Scots on the Rocks

by Mary Daheim

  “Some do,” Harry said, cresting the hill in less than a minute.

  The cobbled street was narrow and fairly steep. Harry drove past several small old shops that featured fish, meat, and woolens. Judith also espied a cobbler, a confectioner, and a draper.

  “You can let us off at the woolen store,” Judith said as they reached an unmarked intersection. “We haven’t changed our money yet. Do they take credit cards?”

  “Yes. I never carry cash. Too much bother.” Harry put on the brake. “There you go,” he said, stopping in the middle of the street. The SUV wasn’t blocking traffic. There wasn’t any, except for a small car coming slowly from the opposite direction.

  The cousins thanked Harry and got out. Only a handful of pedestrians strolled past the shops.

  “Nice,” Judith remarked. “Nobody rushing, no heavy traffic, no vying for parking places.”

  Renie smiled. “They have cell phones, though.” She nodded in the direction of a young woman pushing a pram with one hand and holding a phone to her ear with the other. “We aren’t living in medieval Scotland even if we are staying in a castle.”

  Judith paused to look in the fishmonger’s window. Mussels, salmon, crab, oysters, and plaice were displayed on beds of ice. “I wonder if our husbands have caught anything,” she said.

  The woolen shop was small but well stocked. Judith perused the tartan skirts, wool slacks, and various types of sweaters. “Not cheap,” she murmured. “Don’t you talk me into buying more than I need.”

  “I won’t,” Renie said. “I feel guilty for not warning you.”

  After half an hour, Judith had purchased a lamb’s wool baby blue twin set, two pairs of slacks, a heavy ecru turtleneck, an eggshell ruffled silk blouse, a forest green cashmere sweater, a black mid-calf skirt, and a dark plaid hooded cape.

  “I’ve always wanted a cape,” Judith said as the sales clerk rang up the bill on an old-fashioned cash register. But she was aghast at the total, which came to almost eight hundred American dollars. “Maybe I don’t need the cape,” she said to Renie.

  “Coz.” Renie looked severe. “You have to wear something warm around here. The cape’s lined. Its dark colors won’t show dirt. At home, it’d cost twice this much.”

  The young sales clerk, who had dark brown streaks in her fair hair, giggled. “That’s so,” she agreed. “We don’t have many visitors, so our prices aren’t so dear.”

  Judith reached into her black handbag and handed over her Visa card. “Oh well. It’s Joe’s fault for not warning me I might need warmer clothes. At least our lodging’s free.”

  “Darn,” Renie said, tossing a couple of cashmere sweaters she’d been fondling on the counter. “I can’t not buy something.”

  “You’ve friends in St. Fergna?” the clerk asked in a chipper voice.

  “Our husbands know someone from around here,” Judith explained, “but we’re not staying with him. He’s put us up at the castle.”

  The clerk’s blue eyes grew wide. “The castle!” She pursed her magenta lips. “It’s said to be haunted.”

  “Really?” Judith responded. “Who’s the ghost?”

  The clerk looked disappointed. “You Americans are skeptical.”

  “Not all Americans are,” Renie pointed out. “We have some of our own ghosts. Does this one have a name?”

  The clerk nodded. “Some say it’s Mary, Queen of Scots. Others describe a child. He’s prankish.”

  “What sort of pranks?” Judith asked.

  The clerk handed over the receipt. “I’m not sure…” She stopped, china blue eyes on the door. “It’s Mrs. Gunn. She’s fussy but spends her money. I’d best see to her.”

  A small, stout woman with graying dark hair entered the shop. The clerk hurriedly rang up Renie’s sweaters and greeted Mrs. Gunn. “A fine day, ma’am! I put aside those items you took a fancy to last week.”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Mrs. Gunn said, eyeing the cousins with suspicion. “No pleats. Herringbone, not tweed.”

  Judith and Renie took their parcels and left the shop.

  “Definitely not pleats,” Renie said when they got outside. “Mrs. Gunn would look like a small ship sailing into port.”

  “This stuff’s heavy,” Judith complained. “I don’t want to lug it all over the village. What were we thinking of? We should’ve left it at the shop and picked it up on the way back.”

