by Alice Ross
Joe, though, while fully admitting he’d rather wear a pink tutu to work for the rest of his life than trot around the globe, living out of a rucksack, not knowing when he’d next have a clean shirt, a proper loo, or no insect bites in inconvenient places, had nonetheless demonstrated great interest in Noah’s travels and his homeland, asking all kinds of questions. Flora, meanwhile, still cringingly aware that the visitor had witnessed the most excruciatingly embarrassing incident of her life – and the unattractive combination of her flesh-coloured thong and pasty buttocks – had uttered only the sparsest of responses on the rare occasion a question had veered her way.
Thankfully, though, Noah wasn’t staying at the castle, but at a youth hostel in the neighbouring town.
‘Although I’ll definitely be coming back to Glenduff,’ he’d informed them. ‘Not only is it an awesome place, but Duff was my grandmother’s maiden name. I’m under strict instructions to take masses of pictures, which I didn’t manage to do yesterday – what with various… distractions.’ He’d cast another amused look in Flora’s direction.
She’d fired back an unimpressed glower, before announcing that she was tired and going home. Declining Joe’s offer to accompany her, not least of all because she needed some time alone to clear her head, she left the pair to their beer and ramblings, hoping said ramblings wouldn’t include an in-depth discussion about the pale and dimpled state of her bottom.
After the – admittedly not completely complimentary - comments about her attire the previous day, Flora had swapped her harem trousers for securely-tied black sweatpants, and her flesh-coloured thong for a sensible pair of M&S cotton briefs.
‘None of that namby-pamby, tying-yourself-in-knots stuff today?’ enquired Colonel Dunlop, when she bumped into him in the corridor.
‘Meditation today, Colonel.’
‘Meditation!’ He gave a little shudder. ‘It’ll be belly dancing next. Or that Zimba nonsense.’
Flora snorted with laughter. ‘It’s Zumba, Colonel. And I think you’d enjoy that. Despite having to wear clothes.’
‘Can’t be doing with that. Would totally cramp my style,’ he replied, with another of his cheeky winks.
But it wasn’t belly dancing, Zimba or Zumba that morning.
Nor was it meditation.
Because Yvonne, dragging herself down to reception to meet Flora, was such a fright - frizzy red hair sticking out at all angles, eyes narrowed to slits, skin pale and blotchy – that even Mrs Mack looked slightly terrified.
‘It’s a recurring tropical virus,’ she informed them. ‘Picked it up last time I was in India practising with one of the masters.’
‘Right.’ Flora did her best to conjure up an image of Yvonne practising in India with one of the masters. She failed dismally.
As Yvonne then waddled off in the direction of the dining room, Mrs Mack gave one of her sniffs.
‘Virus my elbow. I can spot a hangover from the other side of the loch. According to the barman, she was knocking back whisky all night.’
‘Maybe it was for medicinal purposes,’ Flora suggested, rather feebly as she watched Yvonne collar a young waiter and point to several things on the menu. Most things on the menu it seemed, as the lad furiously scribbled away on his order pad.
Yvonne having taken to her bed with her ‘recurring tropical illness’ – from where she was steadily working her way through the room service menu, Flora was behind the reception desk later that afternoon, watching the colonel practising some hip hop moves he’d discovered on YouTube, when Amanda appeared.
‘You’ll never in a million years guess what’s just happened,’ she gushed.
‘They’ve made it illegal to take those wretched selfie things,’ piped up the colonel, doing a move that looked to Flora like the Funky Chicken. ‘And not before time either. Damned nuisance people shoving their faces into everything.’
Amanda shook her head, her sleek bob swinging from side to side. ‘No, Colonel. I’ve just bumped into someone I last saw on the other side of the world four years ago.’
‘Wow,’ exclaimed Flora. ‘What are the chances of that?’
‘Slim to nothing,’ giggled Amanda. ‘I can hardly believe it. Here at Glenduff, of all places.’
‘It’s a small world,’ said Flora, wondering what qualified her to size up the planet, when her universe consisted of a two-mile radius.
‘It is,’ concurred Amanda, significantly more qualified, given her far-flung travels included countries Flora hadn’t even heard of. ‘I’d never have imagined in a million years that I’d bump into the guy who taught me to surf on Bondi Beach, here in the Highlands.’
‘Bondi Beach?’ whimpered Flora, suspicion stealing over her as to who this someone might be.
‘Ooh, I can’t wait for you to meet him, Flora. You’ll love him,’ continued Amanda.
Just as Noah strode into the lobby.
‘So, you two have already met,’ Amanda exclaimed, after having launched into a round of effusive introductions.
‘Yes, I stumbled on Flora when she was doing some, er, yoga yesterday,’ Noah explained – with what was becoming an increasingly irritating humorous lilt. ‘And bumped into her again last night – in the pub with Joe. We had a drink together.’
Amanda clapped beautifully manicured hands together. ‘I knew you young ones would get along marvellously. Which is why I absolutely insist you stay here, Noah. We have one room that’s only just been finished. Am I correct in thinking we held off taking any bookings for that one in case something unexpected cropped up, Flora?’
