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“Well, that’s really good of you, Robbie,” she said. “Only my birthday’s on Monday, not Tuesday and . . .”
She did not finish. Robbie was frowning. “Monday . . .” he began.
“Yes. So we’ll have no difficulty getting in anywhere.”
Robbie was still frowning, and Big Lou realised that he must have something on that evening. She had told him several times that her birthday was on Monday – he had asked her and she had told him. Now it appeared that he had made other arrangements for that night. She sighed, but she was used to this. Big Lou’s birthday had never been anybody else’s priority in the past, and it looked as if that would not change now; she had thought that it might be different with Robbie, but perhaps it was not.
“You’ve got something on?” The resignation showed in her voice. “You can’t change it?”
Robbie, who had called in on Big Lou’s coffee bar to accompany her to her flat on closing time, shifted his weight awkwardly from foot to foot.
“Sorry, Lou,” he said. “Monday is a really important evening for me.” (And for me? thought Lou.) “I’d love to be able to change it, but I’m afraid I can’t.” He paused. “But I don’t want you to spend your birthday by yourself, Lou. So why don’t you come with me? There’s an important meeting. Really important.”
Big Lou rubbed at the gleaming metal surface of the bar. It would be the Jacobites, she thought: Michael, Heather, and Jimmy, and others no doubt, all equally obsessed, all equally poised on the cusp of delusion. She looked at Robbie, who smiled back at her encouragingly. When you take on a man, thought Big Lou, you take him on with all his baggage. So women had to put up with football and golf and drinking in pubs, and all the things that men tended to do. In her case, she had to take on Robbie’s peculiar historical enthusiasm, which, when one came to think of it, was harmless enough. It was not as if they were some sort of guerrilla
movement, dedicated to changing the constitution by force, and prepared to blow people up in the process – these were mild, rather ineffective people (or at least Michael, Heather, and Jimmy were), who hankered after something utterly impossible. And there were plenty of people who harboured unrealistic, unlikely beliefs, who wanted the unattainable in its various forms. There was a saint for them, was there not?
Saint Jude, she thought, patron of lost causes and desperate situations.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll come along. And maybe we could have a late dinner – afterwards. The meeting won’t go on forever, will it?”
Robbie’s relief was evident. “Of course not. And thank you, Lou. Thank you for being . . . so understanding.”
Big Lou smiled. “That’s all right,” she said. “As long as you’re happy, Robbie. That’s the important thing.”
“I am, Lou. I am.”
“But what’s the meeting about?” she asked. “Why is it so important?”
Robbie thought for a moment. “Michael asked for it,” he said. “He’s going to give us the details of the arrival . . .” He broke off, evidently uncertain as to whether or not he should continue.
“Go on,” encouraged Big Lou. “The arrival of . . .”
“Of the emissary,” said Robbie. “As you know, he’s coming very soon. He’s coming, Lou!”
Big Lou raised an eyebrow. “This Pretender fellow they were talking about last time?”
“He’s not a Pretender, Lou.” Robbie’s tone was aggrieved, and Big Lou immediately relented. He believed in this.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“This is serious, Lou,” said Robbie. Now he lowered his voice. “This man is a direct descendant, a direct descendant of Prince Charlie himself. And he’s coming here to make contact with his people again. He’s entrusting us – us, Lou – to look after him. We’re going to meet him at Waverley Station and 304
It’s going to be all over the newspapers, Lou. It’s going to make people think.” He paused. “And I’ve been asked to take him up to the west.”
Robbie waited for a reaction to this, but Lou did not know what to say.
“He wants to follow in the steps of Prince Charlie,” Robbie continued. “So I’m going to take him over to South Uist. Then we’ll cross over to Skye, just as Prince Charlie did.”
Big Lou stared at Robbie. “That means crossing the Minch,”
she said.
“Aye, it does,” said Robbie.
“In a wee boat?”
“I haven’t made arrangements yet,” said Robbie. “I think that the prince was rowed, wasn’t he? Him and Flora MacDonald.”
“And you’re going to row?”
Robbie shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe we’ll have a small outboard motor, something like that.”
Big Lou nodded. “The Minch can get pretty wild,” she said.
“You wouldn’t want to sink. Not with a New Pretender on board.
That wouldn’t look too good, would it?”
Robbie looked at her reproachfully. “I’m serious, Lou. I know that this may not mean much to you, but it means
