by Carly Reid
“Gillespie.”
Minimal greetings achieved, the man turned to Ealisaid and said:
“One Victoria sponge and two pots of marmalade under the name of Donaldson. A lime, and an orange.” He stood with barely concealed impatience, tapping his foot.
Jessica knew that the cakes registration had already closed, and wondered how her friend would handle this. Also, was the man’s name really Donald Donaldson? Although come to think of it, his name sounded familiar, as if she had heard it recently. Where could that have been?
“Mr Donaldson, I’ll register these for you, but the Victoria sponge should really have been here during the cake registration, from 8 – 8.30am. This is the preserves slot, 8.30 – 9am.” She gestured to the large clock on the wall, and below it, the timetable for class registration. It was five minutes to nine in the morning.
“That’s absolutely ridiculous. Are you saying you would expect me to queue up to submit the cake, then leave and come back twenty minutes later to register the jam?
Ealisaid’s tone was conciliatory, born of years of experience of excellent customer service. “I know it’s an inconvenience, and it might not seem logical, but technically yes, that would be how you would register goods in two different class groups. We try to minimise overlap for those who are entering goods in different parts of the hall, but sometimes it’s impossible to avoid. Of course, you can register three item within a class all in one go. However, just this once we can overlook it and I’ll register Mrs Donaldson’s cake along with her preserves. It can be our secret – if you promise not to tell Mr Wilcott, neither will I.”
Ealisaid’s attempt at humor fell flat. If anything, it only served to annoy Mr Donaldson further. His already pink face darkened to an angry puce, and flecks of spittle issued from his lips as he next spoke.
“Young lady, Desmond Wilcott is a long and trusted associate of mine, and I can assure you he would not take issue with this at all. He would agree with me absolutely that the way you are running things here makes no sense – no sense. Expecting people to queue up twice! It’s scandalous, that’s what it is – scandalous. You must think people have nothing better to do!”
Ealisaid remained unperturbed. “I didn’t make these rules, Mr Donaldson. As head judge and show convenor, Mr Wilcott did. I’ll make sure to give your feedback at the post-show committee meeting, and perhaps next year we can consider merging the edibles class into one. It’s something I have suggested in the past. In the meantime, why don’t you add your wife’s cake to the table there, and her jam on the preserves table under the window. Registration is closing shortly and we will be setting this room up for judging.”
Scarcely mollified, and clearly determined to have the upper hand, Mr Donaldson hissed “It’s marmalade!” However, he then did as Ealisaid had requested, first with the cake – which was a beautiful-looking sponge, Jessica noted, standing lightly golden and proud inside its domed stand – and then turning his back on the two young women to place the marmalades in their appropriate places on the preserves table, taking his time to find the correct entry numbers. Jessica, making eye contact with Ealisaid behind his back, raised her eyebrows and in return Ealisaid rolled her eyes slightly. They quickly dropped their gaze as Mr Donaldson turned back round. He left without acknowledgement, responding only to Ealisaid’s pleasant “goodbye, now” with a muttered “harrumph!” Leaving the room, he turned right towards the main Village Hall door just as the MacNaughton had done. Ealisaid watched him go, and then moved over to the window to check that he had definitely left the building.
“Jessica, close the door.”
Jessica glanced at the clock. It was two minutes to nine.
“I know it’s early, but I think that’s everyone on my list. I’ll just check – ” Ealisaid flipped the pages on her clipboard, ” – yes, everyone has entered. There’s no-one else to come. Close the door, and I’ll answer any questions you have for your article but I’ll have to be quite quick – I want to get down to the café and check that Murdo and Mairead have managed to open up OK.”
Jessica did as she was asked, but when she turned to Ealisaid it was clear that her friend had other things she wanted to address first.