Flora didn’t reply, her addled brain trying to work out how – with everything else it had to cope with – it could possibly add a cheeky Australian to the mix – even if he was a complete dish. Perhaps, then, she should inform Amanda that something unexpected had unexpectedly cropped up. Like an infestation of man-eating caterpillars.
Amanda, though, was one step ahead, slipping behind the desk and whipping the key to the vacant room from its hook.
‘There you go.’ She handed it to Noah with a flourish. ‘If you need anything, just let Flora know.’
‘I most certainly will,’ he replied, the twinkle in his turquoise eyes causing Flora’s heart to trip.
In what at the time had seemed like rather dull - but now, with hindsight, had actually been halcyon - days before Joe’s proposal, there had, on a handful of occasions, been times when Flora had found her mother’s obsession with routine a tad irritating. Times when she’d longed to do something to shake things up; add some spice to their otherwise mundane lives – like move the furniture around, or buy a new pot plant. Since Joe’s proposal, however, Flora had viewed Morag’s predictability as a reassuring anchor; something to cling to in a sea of unwanted change. But stepping through the front door this evening, despite the usual enquiry as to how her day had been, Flora sensed immediately that something wasn’t right.
‘What’s that smell?’
‘Risotto,’ replied Morag, appearing in the doorway. ‘There was a mix-up with the delivery at the shop and they ended up with two hundred punnets of mushrooms rather than two dozen. They were selling them off cheap, so I thought I’d buy a few and make something different.’
Something different? Flora’s pulse quickened. Had such drastic a routine change occurred before a diamond solitaire adorned her left hand, she would have attempted a celebratory cartwheel. Well, perhaps not a cartwheel, but a mini Highland Fling at least. Today, conversely, instead of cartwheels or flings, came panic and bewilderment.
‘But it’s Wednesday. We always have neeps and tatties on a Wednesday,’ she said – in a voice that – to her shame - came out as a whine.
Morag’s features formed a contrite expression. ‘I know. But I just thought, as there are going to be lots of changes around here soon, what with you getting wed and everything, that I should make some of my own. A few little tweaks. I think it’s what your dad would want me to do.’ She swivelled her head to the plastic
container on the shelf above the microwave.
Flora bit back a sigh. Rather than following the usual protocol of scattering a loved one’s ashes in a meaningful location, Morag had divvied up the remains of her husband into a matching set of plastic containers with coloured lids and the latest in clip locking systems. Said containers were strategically placed around the house (– lid colour co-ordinated with curtains), with another tucked in Morag’s handbag. The arrangement did, she claimed, make her feel like her spouse was ‘still around’.
Not considering this a particularly healthy practice, over the years Flora had attempted all manner of tactics to persuade her mum to do the “normal” thing. But each time Morag walloped back the phrase, ‘I’m not ready’.
Consequently, Flora had long since given up. And quite what to make of this evening’s risotto development, she had no idea.
‘You don’t mind not having neeps and tatties, do you, love?’ Morag enquired.
Wracked with sudden guilt, and berating herself for coming across as ungrateful, Flora summoned a smile. ‘Of course I don’t.’ She planted a kiss on her mother’s smooth cheek. ‘I love all your cooking. And I love you.’
At the kitchen table twenty minutes later, Morag’s expression had turned anxious. ‘Is there too much onion?’ she asked, over the risotto. ‘The recipe said one, but I added two because they were a bit on the small side.’
‘It’s great, Mum. Honestly,’ replied Flora. Because it honestly was.
Morag smiled. ‘Good. I thought you might be hungry after your yoga. All that stretching and what have you.’
‘I am hungry,’ Flora replied. ‘But not because of yoga. Yvonne, the instructor, has been in bed all day. A recurring tropical virus according to her. Mrs Mack’s convinced it’s a hangover. She reckons Yvonne’s pulling a fast one. Only here for a free holiday.’
‘Never!’ tutted Morag. ‘The nerve of some people. And her supposedly one of those alternative types.’
‘She’s certainly that,’ uttered Flora. ‘She’ll be leaving first thing in the morning and, as I certainly won’t be recommending her to Amanda, we won’t be seeing her back at Glenduff anytime soon. Unless she checks in as a paying guest.’
‘Quite right too. When’s the next instructor due?’
‘Next week. To do photography.’
‘Ooh, that’ll be nice. And you never know, they might be able to recommend someone to take your wedding pictures.’
‘Mmm,’ muttered Flora, slicing her knife right through the middle of a mushroom.
‘Do you like it?’ Joe pressed in the living room later that evening.
‘I think it’s fabulous,’ exclaimed Morag, cheeks flushed. ‘Ooh, how exciting it all is.’
Flora gaped at the roll of wallpaper her fiancé was clasping – partly unfurled to provide a better view of the gold floating feathers set against a grey background. Not that the feathers or the background remotely interested her.
‘I know we should really have chosen it together,’ Joe chirped. ‘But it was on special offer in the shop next to the plumbing merchants. Half price – from thirty quid to fifteen. And they only had two rolls left.’
