Oh, Lord! She put down the file and stood up, sighing. Oh, she’d known it, hadn’t she? She’d known someone would come.
Well, she’d just have to tell them to wait as her dad had said. No point in being nervous. This was going to be part of her job, after all, if she was lucky enough to be appointed assistant warden. But then if she got that far, she’d know what to do, and now she didn’t, and she always liked being sure about what was expected. Unlike Lynette, who could just give a big smile and improvise. Lynette, though, was down at the shop.
Help, there was another knock. She’d have to go, open the door. Hurrying, she made her way to the back door off the kitchen, heavy and old, with a chain and bolts and great iron key.
‘Anybody home?’ asked a man’s pleasant Highland voice.
‘Just coming,’ she called, struggling with the key.
There. It had turned. She was able at last to open the door. And see the caller on the step.
‘Morning,’ said a tall young man, touching the plaid cap he was wearing over his straw-yellow hair. ‘I’m Torquil MacLeod. Would you be wanting any fish today?’
Nine
He was like his mother, no question about that. The fine nose, the high cheekbones, yes, they were hers. And the yellow hair, of course, and the light blue eyes. Or, maybe not the eyes, which were her colour, but languorous, sleepy, almost, beneath heavy lids, quite lacking Agnes MacLeod’s frank inquisitiveness. And then there was the boldness of her manner. Monnie, her lips parted, her heart still beating fast, couldn’t, in this young man standing on her doorstep, sense that at all. He seemed very – what was the word? – tranquil.
Suddenly, he was smiling. ‘Any fish?’ he asked again. ‘I always used to bring Mrs MacKay something twice a week, today and Friday. Whatever I’d had the luck with. She told me to call on the new warden, which you see, is what I am doing.’
‘Oh – yes. Yes, well, my father’s the warden – Mr Forester.’ Monnie cleared her throat. ‘I’m sure he’ll want us to have your fish, but he’s out at the minute. Just at the shop, with my sister.’
‘Shall I call later then? With what I have? I’m away now for the day.’
‘Please do – come this evening. I’ll tell my father that you called.’
‘Thank you, Miss Forester.’ He touched his cap, turning aside. ‘Goodbye, then – for now.’
‘Goodbye, Mr MacLeod.’
At that, he laughed. ‘Now no one calls me Mr MacLeod. Torquil is my name.’
She hesitated. ‘People call me Monnie,’ she said at last. ‘It’s short for Monica.’
‘It suits you.’
Their eyes met and hers were the first to fall. ‘Goodbye,’ she murmured again and as he left her, looking back once, slowly closed the door.
For some moments she stood quite still, waiting for her heart to settle down, waiting to feel – what? Herself. To feel as she usually did, not all strung up because a man with blue eyes and yellow hair had come to her door.
What had got into her? She had no idea. Something she’d take care not to be involved in again, anyway.
Still, she stayed where she was, not ready yet to settle back into herself, moving only when she heard footsteps and voices outside and knew her father and Lynette had returned.
‘Hi!’ she called, opening the back door again. ‘I’m in here.’
Rosy with the cold, their eyes sparkling, they joined her in the kitchen, both carrying bags of groceries, which they set down with relief.
‘Think we’ve bought the shop,’ Frank said with a laugh. ‘But what a nice woman there, eh? So obliging. Monnie, did anybody come?’
‘Only the fish man.’
‘Agnes’s son?’ Lynette asked, with interest. ‘My, he was quick off the mark. What’s he like, then?’
Monnie shrugged. ‘All right. Bit like her.’
‘Did you buy any fish?’
‘Hasn’t caught it yet. Said he’d be back this evening.’
‘I’ll get this stuff away,’ Frank said, beginning to unpack bags of flour and sugar, cereals, eggs, cheese, cold ham, bottles of milk and loaves of bread, while Lynette set out a variety of tinned stuff as well as jars of pickle, tomato sauce, more sausages and a selection of vegetables.
‘Can’t say the hostellers will starve when you look at this lot,’ she said with a laugh. ‘And that’s without stuff from the butcher’s van. Seemingly, he calls this afternoon.’
‘Well, the youngsters have to pay me for whatever they want, and then I’ve to keep accounts.’ Frank was unlocking the cupboards and storing away his purchases. ‘You keeping notes, Monnie. Part of our duties, eh?’
