He pushed open the lounge door and blinked nervously at the eight people who were standing around eyeing each other warily. A bad sign. Usually by the time he put in his appearance, they had all introduced themselves.
Constable Hamish Macbeth was sitting in an armchair at the window, studying the Daily Telegraph crossword and whistling through his teeth in an irritating way.
John took a deep breath. Lights, camera, action. He was on.
“I think the first thing to do is to get acquainted,” he said, smiling nervously at the silent group. “My name is John Cartwright, and I am your instructor. We find things go easier if we all get on a first-name basis. Now, who would like to start?”
“Start what?” demanded a heavyset woman imperiously.
“Hah, hah. Well, start introducing themselves.”
“I’ll be first,” said an American voice. “My name is Marvin Roth, and this is my wife, Amy.”
“I’m Daphne Gore,” drawled a tall blonde, studying her fingernails.
“Jeremy Blythe.” A handsome, stocky young man with a cheerful face, fair curly hair, and bright blue eyes.
“Charlie Baxter.” The twelve-year-old. Chubby, beautiful skin, mop of black curls, remarkably cold and assessing eyes in one so young.
“Well, you know me. Major Peter Frame. Just call me Major. Everyone does.” Small grey moustache in a thin, lined face; weak, petulant mouth; brand-new fishing clothes.
“Alice Wilson.” Pretty, wholesome-looking girl; slight Liverpool accent, wrong clothes.
“I am Lady Jane Winters. You may call me Lady Jane. Everyone does.” The heavyset woman. Heavy bust encased in silk blouse, heavy thighs bulging in knee breeches, fat calves in lovat wool stockings. Heavy fat face with large, heavy-lidded blue eyes. Small, sharp beak of a nose. Disappointed mouth.
“Now we’ve all got to know each other’s names, we’ll have some coffee,” said John brightly.
Hamish uncoiled himself from the armchair and slouched forward.
Lady Jane eyed his approach with disfavour.
“Does the village constable take fishing lessons as well?” she demanded. Her voice was high and loud with a peculiarly grating edge to it.
“No, Mr Macbeth often joins us on the first day for coffee.”
“Why?” Lady Jane was standing with her hands on her hips between Hamish and the coffee table. The policeman craned his neck and looked over her fat shoulder at the coffee pot.
“Well,” said John crossly, wishing Hamish would speak for himself. “We all like a cup of coffee and…”
“I do not pay taxes to entertain public servants,” said Lady Jane. “Go about your business, Constable.”
The policeman gazed down at her with a look of amiable stupidity in his hazel eyes. He made a move to step around her. Lady Jane blocked his path.
“Do you take your coffee regular, Officer?” asked Marvin Roth. He was a tall, pear-shaped man with a domed bald head and thick horn-rimmed glasses. He looked rather like the wealthy upper-eastside Americans portrayed in some New Yorker cartoons.
Hamish broke into speech for the first time. “I mostly take tea,” he said in a soft Highland voice. “But I aye take the coffee when I get the chance.”
“He means, do you take milk and sugar?” interposed John Cartwright, who had become used to translating Americanisms.
“Yes, thank you, sir,” said Hamish. Lady Jane began to puff with outrage as Marvin poured a cup of coffee and handed it over her shoulder to the constable. Alice Wilson let out a nervous giggle and put her hand over her mouth to stifle it. Lady Jane gave her shoulders a massive shrug and sent the cup of coffee flying.
There was an awkward silence. Hamish picked up the cup from the floor and looked at it thoughtfully. He looked slowly and steadily at Lady Jane, who glared back at him triumphantly.
“Oh, pullease give the policeman his coffee,” sighed Amy Roth. She was a well-preserved blonde with large, cow-like eyes, a heavy soft bosom, and surprisingly tough and wiry tennis-playing wrists.
“No,” said Lady Jane stubbornly while John Cartwright flapped his notes and prayed for deliverance. Why wouldn’t Hamish just go?
Lady Jane turned her back on Hamish and stared at Marvin as if defying him to pour any more coffee. Alice Wilson watched miserably. Why had she come on this awful holiday? It was costing so much, much more than she could afford.
But as she watched, she saw to her amazement the policeman had taken a sizeable chunk of Lady Jane’s tightly clad bottom between thumb and forefinger and was giving it a hearty pinch.
“You pinched my bum!” screamed Lady Jane.
“Och, no,” said the policeman equably, moving past the outraged lady and pouring himself another cup of coffee. “It will be them Hielan nudges. Teeth on them like the pterodactyls.”
He ambled back to his armchair by the window and sat down, nursing his coffee cup.
“I shall write to that man’s superior officer,” muttered Lady Jane. “Is anyone going to pour?”
“I reckon we’ll just help ourselves, honey,” said Amy Roth sweetly.
Seeing that there was going to be no pleasant chatter over the cups, John Cartwright decided to begin his lecture.
Warming to his subject as he always did, he told them of the waters they would fish, of the habits of the elusive salmon, of the dos and don’ts, and then he handed around small plastic packets of thin transparent nylon cord.
He was about to call Heather down to tell her it was time to show the class how to tie a leader, when he suddenly felt he could not bear to see his wife humiliated by the terrible Lady Jane. She had been remarkably quiet during his lecture, but he felt sure she was only getting her second wind. He decided to go ahead on his own.
“I am now going to tell you how to tie a leader,” he began.
“What on earth’s a leader?” snapped Lady Jane.
“A leader,” explained John, “is the thin, tapering piece of nylon which you attach to your line. A properly tapered leader, properly cast, deposits the fly lightly on the surface. The butt section of the leader, which is attached to the line, is only a bit less in diameter than the line. The next section is a little lighter, and so on down to the tippet. Now you must learn to tie these sections of leader together to form the tapering whole. The knot we use for this is called a blood knot. If you haven’t tied this thin nylon before, you’ll find it very difficult. So I’ll pass around lengths of string for you to practice on.”
“I saw some of these leader things already tapered in a fishing shop,” said Lady Jane crossly. “So why do we have to waste a perfectly good morning sitting indoors tying knots like a lot of Boy Scouts?”
Heather’s calm voice sounded from the doorway, and John heaved a sign of relief.
“I am Heather Cartwright. Good morning, everybody. You were asking about leaders.”
“Commercially tied leaders are obtainable in knotless forms,” said Heather, advancing into the room. “You can buy them in lengths of seven and a half to twelve feet. But you will find the leader often gets broken above the tippet and so you will have to learn to tie it anyway. Now, watch closely and I’ll show you how to do it. You can go off and fish the Marag if you want, Major,” added Heather. “No need for you to sit through all this again.”
“No experts in fly fishing,” said the major heartily. “Always something to learn. I’ll stay for a bit.”
Alice Wilson wrestled with the knot. She would get one side of it right only to discover that the other side had miraculously unravelled itself.
The child, Charlie, was neatly tying knots as if he had fallen out of his cradle doing so. “Can you help me?” she whispered. “You’re awfully good.”