by Gwen Moffat
‘Oh yes.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid he’s a naughty old man.’
‘You’ve got to watch him,’ Hamlyn said, placing a gin in front of his wife. ‘There are some very young children on that camp site and when the parents are away climbing and don’t come down till late, those children run wild. They go too close to MacNeill’s place for my peace of mind.’
‘Has he ever been in trouble?’ Maynard asked. The Hamlyns stared at him. ‘For molesting little girls,’ he elaborated. ‘That’s what you meant, wasn’t it?’
Vera Hamlyn shook her head vehemently. ‘Oh no, I don’t think it’s like that. Gordon meant you can’t be too careful—and there’s so much of it these days: even when they’re dressed, they’re not really, if you see what I mean?’ She looked at Miss Pink for assistance. ‘It’s so different from when we were young, isn’t it?’ Miss Pink raised her eyebrows in sympathy.
Madge said coldly, ‘We don’t have to get hung up over a few kids running around loose; they’re dying by the score in the rest of the world. Everyone’s got to take a chance, even young kids.’
‘It’s because this danger is near home,’ Vera protested. ‘After all, Madge, if it were your child on the shore. . . .’ She looked doubtfully at the guide.
‘That’s what I was thinking of,’ Madge said with a trace of anger. ‘Don’t rile me.’
‘Well, there you are, you see.’ Hamlyn stared at her in ridiculous triumph.
‘All right! Malcolm’s a dirty old man and the children on the camp site are at risk. I couldn’t care less. When are we eating?’
‘Five minutes,’ Vera said. ‘Did you have a good day, Ken?’
‘Yes. We brought another little girl into the glen. George Watkins’ dolly.’
‘A friend of George’s? Did he know she was coming?’
‘Not the way he’s been behaving.’ He looked at Miss Pink speculatively. ‘You’re always running into trouble; it looks as if this time is going to be no exception.’
Lavender smiled thinly. ‘I don’t think the type of peccadillo you’ve been discussing would have any interest for Miss Pink. She’s concerned with basics. Like murder.’
Chapter Three
Dinner was table d’hôte but no one was going to grumble at a saddle of mutton flavoured with thyme and red currants and something which was certainly not cooking wine. Pleasantly replete, they drifted back to the cocktail lounge for coffee and Miss Pink found herself at a table in the window with the Lindsays.
Betty asked if she would like a liqueur and relayed the information to her husband as if he were a waiter, but a poor one. Betty’s smile became fixed as he failed to respond.
‘Shall I get them, sweetie? You look tired.’
He started, gave them a tremulous smile devoid of context, and turned to the bar.
‘It’s the heat,’ Betty told Miss Pink firmly. ‘We’ve been here a week and we’ve not missed one day’s climbing. We’re living on our nerves.’
‘There’s always a compulsion to make the most of an Indian summer. When the weather breaks here, the rain could last for weeks.’
‘And he suffers terribly with indigestion; the doctor thinks it’s an ulcer.’
Miss Pink looked grave. ‘The pace of modern life . . . so exhausting . . . but a holiday in Glen Shira should do wonders for him.’
‘Yes.’ Betty sounded doubtful. ‘I think it’s time he retired. He’s a builder, and with the housing position such as it is, we ought to get out while the going’s good. We could afford to retire, particularly if we sold our house and moved to Skye. Living’s so much cheaper up here, and property’s going for a song. We could amuse ourselves by buying ruins and doing them up. We can both do the practical work: brick-laying, roofing and so on. We’d employ some labour, of course.’
Miss Pink studied her with renewed interest. She was wearing a long skirt in the dark Lindsay tartan and a plain navy blouse. She looked competent and very powerful.
‘Why don’t you move?’ she asked curiously. ‘You sound as if you could make an ideal life for yourselves on the island.’
The other gave her a meaning glance. ‘We will.’ She nodded, emphasising the words. ‘I’m working on it. I’d adore living here, and it would get him away from the rat-race—and all the other pressures. He’s gone down terribly these last few weeks.’ She spoke of him as if he were a horse.
