by Kiley Dunbar
Rich would be pleased if he knew. ‘You can’t live off coffee and chocolate biscuits forever,’ she’d heard him remark many times over the early summer months before he suddenly extricated himself from their shared life and all of her messy emotions and what she was slowly coming to realise had been erratic behaviour.
She thought for a moment that if her phone ever dried out and sparked into life again she could send him a picture of herself grinning over her breakfast plate, haggis slices and all, before dismissing the notion as ridiculous. They hadn’t spoken for at least a month; she very much doubted he’d want to receive a daft selfie out of the blue. He’d think she was still crazy.
Beatrice swallowed down the bitter thoughts, wondering why she was being besieged by these horrible, intrusive memories so often since her arrival in Port Willow.
Last night on the phone Angela had said again how this whole spontaneous holiday might be a good thing for Beatrice and had urged her to stay on in Scotland until the end of her booking, even though Beatrice protested she still hadn’t fully made up her mind what to do. ‘You need a bit of head space to think things through,’ Angela had said, and Beatrice had uttered the same reply she always did. She didn’t want to think things through. She didn’t want to remember.
What she wanted was to be busy. Looking out at the scenes of village life below her window brought back a small kind of contentedness she hadn’t felt in a while, and she was surprised she could find a little solace seeing the bustling lives of these strangers.
Beatrice pulled the lacy curtains aside once more and leaned towards the glass. Soon the tourists would be up and about. Their cars, burdened with bike racks, lined Port Willow’s waterfront end to end. Last night she’d watched their attempts at parking and turning around on the single lane road between the cottages and the sea wall. There was often no room for turning at the top of the village and many cars had to reverse the length of the street, repeatedly aborting their efforts when met with a car coming the other way. The manoeuvring was a logistical wonder and a source of fascination for her, less so for the tutting locals who had the good sense to leave their vehicles at the station carpark.
Sipping her coffee, she tried to imagine the village in a time before cars, when it was a quiet bay of fishermen’s cottages and families, willow weavers and – Atholl had told her –artists of all kinds who came for the light and the Highland vistas.
Beatrice couldn’t quite understand how she hadn’t appreciated the views on Saturday. Her memories of arriving by train were hazy at best. But she was feeling the fog that had clouded her thinking for the last few months lifting a little each day here, and she was actually looking forward to the day ahead. She had a job to do. She had a plan. And best of all, she had a co-conspirator in Atholl.
He too had emerged out of the mists, coming into increasingly sharper focus as her time in Port Willow progressed and she smiled over her memories of his quiet presence and calm direction yesterday as they weaved rustic willow wreaths over their sweet, sunny picnic.
He had been as enthusiastic about the matchmaking scheme as she was, if a little less convinced of its chances of success. She wouldn’t let his reservations worry her. If anything, she wanted to prove to Atholl that a little love could fix up his brother and she wanted to prove to herself that love could follow on from heartbreak at least once.
Dressing for breakfast in cropped jeans and a loose white cotton top, she wondered at how hungry she was – and how excited she was for her day ahead – telling herself it had nothing to do with Atholl and all to do with the spot of matchmaking she’d devised, and if she didn’t hurry she wouldn’t get it all sorted out before this evening.
* * *
Atholl had told Beatrice that Kitty was staying in one of the back bedrooms at the inn and she had shoved the note under her door where she was sure it would be seen. It read:
Dear Kitty,
I meant to say last night that I want to thank you properly for rescuing me from the beach on Sunday and for knowing when a woman needs chips and gin. It was lovely talking with you and I’d really like a chance to repay your kindness. Are you free tonight? Come to the jetty and wear something fancy, or don’t, if that sounds weird, but be prepared for a lovely evening!
Lots of Love,
Beatrice x
Beatrice had shovelled copious amounts of bacon and toast into her mouth and even managed half a slice of the fried haggis before telling herself it was an acquired taste and she’d brave it again tomorrow morning. As she gulped her coffee she heard, but couldn’t see, Atholl, his musical voice drifting through from the inn’s kitchens.
‘Have ye a minute, Gene?’
