All the same, as she freed her hand from his and moved towards the door, she was trembling again.
‘I . . . must get on,’ she murmured. ‘Fionola will be wondering what’s happened to me.’
He was with her at the door, opening it for her, looking down at her, letting her see the new softness in his gaze.
‘I’m glad we’ve had this talk, Lynette. Or, at least, that you let me talk. I feel we’ve cleared the air, haven’t we? Now, we can start again. You do want that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. Why not?’
She took a firm grip on herself, returning rather to her old, crisp manner as she left him.
‘I’ll get these letters back to you as soon as possible, Mr Allan.’
‘No hurry, Lynette. And my name is Ronan.’
‘I couldn’t call you that.’
‘When we were alone, you could.’
Alone? Her gaze sliding away, she made no reply but moved swiftly out and he watched her go.
Twenty-Six
Lynette did not in fact return at once to Reception. Whatever was happening there, Fionola would have to cope, for she felt so strange, so at odds with all that was usual, she must have a smoke in the fresh air, or she didn’t know what she’d do. Dumping Mr Allan’s letters in Mrs Atkinson’s little office, she took her cigarettes from her suit pocket and let herself out into the grounds from a glass side door.
Ah, that was better. Inhaling deeply, she gazed at the amazing views, on the one hand across the Sound of Sleat to Skye, on the other over Loch Hourn to Knoydart. Splendid hills, either way, some still peaked with snow, even though this was late April and there was surely a promise of warmer weather soon. But wasn’t it said that in the Highlands it could be any season any time?
Her thoughts were running riot, moving everywhere except to Ronan Allan, though she knew she must face the thought of him some time. Something had happened between him and her that morning, something that couldn’t be put back, and the question would have to be asked – did she want it put back?
‘My name is Ronan,’ he had told her. She could call him that when they were alone. Alone? No, no, she didn’t feel up to thinking of that, being alone with him, calling him Ronan. No, no, look at the clouds, she told herself, look at the hills . . .
‘Ha, ha, caught you!’ a familiar voice whispered in her ear and she spun round to find Scott Crosbie smiling down at her, his ginger hair blowing in the wind, a cigarette at his lip. ‘Hi, Lynette. You’re doing just what I’m doing, eh? Having a secret smoke? Why didn’t you come to the kitchen for a coffee?’
‘Oh, Scott, you made me jump!’ She raised a smile for him and pushed back her own blowing hair. ‘I’m really supposed to be doing some typing – just dashed out to clear my head.’
‘Clear your head with a cigarette?’ He laughed. ‘Suppose we should really be giving them up, but, hell, I don’t smoke much and I lead a stressful life, don’t I? I need a ciggie.’
‘Do you?’ she asked, as they walked a little way across the lawns. ‘Do you lead a stressful life?’
‘Sure I do. All chefs do. Goes with the job.’ His eyes on her face were suddenly sharp. ‘But you look a bit stressed yourself at the moment. What’s up? The boss been at you again? Or, have you been at him?’
‘You know how we are.’ Her smile was bright. ‘But, it’s funny, I sort of feel sorry for him now.’
‘Oh?’ Scott looked at the cigarette between his fingers, his mouth tightening. ‘First time you’ve said that.’
‘Well, it must have been hard for him, having to leave his home. I mean, when you’ve had something you love and it’s taken away, it can be hard.’
‘That what he told you?’
Almost word for word, she thought, but said nothing.
‘Trust him,’ Scott muttered. ‘Pulling the old heart strings. Did you ask if he played the violin? The truth is, there are a stack of folk in Scottish tenements who’d give their eye teeth for his life, eh? He’s got nothing to complain about. When did he ever have to worry about the rent, or what the bairns were having to eat?’
‘His father did go bankrupt, you know.’
‘Aye, but I bet he didn’t end up on the dole. Look, let’s talk of something else. When are you coming for another cookery session?’
‘Oh, soon, Scott, soon. I really enjoy helping with your fancy dishes.’
