Anne Douglas

by The Wardens Daughters

  ‘Little dragon?’

  ‘That is what we call her – Mrs Duthie.’

  ‘She wasn’t very nice with you.’

  ‘Ah, ’tis nothing she has against me. My mother’s the one. They do not get on.’

  ‘I see.’ Monnie stood, looking at the basket Torquil was again swinging on his arm. ‘Er – what have you brought us, then?’

  ‘Something good. Today, I have been lucky. Threw out my line as well as my net and caught some cod for you.’

  ‘For us?’

  ‘Cod will be a fish you’ll know, in the city, I mean, but you will not know others that I catch.’ He laughed a little. ‘Coalfish, pollack, skate – all manner of things arrive sometimes in the Sound and might not suit.’

  ‘I see.’

  Monnie would have liked to laugh with him but did not dare, she didn’t know why. Or, in fact, why, after waiting all day to see him, she kept looking away. She had the feeling she must be careful. Not let him see so soon what she was thinking – as though she even knew herself! Och, she was like a straw in the wind, blowing she didn’t know where, when this man stood before her, having an effect on her she had never known with any man before.

  And there had been some men in her young life, fellows she’d gone out with a couple of times, then parted from by mutual agreement. One she’d even thought she might care for – a student who’d kept coming into the bookshop for days before asking her to go out with him. She’d agreed, too, and they’d got on well, but she’d soon realized he wasn’t the one. He’d never made her feel as she felt now.

  ‘Want to see them?’ he was asking her gently.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The cod.’

  ‘Oh – oh, yes. I’m sure they’ll be fine.’

  Her eyes met his and this time did not draw away, but stayed to read something in their blue depths that set her heart beating like a hammer in her chest. Would he say something? He must speak. He couldn’t just go away, couldn’t leave without putting into words what she had read in his eyes. Couldn’t do that, could he?

  His lips had parted, he seemed about to speak, when suddenly they were no longer alone. Frank had come into the kitchen, was standing close. And everything changed.

  It was like a light being switched off, a shutter coming down. However she cared to describe it, Monnie knew the moment was over, the chance gone. She couldn’t have felt more devastated if something she’d been promised had been snatched away. But of course she’d never been promised anything.

  ‘Hello, Torquil!’ Frank was saying jovially. ‘What have you got for us tonight, then?’

  ‘Good evening, Mr Forester,’ Torquil answered with a ready smile. ‘I have some very nice cod.’

  ‘Cod, eh? Well, that’s something the girls’ll know how to cook. A good standby in Edinburgh, is cod. But of course, yours’ll be nice and fresh.’ As Frank opened the wrapped packet Torquil gave him, his eyes widened.

  ‘Why, you’ve prepared ’em! Taken off the heads, and cleaned ’em and all. You’d no need to do that!’

  Torquil shrugged. ‘I told you, ’tis no trouble, and the ladies are not keen on the cleaning.’

  ‘I’d have done it, but still, it’s good of you. We appreciate it, eh, Monnie? Run and fetch a plate, then.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, Torquil,’ she said in a low voice, when she’d brought a plate for the fish. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ He bowed his straw-coloured head and replaced his cap, as Frank took a handful of coins from his trouser pocket.

  ‘So, how much do I owe you?’

  ‘Seven and six, if you please, sir. Four shillings for the cod, there being two pounds of that, and three and six for the hake, there being a little less in weight.’

  ‘Fine, fine.’ Frank counted out the money into Torquil’s hand. ‘See you next Tuesday, then.’

  ‘Tuesday,’ he repeated, glancing at Monnie.

  ‘Tuesday,’ she echoed, bravely returning his look. But there was no longer anything to read in his eyes and as he left them, walking fast away, she wondered if she might have been mistaken ever to think there might have been.

  Fourteen

  Tuesday morning. Interview Day.

  Lynette, early out of bed, was studying her face in the dressing-table mirror, groaning at what she said were bags under her eyes, while Monnie, watching, laughed and kept her own thoughts about Tuesday to herself.

  ‘You needn’t have got up so early,’ she called. ‘Your interview’s not till eleven.’

