by Gwen Moffat
‘Are they?’ Betty asked brightly. ‘What does one have to do? Ah, here’s Madge; she’ll tell us.’
Miss Pink turned with interest to see a girl in a long white dress, with bare arms and a plunging neckline, who looked like a starlet until one noticed her build. She was lissom but all muscle, and no starlet had the flat arrogance that was in Madge Fraser’s eyes. Apart from that she was not remarkable. Her hair curled and was cut short, her features were regular, her ears set flat to her head. She looked chic and very neat. When she was introduced to Miss Pink she referred, and correctly, to one of that lady’s exploits in the Alps. Ken Maynard observed this exchange with an air of proprietorial amusement.
Betty Lindsay said, ‘What are the qualifications for a guide, Madge?’
The girl frowned. She must have been about thirty but she looked younger. ‘I forget what they are technically; I judge the applicants according to whether I think they’ll make good guides.’
‘You judge! What d’you mean: you judge?’ No one seemed unduly surprised at Lindsay’s rudeness, only resigned.
‘I’m a senior guide.’ Her voice was colourless. ‘There’s a panel of examiners and I’m on it. We have them on the hill for two or three days and judge their ability; that’s all.’
‘Why—?’ Lindsay began, but Maynard got there first: ‘Why isn’t George on this panel?’
‘Whatever’s got into you?’ Madge asked and he looked into his drink without answering.
‘Well, why isn’t he?’ Lindsay barked, and Miss Pink wondered how much he’d had to drink this evening.
Madge had no time for Lindsay. ‘Because he’s not good enough,’ she said coldly.
‘I’ll say one thing for lady guides,’ Hamlyn observed quickly, setting a whisky before Madge and addressing no one in particular. ‘They’re workers: punctual to the minute in the morning, and there’s none of this breaking off early and rushing down for opening time as there is with some of the men.’
Madge laughed. ‘You don’t keep your clients if you short-change them.’
‘Some people don’t care.’ Hamlyn looked hard at her.
‘Well,’ she said easily, as if this were an old topic, ‘hard work’s no fun if you don’t like the job.’ She glanced at Betty carelessly. ‘He can’t wait for the winter, you know.’
The other nodded agreement. ‘He’s answered an advert for a handyman in an hotel at Aviemore.’
‘I know. Christ!’
Lavender said: ‘It wouldn’t occur to you, I suppose, that your criticism of a colleague was rather unethical—in public?’
Madge looked at her. ‘No.’
Maynard said quickly, ‘We brought his girl friend down the glen; picked her up at—’
‘George’s girl friend!’ It was Lindsay again. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
As Maynard stared at him, Madge said with interest: ‘I didn’t know he’d got a girl coming.’ She turned to Betty. ‘Did you?’
The big woman shook her head dumbly.
‘Collects them like flies,’ Maynard said. ‘You can go down to the shore any night and find all the female campers in George’s tent.’
‘You’re making that up,’ Hamlyn said. ‘He’s usually up here, drinking.’
‘I mean afterwards.’
‘Tell us about this girl,’ Betty urged.
Maynard looked at his wife, then away. ‘Very young—’ he drew a breath, ‘—surprisingly beautiful. Not a climber; all strung around with packages, you know the kind of thing; no rucksack.’
Madge shrugged and looked bored. Betty said, ‘I can’t believe it. Does he know she’s coming?’
‘I didn’t ask her. She walked over the moor in flip-flops.’
‘What are flip-flops?’ Hamlyn asked.
‘Sandals with no heels; you keep them on by a bit that goes between the toes.’
‘That’s asking for trouble: walking over the moor without boots.’
‘I hope she stays off the ridge,’ Madge remarked, but not as if she cared.
Hamlyn said: ‘I’m with you there. If they’re going to come to grief, I’m all for them doing it in an accessible place, like the moor or the sea cliffs. Recovery of the body is so much simpler.’
‘They also stand a better chance of survival if they don’t have to spend the night lying injured on the ridge,’ Miss Pink put in.