Flora wondered how many other men in their early twenties would demonstrate such enthusiasm for wallpaper. Not many, she’d bet. And certainly not Noah. Which set her mind scurrying down a worrying track – one that had her wondering what would enthuse Noah. Quickly remonstrating with herself for such ridiculous - and disloyal – musings, she effected a mental U-turn and herded her thoughts back to the present. And the wallpaper.
‘I thought it could go on the chimney breast in the lounge,’ Joe ploughed on. ‘A feature wall, isn’t that what they call them?’
‘Goodness, Joe. Have you been watching house makeover programmes?’ sniggered Morag.
‘Got to keep up with the terminology, Mor,’ he replied with a wink. Then to Flora, ‘I can take it back if you don’t like it.’
Flora heaved a sigh. Since her last attempt to talk to him - in the pub, which had been well and truly scuppered by Noah – there’d been no opportunity for her to raise the wedding topic again. Which made her realise that she needed to create one – right now.
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ she suggested, springing to her feet.
Joe’s brow crinkled. ‘A walk? I thought we were going to watch a bit of telly. There’s that new drama series starting tonight.’
Flora fought the urge to roll her eyes. If she didn’t vent the words that had been brewing inside her like a frustrated storm since the proposal, she had the horrible presentiment she might explode. She had to put an end to it now. Before he bought a toaster with matching kettle. Or a knockdown pedal bin. Or a set of his and hers towels. ‘Please, Joe. I really need some air,’ she insisted.
At precisely the moment Joe’s mobile squawked.
His face paled as he took the call. ‘My mum’s had an accident,’ he informed them a few seconds later. ‘She’s in hospital.’
Not a great believer in things ethereal, Flora nevertheless wondered if whoever was in charge of her fate was having great fun working their way through the Ways To Prevent Flora From Breaking Off Her Marriage manual.
Joe’s mum had toppled off the ladder while putting up her new curtains, landing on her arm and knocking herself unconscious after banging her head on the TV unit.
‘We’re keeping her in overnight for observation, but she’s going to be fine,’ the doctor assured them. ‘No broken bones luckily.’
‘Just as well,’ the patient replied. ‘My son and his fiancée here are getting married in a few weeks. At Glenduff Castle. I wouldn’t want to miss that.’
Flora would want to miss it. And the incident had made her briefly consider breaking a limb of her own. But she suspected that Joe – and the rest of Aberboyne – wouldn’t let a minor thing like that interrupt proceedings. It would take a contagious disease at least. Although, even then, she had images of being wheeled to Glenduff in an incubation tent.
To top off what had seemed to be a never-ending night, Flora had returned home from the hospital to discover that Morag had rolled out an entire length of wallpaper and stuck it to the top of her own chimney breast.
‘Just so you get the full effect,’ she’d explained.
Not wanting any effect, Flora was grateful for the reprieve from her mum – and the wallpaper – at work the next morning.
Or she was for approximately forty-seven minutes, until Amanda rushed up to the reception desk.
‘I’ve just had a call from Elizabeth who was due to trial the photography course with you next week,’ the laird informed her. ‘There’s been a family bereavement in the States, so she’s flying over there tonight and could be away for as long as two months.’
‘Oh, what a shame,’ remarked Flora.
‘Well, it is about the bereavement – obviously,’ agreed Amanda. ‘And a delay in us trialling any of the activities could set us back with our marketing brochures. But the good news is that she’s emailed me her proposed itinerary and suggested we find someone with photographic experience to trial it. If they think it’s a goer, and we’re satisfied, then she’d be happy for us to include the details in our marketing literature, and happy to work with us when she gets back.’
‘Great. I’ll start looking for someone with photographic experience right away.’
‘No need. We already have a fully-qualified photographer staying here.’
Dread swept through Flora as she began to have an inkling who that someone might be. ‘Noah?’ she ventured lamely.
‘The very same,’ confirmed a jubilant Amanda.
Chapter Five
Rather than her preferred option of a one-way flight to the Shetland Islands, Flora instead found herself on a train bound for Inverness the next morning. With her mum. And a bit of her dad.
‘Ooh, isn’t this exciting, going shopping for your wedding dress,’ babbled Morag.
Flora didn’t think so. But for her mum’s
sake, and because she appreciated how much courage it had taken the woman to even suggest the trip, she mustered a smile, took her mum’s hand, and planted a kiss on it. ‘It is,’ she lied. ‘And thank you for coming with me.’
Morag chuckled. ‘What mother wouldn’t want to help her daughter choose her wedding dress. It’s just a shame your dad won’t see you in it. Still, he’s here with us today.’ She patted her handbag containing the plastic box with the blue lid, containing remnants of her deceased husband.
Flora turned to the window, tears welling in her eyes. She really missed her dad too. He’d been a big, energetic man with the gift of always making her smile. His death had ripped her world apart. But for all it had felt like a living nightmare at the time, wading through treacle for over a year, the pain had eased. Because life went on – regardless of how much one thought it should stop for a while and grieve with you. Which was why, as difficult as it had been at times, requiring more effort than she’d imagined herself capable of, Flora had battled on, ridden the tide, and pushed through the invisible pain barrier.
Attempts to drag Morag along with her hadn’t proved anywhere near as successful.