In all it had taken five days to tell Rich, and she had really worked hard to set the scene with his favourite dinner (steaks, the nice onion rings she made from scratch, peppercorn sauce, Belgian beers, and the caramel profiteroles he loved). And yes, he did turn a little ashen on hearing the words and Beatrice had rushed to make him a sweet tea, which he didn’t drink, now she came to think of it. He kept saying, ‘Oh My God’ over and over, but he had smiled and hugged her, so that was a relief, and after that he was pretty quiet, just letting it all sink in.
‘A sticking plaster baby.’ That’s what Rich’s dad had called it when they found themselves unexpectedly faced with him a few nights later when he’d stumbled into the hallway, doused in vodka with the staggering walk that told them he’d been in the pub all day.
She remembered the hope on her husband’s face as he blurted out that they were having a baby. She knew he was wishing for a fatherly reaction, an embrace maybe, some effusion of pride, anything. His mum, after all, had taken the news well, and she’d sobbed happy tears and promised that in the autumn she’d make the journey back from her sunny expat life in Portugal with her new husband, excited to meet the new arrival. But telling his dad was a different matter entirely.
True to form, the boozy bitterness had won out over any paternal sentiment he might have had hidden deep within him and he’d sneered and leered the words Beatrice would never forget. This man, the bad penny, the father who didn’t have the compassion to even comprehend the pain he’d caused his son, had been perceptive and cruel enough to pinpoint the tenderest, most secret, hidden thing in their lives and he’d enjoyed making his observation. He had known their relationship had lost its spark long before she and Rich had even acknowledged it to themselves, and that irked Beatrice more than she had ever shown.
‘You’re having a sticking plaster baby to fix the mess you’re in? I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, Rich, my boy.’
He’d been sent packing, but it was too late. As the door closed he’d slurred one last fatal blow, ‘No child ever fixed a bad marriage, you know.’
The words had been like electricity, galvanising Rich into action, as his father’s unkindness often did. Neither of them admitted it at the time – but it was becoming clear to Beatrice now as the low monotone of the payphone buzzed in her hand – Rich had been jolted out of his complacency, fully determining to be a good daddy in that instant, partly because he was a decent kind of man and partly to spite his father, to prove he wasn’t like him.
There had been endless glasses of water brought and foot rubs and deep bubble baths drawn for her after that, and on one Friday afternoon, when Beatrice had opened the door to Rich after his long day at work, she’d been greeted by a giant yellow bunny with the word ‘Baby’ on its white tummy and Rich’s smiling face peering out from behind it.
Later on, there had been red roses and a card with sweet words written inside. ‘To the Mother of Our Baby on Valentine’s Day.’ The sesame seed had become an apple pip by then, and for a while everything was good and fruitful. Yet, the words that had spurred on Rich’s attentiveness and spoiled their contentment were still out there and had etched themselves in their memories. Every time Rich kissed her stomach before he left for work in the morning she knew he was thinking of them too. ‘A sticking plaster baby.’ Beatrice hated Rich’s father all the more because he’d been right.
She cursed the old man for this and for all the times he’d turned up asking for money, airing his opinions and making Rich feel torn and guilty. She had loved Rich all the more for his need of a dad – the same empty, conflicted need as her own. Neither of them had managed to salvage a father–child relationship from their messy childhoods, but they had found each other and they both understood what it was like to want a daddy not a deadbeat, and that could always be relied upon to bring them closer together. She sighed now, slumped beneath the payphone, bringing her chin to her chest, and she might have stayed like that if a door hadn’t slammed somewhere on the ground floor of the inn.
Beatrice snapped out of the unwelcome visions from way back in the early spring, somehow more painfully vivid now that she had some distance on them. It dawned on her that her face was wet from crying and that the receiver in her hand was now sounding a high-pitched droning alarm as it demanded to be placed back in its cradle.
Echo, Atholl Fergusson’s dog, ran past her, nosing its way in through the kitchen door. With a gasp she scurried along the corridor and up the inn’s back stairs to her room where she could clamber up the ladder to her bed, bury her face in the pillows and cry out the bitterness.
There was no way she’d let Atholl, or indeed any of the occupants of The Princess and the Pea Inn, see her like this. Her pain and humiliation were her own secrets, and sharing them could never come to any good. If Rich’s dad had taught her anything it was not to go looking for sympathy in case you’re not met with any. Stoicism had worked out OK for her so far and she only had to stick this place out for another twelve hours or so and she’d be on her way again. For now, she’d take solace in the fact that nobody here knew her or her story and that suited her perfectly.
Chapter Four
Evening at the Inn
‘It’s blawin’ a hoolie oot there!’
Beatrice registered the voice but resolved happily that it couldn’t be directed towards her – she didn’t know anyone in Port Willow, after all. That, and she had no idea what he’d said, so a reply was impossible anyway. Just in case, she shoved her nose deeper into her book, trying to look absorbed and unapproachable, hoping nobody in the inn’s bar restaurant could tell she’d been staring at the same paragraph since she arrived and not taken in one word.
But the voice came again, soft and musical, like breath through a reed, and this time it was too close to ignore. ‘Glad tae be indoors the night, eh?’
The man looked as gaunt and airy as his Highland accent sounded to Beatrice’s ears. Easily eighty, with a green woollen beany pulled down over his head, his curling whiskers and fluffy grey sideburns framed bright, watery eyes which were rendered tiny and mole-like through the thick lenses of his specs. The rosiness in his cheeks and the way he held his hands behind his back as Beatrice looked up from her book told her this was no creepy barfly.
‘I am. Does it always rain in Port Willow?’ she said, lowering the book.
‘Only recently, but we’re in for a dry spell between the storms soon. English, are you?’ The man had immediately adapted his speech for the Sassenach guest.
Beatrice nodded. ‘I’m on holiday. Well I was, but I’m leaving on the morning train.’
The man seemed to be weighing up some words before pursing his lips and keeping them to himself.
‘Are you a local?’ she prompted, already sure of the answer. He looked perfectly at home among the dark wood panelling, the Highland landscapes in dull oils and the pewter tankards suspended on hooks above the bar. She would bet her life savings on one of those pint pots belonging to him.
‘Born and bred,’ he said. ‘My father ran the harbour boats afore me, and now my laddie runs them. Mind ye take a trip around the headland before ye go, see the seals.’
She realised she’d quite like to go on a seal-spotting trip, if the rain were ever to stop, but sadly, there’d be no time for sightseeing before her hurried – and relieved – departure tomorrow morning. She didn’t like to tell him this.
The man barely flinched at the sound of the Sussex silversmithing and stained glass crafters bursting through the door, shaking umbrellas, and exclaiming loudly about the ‘typical’ Highland weather.
‘Are you one of these visitors that the brothers are so keen on bringing in from down South?’ He indicated with a nod the women who had struggled out of their dripping lilac cagoules and were now loudly discussing ordering two, no three, bottles of pinot.
Beatrice searched the man’s whiskery face for a hint of disapproval but detected none. As if to confirm this, he added, ‘We need new life here in Port Willow. When I was a laddie there were three pubs down the front as well as the Kailyard Café, now there’s only the Princess. The more folk visiting, the merrier, I say.’
At this the door opened again and in came a stream of young men in wellies and waterproofs, fresh from the afternoon tourist and fishing boats.