Lindsay returned with the liqueurs and Miss Pink observed him covertly. He was a hirsute man with dark shadowed cheeks and long sideboards tinged with grey. His hair was thinning, leaving him with a grizzled tonsure which was oddly monkish, but there was nothing serene about him, on the contrary, his mood fluctuated violently between preoccupation, and nervousness when addressed. He made no effort to contribute to the conversation. Could his abstraction be due to physical pain? Miss Pink watched his eyes and hands. There was no sign of spasms and his forehead was dry. She realised that Betty Lindsay had asked a question.
‘I’m sorry; I didn’t catch that.’
‘What are you hoping to do tomorrow?’
‘I’m going out with the young man from Largo: Colin Irwin.’
‘Good Lord! When did you meet him?’ Miss Pink smiled gently and the other was flustered. ‘I do apologise; I mean, did you know him before your arrival? You must have done.’
‘In a way. I brought him over from the mainland. We met at the Kyle.’
‘I see.’ Betty stared at her with unintentional rudeness. Her husband asked, surprisingly in view of his former silence: ‘What did he tell you?’
Miss Pink leaned back in her chair while they watched her intently. ‘Of course,’ she murmured, ‘he never stopped talking. He talked about Skye, birds, crofters. . . .’
‘He’s a great gossip,’ Betty said.
‘You’ve been out with him?’
‘Oh no.’ The denial was prudish. ‘He’s not a certificated guide.’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t mind that?’ Lindsay asked roughly.
Miss Pink, who was sitting so that she half faced the door to the hall, caught a movement outside, and although she made some vague remark about judging Irwin when she saw him on the hill, her attention was focused on the two strangers who appeared in the doorway.
They were an ill-assorted pair: an exquisitely beautiful girl, glowing with youth and health, and a much older man: heavy, florid, without grace. He wore jeans and a light polo-necked jumper which was too small for him. He looked as if he’d dressed deliberately for the bar and this was the best he could manage. On the other hand, the girl wore a startling lilac frock, vaguely Regency with a high waist and draped skirt. Against an impression of mauve cobwebs her arms and shoulders—and much of her breasts—glowed gold.
She stood at the bar and waited, her glorious eyes following her companion who came across the room to Miss Pink’s table, put a large hand possessively on Lindsay’s shoulder, leered at Betty and, ignoring Miss Pink, said loudly: ‘Who’s in the chair then?’
Lindsay started up with an exclamation, his eyes alight with pleasure and his words tumbling over each other.
‘No, let me . . . You’re late . . . What on earth are you wearing? What’ll it be? Glenmorangie?’
They were turning away when Betty called loudly: ‘George!’
The men glanced over their shoulders. Betty looked at Miss Pink.
‘This is George Watkins, who’s guiding us,’ she said firmly. ‘George, this is Miss Pink, who you’ll have heard of—’
He sketched a nod. ‘How do,’ he flung at her and moved after Lindsay.
Betty smiled ruefully. ‘A bit of a peasant, our George—and he’s the first one to admit it. A rough diamond though. We like him.’
‘His friend is very attractive,’ Miss Pink said.
The two men approached the bar where Gordon Hamlyn stood rigidly, his astonished eyes still on the girl who, without any sign of awkwardness, was waiting for someone else to make a move. That one is used to waiting, M
iss Pink thought with strong disapproval.
Ken Maynard and his wife, in easy chairs by the door, were talking urgently—at least, Maynard was urgent, his wife cool, but whatever she said was delivered incisively. Her eyes glittered and she lit one cigarette from the stub of the last. Then Maynard rose and spoke to the girl who looked at him levelly, smiled, and moved a step closer to George Watkins.
‘She’s pretty,’ Betty remarked, as if arriving at an independent opinion.
Since Miss Pink could think of nothing to say that was neither indelicate nor critical, she thought it better to say nothing.
Expressionlessly, not looking at her face, Hamlyn placed a drink in front of the girl. It looked like lemonade. He had already served the men. Lindsay paid, talking the while with animation to Watkins. Miss Pink had the guide in profile and observed that he regarded his client with supercilious amusement but perhaps that was his habitual expression. There was a twist to the lips that could have been a sneer, and a lift of one eyebrow, obvious when he turned full-face to the mirror behind the bar. He was vain, too.
