by Kiley Dunbar
True to form, the boozy bitterness had won out over any paternal sentiment he might have had hidden deep within him and he’d sneered and leered the words Beatrice would never forget. This man, the bad penny, the father who didn’t have the compassion to even comprehend the pain he’d caused his son, had been perceptive and cruel enough to pinpoint the tenderest, most secret, hidden thing in their lives and he’d enjoyed making his observation. He had known their relationship had lost its spark long before she and Rich had even acknowledged it to themselves, and that irked Beatrice more than she had ever shown.
‘You’re having a sticking plaster baby to fix the mess you’re in? I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, Rich, my boy.’
He’d been sent packing, but it was too late. As the door closed he’d slurred one last fatal blow, ‘No child ever fixed a bad marriage, you know.’
The words had been like electricity, galvanising Rich into action, as his father’s unkindness often did. Neither of them admitted it at the time – but it was becoming clear to Beatrice now as the low monotone of the payphone buzzed in her hand – Rich had been jolted out of his complacency, fully determining to be a good daddy in that instant, partly because he was a decent kind of man and partly to spite his father, to prove he wasn’t like him.
There had been endless glasses of water brought and foot rubs and deep bubble baths drawn for her after that, and on one Friday afternoon, when Beatrice had opened the door to Rich after his long day at work, she’d been greeted by a giant yellow bunny with the word ‘Baby’ on its white tummy and Rich’s smiling face peering out from behind it.
Later on, there had been red roses and a card with sweet words written inside. ‘To the Mother of Our Baby on Valentine’s Day.’ The sesame seed had become an apple pip by then, and for a while everything was good and fruitful. Yet, the words that had spurred on Rich’s attentiveness and spoiled their contentment were still out there and had etched themselves in their memories. Every time Rich kissed her stomach before he left for work in the morning she knew he was thinking of them too. ‘A sticking plaster baby.’ Beatrice hated Rich’s father all the more because he’d been right.
She cursed the old man for this and for all the times he’d turned up asking for money, airing his opinions and making Rich feel torn and guilty. She had loved Rich all the more for his need of a dad – the same empty, conflicted need as her own. Neither of them had managed to salvage a father–child relationship from their messy childhoods, but they had found each other and they both understood what it was like to want a daddy not a deadbeat, and that could always be relied upon to bring them closer together. She sighed now, slumped beneath the payphone, bringing her chin to her chest, and she might have stayed like that if a door hadn’t slammed somewhere on the ground floor of the inn.
Beatrice snapped out of the unwelcome visions from way back in the early spring, somehow more painfully vivid now that she had some distance on them. It dawned on her that her face was wet from crying and that the receiver in her hand was now sounding a high-pitched droning alarm as it demanded to be placed back in its cradle.
Echo, Atholl Fergusson’s dog, ran past her, nosing its way in through the kitchen door. With a gasp she scurried along the corridor and up the inn’s back stairs to her room where she could clamber up the ladder to her bed, bury her face in the pillows and cry out the bitterness.
There was no way she’d let Atholl, or indeed any of the occupants of The Princess and the Pea Inn, see her like this. Her pain and humiliation were her own secrets, and sharing them could never come to any good. If Rich’s dad had taught her anything it was not to go looking for sympathy in case you’re not met with any. Stoicism had worked out OK for her so far and she only had to stick this place out for another twelve hours or so and she’d be on her way again. For now, she’d take solace in the fact that nobody here knew her or her story and that suited her perfectly.
Chapter Four
Evening at the Inn
‘It’s blawin’ a hoolie oot there!’
Beatrice registered the voice but resolved happily that it couldn’t be directed towards her – she didn’t know anyone in Port Willow, after all. That, and she had no idea what he’d said, so a reply was impossible anyway. Just in case, she shoved her nose deeper into her book, trying to look absorbed and unapproachable, hoping nobody in the inn’s bar restaurant could tell she’d been staring at the same paragraph since she arrived and not taken in one word.
