by Kiley Dunbar
‘His cheeks burned bright red as she lay on the bed,
And asked if he fancied a ri—’
‘Riii-ght, thank you, Seth!’ Atholl snatched the microphone from him as half the room sniggered and booed at the interruption; the Scottish half.
Fixing the microphone into place on its stand, Atholl reached for the fiddle case that had lain untouched on stage all evening.
Beatrice’s eyes shone as she watched him settle the instrument in the nook under his jaw, teasing out the first long, sweet note, one eyebrow lowered, surveying the audience, before jolting the bow in fast movements and starting a speedy reel. Soon everyone was clapping, even Seth, who performed a dramatic sword dance – minus the swords – in front of the stage.
‘Maybe I can understand how Seth’s wife preferred to live on the other side of the village away from him,’ Beatrice joked to Kitty. But Kitty only smiled thinly.
‘How are you holding up?’ Beatrice asked. ‘I can take over with the punch now and let you get to bed, you look tired. And this isn’t your job, is it?’
‘I’m fine and it’s not for much longer, an hour maybe, given the state of some of these farm labourers. And I should earn my keep. I haven’t a single Gaelic lesson booked in yet, thanks to Gene’s computer errors.’
‘You’ve done well tonight,’ Beatrice said. ‘Putting on a brave face.’
‘I wish I could shake this maudlin feeling, Bea. I’m thinking of telling Atholl in the morning I can’t stay. I might head home to uni.’
‘Really? Oh Kitty, I’m sorry…’ Beatrice began, but she was stopped mid-sentence by a growing awareness that the fiddle music had suddenly stopped and an uncanny silence had fallen over the whisky-soaked crowd.
‘Kitty Wake,’ a voice called from the doorway. ‘Kitty Wake!’
Beatrice watched her friend’s expression change as the voice reached her and the crowd parted, all eyes wide and wondering, as intrigued, amused faces looked between Kitty and the tall figure who’d just arrived, dressed from head to toe in Fergusson tartan and holding in his arms great long bunches of white heather.
‘Gene,’ Kitty said beneath her breath.
‘Kitty Wake,’ he continued in a clear, sober voice, loud enough for the whole room to hear. This was to be a public declaration, it seemed. ‘I’m sorry I left you tae face the Harvest Home by yourself. I should have stayed by your side. But I’m here now, if you’ll forgive me.’
Kitty was on her feet and moving towards him, her white hem brushing the knees of the gaping spectators.
Gene kept talking. ‘Everyone here knows tonight was my wedding night some years ago. And everyone knows how that marriage ended. This night was special to me because I made sincere vows to a woman who couldn’t quite love me enough, and I’ve mourned this night in my heart for years. But, I’ve made the decision to make a new vow, to you, if you’ll listen?’
Beatrice saw Kitty’s red hair bobbing over her shoulders as she made one slow nod of encouragement.
‘It is customary in Port Willow to carry your beloved across a line o’ white heather tae signify the beginning of a union. God knows, I’ve done this once before but no’ with a woman as fine and bonny as you, Kitty Wake.’
Atholl had made his way to his brother’s side and he placed a hand on his shoulder. The pair shared a reassuring glance before Gene stooped to arrange the heather in a long line separating him and Kitty.
Aside from the whistles and calls of the farmers too drunk to know what was happening, the room reverberated with the baited breaths and hum of nerves in every individual’s chest as Gene walked around the white flowers to stand by Kitty’s side. He whispered words in her ear, the crowd watched her smile grow, and Gene swept her into his arms and carried her in a long stride across the heathers.
Beatrice had never heard such a cheer, and the band struck up in a wild reel as Gene held Kitty to his chest and strode out through the open doors, held wide by Mrs Fergusson and Atholl, into the night.
Maybe it was the wild music, and the romance and the passion she’d just witnessed, and maybe the punch had something to do with it too, but as Beatrice watched Atholl scanning the crowd for her before making his way through the laughter and the toasts and the renewed dancing to where she stood, only one impulse made its way through the cacophony and into her mind. She wanted him. Even if it was just for tonight. Even if he was the most beautiful, talented, earnest, caring human she’d ever had the good fortune to be thrown together with. Even though they were going to part tomorrow and probably never see each other again. Even if it was going to hurt in the long run. She wanted him.
