He held his breath, listening to the sound of the ladder creaking as she climbed down then bare feet padding across the floor and finally the key turning in the lock.
He was met by the sight of Beatrice wrapping her dressing gown around herself and knotting it, then reaching into a pocket for a tissue.
‘Atholl. Listen, I’m sorry I scared you off, I know it’s a lot…’
‘Shh shh, it’s all right,’ he hushed her gently. ‘What you said about not being able to say goodbye properly, of having nothing special to do to mark your baby’s wee life. You set me thinking. I’ve been up at the But n’ Ben…’
He produced a parcel from under his arm and unwrapped the brown paper tied with string that protected it. ‘I thought maybe, if you want, you could make use of this wee thing?’ He handed her the intricately weaved hollow bassinette shaped curiously like a Russian doll or an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus with a round hole where the face would be.
‘I made it myself of the spring’s youngest willow back in March when it was still green with life.’
‘It’s lovely. What is it?’
‘It was for a talk Seth was giving about old Highland customs. It’s a swaddling basket. You’d wrap the baby in cloths and bands, tucking them up tight so they could sleep, and then they’d be placed inside the basket and worn over the parent’s back while they worked in the fields or at the fishes.’
‘It’s beautiful. It’s tiny, though. Too small for a newborn.’
‘It was only a model, to show what the real thing would be like.’
She turned it over in her hands, her eyes misting, and she looked up at him, hesitatingly, still unsure of what he intended her to do with the pretty object.
‘There’s another Highland custom, an ancient one, going back to the earliest folk on the land,’ he said softly.
Beatrice listened.
‘When a loved one passed they would say their goodbyes and swaddle them too like a bairn and they’d place them in the water, letting the tides carry them home.’
Beatrice took his meaning and she bobbed her head as the silent tears came again.
After a long moment he spoke. ‘Do you want to do it now? There’s a braw moon lighting the harbour.’
‘All right.’
Those were the last words they said to each other that night as Beatrice, the mother of a loved son, threaded the Highland posy of forget-me-nots, heather and white campion into the loose basket work, weaving each flower in amongst the shoots from the sappy willows as Atholl watched on.
When her work was done she left the inn, crossing the dark road and leaning over the sea wall. Atholl stayed by the inn porch, close enough to see her kiss the little bundle before lowering the empty bassinette onto the surface of the gentle waters. He couldn’t hear the prayer on her lips but he whispered a solemn ‘Amen’.
Neither could tell how long it took for the horizon to claim the floating focus of so much of her grief but by sunrise it was gone and Beatrice was asleep soundly in her bed.
Chapter Seventeen
Holidaying Alone
When Beatrice awoke it was late morning. She’d been dimly aware of the heavy downpour outside and its pattering and splashing had lulled her into a deeper slumber. The sound that roused her was Atholl Fergusson’s voice bidding farewell to the guests who were checking out down in the reception. Breakfast must be over by now.
When she slipped downstairs half an hour later on the hunt for coffee and any leftover bacon that might be going spare in the kitchens she was hit by the warm air coming through the inn doors and a smile from Atholl, not cautious or careful, just glad. The reception was empty now, apart from Echo asleep at Atholl’s feet behind the desk; he must have come back with Kitty and Gene last night.
‘Good morning. You slept.’ Not a question, and delivered with a satisfied stretch of Atholl’s lips at the corners.
‘I actually did, a proper sleep.’ She thought of the state she’d been in last night when she called her sister and how Atholl’s kindness and clever ideas had helped settle all that regret and sadness. ‘I feel ready for anything today.’
‘So… I guess you’ve had enough of willow-weaving then? You don’t fancy attempting a bit of basketry or making a figure?’
‘Umm…’
‘That’s OK,’ he said quickly. ‘Kitty’s around somewhere if you’d like to have a go at the Gaelic lessons? I mean, theyarethe reason you’re here.’
Beatrice smiled. Only she knew that they really,reallyweren’t the reason why. She screwed up her nose a little and shook her head rapidly. ‘Mmm, I don’t really fancy lessons at all, sorry.’
