I hesitate, wondering how to mention ghosts without sounding insane.
She waves a hand. “You best lock your door, or old Betsy will come in the night and bother you.”
Oh no. Thereareghosts.
“B-Betsy?”
“Never you mind Bets.” She leans in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “She likes a wee tipple now and then. Mostly on ladies’ night.”
I swallow. “A tipple?”
“Aye, she’s a pensioner, see. Lives on the government money, and she likes to stretch it out on our two-quid pints. Wouldnae hurt a fly, but she does lose her way now and then. Gets tired and has a wander up the stairs straight into the first room she finds, which is your number three. So you’ll be locking yourself in, if you know what’s good for you.” She grins. “Unless you’re wanting old Bets crawling intae bed with you.”
She bursts into laughter, and I can’t help but join her. No ghosts. Just a drunk woman with poor navigation.
Una looks relieved, mistaking the reason for my good humor. “Oh that’s grand then. You Americans are a happy sort, aren’t you? It’s a fine thing. We don’t mind old Betsy, either, not a bit. Her Gerry held her together, but when he passed—Ger was her husband,mind—she wasn’t quite the full shilling anymore, if you get my meaning. A bit dotty, like.”
I love Una. And she’s right. I’ve survived my mother. This Betsy doesn’t scare me one little bit.
“I’m familiar with dotty,” I tell her. “Trust me.”
“Ah, right.” She pauses, searching for how to respond, then adopts a brittle cheer. “Are you speaking of your mum, then? She gets on like a house on fire, no doubt about it. You’ve the same red hair.” Una lifts a hand like she might touch it, but she pulls back. “I can see the resemblance between you clear as dawn. You’re as like as two eggs. Can you sing, too? Janet entertained the lot of us, that’s for certain.”
I cringe. “Sorry about that. If I need to?—”
“You’re sorry?” She clucks with amusement. “No sorry about it. Your mum knows all the songs. She speaks the Gaelic as good as my Gran herself did, may she rest in peace. If you’re lucky, she’ll have taught you a word or two.”
“A bit, yeah.” I cringe, flashing back to my early childhood and years of getting pinched for my lousy pronunciation. “It never really took.”
“Well, it’s lovely to hear it. It’s enough to forgive your mum for being a Campbell.” She winks like this is supposed to mean something.
“Is that a bad thing?” I’m desperate to know more about my family. I’ve always dreamed of tracking down some Scottish cousins.
“Och, listen to me. You with the Campbell blood yourself.” Una waves a hand, suddenly flustered. “Just, well, never you mind.” She tsks to herself as she steers me to a table and practically shoves me into a chair. “Here I am havering onwhen you’re plain starved. Have you ever had a proper Scottish breakfast? You’ll not have, I wager. Porridge, toast, eggs. Or are you one for kippers? Och, listen to me. You’ll not know kippers from a hole in the wall, nice American girl like you.”
Una’s right, I don’t know kippers, but I do know the wordstoastandeggs. I open my mouth to ask for coffee, but she’s already ahead of me.
“Will you be wanting tea? No, I imagine you’ll be like the other Americans, wanting coffee. Am I right? Last week, we had a couple here from California who said they only drankex-presso. Can you imagine that? As if I could afford an expresso-maker machine. But I do a fine French press, and I say that’s as good as any fancy American coffee.
“Now your mum had tea. I had a pot on for her just yesterday before I realized she’d run like the dickens out of here. I mean, I’m sure she didn’t understand you were coming or she’d never have gone…” She tapers off, realizing the sensitive ground she’s treading.
I laugh humorlessly. Janet probably took offbecauseshe knew I’d be coming for her.
A twinge of sadness catches me off guard, and I busy myself with my napkin, searching for something to say. “Yeah, my mother loves her tea.” I arrange my fork, knife, and spoon just so. “She might be from around here,” I add, forcing my voice lighter. “I don’t suppose she looks familiar to you?” I make myself meet Una’s eye, then quickly look away from the knowing look that meets mine. When she squeezes my shoulder, I grit my teeth.
“No, love,” she says quietly. “But your mum’s red hair is as Scottish as Bruce’s lion. Yours too.”
This time, when she reaches out, she does stroke my head, sweeping wisps from my forehead. “Now you makeyourself at home and I’ll do the full Scottish brekkie for you. There’s nothing a good black pudding won’t fix.”
Turns out black pudding is as gross as it sounds. I’m busy cutting it into tiny pieces, discreetly spreading them around my plate so as not to offend Una, when a sharp laugh pierces the silence.
I startle and put down my fork with a trembling hand.Mom. She loves a good scare. A little too much.
“Well, if it isnae the Queen of Sheba.” Janet plops down beside me, loud and unbothered. Her accent is even thicker than Una’s as she demands, “Oh aye, thought you’d finally grace us with your grand presence?”
“I could say the same. I’ve been looking for you.”
“And here I am. Still. Which isnae where I’m supposed to be. And hereyouare. We’re here together, which means everything’s gone wrong.”
