Willie retreated.
“What was all that about?” asked Jock.
“Oh, you’ll find out sooner or later. I was once engaged to Hamish Macbeth.”
“The policeman?”
“Yes. He broke off the engagement, but I fear the villagers still hope we’ll get together again.”
“But they know you are engaged?”
“Of course. But they prefer to ignore it.”
“Odd place, this. It all seems so calm and unruffled on the surface, and underneath there seems to be all sorts of things going on. Why did Hamish break off the engagement?”
“Mind your own business,” said Priscilla coolly, “and tell me about yourself.”
So Jock did, telling her about his early days at Glasgow School of Art and his struggles to make a living as a painter.
“And you can do that now?” asked Priscilla.
“Yes, I’m pretty successful, thanks to my agent, Betty Barnard. Terrific energy that woman has. She worked night and day until she found me a gallery.”
Their food arrived. Jock ordered wine. They chatted amiably as the restaurant cleared of customers.
“That was very pleasant,” said Priscilla when they finished.
“I don’t usually do portraits, but I would like to do one of you.”
“What! Sit on the waterfront, which is where I gather from the gossips that you do your painting?”
“I was hoping you might lend me somewhere in the hotel.”
“I’ll think about it. Let’s go.”
♦
Jock and Priscilla entered the hall to a roll of drums. “Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen,” announced Matthew Campbell, the reporter who had been elected master of ceremonies. “Lochdubh’s very own line dancing team will entertain you.”
Jock tried hard not to laugh. The Currie sisters, Mrs. Wellington, Freda, Angela, and various other village women in what they fondly thought was western dress cavorted to a rollicking country and western tune played on the fiddle and accordion.
His eyes were streaming with suppressed laughter by the time they finished. Then Matthew announced, “And now take your partners for a ladies’ choice. It’s the eight-some reel.”
Effie rushed up to Jock. “Our dance, I think,” she said.
“I don’t know how to do it.”
“Come on. We’ll just follow the others.”
Hamish walked over and sat down by Priscilla. “You might have told me you had arrived,” he said.
“I was going to call on you tomorrow. Oh, do look at Effie and Jock. They’re falling over everyone.”
“You came in with Jock?”
“Yes, he took me for dinner.”
Hamish was suddenly and jealously glad Jock was making such a mess of things. He blundered into people in his set and finally sent Jessie Currie flying.
“You know,” said Priscilla, “for an artist, Effie does have a clumsy hand with make-up. She looks like a clown.”
Effie’s make-up was dead white, and she had tried to make her small mouth look larger. She had set her hair in tight curls.
“Looks like Ronald McDonald,” said Hamish, who was gradually falling into a nasty mood. There was Priscilla as calm, as seemingly indifferent, as ever.
“Have you got a day off tomorrow?” asked Priscilla.
“Yes. Why?”
“I’ll take us out on a picnic, and we can catch up on the gossip.”
Hamish’s face cleared. “Great. Mind you, I smell rain.”
“If it rains, we can go down to Strathbane. There’s a new French restaurant opened. It’s down at the docks.”
“What a place to have a restaurant.”
“It’s part of the regeneration of that area. Anyone who sets up business gets a tax break.”
Jock came back to join them, and to his dismay, Effie followed and sat down beside him.
Gamekeeper Henry was then called to the stage to recite a poem. After him, a little girl in a tutu tried to perform steps from Swan Lake, fell over, and burst into tears.
The next dance was a St. Bernard’s waltz. Priscilla and Hamish rose as one person and went on to the floor.
“Shall we?” asked Effie, and Jock did not have the courage to refuse. The steps were simple, and they managed very well, although Jock did not like the way Effie pressed up against him.
After the dance was over, she said she was going to the ladies’. Jock walked quickly to the door of the church hall and made his way outside. A fine heavy rain was soaking the waterfront.
Jock put up his collar and hurried back to his boarding house. He was still determined to paint Priscilla and see if he could find out what really lay behind that calm mask.
♦
To Hamish’s delight, the rain cleared on the following morning. He phoned Angela and asked her to keep an eye on his animals, showered, and got ready to drive up to the hotel and meet Priscilla. They would be taking her car because he didn’t want his day spoiled by someone reporting that he was driving a civilian around in the police Land Rover. Not that anyone in Lochdubh would do such a thing, but his beat now covered Cnothan, a sour town, where several of the inhabitants would be delighted if they thought they could put in a complaint about him.
He was about to leave when the phone rang. He hesitated on the doorstep. What if it was something important? But what if it were some minor complaint that might still ruin his day off?
The answering machine picked it up, and he heard Priscilla’s voice. He rushed and picked up the receiver. “It’s me, Hamish.”
“Hamish, I’ll need to cancel our picnic.”
“Why?”
“Mrs. Tullet, who runs the gift shop on Sundays, has a bad stomach complaint. I’ll need to take over.”
“Can’t someone else do it? I mean, if you weren’t there, someone would have to.”
“Mother would probably do it, but she has asked me to fill in.”
“What about this evening? We could drive down to that French restaurant you were talking about.”
“Not this evening, Hamish. Some other time. Got to go.”
Hamish slowly replaced the receiver. The day now stretched out before him, bleak and empty. At the best of times, there was a sad, closed air about a highland Sabbath as if the ghosts of Calvin and John Knox still haunted the place, determined to make sure no one was enjoying themselves.
He phoned Angela and told her his outing had been cancelled, and then he set out to walk along the waterfront with the dog and the cat at his heels.
He saw a stranger approaching, a tall woman wearing a tailored trouser suit. She had thick brown hair with gold highlights and a strong, handsome face.
“Good morning,” said Hamish politely. “Grand day.”
“Yes, I’ve been lucky with the weather.”
“Are you staying up at the hotel?”
“Yes, I’m Betty Barnard, Jock Fleming’s agent. I’ve found a gallery for Jock in Glasgow, so I’ve just been to see him. I’m sending him off for a couple of weeks.”
“I’m Hamish Macbeth. Are you going with him?”
“No need. I’ve done the groundwork. I’m really in need of a holiday, but if there’s anything urgent, I can cope with it by e·mail. Those are two very odd…”
“Animals,” said Hamish grumpily. “I know. I’m tired of talking about them.”
She had very large green eyes. Hamish reflected that it wasn’t often one saw eyes as green as hers. Might be contact lenses.
She leaned against the waterfront wall, and Hamish joined her. “Is this your day off?”
“Yes. I was going to go on a picnic with a friend, but she cancelled.”
“Pity. Tell you what. I’ll go back to the hotel and get them to fix up two packed lunches, and then we could go on a picnic and you can introduce me to the area.”
She exuded an easy-going friendliness. She was somewhere in her early forties, Hamish guessed, with an attractive husky voice. Her mouth was generous, and she had a determined chin.