She looked down at her plate, surprised to find that, yes, she was finished, and every tasty morsel was gone, apart from the haggis which Gene was peering at with a forlorn expression which Beatrice chose to ignore.
‘Yes, thanks. Do you know when the first train leaves this morning?’
Beatrice didn’t have high hopes for an early start; the station had one platform and one rail which carried the single carriage train along the cliffs and off to Fort William, where she’d no doubt have another long wait for a train to Glasgow or Edinburgh before finally finding a train to Warwickshire.
‘You don’t like haggis, then?’
‘Well, no, but everything else was delicious, thank you.’
Gene swooped away to the kitchen with the plate, calling for Echo, who presumably was going to be the recipient of the rejected haggis.
‘Oh come off it, you can’t be put out by someone not fancying a mouthful of unidentifiable brown offal first thing in the morning,’ she muttered, hearing the sound of a plate being scraped.
She glanced around. The breakfast room had emptied at some point, Beatrice wasn’t sure when. Had she been lost in thought again? That happened a lot recently too, and she didn’t like it.
‘Eugene? Mr Fergusson? You didn’t answer me about the trains?’ Beatrice called out, peering at the swinging kitchen door. No reply came, but Echo bounded into the room and pushed his way into the kitchen for his treat.
‘Well, that’s not very hygienic, is it? Dogs in the hotel kitchen,’ she muttered again as she stood and reached for the handle of her suitcase.
‘You wanted to know when the train leaves this morning?’ came a deep voice from the breakfast room doorway. Beatrice cursed her stomach for flipping at the sound. This wasn’t dopey Gene, but Atholl.
Taking a deep breath, she found she was bracing herself for the sight of him. And it was just as well she had. There he stood, hair towel-dried and fresh from the shower, the deep red of his curls even darker now, his skin pale and cheeks ruddy, and wearing a thin bottle green jersey over a checked brown shirt and soft-looking summer cords with the chunky tan boots she’d seen him in yesterday.
‘That’s right,’ she raised her jaw as she answered him, meeting his blue eyes without flinching. In spite of his smiling eyes, his pale pink lips were set straight.He really is so vexing, thought Beatrice.
‘It doesnae.’
‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘Itdoesn’tleave this morning, or any other time today. It’s Sunday.’
Gene suddenly swung through the kitchen door and greeted his brother with a firm pat on his arm before setting about clearing the other tables.
‘And?’ said Beatrice.
It was Gene who answered her. ‘My mother used to say if God wanted folk to gad aboot on the Lord’s day he’d never have allowed Sunday matinee movies on the telly.’
Beatrice swallowed, letting her eyelids close, ignoring this little insight into the Fergusson matriarch who sounded as barking as Gene and as irritating as Atholl. ‘So I’m stuck here?’
‘Train at nine the morra,’ Gene added matter-of-factly, whipping the white linen cloths from the cleared tables.
Beatrice looked down at her repacked suitcase by her side. She’d made up her mind to go and now she was thwarted. She didn’t know what felt worse: the sense of being trapped in an empty home in Warwick, fretting and fed up, longing for an escape of any kind, or being stuck here after a failed attempt at escape with the Highland cast ofFawlty Towers.
‘Is it your room that’s bothering ye?’ Atholl pitched in calmly, now leaning on the doorframe with Echo sitting obediently at his feet. ‘I’ve already asked Mrs Mair if she’ll give it a thorough going over today since ye were so displeased wi’ the inn. And besides, you’ve got yur willow-weaving classes startin’ the day. You’ll no’ want to miss them.’
‘No, no, I already said, what with the mix up and everything, I’d really rather not do any class at all. I wasn’t eventhatkeen on the Gaelic lessons, if I’m honest, and willow-weaving seems…’
‘Whit?’ Atholl probed, sharply.
Too quiet, she thought. Willow-weaving seemed too quiet and too still, and she didn’t want time for introspection. What she wanted was to blast all thoughts out of her head. Perhaps that was why she’d booked this wretched trip in the first place. Learning Gaelic in a classroom full of beginners might have been lively and challenging and all those long vowels, rolled r’s and ‘lochs’ with guttural, curling ‘och’ sounds would have filled her mouth and her head and chased away some of the fidgeting, unsettled feelings she couldn’t seem to switch off these days. But willow-weaving? Faffing about with bits of twig didn’t sound engrossing or diverting at all.
‘I’ll just stay here in the village today, if that’s all right? Give the class a miss.’
‘Well there’s no shops open,’ said Atholl. ‘And Reverend Park’s kirk service isnae ’til ten, so you’ll have a quiet day ahead. Besides yur teacher will be waiting for you, and there’s no phone at the But n’ Ben school to ring them.’
‘Surely they won’t mind one absentee?’ Beatrice found herself brushing invisible toast crumbs from her navy palazzo trousers and striped Breton top. She’d dressed for comfort and for a long train journey home, wondering all the while what she’d find when she got there.
Atholl watched her, his eyes narrowing and the bright light in them dying. ‘It’s only yourself that’s booked in. It’s a one to one class and they’ll be waiting for ye. If you don’t get walking now, you’ll be late.’