  “Here,” Renie said. “Give it to me. I’ll ask the clerk if that’s okay. You sit and wait.” She pointed to a stone bench in front of a crafts store.

  Gratefully, Judith sat. The air was misty, but the sun peeked from behind gray clouds. Two cars and an ancient bus went by. There were still no more than a half dozen pedestrians. She considered what it would be like if they’d gone to Southern California: hordes of suntanned people, beach volleyball, endless sunshine, blaring rap and hip-hop music, cars everywhere, strip malls, outlet malls, supermalls…

  Church bells rang the hour. Judith looked beyond the cluster of uneven roofs and spotted a steeple some fifty yards away. Maybe they could explore the church, as Harry had suggested. By the time they finished, it would be time for lunch. Across the street, Judith saw a green sign that read rose’s tea shop in flaking gold letters hanging above a canopied doorway. The windows on either side of the doorway had lace curtains. Judith watched two middle-aged women in sensible shoes enter. Yes, she thought, it was a perfect spot to eat.

  Renie stomped out of the woolen shop. “Next time, I’ll bring a weapon!” she cried. “Mrs. Gunn is a real horror!”

  “What happened?” Judith asked, surprised.

  Renie rearranged her black trench coat and smoothed her short, disheveled hair. “She threw her purse at me. All because I interrupted her monologue about a present her ex-daughter-in-law had given her.”

  “What happened to our new clothes?”

  Renie checked her makeup in a compact mirror. “The clerk put them in the back while I held Mrs. Gunn down on a display case.”

  “Good grief! You really went at it?”

  Renie shrugged. “I didn’t have any choice. I couldn’t stand around listening to the old bag bad-mouth her ex in-law. If I’d had that woman for a mother-in-law, I’d have ditched Sonny Boy, too.”

  “We’d better get out of here before Mrs. Gunn leaves the shop,” Judith said. “Or calls the cops. How about the church?”

  “Seeking sanctuary sounds right,” Renie replied. “Where is it?”

  Judith pointed to the steeple. “It must be off the village green.”

  The cousins moved along, though Judith checked a couple of times to make sure that Mrs. Gunn—or the local constabulary—wasn’t in pursuit. They paused by the parklike green with its granite cross and memorial to various locals who’d fallen in battle from the days of Robert the Bruce through World War II. The list was mercifully short, considering that it spanned over eight hundred years.

  The church, which bore the name of St. Fergna, looked almost as old as the castle. It was small and its stones were weathered, but, as Renie pointed out, it hadn’t suffered the cruel destruction that had befallen so many Scottish churches during the various wars of religion.

  “It’s Protestant,” Judith remarked, noting the wooden sign that proclaimed united church of scotland. “We’ll have to find a Catholic church in Inverness for Sunday Mass.”

  “Maybe they have a five o’clock today,” Renie said as they walked along a stone pathway that was partially covered by moss. “Then we could sleep in tomorrow.”

  Judith paused halfway to the church entrance. “This cemetery is really ancient. You can hardly read some of the markers.” Several Celtic crosses were broken; many inscriptions had blurred with time.

  Renie stopped by what looked to Judith like a worn gray slab. “This thing is really old,” Renie said. “It’s engraved with a late Pictish version of the Celtic cross. Eighth, even ninth century, about the time the Picts merged with the Scots. Look, you can hardly see the out
line.”

  “I wouldn’t know it was supposed to show a cross,” Judith admitted, but, as always, deferred to her cousin’s artistic eye.

  “Crosses are fascinating. They’re one of the first symbols I studied in graphic design.” Renie took Judith’s arm and turned her to face the sea. “Did you notice the two flags at Grimloch when we came outside?”

  Judith shook her head. As usual, she’d been more interested in people than things. “I can see the red and yellow national flag of Scotland,” she said. “What’s the black or blue one with white?”

  “The yellow flag with the red lion is the national flag of the Scottish government and the Scottish monarchy,” Renie explained. “The national flag is blue with what looks like a white X but is a Saint Andrew’s cross.”

  “Interesting,” Judith said, though her focus had been diverted by matters at hand. “On your right—someone’s putting flowers on a grave.”

  Renie turned to see the tall, leggy redhead in a short fur-trimmed coat arranging red and white roses by a marker that looked quite new. Curiosity drew Judith like a moth to the flame. The young woman straightened up just as Judith got a few feet behind her.

