Cameron wasn’t listening. “What is that great horde of people doing there?”
“That’s the refreshment tent.” Elizabeth sighed. “Pick a line.”
They edged their way past a collection of pipe-band members, and peered over the crowd to see what the menu offered.
“Bridies!” cried Cameron. “Mutton pies!”
What does one talk about to marine biologists, wondered Elizabeth, especially if one doesn’t know much about seals or porpoises. And a Scottish marine biologist, at that. Something clicked. “Loch Ness!” she cried.
“That’s up near Inverness. I went camping there with the Scouts once, though.”
“I don’t get it. I mention Loch Ness, and you think of Boy Scouts. As a marine biologist, shouldn’t you be interested in Nessie?”
“An unverified creature in a freshwater lake? Why should I?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll bet you’re going to be asked about Nessie an awful lot while you’re over here.”
“Well, it’ll make a change from folks wanting to know if I’m Irish or asking what it’s like in Edinburg.” He shuddered. “And that was only in the bloody airport.”
“Well, you should feel better here,” said Elizabeth. “These folks know all about Scotland. There’ll probably be people here who vacationed in Inverness-”
“Inverness,” Cameron corrected her.
“Or Aberdeen-”
“Aberdeen.”
“And one of the Menzies is really a war buff. He’ll probably want to talk to you about…” Elizabeth took a deep breath and marshaled her linguistic forces. “Ban-noch-burrn!” She finished triumphantly. “You don’t have to go through all that,” said Cameron mildly. “It’s Ban-nockburn. A bannock is an oatmeal cake. Speaking of food, here we are at the counter. I’ll have a mutton pie and a sausage roll, please. Do y’have any Irn Bru?”
“Strictly non-alcoholic here,” whispered Elizabeth.
He laughed. “It’s a carbonated drink. Comes in a can.”
“Oh.”
“Would you like to get anything for your moggie?” Seeing her look of bewilderment, he pointed to Cluny. “For your dad there.”
“No, he’s already eaten.” Elizabeth smiled. “We could take this stuff up on the hill, if you like. From under the trees, we’ll be able to see the games.”
“Will they be throwing the hammer this way?”
“We won’t sit behind the Campbell tent. Come on.”
When they had settled under an oak tree, with sausage rolls balanced on their laps, Elizabeth said, “Are you over here to work on anything specific?”
It was an inspired question. Cameron launched into an animated explanation of seal migratory patterns, which might have been quite educational if Elizabeth had listened. She sat nibbling her pastry, and nodding occasionally with an expression of rapt interest. Cameron began to talk about manatees in the South Atlantic. Elizabeth hung on every syllable, listening to the vowel sounds, the trilled r’s and uvular l’s, and making no sense at all of the words.
Brown eyes, she was thinking. I thought Scots had blue eyes. And his hair is so pretty. What would you call that color? Russet? Sorrel?
“… which has interesting evolutionary implications, don’t you agree?”
Elizabeth sighed. “I love your r’s.”
Cameron blinked. “Er-ah-yours is quite nice, too.”
“No, I can’t make them sound at all the way you do. Ag-rree.” “Oh! r’s. I thought-never mind. Anyway, about the sound patterns-”
“Yes, they’re wonderful,” she murmured.
“You’ve heard whale songs, then?”
Elizabeth straightened up. “Whales? I was talking about your sound patterns.”
Cameron blushed. “That shouldn’t be a novelty here. What percentage of these people are from Scotland?”
“Just you, I imagine,” Elizabeth told him. “When the rest of us say we’re Scottish, we mean six generations back.”
“Hmmm.” Cameron studied the faces of the passersby. “Now that’s a Scottish face,” he announced. “Look at that old man in the souvenir stall. I’ll bet he’s the real thing.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Come on. Let’s go and find out. Maybe he has some Billy Connolly tapes.”
“Who’s Billy Connolly?”
Cameron considered it. Whom could you compare Billy Connolly to? Richard Pryor? Lenny Bruce? He grinned.
“He’s the Duke of Glasgow. Come on.”
Lachlan Forsyth, having finished his conference with Jerry Buchanan, returned to the stall to find Jimmy in conference with a man in full MacDonald regalia.
“How are you keeping, lad?” he asked pleasantly.
Jimmy froze, thinking for an instant that Lachlan’s ESP had told him about the extra twenty per cent he’d been pocketing; but he decided that it might just be a Scottish way of saying hello, so he answered carefully, “Just fine, sir. But this guy has a special request, and I don’t know what to do about him.”
“Och aye?” said Lachlan, turning his performance on the customer. “How can I help, Mr… MacDonald, wouldn’t it be?”
“Hutcheson, actually.” The man shook Lachlan’s hand. “Dr. Walter Hutcheson. I was looking for a tartan for my wife.”
“Well, we have the MacDonald hunting, which is a nice green, or perhaps a dress plaid in the ancient colors?”
“No. I don’t need MacDonald. You see, my wife is from Scotland. She’s the niece of the Duke of Rothesay, and I’d like to find out what tartan she’d take and get her a scarf in it. I don’t know much about these things myself.”
Lachlan Forsyth looked thoughtful. “The Duke of Rothesay, eh? I’d like very much to meet her.”
Dr. Hutcheson smiled. “Heather’s back at the camper now. I’ll try to bring her by sometime, though. Do you have her plaid in stock?”
The old man produced a fringed scarf patterned in soft blues and beige. “Her ladyship would be entitled to wear this one,” he declared. “No one more so.”
“Oh, Heather doesn’t bother with all that title business,” said her husband with a touch of pride. “She hates for me to tell people about it. Now that she’s in America, she says she wants to be plain old Mrs. Hutcheson. I’ll bring her by.”
“Right. Do that. Oh, look-here comes the MacPhersons’ Maid of the Cat. Wonder what she’s about. Here, doctor, my assistant can take care of the purchase for you. He needs the practice.” Lachlan waved to the couple approaching the stall. “Hello, Moggie!” he called to the bobcat. “Who are your friends here?”
“Hi!” said Elizabeth. “Do you have any tapes by the Duke of Glasgow?”
Lachlan Forsyth looked puzzled. “Dukes again! Tapes, d’ye say? By the Duke of Glasgow?”
Behind Elizabeth, Cameron mouthed, “Bil-ly Con-nol-ly.”
Lachlan grinned. “Oh, aye! Is it him you’re wanting? Lassie, I’m truly sorry. Not many Americans appreciate His Grace, so I don’t carry his work. You come to see me at the Grandfather games next July, and I’ll see what I can do for you.” He turned to Cameron. “You should’ve brought some with you, laddie. Where are you from? Kelvinside, from the look of you.”
“Edinburgh,” said Cameron.
“Ah, Morningside, then. Just over, are you?”
Lachlan and Cameron began to talk animatedly about the Rangers. Elizabeth, deciding that she wasn’t interested in British military matters, began to look at the stall displays when she noticed the man at her side.
“Dr. Hutcheson!” she cried. “I’m so glad to see you. It’s been ages! I’m Elizabeth MacPherson, remember?”
“Ah, yes! The little girl who used to be so crazy about border collies. I see you’re still fond of livestock.” He nodded toward Cluny.
“Yes. He’s the Chattan mascot. I’ll leave him with my cousin when I go to see the collies. Is Marge out with them or back at the camper?”
Dr. Hutcheson reddened. “I guess most people here haven’t heard. Marge and I are no longer married.” Seeing Elizabeth’s look of astonishment, he hurried on. “We-ah-came to a parting of the ways about a year ago, and I’ve remarried. Is that your husband?” he asked, glancing at Cameron.