Lawrence first heard of her in headquarters chatter about some hot new blonde in the town. She was variously described as ‘saucy’, ‘uppity’, ‘needs a right good seein’ to’. She had a flat in the town and not the accent of a lady. Supposedly she was running a frenetic—and doubtless commercial—sex life away from prying eyes at Oban Castle, where low-ranking staff normally lived. She already had a prickly reputation. She had refused the butler, the bursar and a captain of the marines, all highly respectable officers that a snippet like her ought to have been flattered to be served by. Having snubbed them, she had no chance of a career.
Lawrence attended weekly meetings of a committee grandly titled the Cabinet of the Household Inferior (Oban Castle). General Wardian glory trust had overall responsibility for guarding the frontier of the Krossington’s Mull and Morvern Estate, essentially the Island of Mull, the Ardnamurchan Peninsula, the Loch Sunart nature reserve and an area roughly five miles in radius around the town of Oban, a total of just over 600 square miles. The task was to keep surplus flow out and to extract nests of infestation within the frontiers. Inevitably there were customer complaints when General Wardian failed to meet its standards of service. Lawrence was supposed to smooth things out at these liaison meetings. He hated it. He was no bland diplomat and he was never going to be one.
After one such meeting in early April, Lawrence stayed on to have a leisurely apero on a terrace overlooking the castle gardens. Below him was another, more crowded terrace for glory troops of lesser rank—drivers, quartermasters buying stores and so forth. It amused Lawrence to eavesdrop their conversations. Mostly they discussed banalities such as the local football league, horse racing, golf, motor cars owned by the town’s élite, or else gripes about pay and bonuses. Lawrence’s name came up now and again, in ambiguous terms. He was derided for his aloofness. On the other hand, there was grudging acknowledgement he had worked his way up from probationary basic and had commanded a barge. The more savvy had a pretty good idea what that meant, even if it went unspoken.
The desultory chat ceased.
A young woman minced along the path from the castle gates, flat-heeled shoes crunch-crunch-crunching over the gravel. Her gait was not remotely the floating conceit of the society women. She came marching up, stiff-legged, hair jumping at every pace, one arm fixed straight down gripping a leather briefcase, the other metronoming a rigid vivace. Blonde hair shielded her face—all Lawrence could see was a sour, rich-lipped mouth and a prominent chin. He smirked. This must be the hot blonde they were all raving about. Not an ounce of femininity about her. An obvious bitch.
It was time to get back to HQ, or he would be carpeted by Account-Captain Turner for rolling in at 3 pm from a meeting that finished at noon. As he stood up, he paused, listening to one of the sergeants on the terrace below.
“I’ve heard from several people there are moves afoot to give that little bint a bloody good lesson in manners. There are blokes at the castle who want to whistle that little number off to a cottage somewhere quiet… nice and quiet. A little bit of horizontal education for her, if you know what I mean. She’s got fuck-all cover: no family, no friends.”
Lawrence mulled this over on the drive back to Oban HQ. True enough, if someone made enemies, they did not last long. It was all rather a pity. He kept replaying in his mind’s eye the forty seconds or so she had been in view. The lush, full mouth lingered, as did the straight back and the defiant poise of the jaw. Probably she was not really a bitch, so much as contemptuous of the leering, middle-aged oafs on the terrace. She troubled his mind over the next few days. He started to worry about her. One did hear about people in lowly jobs who simply vanished. They were like her, with no family nearby and few, if any, real friends. Most probably they just dropped out of an unhappy situation and went home. It made you wonder, though; suppose the rumour was true? Suppose at this moment, scoundrels were queuing to take their pleasure in her?
A whole week oozed by. Lawrence saw no more of her, except in his imagination, where she minced about with her rigid, sweeping arm and balled fist. What did she look like from the front? She might be moon-faced. She might be skelly-eyed.
Exactly one week later, he was on the terrace overlooking the castle gardens after the routine meeting with the grandiosely-titled cabinet. He had twice been caught day-dreaming by the cabinet chair. Now, he waited, toying with his gin and tonic. He kept jumping up and circling his chair, pausing to stretch his arms and exhale, as if he had a stiff back.
A blonde head appeared through the bushes towards the castle gates. He descended the terrace steps towards her. She came marching on in her stilted, graceless way. Her face was wide and even featured, pleasing, with a bold jaw and fine nose. She blinked at him, as if a waft of dust had made her eyes smart. The sour, downturned mouth twitched up. She seemed to recognise him. He halted at the corner of the path, in full view of the oafs leering at her over their pints. She was now just a few yards away, slowing down, her mouth open a little, revealing a wide
