On the wall opposite the windows there were three large pictures; a portrait of King George and Queen Elizabeth in ceremonial dress; a photograph of Princess Elizabeth and the Duke of Edinburgh on their wedding day; and a painting of Balmoral Castle, Queen Victoria’s favourite Highland retreat.
They were informed of the times of breakfast and dinner and of the events that were planned for the evenings when they returned from their tours. This evening there would be an informal get-together in the lounge; Scottish dancing would take place on Thursday; and, to end the week, there would be a banquet on the Friday evening, followed by an entertainment of singing and dancing.
Maisie leaned back in her comfortable chair, sipping her orange juice and listening contentedly to the voices around her, all joining in heartily with the familiar Scottish songs and ballads. Andy was leading the singing, strolling round from table to table with a microphone in his hand, inviting people here and there to join in or sing a line or two on their own. Many were too inhibited to do so, but those who did were rewarded with a cheer from the folk sitting near them.
Jeanette, Gordon Cameron’s wife, was seated at the piano, and she seemed to be able to play anything that was requested. She was a bonny, plumpish woman with merry brown eyes, and hair as dark as her husband’s and son’s was fair. Both of them, Mr and Mrs Cameron, appeared to be in their late rather than early fifties, putting them at well turned thirty, Maisie surmised, when their only son Andy was born.
Maisie joined in with the songs she knew, but not too enthusiastically at first. She didn’t want people to think she was showing off; although she knew she had a good voice and, what was more, that voice was longing to be heard. Singing was a pleasure she had not had much time or opportunity to indulge in of late. Oddly enough, as she heard the Scottish songs she had not heard for years, she was transported back in memory to the schoolroom in Middlebeck and the singing lessons with the headmistress.
Charity Foster had not been much of a pianist, but she had done her best. The children had sung along lustily from their little red books of words, their voices getting louder and louder to compete with Miss Foster’s heavy chords on the piano.
‘Oh ye’ll tak the high road, and I’ll tak the low road,
And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye…’
they had chorused, having little idea of what the words meant, but it was a good tune.
Or ‘Charlie is me darling…’ Maisie remembered the sly glances of the little girls to one another, as there had been a handsome lad in their class called Charlie, and he had blushed crimson each time it was sung. And another favourite had been ‘The Bluebells of Scotland’…
‘Oh where, tell me where has my Highland laddie gone?…
‘He’s gone to fight the foe for King George upon the throne…’
Those must have been the warriors who had not supported the Stuart cause, she pondered now. But they had been given no inkling as children as to the history behind the words; she had picked that up much later through her own reading. But why was Andy singing it, she wondered, if his clan had supported the Stuarts? Probably because it was just a jolly good song, now, as it had been in the schoolroom.
Andy was into the songs from the Hebrides now, which were not quite so familiar to most of the guests.
‘Westering home and a song in the air,’ he sang in his pleasant tenor voice as he came near to Maisie’s table. She returned his smile, then decided to throw caution to the winds as she joined in with the next verse.
‘Tell me o’ lands of the Orient gay,
Speak o’ the riches and joys of Cathay;
Aye, but it’s grand to be waking at day
At haem with my ain folk in Islay…’
He smiled his approval at her when they came to the end of the song. ‘And a round of applause, please, ladies and gentlemen, for our charming courier, Maisie.’ He nodded confidently. ‘And we haven’t heard the last of that lovely voice, I can promise you that… I’ll see you later,’ he said quietly, leaning down to speak to her. ‘I didn’t realise you could sing. Would you sing for us, please, tomorrow night, or Friday. Or why not both nights?’
‘I’ll… I’ll think about it,’ she replied, finding herself blushing a little. ‘Yes…probably I will.’
He nodded his approval at her again before addressing the audience. ‘Thank you, Maisie… And now, ladies and gentlemen, my mother, Jeanette, will entertain you on the piano. Just background music whilst you chat to one another. Thank you all for being such a nice friendly crowd. I can see we are going to have a grand time together these next few days.’
