Part 7 (1/2)
She looked at him half-ruefully. ”Yes, I could do with a bit of help. You do make me feel like a pompous fool. Friends we are. The oven's ready for the turkey, if you'd just put it in.”
”Actually, I'm thinking of leaving on the ferry tomorrow,” said Hamish after shutting the oven door. ”It hasn't been the nicest of visits. Jane needs a minder, not a copper.”
”I might leave with you,” said Harriet, ”although it will be a waste of left-over turkey.”
”Why?”
”Jane doesn't really like the idea of meat. She'll probably throw the rest away. I won't be around to make turkey hash or turkey sandwiches.”
”Then just wrap it up and I'll take it with me.”
”Hamish Macbeth, whatever for?”
”It'll go to waste otherwise. She can't offer it to anyone on the island, her being so unpopular.”
”All right, Hamish. If you are prepared to carry a turkey carca.s.s back to Lochdubh, you are welcome.”
”How did you come to write cookery books?” asked Hamish.
Harriet worked away at the kitchen table and told him about her writing career while pleasant smells filled the kitchen. The snow had disappeared, as it always seemed to do on Christmas Day, but there was the usual gale howling outside to intensify the air of cosiness inside.
After his pleasant morning, Hamish was prepared to find Christmas dinner a let-down-because of the nature of the guests rather than the cooking, which turned out to be superb. There was soup made from the turkey giblets, followed by the finest Scottish smoked salmon. Then came the turkey, brown and glistening, with chestnut stuffing and chipolata sausages. John carved the turkey and the atmosphere was fairly jolly. But it was Jane, not Heather, who turned things sour.
Sheila and Ian asked for second helpings and Hamish was just about to hand his plate over as well when Jane said seriously, ”All this overeating is very bad for you, Sheila. Didn't I tell you in the summer that it was not crazy diets which took off the fat but sensible exercise and eating smaller meals?”
Sheila's face crumpled. ”You're horrid,” she said.
”What do you want my wife to look like?” demanded Ian furiously. ”Some sort of girlish wh.o.r.e, like you?”
Jane said in a maddeningly reasonable voice, ”Your affection and loyalty to your wife do you credit, Ian, but it is known as enabling, just like giving an alcoholic drink. I have often noticed...”
”Shut up, you stupid b.i.t.c.h,” said John. ”Don't you realise you are being downright cruel?”
Jane looked at him, open-mouthed.
”Here, now.” Diarmuid leaped to Jane's defence. ”It's Jane's job to see we are all healthy.”
”Not while we're her guests,” said Harriet. ”Realty, Jane, you are going to turn into one of those people who pride themselves on speaking their mind while they tramp over everyone's finer feelings.”
Comforted by all the voices in her defence, Sheila took a plate of turkey from John, and then threw another metaphorical log on the already blazing fire. ”Like Heather, you mean?” she said sweetly.
”Don't try and pick on me or it'll be the worse for you,” said Heather. ”I am glad I am a woman of independent mind and haven't got a brain stuffed with rubbish from romances.”
”But you haven't got an independent mind, Heather dear,” John brandished the carving knife at her. ”It's full of Communist claptrap. You're the sort of woman who would have turned her husband and family over to the KGB, all to the glory of Joe Stalin. And furthermore, if you have such an independent mind, why do you try to dress like Jane? She can get away with wearing short frocks because she's got good legs and a first-cla.s.s figure while you just look like mutton dressed as lamb.”
Harriet looked desperately at Hamish, who rose to his feet. He raised his gla.s.s. ”Merry Christmas, everyone,” said Hatnish Macbeth..
Startled, they all muttered ”Merry Christmas.” Hamish remained on his feet. ”Her Majesty, the Queen,” he proposed. All dutifully drank that one, except Heather. ”And here's to our cook, Harriet Shaw,” went oh Hamish gleefully, while everyone hurriedly replenished their gla.s.ses. ”And to our hostess. ”Harriet began to giggle. ”Do sit down, Hamish. You'll have us quite drunk.”
But the sudden rush of alcohol into the systems of the angry guests worked well. The quarrels appeared to have been temporarily forgotten by the time the Christmas pudding was served.
