The light flashed in her irises and Atholl must have caught it because he broke into a smile too. ‘That I know of, aye. That’s the most excitement seen at the coral beach since a U-boat ran aground there in the forties.’
Beatrice scanned his face. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the crackle in his voice were all she needed to push her over into laughter too. She shook back her by now very messy hair and laughed in unrestrained relief.
‘I imagine I was quite a sight.’
‘You can say that again. I feared for a moment that the beasts would disperse and I’d find they’d crushed the life from ye, but I knew Echo was in amongst them and he’d no’ let that happen.’
‘Where is he now?’
Atholl tipped his wrist, looking at his watch. ‘Well, it’s after two, so he’ll be down at the chippy waiting for his lunch.’
‘Really?’
‘Like clockwork. Jim Tosh will gie him the leftovers before he closes up. Echo’s a wandering dug but he’ll no’ go far from the high street at lunch times, never knowing if he’ll miss a bit o’ battered haggis or a sausage.’
The pair smiled at one another, warmth and sleepiness spreading through Beatrice.
‘So, what do you say? Will you let us make it up to you? Stay a day more?’ he said.
The idea did hold some appeal now Beatrice had seen the broad sky over the bay and tasted the clean salty air and the sweet gin. Atholl was leaning a little closer now, a note of entreaty in his voice. ‘And if you can put up with me, I would verra much like to give you that willow-weaving lesson and we could hae some lunch at the same time… should you like it?’
‘Well… all right, then. I will stay one more day. Just promise you won’t try to feed me any of that battered haggis from the chippy. It might be all right for Echo, but…’
‘Hey, don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it,’ Atholl said with a smile.
Chapter Nine
Monday: A Morning’s Willow-weaving
Atholl guided Beatrice through the willow field that backed on to the But and Ben above the coral beach. The morning sun was already high in the clear blue sky and Beatrice was glad she’d chosen to wear her long black sundress, factor thirty and dark shades, and even more glad Atholl was in dark cords that looked as though they’d been softened by washing a thousand times and a t-shirt that perfectly showed off his biceps speckled with light freckles.
Echo darted in and out of the long rows of willow and Beatrice told herself it was the dog’s excited tail-wagging that was distracting her and not the way the sun struck Atholl’s blue eyes and fine cheekbones. Atholl was describing the work that went into the care of the willow. She tried to concentrate.
‘I cut them back to the ground every year and these tall, supple branches grow straight up to the sky. Fourteen feet is what I’m aiming for, perfect for basketry, and there’s three different varieties growing here for a choice of colour and strength.’
‘I didn’t know peoplefarmedwillow. They look so strange in the landscape… so unexpected?’
‘Folk have been weaving willows for their dwellings for thousands of years. Everywhere in the world has its own version of it; grass, leaves, or branches. People have always weaved natural materials to make the basic things they need for survival, be it clothing or shelter. Once upon a time, and not so long ago neither, every community in the British Isles would have its own wee parcel o’ land for willow cultivation, but that way of life is over now.’
Beatrice wanted to tell him she liked the way his eyes were shining with enthusiasm but felt she couldn’t, so instead she smiled and let him talk as they wandered through the maze of willow.
‘When growing is done with a bit o’ care, you’ll feel a connection to the landscape around you. Dinnae laugh when I tell you, but I cannae help feeling that when we break with the old traditions we lose our instinctive connection to nature, and I’d like to fix that a bit.’
‘I’m not laughing. That sounds perfect to me.’
They made their way through the willow coppice to the back door of the But and Ben. Atholl reached for the key hidden under a white seashell on the windowsill.
In long, propped up boxes along the cottage wall stood tall bundles of straight willow rods which Beatrice couldn’t help running her fingers over as Atholl tried the key and let the door swing open. The bundles were neatly sorted by variety, length and thickness, and each tied with a willow whip in a twisted knot around their middle. The stems reflected the sunlight in hues from copper to golden green.
‘I cut those in January, they’ve been drying for baskets all this time. I have more willow than I can keep up with. That’s what gave me the idea to bring in makers, like yourself. I’ve been supplying paying visitors to the tartan mill, the silversmith, the glassworks and the art gallery for weeks now. It’s certainly increased our custom at the inn all of a sudden, and the crafters are enjoying learning something new but it seemed right to start having folk up here too, to learn how to work the willow. You, uh, were my first booking.’
‘Oh! And I said I didn’t want to take the lessons after all. You must have been so disappointed.’ Beatrice smiled awkwardly and was relieved to hear Atholl’s wry laugh. She looked around at the neat coppices behind the cottage. ‘I’m sorry about that. I’m not much of a crafter, remember.’
‘No. I suspect you’re more of an escapee.’ Atholl threw a quick glance to check she wasn’t offended by his arrow-like accuracy. He was right; she’d washed ashore here with no plan other than getting away from home, and from herself. Unwilling to acknowledge the truth of Atholl’s observation she looked around, taking in the blooming roses, tall thistles and the long metal tank and smaller stone trough that ran along the back wall of the cottage beneath its low windows. Both troughs were full to the brim with water.
‘Don’t tell me the cows come round here too?’ Beatrice said, looking around nervously for any sign of marauding cattle.
‘Uh? Oh, no.’ Atholl laughed. ‘No, those are for soaking the willows. If you want to make baskets with your store of cut whips you need to soak it until it’s mellow and soft again like freshly cut willow. Here, sit by the door in the shade.’ Atholl spread a blanket over a rustic wooden chair by a rambling rose that had taken over the wall and much of the cottage’s low roof. ‘I’ll away in and get the tools if you’ll unpack the picnic?’
