‘All right, Da,’ one of the men, a younger version of her interlocutor said as he walked by, patting his father on the shoulder.
The older man threw him a fatherly smile but had no intention of letting his conversation with the lonely-looking newcomer be interrupted. Over his shoulder, the crowd of sailors leaned against the bar waiting for it to open and scanned the room, surveying the new arrivals with interest.
‘I was signed up for Gaelic lessons, but…’ she tailed off with a shrug.
‘Oh, aye? Not many in the village speak the Gaelic now. I know young Atholl has brought in a Gaelic tutor for the last of the summer, a lassie from the university, you’ll like her very much, I’m sure.’
‘Do you speak Gaelic…?’ Beatrice paused as she prompted his name, since it looked like he was rooted to his spot and she was in for a long conversation.
‘Seth. Seth McVie, and no, not I.’
Beatrice smiled and offered Seth her hand. ‘I’m Beatrice, by the way. But I won’t be taking any lessons at all now. There was some kind of mix up and it turned out I was signed up for willow-weaving and not Gaelic, apparently. Not sure what that’s all about.’
‘Ah! This port was famous for its willow growing and weaving. We sent our bonny baskets all over the world once upon a time. Those days are long gone, mind.’
‘Bar’s open!’ called a Highland voice, and Beatrice didn’t need to look across to know to whom it belonged. Something within her withered a little as she remembered her rudeness earlier.
‘Does Atholl Fergusson run the bar?’ Beatrice said in a low tone, as she shifted in her seat.
Seth’s twinkling eyes crinkled into sunrays at the corners as a slow smile dawned. ‘In recent months, yes. Since… well, I’m no one to blether other folks’ business…’ He paused to look around, giving Beatrice the impression he waspreciselythe type and she was about to get a nugget of Port Willow gossip.
Seth leaned a little closer, drawing a pipe from the pocket of his tweed jacket. ‘You know the older, taller of the Fergusson lads, Eugene?’
Beatrice told him she certainly did.
‘His missus upped and left. A midnight flitting, almost two years ago now. He woke up and she was gone, back to Canada where she came from. Now he won’t do the evening dinner service because she always did it with him. Wonderful cooks they were, but he can’t seem to face it without her, try as young Atholl might to encourage him.’
‘Seth? Your usual?’ Atholl called pointedly from the bar, his ears obviously ringing with his family’s name.
Beatrice’s elderly companion gave a chuckle and pursed his lips again as he slipped the pipe in his mouth. ‘Aye, my usual please, Atholl. I’ll just take a smoke outside. I’m sure the lassie Beattie would like a drink too.’ With that, Seth looked meaningfully between Atholl and Beatrice and shuffled out the door.
Atholl appeared by Beatrice’s side, a pad in his hand. ‘I can take your food order too, if you’ve looked at the menu?’
Having had her mood lightened by Seth’s jovial warmth, she was in no mood for Atholl’s clipped efficiency and she determined to soften him. ‘Beattie?’ she said with a smile. ‘Is that to be my Highland name?’
‘You’ll no’ be here long enough for nicknames,’ Atholl replied, eyes fixed on the pad and pencil.
The wind left her sails again and she straightened her back to stop him seeing her shoulders slumping. After feeling so low for so long Seth had brightened her day, and here was Atholl Fergusson bringing the thunder clouds back.
‘Have you seen the menu?’ he asked again, softer this time, as if regretting his brusqueness, but Beatrice was so out of sorts she didn’t hear the change in his tone.
‘Yes, I’ve seen it,’ she said, but snatched the folded card from the table and scanned it again, making him wait, just to spite him.
She had arrived early for dinner and found nobody in the bar, taking the only booth table in the place and settling herself in. Of course nobody was here, she’d thought. Customer service wasn’t the brothers’ strong suit. It came as no surprise that if the visitor information book in her room told her dinner was served from six until eight, the cranky Fergussons rigidly meant six and not a moment before.
‘I’ll have the fish and chips, and a ginger beer, please,’ she said, when she couldn’t hold him there any longer.
With that, Atholl was back behind the bar, scribbling on his pad. Beatrice tried to shrug off his rudeness, and justify her own, but was soon beset with the pained feeling thatshewas the cause of all his consternation this afternoon at check in. After all, when he’d appeared at the reception door he’d seemed, if not exactlyhappy, polite enough. But she had ruffled his feathers and now she wasn’t welcome. And she was finding it hard to back down in the face of his terse manners. Why was she like this?
Maybe some food and a night’s rest would set her back on track again. She was annoying herself now. All the more reason to get out of here as soon as possible and get back to – what? Normality wasn’t an option anymore, but she could head back to Warwick and see what could be salvaged of her old life.
Beatrice tried to return to her book, making a show of turning the pages with unruffled grace but finding her gaze following a beautiful woman in a long floral dress and lace-up grungy boots who had just come in and been greeted with what for Atholl Fergusson probably passed as an effusive hug.
Suddenly she found her view blocked by the woman she’d seen earlier with the wheelbarrow. Her hair was now free of its curlers and the perm brushed out into soft grey waves. She placed Beatrice’s drink before her.
‘Sup up, dearie. Food’s on its way too,’ said the woman.
Thanking her, Beatrice wondered why she felt so stung that the grumpy, rude Atholl Fergusson hadn’t carried her drink over from the bar himself. Had he purposely asked someone else so he could avoid having to talk to her?
