by M C Beaton
Morag ran up to her parents’ bedroom and threw open the door. Her parents struggled awake as the small figure of their daughter hurled herself on the bed, hugging them and kissing them and saying, “It’s wonderful! I’ve never been so happy in all my life!”
And Mr. Anderson, who had been prepared to break the news to his daughter that there was no such person as Santa Claus, followed by his usual lecture on the pagan flummery of Christmas, found his eyes filling with tears as he hugged his daughter back and merely said gruffly, “Glad you’re happy.”
• • •
In the police station, Hamish Macbeth put the tape recorder with the sound of sleigh bells and “Santa’s” voice along with the chain of small gilt bells he had borrowed from Angela on the kitchen table. Time to get a few hours’ sleep before the journey to Inverness.
• • •
In the cottage next to the schoolhouse, Maisie Pease had a leisurely bath, and then began to dress with care, first in satin underwear and then in the cherry-red wool dress. She looked thoughtfully at the large sprig of mistletoe hanging over the living room door. She would point at it shyly and he would gather her in his arms. “You’re looking bonnie,” he would say before his lips descended on hers. She gave a happy little sigh and went to look out of the window. Where had all the lights come from? They sparkled the length of the waterfront. The snow was falling gently and she hoped it would not thicken and stop them from going.
She tried to eat breakfast, but excitement had taken her appetite away. How slow the hands of the clock moved. She waited and waited as the sky reluctantly lightened outside. She looked out of the window again. The snow had stopped and a little red winter sun was struggling over the horizon. Ten o’clock in the morning. Three hours to wait. Maisie switched on the television set and prayed for time to speed up.
Angela Brodie opened the door to the Currie sisters. “Happy Christmas!” cried Angela. “Come in and have a glass of sherry.”
The sisters came in and sat down in Angela’s messy kitchen. Nessie handed Angela two small parcels. “For the baby,” she said.
Angela looked at them in amazement. “What baby?”
“Yours. The one you were pushing in the pram.”
Angela blushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I never thought for a moment you would believe me. It was a cloutie dumpling. I’d been using Mrs. Maclean’s washhouse. I’m sorry I’ve put you to expense. Let me pay you.”
“That will not be necessary, not necessary,” said Jessie. “We’ll just put them away. Someone’s always having a baby, a baby.”
“Sherry?”
“No,” said Nessie, “we’re going down to Inverness with Macbeth. He’s taking us in Chisholm’s bus. It’s a concert he’s organised at an old folks home.”
“What a surprising man he is. Can anyone come? We’re not having dinner until this evening.”
“The bus leaves the war memorial at one-thirty.”
“I’ll see if my husband wants to come and maybe join you.”
• • •
Maisie Pease stared at the carnival-painted bus and then walked round it, looking for the police Land Rover. On the other side, she found Hamish with a group of people.
“Maisie!” he cried. “Are we all set?”
“Yes,” she said eagerly.
“Right, I think that’s everyone,” said Hamish. “All on the bus.”
Maisie watched in dismay as the Currie sisters, Dr. Brodie and his wife, Angela, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, Morag and Mrs. Gallagher all climbed aboard. Hamish was at the wheel. There would be no chance for any intimate talk.
Then she brightened up. They would be alone for dinner that evening.
Despite the odd assortment of villagers, there was a festive air on the bus. Angela laughed at the chintz-covered seats. The bus sped out of Lochdubh under a now sunny sky. Snow lay in a gentle blanket everywhere. It was a magic landscape, thought Morag, clutching the stuffed cat on her lap as she sat next to Mrs. Gallagher.
They stopped in Cnothan and picked up Mr. McPhee. Maisie groaned inwardly. How many more?
The Currie sisters were flirting awfully with Mr. McPhee, whose old face was beginning to assume a hunted look.
He moved his seat to the back of the bus. Thwarted, the Currie sisters began to sing carols in high, reedy, churchy voices. Hamish was amused this time to hear Jessie repeating the last line of every lyric and falling behind her sister.
When they were finally silent, Hamish, his eyes twinkling with mischief, called to Mr. Anderson to give them a song. To his surprise he began to sing “The Road to the Isles” in a clear tenor. Morag sparkled when her father finished and was given a round of applause.
At last Hamish drew up outside the old folks home and they all climbed down.
A piano had been set up in the lounge. Residents of the home sat around. Bella and Charlie were already at the piano dressed in striped blazers and straw boaters.
Mrs. Dunwiddy exclaimed, “Is it really you, Alice?”
“One of her good days,” Mrs. Kirk whispered to Hamish.
They all sat down and were served with sweet sherry and slices of Christmas cake. The lights were switched off except for a light over the piano and the glittering lights on the tree.