‘Your duties, unless I get the job.’ Monnie glanced at Lynette. ‘Shall we go to the flat and make a cup of coffee? Then you can write your letter and I might walk down to see this wonderful shop. I need some shampoo and odds and ends.’
‘OK,’ Lynette agreed. ‘Dad, you want coffee? We can bring it round.’
‘No, thanks. I’ve some paperwork I want to get on with. You’d better get on with your application.’
‘Sure. I’ll just grab some of those nice biscuits we bought. Mrs MacNicol’s shop really does seem to have everything.’
Back in the annexe kitchen, Monnie put on the kettle and found the jar of instant coffee left by Rhoda, while Lynette opened her new writing pad and uncapped her pen. Then sat back and lit a cigarette.
‘Maybe I’ll just have a ciggie before I start. Have to sort out what I want to say.’
‘Thought you were supposed to be cutting down on smoking?’
‘Well, I have cut down, haven’t I? You must admit I’ve been very good since we came here, and so has Dad.’ Lynette smiled, as the kettle began to boil. ‘Still bought a packet of Players at the shop, though. Maybe we’re just on edge, eh?’
‘Since when have you been “on edge”?’ Monnie, shaking coffee into cups and setting out biscuits, had raised her fine brows.
‘Since I decided to apply for this job. Och, I guess we’re all a wee bit jumpy. You too, I’d say.’
‘Me?’ Monnie’s eyes flickered. ‘I was just a bit worried in case customers came and I wasn’t prepared.’
‘Oh?’ Lynette drew on her cigarette. ‘Thought it might be meeting this handsome fisherman.’
‘Who said he was handsome?’
‘If he’s like his ma, he will be. Is that my coffee? Thank goodness – could do with it.’
For some moments the girls, drinking their coffee, were silent, then Monnie set down her cup and stood up.
‘I’ll away to this shop, then. Let you get on.’
At the door, though, she looked back. ‘Can’t think why you thought I’d be worked up over that fisherman, Lynette. I didn’t say more than two words to him.’
‘Come on, you’re taken with him, I can tell.’
‘That’s a piece of nonsense. How can you possibly tell?’
‘Because I know you, Monnie. I know just how you are when something special has happened, the same as you know about me.’ Lynette shook her head. ‘No need to be upset. It’s no disgrace to be attracted to somebody.’
‘Once and for all, I am not attracted!’ Monnie, scarlet-faced, pulled on her coat. ‘Look, I’ll see you when I get back, OK?’
Outside, the day was fine. Cold, bright, with the sort of air Ellie Forester used to describe as ‘a tonic’, and ideal for walking. Skirting the side of the hostel, Monnie strode out through the grounds between leafless trees and evergreen shrubs, glancing back when she reached the village street, to wonder why anyone had actually built Conair House.
At least, built it where it was, seeming so out of place with only wee cottages for neighbours. Maybe the original Victorian family had just wanted a tranquil site, with splendid views of the Sound and the opposite island of Skye. And mixed only with the folk from big houses elsewhere, who would all have kept horses and carriages and organized shoots to go stalking the deer.
How things had changed . . .
But as Monnie moved on, the hostel left her mind, for her eye was caught by the slipway, some way down from the village street. Next thing she knew, without conscious effort, she was standing at the edge of the water, looking out for a boat.
Looking out for a boat. Well, there was another piece of nonsense, if you like. It wasn’t as though she was interested in Torquil MacLeod, or his boat, which wasn’t even there. Not as far as she could see. Perhaps he’d already moved on, out of sight, or, hadn’t even come yet? What did it matter? She was on her way to the shop.
For another moment or two, she studied the calmness of the Sound, and the majesty of the hills of Skye. Nothing dark about them now, for the morning was so beautifully bright, the water so glittering, the sky so clear, it might almost have been summer. Except that it was still only early March and the air that was a tonic was really quite intensely cold.
Better get going, she told herself, get to the shop. And turning up the collar of her coat, began to hurry back up the slipway to the street.
Here it was, then, Mrs MacNicol’s famous shop, a whitewashed cottage with an upper storey, not so different from its neighbours, except that it had a plate glass front window and a door covered in advertisements. As Monnie went in, the bell jangled fit to wake the dead. Or, to summon the owner from her comfortable back room.
