crammed it into her mouth. Then she seized the tablecloth to wipe her hands and everyone’s glasses of wine went flying.
Jessica Fitt found that the very sight of Peta made her feel physically ill. She liked her life to be well ordered. She liked beautiful flowers and beautiful paintings. She did not bother much about the sort of clothes she put on because, like most women of low self-esteem, she did not consider herself worth embellishing.
“Are you all right?” she heard Peter Trumpington ask.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t let her get to me. But this – ” she waved a hand around the white sandy beach to the clear blue sea “ – it’s so perfect, so beautiful, and there she sits in the middle of it like a great pile of excrement.”
“You mean the Peta woman?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to know what to do about her?”
“There’s nothing up with her that a well-thrown hand-grenade wouldn’t cure.”
“Come on, Jessica. Spare me. Look at the size of her. There’d be bits of her splattered from here to America. Can you imagine bits of Peta raining down on New York City?”
Jessica stifled a sudden giggle. “What would you do, Peter?”
He leaned behind him and pulled a bottle of white wine out of the crate and then picked up a corkscrew. “I’d get drunk,” he said. “Let’s get through this bottle before she gets to it.”
Something sad and repressed and rigid inside Jessica seemed to melt. She laughed and held out her glass. “Here’s to sanity,” she said.
“Have you ever thought of committing a crime?” John asked Jenny. His panama hat was pulled down over his face so she could not see the expression in his eyes.
“Well, no, I don’t think so. I feel like killing her.” She waved a hand in Peta’s direction. “But I mean, it’s just a thought. But you don’t mean murder, do you? Do you mean theft or arson or shop-lifting?”
“I have dealt with so many criminals,” he said in a tired voice. “Very few of them show any remorse. They are angry at getting caught out, that’s all. They go to prison and the taxpayer has to pay for their keep.”
“You don’t mean you want to see hanging brought back?”
“Why, not? Why should we work and slave all our lives to keep them cosseted in jails, to keep them fed, to pay for prisoners’ rehabilitation, to pay for therapists?”
“I suppose you have a point,” said Jenny diplomatically. She looked longingly in the direction of Hamish Macbeth, but he had gone to sleep.
“Priscilla’s about to dish out the fresh fruit salad,” she said. “I must help her.”
“Go ahead,” he said wearily. “I’m going for a walk.”
“But you’ll miss dessert!”
“I’ll miss the sight of that swine eating it!”
He turned and strode off.
The castle cook, perhaps to ease his conscience, as he had probably decided before preparing the lunch not to go, had made enough fruit salad for twenty, and Peta ate most of it. No one else was hungry. Jessica Fitt and Peter Trumpington were drinking steadily and whispering to each other, snorting with laughter and then looking furtively around like bad children. They were vying with each other over the best way to kill Peta.
At last, gorged with food, Peta fell asleep. She lay on her back with her mouth open, snoring. Maria thought, she’s going to get a horrendous sunburn, but she did not move. Let her get burnt, and with luck burnt so badly that it puts her out of commission for the rest of the week.
With Peta asleep, a relaxed air took hold of the party. John returned from his walk in time to join in the general, lazy conversation. Seagulls swooped and dived for scraps of food.
“Do you remember that film, I forget the one, but where they killed this chap by tying him into a rowing boat and then tied a fish on his head? The cormorants dived for the fish and split his skull open.”
“What made you think of a gruesome thing like that?” asked Priscilla.
“Oh, nothing,” said Peter and nudged Jessica, who laughed immoderately and then held out her glass for more wine.
Priscilla applied sun-barrier lotion to her face and arms and then, with a casual familiarity which grated on Jenny, she walked over to the sleeping Hamish Macbeth and started gently putting lotion on his face and arms. Hamish stirred in his sleep and smiled.
When she had finished, Priscilla said, “Well, we should think about getting back. Want to help me put the stuff away, Jenny?”
“Do it yourself,” said Jenny. “That’s your job,” and then blushed scarlet and got up and walked away.
Damn Hamish, thought Priscilla. She poked him in the ribs. “Wake up. Help me with this stuff.”
Hamish sleepily struggled up. “Where’s my helper?”
“If you mean Jenny, she’s gone off after reminding me sharply that packing up is my job. The shy clinging kind certainly go for you, Hamish, and you do nothing to discourage it.”
“Why should I?” he said maliciously. “She’s a fine-looking girl. Talent’s a bit thin on the ground in Lochdubh.”
“You having already run through most of it!” Priscilla began to rattle dishes with unnecessary force. Jenny came back, muttered “Sorry,” and began to help.
Once back on board, Mary French decided to show off her organizing skills by getting them to sing a round song. “You first,” she ordered, as if dealing with a class of backward children. “Then you.”
“Just like Joyce Grenfell,” said Peter and Jessica shrieked with laughter, then found she couldn’t stop laughing and ended by bursting into tears.
The boat began to bucket up and down again as it approached the point of land which sheltered the sea loch of Lochdubh.
Priscilla had just produced afternoon tea – hot scones with Cornish cream and strawberry jam – and spread it on the deck when Peta was suddenly and violently sick over it. Horrified, the rest backed off to the sides while Peta vomited and vomited. A normal person would soon have been reduced to dry heaving, but Peta had a capacious and overloaded stomach. The clients of Checkmate fled to the bow and huddled together, even Jenny, until they were joined by Priscilla and Maria.
“I can’t take it,” said Maria with her handkerchief to her mouth. “Hamish’ll need to cope.”
They all stayed there until the
Still they stayed until they saw Peta being helped ashore. With a sigh of relief, they saw Hamish talking to one of the locals, who had a small pick-up truck, and then he helped Peta into the back of it.
They edged round to get off the boat. The decks were clean, glistening with water.
Hamish appeared on board again.
“Brave man,” said Priscilla. “Did you stack the stuff downstairs?”
“No,” said Hamish. “I just tied the lot up in the table-cloth and threw it over the side.”
¦
Hamish thought he never wanted to see anyone being sick again, but he found a couple of fishermen outside the local bar that evening being violently ill. It turned out that Archie was regaling the locals inside with such a colourful story of his day out that Peta’s sickness was more horrible in the telling than the actuality.
He walked on. A new restaurant, run by a Scottish-Italian family, had just opened on the waterfront. He heard the hum of voices from inside and was glad to see it was doing a good trade. He looked in the window and grinned.
The members of Checkmate had escaped and were enjoying dinner on their own. They were seated round a large table, talking and laughing. He felt sorry for Maria. But surely Peta would not be up to eating any more that day.
¦
But Peta was working her way steadily through the dinner that had been meant for the whole party while Maria looked on with horrified loathing. She wondered why Crystal, who was lazily picking at her own food, was unaffected by her aunt’s behaviour. Once the horrible meal was over, Maria plucked up her courage and followed Peta up to her room.
“Let’s get down to business,” said Maria firmly, “or what’s left of it. Peta, you have succeeded in driving our