Hamlyn smiled at her but not apologetically. ‘If you knew the problems we have in this glen, ma’am, you’d sympathise. When we first came here all the climbers knew each other, and they climbed carefully and properly: none of these artificial aids and metallic junk like walking ironmongers’ shops. They’re criminal!’ Miss Pink sensed the atmosphere; as with Lindsay’s outbursts, the company was resigned, not askance. These people were used to each other. Her expression remained politely attentive. Hamlyn leaned across the bar. ‘D’you know, if you leave your rucksack at the foot of a climb, there’s a fifty-fifty chance it won’t be there when you come down again? There have been thefts from tents! In our day, if anything was missing from your tent it was only ever food, and the thief was either a sheepdog or a fox. It couldn’t have been anything else. Why, I remember in the forties when that fellow O’Rorke was convicted for stealing a typewriter from an hotel in the Lakes, the scandal shook the climbing world—and he was an Irishman—what could you expect? Now, theft is so common among climbers the police don’t trouble to make inquiries, the implication being that we’re mad to think our sport might be different from any other. The whole moral fabric of this country is being ripped apart.’ He glared round the bar.
Maynard went on, ‘And then there’s the nude bathing from the shore—’
Hamlyn nodded fiercely at Miss Pink. ‘I’ve protested to the police, I’ve been down there with a shot gun, threatening to run them off the land—but it’s not mine; the foreshore grazing is MacNeill’s—and he’s—’ he broke off as he was pushed from behind by an opening door.
‘—no better than he should be,’ a cool voice completed for him. A slim woman in a lemon overall came in the back of the bar and greeted them pleasantly, with a smile and a handshake for Miss Pink.
Whereas her husband had the somewhat bloated features of a Blimpish bon viveur, Vera Hamlyn had the hooded eyes, the long nose and primped mouth that is termed patrician. She brushed back her grey hair with a fine but greasy hand.
‘A large gin for the cook, darling. And what’s old MacNeill been up to now?’
‘The nude bathing,’ Maynard told her meaningly.
‘Oh yes.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid he’s a naughty old man.’
‘You’ve got to watch him,’ Hamlyn said, placing a gin in front of his wife. ‘There are some very young children on that camp site and when the parents are away climbing and don’t come down till late, those children run wild. They go too close to MacNeill’s place for my peace of mind.’
‘Has he ever been in trouble?’ Maynard asked. The Hamlyns stared at him. ‘For molesting little girls,’ he elaborated. ‘That’s what you meant, wasn’t it?’
Vera Hamlyn shook her head vehemently. ‘Oh no, I don’t think it’s like that. Gordon meant you can’t be too careful—and there’s so much of it these days: even when they’re dressed, they’re not really, if you see what I mean?’ She looked at Miss Pink for assistance. ‘It’s so different from when we were young, isn’t it?’ Miss Pink raised her eyebrows in sympathy.
Madge said coldly, ‘We don’t have to get hung up over a few kids running around loose; they’re dying by the score in the rest of the world. Everyone’s got to take a chance, even young kids.’
‘It’s because this danger is near home,’ Vera protested. ‘After all, Madge, if it were your child on the shore. . . .’ She looked doubtfully at the guide.
‘That’s what I was thinking of,’ Madge said with a trace of anger. ‘Don’t rile me.’
‘Well, there you are, you see.’ Hamlyn stared at her in ridiculous triumph.
/> ‘All right! Malcolm’s a dirty old man and the children on the camp site are at risk. I couldn’t care less. When are we eating?’
‘Five minutes,’ Vera said. ‘Did you have a good day, Ken?’
‘Yes. We brought another little girl into the glen. George Watkins’ dolly.’
‘A friend of George’s? Did he know she was coming?’
‘Not the way he’s been behaving.’ He looked at Miss Pink speculatively. ‘You’re always running into trouble; it looks as if this time is going to be no exception.’
Lavender smiled thinly. ‘I don’t think the type of peccadillo you’ve been discussing would have any interest for Miss Pink. She’s concerned with basics. Like murder.’
Chapter Three
Dinner was table d’hôte but no one was going to grumble at a saddle of mutton flavoured with thyme and red currants and something which was certainly not cooking wine. Pleasantly replete, they drifted back to the cocktail lounge for coffee and Miss Pink found herself at a table in the window with the Lindsays.