It was true. The snatched times she had spent with the cooks in her lunch hour had proved completely satisfying to her, though she had no hopes that she would ever be able to make their soups and soufflés, elaborate meat and fish dishes, gateaux and desserts.
‘It’s kind of all of you to let me help – I do appreciate it. Just hope I’m not too much in the way.’
‘Look, you’re not getting in anyone’s way. We’re the ones should thank you, when you’re acting as unpaid kitchen maid.’
Scott tossed his cigarette end into the grass and gave Lynette a rueful smile.
‘Feel guilty, in fact, that I haven’t given you proper lessons yet. Maybe you could get an afternoon free some time? I have a lull about then.’
‘I’ll try. I could maybe work a split shift with Fionola. Though I might have to clear that with Mrs Atkinson first.’
‘As long as it’s not with you know who,’ Scott said with a grin.
But when they re-entered the hotel, it was to see the tall figure of Ronan Allan walking down the staff corridor towards them, and Lynette’s heart leaped in dismay.
‘Ah, Miss Forester.’ The manager’s eyes were flickering between her and Scott. ‘Do you have those letters for me to sign?’
‘Not yet, Mr Allan. I was just taking a break, but I’ll get on with them right away.’
He nodded. ‘Thank you. And you, Scott, everything all right with the guests’ lunch?’
‘Certainly, Mr Allan.’ Scott’s tone was cheeky. ‘Isn’t it always?’
‘I was just observing that you were away from the kitchens.’
‘Having a wee break, like Miss Forester here. If that’s OK with you?’
Flushing darkly, Mr Allan made no reply but walked away, his head held high, and Lynette, turning to Scott, touched his arm. ‘I hope you haven’t upset him, Scott.’
His brown eyes puzzled, he stared. ‘You’ve changed your tune, haven’t you? I thought you liked having a go at His Nibs?’
She laughed uneasily. ‘Maybe I’m a reformed character.’
‘Is he, though? Look, I’d better get back to work. Don’t forget what I said about finding afternoon time.’
‘I won’t.’
She hurried away to descend on Mrs Atkinson’s typewriter, rolling in paper and clattering away at Mr Allan’s letters with an incredible turn of speed. When she had finished, she read them through and took them, not to his office, but Reception.
‘Lynette, where on earth have you been?’ Fionola cried, her beautiful eyes stormy. ‘I’ve been rushed off my feet here, answering the phone, booking folks in – I was just about to send out an SOS.’
‘Sorry, I had these letters to type. Would you be a sweetheart and take them in to Mr Allan for me? Then go and have your break.’
‘Thank the Lord for that. I’m dying for my coffee.’
‘Take as long as you like,’ Lynette said grandly. ‘I’ll be here.’
Certainly will, she thought. Facing the manager in his office again was something she just didn’t want to do. But, oh God, there he was some moments later, actually at Reception, gold-flecked eyes fixed on her, dark eyebrows raised.
‘You didn’t need to send Fionola in,’ he said softly. ‘Am I so terrible, you can’t face me?’
‘No, no, it was just that I wanted to stay here, let poor Fionola go for her break.’
‘I see.’ The eyebrows descended. ‘Oh, well, I can breathe again. Listen, Lynette, there’s something I want to tell you – though maybe Mrs Atkinson’s mentioned it already?’
‘Mentioned what?’
‘Ou
r ceilidh evening at the end of April. Thing is, we pride ourselves on being part of the community, and twice a year we hold a little dance that’s open to everyone in the area for a small fee we give to charity. We hire a band, the guests usually join in and everyone has a good time. Have you heard about it?’
‘No, I haven’t, but it sounds a terrific idea.’ Lynette, relaxing, was genuinely interested. ‘A ceilidh – dancing – oh, I can’t wait!’
He studied her, slightly biting his lip. ‘There’s something else I’d like to suggest. I was wondering if, this year, we should ask the young people from the hostel if they’d like to join us. They need only make a small donation. What do you think?’
‘You’re going to ask the hostellers? Why, that would be wonderful! They’d love it. All they get usually is a sing-song! Oh, but are you sure, Ronan?’
