“Campari and soda.”
“I’ll have the same.”
“I’ve never seen you drink Campari and soda before,” said Priscilla.
“And never will again,” said Hamish. “But I’ve a feeling that this is the sort of place where they’ll be better able to cope with two of the same kind of drinks.”
“Do you think they come and serve you, or do you have to go to the bar?”
“I think I’ll need to go and get them,” said Hamish.
The bearded barman was demonstrating back casts to a balding gentleman who was wearing a double- breasted blazer with an improbable crest.
He ignored Hamish and continued talking.
“I’m telling you, that was a twenty-pounder at the end of my line, and I knew it,” he was saying.
An unhealthy-looking girl came into the bar behind the counter, fiddled with the till, and went out again.
Hamish sighed. He had come across this sort of situation before. In some mysterious way, various cockney families seemed able to find out when a new hotel was about to open up and they descended on it en masse, offering their services – uncle behind the bar, mother at reception, daughter and auntie in the kitchen. They ruined the trade with bad manners and worse food before flying off, like locusts, to descend on yet another Highland hotel.
Hamish took a step back. Then, with a flying leap, he vaulted the bar and, ignoring the barman’s cries of outrage, proceeded to pour two campari and sodas.
“I’ll call the police,” shrieked the barman.
“I am the police,” said Hamish. “If you do not behave yourself, I shall take time off and check that gantry to make sure all your measures comply with government regulations.”
“No need for that,” said the barman. “I didn’t see you waiting. You only had to ask.”
“And a fat lot of good that would have done me,” said Hamish. “Lift the flap, put these on my bill, and shut up.”
He carried the drinks back to Priscilla.
“I’ve a feeling we should leave,” she said.
“Oh, let’s stick it out,” said Hamish. “Cheers. What’s on the menu?”
“Very little, especially when you consider the enormous size of the thing. I’ll read it out. First course is a choice of Rabbie Burns Broth, Mary, Queen of Scots Sizzling Scallops, and the Laughing Trout’s Pheasant Pate.”
“I’ll try the broth.”
“So will I. Next comes Truite a la Flora Macdonald, Poulet ficossais, and Gaelic Steak. What on earth is a Gaelic Steak?”
“A herring.”
“Seriously.”
“I havenae the faintest idea.”
“The menu,” said Priscilla, “has been approved by The Wee Touch O’ Scotia Society. Never heard of them.”
A pallid-faced waiter drifted up to them. “Are yiz ready?” he said.
“What’s a Gaelic steak?” asked Hamish.
“It’s fillet steak flambeed in whisky.”
Hamish looked across at Priscilla, who nodded. “Well done,” she said. “Mine’ll be the same,” said Hamish, “and we’ll have two broths to start. Where’s the wine list?”
“Back o’ the menu,” said the waiter.
Hamish turned over the menu. All the wines were from a place called the Clachan Winery. “Have you not got any French wine?” asked Hamish.
“No,” said the waiter.
“‘S all Sco’ish.”
“You from Glasgow?”
“Aye, ah’m working in ma holidays. Ah’m at the Polytechnic.”
“Well, here goes. We’ll try a bottle of the fine fruity burgundy of Cromarty.”
“S your funeral,” said the waiter, taking the menus and slouching off.
He poked his head back round the door a moment later to summon them to a dining room that smelled overwhelmingly of new paint. Various diners were sitting about talking about fishing in high, strangulated voices.
A grey mess of soup was put in front of each of them along with two half rolls.
“To take my mind off this,” said Hamish, “how’s Vera Forbes-Grant?”
“She came back just before I left and Mummy was looking after her. She’s awfully proud of Freddy. She even was prepared to see
“Chust so,” said Hamish, bending over his soup.
Priscilla flushed. “It’s not as if Henry’s
“When are you thinking of getting married?”
“I don’t know,” said Priscilla miserably. “I suppose Mummy'll organize all that.”
“Are yiz finished?” asked the waiter at Hamish’s elbow.
“Aye,” sighed Hamish, “you can take mine away.”
“And mine,” said Priscilla.
“Who’s going to be the first to taste the wine?” said Hamish.
“I notice he didn’t have the courage to let you try it first,” said Priscilla. “Let’s both drink at the same time. A toast! No more murder.”
“No more murder,” echoed Hamish, raising his glass.
Priscilla took a sip and wrinkled her nose. “Tastes a bit like turpentine.”
“I hope the steak’s all right. You can’t do much to ruin a fillet steak. I’m surprised you like yours well done as well. I thought everyone ate them rare these days.”
“Not any more.”
The waiter placed two plates of steak and vegetables down in front of them.
“Considering the prices they charge,” said Hamish, “you’ would think they’d put the vegetables on separate dishes.”
Priscilla sank her knife into her steak. Blood gushed out on to the plate.
“Here, laddie!” called Hamish. The waiter slouched up.
“We said well done,” protested Hamish. “These are raw.”
“Aye, weel, that’s the way a Gaelic steak’s cooked.”
“And what way is that supposed to be?”
The waiter drew himself up to his full height of five feet four inches, puffed out his chest, and declaimed, “It is put in the pan and the whisky is poured over it and then it is flambeed.”
“But it’s supposed to be cooked a bit before you set it on fire,” complained Hamish. “Take it away and cook it properly.”
“But you ordered a Gaelic steak and that’s what you got,” said the waiter.
“There is no such thing as a Gaelic steak,” said Hamish, exasperated. “It is a figment o’ your overheated brain.”
Hamish picked up both plates and stalked off to the kitchen.
“Won’t do him any good,” said the waiter gloomily.
The barman, the cook, the receptionist, the bookkeeper, and a maid were all sitting round a table in the kitchen eating fish and chips. They all shared a startling family likeness.
Hamish took one look at their pinched cockney faces and headed for the stove. “Don’t ask me what I’m doing,” he said, over his shoulder, “for if I hear one more word about Gaelic steaks, I might forget myself and tell ye what to do with them.”
