laughing like mad. He said Trixie had gone out just to get some free fish – for the lambs are so desperately poor – and Archie got all spoony and she didn’t know how to handle it. Paul said there’s always some fellow or another who’s spoony about her. So if you hoped to turn me against her, you’ve failed. She’s the best thing that ever happened to Lochdubh, which is more than I can say about a certain lazy gossipping constable.” And quite red in the face with indignation, Mrs Wellington strode off.
“Now what do you make of that?” said Hamish to Towser. Towser snorted. “Exactly,” said Hamish. “Fair makes you sick.”
The Thomases had another battered-looking woman in residence with her brood of noisy children. Hamish wondered whether they got welfare cases to fill the rooms. An unmarried mother with four children would rake in quite a large government benefit. The thin quiet man seemed to be a perpetual lodger. Hamish saw him coming and said, “Good afternoon,” but the man muttered something and shied away.
The next morning, Dr Brodie poked around a bowl of something and said to his wife, “I know you’re interested in the protection of birds but there is no need to serve me their droppings for breakfast.”
“That’s muesli,” said Angela in aggrieved tones. “It’s good for you.”
Dr Brodie looked at her. “I suppose Trixie told you to serve it to me.”
“She showed me how to make it up from oatmeal and raisins and nuts,” said Angela eagerly. “It’s so much cheaper than the packet kind and better for you.”
“That woman turned up in my waiting-room yesterday and put non-smoking stickers all over the walls without asking my permission. I wasn’t going to tell you about it and worry you but enough is enough. I told her to get knotted and so she is writing to the health authorities to complain about me.”
Angela’s loyalty was shaken.
“Doctors shouldn’t really smoke, dear. You can’t really blame her…”
Her voice trailed off before the fury in her husband’s eyes. “Listen to me,” he said. “I’ve put up with your Trixie nonsense because I thought it was a passing fad. But my home has become a sterile hospital ward, the cat’s shut in the shed and the dog’s in a kennel in the garden. My wife has a hairstyle like Harpo Marx and dresses like one of those tiresome women who are always going on marches and demonstrating something. I want steak and chips for dinner and a bottle of wine. Put any more rabbit food in front of me and I will puke all over the table. And I want to see the animals in the house this evening. Mention that woman’s name to me again and I will kill her.”
Mrs Maclean hit her husband on the head with a jug when he entered the house. He reeled back, screaming, “What was that fur?”
Although the residents of Lochdubh had not directly told her about her husband and Trixie, they had told her in that sideways Highland way of communicating nasty information, apocryphal stories about men they had known who had become silly over Englishwomen, and Mrs Maclean, being equally Highland, had been able to transcribe the coded messages.
“You’ve been making up tae that Englishwoman, ye daft wee scunner,” yelled Mrs Maclean.
“She jist wanted a trip out in ma boat,” he said sulkily, rubbing his head.
“And you held her hand, like a daft schoolboy! Listen tae me, Archie Maclean, you go near that wumman again and I’ll strangle her wi’ ma bare hands.”
“You’re haverin’,” said Archie, running out of the door before she could hit him again.
He made straight for the pub where Jimmy Fraser was already propping up the bar.
Jimmy greeted him with a wide smile. “How’s the Cassanova of the Highlands?” he called.
“Shut yer face,” said Archie sulkily. But he joined Jimmy and ordered a pint.
“You’ve jist missed herself’s husband,” said Jimmy. “My, how that big fellow wass laughing about a certain skipper who had made a pass at his wife and how herself did not know what to do about it for fear of hurting the ugly wee skipper’s feelings. Yon Trixie’s been making a fine joke of you all around the village.”
Archie maintained a dignified silence while black murder raged in his heart.