Betty asked if she would like a liqueur and relayed the information to her husband as if he were a waiter, but a poor one. Betty’s smile became fixed as he failed to respond.
‘Shall I get them, sweetie? You look tired.’
He started, gave them a tremulous smile devoid of context, and turned to the bar.
‘It’s the heat,’ Betty told Miss Pink firmly. ‘We’ve been here a week and we’ve not missed one day’s climbing. We’re living on our nerves.’
‘There’s always a compulsion to make the most of an Indian summer. When the weather breaks here, the rain could last for weeks.’
‘And he suffers terribly with indigestion; the doctor thinks it’s an ulcer.’
Miss Pink looked grave. ‘The pace of modern life . . . so exhausting . . . but a holiday in Glen Shira should do wonders for him.’
‘Yes.’ Betty sounded doubtful. ‘I think it’s time he retired. He’s a builder, and with the housing position such as it is, we ought to get out while the going’s good. We could afford to retire, particularly if we sold our house and moved to Skye. Living’s so much cheaper up here, and property’s going for a song. We could amuse ourselves by buying ruins and doing them up. We can both do the practical work: brick-laying, roofing and so on. We’d employ some labour, of course.’
Miss Pink studied her with renewed interest. She was wearing a long skirt in the dark Lindsay tartan and a plain navy blouse. She looked competent and very powerful.
‘Why don’t you move?’ she asked curiously. ‘You sound as if you could make an ideal life for yourselves on the island.’
The other gave her a meaning glance. ‘We will.’ She nodded, emphasising the words. ‘I’m working on it. I’d adore living here, and it would get him away from the rat-race—and all the other pressures. He’s gone down terribly these last few weeks.’ She spoke of him as if he were a horse.
Lindsay returned with the liqueurs and Miss Pink observed him covertly. He was a hirsute man with dark shadowed cheeks and long sideboards tinged with grey. His hair was thinning, leaving him with a grizzled tonsure which was oddly monkish, but there was nothing serene about him, on the contrary, his mood fluctuated violently between preoccupation, and nervousness when addressed. He made no effort to contribute to the conversation. Could his abstraction be due to physical pain? Miss Pink watched his eyes and hands. There was no sign of spasms and his forehead was dry. She realised that Betty Lindsay had asked a question.
‘I’m sorry; I didn’t catch that.’
‘What are you hoping to do tomorrow?’
‘I’m going out with the young man from Largo: Colin Irwin.’
‘Good Lord! When did you meet him?’ Miss Pink smiled gently and the other was flustered. ‘I do apologise; I mean, did you know him before your arrival? You must have done.’
‘In a way. I brought him over from the mainland. We met at the Kyle.’
‘I see.’ Betty stared at her with unintentional rudeness. Her husband asked, surprisingly in view of his former silence: ‘What did he tell you?’
Miss Pink leaned back in her chair while they watched her intently. ‘Of course,’ she murmured, ‘he never stopped talking. He talked about Skye, birds, crofters. . . .’
‘He’s a great gossip,’ Betty said.
‘You’ve been out with him?’
‘Oh no.’ The denial was prudish. ‘He’s not a certificated guide.’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t mind that?’ Lindsay asked roughly.
Miss Pink, who was sitting so that she half faced the door to the hall, caught a movement outside, and although she made some vague remark about judging Irwin when she saw him on the hill, her attention was focused on the two strangers who appeared in the doorway.
They were an ill-assorted pair: an exquisitely beautiful girl, glowing with youth and health, and a much older man: heavy, florid, without grace. He wore jeans and a light polo-necked jumper which was too small for him. He looked as if he’d dressed deliberately for the bar and this was the best he could manage. On the other hand, the girl wore a startling lilac frock, vaguely Regency with a high waist and draped skirt. Against an impression of mauve cobwebs her arms and shoulders—and much of her breasts—glowed gold.