The lull in the kitchen clattering told her Gene was listening.
‘There’s an inn guest arriving tonight by boat. They mentioned they’d need help with their luggage. Can ye meet them from the jetty at eight, please? I’ll be doing the evening meals or else I’d do it myself.’
Beatrice picked up the grunt of what she hoped was agreement over the sizzling sound of fresh bacon hitting a hot pan.
‘And can you wear something smart.’
‘Smart? Is it the queen comin’?’
‘Well she’s long overdue a visit, is she no’?’ Atholl replied good-naturedly and, to Beatrice’s ears, evasively. ‘They sounded well-to-do on the phone and they’re expecting a welcome so please put your suit on? Like Dad used to in the old days when some of the guests arrived by water.’
But Gene said nothing. Had he agreed? She knew she’d have to wait until later to find out because she’d spotted Atholl leaving the inn through the back door and passing the breakfast room window. The fluttering sensation in her stomach surprised her. Had she wanted him to look in at her and smile? Well, he hadn’t. She heard him out on the street calling for Echo and the sound of obedient, scurrying feet pattering down the stairs above her, the two of them heading off to complete the next task on Beatrice’s list.
‘Morning, Bea, pet!’ Cheryl and Jillian pulled up chairs at Beatrice’s table in a cloud of hairspray and perfume and leaned in conspiratorially.
She’d been caught staring after Atholl Fergusson again, thought Beatrice, but the women were too focused on the task at hand to tease her.
‘We’ve everything we need, now are you sure about this?’ Jillian asked, her gold hoop earrings swinging as she whispered, throwing a glance at the kitchen door.
‘I think Gene has taken the bait,’ Beatrice replied in a low voice.
‘Well, he’s had that messy mop fixed so we may as well do the whole shebang!’ Cheryl said, excitement crackling her voice.
‘So, it’s manicure, facial, manscaping those brows and taming that chest wig that’s escaping his shirt?’ Beatrice whispered.
Cheryl laughed. ‘Eee, I thought it was going to jump out and run up someone’s trouser leg when I first caught sight of that fuzz.’
‘It is a bit Burt Reynolds,’ Beatrice laughed, before biting her lip when she was met by the blank looks of the two younger women. ‘Never mind, before your time. Just make sure he’s got his collar done up and he’s looking presentable and don’t, whatever you do, let on that he’s actually going on a date. He’ll run a mile.’
Jillian nodded sharply like a private taking orders, thoroughly enjoying the secret mission. ‘Yes ma’am. Eight o’clock?’
‘Eight o’clock. And I’ll pay you later, when I get some cash.’ Beatrice wondered where on earth the nearest cash machine might be. In her haste to catch the train on Saturday she hadn’t thought to stock up on real money and now that she was beginning to run out she didn’t fancy catching the train to Lochalsh to get some more.
‘Divn’t be daft. We’re doing this as a favour for that poor Gaelic teacher. She looks so lonely sitting at that bar staring at her laptop all hours of the day,’ Cheryl replied.
‘Let’s hope it works,’ whispered Jillian, just as Gene emerged from the kitchen to take the newcomers’ orders.
‘So, you’re, um, you’re staying then?’ Cheryl asked, a little too loudly and self-consciously.
‘Maybe for a day or two longer,’ Beatrice nodded.
She pretended not to see the amused glances between the two women. Beatrice gulped the last of her coffee, looked at her watch and made her excuses to leave. There was still so much to do and the wonderful feeling of being useful again made her almost lightheaded. Even if it didn’t work, she had to try. Kitty had been so kind to her, and Gene’s heartache resonated so deeply with her own sense of abandonment and loss. At that moment all her focus was concentrated on bringing the pair together. The resultant excitement felt like a shot of anaesthetic temporarily numbing her own pain.
Chapter Twelve
Surprising Gene
The sun was setting over the bay as Beatrice made her way along the seafront, coming to a stop beside the smart holiday cottages that had once upon a time been the schoolmaster’s house and salting lofts.
Scanning the street she caught sight of a few holidaymakers returning from sunny seal-spotting daytrips or a long day’s hiking in the hills on the other side of the bay.
