“No,” said the Highland maiden patiently. “Only one person has the key! You see,” she went on with mad logic, “if anything goes missing, we’ve only the one person to blame.”
Alison’s lips trembled. “I want my keys.”
“I’ll see if the sergeant can do anything.” The girl stubbed out her cigarette and disappeared. After a few moments, the sergeant came back with her. Again Alison told her story and again heard the tale of the one person with the key.
“But I live in Lochdubh. I must get home.” Alison was becoming terrified. What if Maggie should phone or, even worse, turn up in person?
“Now, now, we’ll do our best.” He called into the back of the police station and another policeman, seemingly of more senior rank, appeared.
“Och, I think we can help you,” he said, and then as Alison watched, he took off his tunic and rolled up his sleeves. The sergeant produced a wire coat hanger which he proceeded to unravel, and then both policemen began to fish down the letter box, rather like schoolboys fishing down a drain and with as many chuckles, and “a wee but mair tae yer right, Frank,” and other jolly words of encouragement.
After half an hour – the Highland police force has endless patience – the door to the police station opened and a young man rushed in. He had hair
Control yourself, said Alison’s inner voice. It’s not the end of the world. It’s only car keys. This poor man looks as if he’s here to report a murder. Aloud, she said to the young man. “Ring the bell on the wall.”
He did and the sergeant turned reluctantly from the letter box. “What do you want?”
“Can I use your toilet?” asked the young man.
“Sure. Through there.”
“This is madness!” howled Alison. “Look, give me the address of whoever has the key and I will take a taxi there and pick it up.”
“It’s twenty miles out on the Black Isle.”
“I don’t care,” said Alison, tears of frustration standing out in her eyes.
“Och, you English are always that impatient,” said the sergeant with a grin. “But we’ve got things in hand. We’ve sent out for a magnet.”
The girl of the reception and the cigarettes had returned. “A magnet!” said Alison. The girl avoided her eyes and pretended to read some papers.
Another half-hour passed by while night fell outside and Alison tried not to scream at the forces of law and order and then suddenly a cheer went up. “Got ‘em!”
“There you are,” said the sergeant. “There was nothing for you to get upset about, now was there?”
But ungrateful Alison simply snatched the keys out of his hand and ran out without a word of thanks.
Her face tense under the glare of the sodium street lights, she walked back through the deserted streets to the car park. Dingwall, like most Highland towns, had closed down for the night. No one will believe this, she thought, it’s cloud cuckoo land.
She got into the car, switched on the lights, and began the long drive home. Night driving was misery to Alison. Approaching headlamps seemed to draw her like a moth and she kept having to twitch the wheel nervously to make sure she kept to the correct side of the road. By the time she finally parked in Lochdubh and got out of the car, her legs were trembling and she was afraid she would fall.
She rang the police station bell but Hamish had seen her coming and was lying down behind his living room sofa, waiting for her to go away.
Sadly, Alison went home. It had been a nightmare. Driving was a nightmare. She would never get back behind the wheel again.
But no sooner had she managed to park the car neatly in the garage than she found herself already restless for a new day, a day that would contain her two favourite obsessions – driving and Hamish Macbeth.
¦
Priscilla climbed aboard the Highland Chieftain, the train which was to take her from Inverness to London. Outside the snow had begun to fall and inside, the air conditioning was blasting away. She had complained before about the freezing temperature on British Rail trains and so knew she had no chance of getting any heat. She wondered savagely if the anti-pollution campaigners had thought of doing anything about British Rail. The employees, reflected Priscilla, were so bloody rude that most people preferred to drive and pollute the air rather than go by train. It was rather like entering a Kafkaesque state where ordinary laws, rules, and courtesies did not apply. The motto of British Rail should be “Sod the Public,” thought Priscilla, standing up to get down a travelling case and find an extra sweater.
She sat down again and looked out of the window and there, strolling along the platform, came Hamish Macbeth. She waved to him and he climbed aboard the train and handed her a travelling rug. “Thought you might be cold,” he said.
“Oh, Hamish, how sweet of you!” Priscilla put the rug over her knees. “Did you come all this way just to see me off?”
“Och, no, I haff the police business in Inverness.”
“And what police business do you have that the Inverness police cannot cope with?”
“It’s a secret,” said Hamish stiffly. “Have a good trip and I will be seeing you in the summer.”
He turned about and marched off the train.
I’ve offended him, thought Priscilla miserably, of course he wouldn’t come just to see me off but even if he did, I shouldn’t have said so. Then she noticed the travelling rug was thickly covered in dog hairs and it also smelt of dog. Poor Towser. Priscilla stroked the blanket. I hope he doesn’t miss his rug too much.
Hamish walked angrily out of the station. What on earth had made him drive all the way to Inverness just to say goodbye to Priscilla? The fact was, he suddenly thought, stopping dead in his tracks and oblivious to curious stares, he missed being in love with her. He had only been hoping to stir up a few embers. And imagine giving away poor old Towser’s favourite rug.
“Better buy the smelly mongrel a new one,” he said aloud, “or he’ll be mad at me for weeks.”
He looked down and found a small middle-aged woman looking up at him curiously.
“Can I help you, madam?” he demanded, awfully.
The woman sniffed and then said, “I’m thinking ye could do wi’ a bit o’ help yersel’, laddie, staunin’ there mumbling.”
Hamish walked on, pink with irritation.
Damn all women!
? Death of a Hussy ?
4
I’d be a butterfly, living like a rover,
Dying when fair things are fading away.
—T. H. BAYLY
Spring comes late to the Highlands, turning Sutherland into a blue and misty landscape; light blue rain-washed skies, far away mountains of a darker blue, cobalt blue sea.
And always through the glory of the awakening world drove Alison Kerr, propelled by her obsession with the car. She kept away from Hamish Macbeth, being of the timid nature which prefers love long distance. It was all too easy to understand he was not interested in her when she was with him; but easy to dream that he really was in love with her after all when he was absent.
So Alison was happier than she had ever been in her life. There was the magnificent stark beauty of Sutherland, the car, the cosy, practical mothering of Mrs. Todd, the car, Hamish Macbeth, the car, no Maggie, and the car, which she had come to regard as her own.
She privately called the car “Rover,” imagining it to be like a faithful and affectionate dog.
And then as spring gave way to early summer and great splashes of bell heather coloured the mountains and the nights were long and light, those northern nights where it hardly ever gets really dark, back into this paradise