Ten
‘Mrs MacNicol’s shop really does seem to have everything,’ Lynette had said, and heavens, she was so right.
Never had Monnie seen a shop with so much to offer, and in such apple-pie order. Nor one so lovingly looked after, with spotless wooden floor and polished counter, and everything that could be made to shine, shining – why, even the few plants for sale in the doorway looked as though they’d just been sprayed.
As she stood staring round at the ranks of tinned goods, bags of flour and sugar, boxes of eggs, packets of cereals, tins of biscuits, ham and bacon, dairy foods in a cabinet, vegetables and fruit in paper lined cases, toiletries set out separately, she was greeted by a slim woman who came out from the back. Mrs MacNicol, of course. And wasn’t she nice looking?
‘Nice looking’ would be the way to describe her, rather than ‘good looking’, perhaps, for a good-looking woman could have Mrs MacLean’s boldness, and that was completely missing in Mrs MacNicol. Probably in her forties, her face was faintly powdered and unlined, her eyes hazel, her hair fair – and, again, you wouldn’t call it blonde, Monnie thought, for ‘blonde’ sounded quite different. Her main attraction was the sweetness of the smile with which she welcomed her new customer.
‘May I help you?’ she asked, and her voice was exactly in keeping with the rest of her, soft and musical, a Highland voice.
‘Thanks, I’m Monnie Forester, from the hostel,’ she answered, in her own clear Lowland tones. ‘My dad’s the warden – he was in earlier with my sister.’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Mrs MacNicol exclaimed, her eyes brightening. ‘Mr Forester, the new warden! And your sister – Lynette – well, I’m very pleased to meet you too, Monnie – if I may call you that? I was hoping you’d be coming in, so that I could meet the whole family. I knew the MacKays very well.’
‘They spoke very highly of your shop,’ Monnie told her. ‘And we all think it’s lovely.’
‘Oh, well.’ A blush rose to Mrs MacNicol’s cheeks. ‘That’s very nice of you to say so. But what can I get you now, then?’
Monnie was beginning to say, ‘Just a shampoo and some toothpaste, please,’ when the door gave its strident jangle and, blowing in, with a rush of cold air, came Agnes MacLeod, large and stout, in a blue mackintosh.
‘Morning!’ she cried. ‘Morning, Ishbel! Oh, and is that young Miss Forester from the hostel at the counter? Good morning to you, my dear – everything all right for you?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
Seeing Mrs MacLeod today, hatless and with her thick yellow hair loose around her face, Monnie was deciding she really was quite good looking. And with his mother again before her eyes, it was more than ever clear that the son was like her. Except, of course, that, even if his face was as handsome, his nature might be different; somehow Monnie was sure it was.
‘And has my boy been round yet about the fish?’ Agnes was asking. ‘He said he’d call before he went to his boat.’ She laughed merrily. ‘See, I was teasing, telling him to look out for the new warden’s daughters. Two lovely girls, one blonde, one brunette. They’d be keen to want to cook some fish, I said, and I’m sure he was planning to call.’
‘Agnes, will you excuse me?’ Ishbel said a little coolly. ‘I have to serve this young lady.’
‘Of course, of course, do not be minding me. I’m not going anywhere.’ Agnes sniffed a little. ‘Not like Jeannie Duthie, I might say. Haven’t I seen her, hurrying along to the hostel as though she was in a race, just in case anybody gets in before her? Now why is she the only woman in this village supposed to be good at cleaning, I ask? Why has she got that reputation?’
‘Because Jeannie is very good,’ Ishbel replied, hurriedly moving from her counter to the far end of the shop. ‘She cleans for me once a week and I am very happy with her. Monnie, would you care to look at the shampoos, then? All the toiletries are over here.’
‘Please,’ Monnie said, reflecting, as she followed Ishbel, that life in a Highland village seemed not to be too different from that in an Edinburgh tenement. Och, folk were always the same, eh? Watching and criticizing, thinking they’d been passed over, treated unfairly. At least, there’d be no rows over cleaning the stair here, as there were at home, there being no shared stairs to worry about.