Iain Gunn was a crofter turned farmer. He had bought the rundown old Sutherland farm over the hill from Lochdubh on Loch Coyle in 1975. Over the years, he had ploughed and seeded and worked hard, clearing more fields of old stones and glacier rocks until he had a moderately prosperous farm. His fields lay on almost the one flat piece of land in the surrounding countryside, looking more Lowland Scottish than Highland with their well-cultivated acres and herds of cattle. There was only one still unsightly area on his property. At the far corner of one of his fields was an old ramshackle two-storied ruin. He had rented a bulldozer and meant to flatten it, clear away the rubble, and then plough over the land on which the ruin stood. He was just advancing over the fields in his rented bulldozer when he noticed a small party of women carrying banners, standing in front of the ruin. As he came nearer, he read with amazement, “Protect Our Bats,” and “Gunn Is a Murderer.” He drove up and climbed down. He recognized Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, Angela Brodie, and various other women from the village. The spokeswoman stepped forward. He wondered who she was and then recognized her as Lochdubh’s latest incomer, Trixie Thomas.
“You shall not pass!” cried Trixie. The women behind her started marching up and down singing, “We shall not be moved.”
He scratched his head. “I do not have the nuclear missiles. What is all this about?”
“You have bats,” said Trixie.
“Och, you’re bats yourself,” said Iain.
“No, I mean there are bats in that old ruin and bats are a protected species. You cannot touch it.”
Then Iain saw with relief a white police Land Rover, parking at the edge of the field. “Here’s Hamish,” he said, “He’ll sort you out.”
The women began chanting again as Hamish sauntered up.
“Tell these daft biddies to go away,” said Iain. “They are after saying I cannot bulldoze that ruin because there are bats in it. Haff you ever heard the like?”
“I’m afraid they are right,” said Hamish. “Bats are protected, Iain, and you’ll need to leave that ruin alone.”
“Michty me. You mean a man cannae do whit he likes with his ain property?”
“Not when it comes to bats,” said Hamish.
Iain’s face darkened with anger. “I’ve a good mind to bulldoze this lot o’ harpies.”
“Do you hear him, constable?” cried Trixie. “He is threatening to kill us.”
“I didnae hear a word,” said Hamish crossly. “But you women should be ashamed of yourselves. Yes, you too, Mrs Wellington! Somehow you heard Iain was going to bulldoze this old ruin. Well, why the h – , why on earth didn’t you just write the man a letter? Behaving like silly bairns. You are a right disgrace – all of you.”
“A man as full of land greed as Iain Gunn would not have paid attention to any letter,” said Trixie.
“Now, I did hear that,” said Hamish, “and if you want to sue her, Iain, I will be your witness. Off home with the lot of ye and try to behave like grownups.
Angela flinched. Hamish’s eyes were hard. How silly they all looked, she thought suddenly. Why had she come along? And Trixie had no right to say that about Iain. Crofters never liked farmers but although they occasionally made sour and jealous remarks about Iain Gunn, there was no real animosity in their hearts.
The women trailed off. “I’ll walk,” said Angela to Trixie. She had come in Trixie’s old Ford van.
“Don’t be silly, Angela,” said Trixie, and Angela felt she would weep if anyone ever called her silly again. “You know how much I rely on you. We had to make a stand. Gunn wouldn’t have paid any heed to a letter. Besides, I’ve got the minutes of the last Anti-Smoking League meeting to type out and I’m hopeless at it. Don’t be cross with me. I do rely on you, Angela.” Trixie’s eyes seemed very large and almost hypnotic. “Everyone’s remarked on how much you’ve changed lately. Why, even Mrs Wellington was saying only the other day that you were looking younger and prettier than you had done in ages.”
Angela melted. Her husband had never once in their marriage commented on her appearance until that remark about her looking like Harpo Marx. Sensitive and insecure, never able to think much of herself, Angela was an easy prey for the dominant Trixie.
With a weak smile, she got in the van beside Trixie.
Iain Gunn watched them go. “Environmentalists should be poisoned like rats,” he said.
Angela Brodie typed out the minutes while Trixie worked in the back garden and Paul sat on the wall in front of the house looking at the loch. She glanced guiltily at the clock, remembering her husband’s demand for steak. The butchers would be closed quite soon. She stacked the minutes in a neat pile and ran out of the kitchen, calling
