He ambled on in the direction of his own ball, keeping an eye on his playing partner. He saw him tramp into the rough to find his ball. Then he selected a club from his bag and stood behind the ball with his club held dangling at arm’s length, like a plum-bob to get the line to the green.
And, just as the Padre had suspected, it happened. A dark hazy cloud rose from the rough, moving outwards from the gorse bushes towards the Reverend Canfield. Within seconds it engulfed him.
‘Gah! Midges!’ he cried, frantically scratching his exposed skin. Then he let forth a stream of invective quite unbecoming to one of his cloth.
Despite himself, Lachlan chuckled. Fearful that Kenneth Canfield should hear him he puffed harder on his pipe and soon had billows of smoke around him. ‘Are you being attacked, Kenneth?’ he called rhetorically.
Kenneth was swiping at the swarm of midges to no avail. In despair he lashed out at the ball with his club and foozled it a few yards ahead. With a scowl he shouldered his bag, ran on to the ball and swiped again, with similar result. Eventually, after three more such attempts, he made it to the fairway, finally leaving the midge swarm behind him.
Lachlan knocked an easy five iron into the heart of the green.
‘I wish I had known that you had a midge problem over on that side of the course,’ Kenneth said plaintively.
Lachlan noticed the suspicious glint in his eye, but feigned surprise. ‘Oh well, Kenneth, you are in the Outer Hebrides. The whole of the west of Scotland has a midge problem as you know. All you can do is try to avoid them.’
‘Or keep them away with a foul-smelling pipe!’
Lachlan laughed. ‘With all these new anti-smoking laws the golf course is about the only place left where you are allowed to smoke. The fact that the meanbh-chuileag, the “tiny fly” doesn’t like my tobacco is quite fortuitous.’ He watched as Kenneth selected a seven iron and addressed his ball.
‘Maybe you should have checked on Dr Digby Dent’s Midge Index before coming out this morning?’ Lachlan suggested.
To his surprise Kenneth glared at him, and then took a wild swipe at his ball. The result was inevitable. He hit a duck hook that sent the ball arcing viciously in the direction of the rough and more gorse bushes on the left. It disappeared into them.
‘Pah! It is no good. I concede this hole Lachlan. Why did you have to mention that man’s name?’
‘Dr Dent?’ Lachlan returned with mild surprise. ‘Have you a problem with him, Kenneth? Why he seems a decent enough chap to me. He must be the world’s foremost expert on the midge. In fact, I am planning to go to hear him talk tonight. He is doing a short spot on that Scottish TV show that they are shooting on the island over the next two weeks. Flotsam & Jetsam it is called. I was going to suggest that you come along?’
‘Ah yes, that antique and junk show with the tanned chappie with the world’s worst wig and the glamorous partner. I have seen an episode or two when they came to Inverness. So what is my university’s famous entomologist doing on this show?’
Lachlan tapped his pipe out on the blade of his putter and grinned. ‘Explaining about midges, would you believe?’
The Reverend Kenneth Canfield smiled back. ‘In that case I wouldn’t miss him for the world.’
But Lachlan noted the tinge of sarcasm in his voice that belied the smile.
Fergus Ferguson was used to being recognized. Camera-shy he definitely was not. In fact, he felt totally at home in front of a lens, which undoubtedly had something to do with his great success as a TV presenter. Although he thought it a bit of a mouthful, he revelled in being known as the doyen of the antique and bric-à-brac world. Yet this particular camera lens was causing him some agitation.
‘Why doesn’t he bloody well answer?’ he said to Chrissie, his attractive, long-blonde-haired partner and co-host on the popular Flotsam & Jetsam TV show. ‘I’m sure I can see him sitting watching us from behind those lace net curtains.’
‘Shush, Fergie!’ she whispered. ‘You might be right, but it’s hard to say from this distance. But if he’s there then he’ll be able to hear you on this intercom. Now don’t swear.’ She raised her hand to cover her eyes and looked admiringly up at the house. ‘It’s a fantastic place that he has here. And a fabulous view over his own stretch of beach.’
He straightened up from the stone pillar with the intercom and camera beside the radio-controlled iron gates that barred entry to the long drive. It zigzagged up through sand dunes to a large two-storeyed building that seemed to be more windows than brickwork. And all of them were covered with net curtains or blinds. He screwed his eyes up and pointed. ‘Look, in that bay window. I’m sure he’s sitting there watching us.’
‘Maybe he only talks to people he recognizes?’ she suggested.
He stared at her as if she had said something outrageous. ‘In which case he’s bound to recognize us, isn’t he? Fergie and Chrissie from Flotsam & Jetsam. Half of Scotland watches us every night.’
‘Maybe he’s part of the other half of Scotland, my love.’
Despite himself he grinned at her. When Chrissie smiled like that men fell in love with her. When she smiled like that at him, he wanted to make love to her. He raised an eyebrow and flicked his eyes in the direction of the countless sand dunes that ran the length of the coast.
She immediately recognized the expression on his handsome, deeply tanned face and giggled. ‘This is business, Fergie. Behave yourself. Now try again. They told us that he’s just about a recluse and that we’d be lucky to get him to let us in.’
Fergie sighed and bent down to jab a well-manicured finger on the intercom button.
‘Hi there,’ he intoned in his jingle-jangle Scottish TV voice. ‘This is Fergie and Chrissie here from Flotsam & Jetsam. We’d like to have a chat with you, maybe do a bit of business and invite you on to our TV show.’
‘Maybe he’s deaf, Fergie? Or maybe he’s just not interested.’
‘You look into the camera, darling. Maybe a sight of you will get him to open up.’
Chrissie gently barged him aside and smiled at the lens. But before she could say anything the intercom crackled and a distant tinny voice rang out.
‘No hawkers, sales-folk or onion Johnnies, thank you.’
Fergie stared in disbelief. ‘Hawkers! Onion Johnnies! Doesn’t he know—?’
The intercom crackled again. ‘Please move on or I’ll be telephoning the police.’
Fergie scowled and jabbed the button again. ‘Now look here! I am Fergie Ferguson from the Scottish TV program Flotsam & Jetsam and I have—’
The voice from the intercom interrupted. ‘Please move on. I do not like my privacy being invaded. I am phoning the police now.’
‘Come on, Fergie,’ said Chrissie, pointing to their parked Mercedes.
A motor engine sounded and they looked round to see a cream and blue mobile shop van that was also emblazoned with the logo of the Royal Mail appear round the bend of the rough track. It drew to a halt beside their car and a postman got out. He was a wiry fellow with a shaven head that made prominent ears stand out even more. He was wearing shorts and trainers and was almost as tanned as Fergie.
‘Hello, folks,’ he said with a grin. ‘Are you trying to get to see our famous artist-cum-beachcomber? I have to say you’ll be lucky.’ Then his jaw dropped as he recognized the duo.