  “Are you lost?” the redhead asked in a lilting voice.

  “You can tell we’re tourists?” Judith said with a smile.

  “Oh yes,” she replied, pointing to Judith’s lightweight jacket. Her deep-set amber eyes seemed to miss nothing. “You must be freezing.”

  “I am a bit chilly,” Judith admitted. “I bought warmer clothes at the woolen shop on the High Street. That’s what it’s called, isn’t it?”

  “It usually is,” the young woman said with a charming smile. She was an inch taller than Judith’s five nine, and leaned gracefully when she spoke. Her manner might have been taken as condescending, but Judith assumed she was used to talking to people who were shorter. “At least in most Scots towns and villages. You’re American…or Canadian?”

  “American,” Judith said. “I’m Mrs. Flynn and this is Mrs. Jones.”

  The young woman put out a long white hand. “I’m Moira Gibbs.”

  Judith shook Moira’s hand. “We’re staying at Grimloch Castle. We met your…relatives there.”

  “My husband’s grandparents,” Moira said without enthusiasm. “However did you manage to go there? It’s off-season.”

  “It’s a long story,” Judith said, “involving our husbands knowing a local fellow fisherman.”

  “Who?” Moira asked a trifle sharply.

  Judith was surprised at the blunt question. On previous visits to the United Kingdom she’d found most strangers to be reticent when it came to talking about themselves and consider it virtually taboo to exhibit anything that might be mistaken for nosiness.

  “Hugh MacGowan,” Judith answered.

  “Ah.” Moira nodded. “Our law enforcement chief. The MacGowan has a way with him.” She gave a last look at the roses by the grave. “I must go. My brother has come looking for me.” Moira made a face. “He thinks I’m scatterbrained and got lost in the graveyard.” She raised a hand and called out to the tall, bearded man who had entered through the lich gate. “I’m coming, Jimmy. Don’t get your knickers in a bunch!”

  As Moira hurried off, Renie read the inscription aloud: “‘David Pietro Piazza. And Christ receive thy soul.’ He died last October first, at twenty-nine. An Italian in a remote village?”

  “Americans aren’t the only ones who move around,” Judith said, gazing at some of the other graves. “There’s another new—and rather ostentatious—monument under that yew tree. It must be a local bigwig.”

  The cousins trudged closer to the old stone arch. “It’s the Gunn family plot,” Renie said. “Same name as the pushy old bag in the shop.”

  “You’re right.” Judith studied the monument, noticing that some of the letters were chipped, and ivy crept up its twin columns. Still, it was obvious from the neatly clipped grass that the plot was well tended. “Here’s Eanruig Gunn, who died four years ago at fifty-five. Maybe your Mrs. Gunn is his widow. There’s a ship on the marker.” She looked to her left where a statue of an angel overlooked another grave. “This one’s from three years ago, maybe a son, Francis Gunn, twenty-two. No wonder Mrs. Gunn is crabby. She’s had her share of tragedies.”

  “I’ve had my share of graves,” Renie said. “Let’s eat.”

  The cousins strolled out of the cemetery through the lich gate. Judith smiled. “Weird, huh? Our first tourist stop is a cemetery.” She paused, waiting for a couple of bicyclists to pass. “Nice,” she went on, breathing in the sea-tinged air. “No heat, no hurry, no murders.”

  “That’s a dumb thing to say,” Renie chided.

  Judith grimaced. “Yes. I wonder why…” She gave herself a shake. “That’s what I get for standing on top of a bunch of bodies. Oh well.”

  Renie refrained from saying the obvious.

  5

  As Judith and Renie finished a lunch of smoked salmon tarts with cream cheese and capers, one of their cell phones rang.

  “Yours,” Renie said. “Mine’s not on.”

  Judith scrambled for the phone in her large travel purse. “Hello?” she said breathlessly.

  The voice at the other end was faint and almost unrecognizable. “Joe?” Judith said so loudly that three elderly ladies at an adjoining table stared—discreetly. “I can’t hear you,” she said, lowering her voice. “Should I go outside to…What? You’ve been spayed?”

  Renie was looking alarmed. “Where’s Bill?”