  ‘I know, but I’ve got to sort myself out. Get rid of these terrible bags, decide what to wear—’

  ‘The red suit, the black blouse, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I think, maybe the white shirt, after all. More appropriate, eh?’ Lynette was standing, deep in consideration, before suddenly being galvanized into action and hurrying to the bathroom, pulling her dressing gown around her.

  ‘That’ll be it till I don’t know when,’ Monnie murmured to herself, heaving her bedclothes to her chin again. ‘No point in getting up till Lynette’s finished – anyway, it’s still early.’

  And cold. From where she lay, she could see fresh snow on the hills, but guessed it would not be on the roads. Just as well, as her father was driving Lynette to her interview, while, she, Monnie, held the fort. Strange, since she’d been given her label of assistant warden, looking after the hostel no longer held terrors for her. In fact, she enjoyed it. Meeting all the new people, helping them, thinking of ways to improve their stay. For a start, there was the common room – that could do with a rethink, if a bit of money could be found.

  She really was interested in what she might do, but knew, too, that she was pushing all her ideas to the front of her mind, so as not to dwell too much on what might be already there. Tuesday. Interview Day. Yes, and Fish Day, too. Would it be third time lucky? For what? There were those thoughts again.

  As Lynette returned from the bathroom, smelling of soap and bath salts, Monnie leaped out of bed and said it was time she got dressed, Dad would be wanting his breakfast.

  ‘Seems to have forgotten that he knows how to fry bacon,’ Lynette commented, as she shrugged herself into a crisp white blouse and stepped into her red skirt. ‘Don’t think this is too short, eh?’

  ‘No, it’s perfect. You’ve got good legs, anyway, why not show ’em?’

  ‘Yes, but skirts aren’t that short at the moment, are they? And I don’t know if this difficult manager will approve.’

  ‘As though he’d know what was in fashion! He’ll probably just see a pair of nice legs and that’ll be enough for him.’

  ‘Maybe. I’m not sure. Wonder if I should wear my office black? Be on the safe side.’

  ‘If you’d be happier, yes.’ Monnie sighed with impatience. ‘Have to make up your mind soon, though.’

  ‘The black it is.’

  Lynette was studying her face again, patting her cheeks, smoothing the skin beneath her eyes. ‘Oh, but help, will you look at me? Better have a good session with my make-up after breakfast, eh? Think maybe I’ll persuade Dad not to have bacon this morning. Don’t want the smell in my hair.’

  By half past ten, all worries about clothes, make-up, and what Frank might have for breakfast were over, and Lynette, beautifully ready, in warm coat over her black suit, her face as perfect as possible, was sitting next to her father in the old Morris, gazing at the Talisman Hotel.

  She’d seen it before, of course. They’d come out one afternoon to do a recce, and she couldn’t have been more impressed. Such a fine looking building! White-harled, many-windowed, with what must be spectacular views, trees shielding it from the worst of the wind, and its extensive grounds stocked with hardy shrubs. There was even a tennis court to one side, though at that time of year, it was hard to imagine players on it. Still, summer would come one day and in the meantime there seemed to be quite a number of patrons, anyway, judging from the number of cars drawn up on the hotel forecourt.

 
‘Money,’ Frank said now. ‘The Talisman reeks of money.’

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ Lynette replied. ‘Need something that can attract money in a place like this.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right, I suppose.’ Frank glanced at his watch. ‘Want to go and make your number now? I can drop you at the main door.’

  ‘Hope I’m not supposed to use the tradesman’s entrance,’ Lynette said cheerfully. ‘Oh, Dad, wish I’d had time for a cigarette.’

  ‘Want to smell of smoke?’ Frank started the car’s engine. ‘And there’s me only having an egg for my breakfast because you didn’t want to smell of bacon.’

  ‘Sorry, Dad – you’ll be back to bacon tomorrow. Listen, drop me here and I’ll walk down the drive, eh?’

  ‘OK, if it’s what you want. And you’ll be all right getting the bus back?’

  ‘Of course. See you soon, and thanks for the lift.’

  ‘Good luck, pet. Not that you’ll need it. Bet you any money you get the job.’

  ‘You’re hopeful!’