“Did you get a load of Donald Donaldson there? Honestly. What a massive sense of entitlement. It’s normally his wife that drops off her own entries and she’s more than happy to queue up twice. She gets a nice chat in the queue, and if that’s what she has to deal with at home, she probably is quite pleased to have a break! As for people having better thing to do – please. It’s an hour or so out of your day. He’s probably just going to play golf for the rest of it.”
Ealisaid looked at Jessica and broke into a giggle. “This is all off the record, OK?”
Jessica smiled. “Of course. Look – no notebook, no recorder.”
“Good. Thing is Jessica, he’s right. It is a bit daft you are not meant to bring the cakes and jams at the same time. You’ll find that it’s the same people likely to enter both, and I could easily manage it – you see the set up here, it’s no’ exactly complicated! Through in the big hall, where they have big items and multiple classes, it makes more sense in there. In here I think they should merge them. I’ll say so – again – at the next meeting. Right. So – on the record now – what would you like to ask?”
Jessica flipped out her notebook and went through her list quickly, noting down Ealisaid’s responses as she went. She wanted a clear idea of the process, and general impressions of the number of entries, variety, the percentage of regular entries. Once she had captured that, she asked Ealisaid about the table set-up and the judging.
“It used to be we had enough volunteers to place the entries as well, although it made it a bit complicated – this isn’t a very big room and people would argue over the placement. A few years ago we adopted this method of putting the entry numbers out and I must say, it works well. Sometimes people move things about to centre theirs, so I usually have a wee glance over – the numbers should just be in order. You can do that check with me if you like then I’ll need to be away – I did promise I would check in on the café before I come back for the judging.”
The two women ran their eyes over the cake table, checking for consecutive numbers and, in Jessica’s case at least, admiring the variety and display of local talent. Deliciously light golden sponges vied for attention with rich, tempting chocolate cakes. Fruit loaves thickly studded with cherries and nuts…Dundee cake…syrupy drenched lemon and orange cakes, and several plates of scones, looking somehow both substantial yet melt in the mouth.
“What happens to the cakes afterwards?” asked Jessica. She knew that for the next two days the traditional crafts would be sold, some for significantly high prices, drawing aficionados from near and far. The cakes would be past their best by then though.
“Entrants have a choice. They can take them home today at 2.30pm after the judging, or they can slice, bag and sell them later today with all proceeds donated to the Craft Society. If I wasn’t on the committee I suppose I would worry about the competition, but luckily the appetite for cakes never seems to drop away.”
Jessica nodded and they moved over to the preserves table. Her eye was drawn immediately to the large curved jar that stood out, flagrantly breaking the straight-sided jar rules and – she looked closer – bearing an ornate oval printed label that read:
Castle Drummond Finest Blaeberry Jelly
She glanced along the table. Two other entries in identical jars, with labels that read:
Castle Drummond Orange & Scotch Whisky Marmalade
Castle Drummond Finest Raspberry Jam
The labels also reproduced a rough pen and ink sketch of the castle below the names and above the dates. A coat of arms was stamped on the metal lids.
Ealisaid saw her looking and smiled.
“You’ll have noticed yet more rule-breaking? Don’t worry, this one is also permitted by our esteemed head judge. He’s a real stickler for the r
ules, apart from when local men with influence want to bend them. Funny, that.”
“So these were the ones submitted by…?”
“The MacNaughton, yes. You’ll have noticed him? Every year. Margaret Mustard is his part-time housekeeper, see, and she makes her jams at the castle – says that it works far better in the ancient jeely pots on the big stove in the kitchen there, but also believes that this gives her the right to stamp ‘Castle Drummond’ all over them. You cannae blame her really, it’s a brilliant marketing tactic.”
Ealisaid paused in appreciation of Margaret Mustard’s business acumen.
