Effie stood behind him and studied his work. His colours were magnificent. He had caught the purplish green of the forestry trees on the other side of the loch, and the reflections in the glassy loch had been painted by the hand of a master.
She did not want to interrupt him, but he turned round and smiled at her. “Grand day,” said Jock.
“Oh, please go on. I’m an artist myself, and I hate to be interrupted,” said Effie.
“I don’t mind. I was just about to take a break. What do you do?”
“Small pictures of birds and flowers, and I’m a potter as well.” She held out her hand. “Effie Garrard.”
“I’m Jock Fleming. Wait a bit. I saw some of your pottery at the gift shop up at the hotel. You’re very talented.”
“Thank you. I live up in the hills above the village. Drop in on me any time you like.”
“I’ll do that.”
Jock smiled at her again.
Effie gazed up at him in a dazed way. “Come now,” she said.
“Can’t. I promised the policeman I’d drop in for a dram.”
“I know Hamish. I’ll come with you.”
“Not this time. It’s man’s talk. But I’ll see you around.”
Effie retreated, cursing herself. She had been too pushy.
But she would act differently the next time. And, oh, there would be a next time. She hardly noticed the walk home. This time she was at her own wedding with Jock at her side. The church bells rang out over Lochdubh, and the villagers threw rose petals. “I loved you that first moment I saw you,” Jock murmured.
¦
“Oh, it’s yourself,” said Hamish, letting Jock into the kitchen. “Where’s your stuff?”
“In my car.”
“You surely didnae drive the few yards from Mrs. Dunne’s?”
“No, but it’s a good place to put my paints when I’m taking a break.”
“Sit down,” said Hamish. “I’ll get the whisky out.”
Jock looked around the kitchen. It was a narrow room with cupboards and fridge along one wall and a wood- burning stove, which was sending out a blast of heat.
“I’m surprised you’ve got the fire on today,” said Jock.
“It’s got a back boiler. I’m heating up water for a shower.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to have an immersion heater?”
“Thae things cost a mint.” Hamish put a bottle of whisky, a jug of water, and two glasses on the table. “Besides, it’ll be a long time afore we see a summer like this again.”
He poured out two measures. “Water?”
“Just a splash.”
Hamish sat down opposite him.
“Where are your animals?” asked Jock.
“Somewhere around,” said Hamish, who had no intention of telling his visitor that the dog and the cat had eaten well and were now stretched out on his bed. The Currie sisters had started telling him he was behaving like an old maid. Even Archie Macleod had commented the other day that it looked as if Hamish was married to his dog and cat.
“How’s the painting going?” asked Hamish.
“It was going fine until I got interrupted by a pushy woman.”
“Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife?”
“No, another artist. Effie Garrard.”
“That quiet wee thing. I’d never have thought of her as being pushy.”
“Oh, maybe I’m being hard on the woman.”
“How pushy?” asked Hamish with his usual insatiable highland curiosity.
“Let me see. She asked me to drop in on her any time. Then she wanted me to go back with her there and then. I said I was coming to see you, and she said she would come as well. I told her it was man talk and got rid of her.”
“Maybe she’s lonelier than I thought,” said Hamish.
Jock laughed. “You underrate my charms.”
“I believe you’re pretty well known. More whisky?”
“Just a little,” said Jock. “My agent’s coming up from Glasgow.”
“I didn’t know artists had agents.”
“Well, we do. She takes her cut and finds me a gallery for an exhibition, and the gallery takes fifty percent. I used to do it myself until she found me and offered her services.”
“How long do you think you’ll stay up here?”
“I don’t know. The light is fascinating, like nowhere else. I hope the good weather holds so I can make the most of it.”
¦
For the next two days, Effie found she could not concentrate on anything. She sat by the front window, looking down the brae to Lochdubh from early morning until late at night, waiting to see if Jock would call.
On the morning of the third day, she found that all her colourful dreams were beginning to get as thin as gossamer. This time she drove down in her little Ford Escort, not wanting to waste time walking, suddenly anxious to see him.
Jock was sitting at his easel, talking animatedly to Angela Brodie and Freda Campbell, the schoolteacher. Both were married, thought Effie sourly, and should be with their husbands. Freda was not long married, too, and to that local reporter, Matthew Campbell.
She waited patiently in her car for them to go. Then Jock began to pack up his things. Effie watched in dismay as they all headed for Angela’s cottage.
She sat nervously biting her thumb.
At last, she got out of her car and went to Angela’s cottage. The kitchen door was standing open, and she could hear the sounds of laughter. Squaring her small shoulders, she marched straight into the kitchen. Three startled pairs of eyes turned in her direction.
“Hullo, Jock,” said Effie, ignoring the other two.
“Hullo. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got some paintings and would like your opinion. Can you come up and see them?”
“I’m just about to get back to work,” said Jock, getting to his feet. “Thanks for the company, ladies.”
Effie followed him, practically running to keep up with his long strides. “What about this evening?” she panted.
“Oh, all right,” said Jock. “I’ll be up at six. I’m meeting friends for dinner.”
She gave him directions and then asked, “What friends?”
“Run along, Effie. I’ll see you later.”
¦
For the rest of that day, Effie scrubbed and dusted until her cottage was shining. She took a bath in the brown peaty water that always came out of the taps and then dressed in a white wool dress and black velvet jacket. For the first time in her life, she wished she had some make-up. She had never worn any before, claiming it blocked up the pores.
Then she sat by the window. At five minutes past six, she was beginning to despair when she saw his car bumping and lurching over the heathery track that led to her cottage.
She flung open the door and stood beaming a welcome.
Jock ducked his head and followed her in. “Now, where are these paintings of yours?” he said.
“I thought you might like a glass of whisky first.”
“I’m pressed for time.”
Effie had laid out a selection of her small framed paintings on the table. “Here they are,” she said.
He picked one up and took it to the window and held it up to the light. “I’m surprised you can do anything in here,” he said. “There isn’t enough light.”