Maisie was sitting with Bob the driver, the two ladies, Beattie and Gladys, whom she found comfortable and easy to get along with, and another married couple whom she had spoken to rather more than the others, as they occupied the front seat on the coach, next to her courier’s seat.
‘My goodness, Maisie; you’ve been hiding your light under a bushel,’ said Hilda, the lady from the front seat. ‘Hasn’t she, Jim?’
‘Aye, you’ve got a grand voice,’ said Jim. ‘And you mustn’t be shy, lass. We’d love to hear you sing for us. Of course you’re not shy, are you, not really? You couldn’t be, not in the job you’ve got.’
‘No, that’s true,’ replied Maisie. ‘I must admit that shyness has never been one of my problems. When I was a little girl I had far too much to say,’ she laughed. ‘I was a bit dropped on, though, when Andy asked me to sing tomorrow. I’ve no music with me, but I expect Mrs Cameron – Jeanette – will be able to play whatever I choose. She’s a lovely pianist, isn’t she?’
‘She is that,’ replied Bob as they listened, with one ear, whilst they were talking together, to the gentle lilting piano music. Jeanette had a touch which made the keys sing as she played the familiar tunes – not Scottish ones now – from well known musical shows: The Desert Song, Bitter Sweet, The Maid of the Mountains, and, more up to date, Oklahoma.
‘They’re a talented family altogether,’ Bob continued. ‘Mr Cameron, the boss, he plays the bagpipes. I dare say he’ll give us a tune – if you can call it a tune,’ he grimaced, ‘on Friday night when we have the banquet. Not much in my line, bagpipes; it sounds more like cats yowling, but he’s good, I’ve got to give him that. And I told you about Andy and his singing, didn’t I?’ It was Maisie that he was talking to. The other four were now engaged in a discussion of previous coach holidays they had enjoyed, always a favourite topic of conversation.
‘Yes, you did,’ said Maisie, ‘but I didn’t realise he was also the chef. As you say, he’s…very talented.’
‘You enjoyed the meal then? Well, I could tell you did,’ Bob chuckled. He and Maisie had sat at a little table for two, where they would take all their meals. Hotel managers realised that enough was enough; when you had been with the passengers all day you enjoyed a little privacy at meal times.
‘It was superb,’ she replied. The mushroom soup, tender lamb steaks baked with potatoes and leeks, and the light lemon sponge to finish with, had all been delicious. ‘I shall have to watch my waistline, though. I think I’d better ask for a small portion tomorrow night, especially if I’ve to sing afterwards.’
‘If you’ve got the will power,’ laughed Bob. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t when it comes to food. My wife’s complaining that I’ve got what she calls a beer belly, but I tell her it’s certainly not the beer. Ne’er mind, eh? I shall have a jolly good walk around on Friday, when it’s my free day, to get rid of some of these extra pounds.’
‘Is that what you usually do? I suppose you have quite a lot of time to kill, don’t you, on these tours?’
‘Aye, there’s all the waiting around while you’re visiting your castles and what-have-you; and Henry Galloway insists that we have one day off on each tour. That’s the rule, of course, with all coach companies, but whether they all keep to it is another matter. I’m not easily bored, though. I can always find summat to do to pass the time. I don’t get fed up with my own company. If
you find your own company boring, then other folks will as well, that’s what I always think.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed Maisie. ‘But nobody could find you boring, Bob, that’s for sure… Tell me – Andy Cameron, is he married?’ She spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, or so she hoped, determined not to reveal that she was really the slightest bit interested. But Bob’s humorous grey eyes twinkled and he gave a chuckle.
‘I thought it wouldn’t be long before you asked me that.’ She raised her eyebrows in a casual manner.
‘No reason, Bob, honestly. I just wondered, that’s all.’
‘No, he’s not married, Maisie,’ he replied, quite seriously, ‘and he’s not got a lady friend at the moment, at least not as far as I know… I wouldn’t blame you, lass, if you fancied your chances there,’ he whispered. ‘He’s a grand lad; not just good-looking, he’s a really nice bloke an’ all.’
‘Yes, he does seem…very nice,’ agreed Maisie. She and Bob exchanged a conspiratorial smile before she went on to change the subject.