  “Oh.” Judith slumped in relief. “You’re at Speyside. When will…Why not?…Joe, I can’t hear you very well…Okay, fine, goodbye.” She clicked off. “The husbands are fishing in the morning,” she informed Renie. “They’re on the River Spey and won’t be back tonight.”

  Renie received the news with unusual calm. “Sure. The river’s probably hot. They can’t possibly leave. That’s why they’re there.”

  Judith sighed in resignation. “Your father was an avid fisherman. Mine wasn’t. You understand the species better than I do.”

  “My father considered fishing a religion,” Renie recalled. “He told me it was no accident that so many of Jesus’s disciples were fishermen, especially Saint Peter. Really, the whole fishing thing is a spiritual experience. It must be magic on these local rivers and streams.”

  “You’re being too nice,” Judith pointed out, trying to calculate the tip for their lunch. “That’s not like you. We have no car, so how do we get to church for our own religious experience?”

  “Don’t we get a dispensation when we’re traveling?” Renie asked with a quizzical expression. “We’re strangers in a strange land.”

  Judith calculated an adequate tip and stood up. “Let’s collect our new clothes and go back to the castle. Frankly, I’m still tired.”

  Renie checked her watch. “It’s going on three. The tide’s probably halfway in. Let’s call Gibbs to see if he can pick us up. Didn’t Joe say there was a chauffeur?”

  “Who is also probably Gibbs,” Judith pointed out. “Strange—I didn’t see any other car parked on the beach except Harry’s.”

  Renie frowned. “You’re right. But maybe we didn’t look far enough. For all we know, there’s a freight elevator somewhere on the cliff and they park their vehicles in the castle garage. Or stable.”

  “I doubt that,” Judith said as they exited the tea shop. “Maybe the clerk at the woolen store knows how it’s done.”

  The clerk was looking slightly frazzled. “Oh, hello,” she said in a voice that was no longer chipper. “I suppose you want your purchases.” She went to a door at the far end of the counter and disappeared.

  “We’ll have to exchange our money Monday when the bank is open,” Judith said. “I can’t put everything on my credit card.”

  “I saw a Royal Bank of Scotland on the corner by the village green,” Renie said. “I haven’t spotted an American Express office, but maybe there’s one off the High Street.”<
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  “I don’t think there’s much more to the commercial section than what we’ve seen. The rest of the village looks like cottages and other private homes. I doubt that more than a few hundred people live here.”

  “Probably not,” Renie agreed. “It’s off the beaten track.”

  For a couple of minutes, the cousins waited in silence. Renie looked through a rack of tailored jackets; Judith resisted the old urge to bite her fingernails.

  “What’s taking so long?” Judith finally said. “This place isn’t big enough to lose our packages.”

  Before Renie could answer, the clerk reappeared. “Sorry,” she apologized, “but I had to lock your purchases in the safe. I use it so seldom that I never get the combination right the first few times.”

  Judith was curious. “Do you have a problem with theft?”

  “Oh no,” the clerk asserted. “Only in the summer when the visitors come to the beach. Especially the young ones. But…” She blushed and avoided looking at Renie. “Mrs. Gunn was a mite upset.”

  “Who wasn’t?” Renie retorted. “What did she do after I left? Threaten to cut up our clothes with a cleaver?”

  “Ah…” The clerk winced. “Rather like that, yes.”

  Judith nudged Renie. “We must apologize. I hate coming across as typical rude American tourists.”

  “Yeah,” Renie mumbled. “But Mrs. Gunn pushed me first.”

  “Please,” the clerk said. “My name’s Alison, by the way. Mrs. Gunn is sometimes difficult.”

  Judith felt compelled to play peacemaker. “We visited the church graveyard. Mrs. Gunn has suffered recent losses.”

  “That’s so,” Alison agreed. “Her husband was killed in a hunting accident. Then her eldest son died very young. It was some sort of fever he’d picked up on a trip to Africa. He was never strong. His wife—still just a bride, really—had done her best to nurse him back to health, but…” Alison stopped and shook her head. “It was all so sad. I admired Moira’s devotion.”

  “Moira?” Judith echoed.

  “Moira Gibbs,” Alison responded, “now that she’s remarried.” The clerk’s expression had turned sour.