eyes. The fourth package was from Mrs. Gallagher and contained a handsome wooden box of tubes of watercolors and brushes, and along with it came a large drawing book.
She was about to run and find her parents, when she distinctly heard sleigh bells outside and a great voice crying, “Ho, ho, ho!”
“Santa!” Morag ran to the front door and jerked it open. The snow fell gently and the lights of a transformed Lochdubh glittered and sent their reflections across the black loch. She looked up at the sky but there was no fleeing sleigh. Then she saw the parcel lying on the doorstep. The label said TO MORAG FROM SANTA WITH LOVE.
She carried it into the sitting room and squatted down on the floor with the parcel on her lap and opened it up. It was a large stuffed grey-and-white cat, like Smoky, with green glass eyes.
Morag ran up to her parents’ bedroom and threw open the door. Her parents struggled awake as the small figure of their daughter hurled herself on the bed, hugging them and kissing them and saying, “It’s wonderful! I’ve never been so happy in all my life!”
And Mr. Anderson, who had been prepared to break the news to his daughter that there was no such person as Santa Claus, followed by his usual lecture on the pagan flummery of Christmas, found his eyes filling with tears as he hugged his daughter back and merely said gruffly, “Glad you’re happy.”
¦
In the police station, Hamish Macbeth put the tape recorder with the sound of sleigh bells and “Santa’s” voice along with the chain of small gilt bells he had borrowed from Angela on the kitchen table. Time to get a few hours’ sleep before the journey to Inverness.
¦
In the cottage next to the schoolhouse, Maisie Pease had a leisurely bath, and then began to dress with care, first in satin underwear and then in the cherry-red wool dress. She looked thoughtfully at the large sprig of mistletoe hanging over the living room door. She would point at it shyly and he would gather her in his arms. “You’re looking bonnie,” he would say before his lips descended on hers. She gave a happy little sigh and went to look out of the window. Where had all the lights come from? They sparkled the length of the waterfront. The snow was falling gently and she hoped it would not thicken and stop them from going.
She tried to eat breakfast, but excitement had taken her appetite away. How slow the hands of the clock moved. She waited and waited as the sky reluctantly lightened outside. She looked out of the window again. The snow had stopped and a little red winter sun was struggling over the horizon. Ten o’clock in the morning. Three hours to wait. Maisie switched on the television set and prayed for time to speed up.
¦
Angela Brodie opened the door to the Currie sisters. “Happy Christmas!” cried Angela. “Come in and have a glass of sherry.”
The sisters came in and sat down in Angela’s messy kitchen. Nessie handed Angela two small parcels. “For the baby,” she said.
Angela looked at them in amazement. “What baby?”
“Yours. The one you were pushing in the pram.”
Angela blushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I never thought for a moment you would believe me. It was a cloutie dumpling. I’d been using Mrs. Maclean’s washhouse. I’m sorry I’ve put you to expense. Let me pay you.”
“That will not be necessary, not necessary,” said Jessie. “We’ll just put them away. Someone’s always having a baby, a baby.”
“Sherry?”
“No,” said Nessie, “we’re going down to Inverness with Macbeth. He’s taking us in Chisholm’s bus. It’s a concert he’s organised at an old folks home.”
“What a surprising man he is. Can anyone come? We’re not having dinner until this evening.”
“The bus leaves the war memorial at one-thirty.”
“I’ll see if my husband wants to come and maybe join you.”
¦
Maisie Pease stared at the carnival-painted bus and then walked round it, looking for the police Land Rover. On the other side, she found Hamish with a group of people.
“Maisie!” he cried. “Are we all set?”
“Yes,” she said eagerly.
“Right, I think that’s everyone,” said Hamish. “All on the bus.”
Maisie watched in dismay as the Currie sisters, Dr. Brodie and his wife, Angela, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, Morag and Mrs. Gallagher all climbed aboard. Hamish was at the wheel. There would be no chance for any intimate talk.
Then she brightened up. They would be alone for dinner that evening.
Despite the odd assortment of villagers, there was a festive air on the bus. Angela laughed at the chintz- covered seats. The bus sped out of Lochdubh under a now sunny sky. Snow lay in a gentle blanket everywhere. It was a magic landscape, thought Morag, clutching the stuffed cat on her lap as she sat next to Mrs. Gallagher.
They stopped in Cnothan and picked up Mr. McPhee. Maisie groaned inwardly. How many more?
The Currie sisters were flirting awfully with Mr. McPhee, whose old face was beginning to assume a hunted look.
He moved his seat to the back of the bus. Thwarted, the Currie sisters began to sing carols in high, reedy, churchy voices. Hamish was amused this time to hear Jessie repeating the last line of every lyric and falling behind her sister.
When they were finally silent, Hamish, his eyes twinkling with mischief, called to Mr. Anderson to give them a song. To his surprise he began to sing “The Road to the Isles” in a clear tenor. Morag sparkled when her father finished and was given a round of applause.
At last Hamish drew up outside the old folks home and they all climbed down.
A piano had been set up in the lounge. Residents of the home sat around. Bella and Charlie were already at the piano dressed in striped blazers and straw boaters.
Mrs. Dunwiddy exclaimed, “Is it really you, Alice?”
“One of her good days,” Mrs. Kirk whispered to Hamish.
They all sat down and were served with sweet sherry and slices of Christmas cake. The lights were switched off except for a light over the piano and the glittering lights on the tree.
Bella and Charlie were really good, thought Hamish as they belted out all the old songs, Charlie playing and both singing, their voices still full and strong. Elderly faces beamed, arthritic fingers tapping out the rhythm on the arms of chairs.
Morag sat clutching her father’s hand and thought her heart would burst with happiness. In that moment, she decided that she would be a policewoman when she grew up and be as much like Hamish Macbeth as possible.
Only Maisie felt let down. It was not that Hamish was ignoring her. It was just that he treated her with the same friendliness as the rest of the party. She thought of the large turkey that she had cooked the night before so that it only needed to be heated. Would Hamish think it excessive? There had been a television program on world famine, and then thinking of those sticklike people and the sheer waste of that overlarge bird, Maisie felt guilty.
The concert finished at five and then after more sherry and cake, they all climbed back on the bus.
As Hamish drove out of Inverness on the A-9, it began to snow again, great gusts of white whipping across his vision.
He wondered what on earth he would do with this busload if he got stuck. He called back to Mr. McPhee, “Would you mind if I went straight to Lochdubh? I can put you up for the night.” He remembered Maisie’s dinner and said over his shoulder, “Is that all right with you, Maisie?”
“Oh, sure,” said Maisie, sarcastic with bitter disappointment. “Why not bring everyone?”
Hamish missed the sarcasm in her voice and said warmly, “That’s really good of you.”
“Yes, it is,” said Angela. “I’ll drop off at our place and pick up the turkey and dumpling. Everything’s ready. We’ll have a feast.”