After a few moments, Seth cycled past with his wrapped fish supper in the basket on the front of his bike. Beatrice watched him pass silently and he gave her a knowing wink. She heard the brakes squeak as he came up alongside the pavement at the entrance to the jetty, and stepped off his bike, rummaging in his pocket for a large key which he worked in the lock of a rusty fuse box beneath the signs advertising his family’s boat trips and informing visitors of the high and low tide times. The waves were gently lapping towards the sea wall. Soon the sand would be covered again and the jetty bounded by water. Seth looked around at Beatrice, flashed a quick thumbs-up and turned another key inside the box.
It had been a hot hour’s work stringing the glass bulbs along the jetty with Seth that afternoon, never sure if they would be spotted by a curious Kitty or Gene. As the lights blazed into life now, shining in the mellow early evening light, Beatrice was fully satisfied their efforts had been worth it. Clapping her hands gleefully, she beamed her gratitude at Seth as he locked the box and cycled off to eat his supper at home, a smile of satisfaction curling beneath his grey whiskers.
Surprised to find her heart was pounding, she scanned the street again and checked her watch. Five to eight. She took a deep breath and leaned back against the cool stone of the cottage wall behind her.
That was when she felt the hand grasping her own. Stifling a gasp, she turned and found Atholl Fergusson standing in the half light in the narrow passageway between the cottages and holding a finger to his pursing lips, his eyes smiling. She looked down at his hand enclosing her fingers, and Atholl, suddenly ruffled, released her.
The panicked look in his eyes told her of his sudden regret and embarrassment at touching her, and the realisation that she minded him letting her go burned in her chest and made her blush. It felt all the worse to hear him stumbling over his words in his haste to move on from the moment’s awkwardness.
‘I’m sorry, I uh… I’m sorry. She’s on her way down now, in a bonny red dress, no less.’
Overlooking his apology in the hope he could be spared further embarrassment, she tried to squeeze some hope and excitement into her voice. ‘And Gene?’
‘No, he’s just opted for a suit.’
‘We’re in so much trouble if they aren’t up for this.’
‘Hey, did my brother help send you into the path of careering cattle or didn’t he?’
‘Good point. I shouldn’t be helping either of you!’ She watched him smile at her remark. ‘Have you got the wine?’
Atholl produced the bottle from the bag by his feet. ‘Vintage champagne to sweeten him up.’
‘It’s not Gene I’m worrying about now. Oh God, here she is.’
Kitty Wake drifted along the seafront in a sixties-inspired dress, her red hair tied up in a smooth ponytail and bouncing as she walked. ‘Beautiful,’ said Beatrice to no one in particular.
‘I’ll be off then,’ Atholl whispered, withdrawing into the shade once more.
‘You’re not staying to help?’
‘I’ve the starters to bring. And no, Gene’ll take it better if he thinks it’s just you scheming, at first, at least.’
And with an emphatic thumbs-up and a mouthed, ‘You’ll be fine,’ he was gone.
Beatrice smoothed down the white linen apron she was wearing and stepped out into the street to meet her new friend. At least, she hoped they’d still be friends after this.
* * *
‘What do you reckon?’ Atholl whispered.
‘I feel a bit weird watching. We should go in.’
‘And miss your handiwork? Naw,’ he replied. ‘Besides, I’ve brought us these.’ He offered up two steaming bowls of Cullen Skink.
Beatrice had been lying, her chin resting on her hands, on the flat roof above the inn porch. She’d only meant to pop outside for a second, just to check on the surprised daters from a distance and unseen, but the night was so warm and the stars so bright she’d stayed to breathe in the clean, salty air mixed with delicious seafood scents. Atholl, now finished helping with the evening service, had sneaked out too, and was settling himself down beside her.
‘How ever did you get Patrick to agree to come in and cook tonight – especially after Gene sent him away so unceremoniously the other night?’ Beatrice wondered aloud, stirring the dish and inhaling the mouth-wateringly savoury steam, all hot garlic and salty stock, fresh parsley, lobster, smoked haddock and cream.
