one point, Josie thought perhaps he wanted to be alone with her and wished Priscilla would leave.
The awkward meal finally finished. Priscilla insisted on paying. Hamish thanked her curtly outside the restaurant and then strode off in the direction of the police station without a backward look.
Back in her room at the manse, common sense finally entered Josie’s brain and she had reluctantly to admit to herself that it was not Priscilla that Hamish had wanted to leave but herself. She dismally remembered Priscilla’s glowing beauty.
She decided to give the job just two more months and then request a transfer back to Strathbane.
The third of the Scottish Quarter Days, Lammas, the first of August, marks the start of autumn and the harvest season. Lammas perhaps had begun as a celebration of the Celtic goddess Lugh, and was absorbed into the church calendar as Loaf Mass Day. Lammas takes its name from the Old English half, meaning “loaf.” The first cut of the harvest was made on Lammas Day in the south, but in Braikie in Sutherland-a county hardly famous for its corn-it was an annual fair day to celebrate the third quarter.
For the first time, Josie was to work with Hamish, policing the fair. “There’s never any trouble,” he said as he drove Josie there in the police Land Rover. “The Gypsies have to be watched. Make sure the coconuts are not glued down and that the rifle sights at the shooting range aren’t bent. It’s a grand day for it.”
There was not a cloud in the sky. It was Josie’s first visit to Braikie, her other trips having, apart from Cnothan, only been to the remote areas. The town was gaily decorated with flags.
A peculiar sight met Josie’s eyes as they cruised along the main street. A man covered in flannel and stuck all over with a thick matting of spiky burrs was making his way along the street.
“That’s the Burryman,” said Hamish.
“What on earth is a Burryman?” asked Josie.
“Some folks say he is carrying off all the town’s shame and guilt, and others say it’s good luck for the fishermen, because all the burrs are supposed to represent fish caught in their nets.”
He drove to a field north of the town where the fair was being held. Hamish strolled around the various booths with Josie, stopping here and there to introduce her to towns-people.
There was all the fun of the fair, from a Ferris wheel and roundabouts to candy floss, hot dogs, and venison burgers.
The Gypsies, having spotted the arrival of Hamish, made sure he had nothing to complain about.
Josie walked along with Hamish in a happy dream as the sun shone down and the air was full of jaunty raucous music and the smells of frying food and sugary candy floss.
“We’re walking along here like an old married couple,” said Josie.
Hamish stopped abruptly. “You’re quite right,” he said. “It’s a waste of manpower. You patrol the left and I’ll patrol the right,” and with that he walked off.
Josie sadly watched him go. Then she saw a fortune-teller’s caravan. She shrugged. May as well get her fortune told.
She entered the caravan. There was a disappointingly ordinary-looking middle-aged woman sitting on a sofa. She had grey permed hair and was wearing a blouse and tweed skirt and sensible brogues.
“Sit down,” she said. “Five pounds, please.”
Feeling very let down, Josie handed over five pounds. Where were the tarot cards, the crystal ball, and the kabbalistic signs?
“Let me see your hands.”
Josie held out her small, plump hands.
“You’ll live long,” said the fortune-teller, “and have two children.”
“My husband? Who’s my husband?” asked Josie eagerly.
“I cannae see one. There’s darkness and danger up ahead. Let go of your dreams and you’ll be fine.”
“Anything else?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“You’re a fraud,” said Josie angrily.
The Gypsy’s light grey eyes flashed with dislike and then suddenly seemed to look through her. “Bang and flames,” she said.
“What?”
“There’s danger up ahead. Look out for bombs.”
“Glad to know the Taliban are going to pay a visit to this dead-alive dump, this arsehole of the British Isles. It might liven things up,” said Josie furiously. She walked down the steps of the caravan and stood blinking in the sunlight.
What a waste of five pounds, thought Josie crossly. Then she saw that the crowds were beginning to move towards the far side of the field, where a decorated platform had been erected. “What’s going on?” she asked a woman.
“It’s the crowning o’ the Lammas queen.”
Josie followed the crowd. It was very hot. She could feel the sun burning down right through her cap. This far north, she thought, there was no pollution to block any of the sun’s rays.
In the distance she could hear the skirl of the pipes. Using her authority, Josie pushed her way to the front. The provost, the Scottish equivalent of the English mayor with his gold chain, was already on the platform surrounded by various town worthies. Hamish was there as well, standing to one side of the platform. She went to join him. A wide gate at the side of the field was being held open.
First came the pipe band, playing “ Scotland the Brave.” Behind came a decorated float with the queen seated on a throne with two handmaidens. The Lammas queen was a true highland beauty with black glossy hair and wide blue eyes fringed with heavy lashes.
The float was decorated with sheaves of corn. “Where did they get the corn?” asked Josie.
“Plastic,” said Hamish.
The queen was helped down from the float, and two men in kilts carried her throne up onto the platform. The pipes fell silent. “What’s her name?” asked Josie.
“That’s Annie Fleming,” said Hamish. “She works as a secretary ower in Strathbane. Her parents are right strict. I’m surprised they let her be queen.”
Annie was wearing a white gown covered with a red robe trimmed in rabbit fur.
She sat down on the throne. To Josie’s surprise, the crown, which was carried to the platform by a nervous little girl bearing it on a red cushion, looked like a real diamond tiara. The gems blazed in the sunlight, sending out prisms of colour.
“Is that real?” Josie asked.
“Aye,” said Hamish. “It once belonged to a Lady Etherington, English she was, and right fond of the Highlands. She lent it out once and her family have got it out o’ the bank every Lammas Day since then.”
“Do the family live in Braikie?”
“No. Lady Etherington’s grandson who owns the tiara lives in London but he’s got a shooting box up outside Crask and he aye comes up for the grouse shooting.”
Gareth Tarry, the provost, made a long boring speech. It was mostly about defending the council’s decision to stop building the seawall on the road to Braikie where, in previous years, the houses had been flooded at high tide.
It was only when an infuriated man from the audience shouted out, “You wouldnae be broke, ye numptie, if ye hadnae pit all your money in an Iceland bank.”
Anyone who had invested their savings in Iceland banks during the credit crunch was currently left in doubt as to whether they would get their money back.
The provost pretended not to hear but decided to get on with the crowning. He raised the
