He’d kept himself busy all afternoon, practising a particularly difficult twisted chrysanthemum joint, the most complicated glue-free joint in cabinetry, and something he usually enjoyed the challenge of, but even that hadn’t been enough to distract him.
He should have gone about this morning’s conversation with Alice completely differently. He’d taken a liberty, presumed to know her, when in fact they’d spoken only a handful of times before. He’d gone against his instincts and interfered when he should have waited, letting her figure things out for herself. What right did he have to give a woman he’d only just met advice about her own mental health? He’d really blown it.
‘Ach!’ He stormed into his bedroom in the eaves of his cottage, and back out again, leaning his back on the doorframe, trying to talk some sense into himself. And yet the wardrobe was calling to him. In there were his kilt and jacket, shirt and tie, his ghillie brogues and his woollen knee socks, his sporran and flashes.
He should go to the Burns supper and apologise to her.
He had a ticket. That lassie from the hotel kitchens had been kind enough to drop one through his letterbox with a note thanking him for sharpening her knives, telling him she hoped he’d come. He wasn’t green enough to think the chef didn’t have designs on him, but he wasn’t egotistical enough to think a young woman like her could be happy with an older man like him. Besides, he only pursued someone if he liked them and there was only one person he felt like that about and she hated him right now, probably.
Would he make things worse, bursting in there? Would he risk showing her up when she was, no doubt, already tortured with the fear of performing the poem?
These thoughts churned in his mind as he pulled the wardrobe doors open and ran his hand down the thick pleated Harris kilt with its clean scent from the lavender-oiled cedar wood he’d used to construct his bedroom furniture back when he first bought this place, where he had lived alone, eaten alone, worked alone, and slept alone all these years.
A pining, burning feeling was cast in his stomach at the thought of walking in to that ballroom and asking her to save him a waltz, something that wouldn’t make her feel out of place, something you didn’t have to know the Scottish secret handshake for.
That woman had arrived here without knowing a soul and thrown herself into community life,savinglives. No wonder she was struggling. Cairn Dhu could be an obscure place, its weather as well as its customs not for the faint hearted.
Against his self-control, which had always been so strong until now, he pictured Dr Alice Hargreave in his arms, dancing her around the floor, her cheek against his, moving in rhythm to the ceilidh music. That’s when he’d tell her he was sorry. He hadn’t meant to spook her. She didn’t need saving, and certainly not by him. Quite the contrary, it was him that needed her.Wantedher, very much.
That was it. His mind was made up. He yanked his kilt from the hanger, throwing it onto the bed.
He was going after her.
He had to repair what he’d broken.
* * *
The spotlight shone in her eyes, making it impossible to make out faces. Shakily, Alice set the knife down on the linen tablecloth. Carenza’s stare burned into the side of her face, but she wasn’t going to look round. She took a deep inhalation through her nose, refusing to rush it. When her lungs were full, she let her eyes close and she blew it out, puffing her cheeks. Yes, everyone was watching, but what else was she meant to do?
In through your nose for five, she would tell patients when they hyperventilated. Hold it, then blow out the birthday candle for seven, six, five…
She exhaled hard and long, her eyes still screwed tight. Relax your jaw. Soften those shoulders, and breathe in…
She did it again, but this time she wasn’t alone.
Cracking open one eye, she saw Dr Millen up on his feet taking a deep breath too, and moving his arms as though he was conducting the whole audience like an orchestra. When she blew out this time, she heard a gust through the room.
‘And!’ she heard Dr Millen saying, still on his feet, facing the tables at the back, and everyone took a long deep breath in unison. Gracie was on her feet too, looking right at her, nodding encouragement.
The whole thing went on for a good few minutes.
It was ridiculous and lovely and she wanted to cry, but she didn’t. She blew out one long, steady lungful after another, accompanied by all the fancy guests, and when the room had stopped spinning, she nodded to Dr Millen that she was getting it together.
The old doctor winked at her as he took his seat again, and Alice unfolded the piece of paper in front of her as a gentle applause broke out across the room.
‘You can do it,’ Gracie called out.
A few shallower breaths and Alice knew she could get the first words out.
‘Fair fa’ your honest sonsie face,’ she said.Pretty.That means pretty.
A quick look towards Carenza – who actually looked quite pleased – told her she was doing all right, and she carried on, giving it her best, the way it was supposed to be said. Not perfect, but with heart.
‘Great chieftain of the pudding race!’
Smiles broke out around the room.
She was enjoying this, actually enjoying it! Even if she was shaking all over.