But the voice came again, soft and musical, like breath through a reed, and this time it was too close to ignore. ‘Glad tae be indoors the night, eh?’
The man looked as gaunt and airy as his Highland accent sounded to Beatrice’s ears. Easily eighty, with a green woollen beany pulled down over his head, his curling whiskers and fluffy grey sideburns framed bright, watery eyes which were rendered tiny and mole-like through the thick lenses of his specs. The rosiness in his cheeks and the way he held his hands behind his back as Beatrice looked up from her book told her this was no creepy barfly.
‘I am. Does it always rain in Port Willow?’ she said, lowering the book.
‘Only recently, but we’re in for a dry spell between the storms soon. English, are you?’ The man had immediately adapted his speech for the Sassenach guest.
Beatrice nodded. ‘I’m on holiday. Well I was, but I’m leaving on the morning train.’
The man seemed to be weighing up some words before pursing his lips and keeping them to himself.
‘Are you a local?’ she prompted, already sure of the answer. He looked perfectly at home among the dark wood panelling, the Highland landscapes in dull oils and the pewter tankards suspended on hooks above the bar. She would bet her life savings on one of those pint pots belonging to him.
‘Born and bred,’ he said. ‘My father ran the harbour boats afore me, and now my laddie runs them. Mind ye take a trip around the headland before ye go, see the seals.’
She realised she’d quite like to go on a seal-spotting trip, if the rain were ever to stop, but sadly, there’d be no time for sightseeing before her hurried – and relieved – departure tomorrow morning. She didn’t like to tell him this.
The man barely flinched at the sound of the Sussex silversmithing and stained glass crafters bursting through the door, shaking umbrellas, and exclaiming loudly about the ‘typical’ Highland weather.
‘Are you one of these visitors that the brothers are so keen on bringing in from down South?’ He indicated with a nod the women who had struggled out of their dripping lilac cagoules and were now loudly discussing ordering two, no three, bottles of pinot.
Beatrice searched the man’s whiskery face for a hint of disapproval but detected none. As if to confirm this, he added, ‘We need new life here in Port Willow. When I was a laddie there were three pubs down the front as well as the Kailyard Café, now there’s only the Princess. The more folk visiting, the merrier, I say.’
At this the door opened again and in came a stream of young men in wellies and waterproofs, fresh from the afternoon tourist and fishing boats.
‘All right, Da,’ one of the men, a younger version of her interlocutor said as he walked by, patting his father on the shoulder.
The older man threw him a fatherly smile but had no intention of letting his conversation with the lonely-looking newcomer be interrupted. Over his shoulder, the crowd of sailors leaned against the bar waiting for it to open and scanned the room, surveying the new arrivals with interest.
‘I was signed up for Gaelic lessons, but…’ she tailed off with a shrug.
‘Oh, aye? Not many in the village speak the Gaelic now. I know young Atholl has brought in a Gaelic tutor for the last of the summer, a lassie from the university, you’ll like her very much, I’m sure.’
‘Do you speak Gaelic…?’ Beatrice paused as she prompted his name, since it looked like he was rooted to his spot and she was in for a long conversation.
‘Seth. Seth McVie, and no, not I.’
> Beatrice smiled and offered Seth her hand. ‘I’m Beatrice, by the way. But I won’t be taking any lessons at all now. There was some kind of mix up and it turned out I was signed up for willow-weaving and not Gaelic, apparently. Not sure what that’s all about.’
‘Ah! This port was famous for its willow growing and weaving. We sent our bonny baskets all over the world once upon a time. Those days are long gone, mind.’
‘Bar’s open!’ called a Highland voice, and Beatrice didn’t need to look across to know to whom it belonged. Something within her withered a little as she remembered her rudeness earlier.
‘Does Atholl Fergusson run the bar?’ Beatrice said in a low tone, as she shifted in her seat.
Seth’s twinkling eyes crinkled into sunrays at the corners as a slow smile dawned. ‘In recent months, yes. Since… well, I’m no one to blether other folks’ business…’ He paused to look around, giving Beatrice the impression he was precisely the type and she was about to get a nugget of Port Willow gossip.