Bella and Charlie were really good, thought Hamish as they belted out all the old songs, Charlie playing and both singing, their voices still full and strong. Elderly faces beamed, arthritic fingers tapping out the rhythm on the arms of chairs.
Morag sat clutching her father’s hand and thought her heart would burst with happiness. In that moment, she decided that she would be a policewoman when she grew up and be as much like Hamish Macbeth as possible.
Only Maisie felt let down. It was not that Hamish was ignoring her. It was just that he treated her with the same friendliness as the rest of the party. She thought of the large turkey that she had cooked the night before so that it only needed to be heated. Would Hamish think it excessive? There had been a television program on world famine, and then thinking of those sticklike people and the sheer waste of that overlarge bird, Maisie felt guilty.
The concert finished at five and then after more sherry and cake, they all climbed back on the bus.
As Hamish drove out of Inverness on the A-9, it began to snow again, great gusts of white whipping across his vision.
He wondered what on earth he would do with this busload if he got stuck. He called back to Mr. McPhee, “Would you mind if I went straight to Lochdubh? I can put you up for the night.” He remembered Maisie’s dinner and said over his shoulder, “Is that all right with you, Maisie?”
“Oh, sure,” said Maisie, sarcastic with bitter disappointment. “Why not bring everyone?”
Hamish missed the sarcasm in her voice and said warmly, “That’s really good of you.”
“Yes, it is,” said Angela. “I’ll drop off at our place and pick up the turkey and dumpling. Everything’s ready. We’ll have a feast.”
“If we ever get there,” said Hamish.
Morag crept down the bus and clutched her father’s arm. “Daddy, can we go, too?”
He looked down into her wide pleading eyes and bit back the angry refusal. “Well, just this once.”
And it will be just this once, thought Maisie angrily. She thought of the boyfriend down in Inverness that she had jilted. She had been cruel. She would phone him up and make amends.
Hamish was often to wonder afterwards how he had ever managed to drive that bus to Lochdubh or how the old vehicle had managed to plough up and down the hills as the storm increased in force. He let out a slow sigh of relief as they lurched over the humpbacked bridge that led into the village and saw the Christmas lights dancing crazily in the wind.
• • •
It was only after Angela and Dr. Brodie had collected their contributions to the meal that Maisie began to brighten up. As the women helped her in the kitchen and the men laid the table and then went out into the storm to make forays to
collect more chairs, she was surrounded by so many people thanking her that she began to get a warm glow. Her spirits sank a little as Mr. McPhee grabbed her under the mistletoe and gave her a smacking kiss, but lightened again as soon as everyone was seated round the table in front of large plates of turkey and stuffing, chipolatta sausages, steaming gravy and roast potatoes. Bowls of vegetables were passed from hand to hand. Wine was poured, although the Andersons and Morag stuck to cranberry juice.
Hamish rose to his feet. “A toast to Maisie for the best Christmas ever!”
Everyone raised their glasses. “To Maisie!”
When the turkey was finished and the plates cleared, Angela said brightly, “The dumpling’s heating in the oven. I’ll get it if some of you ladies will help me with the plates.”
Hamish watched nervously as the large brown dumpling was carried in and placed reverently in the middle of the table. Angela’s lousy cooking was legendary.
“Would you do the honours, Hamish?” said Angela brightly.
Hamish reluctantly picked up a knife and sank it into the pudding. He cut the first slice and spooned it onto a plate and then filled the other plates. It looked good, but with Angela’s cooking, you never could tell until you’d tasted it.
Custard was poured over the slices. Here goes, thought Hamish. He cautiously took a mouthful. It was delicious! What an odd Christmas, he thought. For once in her life, Angela’s got it right.
Mrs. Gallagher and Mr. McPhee had discovered a mutual interest in birdwatching and were chatting busily. The Currie sisters who had strict Christian beliefs were talking happily about the iniquities of the world to the Andersons. Morag was telling Angela about her Christmas and Maisie was flushed and happy at the success of her dinner party.
• • •
“Who can that be?” demanded Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife.
“Why don’t you answer the phone and find out?” suggested her husband patiently.
Mrs. Wellington picked up the receiver.
“Hullo, Mrs. Wellington, this is Priscilla.”
“Merry Christmas. Where are you?”
“In New York.”
“Would you believe it? The line’s so clear you could be next door. Everything all right?”
“Yes, fine. Look, I’ve been phoning the police station. I’ve been trying to get hold of Hamish to wish him a happy Christmas. Do you know where he is?”
“You could try the schoolteacher’s place. He might be there.”
There was a long silence.
Then Priscilla said, “Have you her number?”
“Wait a minute. I’ll look in my book.”
“Who’s that?” asked the minister.
“It’s Priscilla. She wants to talk to Hamish. I’m getting her the schoolteacher’s number.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have suggested he might be there.”
“Oh, why?”