  With a wave of her hand, Lynette left the car and began walking quickly towards the hotel’s entrance, and after watching for a moment, Frank, wishing her luck, drove away. She wouldn’t need it, she was the best.

  In the spacious vestibule of the hotel, where a few guests were sitting talking, Lynette, advancing towards the reception desk, was puzzled to find herself facing three women.

  Hello, who’s leaving? she wondered, guessing that one of the three would be the outgoing senior receptionist – which ruled out the youngest, a good-looking, dark-haired girl with almond-shaped, dark eyes who looked no more than seventeen. All that could be seen of her outfit was a stiff white blouse for she was standing behind the desk, but up bounced Lynette’s spirits when she saw that the other two women, one in her twenties, one perhaps forty, were both wearing smart black suits with calf length skirts.

  So, she’d made the right choice. Point to me, she thought, and taking off her coat, knew she looked good. Good enough to be confident as she introduced herself as a candidate for interview for the post of senior receptionist.

  ‘Ah, good morning, Miss Forester,’ replied the woman Lynette had judged to be the oldest of the three. She was sharp-eyed, sharp-featured, and oozing efficiency from every pore. ‘I’m Mrs Atkinson, Mr Allan’s assistant and secretary – I believe we spoke on the phone.’

  Oh, yes, the haughty one . . . Lynette agreed that they had.

  ‘This is Mrs Burnett, the present senior receptionist,’ the secretary continued, introducing a pale, fair-haired young woman at her side who was giving a welcoming smile. ‘It’s our loss that she is moving to England with her husband – hence the vacancy – but Miss MacLewis, who hasn’t been with us very long, is fast learning the ropes.’

  ‘Nice to see you.’

  While the young Miss MacLewis politely smiled, Lynette turned to Mrs Atkinson.

  ‘I hope I’m not late, am I?’

  ‘No, indeed, it’s we who are running late. But if you’ll give me your coat and come with me, Miss Forester, I’ll take you to the other candidates. You’ll be called for interview very soon.’

  Having followed Mrs Atkinson through swing doors at the rear of the vestibule, Lynette was shown to a small room, where two young women, already in easy chairs, were skimming through magazines. Both, Lynette noticed with satisfaction, were wearing dark suits and white shirts.

  ‘Hi, there.’ She gave them friendly smiles. ‘I’m Lynette Forester. Have you two already had your interviews?’

  ‘We have.’ The girls shook hands. One, a slightly built redhead, said her name was Audrey Logan, while the other, tall, with brown hair and sad brown eyes, was Joan Campbell.

  ‘But there’s another lassie in there now,’ Audrey Logan told Lynette, in a pleasant Highland voice. ‘You’re the last.’

  ‘I see.’ Lynette dropped her voice. ‘What’s the manager like, then?’

  ‘Oh, lovely!’ Audrey cried. ‘Isn’t he, Miss Campbell? Oh, an absolute dreamboat!’

  Joan Campbell shrugged. ‘Very good looking,’ she admitted. ‘Bit cold, I thought. Still, I wouldn’t mind the job.’

  The door opened and a slim, anxious-looking young woman came in, followed by Mrs Atkinson.

  ‘Miss Forester?’ She gestured towards the door. ‘This way, please. Mr Allan will see you now.’

  Fifteen

  Dreamboat? This man? As he rose from his desk at her entrance Lynette didn’t think so. Tall, dark and handsome, maybe, but too strong in features, too severe in manner, to have anything to do with dreams. See how the brief smile he’d managed didn’t meet his gold-flecked brown eyes, and how his jaw was so firmly set, he looked as though he spent his life getting the better of people.

  Oh, but this wasn’t the way to begin an interview, was it? Quick, she told herself, give him the benefit of the doubt. Who cared if he wasn’t a dreamboat? As long as she could convince him to give her the job.

  ‘Miss Forester, Mr Allan,’ announced Mrs Atkinson.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mr Allan replied, and as his assistant withdrew, he invited Lynette to take a seat in a voice that sounded more English than Scottish, and certainly wasn’t Highland.

  ‘How do you do, Miss Forester? I’m Ronan Allan, the hotel manager. Sorry if we are a little late in seeing you.’

