station.
“What’s up?” he asked. “No, you pair,” he shouted at the dog and cat. “You are
“My husband’s got the norovirus.”
“That’s bad. But he’ll be over it in three days.”
“It’s not that. The Haggart dinner is tonight in Edinburgh.”
“And?”
“I don’t want to go alone,” said Angela feverishly. “Would you come with me?”
“I think I could manage that. You’re in a right state, Angela. It’s not the Booker Prize. The Haggart people sell cakes.”
“Hamish!” said Angela impatiently. “It’s one of the oldest literary awards. Haggart may manufacture cakes but they set up this award in Edwardian days and it’s been on the go ever since. I’m tired of being just a nominee. The first book was nominated for the Booker. The one before last for the Haggart. I’ve got to win.”
“Angela, you never struck me as being ambitious!”
“Now you know.”
“Calm down. I’ll go.”
“Oh, thanks. Mrs. Wellington is going to check on my husband. We have to be at the Caledonian Hotel for the dinner. It starts at seven o’clock. Can we leave in an hour, say?”
“Won’t we be a bit early?”
“It’s better to be early. I mean there could be sheep on the road, or a tractor, or fog.”
Hamish looked up at the clear blue sky and then back down at Angela’s worried face.
“I’ll be ready,” he said gently.
Angela drove most of the way in silence, her knuckles white with tension on the steering wheel. The last time Hamish had seen her in such a state was when she was determined to be the perfect wife because of the malign influence of an incomer to the village. But ever since she had got over that, she had been her old self, gentle and unassuming and the worst cook in Sutherland.
She was wearing a pretty, floaty sort of chiffon dress under her coat along with very thick make-up. Hamish was wearing a Savile Row suit which he had picked up in a thrift shop. The last time he had worn it was the last time he had met Priscilla for dinner. He had a sudden sharp longing to speak to her again.
As he had expected, they were too early by an hour so they went into the hotel bar. “Better keep to mineral water,” cautioned Angela, “because there’ll be drinks at dinner and I want all my wits about me.” She took a sheaf of notes out of her handbag and began to study them, her lips moving.
“What’s that?” asked Hamish.
“It’s my acceptance speech.”
“Angela! You’re taking all this too seriously.”
“What would you know? You haven’t a single ambitious bone in your body.”
“Aye, and I like it that way.” Hamish suddenly wished the evening would be over.
At last, they went in for dinner. Angela and Hamish were seated at one of the round tables with her publisher, Henry Satherwaite, a thin female poet called Jemima Thirsk and her husband, and two Haggart executives and their wives.
The dinner was at last over and the chairman of Haggart took the podium. He droned on about the virtue of the firm’s cakes and then got down to the business of the evening.
“We have five nominees: Jemima Thirsk for her poems,
“Our distinguished panel of experts have chosen the prizewinner.” With maddening slowness he opened an envelope. “Get on with it!” muttered Angela, polishing off her after-dinner brandy in one gulp.
“The winner is—Harriet Wilson for
Angela turned chalk white. Her publisher patted her hand. “Better luck next year,” he whispered.
Harriet Wilson was a large woman wearing a beaded gown and with two feathers stuck in her elaborately dressed coils of grey hair. She fell over getting up to the platform, and it took two men to hoist her to her feet.
She blinked myopically at the audience and then vomited violently.
“They’re always drunks,” said Hamish.
“Why do you say that?” asked Henry.
“Because it’s always a Cherokee grandmother. Never the Sioux or the Mohawk or the Cree. Very fertile lady that grandmother.”
“You mean, she might have made the whole thing up?”
“Maybe,” said Hamish. “Oh, Angela, don’t take on so.” For Angela was crying quietly. He put an arm round her and gave her a hug.
“Did you see that?” hissed Nessie Currie, gazing avidly at the television set. “I knew it. That Hamish Macbeth should be locked up. No woman is safe from him. And there’s poor Dr. Brodie at death’s door. Shame!”
“Shame,” echoed Jessie.
“No wonder herself is crying. It’s the shame o’ adultery.”
“Adultery,” murmured Jessie.
Dr. Brodie was lying on the sofa, feeling like death. His ancient television had broken down right before the screening of the Haggart awards. He heard knocking at the kitchen door but felt too ill to get up so he shouted weakly, “Come in. It isn’t locked.”
And in came some of the villagers bearing cakes and whisky and flowers and home remedies, which they put down on the kitchen table. Mrs. Wellington, who had been banished from her duties as doctor-sitter, nonetheless came in and looked sympathetically at Dr. Brodie.
“Did she win?” he whispered.
“I’m afraid not.”
“What’s everyone doing in the kitchen?”
“Folk are bringing you some things to make you feel better. Have you… er… read your wife’s book?”
“Not yet. Angela doesn’t like me reading her stuff until it’s published. That’s an idea. There’s a copy over there. Hand it to me.”
“Well, now, I think you should rest your eyes. I’ll just switch on the telly.”
“It’s broken down.”
“You need to be firm with these machines.” Mrs. Wellington brought her fist down on the top of the machine, and it flickered into life. “There! That’ll soothe you.” She handed him the remote control.
Mrs. Wellington tiptoed out. Dr. Brodie looked at a programme where two men were beheading a third. He switched it off. He was feeling marginally better. Maybe now was the time to read his wife’s book.
Angela rallied for the book signing. To Hamish’s relief, she seemed to be signing quite a lot of books. He bought one himself and retreated to a quiet corner. As he read, his eyebrows practically vanished up into his thick flaming red hair. He skimmed through the book rapidly. It was the story of a bored doctor’s wife in a highland village who embarks on a steamy affair with the village policeman. The sex scenes were graphic. Either Angela had a vivid imagination or Dr. Brodie was more of a stud than anyone could have guessed. He blushed all over. Angela’s ambition had made her blind to the effect her book would have on Lochdubh. Hamish could imagine the gossip spreading across the whole of Sutherland.
Henry Satherwaite came up to him. “Good book, eh? Are you from Lochdubh?”
“I am.”
“What do you do there?”
“I’m the village policeman.”
Henry grinned.
“No, I am not Angela’s lover, and this book is going to cause me one shed load of trouble,” said Hamish. “I…” He suddenly saw a familiar face. Simon Swallow, the author, was signing books, and sitting beside him, opening books for him to sign, was the receptionist from Scots Entertainment. She saw him and got to her feet. Hamish tried to catch her but she vanished into the ladies’ toilet. He waited outside, then opened the door and went in. Two