‘Looks like Gene fixed everything himself in the end,’ Atholl said as he reached her.
‘No help needed from us,’ Beatrice beamed, holding Atholl’s gaze. ‘Atholl?’
He reached for her hand. ‘Go on.’
‘When the ceilidh’s over, will you spend the night with me? I’m leaving tomorrow and don’t want to miss a second that I could be with you.’
She saw the blaze in his eyes at her words.
‘What about your husband? I cannae be the other fella’ even for one night.’
‘Rich isn’t my husband anymore,’ she murmured, seeing Atholl looking hard into her eyes searching for the truth there, before bringing his mouth down to cover hers.
The kiss spoke of the night they’d spend together and it made her nerves thrill and shiver. The clock above the bar chimed midnight as they sank deeper into their kiss and Atholl’s hands roamed over her back in slow circles. When he finally pulled away, the penetrating way he looked at her made every muscle in her body compress then soften and she found she was biting her lip.
‘I’m having a word with the band,’ Atholl said with sudden decision, and he walked away to speak into the caller’s ear. The caller nodded and signalled to the band they were to play their last song.
Then Atholl passed behind the bar, Beatrice watching him all the time and laughing delightedly at his sudden fervour to have her alone. He switched the bright bar lights on and started closing off the beer pumps.
The ceilidh was coming to an end. The crowds were draining their drinks, reaching for coats and getting ready to step out into the rain, wishing they’d brought umbrellas. Echo chose this moment to return from his wandering and shake his coat in the middle of the room, spraying the guests with muddy water, before strolling off to bed.
As Atholl moved through the bustling crowd collecting glasses, he glanced at Beatrice, checking her whereabouts every few seconds as though he were afraid she too would leave.
Beatrice helped reunite drunken farm labourers with misplaced bowties, mobile phones and the worryingly sharp clan knives they called sgian-dubh as the band packed up.
At one point, the tide of the departing crowd moving lazily and heavily towards the door pulled Beatrice with them and almost out into the street, making her think of the riptide. She threw Atholl a comic smile and, seeing her struggle, he pushed through the crowd to take her hand and pull her towards him in the middle of the dancefloor, their lips meeting again in a hard kiss.
‘Not long now, once the band’s gone…’ he whispered, not needing to finish his thoughts.
Beatrice’s mind flickered to the great four-poster bed and the tower of plump mattresses upstairs and imagined how he’d follow her up the ladder and press her down hard onto the bed and she’d tell him not to be gentle and they wouldn’t have to worry about disturbing the inn guests as they were all as drunk as one another, and the sounds of the storm gathering momentum outside would drown out their cries.
Her breath caught as he delivered one last kiss before breaking away, dazed and smiling, and hastening the last of the drinkers out the door. He handed over a bundle of notes from the till to the band who divvied it up amongst themselves and stuffed it into pockets before they too headed out the door with their instruments, speakers and lighting rig. They seemed to take ages to get out, Beatrice thought.
Atholl disappeared with the rest of the night’s takings to lock them in the safe in the reception. In the sudden quiet of the inn, Atholl whistled a jolly Highland reel and it danced in the electric air.
‘Is everyone away now, Beattie?’ he called when he returned to the bar and flicked the overhead lights on, squinting at their harshness.
His heart stilled at the sight of Beatrice standing by the door face to face with a rain-soaked man he’d never seen before. He knew by instinct and the look in Beatrice’s wide eyes that this must be her husband.
Atholl froze to the spot and watched them.
‘Rich?’ Beatrice breathed out the word, barely audible.
‘They don’t make it easy to find this place, do they?’ Rich replied, standing stock still in front of her, his overnight bag dropping to the floor. ‘Looks like I missed a good party. I’ve been driving round all the lanes in the dark. Bloody sat nav’s useless round here.’
‘What are you doing here?’ she said, breathlessly.