She stood at the bar and waited, her glorious eyes following her companion who came across the room to Miss Pink’s table, put a large hand possessively on Lindsay’s shoulder, leered at Betty and, ignoring Miss Pink, said loudly: ‘Who’s in the chair then?’
Lindsay started up with an exclamation, his eyes alight with pleasure and his words tumbling over each other.
‘No, let me . . . You’re late . . . What on earth are you wearing? What’ll it be? Glenmorangie?’
They were turning away when Betty called loudly: ‘George!’
The men glanced over their shoulders. Betty looked at Miss Pink.
‘This is George Watkins, who’s guiding us,’ she said firmly. ‘George, this is Miss Pink, who you’ll have heard of—’
He sketched a nod. ‘How do,’ he flung at her and moved after Lindsay.
Betty smiled ruefully. ‘A bit of a peasant, our George—and he’s the first one to admit it. A rough diamond though. We like him.’
‘His friend is very attractive,’ Miss Pink said.
The two men approached the bar where Gordon Hamlyn stood rigidly, his astonished eyes still on the girl who, without any sign of awkwardness, was waiting for someone else to make a move. That one is used to waiting, Miss Pink thought with strong disapproval.
Ken Maynard and his wife, in easy chairs by the door, were talking urgently—at least, Maynard was urgent, his wife cool, but whatever she said was delivered incisively. Her eyes glittered and she lit one cigarette from the stub of the last. Then Maynard rose and spoke to the girl who looked at him levelly, smiled, and moved a step closer to George Watkins.
‘She’s pretty,’ Betty remarked, as if arriving at an independent opinion.
Since Miss Pink could think of nothing to say that was neither indelicate nor critical, she thought it better to say nothing.
Expressionlessly, not looking at her face, Hamlyn placed a drink in front of the girl. It looked like lemonade. He had already served the men. Lindsay paid, talking the while with animation to Watkins. Miss Pink had the guide in profile and observed that he regarded his client with supercilious amusement but perhaps that was his habitual expression. There was a twist to the lips that could have been a sneer, and a lift of one eyebrow, obvious when he turned full-face to the mirror behind the bar. He was vain, too.
Maynard bought drinks, exchanged a word with Hamlyn, and went back to his wife leaving the girl standing behind Watkins’ large back, looking ornamental but a trifle forlorn. Miss Pink caught her eye after a moment and moved her lips. The girl came across the room obediently.
‘Sit here,’ Miss Pink commanded. ‘You’ll be tired after your long walk.’
She glanced at the
bar then sat down, holding her glass in both hands like a talisman. Miss Pink introduced herself and Betty and learned that the girl was called Terry Cooke.
‘Are you staying in Glen Shira long?’ Betty asked.
‘I don’t know how long my friend is staying.’ She hesitated. ‘Is it you he’s climbing with?’
‘That’s right; we’ve got another week.’
‘I think he means to go home when you go.’ She wrinkled her forehead. ‘Well, I’ll have had a week here. It was worth coming.’ She didn’t sound convinced.
Betty asked harshly, ‘Do you go everywhere with him?’
The girl was surprised. ‘Not everywhere. He came up here on his own, and I wouldn’t have come but I got the sack and there was nothing else to do. I shouldn’t have come all the same.’ Her voice dropped.
‘Why not?’ There was no joviality about Betty now; she was sharp as a razor.
‘He’s got his work.’
‘He has his evenings free; he gets down about six o’clock. You’ll have all next week with him.’
‘Yes.’ It was a whisper. The lovely eyes were agonised.
‘He’s a moody chap,’ Betty said with relish and then looked embarrassed as Miss Pink turned bland eyes on her.
‘You can say that again,’ Terry murmured.
Vera Hamlyn entered the room from the hall. She’d changed into a short linen dress and had the air of an off-duty member of the staff rather than one on terms of equality with the guests. The distinction was subtle but Miss Pink sensed some embarrassment in the atmosphere. Vera carried a glass and, crossing to the window, said apologetically, ‘You don’t mind if I join you?’ and drew up a chair as she spoke. Hamlyn was a caricature of amazement, confirming Miss Pink’s impression that his wife’s appearance this side of the bar was not a common occurrence.