‘So…we’re off to the Trossachs tomorrow, Bob, and Loch Katrine. It’s all new country to me, so I will be relying on you to find the way around. I’ve got my spiel ready, but it’s more of a relaxing day tomorrow, isn’t it? I must be careful not to overdo the talking… The highlight will be the steamer trip round the loch, won’t it? Then we stop for lunch at Balquhidder, don’t we?’
‘Aye, that’s right…’
Jeanette Cameron was playing Ivor Novello melodies now; ‘Perchance to Dream’… Maisie stopped talking and listened as she heard the familiar strains of ‘We’ll Gather Lilacs’, the song she had thought of as ‘my song’. Bruce had asked her to sing it at his twenty-first birthday party, which had turned out to be his engagement party. And so it had never become ‘our song’, hers and Bruce’s, as she had hoped at one time that it might. Perhaps she could sing it tomorrow night…
But as the memories came flooding back she knew it would not be a good idea. She was remembering the English lane of the song which had always been, in her mind, a lane way beyond Tremaine House and Nixons’ farm. A lane that was white and fragrant with blossom in springtime; gold and brown and russet in the autumn, with ruby red berries glistening in the hedgerows; and sparkling silvery white when the first frosts and snow arrived. A lane she had wandered along with Bruce…and Audrey and Doris as well, of course. But that was all a long time ago, or so it seemed to her now. It was time to move on and, maybe, to start gathering new experiences, the memories of the future. ‘We’ll Gather Lilacs’ was part of the past…
She was pensive for a few moments, lost in her thoughts and memories… Jeanette was playing something different now; tunes that were not quite so familiar. She listened carefully, frowning to herself a little. Then she recognised the music. It was from Brigadoon. Of course it would be; the Scottish musical show that had been performed on Broadway and later on the London stage, about a village that only appeared – what was it? – once every hundred years?
‘It’s almost like being in love…’ she hummed along to the melody. No, she couldn’t sing that one. People might start to get the wrong idea! Jeanette moved on to a different melody, one that Maisie had always thought was a charming song. She had sung it along with the radio many times, but she had never sung it as a solo. It was a long time, in fact, since she had sung a solo at all.
‘And all I want to do is wander, through the heather on the hill…’ She mouthed the words, singing them softly to herself. Yes, that’s the song she would sing; ‘The Heather on the Hill’.
‘A penny for them,’ said Bob suddenly. She gave a start.
‘Sorry, Bob; were you saying something?’
‘No, not really, but you were miles away,’ he laughed. ‘I reckon they’re worth more than a penny, eh Maisie, your thoughts?’
‘They might be…’ she answered. ‘As a matter of fact, I was thinking about what I’m going to sing tomorrow night. And now I’ve decided. Would you excuse me please, Bob? I’ll just go and have a word with Mrs Cameron.’ That lady was now taking a well-earned rest from the piano, and was drinking an orange juice that someone had bought for her. ‘And then I think I’ll turn in. It’s been a long day and I want to be fresh for tomorrow.’
‘Aye, all right, love,’ said Bob. ‘That’s very wise. I shan’t be long after you. Goodnight, Maisie…’
‘Goodnight, Maisie,’ echoed the group of passengers. ‘See you in the morning…’
Jeanette said she would be delighted to accompany Maisie the following evening, and she lent her a copy of the music. Maisie wanted to be sure she knew the words off by heart; it was so unprofessional to sing from a copy. She had been hoping that Andy might reappear to discuss it with her, but he was nowhere to be seen. He had said, ‘See you later…’ but perhaps that meant tomorrow…
Breakfast the following morning had a Scottish flavour. Maisie said no to the oatmeal porridge and the potato cakes, but was unable to resist the finnan haddock – which the Scots called ‘finnan haddie’ – poached in milk and butter. It was a pleasant change from bacon and eggs, in fact she had never tasted such delicious fish.