After the meal was over, Jane led the party through to the lounge.
”Oh, dear,” murmured Harriet, for under the tree was a pile of presents. Jane had bought presents for everyone. Harriet had guessed she would, but had forgotten to warn Hamish. Diarmuid got that item of headgear usually advertised in mail-order catalogues as a 'genuine Greek fisherman's hat. He was delighted and ran to a mirror to admire the effect. Harriet got a newfangled pastry-cutter; Sheila, a new romance called Texas Heat; Ian, a pair of slippers; John, a pocket calculator; Heather, a large volume ent.i.tled The Degradation of the Working Cla.s.ses in Victorian Scotland; and there was even a present for Hamish. It was a grey-green sweater ornamented with strutting pheasants.
The guests then went to fetch their presents for Jane. ”I forgot to warn you,” whispered Harriet to Hamish. ”Have you got anything?”
Hamish suddenly remembered the bottle of perfume in his luggage. He had bought it to give to Priscilla and had then forgotten about it, having packed it by mistake along with his shaving-kit. ”I only need a bit of Christmas wrapping,” he whispered.
Soon Jane was crowing with delight as she unwrapped her presents, although they were a singularly unimaginative set of offerings, from a cheque from her ex-husband to a record of protest songs from Heather.
”Gosh, I've eaten so much,” sighed Heather.
”A good walk is what we need.” Jane got to her feet. ”Why don't you all go ahead and I'll catch up with you?”
Heather fumbled about the coats hanging at the doorway, complaining she could not find her oilskin. ”Take mine,” said Jane. ”Save you time looking. I've got another one.” So Heather put on Jane's yellow oilskin and an of them went out into, the fierce gale.
It was after they had gone a mile along the beach that Hamish realised that Diarmuid and Heather were having a monumental row. The wind s.n.a.t.c.hed their words away but then the little group saw Heather smack her husband's face. Diarmuid turned on his heel and strode back in the direction of the hotel. As he pa.s.sed Hamish, his face was tense and excited.
Heather strode off inland, at right angles to the beach, without a word. The others huddled together and watched her go. ”I wonder what all that was about?” said Sheila. ”I thought they never had rows-well, hardly ever.”
”Look,” said Ian, ”there's a truck coming along the beach.”
Hamish recognised Geordie's antique Fiat. It drew to a stop beside them and Geordie jumped down. He held out his hand to Hamish. ”I want tae thank you,” he said. ”I've neffer had a bit o' trouble wi' him since Macleod fixed things.”
”There you are,” said Hamish with a grin. ”It's all in the mind. Where are you off to?”
”Skulag. I've had enough o' the missus. I'm going to the bar.”
”Why don't we go with him?” Hamish asked the others. They all agreed, suddenly not wanting to go back to the health farm and spend the rest of Christmas Day with a warring Heather and Diarmuid.
”What about Jane?” asked John.
”I don't think she means to come,” pointed out Hamish. ”And besides, we never told her which way we were going on our walk.”
”Two in the front and the rest up on the back,” said Geordie.
They all rattled cheerfully on their way and were soon settled in the bar of The Highland Comfort, ignoring the hostile stares of the locals and getting quite tipsy. Geordie had said he didn't dare join them, lest the islanders d.a.m.n him for consorting with ”the enemy.”
It was five o'clock when Hamish reluctantly suggested they should return. It had been so easy and companionable. The Carpenters had told stories of farming life in Yorks.h.i.+re, John had related some very witty anecdotes about terrible judges, and Harriet had made them laugh with an account about being interviewed on television by an interviewer with a prepared list of questions who thought Harriet was a literary-prize winner and who had ploughed on regardless.
Geordie had disappeared, and so they all had to walk back. Hamish took Harriet's hand. He knew he was quite drunk, a rare state of affairs for him. He felt warm and happy despite the howling wind and darkness. But as soon as he saw the pink sign of The Happy Wanderer, he experienced such a sharp feeling of dread that he let Harriet's hand drop and stood still.
”What's the matter?” asked Harriet.
He s.h.i.+vered. ”Someone walking over my grave. Come on. Jane will be wondering what has happened to us all.”