried Angela. “Come in and have a glass of sherry.”
The sisters came in and sat down in Angela’s messy kitchen. Nessie handed Angela two small parcels. “For the baby,” she said.
Angela looked at them in amazement. “What baby?”
“Yours. The one you were pushing in the pram.”
Angela blushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I never thought for a moment you would believe me. It was a cloutie dumpling. I’d been using Mrs. Maclean’s washhouse. I’m sorry I’ve put you to expense. Let me pay you.”
“That will not be necessary, not necessary,” said Jessie. “We’ll just put them away. Someone’s always having a baby, a baby.”
“Sherry?”
“No,” said Nessie, “we’re going down to Inverness with Macbeth. He’s taking us in Chisholm’s bus. It’s a concert he’s organised at an old folks home.”
“What a surprising man he is. Can anyone come? We’re not having dinner until this evening.”
“The bus leaves the war memorial at one-thirty.”
“I’ll see if my husband wants to come and maybe join you.”
Maisie Pease stared at the carnival-painted bus and then walked round it, looking for the police Land Rover. On the other side, she found Hamish with a group of people.
“Maisie!” he cried. “Are we all set?”
“Yes,” she said eagerly.
“Right, I think that’s everyone,” said Hamish. “All on the bus.”
Maisie watched in dismay as the Currie sisters, Dr. Brodie and his wife, Angela, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, Morag and Mrs. Gallagher all climbed aboard. Hamish was at the wheel. There would be no chance for any intimate talk.
Then she brightened up. They would be alone for dinner that evening.
Despite the odd assortment of villagers, there was a festive air on the bus. Angela laughed at the chintz-covered seats. The bus sped out of Lochdubh under a now sunny sky. Snow lay in a gentle blanket everywhere. It was a magic landscape, thought Morag, clutching the stuffed cat on her lap as she sat next to Mrs. Gallagher.
They stopped in Cnothan and picked up Mr. McPhee. Maisie groaned inwardly. How many more?
The Currie sisters were flirting awfully with Mr. McPhee, whose old face was beginning to assume a hunted look.
He moved his seat to the back of the bus. Thwarted, the Currie sisters began to sing carols in high, reedy, churchy voices. Hamish was amused this time to hear Jessie repeating the last line of every lyric and falling behind her sister.
When they were finally silent, Hamish, his eyes twinkling with mischief, called to Mr. Anderson to give them a song. To his surprise he began to sing ‘The Road to the Isles’ in a clear tenor. Morag sparkled when her father finished and was given a round of applause.
At last Hamish drew up outside the old folks home and they all climbed down.
A piano had been set up in the lounge. Residents of the home sat around. Bella and Charlie were already at the piano dressed in striped blazers and straw boaters.
Mrs. Dunwiddy exclaimed, “Is it really you, Alice?”
“One of her good days,” Mrs. Kirk whispered to Hamish.
They all sat down and were served with sweet sherry and slices of Christmas cake. The lights were switched off except for a light over the piano and the glittering lights on the tree.
Bella and Charlie were really good, thought Hamish as they belted out all the old songs, Charlie playing and both singing, their voices still full and strong. Elderly faces beamed, arthritic fingers tapping out the rhythm on the arms of chairs.
Morag sat clutching her father’s hand and thought her heart would burst with happiness. In that moment, she decided that she would be a policewoman when she grew up and be as much like Hamish Macbeth as possible.
Only Maisie felt let down. It was not that Hamish was ignoring her. It was just that he treated her with the same friendliness as the rest of the party. She thought of the large turkey that she had cooked the night before so that it only needed to be heated. Would Hamish think it excessive? There had been a television program on world famine, and then thinking of those sticklike people and the sheer waste of that overlarge bird, Maisie felt guilty.
The concert finished at five and then after more sherry and cake, they all climbed back on the bus.
As Hamish drove out of Inverness on the A-9, it began to snow again, great gusts of white whipping across his vision.
He wondered what on earth he would do with this busload if he got stuck. He called back to Mr. McPhee, “Would you mind if I went straight to Lochdubh? I can put you up for the night.” He remembered Maisie’s dinner and said over his shoulder, “Is that all right with you, Maisie?”
“Oh, sure,” said Maisie, sarcastic with bitter disappointment. “Why not bring everyone?”