Andy, she presumed, would be busy in the kitchen. She guessed he would be not merely busy but rushed off his feet, cooking breakfasts not only for the coach party, but for several private guests as well, about fifty people in all. And the breakfast menu was quite extensive, with eggs cooked in a variety of ways – boiled, fried, poached or scrambled – as well as sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes and black pudding, in addition to the bacon.
They were all assembled in the foyer by nine-thirty ready to start their day’s tour, waiting for Bob to bring the coach round from the parking spot at the back of the hotel. It was then that Andy appeared at Maisie’s side. She felt a sudden surge of happiness, and an excitement which she knew she must not reveal too openly. In fact she must try not to show at all the effect that his sudden presence had on her; she was not some silly teenager.
‘Maisie…’ He put his hand on her arm and she felt a tingle right through her. ‘I wanted to catch you before you set off.’
‘Oh…hello, Andy,’ she said easily. ‘You want to know about my song, do you? Yes; I’ve decided I’d quite like to sing for you all, but don’t expect too much, will you? I’m rather rusty; it’s ages since I sang in public.’
‘Och, you’ll be fine; I know you will. My mother has already told me what you’ve chosen, and very nice too. That musical is a particular favourite of mine. Have another one up your sleeve, though, won’t you? They’re sure to want an encore… Ah, here’s Bob now, raring to go.’ The driver was sitting at the wheel with the engine running. ‘Enjoy your day, Maisie… Have a good time everyone,’ Andy called to the rest of the crowd as they went out of the door and started to mount the steps of the coach. ‘See you all later…’
‘Goodbye, Andy…’ they chorused. And after Bob’s cheery good morning to them all they were quickly on their way.
The area known as the Trossachs was a stretch of country some five miles wide which was often known as ‘the Highlands in miniature’. It was a most beautiful region of craggy hills and sparkling lochs, birch-covered mountains, tumbling streams, moorland and glen, all contained in a smallish area. Maisie told her passengers how tourists had started to come to the Trossachs at the beginning of the nineteenth century when Sir Walter Scott wrote his novel, Rob Roy and his epic poem, The Lady of the Lake. She told them the tale of Rob Roy MacGregor who stole sheep from the Lowland pastures to feed his clansmen. He was a fierce Jacobite follower, and his reputation was similar to that of England’s Robin Hood, one who stole from the rich to give to the poor. Strangely enough, he did not suffer a violent death, and after being pardoned he spent the rest of his days in freedom in the little village of Balquhidder.
‘We will be visiting his grave later today,’ said Maisie, ‘but now, ladies and gentlemen, I am going to stop talking and let you enjoy this beautiful scenery in peace.’ That was what s
he wanted to do herself. It was her first visit to the Scotland north of Edinburgh, and she had not imagined anything quite so awe-inspiring.
It proved to be a memorable day, with a memorable evening to follow. After the meal – which included the roast beef that Bob had been looking forward to all week! – a troupe of Scottish dancers came in to entertain the guests, dressed, of course, in their kilts of various tartans. The Cameron men, Gordon and Andy, were also wearing their kilts in the Cameron tartan of their ancient clan. This was a bold red and black, complete with sporran and worn with black velvet jackets and lace jabots.
Maisie’s eyes, try as she might to prevent them, kept straying towards Andy’s striking figure as he sat nodding his head in time to the rhythm of the dancing. ‘The Eightsome Reel’, ‘The ‘Dashing White Sergeant’, ‘Strip the Willow’, ‘The Duke of Perth’… The troop performed them all so expertly, their kilts swirling, their feet darting in and out, the men just as light and graceful in their movements as the women. And then the audience was invited to join in an eightsome reel. It was tremendous fun, and although some of the guests appeared to have two left feet, it was obvious that Bob had done it before. Maisie, too, felt she acquitted herself very well; she had had a little experience of Scottish dancing at the school lessons they had shared with the boys. Towards the end of the dance she partnered Andy, and he smiled and gave her a friendly wink before he whirled her round so fast that her feet scarcely touched the ground.
‘That’s enough, I think,’ he laughed as the dance came to an end. ‘I mustna exhaust you. You must get your breath back before you sing. And so must I. Come along now and I’ll buy you a drink.’
Down an English Lane Page 39