  ‘That’s quite all right, Mr Allan.’

  While the manager returned to his desk, Lynette arranged herself as gracefully as possible on the chair he’d indicated. Somehow she still had the feeling that she was off to a bad start with this man in his dark, three-piece suit, white shirt and blue silk tie, who had a signet ring on the little finger of his right hand and an expensive looking wristwatch showing beneath his cuff. But why should she already be at a disadvantage? She had hardly said a word.

  Looking down at her application, he was silent for a moment. Then he raised his unusual eyes to look at her.

  ‘I see you say you have come up from Edinburgh to live at the hostel in Conair, Miss Forester?’

  His tone was cold, almost disapproving.

  ‘That’s correct. As I explained, my father’s the new warden. He’s a widower and my sister and I – we thought we’d like to come up with him.’

  ‘A bit of a contrast for you, from the city?’

  Lynette allowed herself a smile. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘But you think it will work out?’

  ‘Yes, we do. My sister’s going to be assistant warden, and I’m in the process of finding a job.’

  ‘Not so easy in this part of the world.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Though you have secretarial qualifications, which are always useful.’

  ‘I am an experienced shorthand typist.’

  Mr Allan looked down again at Lynette’s application.

  ‘But your experience has been with a legal firm. You’d need to be in Inverness to find something similar.’

  ‘I wanted a change anyway.’

  ‘A change.’ He raised his dark brows. ‘To come here as senior receptionist would certainly provide that, Miss Forester. I think you’d find the work very different.’

  Lynette nodded. ‘I’d be prepared, Mr Allan.’

  ‘You’d be working longer and unsocial hours, alternating with an assistant in the evenings, for instance – how would you feel about that?’

  ‘As I say, I’d be prepared.’

  ‘And then you’d be providing customer service to all sorts of guests who all expect miracles. Taking charge of the reception desk, using your own initiative when problems crop up, as they always do. And, of course, supervising your assistant. Think you could cope?’

  ‘Definitely. I’d enjoy it.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘I like meeting different kinds of people, I like making decisions and I’m sure I could manage an assistant.’ Lynette gave a confident smile. ‘And I even like providing miracles.’

  Mr Allan sat back in his chair, clas
ping his hands together. He did not return her smile, and for what seemed an interminable time, there was silence in his large, pleasant office except for the sound of the wind outside. Finally, he rose again and extended his hand.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Forester. As you’ll understand, it won’t be possible for me to make a decision on the appointment today, but I’ll be in touch by post as soon as possible.’

  ‘That’s fine, Mr Allan. Thank you.’

  ‘Now, if you’d care to join the other young ladies, I’d like to offer you all lunch. Mrs Atkinson will take you along.’ Looking down at her from his exceptional height, he gave another brief smile and opened the door.

  ‘Goodbye, Miss Forester.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Allan.’

  ‘Wherever have you been?’ asked Frank, as Lynette finally came from the bus into his office. ‘We thought you’d be back about two and now it’s half past four.’

  ‘We were beginning to get worried,’ said Monnie. ‘I mean, did you get anything to eat?’

  ‘Yes, we were given a very nice lunch at the hotel.’ Lynette dropped into a chair, throwing her bag to the floor. ‘That was about the best part of the day, to be honest.’

  ‘Oh, help – so, it didn’t go well?’

  Monnie, gazing with sympathy at her usually bubbly sister, was thinking Lynette hadn’t looked so low since the evening of their arrival, when she’d looked out at the darkness over the Sound and had thought she wouldn’t want to stay.

  ‘We don’t know yet who’s been successful, but we think it went well for one.’ Lynette gave a wry smile. ‘That means it didn’t go well for three, as there were four of us shortlisted.’

  ‘And one of the three was you?’ Frank shook his head. ‘You can’t know that, Lynette. People can never judge their own performances.’

  ‘I’d like to think you were right, Dad. All I can say is that one girl was nearly in tears, and another said she’d given up soon as she went into the interview – she could tell the manager just wasn’t interested.’

  ‘And he wasn’t he interested in you, either?’

  ‘What he had against me seemed to be the hostel, I don’t know why. When he mentioned my address, you should have seen his expression!’