“Gillespie disnae mind, as long as he gets to eat it. He’s got an awfy sweet tooth. Anyway, she always sends him in with the entries. Her excuse is that she also enters in the textile classes every year, and she cannae be in two places at once. She never swaps and sends him to register her knitting, though! She’s a canny one, right enough. Mr Wilcott turns a blind eye. He wouldnae want to get on the wrong side o’ the Laird of Drummond Castle. That would be pretty difficult; Gillespie’s as kind a man as you’ll ever meet. But there we are. I wouldnae mind, but – ”
Despite the fact they were alone in the room, with the door closed, Ealisaid drew nearer to Jessica and said in a whisper:
“This is definitely off the record: Margaret Mustard wins every year, as well.”
2
A Judging Calamity
After this dramatic piece of gossip Jessica and Ealisaid left the side room and the latter locked the door, so as to leave the entries undisturbed until judging time when she would return after working in her café for a couple of hours. Ealisaid had support in her café from her younger sister Mairead and her employee Murdo Smith, but the former was still only a teenager and the latter worked only very part-time at Lissa’s, spending the rest of his time supporting his father on Balnaguise, the family dairy farm. He also volunteered as a Special Constable for the police force. Jessica wanted to take in the atmosphere of the big hall and see the registration of other craft classes, for her notes.
As the two women said their goodbyes, a middle-aged couple entered in the main door of the Village Hall. He had close cropped grey hair and flinty eyes, and walked slightly ahead, thin-lipped and unsmiling, dressed in a dark grey severely tailored suit. She was trailing behind with a tissue paper wrapped bundle held in her arms. Petite and fine-boned, with bobbed silvery hair, she had an elegant way of moving despite her armful, and a strained expression etched on her pale face. With them floated a cloud of tension, and Jessica thought that perhaps their entry into the building had cut short an argument.
The man nodded grimly at Ealisaid as he passed, heading straight for the main hall. The woman made no eye contact as she followed him to the same room. Neither said anything. Ealisaid waited until they were safely out of earshot before saying quietly to Jessica:
“And that was your head judge and show convenor, Mr Desmond Wilcott, along with his wife, Patricia. She’s a very talented lacemaker and will be entering something in that class I should think. Her husband doesn’t judge that one, so it’s always allowed.”
Jessica’s eyes widened as she took in this new information. So that was the Desmond Wilcott she had heard so much about. He certainly fitted the description of someone methodical, orderly and unbending.
“Is he always that unfriendly?”
“He’s never a warm man, but I’m surprised he didn’t stop to talk, even if just to ask about how the registration went this morning. He would normally have been here earlier, too. If I hadn’t detected an atmosphere I would have introduced you, Jessica. Maybe something has happened.”
Maybe it has thought Jessica, looking again down the corridor to where the couple had disappeared into the main hall. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she still felt the chill of their passing in the air, and was nervous about what she might find if she followed them.
* * *
She needn’t have worried. Upon entering the main hall herself, any hint of the tension they had picked up on between Desmond Wilcott and his wife had completely dissipated – in fact, the hall was so busy and full of people that she had trouble placing them at first. When she did spot them they were apart, Mrs Wilcott lining up to register her lacework, and the head judge clearly making up for lost time by doing a whistle-stop tour of the various stands, exchanging a few words with entrants and other committee members, then moving on quickly. Jessica flipped out her notebook. She was glad she would have the opportunity later to see the exhibits without any people in the way, as the present crowds were too thick for her to get a proper look at many of the crafts. Instead she tried to capture the impression of industry and optimism that hung over the show already, as well as an idea of the range of talent that was there in the different classes and categories. After two months in Dalkinchie, Jessica was still just getting used to the way that small communities could pull together to deliver a big event, and the importance of these events to the lives of the people of Dalkinchie, Drummond and further afield.
