driven him to Lochdubh in the afternoon, but Hamish felt he could not wait that long.
One car after another slowed at the roundabout and then drove past the solitary figure with the battered suitcase and dog. Many people firmly believed you had to have a death wish to give a lift to a stranger these days.
Hamish looked around. There was a thick stand of bushes behind him. He walked into their shelter, opened his case, took out his policeman’s tunic, and after tugging off his old sweater, put it on. He was already wearing his regulation trousers. He also fished out his peaked hat and knocked it back into shape and put it on his head.
“I told you, you shouldn’t be driving without a licence,” said Mrs. Mary Webb to her husband, Bert, as the tall, thin figure of a policeman stepped out into the road just before the roundabout and held up his hand. Bert Webb slowed to a halt, his heart hammering. “Whatever happens, keep your mouth shut,” he hissed to his wife.
He rolled down the window. “Good day, Officer,” he said with an ingratiating leer. “What can we do for you?”
“I was wondering if you were travelling anywhere near the village of Lochdubh,” said Hamish.
“We are going farther north,” said Bert uneasily. “The nearest we get to Lochdubh is the Ardest crossroads.”
“That would do me just fine,” said Hamish. “I can walk from there easily.”
A look of relief wiped the worry from Bert’s face. “You mean you want a lift?”
“If you would be so kind.”
Relief made Bert hearty. “Jump in the back,” he said.
“Thank you very much,” said Hamish with a sweet smile. “I will just be getting my dog.” And he disappeared back into the bushes beside the road where he had left Towser.
“Dog!” exclaimed Mary Webb. “And us with our new seat covers.” She twisted her head and looked at the back seat which was covered in imitation fur fabric of a leopard skin pattern.
“Shut up!” snapped Bert, uneasy again. “It may be some sort of trick.”
His wife looked at him in alarm but had no time to say anything, for the back door of the car opened and P.C. Macbeth and a wet Towser climbed inside, Hamish pulling his suitcase in after him.
Hamish tried to make conversation but found it very hard going. Mary Webb was thinking furiously, Perhaps it isn’t Bert’s licence, perhaps it’s those library books I never took back. Then there was that restaurant. They forgot to charge Bert for the drinks and he never said a word…
Bert was thinking of the young girl with whom he had enjoyed a brief fling down in Worcester three months ago. He was a shop fitter and travelled around the country. The girl had looked awfully young. What if she was under sixteen?
Hamish finally fell silent. His thoughts turned to Loch-dubh. He was still saddened by the way in which all his friends had taken his banishment without any fuss. He had phoned the hotel the night before and had told Mr. Johnson, the manager, of his imminent return and Johnson had taken it calmly, almost coolly, in fact.
“Here we are, Officer!” said Bert with forced joviality. “The Ardest turning.”
Hamish thanked them and climbed out with suitcase and dog. He touched his cap as the Webbs drove off, the Webbs who were now full of indignant rage at having been forced to give a lift to what had turned out to be nothing more sinister than a scrounging copper.
Towser turned slowly in the direction of Lochdubh, rather like an overstuffed armchair turning around on its castors. He sniffed the air and slowly his tail curved over his back.
A shaft of sunlight struck through the grey clouds, a William Blake shaft of sunlight. All it lacked were the angels. The wind was from the west holding an underlying touch of warmth. Above the shaggy heath of Sutherland soared the mountains, rising up to heaven, away and beyond the antlike machinations of the police force.
Hamish took the rope from around Towser’s neck and the dog surged forward down the road to Lochdubh, stopping every now and then to look back and make sure his master was following.
Hoisting his suitcase up onto his shoulder, Hamish stepped out smartly and the sky above grew brighter and brighter and the wind in the heather sang a welcome home.
¦
“Thank goodness the sun is shining,” said Priscilla. “Are you sure he said he would be here sometime this morning, Mr. Johnson?”
“That’s what he said,” remarked the hotel manager. “Said he couldn’t wait and he would hitch a lift.”
“Maybe he can’t get a lift,” worried Priscilla. “One of us should have gone and collected him.”
“And spoil the surprise? No, better this way. Dougie, the gamekeeper, is posted up on the hill and he’ll wave a flag when he sees him coming.”
Priscilla shook her head doubtfully, having visions of lazy Hamish stretched out asleep in the back seat of some limousine and unable to be spotted by even such an eagle eye as Dougie’s. “Everything’s ready anyway,” she said looking around.
In the centre of the village stood a raised platform that was normally used for school prize-giving day. Already seated on it, furtively sipping something out of a silver flask, was Maggie Baird with the shadow that was Alison beside her. Mrs. Wellington sat on Maggie’s other side with her husband, the minister, and beside them were Priscilla’s mother and father.
Over the street hung a banner saying, “Welcome Home, Hamish,” and the school choir was lined up in front of the platform, ready to burst into song. Beside them stood the small band – one accordionist, one fiddle player, and the schoolteacher, Miss Monson, seated at the battered upright piano which was usually housed in the school hall.
Jessie and Nessie Currie, the village spinsters, were ready with
And then from the hill above the village, Dougie frantically waved his huge St. Andrew’s flag in the air. Maggie Baird walked to the front of the platform, stood before the microphone, and took a speech out of her capacious handbag while Mrs. Wellington obviously bristled with outrage.
The band struck up ‘Westering Home’ and the little schoolchildren sang the words in their clear Highland voices. Ragged cheering broke out from the far end of the village.
Alison craned her head forwards and looked along the village street.
Her first sight of Hamish Macbeth sent all her rosy fantasies crashing into ruins. He was tall and thin and gangling with fiery red hair showing under his peaked cap. He looked half delighted and half embarrassed, and as he drew near the platform he actually blushed.
Hamish was trying very hard not to cry. He was making all sorts of grateful promises. No more laziness. No more lolling about. He would, in future, be hardworking and never, ever would he give the powers that be any excuse to send him away again.
He looked up at the platform and his eyes sharpened. The band and the choir had fallen silent. A large woman, a stranger to him, was giving him a speech of welcome. He studied her curiously, his eyes taking in the too-new tweeds, the heavy face, and the autocratic manner. He was forcibly reminded of a competent actress playing the part of a gentlewoman.
There was something about her that disturbed him and as she came to the end of her speech, she drooped one eyelid at him in a definite wink. In that moment, he had an odd feeling that inside that fat tweed-covered body was a slim beauty who had put on some sort of middle-aged disguise for a joke.
And then he realised he was being asked to make a speech.
He climbed up onto the platform, his eyes resting briefly on Alison Kerr and then turning to Priscilla, who had joined her parents. His face lit up and he gave Priscilla a singularly sweet smile.
He’s not bad, thought Alison, not bad at all. He had, she noticed for the first time, hazel eyes fringed with thick lashes.
“Thank you all,” said Hamish shyly. “You haff made me most welcome. I don’t know quite what to say. Och, just thank you all from the bottom o’ my heart.”
Miss Monson began to play and Nessie and Jessie burst into their well-known rendering of ‘My Heart And I.’ When they had finished, Priscilla jumped to her feet. “Three cheers for Hamish,” she shouted. And Hamish blushed as the cheers rang out and felt that awful lump in his throat. He wanted to get away and be by himself, but there was a welcome buffet luncheon laid out in the Lochdubh Hotel and more speeches, and so he forced himself to talk to everyone and try not to feel he did not deserve any of it.
