“Pah!” shouted John and stomped off to his room.
???
Diarmuid Todd sat at the dressing-table and trimmed his fingernails. His wife, Heather, was reading The Oppression of the Working Classes in a Capitalist Society. She read as far as page 2 and then put the book down. “What do you think of our Jane’s latest?”
Diarmuid paused, and then continued working on his nails with all the single-minded fastidiousness of a cat at its toilet. “Who do you mean?” he asked.
“Why, that Highland chap, Hamish something-or-another.”
Her husband put away the scissors in his leather manicure case and then took out an orangewood stick and began to clean his nails. “I don’t think he’s anything other than a Mend, Heather, and I hope you haven’t been going around saying anything else.”
His usually bland Scottish voice had a slight edge to it. “Maybe not,” said Heather. “Jane’s a very attractive- looking woman but hardly a man-eater. There’s something, well, sexless about her.”
She patted the springy waves of her permanently waved hair with a complacent hand before picking up her book again.
The stick snapped in Diarmuid’s suddenly tensed fingers and he threw his wife a look of pure and unadulterated hatred.
???
Harriet Shaw creamed her face vigorously and then slapped at what she feared might become a double chin one of these days and wished she had not come. The Carpenters were sweet, but Heather was too much to take. Thank goodness for that Hamish fellow. He was charming and quite attractive in a way with his fiery-red hair and hazel eyes. Better stick with him till the holiday was over or she would end up killing Heather. She amused herself before falling asleep by thinking out ways to get rid of Heather and then how to dispose of the body, until, with a smile on her lips, she fell fast asleep.
? Death of a Snob ?
3
Though by whim, envy, or resentment led,
They damn those authors whom they never read.
—CHARLES CHURCHILL
To Hamish’s surprise, breakfast, cooked by Jane, turned out to be an excellent meal, although he missed not having any tea or coffee. It consisted of toast and low-cholesterol margarine, fresh grapefruit, muesli, and a large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.
The breakfast was marred only by the seeming emotions around him. Jane had appeared wearing pink denim shorts with a bib front over a white-and-pink-checked blouse and walking boots in tan leather. She was shortly followed by Heather, wearing exactly the same outfit.
Heather’s face was flushed and angry and Diarmuid looked sulky. They had just had a row. The normally placid Diarmuid had suddenly snapped that if Heather thought Jane sexless, then why did she try to dress like her? It only made her look like a fright. And certainly Heather did look awful, having rolls and bumps of flesh where Jane had none, and fat white hairy legs, Heather believing that to shave one’s legs was merely pandering to masculine sexism. Jane looked at Heather as she entered and something for a moment glittered in the depths of her eyes and then was gone.
Sheila had carried her romance to the breakfast table and was reading it, occasionally darting nasty little looks at Heather, and her husband also darted angry little looks at Heather, so that the round Carpenters looked more like twins than husband and wife.
John Wetherby was glowering at his breakfast. He was wearing a V-necked pullover over a blue shirt and a tightly knotted tie, grey flannels, and walking shoes, his idea of suitable wear for a hiker.
Jane rose and addressed them at the end of the meal. “This will not do,” she said gaily. “There is a nasty atmosphere and we should all be having a lovely, lovely time.” She lifted a box and put it on the table. “I have here a supply of balloons, thread, and pencil and paper. Now, I suggest we each write down our resentments, blow up our balloons, and carry them outside and watch them all float away!”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Jane,” snapped her ex-husband. “Be your age.”
“Don’t be stuffy,” said Heather. “Sounds like fun. Come on, Sheila, get your head out of that trash.” She gave that laugh copied from Jane. “It’s like watching a rather nice little pig with its head in the trough.”
“Watch your mouth, you rotten bitch,” shouted Ian.
“I know what it is,” cried Jane, holding up her hands. “We need some fresh air to blow the cobwebs away. Forget about the balloons. Where’s your Christmas spirit? Get your coats and off we go.”
They all meekly rose to their feet. “I don’t think I can bear this,” said Harriet to Hamish.
He smiled down at her. “I have to go over to the village this morning, and maybe there’s a bar there…”
“I’ll come with you,” said Harriet. “Don’t tell the others. We’ll just join the end of the crocodile and then veer off.”
Jane set out at the head of the group. Her voice floated back to them. “Let’s sing! All together now. ‘One man went to mow…’”
“Come on,” said Hamish to Harriet as the group straggled along the beach behind Jane.
The air was warmer than the day before, but a howling gale was still blowing. Snatches of Jane’s singing reached the ears of Hamish and Harriet as they made their way inland and onto the road that led to the village; The rising sun was low on the horizon, curlews piped dismally from the heather, and seagulls crouched on the ground, occasionally taking off to battle with the gale.
They tried to talk but at last fell silent, for the shrieking wind meant they had to shout. Harriet was wearing a tweed jacket and matching skirt. Her short brown hair streaked with grey was crisp and curly. She walked with an easy stride by Hamish’s side. Hamish was happy. The silence between them was companionable, tinged with a conspiratorial edge prompted by their escape from the others.
They turned a bend in the road and in front of them stood a very battered old Fiat truck, parked in the middle. They made their way around it and stopped short. A small man was sitting at the side of the road in front of the truck, weeping bitterly.
“Hey,” cried Hamish, crouching down beside the forlorn figure. “What’s your trouble?”
“It iss him,” said the man, raising a tear-stained face and jerking a gnarled thumb in the direction of the truck. “He iss out to kill me.”
Hamish got up, and motioning Harriet to stand well back, he went quickly to the truck. There was no one in the cabin and nothing in the back but barrels of lobster.
He loped back and sat down on the road beside the man and said coaxingly, “Now, then, there’s no one there. Who are you talking about?”
“Him!” said the little man passionately, and again that thumb jerked at the truck. “Can’t you see him, sitting there, watching me?”
The truck-driver was probably only in his forties, but hard weather and a hard life made him appear older. Like most of the islanders, he was small in stature. He had a weather-beaten face. Sparse grey hairs clung to his brown scalp.
Harriet bent down and shouted above the tumult of the wind, “But there is not a soul about except for us.”
“Wait a bit.” Hamish held up his hand. “Do you mean the truck is trying to kill you?”
“Aye, the beast! The beast. Wass I not loading the lobsters and did he not back into me and try for to tip me into the sea?”
“And did you not have the brakes on?” said Hamish cynically. “What is your name?”
“Geordie Mason.”
“Well, listen, Geordie, stop your havering. I am Hamish Macbeth, and this is Harriet Shaw. We’re going into Skulag. I’ll hae a look at your truck and drive it for ye.”
Geordie rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. “Wid ye dae that? Himself will no’ mind. It’s jist me he cannae