After a short time, Jessica took her notebook and her thoughts and disappeared into the newspaper office next door. The Dalkinchie & Drummond Herald occupied half of the upper floor of the building directly adjacent to the Village Hall. It was another weathered grey stone building with polished floor hallways. The local library took up the entire first floor. The newspaper shared the second floor with a small museum, staffed entirely by volunteers, and a small communal kitchen for tea breaks. Far from the sleek offices Jessica had vaguely pictured when she had first considered becoming a journalist, the newspaper offices were crammed into two rooms – one which was used by the editor Grant Mack, and the other, larger room for anyone else working for the newspaper on a freelance or salaried basis. Both rooms were haphazardly furnished; the computer equipment was a few years out of date but was perfectly serviceable, and Jessica had found herself enjoying working there enormously over the last couple of months. She had started with a profile on her aunt’s new shop, and since then had contributed something every week.
The Craft Show was her biggest piece to date, and Jessica wanted to take every opportunity to type up her notes, knowing that she could polish them into something better in the coming days. Ignoring the post-it note stuck on the desk informing her that Nicholas Pringle had called – she could call him back later – she set an alarm on her phone so that she wouldn’t forget to head back to the Village Hall for the judging, and set to work.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later Jessica nipped to the kitchen to get a glass of water and as she emerged, she became aware that there was someone talking in the hall below. The woman was speaking on her cell phone in a low voice and Jessica, feeling that she did not want to be overheard, stood helplessly still for a moment, knowing that if she moved she would betray her presence, but if she remained she would be eavesdropping. In doing so, she could not help but hear what transpired.
“Hello? Hello, it’s Patricia Wilcott here. I’m calling about a flight reservation to Australia that I had made. Yes, I can hold.”
A moment’s silence. Jessica, acutely uncomfortable, backed quietly into the kitchen and pulled the door to, but she could still hear Patricia Wilcott below.
“Hello. Yes, yes, that’s right. Yes, you’re correct, the flights were cancelled yesterday, but I am calling now to check and see if it would be possible to re-book…no, just for myself this time. Mr Wilcott won’t be flying with me. Yes, the same dates if at all possible please. Mmm-hmm. The same price, that’s wonderful. Very good news. I’ll come in and collect the tickets, please don’t post them. Can I also use a different payment card please? No, not the one used previously. That’s right. Oh, if you can hold them, that would be wonderful. I’ll come in and pay later on today, or Monday at the very latest. Thank you so much. Goodbye.”
With that, Patricia Wilcott ended her call and quietly stepped out of the building, allowing Jessica to ease the kitchen door open, and return to the newspaper
office to work. She still felt mildly weird about having overheard the woman’s vacation plans, but it didn’t seem like anything too personal, fortunately. She had no doubt found the hall next door too noisy to make the call and had just nipped in next door for the peace, rather than for privacy. Jessica soon put it out of her mind and went back to work.
At just before 11am, Jessica met Magnus Smith outside the Village Hall. He carried a large camera bag over one shoulder.
“Hi Magnus, how are you?”
“Morning, Jessica! Fine, thanks for asking. How’s things with you?”
Magnus, like his younger brother Murdo, worked primarily with the herd of Ayrshire dairy cattle on Balnaguise, their father’s dairy farm. He was also The Herald’s main photographer, fitting in freelance jobs around his daily schedule. Jessica had enjoyed the few occasions upon which work had thrown them together, finding Magnus relaxed and approachable…and easy on the eye. The lads had both inherited Dairy Smith’s reddish wavy hair and frank blue eyes, and Jessica also appreciated how laid-back Magnus was, especially in comparison to her ex-boyfriend Mike who could not have been said to be chilled out about anything. Magnus was also an extremely talented photographer, and Jessica had wondered what he shot in his own time when he wasn’t working for the paper. She would love to see more of his work.
“I’m good, thanks! I went round the show earlier when they were setting up and I’ve been writing for the last couple of hours. I’m looking forward to this. Have you worked at the Craft Show before?”
“Aye, it’s a regular annual feature. Most of my work is, to be honest. There’s a lot of tradition here, the same events year after year. This one is a big deal for Drummond and Dalkinchie, and a lot of folks around here.”