Somehow, the name slipped out, but she saw him jump a little and catch his breath, and then he suddenly touched her hand.
‘I’m sure. The guests will be happy to see a cross section of the community, and the hostel is part of the community. I think the young folk should be here.’
‘I don’t know what to say. It’s perfect.’ She laughed. ‘Apart from anything else, my dad can come as well, and he’s pretty good at an eightsome reel. Oh, it’s good of you. I appreciate it. Honestly.’
‘Would you be willing to help Mrs Atkinson, then? You know, organizing it? Sending out invitations, discussing the buffet menus, booking the band, that sort of thing.’
‘Of course I’d be willing! I’d be delighted.’
They stood together, smiling at each other, he suddenly seeming years younger, she her most attractive self, until the hotel doors flew open, the porters came in with luggage, new guests following, and as Lynette slipped smoothly into her routine, Ronan returned to his office. As he sat down at his desk, his lips still curved into a smile, he found himself humming under his breath, and recognized the tune – one used for the eightsome reel.
Twenty-Seven
News of a dance for the locals to be held at the Talisman seemed astonishing to Frank and Monnie, who hadn’t been expecting anything of the sort from such a superior hotel. And any young folk at the hostel were welcome to attend as well?
‘Why, that’s grand, Lynette!’ Frank exclaimed. ‘But I thought you told us your boss didn’t like the hostel? How come we’re all welcome at the ceilidh?’
Lynette hesitated. ‘I suppose he’s finally realized the hostel is part of the community.’
‘Will you be able to go?’ Monnie asked, her grey eyes thoughtful on her sister. ‘Can you leave Reception?’
‘It’s all arranged. The ceilidh won’t start till eight and Mrs Atkinson has kindly said she’d stand in for Fionola and me until nine, when George, the night porter, takes over anyway.’ Lynette smiled. ‘Should be fun, eh? Going dancing again!’
‘I’m curious to see your Mr Allan. You getting on better with him these days?’
‘I don’t know about that.’ Lynette’s expression was cagey. ‘I do sort of understand his feelings, though. Must have been hard for him, leaving Conair House.’
And while her father and her sister gazed at her without comment, she quickly changed the subject from Mr Allan to his chef.
‘I’m really enjoying doing a bit of cooking these days, since I managed to get an hour or two free once a week. Scott – he’s the chef – has been showing me all sorts of things. Know what I helped to make the other day? A bombe glacée!’
‘Fancy,’ said Monnie.
‘And what on earth is that?’ asked Frank.
‘An ice cream dessert made in layers in a special mould. Very tricky! But Scott’s very good. He trained at the North British Hotel, you know in Edinburgh. Concentrates on French and Scottish, but he can do anything.’
‘So, you’ll be changing jobs, will you?’ Frank laughed. ‘Or is it just this chef you’re interested in?’
‘I’m not particularly interested in anyone,’ Lynette retorted.
‘Unlike Monnie here,’ Frank said with a sigh. ‘Seeing Torquil again on Saturday, eh?’
‘Why not?’ asked Monnie.
No one replied.
‘Monnie’s seeing Torquil again this afternoon,’ Frank told Ishbel MacNicol in her shop on Saturday morning. ‘I suppose it’s all right, but I can’t help worrying.’
‘Because of what I told you?’ she asked quickly. ‘I feel rather bad about that, Frank. I shouldn’t have said anything about the MacLeod boys.’
‘No, you were right to let us know their reputation. After all, we’re strangers here. We couldn’t know past history.’
‘I still feel I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘Don’t worry about it. If you’d never said anything at all, I’d still feel uneasy. There’s just something I can’t put my finger on.’ He shook his head, looking down at his shopping list. ‘Och, I’m probably just prejudiced.’
‘Well, what can I get you, anyway? I’ve some lovely ham on the bone in this morning, and pork pies. What about sausages?’
One or two people came in as she was helping him with his list and they had no chance of further conversation until she was totalling up his bill.
‘These for the hostel account, these for me to pay for now, for myself,’ he told her, resting his eyes on her sweet face bent over the counter until she looked up and caught his look, at which he coloured a little. She only smiled and asked if he’d be going to the hotel ceilidh.