Seth leaned a little closer, drawing a pipe from the pocket of his tweed jacket. ‘You know the older, taller of the Fergusson lads, Eugene?’
Beatrice told him she certainly did.
‘His missus upped and left. A midnight flitting, almost two years ago now. He woke up and she was gone, back to Canada where she came from. Now he won’t do the evening dinner service because she always did it with him. Wonderful cooks they were, but he can’t seem to face it without her, try as young Atholl might to encourage him.’
‘Seth? Your usual?’ Atholl called pointedly from the bar, his ears obviously ringing with his family’s name.
Beatrice’s elderly companion gave a chuckle and pursed his lips again as he slipped the pipe in his mouth. ‘Aye, my usual please, Atholl. I’ll just take a smoke outside. I’m sure the lassie Beattie would like a drink too.’ With that, Seth looked meaningfully between Atholl and Beatrice and shuffled out the door.
Atholl appeared by Beatrice’s side, a pad in his hand. ‘I can take your food order too, if you’ve looked at the menu?’
Having had her mood lightened by Seth’s jovial warmth, she was in no mood for Atholl’s clipped efficiency and she determined to soften him. ‘Beattie?’ she said with a smile. ‘Is that to be my Highland name?’
‘You’ll no’ be here long enough for nicknames,’ Atholl replied, eyes fixed on the pad and pencil.
The wind left her sails again and she straightened her back to stop him seeing her shoulders slumping. After feeling so low for so long Seth had brightened her day, and here was Atholl Fergusson bringing the thunder clouds back.
‘Have you seen the menu?’ he asked again, softer this time, as if regretting his brusqueness, but Beatrice was so out of sorts she didn’t hear the change in his tone.
‘Yes, I’ve seen it,’ she said, but snatched the folded card from the table and scanned it again, making him wait, just to spite him.
She had arrived early for dinner and found nobody in the bar, taking the only booth table in the place and settling herself in. Of course nobody was here, she’d thought. Customer service wasn’t the brothers’ strong suit. It came as no surprise that if the visitor information book in her room told her dinner was served from six until eight, the cranky Fergussons rigidly meant six and not a moment before.
‘I’ll have the fish and chips, and a ginger beer, please,’ she said, when she couldn’t hold him there any longer.
With that, Atholl was back behind the bar, scribbling on his pad. Beatrice tried to shrug off his rudeness, and justify her own, but was soon beset with the pained feeling that she was the cause of all his consternation this afternoon at check in. After all, when he’d appeared at the reception door he’d seemed, if not exactly happy, polite enough. But she had ruffled his feathers and now she wasn’t welcome. And she was finding it hard to back down in the face of his terse manners. Why was she like this?
Maybe some food and a night’s rest would set her back on track again. She was annoying herself now. All the more reason to get out of here as soon as possible and get back to – what? Normality wasn’t an option anymore, but she could head back to Warwick and see what could be salvaged of her old life.
Beatrice tried to return to her book, making a show of turning the pages with unruffled grace but finding her gaze following a beautiful woman in a long floral dress and lace-up grungy boots who had just come in and been greeted with what for Atholl Fergusson probably passed as an effusive hug.
Suddenly she found her view blocked by the woman she’d seen earlier with the wheelbarrow. Her hair was now free of its curlers and the perm brushed out into soft grey waves. She placed Beatrice’s drink before her.
‘Sup up, dearie. Food’s on its way too,’ said the woman.
Thanking her, Beatrice wondered why she felt so stung that the grumpy, rude Atholl Fergusson hadn’t carried her drink over from the bar himself. Had he purposely asked someone else so he could avoid having to talk to her?
‘Eugene tells me you’re here all by yourself, so if you need anything, be sure to shout on me. I’m Mrs Mair,’ the woman was saying as she gave the booth table a wipe over. She leaned a little closer, her rosy-cheeked smile forcing her eyes into crescents. ‘The Fergusson laddies do their best, but, you know… I’m always around if needed.’