‘In return for a daily delivery of seafood fresh from his boats, of course. He’s a braw cook and understands what to do with the day’s catch, as all good fishmongers do. And he’s known us both since we were bairns so he didn’t mind giving us a lesson.’
‘Will the inn really be serving seafood dinners again? What about Gene and all his objections?’
‘We’ll see. For now Mrs Mair has learned the Cullen Skink recipe by helping Patrick in the kitchen, and she insists she’s a decent cook, given the chance. And if her Scotch broth and shortbread’s anything to go by, maybe she could go some way towards replacing Lana in the kitchen.’
‘You mean if you supply her with something other than industrial quantities of oven chips?’
Atholl had a faraway look in his eyes. ‘And if Gene cannae be tempted back into the kitchen by the taste upon his lips tonight, I’ll have to look further afield for a new head cook. I’ll have done my best for Gene and it’ll be time. It’d be a shame, though. This Cullen Skink is braw but nothing compared to Gene’s cooking.’
Beatrice followed his gaze across the road at the scene on the jetty, attracted there by the light sounds of Kitty’s laughter carrying on the evening breeze.
They could just make out that Kitty’s bare shoulders were now draped in Gene’s suit jacket, and even though they’d finished their cranachan and coffee at least half an hour ago they were still sitting drinking the last of the champagne as the moon rose in the heavens above them. Beatrice took all this as a good sign. They’d actually pulled it off.
They’d taken it well, the surprise, Beatrice told Atholl as she took her first ever taste of Cullen Skink.
‘Mmm, this really is delicious, Atholl.’ She threw a chef’s kiss and a wink towards him and he laughed heartily.
‘So it turns out I didn’t need to use any of our pre-prepared arguments on Gene, after all. There was a millisecond where I thought he was going to turn on his heel and run off like he did on Saturday night when you ambushed him with Patrick and his box of seafood.’ Beatrice was laughing too between savoury mouthfuls. ‘I even put on my trainers this evening in case I had to bolt along the road after him. But he took one look at Kitty standing there all wide-eyed and stunned into silence, and he patted down his suit, ran his hand over his head, all flustered and red but then he crooked his arm and said, “If you’ve nae objection, will you come to dinner wi’ me, Kitty Wake.”’
Atholl laughed at Beatrice’s impression of his brother.
‘Good for him. He brushes up well, does he no’?’
‘He really does.’
Beatrice didn’t like to say she had been almost as surprised as Kitty to see Eugene Fergusson looking fresh-faced after his makeover by the Bobby Dazzler duo, who had revelled in their mission. He had a hint of movie star glamour about him now in his dad’s baggy-legged vintage demob suit and a crisp white shirt. His skin had been bright and dewy, and his eyes dazzlingly blue behind his contact lenses.
Kitty had smiled and blushed down towards her feet and Beatrice had simply watched it happen: the way Gene’s eyes danced over Kitty’s red dress and how his shoulders had melted and his chest swelled with the deep intake of breath as he realised what was happening – he was being set up on his first date in years.
‘You were right, Beatrice,’ said Atholl. ‘They look like a very fine couple together.’
Beatrice smiled, thinking of the way she’d followed them to the linen draped, candle-lit table at the end of the jetty and how Gene had stooped his back and leant a little awkwardly to the side so Kitty could comfortably hold his forearm. There was a hint in the way they moved together that spoke of something shared, something that just fitted.
‘Gene even pulled Kitty’s chair out for her to sit down,’ Beatrice said, still watching the couple, thinking dreamily of the sweet old-fashioned gesture and how Kitty had smoothed her retro petticoated skirts beneath her as she sat down, all the while looking up into her date’s shyly bowed face, her eyes reflecting the golden glow of the lights strung along the walkway.
They hadn’t spoken during the stroll along the jetty or as Beatrice uncorked and poured the cold champagne but Kitty had masked a grin when Beatrice threw her a wink over Gene’s shoulder and she’d left them to their date, assuring them Atholl would be out in a jiffy with the inn’s new seafood specialities and Gene had remarked gruffly, ‘I knew my wee brother would hae something to do with this,’ and he and Kitty had broken into harmonious laughter together.