‘Is it true that the young folk at the hostel can go this year? Mr Allan must be having a change of heart, then. He has never wasted much love over your hostel, Frank.’
‘I know, but it’s true enough. Anybody who’s staying is invited this year. And yes, I’m certainly going myself. Hope you are, too.’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world!’
‘So, you’ll promise me the eightsome? It’s the only one I know.’
‘Frank, by the time the evening’s over, you’ll know them all,’ she told him happily, and her other customers, turning round to see who Ishbel was laughing with, were not surprised to see that it was Mr Forester from the hostel. These days, it usually was.
Twenty-Eight
When Torquil came to collect her on Saturday afternoon, Monnie was waiting at the gates to the drive, in anorak and jeans again, for the skies were grey and rain was forecast. As soon as she saw him, it came to her that for what had seemed a lifetime she’d been suffering from withdrawal symptoms. Yes, he called with the fish, but those snatched moments were not enough. She really needed to be with him, just him alone, and to know that he felt the same about wanting to be with her. Of that, she couldn’t be sure, but wouldn’t let herself dwell on it. How could you ever be sure what someone else was thinking? All you could do was hope.
‘So lovely to see you,’ she whispered, sliding into the passenger street. ‘Have you missed me? I mean, being with me?’
‘Certainly have.’ He gave her a quick smile as they began to drive away. ‘Sorry about last week. But then you had your trip out with Mr Soutar.’
‘Yes, it was nice. But I’ve already told you about that, when you came with the fish.’
‘And he’s taking you to Kyle?’
‘Just to look at climbing boots.’
‘Well, you take care when you start running up hills round here. They’re not as easy as he might make out. I’ve done enough to know.’
‘I didn’t know you were a climber, Torquil.’
‘Sure, I am. We all grew up climbing and hill walking. If you live in the Highlands, you do.’
‘Why, then you could have taken me hill walking!’
He shrugged. ‘Mr Soutar’s the one with the time. You’re best off with him.’ His eyes slid to her and away. ‘For that.’
She smiled and settled herself into her seat. ‘Where are we going today, then?’
‘Thought we’d just walk a bit. There is woodland off the Glenelg road where we can be on our own.’
His words might have been an answer to her prayer and her heart lifted, as he drove fast away from Conair.
‘Have you heard about the ceilidh at the Talisman?’ she asked after a pause. ‘You’ll be going, won’t you?’
‘Always do.’
‘It’s a regular thing?’
‘Sure. We look forward to it.’
‘Who – who do you dance with?’
‘Everybody!’ He laughed. ‘That’s what you do at that sort of dance. Do not need just one partner.’
‘I see.’ How quickly her spirits could fall . . . She must pull herself together, not droop like a flower out of water the minute Torquil indicated she was not the only person in his life . . .
‘As a matter of fact, I do know about ceilidhs,’ she said quietly. ‘We have them in Edinburgh, as well as ordinary dances.’
‘And you will have been in demand, then. Just as you will be at the hotel. Promise you will dance with me some time?’
‘If you dance with everybody, I’m sure to be included.’
He whistled and shook his blond head. ‘Oh, Monnie, you are sharp today. Am I in disgrace again?’
She shrugged. ‘Where’s this wood you were talking about?’
‘Coming up. We turn here for the road we took to the brochs, then turn again. It’s just what you might call a copse, but pretty in the spring.’
Oh, yes, it was pretty! So many trees in new leaf – birch mainly, but ash and oak, some old, some saplings, with a faint sun coming through their branches as the rain clouds moved on. Best of all, there were no people. When Torquil had parked the van and they walked together, hand in hand, there was no sound but the leaves rustling in the breeze and their footsteps moving through the grass.
‘This is wonderful,’ Monnie said softly. ‘Thank you for bringing me here.’
‘Tis difficult to be alone, even in the Highlands. Just when you think you are the only people in the universe, suddenly, someone appears.’
Anne Douglas Page 13
