policeman was this? In Peter’s mind, policemen should always be on duty and always be in uniform. Hamish was wearing a tartan shirt, an old pair of cavalry twill trousers, and had thrust his bare feet into carpet slippers. His red hair was tousled and his eyelashes were ridiculously long.
“That sort of advice,” said Peter, “is very easy to dole out, but very hard to take.”
“But the lassie’s in such misery, anything else would be better,” said Hamish patiently. “What would you suggest?”
“I would suggest, Officer, that you have a word with Mrs. Baird and tell her to be nicer to Alison.”
“For heffen’s sake.” Hamish stifled a yawn. “If Mrs. Baird wants to play the wicked stepmother and Alison here is hellbent on playing Cinderella, I can’t do anything about it.”
“Come along, Alison,” said Peter Jenkins sternly. “There’s no point in your staying here. If you ask me, it’s all a great waste of time.”
“I couldnae agree wi’ you more,” said Hamish sweetly. His hazel eyes mocked Peter. “Och, if you ask me, this lassie’s got nothing to complain about. You’ve got to pull yourself together, Alison, you’ve become a right wee moaning Minnie.”
Shocked and hurt, Alison stumbled to her feet. Peter put an arm about her shoulders.
“You despicable pillock,” he raged at Hamish. “Don’t you see she’s had more than enough to bear?”
“Aw, go and boil your heid,” said Hamish with lazy insolence.
Peter almost dragged Alison from the police station. As he slammed the door behind them, Hamish leapt from his chair and stood with his ear pressed against the kitchen door. “In future, Alison,” he heard Peter say firmly, “you’d be better off coming to me for help.”
Hamish grinned. Well, let’s hope that got Sir Galahad up on his high horse, he said to himself, nothing like a bit o’ knight errantry to stiffen the weakest spine.
Perhaps because of Hamish’s remarks, Alison tried again on the following morning to get Maggie’s permission to use the car, and the resultant row sounded around the house. If Alison wanted a car that much, she could damn well buy one, said Maggie, ending up by calling her “a useless drip.”
Alison was shuffling about the garden later that day, kicking the weeds, when Crispin Witherington approached. “Couldn’t help hearing the row,” he said.
He was dressed in what he fondly imagined suitable gear for the Highlands – lovat green cord breeches with green socks and brogues, tweed jacket, checked shirt, and a paisley cravat held in place by a large gold horseshoe. He had a rasping, rather hectoring voice, but Alison wanted sympathy.
“I hate Maggie,” she muttered.
“Oh, it’s just her fun. I’ll bet she’s fond of you. Tell you what, I’ll let you drive my roller.”
“I’m only used to the small car,” said Alison, looking longingly to where Crispin’s white Rolls Royce was parked.
“Oh, come on, have a go.”
“All right,” said Alison, suddenly feeling like no end of a femme fatale. Peter had shown an interest in her and now here was Crispin.
“Better drive it out onto the road for you,” said Crispin. “I’ll look up the map first and pick a place to go.”
“I know practically all the places ‘round here,” said Ali-son, but Crispin crackled open an ordinance survey map as if she had not spoken.
“Ah, let’s try this place, Fern Bay, sounds pretty.”
“I know the road there,” said Alison eagerly.
“Now, then, girlie, just you drive and I’ll navigate. Always go by the map, that’s my motto.”
Alison drove off, nervously at first but then slowly gaining confidence. But it was to be her first experience of a backseat driver, or rather, a front-seat one. “Too fast,” he snapped. “Slow down a bit.”
Alison dutifully slowed down to thirty miles per hour.
“We’ll never get anywhere if you’re going to crawl along,” he said after a few minutes. “Turn off next left.”
“But that’s not the road to – ”
“I said, turn off,” he growled.
Alison reduced speed at the turn with a great crash of gears. “No wonder Maggie won’t let you drive,” jeered Crispin.
She slowed the big car to a halt, switched off the engine and carefully put on the handbrake, and turned to him. Enough was enough! “Why did you want me to come out with you?” she demanded in a thin, shaky voice. “I know all the roads around here and I don’t care what your map says, this is a dead end.”
He let out a hearty laugh although his eyes were humourless. “You ladies are always touchy about your driving. So, I’m wrong. There! I apologise. Friends?”
“Yes,” said Alison weakly.
“You see, we could be of great help to each other.”
“I don’t see how…”
“Maggie’s fond of you.” He took out a thin gold cigarette case and extracted a cigarette. “I know she bitches at you like hell but she must like you or she wouldn’t have made out her will in your favour.”
“But that was before you…”
“Before we all turned up? I think she’s playing games. I think she don’t want any of us. She’s changed.”
“When did you…erm…meet her?”
“Ten years ago just after my marriage broke up. She came in to buy a car, a Jag, and I ended up paying for it and when our affair broke up, she sold it and bought that heap of trash she’s driving around at the moment.”
“That was a very good car,” said Alison furiously, “before she started mangling it.”
“Well, have it your way. Anyway, then she was fun. It cost me a bomb but it was a barrel of laughs while it lasted.” He put a pudgy hand on Alison’s knee and squeezed it. “We could get along fine, girlie. Looks to me as if you haven’t had much of a life. I could show you a good time.”
“I would like to go home now,” said Alison, her voice coming out in a squeak.
“Not yet. It’s a fine afternoon. Let’s find this Fern Bay and have a few noggins.”
Alison hadn’t the courage to stand up to him. But he had stopped navigating and criticising her driving. Alison pulled up outside Fern Bay’s one pub, which was more of a shack. It was a dingy bar ornamented with posters warning crofters of the penalties to be incurred if they did not dip their sheep, an announcement of a Girl Guide rally of a few years back, and a notice saying that drink would not be served to minors. A row of small men in cloth caps leaned over the bar.
Alison felt herself beginning to blush. There were still pubs in the Highlands where the presence of a female was frowned on and she felt this was one of them.
A jukebox in the corner was grinding out a seventies pop record, the sort of music which might sound catchy to someone stoned on pot, but to the clearheaded appeared a series of rhythmic thumps overtopped by a harsh voice yelling out unintelligible sounds.
Crispin approached the bar and squeezed his way in between two of the locals. “Hey, mine host,” he cried. “A little service here.”
“Aye, whit dae ye want?” said the barman, wiping his hands on a greasy apron. He was a great hairy man with an untrimmed red beard.
“I’ll have a scotch and water,” said Crispin.
“Aye, and whit aboot yer daughter?”
“I’ll have the same,” said Alison.
“
They sat down at a rickety plastic table by the window with their drinks.
“This is fun,” said Crispin. “I like these quaint old places. It’s amazing when you look about places like this and realise that Britain still does have a peasantry.”
One of the small men turned from the bar and approached their table. He went straight up to Crispin who smiled at him weakly and then before Crispin or Alison could guess what the man was about to do, he whipped off his cap and butted Crispin on the forehead.
