A Highland Christmas

by M C Beaton

  “Oh, well,” said Miss Pease, “he can’t do much to me over dinner.”

  “That’s what you think,” said Mrs. Wellington awfully. “Now about the Sunday school . . .”

  • • •

  Hamish walked along the waterfront and met one of the fishermen, Archie Maclean. The locals said that Archie’s wife boiled all his clothes, and certainly they always looked too tight for his small figure, as if every one had been shrunk and then starched and ironed. The creases in his trousers were like knife blades and his tweed jacket was stretched tightly across his stooped shoulders.

  “Getting ready for Christmas, Archie?” Hamish hailed him.

  “When wass there effer the Christmas in our house?” grumbled Archie.

  “I didn’t think the wife was religious.”

  “No, but herself says she’s having none of those nasty Christmas trees shedding needles in her house, nor any of that nasty tinsel. You ken we’ve the only washhouse left in Lochdubh?”

  Hamish nodded. The washhouse at the back of Archie’s cottage had been used in the old days before washing machines. It contained a huge copper basin set in limestone brick where the clothes were once boiled on wash-day.

  “Well, the neighbors have been dropping by tae use it tae boil up their cloutie dumplings. But dae ye think I’ll get a piece. Naw!”

  Cloutie dumpling, that Scottish Christmas special, is a large pudding made of raisins, sultanas, dates, flour and suet, all boiled in a large cloth or pillowcase. Some families still kept silver sixpences from the old days before decimal coinage to drop into the pudding. Large and brown and steaming and rich, it was placed on the table at Christmas and decorated with a sprig of holly. It was so large it lasted for weeks, slices of it even being served fried with bacon for breakfast.

  “In fact,” said Archie, “the only one what’s offered me a piece is Mrs. Brodie.”

  “Angela? The doctor’s wife?”

  “Herself.”

  “But Angela can’t cook!”

  “I know that fine. But herself says she’s going to try this year. Herself says it’s surely chust like a scientific experiment. You measure out the exact amounts.”

  “It never works with Angela,” said Hamish. “Her cakes are like rocks. Come for a dram, Archie. I’ve been talking to the schoolchildren and it’s thirsty work.”

  They walked into the Lochdubh bar together.

  When they were settled at a corner table with glasses of whisky, Hamish asked, “Do you know any gossip about Mrs. Gallagher?”

  “Her, out the Cnothan road? Why?”

  “I’ve been thinking. We all know her as a sour-faced bitch. But why?”

  “Cos she’s a sour-faced bitch. Postman says she’s got the place like Fort Knox wi’ locks and bolts.”

  “I mean, what soured her? Was she always like that?”

  “I think so. Good sheep. Doesn’t have dogs. She just whistles to the sheep, different whistles and they do what she wants. She had one friend.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know if the woman iss still alive. She bought the croft from her. Mrs. Dunwiddy. She went to live with a daughter in Inverness. Wait a bit. Maybe two years back now, someone says to me that Mrs. Dunwiddy had a stroke and she’s in an old folks home in Inverness. What’s she done?”

  “She done nothing. She thinks someone’s pinched her cat.”

  “Gone wild probably or the fox got it.”

  “That’s what I told her.”

  “So what d’ye want to know about her for?”

  “Curious. That’s all. I think she’s a verra frightened woman.”

  “Listen, Hamish, if I lived up there and never spoke to a body except to do a deal for sheep at the sales at Lairg, I’d get frightened as well.”

  “I think there’s more to it than that. Oh, and if you hear of someone selling Christmas lights, let me know. Cnothan’s had theirs stolen.”

  “There’s a lot o’ Free Presbyterians o’er there.”

  The great essayist Bernard Levin once described the Free Presbyterian as the sort of people who thought that if they did not keep the blankets tight over their feet at night, the pope would nip down the chimney and bite their toes.

  “Maybe,” said Hamish. “But I doubt it. The lights were taken along with a tree out of that shed at the community hall. The padlock was smashed. Any loose elements roaming the countryside?”

  “Haven’t heard. Don’t get them in the winter.”

  “If you hear anything, let me know.”

  • • •

  Hamish returned to the police station to collect the Land Rover and drive to Cnothan.

  He was once more examining the shed when Mr. Sinclair came up to him. “You’re not wearing gloves,” he accused.

  “Why should I?”

  “You’ll be destroying fingerprints.”

  Hamish sighed. He knew Strathbane would not send out a team of forensic experts to help solve the mere theft of a Christmas tree and lights.

  Ignoring Mr. Sinclair, he set out, stooped over the ground, following the trail of pine needles. He went through the gate into the common grazing ground. No more needles. There must have been more than one. He could imagine them getting it over the gate and then lifting it onto their shoulders. He set off up the hill, doubled over, studying the ground. He guessed they would go fast and in a straight line.