Maynard bought drinks, exchanged a word with Hamlyn, and went back to his wife leaving the girl standing behind Watkins’ large back, looking ornamental but a trifle forlorn. Miss Pink caught her eye after a moment and moved her lips. The girl came across the room obediently.
‘Sit here,’ Miss Pink commanded. ‘You’ll be tired after your long walk.’
She glanced at the bar then sat down, holding her glass in both hands like a talisman. Miss Pink introduced herself and Betty and learned that the girl was called Terry Cooke.
‘Are you staying in Glen Shira long?’ Betty asked.
‘I don’t know how long my friend is staying.’ She hesitated. ‘Is it you he’s climbing with?’
‘That’s right; we’ve got another week.’
‘I think he means to go home when you go.’ She wrinkled her forehead. ‘Well, I’ll have had a week here. It was worth coming.’ She didn’t sound convinced.
Betty asked harshly, ‘Do you go everywhere with him?’
The girl was surprised. ‘Not everywhere. He came up here on his own, and I wouldn’t have come but I got the sack and there was nothing else to do. I shouldn’t have come all the same.’ Her voice dropped.
‘Why not?’ There was no joviality about Betty now; she was sharp as a razor.
‘He’s got his work.’
‘He has his evenings free; he gets down about six o’clock. You’ll have all next week with him.’
‘Yes.’ It was a whisper. The lovely eyes were agonised.
‘He’s a moody chap,’ Betty said with relish and then looked embarrassed as Miss Pink turned bland eyes on her.
‘You can say that again,’ Terry murmured.
Vera Hamlyn entered the room from the hall. She’d changed into a short linen dress and had the air of an off-duty member of the staff rather than one on terms of equality with the guests. The distinction was subtle but Miss Pink sensed some embarrassment in the atmosphere. Vera carried a glass and, crossing to the window, said apologetically, ‘You don’t mind if I join you?’ and drew up a chair as she spoke. Hamlyn was a caricature of amazement, confirming Miss Pink’s impression that his wife’s appearance this side of the bar was not a common occurrence.
‘You must be George’s friend,’ Vera said, and the girl smiled wanly. ‘How long are you staying?’
‘Only a week.’
Vera nodded. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I haven’t thought about it. Sunbathe, go for walks. . . .’
‘How nice for George.’ Vera appeared abstracted and Miss Pink stirred. Terry shrugged and looked sullen.
‘He did know you were coming?’ Betty asked. ‘He never said a word to us.’
‘He didn’t know.’
‘Oh dear.’ Vera’s tone was full of sympathy. ‘What will you do?’
‘What can I do?’
Vera glanced at Betty. ‘You might go to Portree,’ she told the girl. ‘There are always vacancies in the hotels and they’d fall over themselves to engage you. Can you do bar work?’
‘I’ve done it,’ Terry said listlessly, then, with more spirit, glancing towards Hamlyn: ‘Would you take me for a week?’
‘No.’ The tone was flat. ‘We don’t need staff.’ More pleasantly: ‘The Royal is always short-handed, and then there are places in Broadford, and a very big hotel at the Kyle—’
Betty said, ‘There’s work all over the islands and on the mainland if you’re prepared to put your back into it; you could have your pick of jobs.’
‘I suppose so. I could go back to London if it comes to that. I’m more used to working in boutiques.’
‘They don’t go in for boutiques on Skye,’ Betty said coldly. ‘It’s different from London here—and there’s absolutely nothing to do in the evenings.’
‘I don’t want much.’
Vera said acidly, ‘You’ve got to have money for clothes and food; you’ve got to do some work, or do you live on social security?’
‘Not all of the time.’ She wasn’t affronted. ‘But I get most of my clothes given me, food as well a lot of the time. You don’t need much money really. People eat too much.’
‘Of course, if you beg—’ Betty’s voice shook with anger, ‘—you don’t need much, and then you’ll always be able to get the price of a meal out of a man.’