Richard’s stare broke away from Beatrice at the realisation that another man was watching their exchange. Awkwardly, he looked over at Atholl, then back to Beatrice. ‘Umm, can we talk, in private? I’ve come all this way to see you.’
‘The inn’s full, I’m afraid, if you’re planning on staying,’ Atholl called across the room, his voice gruff. He had moved behind the bar where he was mechanically loading glasses into washing trays.
Beatrice spun round to look at Atholl, and she thought she saw him wince at something in her expression.
‘Of course, I can make up a bed for you, if Beattie wants me to?’
‘Beattie?’ Rich echoed, cocking his head. When he spoke again, he addressed his wife, closer to her ear, and she watched his eyes as he spoke. ‘Please, let’s talk.’
She reached for his wrist, grasping it. ‘All right, come with me. I’ve got a room. You can get dry and I’ll make you some tea but then you’ll have to go.’
Echo padded back into the bar and sat upright, leaning against his master’s legs. Rich eyed him warily.
‘It’s all right, he’s a friendly soul. He’ll no touch ye,’ Atholl spoke with a growl.
Rich laughed. ‘Hah, I’m not afraid of any sheepdog.’
Atholl’s nostrils flared and he forced his eyes away from Rich, who was staring confidently at him. ‘You two go on up,’ Atholl said with a note of finality in his voice. ‘I’ll bring up a tray of tea in a minute.’
Beatrice led Richard from the bar and towards the stairs. As they passed Atholl and Echo, Rich squeezed himself against the wall cautiously, keeping his hands away from the sniffing dog.
Beatrice looked straight at Atholl, her brow furrowed and her eyes wide like a roe deer caught in headlights by the roadside: alert, tense and ready for flight. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
After they’d left and the stairs creaked with their footsteps, Atholl reached for the cloth he’d thrown over his shoulder only moments ago when he’d been clearing the glasses, before the shock of seeing Beatrice reunited with her husband and before his world spun off its axis. He brought the cloth down onto the bar in a hard slap, clenched his fists and took a long, deep breath with his eyes closed. When he opened them again, his gaze fell upon the sight of the trampled heather on the dancefloor. He gathered it all carefully in his arms and tossed it on the bar before making his way to the kitchen to make tea for Beatrice and her husband.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Words At Last
‘Umm, nice room,’ Rich said, eyeing the bed with one eyebrow raised.
Beatrice chose to ignore the snarky tone in his voice. ‘Richard, it’s the middle of the night, what are you doing here?’
‘I’ve been calling you and you haven’t replied. In the end I asked your sister where you were and she told me.’
‘She did?’
‘Well, after she said she’d tear my bollocks off and hand them to me if I caused any trouble, but yeah.’
Beatrice’s eye was drawn to the rain drops running from Rich’s coat onto the rug. ‘Take that off, and your boots too. You’re soaked through.’
Rich was grumbling about having to park along at the train station as the street had been closed for a party. Beatrice barely heard him. All the while she was thinking of Atholl’s expression moments ago. Was he about to come in here with tea for the man she’d told him had broken her heart only a few short weeks ago? What must he be thinking?
‘Beatrice, I had to talk to you,’ Rich was saying as he threw off his boots. Her attention snapped back to him. He was wearing a new jumper she didn’t recognise and she was reminded of the long time they’d spent apart. So many things must be new in his life.
‘How’s your new place?’ she asked, avoiding looking at the stool he’d pulled out from the dressing table for her. He perched on the chair he’d dragged over from the window.
‘Fine, a bit lonely, sometimes.’ He shrugged and attempted a smile. ‘I called at the house this week to check it was ready for the new occupants, and to see where you were… all your stuff’s still there… and uh, anyway, I had a man with a van coming over to get my gym equipment and with you not being there, I don’t know, I started thinking.’
‘OK?’ Beatrice eyed him warily, still standing by the closed door, shifting from foot to foot, waiting for Atholl to come.
‘I mean, really thinking, for the first time since I fucked it all up and ran off.’