‘Umm, thanks, Mrs Mair,’ Beatrice smiled back, awkwardly, and the woman shuffled away again, past the bar and through the door marked ‘kitchen’.
Gene had told Mrs Mair she was travelling alone, had he? So she was already the subject of gossip at the inn? Great! The sooner she could make her departure tomorrow, the better. At least there were no wagging tongues and prying eyes when she was hiding under her duvet back in Warwickshire.
She threw another furtive glance towards Atholl and the pretty woman. Her hair was a brighter shade of red than his and hung in looser waves, and when Atholl talked with her at the bar, where she perched on a stool and spread open notebooks and a laptop, he leaned his chin on his hand and the room sang with their chatter.
Beatrice reached a hand to her own dull brown hair and ran her fingers through the ends. She had never been strikingly pretty, she found herself thinking. Not like that red-headed, pearly-skinned woman making Atholl smile.
Beatrice’s maternal grandmother had once, long ago and without intending to hurt her, described her as ‘pleasant-looking’ and that had stuck in her head. Pleasant, plain, nothing too special. She’d probably looked her best around the time she met Richard. She was only twenty-eight then, and full of confidence and gusto from being happy and successful in her busy, exciting arts networking job. Her hair had been longer then too and she’d been a dress size smaller and she hadn’t ever bothered with make-up other than a bit of mascara.
Richard had seriously fancied her back then when he was the proprietor of a cool, vintage cinema-mobile, all chrome, curves and black and white movies. There were fourteen leather seats inside Glenda – that’s what the van was called – as well as a small screen and a popcorn machine. Glenda and Rich had done a roaring trade at festivals across the country.
As bold as brass, he’d told Beatrice he thought she was gorgeous the very first time they met at the Three Counties agricultural show where Glenda was showing An American In Paris back to back all weekend. Beatrice was manning the council arts stall and doing a bit of public relations, meet-the-locals stuff. After they got together he’d sold the company to a friend and moved into selling film rights, maybe not quite so exciting and itinerant, but certainly more dependable.
He’d sent her a huge bunch of roses at her office and asked her out three times before she said yes. She couldn’t remember how she’d had the confidence to say no, especially when she’d thought Rich was fanciable and nice, but you could play games like that when you were young and there was all the time in the world.
Now, sitting under the bar room lights, she felt as though all the colour had somehow washed out of her and she knew she looked tired an
d every one of her thirty-nine years, eleven months – if not older.
She hadn’t a clue she was being assessed admiringly by the group of farm workers who had recently arrived and were settled around two tables just across the room from her. They were smiling behind their pint glasses and nudging the youngest, handsomest one amongst them, telling him to get across the room and ask her for her name. But two of the crafting women had noticed them and, hoping to spare her a night of being chatted up by every lad in Port Willow, they’d made a beeline for Beatrice all alone at her booth.
‘You can stop pretending to read now. Are you another one of us?’ said a beautiful black woman wearing her hair in a halo of natural waves.
‘One of us?’ Beatrice echoed, a little dazed and realising the women might have caught her staring across the room at the handsome red-headed barman as he talked to the beautiful woman.
‘A crafter?’ said the other, a glamorous platinum-blonde woman, all Fake Bake tan over white skin and with phenomenal lashes.
Both women, Beatrice realised, had rich and rounded Newcastle accents.
‘Oh, yes I suppose I am. Are you willow-weaving?’
‘No, we’re painting,’ replied the blonde, who Beatrice guessed was the eldest of the two, though both looked as though they were in their thirties. ‘Thought it would make a change from us painting faces and tinting hair all the time,’ she added.
‘You’re beauticians?’
The blonde got in first with a reply. ‘Aye, this is our staff outing and our summer holiday combined. We’re partners in our spa in Gateshead, Bobby Dazzlers?’ She said this as though Beatrice might have heard of it. ‘As if we don’t get enough of each other at work.’
