Part 3 (1/2)

”Mmm?” Sheila was buried in a book with a pink cover called Love's Abiding Pa.s.sion. Her lips were moving slightly and she was breathing heavily through her nose.

And then Heather was before them. ”What are you reading, Sheila?” she demanded. Sheila gave a little sigh and held up the book so that Heather could read the tide.

”My dear, dear Sheila,” said Heather, shaking her head. ”Surely you can find something better than that pap?”

”It's a marvellous book,” said Sheila, her fat cheeks turning pink.

Heather suddenly s.n.a.t.c.hed it out of Sheila's hand and flicked over the pages and then gleefully read aloud.

”There was a tearing sound and the thin silk cascaded at her feet. He thrust his hot body against her naked one and she could feel his aroused masculinity bulging against her thigh.” ”There was a tearing sound and the thin silk cascaded at her feet. He thrust his hot body against her naked one and she could feel his aroused masculinity bulging against her thigh.”

I ask you, Sheila, how can you bear to read a book like that?”

Sheila s.n.a.t.c.hed it back and heaved herself out of the sofa and waddled from the room. Her husband stood up and glared at Heather. ”It's better than the works of Marx any day.”

”It would considerably improve your wife's mind to read Karl Marx.”

”Yah!” said Ian. ”What d'you lot think about the fall of Communism in Eastern Europe, hey?”

”That was not real Communism,” said Heather; ”Real communism...”

”Stuff it, you old crow,” said the farmer and left the room with the same waddling walk as his wife. Hamish felt like running after him and shaking his hand.

Before Heather could speak to him again, he darted for the door and let himself out into the night. The high wind of earlier in the day had descended to ground level and was tearing and shrieking and moaning along the sh.o.r.e, where seals lay at the edge of the cras.h.i.+ng waves, their curious eyes gleaming pink from the neon sign of The Happy Wanderer.

The wind was cold. Hamish wished he had remembered to put on his jacket. Priscilla often called him a moocher. He hugged his thin body against the bite of the wind. He should have stayed where he was in Lochdubh. He could imagine someone saying they would like to strangle Jane, but no one would really think of doing it. There was not enough real about the woman to encourage great love or great hate. And that marriage of hers! When John had been talking about that truck driver, Hamish had felt slightly sick.

His cold would get worse if he stayed outside. He walked back in. Jane was standing talking to Heather. Heather was not hectoring Jane about anything but looking at her with open-mouthed admiration and hanging on every word.

”Is there a telephone?” Hamish asked Jane.

”There's one in my office you can use. It's over there,” said Jane, pointing to a door on the right of the lounge.

Hamish walked over to where she had pointed. A ceramic sign on the door said 'Jane's Office' and was decorated by a wreath of painted wild flowers.

The office was strictly functional; large steel desk, steel filing cabinets, two easy chairs for visitors.

Hamish sat behind the desk, picked up the phone and dialled Tommel Castle, now called Tommel Castle Hotel. He recognised the voice of Mary Anderson, a local girl, who operated the hotel switchboard. ”Can I speak to Priscilla?” he asked.

”Herself is not back,” said Mary. ”She went to Rogart.”

”Is the storm bad?” asked Hamish, trying to blot out pictures of a car upended in a blizzard by the side of the road with a woman and a dog lying beside it.

”Oh, it's real bad. That's Hamish, isn't it?”

”Yes. Has she phoned?”

”No, but they got it worse over there than here, so folks are saying. Maybe the lines are down.”

Hamish thanked her, put down the receiver, then lifted it again and dialled his parents' home.

His mother answered. ”Is Priscilla there?” demanded Hamish, his voice sharp with anxiety.

”Aye, she's here. But you cannae talk to her, son.”

”Why?”

”The poor la.s.sie's still fast asleep by the fire. My, Hamish, she used to be the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, and now she's nothing but skin and bone. She cannae leave. She'll need to stay the night. I'll let her sleep a bit and then give her a good supper and put her to bed.”

”Have you the room?”

”Och, yes, we'll put a cot bed in the girls' room. How's yourself?”

”I'm just fine.”

”Is it a grand place?”

”Well, it's a health farm, sort of mock-Spanish villa.”

”On Eileencraig! My, my.”

”Dinner,” called Jane, putting her head round the door.

”I've got to go, Ma,” said Hamish quickly. ”I'd phone tomorrow.”

He said goodbye and sat for a moment looking at the phone. What on earth would the elegant and fastidious Priscilla make of his noisy, easygoing family?

He rose then and went out through the lounge to the dining-room. It was panelled in pine wood. Several small tables had been put together to make a big one and it was covered by a red-and-white-checked cloth and decorated with candles in wine bottles. A stag's head ornamented one wall, and Hamish noticed to his surprise that it was fake. He hadn't known that such a thing existed. Jane probably did not approve of bits of real animal being used, hence the fake head and the synthetic skins on the lounge floor.

Dinner was excellent and Hamish could only be glad that he was seated between the Carpenters and therefore protected by their bulk from Heather. Also, to his relief, conversation at dinner was innocuous. Jane was explaining that they would all go for a walk along the sh.o.r.e in the morning and then, after lunch, take a walk inland while there was still some light. Hamish enjoyed the excellent meal washed down with some good claret. He began to feel mellow. It was not going to be such a disaster after all. But he should show some gesture toward earning his keep.

As soon as dinner was over, he asked Jane to show him that bathroom heater.

Jane let him into her bedroom, through a door emblazoned with the legend ”Sir Walter Scott.” It was furnished pretty much the same as the one allotted to Hamish, except that there were two bookshelves stuffed with women's magazines instead of one.

He went into the bathroom and examined the heater carefully and then stood back and looked at the ceiling.

There was a patch of damp and black mould beginning to form on it. He was sure the builder had been right and that the heater had fallen off the wall because of the damp. In feet, probably the whole structure of the health farm needed to be treated for damp, but to tell Jane that at this early date would make him feel more of a fraud than he was and so he murmured non-committally that he would take another look at it on the following day, and that he would probably start his investigations by going to see Mrs. Bannerman.

Jane stood very close beside him. ”I see what Priscilla means,” she said. ”You are very competent.”

Hamish s.h.i.+ed and took a nervous step back.