‘But did my boy come?’ Agnes was persisting, coming to stand close to Monnie as she looked at the shampoos on offer. ‘He’s away to his boat, got to put out his nets, or I’d have asked him how he got on.’
‘He did come,’ Monnie answered, finding herself reluctant to speak of him. ‘I told him we’d probably want to take his fish, but that my father wasn’t in. He said he’d come back this evening.’
‘And is there no mother, my dear?’ Agnes asked softly. ‘Is there just you girls and your father?’
‘Agnes . . .’ Ishbel murmured, but Monnie answered swiftly that that was true, her mother was dead.
‘Ah, so I thought. And you two lassies came here to support your father? Ishbel, isn’t that lovely, then?’
‘Shall I take those to the till for you, dear?’ was Ishbel’s only reply, made to Monnie, and when the little transaction was over, she gave a kind smile and said she’d look forward to seeing her again.
‘Oh, I expect we’ll be coming in all the time,’ Monnie told her. ‘To a useful shop like this. Goodbye, then, and thank you. Goodbye, Mrs MacLeod.’
‘Goodbye, dear!’ Agnes called breathily. ‘Look out for Torquil this evening. He’ll be sure to have something nice for you, he’s been doing well lately, with his catches. Ishbel, have you any of your little almond tarts today? I could just fancy a bit of your pastry.’
Outside the shop, Monnie, ready to return to the hostel, saw Lynette in the distance, waving and hurrying.
‘Lynette, how come you’re back again?’ she asked, as her sister came up, wearing her heavy coat and woollen hat, and breathing hard.
‘Got my letter to post, of course. You know I want it to go as soon as possible.’
‘You’ve written your application already?’
‘Sure I have, I don’t hang about.’ Lynette, giving her letter a swift kiss, dropped it into the post box. ‘There, that’s for luck, eh? You finished shopping? What did you think of the shop, then?’
‘I’d say we were lucky to have it. But don’t go in, Lynette – Mrs MacLeod’s there.’
‘Oh, Lordy – but I’m not going in anyway.’ Lynette took Monnie’s arm. ‘Come on, you should get back, you’ve missed all the excitement.’
‘What excitement?’
‘Why, we’ve gone up in the world, eh? We have a cleaning lady – at least, for the hostel. Little Mrs Duthie’s arrived
and Dad’s taken her on – she’s already scrubbing out the kitchen. Not the size of a sixpence but fizzing with energy like a bottle of pop, and worth half a crown an hour, Dad says, and so do I. Saves us having to do it, eh?’
‘And that’s the big excitement?’ Monnie asked, smiling, as they walked fast up the village street.
‘Oh, no, there’s more. And you should have been there, not me, because half a dozen guys arrived and I had to help Dad book ’em in and show ’em where to sleep, check they’d got sleeping bags or wanted sheets and all the rest of it. And I’m not the one wanting to be assistant warden!’
‘Help!’ groaned Monnie. ‘I just knew somebody would come this morning. Sorry about that, Lynette. Where’ve they gone now, these new customers?’
‘Out. Not climbing, just doing a recce, they said, but they’re loaded up with maps and boots and waterproofs and they’ve asked Dad to be sure to get ’em something to cook for tonight. He said, chops, seeing as the butcher’s van comes this afternoon.’ Lynette smiled slyly. ‘But we’ll be having fish, eh?’
‘Maybe.’ Monnie shrugged. ‘If the fish man comes back.’
Eleven
He did come. But not until after six o’clock, when it was already growing dark and the hostellers were back, grilling chops and roaring with laughter in the old kitchen, while Lynette and Frank were saying they were starving and where was this fisherman?
‘He did say he’d come,’ Monnie said quickly. ‘Maybe he’s not been able to get back?’
‘The weather’s not too bad at the moment,’ Frank commented. ‘He might at least have called to speak to me.’
And then there was the knock on their back door and the fisherman was on the step, carrying a covered basket and taking off his cap.
‘Mr Forester?’ he asked, his light blue eyes glancing from Monnie to Lynette and then to their father.
‘That’s right, I’m Frank Forester, the warden.’
‘My name’s Torquil MacLeod. I am sorry to be late with your fish – I was delayed at the hotel.’
Anne Douglas Page 5