At one point, the women, seemingly without any cue that Beatrice was aware of, called out a loud ‘Hee-yeuch!’ in unison and she found herself joining in. By the time she felt sure she’d been passed around the entire company of dancers at least fifty times, and do-si-doed, pas de basqued and curtseyed to every one of them she was dry-mouthed and hot. Mrs Mair had sold all the raffle tickets and the caller had drawn the winners to much applause and cajoling when one of the young farmworkers had won the silver ring and looked hungrily round the room for a lassie to present it to.
The clock above the bar told Beatrice it was eleven o’clock and yet the night was only just getting going; this she could tell from the determined, concerted expressions of the elderly Port Willow men waiting their turn to cut in and claim one of the few women as a dance partner.
Atholl saw that she was tired and led her to the booth table to sit down.
‘Mum, you’ll look after her, will you no’,’ he said as he walked off to fetch both women a drink.
‘Hello, dearie,’ the white-haired woman said, her cheeks flushed and her eyes, Beatrice noticed for the first time, shockingly blue like her sons’. ‘I’m glad you stayed out the whole of your holiday, I wanted to talk with you.’
Beatrice sat with the little flutter of panic that welled in her chest.
‘Oh, about that day at Skye—’
Mrs Fergusson cut her off. ‘Yes, about that. You like my son, do you no’?’
Beatrice looked around for him. Couldn’t he come to her rescue right this second? Was the queue for drinks really so long? She was all alone and had to style out this grilling, so she resolved to be polite and smile.
‘I do,’ she replied.
‘Well, it’s him you need to tell that to, no’ me. And I’m glad, but that’s no why I wanted to see you. I wanted to talk to you about your baby.’
‘Oh, Atholl told you about that, huh?’
‘No. You did that yourself, when your heart broke in your chest holding wee Archibald. I’m no’ so short-sighted as folk think I am.’
‘Oh.’
‘It will get easier. I promise.’
‘Will it?’
‘Yes. Take it from one who knows. It never stops hurtin’ but the pain will stop stinging so much if youshareyour burden. But I think you might be learnin’ that already?’
Beatrice followed the woman’s gaze over to the bar where Atholl waited patiently and smiled back with a look that conveyed that he knew what his mother was doing but he trusted her judgement.
‘I think you might be right,’ Beatrice said, unable to stop herself smiling back at Atholl.
Mrs Fergusson’s eyes sparkled as she revelled in the silent exchange between them.
‘Have you ever seenBrigadoon, my dear? The musical? With Gene Kelly?’
‘I haven’t. Kitty mentioned it too, is it big round here, or something?’
‘No, it’s as old as the hills and almost as forgotten as the Harvest Home ceilidhs of the past but it’s got a message I always reminded my husband of when he was heartsore for the loss of our wee Ida. It says, it is not loneliness to have loved in vain, but not to have loved at all. Even when our darlings are lost to time, we’ve had the blessing of loving them, and that is everything.’
Mrs Fergusson peered at Beatrice’s face and took her hand in her own paper-smooth grip. ‘Itwillget easier, Beatrice.’
‘Eilidh, may I have this dance?’ Seth was by the booth, giving off whisky vapour and a hazy smile.
‘Och, Seth, I cannae see tae dance, you ken that,’ Mrs Fergusson chided.
‘All the easier for you to imagine you’re dancing with Gene Kelly then. You can stand on my feet?’
Mrs Fergusson chuckled. ‘Oh, all right. One waltz, Seth.’ Mrs Fergusson pointed a bony finger. ‘And no trying to dip me backwards this year!’
Chapter Twenty-Six
An Ill Wind