  Mr. Sinclair stood watching him until the tall figure had disappeared over the crest of the hill. “That man’s a useless fool,” he said to the frosty air. “It’s a pity Sergeant Macgregor is off ill.” He quite forgot that Sergeant Macgregor would have considered such a trivial theft not worth bothering about. Mr. Sinclair was feeling particularly righteous. He had supplied a new set of lights, which were being put up on the main street at that moment, and he had not charged for them.

  Hamish spent the rest of the day searching over the common grazing ground until he came upon the peat stacks on the other side of the hill. There, in muddy, watery ground, he came across tire tracks. They could have been made by one of the locals, but as he studied them, he saw a little cluster of pine needles and some marks made by, he thought, running shoes. He counted the different footprints. Four sets of them. They’d probably come to thieve peats and then thought they might stroll over towards the village to see if there was anything they could lift. He stood studying the prints, trying to build up a mental picture of the robbers. There had been a lot of petty theft over towards Lairg, tools lifted from garden sheds, things like that. He decided to put a full report into headquarters and ask for a printout of areas of recent petty theft in Sutherland. That way he might find the area they were operating from. Because of the pettiness of the other thefts, not much police work had gone into finding the culprits. They would possibly be unemployed, hard drinkers, the sort who preyed on farmhouses and cottages during agricultural shows when they knew people would be away from home.

  • • •

  As Hamish prepared a meal for himself that evening, he thought about the schoolteacher. It would be pleasant to talk to someone new. He stopped, about to drain the potatoes into the colander. There had been something wrong in that classroom. He had picked up at one point a little atmosphere of fear. Then he shrugged. He would ask Maisie Pease about it.

  • • •

  The following morning, he decided to run down to Inverness and do some last-minute Christmas shopping. The presents he had already bought for his family were waiting at the police station, but he needed to buy a few little presents for his friends in the village. He would phone in regularly to his answering machine just in case anything cropped up.

  It was ten o’clock when he set off and the sun was just struggling up over the horizon. It was one of those unexpectedly mild winter days when a west wind blows in over the Gulf Stream.

  As all the main stores in Inverness are crammed into the centre of the town, he found the main street as full of shoppers as ever. Inverness was always busy. Finally,
when he had accumulated a supply of various presents, he returned to the police Land Rover. He phoned his answering machine but there were no messages. It was then he remembered Mrs. Gallagher’s friend, Mrs. Dunwiddy.

  He went to the central police station and asked if he could use the phone. Hamish had his mobile phone with him, but he wanted to phone around to old folks homes in the area and so he wanted a warm desk, a phone book and a police phone where the cost would not appear on his own phone bill.

  On the sixth try, he landed lucky. Yes, they had a Mrs. Dunwiddy, but she was very frail and rambled most of the time. Nonetheless, he said he would call and see her.

  He found the old folks home out on old Beauly Road. What was it like, he wondered as he parked in the gravelled drive, to end up in one of these places when you were old? He walked inside. There was a lounge to the right where several elderly people sat staring at a television set. The lounge was decorated with glittering colored chains of tinsel. An overdecorated Christmas tree stood beside the television set, dripping with glass balls and tinsel. Somehow, the festive decorations made the television watchers seem older, more frail and forgotten.

  He went to the reception desk, produced his identification and asked for Mrs. Dunwiddy. “She has a few good days still,” said a brisk woman, “but I don’t think this is one of them. She’s in her room. I’ll take you along.”

  “Do any of her family visit her?” asked Hamish as he followed her along a thickly carpeted corridor.

  “She’s got a son and a daughter. They don’t come often. You know how it is. This place is expensive and these days, people feel they’ve done their duty by paying out. Sad. Here we are. Visitor for you, dear.”

  Mrs. Dunwiddy sat in a wheelchair by the window. She was staring out with blank eyes at a bleak winter lawn at the back of the building.

  “I won’t be long,” said Hamish. He pulled up a chair and sat down next to Mrs. Dun-widdy. The woman who had ushered him in said, “There’s a bell on the wall if you need anything, Officer.” Then she left.

  “Mrs. Dunwiddy,” began Hamish. Her old eyes did not flicker.

  “I don’t know if you remember,” said Hamish, “but you sold your croft and house to a Mrs. Gallagher.”

  Silence.

  “I’m worried about Mrs. Gallagher,” said Hamish. “She lives up there by herself, been on herown since she moved in. She’s got the place bolted and barred. What is she frightened of?”

  Silence.

  “I thought you might know something, that she might have said something.”

  She could have been carved out of rock.

  Hamish gave a little sigh. He must ask if there was any pattern to her good days and try again. On the other hand, it was a lot of trouble to go to for a nasty woman. He decided there was nothing he could get out of her that day. He rose to leave.

  “Cat,” she said suddenly.

