On the morning of the third day, she found that all her colourful dreams were beginning to get as thin as gossamer. This time she drove down in her little Ford Escort, not wanting to waste time walking, suddenly anxious to see him.
Jock was sitting at his easel, talking animatedly to Angela Brodie and Freda Campbell, the schoolteacher. Both were married, thought Effie sourly, and should be with their husbands. Freda was not long married, too, and to that local reporter, Matthew Campbell.
She waited patiently in her car for them to go. Then Jock began to pack up his things. Effie watched in dismay as they all headed for Angela’s cottage.
She sat nervously biting her thumb.
At last, she got out of her car and went to Angela’s cottage. The kitchen door was standing open, and she could hear the sounds of laughter. Squaring her small shoulders, she marched straight into the kitchen. Three startled pairs of eyes turned in her direction.
‘Hello, Jock,’ said Effie, ignoring the other two.
‘Hello. What can I do for you?’
‘I’ve got some paintings and would like your opinion. Can you come up and see them?’
‘I’m just about to get back to work,’ said Jock, getting to his feet. ‘Thanks for the company, ladies.’
Effie followed him, practically running to keep up with his long strides. ‘What about this evening?’ she panted.
‘Oh, all right,’ said Jock. ‘I’ll be up at six. I’m meeting friends for dinner.’
She gave him directions and then asked, ‘What friends?’
‘Run along, Effie. I’ll see you later.’
For the rest of that day, Effie scrubbed and dusted until her cottage was shining. She took a bath in the brown peaty water that always came out of the taps and then dressed in a white wool dress and black velvet jacket. For the first time in her life, she wished she had some make-up. She had never worn any before, claiming it blocked up the pores.
Then she sat by the window. At five minutes past six, she was beginning to despair when she saw his car bumping and lurching over the heathery track that led to her cottage.
She flung open the door and stood beaming a welcome.
Jock ducked his head and followed her in. ‘Now, where are these paintings of yours?’ he said.
‘I thought you might like a glass of whisky first.’
‘I’m pressed for time.’
Effie had laid out a selection of her small framed paintings on the table. ‘Here they are,’ she said.
He picked one up and took it to the window and held it up to the light. ‘I’m surprised you can do anything in here,’ he said. ‘There isn’t enough light.’
The painting was of a thrush sitting on a branch of berries. The red of the berries glowed.
‘This is exquisite,’ said Jock. ‘You’re very good indeed.’
Effie blushed with pleasure.
Jock appeared to have relaxed. He admired painting after painting and then her pieces of pottery. ‘Do you have an agent?’ he asked. ‘These are much too good just to be shown in Patel’s and the gift shop.’
‘No, I don’t have one.’
‘My agent, Betty, will be here soon on holiday. I’ll bring her along, if you like.’
‘Oh, Jock, that would be marvellous.’ She had moved so close to him she was practically leaning against his side.
He felt uneasy. ‘I’ve got to go, but I’ll let you know when Betty arrives.’
Jock made for the door. ‘Where are you having dinner?’ asked Effie.
‘The Tommel Castle Hotel. Bye.’
He walked out to his car. He stopped for a moment and breathed in deep lungfuls of air. Then he got in and drove off.
Jock was not meeting anyone for dinner. But he decided to treat himself to dinner at the hotel.
He entered the dining room. A beautiful blonde approached him and said, ‘Have you come for dinner?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve one table left,’ said the vision. ‘Thank goodness the tourists are back.’
‘You’re a very glamorous maître d’,’ commented Jock.
‘I’m standing in this evening. My parents run this hotel. I’m Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. Our maître d’ is off sick.’
She handed him a large menu and said, ‘Your waiter will be along in a minute. Would you like a drink?’
‘No thanks. I’ll order wine with the meal.’
He watched Priscilla as she walked away. What a figure! And that beautiful bell of golden hair that framed her face! There was a remoteness about her which quickened his senses.
He made his meal last, watching while the other diners gradually finished theirs, hoping all the time for another few words with the beauty.
His back was to the window. At one point, he had an uneasy feeling of being watched. He turned round quickly, but there was no one there.
Priscilla at last came into the dining room and approached him. ‘Would you like anything else?’
‘I would like you to join me for a coffee.’
Priscilla looked amused. ‘I’ve just been hearing about you. You’re Jock Fleming.’ She sat in a chair opposite him.
‘Are you always here?’ asked Jock.
‘I work in London. I came up yesterday on holiday. I usually fill in for any of the missing staff when I’m here. It’s a duty holiday to see my parents, and I find it can get a bit boring if I have nothing to do.’
‘I’d like to take you out one evening,’ said Jock. ‘Just friends,’ he added quickly, suddenly noticing she was wearing an engagement ring. ‘Where is your fiancé?’
‘In London.’
‘So what do you say? What about tomorrow night at that Italian place?’
‘All right,’ said Priscilla with a laugh. ‘What time?’
‘Eight o’clock suit you?’
‘Fine. Now I’d better go and see how they’re getting on clearing up the kitchen.’
Outside, Effie scuttled off from her observation post in the bushes opposite the dining room. Who was that woman? Perhaps she was Jock’s agent. She would need to find out.
Death of a Bore Page 21