It went clean over her head. ‘Chaps don’t give me money so much; they usually give me a meal, in a restaurant like—or a caff if they’re lorry drivers.’
Her voice carried. Maynard was listening, his eyes shining with delight, but Lavender was sober and intent, straining her ears.
‘Have you any family?’ Miss Pink asked equably.
‘I haven’t got a father. And my mum’s married to a bloke I—don’t get on with, so I don’t go home.’
‘When did you leave school?’
She grinned for the first time. ‘When did I ever go to school? Officially I left this year, in July.’
‘Should you be drinking?’ Vera asked. It seemed the epitome of an anti-climax.
‘I don’t drink.’
Everyone stared at her tumbler and noted the bubbles rising in her lemonade.
‘Tomorrow’s Sunday,’ Vera went on, recovering quickly. ‘You can’t make a move till Monday. I suggest you have a lazy day on the shore while George is climbing and you can spend the evening with him because the bar isn’t open to non-residents on Sunday. We’re not open to the public at any time in fact; George is allowed in because he’s Mrs Lindsay’s guide, as a special favour. Then on Monday you can go to Portree and look for work, although you’re more likely to find a suitable job on the mainland. Inverness is a very nice place and there’s a lot happening there. They have boutiques too.’
‘London would be better.’ Betty’s tone was pregnant with meaning.
‘You’re right,’ Terry said, and sighed. ‘It’s not really my scene, is it?’ She glanced over her shoulder at George Watkins who hadn’t looked at her since they entered the room. ‘I’ll give it till Monday,’ she said hopefully.
Madge Fraser came in. Her casual gaze went round the room, observing the occupants without surprise until it rested on Terry Cooke. The others watched her, the Maynards like alert pointers. Only Watkins and Lindsay, after glances which were no more than acknowledgement of her entrance, ignored her.
Hamlyn looked a query, received a nod, and drew her a whisky which she brought over to the table in the window.
‘You’re George’s friend,’ she remarked without preamble and in the cool tone girls used to each other.
‘I’ve known him a while.’
‘Staying long?’
The other stiffened. ‘It depends.’
‘On George?’
‘What’s it got to do with you?’
Madge took a sip of her whisky. ‘Nothing.’
Suddenly Terry addressed Miss Pink. ‘Do you think I’d find work in Portree?’
‘I think you would be happier in London.’
Miss Pink did not mean happier because, she thought, no one could be happier in London than on Skye, but she didn’t want the girl to look for work in Portree or even the Kyle of Lochalsh. Not happier—
‘What kind of work are you looking for?’ Madge regarded the lilac frock and its décolletage incuriously.
Terry said, ‘I’m easy.’
‘You could get a job anywhere.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Hell, with your looks?’
The girl seemed puzzled by the reactions she aroused at this table. She would be used to attention but not, perhaps, quite so much. And she was surrounded by women.
‘You’re wasted here, my dear.’ Miss Pink’s voice was kind. ‘Has no one offered you the kind of work where you could use your appearance: films perhaps, or television?’
‘People have, but they never meant it.’
‘You want an agent,’ Madge said. ‘A chap who cares about you; not the kind that doesn’t think any farther than jumping into bed. A queer would do nicely. Why don’t you go back to town and find the best television agent who’s a homosexual? Can you act?’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘Christ! Do you expect everyone to take advantage of you?’
Miss Pink was speculative behind the thick spectacles. She did not think it would be easy to exploit Terry. Because she was infatuated by the oaf at the bar, that didn’t mean her behaviour was usual. It could be one of those instances of an attractive and otherwise balanced woman falling—just once in her life—for a rogue. It happened even to mature women, women with judgement, although, of course, judgement failed in the one direction. But how much judgement did this child have in any direction? Safer. That was what she’d been thinking: Terry would be, not happier in London than on the island, but safer.
Chapter Four
‘I’m sorry,’ Colin Irwin said, ‘I can’t come with you after all.’
Miss Pink regarded him thoughtfully. It was ten o’clock on the Sunday morning and, having waited in vain for him to come to Glen Shira House, having seen him fetching water from the burn at eight o’clock, she’d walked across to Largo to find out what was keeping him.