The minister sighed. “You wouldn’t understand.”
His wife gave him a baffled look and then located the number in her book and picked up the receiver again. “Are you still there? It’s Lochdubh six-o-seven-one.”
• • •
At the schoolhouse the table had been cleared away and a ceilidh had started in the living room, that is, everyone performing something or other. The Currie sisters had taken up positions in front of the fire and were singing in high, shrill voices.
“I’ll get some coffee,” said Maisie.
“I’ll come and help you.”
One last try, thought Maisie. She stopped right under the sprig of mistletoe and smiled up at Hamish invitingly. He put his arms about her and smiled back. Maisie tilted back her head and closed her eyes. At that moment, the phone rang loudly and shrilly.
Hamish released her. “You’d better answer that. I’ll get the coffee.”
Cursing, Maisie picked up the phone.
“Priscilla Halburton-Smythe here,” said a voice as cold as the snow outside. “I wish to speak to Hamish Macbeth.”
“I’ll see if he’s here,” said Maisie haughtily.
“Who is it?” asked Hamish.
“It’s for you.” Maisie went back to join the others.
The phone was in the little cottage hall. Hamish picked it up. “Lochdubh Police,” he said automatically.
“It’s me, Priscilla.”
Hamish sank down on the floor, holding the phone.
“It’s yourself. How’s New York?”
“Oh, you know, very bustling, very energetic as usual. I’m just about to go out to have dinner with friends.”
“Bit late, isn’t it?”
“I’m five hours behind you, remember?”
“So you are. Merry Christmas. How did you know where to find me?”
“Merry Christmas, Hamish. Mr. Johnston told me you were romancing the schoolteacher and so I assumed you’d be there.”
“Why on earth would he say a thing like that? We’re just friends.”
“Just a cosy evening for the two of you?”
“No, there’s a lot of people here. I’m just one of the guests. I’ll tell you what happened.” Hamish told her about the cat and the lights and the visit to the old folks home.
“Sounds like fun,” said Priscilla.
“Will you be back for the New Year?”
“No, I’ll be here for another six months.”
“Now what’ll I do if I get the murder case and havenae my Watson?” teased Hamish.
“I’ll give you my number. You can always phone me. Write it down, and the address.”
“Wait a bit.” Hamish found a notepad on a table in the hall with a pen. “Fire away,” he said.
She gave him the number and address and then said, “There are a lot of cheap fares to the States nowadays, Hamish. You could always hop on a plane.”
“I could always do that,” said Hamish happily, forgetting in that moment all about the state of his bank balance.
“Why aren’t you over at Rogart with the family?”
Hamish told her about the soap powder competition and Priscilla laughed. “It is good to hear you, Hamish, and it would be good to see you again.”
“Aye, well, you never know.”
They wished each other a merry Christmas again and said goodbye.
Maisie looked up as Hamish came into the room. His face looked as if it were lit up from within. “We were just discussing sleeping arrangements,” she said. “It’s too bad a night for Mrs. Gallagher to get back home so Mr. and Mrs. Anderson have kindly offered to put her and Mr. McPhee up for the night.”
“What about Smoky?” asked Morag anxiously.
“Smoky will be fine,” said Mrs. Gallagher. “I’ve left him plenty of food and water.”
So the party broke up. Hamish stood with the others outside the schoolhouse. The snow had stopped and lay white and glistening under the sparkling fairy lights.
Maisie watched them all go and then went indoors to phone the boyfriend she had so cruelly jilted.
• • •
Hamish walked along to the police station. He felt very tired. He took out his key but as he bent to unlock the kitchen door, he heard a faint noise from inside. He went to the police Land Rover and took out a hefty spanner to use as a weapon. Then he softly unlocked the door, threw it open and clicked on the kitchen light. A small dog trotted up to him and started sniffing at his trousers. It had a label attached to its collar. He squatted down by the animal and read the label. “To Hamish from Archie. Merry Christmas.”
Hamish groaned. The fisherman knew there was a spare key to the police station kept in the gutter above the kitchen door. He must have let himself in with the dog while Hamish had been in Inverness. Hamish didn’t want another dog. Once you’ve broken your heart over one dog, you don’t want another. And it was such an odd dog. It was a mongrel, small and rough haired with floppy ears and blue eyes. Hamish could not remember ever having seen a dog with blue eyes. It licked his hand and jumped up to lick his face
.
“Have you eaten?” asked Hamish. The dog wagged the stump of its tail energetically.
“I’d better give ye something.” Hamish poured a bowl of water and then searched in the cupboards. Then he remembered he had a steak out in the freezer. By the time he had defrosted it, cooked it and chopped it up for the dog, he felt exhausted. He got ready for bed and then fell facedown and drifted off into a dream where he was walking along Fifth Avenue in New York with Priscilla on his arm.