Hamish missed the sarcasm in her voice and said warmly, “That’s really good of you.”
“Yes, it is,” said Angela. “I’ll drop off at our place and pick up the turkey and dumpling. Everything’s ready. We’ll have a feast.”
“If we ever get there,” said Hamish.
Morag crept down the bus and clutched her father’s arm. “Daddy, can we go, too?”
He looked down into her wide pleading eyes and bit back the angry refusal. “Well, just this once.”
And it will be just this once, thought Maisie angrily. She thought of the boyfriend down in Inverness that she had jilted. She had been cruel. She would phone him up and make amends.
Hamish was often to wonder afterwards how he had ever managed to drive that bus to Lochdubh or how the old vehicle had managed to plough up and down the hills as the storm increased in force. He let out a slow sigh of relief as they lurched over the humpbacked bridge that led into the village and saw the Christmas lights dancing crazily in the wind.
It was only after Angela and Dr. Brodie had collected their contributions to the meal that Maisie began to brighten up. As the women helped her in the kitchen and the men laid the table and then went out into the storm to make forays to collect more chairs, she was surrounded by so many people thanking her that she began to get a warm glow. Her spirits sank a little as Mr. McPhee grabbed her under the mistletoe and gave her a smacking kiss, but lightened again as soon as everyone was seated round the table in front of large plates of turkey and stuffing, chipolatta sausages, steaming gravy and roast potatoes. Bowls of vegetables were passed from hand to hand. Wine was poured, although the Andersons and Morag stuck to cranberry juice.
Hamish rose to his feet. “A toast to Maisie for the best Christmas ever!”
Everyone raised their glasses. “To Maisie!”
When the turkey was finished and the plates cleared, Angela said brightly, “The dumpling’s heating in the oven. I’ll get it if some of you ladies will help me with the plates.”
Hamish watched nervously as the large brown dumpling was carried in and placed reverently in the middle of the table. Angela’s lousy cooking was legendary.
“Would you do the honours, Hamish?” said Angela brightly.
Hamish reluctantly picked up a knife and sank it into the pudding. He cut the first slice and spooned it onto a plate and then filled the other plates. It looked good, but with Angela’s cooking, you never could tell until you’d tasted it.
Custard was poured over the slices. Here goes, thought Hamish. He cautiously took a mouthful. It was delicious! What an odd Christmas, he thought. For once in her life, Angela’s got it right.
Mrs. Gallagher and Mr. McPhee had discovered a mutual interest in birdwat
ching and were chatting busily. The Currie sisters who had strict Christian beliefs were talking happily about the iniquities of the world to the Andersons. Morag was telling Angela about her Christmas and Maisie was flushed and happy at the success of her dinner party.
“Who can that be?” demanded Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife.
“Why don’t you answer the phone and find out?” suggested her husband patiently.
Mrs. Wellington picked up the receiver.
“Hullo, Mrs. Wellington, this is Priscilla.”
“Merry Christmas. Where are you?”
“In New York.”
“Would you believe it? The line’s so clear you could be next door. Everything all right?”
“Yes, fine. Look, I’ve been phoning the police station. I’ve been trying to get hold of Hamish to wish him a happy Christmas. Do you know where he is?”
“You could try the schoolteacher’s place. He might be there.”
There was a long silence.
Then Priscilla said, “Have you her number?”
“Wait a minute. I’ll look in my book.”
“Who’s that?” asked the minister.
“It’s Priscilla. She wants to talk to Hamish. I’m getting her the schoolteacher’s number.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have suggested he might be there.”
“Oh, why?”
The minister sighed. “You wouldn’t understand.”
His wife gave him a baffled look and then located the number in her book and picked up the receiver again. “Are you still there? It’s Lochdubh six-o-seven-one.”
At the schoolhouse the table had been cleared away and a ceilidh had started in the living room, that is, everyone performing something or other. The Currie sisters had taken up positions in front of the fire and were singing in high, shrill voices.
“I’ll get some coffee,” said Maisie.
“I’ll come and help you.”
One last try, thought Maisie. She stopped right under the sprig of mistletoe and smiled up at Hamish invitingly. He put his arms about her and smiled back. Maisie tilted back her head and closed her eyes. At that moment, the phone rang loudly and shrilly.
Hamish released her. “You’d better answer that. I’ll get the coffee.”