ONE
Turning up the collar of her jacket at the cool breeze that hinted at the end of summer, Ally McKinley looked around at the idyllic setting. The heather had now covered the foothills of the Western Highlands of Scotland in a purple haze, against the backdrop of her old converted malthouse, the castle and the blue-grey mountains above, not yet iced by layers of snow. The leaves of the trees were rapidly morphing into various shades of gold and copper, and the nearby river could be heard as it tumbled its way over rocks and stones towards the sea.
Nestling amidst the mountains, she was standing in what was one of the region’s rarities: a completely flat four-acre field where Jimmy McCrae normally grazed his sheep, or so she had been informed. Not today though. Today this was the setting for the Locharran Highland Games, and the field was packed with hundreds of onlookers, laughing and shouting in anticipation. Everyone appeared to be supporting someone who was competing in something. The mood was jovial and good-natured, particularly among those who’d spent considerable time in the hospitality tent where the whisky and beer flowed. There was an assortment of stalls around the perimeter,some selling hot or cold drinks, some selling Scottish souvenirs and another selling shortbread in half a dozen flavours. No one could possibly have forecast what was to come.
The summer had been busy and now, mid-September, Ally was beginning to feel a tad weary. Was it her age? She was now seventy-one after all, and she’d been living here in Locharran for over two years, much against the advice of her son and daughter, who both initially thought she’d lost her senses when she decided to move to this isolated spot and convert the old, neglected malthouse into The Auld Malthouse B&B.
She had been very glad to welcome a family who’d come all the way from Canada for the games a couple of days ago because summer was coming to an end, and the bookings had begun to drop off.
The village still buzzed with visitors, of course, many of whom had actually come just for the Locharran Highland Games, which, for no apparent reason, always took place on a Wednesday. And to gape at the spectacular castle up there, the historical home of the Earls of Locharran.
When Ally, along with her friend and lover, Ross, had arrived at the field, they found themselves standing next to Morag McConnachie, her cleaner, along with Morag’s husband, Murdo, the village postman. Between them, these two knew everyone and everything that took place in the village.
‘Well, look who’s here!’ Morag exclaimed, nudging her husband.
‘Aye,’ said Murdo, squinting against the sun. ‘Just a pity ye had to bring that bloody Canadian with ye!’ He referred to Archie Armstrong who, Morag had told her earlier when she’d seen the booking, was some sort of champion sportsman. He was known as the ‘Atlantic Warrior’.
‘I didn’t bring him with me,’ Ally protested. ‘He just happens to be staying under my roof!’
‘Aye, well,’ Murdo muttered to no one in particular.
‘Murdo’s only worried, ye see, becausethat man’sgoin’ to be winnin’ everythin’!’ Morag said.
Now Morag nudged Ally’s arm. ‘Look, there are my boys! Our lads have been trainin’ for this all year, and it’s not fair. Our Micky’s awful mad about that Canadian being allowed to take part.’
Morag had told her several times that their eldest son was a builder, known at these events as Muscles McConnachie, who’d won several contests of strength throughout Scotland, including caber tossing. He’d fully believed he’d be winning this event too, until Archie Armstrong had unexpectedly arrived on the scene. Micky’s younger brother, Bobby, known in these same circles as Braveheart Bobby, still lived at home and was another hopeful.
‘Our Bobby’s up and runnin’ all mornin’,every mornin’,’ Morag informed Ally, ‘and then he’s off to the gym for his weight trainin’!’ As she spoke, Morag’s eyes glowed with pride, and Ally could only wonder if Braveheart Bobby ever found time to do any work.
‘There was no word of a Highland Gameslastsummer,’ Ally had remarked, giving a wave to her friend, Linda, who was helping in the hospitality tent at the far end of the field.
‘Ach,’ replied Morag, ‘we didn’t have them last year cos Jimmy McCrae’s field was flooded and so they had the games at Clachar instead – and a bloody poor job they made of it!’ She shook her head sadly at the memory of it all.
Now there was further cheering from the crowd, including Morag and Murdo, as the elderly Earl of Locharran, in his green tartan kilt and tweed jacket, stepped jauntily up onto the podium. The earl, Hamish Sinclair, was a tall, handsome man in his seventies, with more than a passing resemblance to Sean Connery. He had white hair, a neatly trimmed white beard and a roguish twinkle in his eye. He’d finally settled down after years of womanising, due to meeting a young lady who’d provided him with not just one heir, but two at once! Kennethand William the twins were called and they were the legal inheritors of everything the eye could see – and a lot it couldn’t – including the land for miles aroundandthe entire village. The lady in question, Magda, was now watching him proudly alongside her twin baby boys, fast asleep in an enormous Silver Cross pram – an item rarely seen amongst all the strollers and buggies these days. Had it once transported the earl himself? Ally could only wonder and admire how Magda – once a nanny herself – coped so efficiently and calmly with these babies.
The earl wrestled with the microphone for a moment and did some throat clearing before finally addressing the crowd. ‘I am delighted to see you all here today, to continue the tradition of our beloved Highland Games, and welcome everyone!’ Much cheering. ‘I am proud to announce the games are nowopen!’
Immediately this was followed by the skirl of the pipes as the pipe band marched around the field a couple of times in their black jackets, red tartan kilts and plaids, playing ‘O Flower of Scotland’ – the unofficial Scottish anthem – and, as the pipers droned their way out of the field, Callum Dalrymple, manager of the Craigmonie Hotel and one of the organisers of the games, ascended the podium. He was a stocky, good-looking man in his mid-fifties, with hypnotic blue eyes which, when Ally had first met him, reminded her of Paul Newman’s. She’d rather fancied him then, in spite of him being much younger than her. But that, of course, was before she met Ross.
Callum announced that the first event today would be the tug of war against the Fort William team, which elicited more whoops and cheers from the crowd. The Locharran team had an enormous asset on their side: the so-called Atlantic Warrior, as well as Muscles McConnachie and Braveheart Bobby.
Ally could not recall ever having seen so many muscular bodies in the flesh, so to speak, and couldn’t help but wonder how many hours of training went into the maintenance of these gleaming torsos.
Ross put his arm round Ally. ‘Stick your eyes back into your head!’ he instructed with a laugh. ‘You would never be able to cope with that much testosterone!’
‘Just as well I don’t have to then!’ Ally replied, leaning against his firm body. ‘You’ve got as much testosterone as I need!’
What would she do without Ross?
Ally recalled their first meeting, when she’d taken her new black Labrador puppy, Flora, into the vet’s surgery for her inoculations and, instead of finding Will Patterson, the usual vet, she’d found his supposedly retired father. It had been a lucky day for Ally, and their relationship had gone from strength to strength.
Ally turned her attention to the tug of war, which was accompanied by much grunting, groaning, some swearing and a great deal of muscle flexing. The Locharran team, thanks to the Atlantic Warrior, won easily. After hammer throwing was announced as the next event, Hamish made his way across to where Ally and Ross were standing.
‘Foregone conclusion, I suppose,’ he said, pulling a face. ‘That Canadian is as strong as an ox!’ He turned to Ally. ‘I believe they’re staying with you at the malthouse?’
‘They are,’ Ally said, ‘and I understand that his wife has a relative around here?’
‘Oh indeed,’ Hamish confirmed. ‘She’s Angus’s niece.’