  Hamish turned. One frail trembling hand had risen and was pointing at the window. He looked out. A black cat was sliding slowly on its belly towards a starling which was tugging at a worm. Hamish banged on the window and the cat fled.

  Hamish sat down again. “Mrs. Gallagher?” he said gently. “Remember her?”

  “Alice,” she said, her voice like dry autumn leaves blowing across a tarmac road.

  “Alice Gallagher?”

  “Bastard.”

  “Who?”

  “Said he beat her. Said she ran away.”

  “Her husband?”

  “Have you washed your face, Johnny? You’re going to be late for school.”

  Hamish tried to get more out of her but her brain had retreated to the past. He quietly left.

  As he crossed the hall, he once more looked in the lounge. There they sat with the television set blaring. What a Christmas!

  He had a sudden idea. He went back to the desk. “Miss—?”

  “Mrs. Kirk,” she said.

  “Well, Mrs. Kirk, is anything ever done to brighten up those folks in the lounge?”

  “They have the television.”

  “I just thought of something. Could I arrange a wee concert for them, for Christmas day?”

  “I don’t see why not. Could you wait and I’ll get our director.”

  After a few moments, Hamish was ushered into an office where a small, bespectacled man was sitting behind a desk.

  He rose and held out his hand. “I am John Wilson. You were saying something to Mrs. Kirk here about a concert?”

  “Aye, just an idea. For Christmas.”

  “What sort of concert?”

  “I know a retired couple, used to be on the halls. They can still play and sing all the old songs. Old people like that.”

  “I’ll need to look into our budget,” he began fussily.

  “No charge.”

  “Well, in that case, it does seem a good idea. In fact, we have other homes like this. If they’re any good, we might employ them to do the rounds.”

  “Oh, they’re good,” said Hamish. “I’ll arrange it for the afternoon of Christmas day.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Officer. May I ask why you are doing this?”

  Hamish smiled. “Because it’s Christmas.”

  • • •

  He then drove to a housing estate at the north of the town, home of Charlie and Bella Underwood.

  Bella answered the door. She was in her seventies, but her hair was dyed a flaming red and she was heavily made up. “Hamish!” she cried. “God, it’s been ages. Come in, darling! Charlie, it’s Hamish!”

  A dapper little man came out to meet them. “What brings you, Hamish?”

  “It should be a friendly call,” said Hamish when they were all seated over a fat teapot in the Underwoods’ kitchen. “But I’m afraid it’s because I’ve got a business proposition for you.”

  “Business?” asked Bella. “We’ve been out of the business for a while.”

  Hamish explained about the old folks home. “You see,” he said, “you know all the old sing-along songs. Can you still perform?”

  “Course we can,” said Bella. “You’re a gem, Hamish.”

  “I’ll be paying you for this myself, but if that Mr. Wilson likes you, you could get more work.”

  “Keep your money, Hamish,” said Charlie. “We’ll do it for nothing.”

  • • •

  Pleased with his outing, Hamish returned to Lochdubh. He would tackle Mrs. Gallagher in the morning. In the meantime, there was his dinner with Maisie to look forward to. He washed and dressed carefully in his one good suit, brushed his flaming red hair until it shone, and then strolled along the waterfront towards the Italian restaurant. Great stars burned in the Sutherland sky overhead and their reflections twinkled in the black sea loch like the missing Christmas decorations.

  He pushed open the door of the restaurant and went in. He was greeted by the waiter, Willie Lamont. Willie, in the heady days when Hamish had been elevated to police sergeant before being demoted again, had been Hamish’s sidekick, but he had married the beautiful daughter of the restaurant owner and left the police force.

  Willie conducted him to a table at the window. “I’m waiting for a lady,” said Hamish. “I’ll order when she arrives.”

  Willie whipped out a bottle of cleaner and began scrubbing at the table. “The table was clean already,” protested Hamish, remembering how Willie, a fanatical cleaner, had scrubbed out the police station instead of paying attention to his duties.

  “It’s a real grand cleaner,” said Willie. “It’s called ‘SCCRUBB.’ I sent away for it.”

  “Willie, Willie, it’s taking the polish off the table.”

  “Oh, michty-me, so it iss. I’ll just get some polish.”

  “No,” said Hamish firmly. “Leave it until we’ve eaten.”

  Willie’s face twisted in anguish. “Just a wee scoosh o’ wax,” he pleaded.

  “Not even one.” Hamish rose to his feet. “Here’s my lady.”

  Maisie Pease joined him. “Th
is is very nice,” she said, looking around.

  She sat down in a chair and then shrank back as Willie darted up to the table and shot a spray of liquid wax from a canister and then began polishing fiercely.

  “Go away, Willie!” shouted Hamish. “And bring the menus.” Muttering, Willie went off.

  “What a strange waiter,” said Maisie.

  “Oh, he’s all right. Just a bit keen on cleaning.”