Hydro Electric board was burying whole villages under man-made lakes, your sort never breathed a word. Now that it iss politically fashionable to bleat about the environment, it’s hard for folks like me to believe you give a damn.”
Heather did not listen to him. He was to learn that once launched, you could say what you liked, she never heard a word. Irritated, he rose and pushed past her and sat on the other side of the room.
He was joined by John Wetherby. “I could kill that woman,” said John. “Pontificates from morning till night.”
“Well, maybe her husband will do the job for you.” Hamish looked longingly at the tea he had been forced to abandon.
“Him! That wimp. Have you seen him pass a mirror? He stops dead-still and gazes longingly at himself like a man looking at a lover.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” said Hamish. “What brought you here?”
“I am Jane’s ex-husband.”
“Aye, just so, but what brought you?”
“Oh, I get you. I couldn’t believe she’d made such a go of things. When we were married, she was always full of harebrained schemes to make money. That’s how I got her to agree to a divorce. I said I would put up the money for this place if she agreed. I thought she would be back after a year, asking me to bail her out, but not a bit of it.”
“And weren’t you embarrassed about seeing her again…after the divorce, I mean?”
He gave a cackle of laughter. “You don’t know Jane. Have you heard her psycho-babble yet? There’s not one idea in that head of hers that doesn’t come straight out of a woman’s magazine. An article on ‘How to Be Friends With Your Ex’ was one she enjoyed a lot. Are you the latest amour? She occasionally liked a bit of the rough stuff.”
Hamish was too amazed to feel insulted at this bit of blatant snobbery. “Did she have affairs when you were married?”
“Yes, she said we had become sexually stagnant and went out to experiment.” His voice grew reflective. “It was that hairy truck-driver I couldn’t take.”
Hamish gave John Wetherby a prim look of startled disapproval and rose and moved away. The Carpenters, surely, would be safe company. Sheila was reading a book and Ian was sipping a large whisky and smiling vaguely at nothing.
He sat down next to Ian. “Topping place,” said Ian, looking around.
“I hear you’re a farmer,” said Hamish. “Funny, I wouldn’t have thought farmers would go to health farms. Although, come to think of it, maybe that’s not true. I just had a vague idea that perhaps health fanatics went in for it.”
Ian patted his round stomach complacently. “Sheila keeps up with all the fads. We each lost five pounds when we were here in the summer. Of course, we put it all back on again the week we got home. Didn’t we, sweetie?”
“Mmm?” Sheila was buried in a book with a pink cover called Love’s Abiding Passion. Her lips were moving slightly and she was breathing heavily through her nose.
And then Heather was before them. “What are you reading, Sheila?” she demanded. Sheila gave a little sigh and held up the book so that Heather could read the tide.
“My dear, dear Sheila,” said Heather, shaking her head. “Surely you can find something better than that pap?”
“It’s a marvellous book,” said Sheila, her fat cheeks turning pink.
Heather suddenly snatched it out of Sheila’s hand and flicked over the pages and then gleefully read aloud.
“There was a tearing sound and the thin silk cascaded at her feet. He thrust his hot body against her naked one and she could feel his aroused masculinity bulging against her thigh.”
I ask you, Sheila, how can you bear to read a book like that?”
Sheila snatched it back and heaved herself out of the sofa and waddled from the room. Her husband stood up and glared at Heather. “It’s better than the works of Marx any day.”
“It would considerably improve your wife’s mind to read Karl Marx.”
“Yah!” said Ian. “What d’you lot think about the fall of Communism in Eastern Europe, hey?”
“That was not real Communism,” said Heather; “Real communism…”
“Stuff it, you old crow,” said the farmer and left the room with the same waddling walk as his wife. Hamish felt like running after him and shaking his hand.
Before Heather could speak to him again, he darted for the door and let himself out into the night. The high wind of earlier in the day had descended to ground level and was tearing and shrieking and moaning along the shore, where seals lay at the edge of the crashing waves, their curious eyes gleaming pink from the neon sign of The Happy Wanderer.
The wind was cold. Hamish wished he had remembered to put on his jacket. Priscilla often called him a moocher. He hugged his thin body against the bite of the wind. He should have stayed where he was in Lochdubh. He could imagine someone saying they would like to strangle Jane, but no one would really think of doing it. There was not enough real about the woman to encourage great love or great hate. And that marriage of hers! When John had been talking about that truck driver, Hamish had felt slightly sick.
His cold would get worse if he stayed outside. He walked back in. Jane was standing talking to Heather. Heather was not hectoring Jane about anything but looking at her with open-mouthed admiration and hanging on every word.
“Is there a telephone?” Hamish asked Jane.
“There’s one in my office you can use. It’s over there,” said Jane, pointing to a door on the right of the lounge.
Hamish walked over to where she had pointed. A ceramic sign on the door said ‘Jane’s Office’ and was decorated by a wreath of painted wild flowers.
The office was strictly functional; large steel desk, steel filing cabinets, two easy chairs for visitors.
Hamish sat behind the desk, picked up the phone and dialled Tommel Castle, now called Tommel Castle Hotel. He recognised the voice of Mary Anderson, a local girl, who operated the hotel switchboard. “Can I speak to Priscilla?” he asked.
“Herself is not back,” said Mary. “She went to Rogart.”
“Is the storm bad?” asked Hamish, trying to blot out pictures of a car upended in a blizzard by the side of the road with a woman and a dog lying beside it.
“Oh, it’s real bad. That’s Hamish, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Has she phoned?”
“No, but they got it worse over there than here, so folks are saying. Maybe the lines are down.”
Hamish thanked her, put down the receiver, then lifted it again and dialled his parents’ home.
His mother answered. “Is Priscilla there?” demanded Hamish, his voice sharp with anxiety.
“Aye, she’s here. But you cannae talk to her, son.”
“Why?”
“The poor lassie’s still fast asleep by the fire. My, Hamish, she used to be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and now she’s nothing but skin and bone. She cannae leave. She’ll need to stay the night. I’ll let her sleep a bit and then give her a good supper and put her to bed.”
“Have you the room?”
“Och, yes, we’ll put a cot bed in the girls’ room. How’s yourself?”
“I’m just fine.”
“Is it a grand place?”
“Well, it’s a health farm, sort of mock-Spanish villa.”
“On Eileencraig! My, my.”
“Dinner,” called Jane, putting her head round the door.
“I’ve got to go, Ma,” said Hamish quickly. “I’d phone tomorrow.”
He said goodbye and sat for a moment looking at the phone. What on earth would the elegant and fastidious
