‘I actually wondered if you do evening meals,’ Pearl says. This is the fourth place she’s called. The first and second, no one answered. The third was an answerphone and she decided there wasn’t much point in leaving a convoluted message. With Niall having set off on a walk, she quickly conferred with Shelley and Lena, and they devoured a pile of toast in the kitchen while mooting the possibility of driving to the nearest sizeable supermarket to stock up on the necessary ingredients. At least they knew now what the guests had ordered, having located Michael’s short but tempting menu on the Shore Cottage website.
It was like cracking an admittedly extremely simple code.
Mush = mushroom, ale and roasted chestnut pie.
Chick = chicken casserole with leeks, mustard and Shore Cottage herbs.
Lamb = lamb tagine with apricots and sweet potato.
Mouss = aubergine and butternut squash moussaka.
Crumb = hedgerow berry and toasted hazelnut crumble.
A pie = apple and cinnamon pie with creme fraiche or locally made vanilla ice cream.
Stick = sticky toffee pudding with caramel sauce.
So that’s what Niall and the Sampsons were expecting to be served up to them over the next couple of nights. However, the thought of throwing that lot together to Michael’s presumably exacting standards was somewhat overwhelming. Even as the more proficient home cooks, Shelley and Pearl weren’t confident that they could pull it off. Especially in a limited time frame, finding their way around all those ovens, perhaps with Niall hanging out in the kitchen and the Sampson family due to arrive at any time.
‘No, we don’t do evening meals,’ the man tells Pearl now. ‘But we have rolls left. I could do you some rolls?’
‘Sausage rolls?’ she asks. Could they do something with a vast quantity of sausage rolls?
‘No,filledrolls,’ he replies with a note of bemusement. ‘Ham, cheese or ham and cheese.’
‘Oh no, it’s dinners I’m after,’ she says, striding to the bottom of the garden, which looks out onto the vastness of the loch. It is perfectly flat, a sheen of silver in the cool wintery sunlight. Beyond it, the hills are a haze of rust and purple, the few trees bare and silhouetted against the colourless sky.
‘Sorry I can’t help you,’ the man says.
‘Is there anywhere else around that does evening meals?’ Pearl can hear voices and clattering in the background.
‘You could try the Ferry Inn? For tonight, is it?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice rises in hope.
‘Aw, you’ll be lucky. Last Saturday before Christmas? They’ll be rushed off their feet?—’
‘Oh, of course.’ She pauses. ‘You’re sure you couldn’t do anything else, other than rolls?’ she asks.
The man chuckles. ‘Crisps and nuts?’
Pearl forces out a dry snigger and thanks him. Shivering in the bitter cold now, with her auburn curls gusting into her face, she stops by the hen enclosure, wondering what to do next. Of course no pub around here will be able to rustle up seven meals according to her precise specifications. Not even foronenight, let alone two. They’ll be crammed with revellers gearing up for the big day.
Pearl bobs down to watch the hens pottering around in their enclosure. So far, Shelley has assumed the role of Chief Keeper, topping up their food, and bringing out bowls of hot water in order to stop the water dispenser from freezing. ‘What next?’ Pearl asks the black and white speckled hen. ‘What are we going to do, eh?’
She stands up, wondering whether it’s worth calling the Ferry Inn and sounding like a fool, when she sees Niall strolling towards her. ‘Hi.’ He raises a hand.
Pearl smiles and drops her phone back into the pocket of her borrowed jacket. ‘Enjoy your walk?’ she asks.
‘Oh, yes. It’s beautiful down there.’ He nods to one side, indicating the loch, and she follows his gaze. In London she rushes around, barely registering the weather or the colour of the sky. But up here it can turn from searing blue to a moody grey in a blink. Every time Pearl looks, the whole vista has changed.
‘I haven’t even explored yet,’ she says. ‘Tomorrow, hopefully.’
‘Do try to take yourself off for a walk,’ Niall suggests. ‘The path down there runs right along the lochside.’
‘I can’t imagine anywhere more peaceful,’ she says, although in truth there are times when she has felt more peaceful than this. ‘So d’you know Scotland well? Being the northern correspondent?—’
‘Actually no.’ He smiles. ‘I’ve only been to the more obvious places. Edinburgh, Skye, parts of the West Coast. I’d alwayswanted to do a big trip up here, off the beaten track. Away from the NC500 crowd, y’know?’