She became aware that her heart was thumping uncomfortably in her chest and her face was beginning to burn. Was she about to cry? The Highland punch wasn’t helping matters as it coursed through her bloodstream.
‘I was horrible to you. I didn’t know how to handle it all. I could have behaved better, much better.’
‘It’s a bit late now, isn’t it, Rich? Have you come here to give me the divorce papers? Is that why you’re here?’
‘No, God no. I’m an arse but I’m not a total bastard. Hear me out, Beatrice. I couldn’t handle you and how sad you were, and how I couldn’t do anything to help you, and…’
Now she was crying, and she found herself crossing the room to grab a tissue and dropping down into the stool beside Rich’s chair.
He kept talking, his words coming in an unstoppable rush. ‘I didn’t have it in me to fix everything. And you wanted another baby so much, and I…’ She met his eyes. There were actual tears in them, she noticed. She had never seen him cry before. ‘I just couldn’t go through it all again. And I don’t think you could either.’
‘So you left me,’ she said quietly and matter-of-fact.
‘I think if you really think hard about what we were like before the baby, you might see that we weren’t all that happy, not for years before—’ He cut himself short and looked down at his hands. ‘I feel terrible saying this to you.’
‘So why say it to me now? Why come all this way in the pissing rain and the middle of the night to tell me this?’
His words had stung but deep down she had known he was right, and he wouldn’t be stopped now.
‘I came to apologise for the way things ended and to tell you I didn’t just throw it all away – our marriage and all the memories. It wasn’t working anymore, and we were actually really miserable.’
‘It wasn’t all that bad. If you’d managed to keep your dad in check and come home from work earlier once in a while or spent a bit less time working at the weekends when I lost my job and you knew I was at home climbing the walls, bored to distraction, maybe we’d have been able to fix it. I still think we could have fixed it, if we’d made a bit more effort.’ She let her shoulders fall as the guilty thought struck her and she blew out a heavy sigh. ‘Rich, it wasn’t all your fault… I know that now. I’m sorry too. I was a mess. I was trying to fix things the only way I could, by getting pregnant again, and I’d clammed up, couldn’t talk to you. And you couldn’t talk to me either. Even if we had grown apart, which we really had, it’s such a shame it had to end the way it did, so abru
ptly and with so much pain unacknowledged. We both could have handled things so much better.’
‘Maybe you’re right. It’s too late now though, isn’t it? Or are you telling me we still have a chance at something?’ Rich asked, his eyes widening.
Beatrice shook her head with an exasperated huff. In spite of his tears and his sudden fit of remorse she was exhausted and ready to throw him out. She hadn’t imagined their reunion being quite so fraught and she hadn’t anticipated how angry and hurt she would still feel. ‘Rich, what else are you wanting me to say?’
She found herself wondering if there was still time to talk to Atholl, to go to his room, apologise and try to convince him to spend the night with her, in spite of Rich’s terrible timing. But when she looked back at her husband she surrendered this last bit of hope.
Rich was still talking, wringing his hands and looking up at her imploringly. ‘You don’t have to say anything. It’s me who should have told you that I never, ever, not once, didn’t want our baby.’ His voice faltered. ‘And I wanted to find you and tell you that. I loved that little baby with all my heart, and I’d have been a good dad, nothing like my father.’
‘No, nothing like him. I know that.’
‘And I would have tried to make it work between us, in spite of everything, but we never got the chance to find out what our family would have looked like, or how we might have been together if there were three of us.’
Beatrice’s heart sank and broke all at once. She’d never known Rich could ache like this before. His pain somehow blurred his face and she couldn’t quite see his features or the old Rich she used to know. The sorrow in his voice touched a deep, long forgotten part of her, the affection she’d had for him and her hopes and dreams for their future.
‘Rich, we could have talked about all this months ago; you should have said something and helped me to talk about it.’
‘I never got the chance. One minute we were grieving, the next we were supposedly trying again, and I was hurting so much, and so were you.’ He was sobbing now. ‘And somehow we were propelled apart… and, if you remember Beatrice, we were never very good at talking things through, were we?’
