Inverness to London. Outside the snow had begun to fall and inside, the air conditioning was blasting away. She had complained before about the freezing temperature on British Rail trains and so knew she had no chance of getting any heat. She wondered savagely if the anti-pollution campaigners had thought of doing anything about British Rail. The employees, reflected Priscilla, were so bloody rude that most people preferred to drive and pollute the air rather than go by train. It was rather like entering a Kafkaesque state where ordinary laws, rules, and courtesies did not apply. The motto of British Rail should be ‘Sod the Public,’ thought Priscilla, standing up to get down a travelling case and find an extra sweater.
She sat down again and looked out of the window and there, strolling along the platform, came Hamish Macbeth. She waved to him and he climbed aboard the train and handed her a travelling rug. ‘Thought you might be cold,’ he said.
‘Oh, Hamish, how sweet of you!’ Priscilla put the rug over her knees. ‘Did you come all this way just to see me off?’
‘Och, no, I haff the police business in Inverness.’
‘And what police business do you have that the Inverness police cannot cope with?’
‘It’s a secret,’ said Hamish stiffly. ‘Have a good trip and I will be seeing you in the summer.’
He turned about and marched off the train.
I’ve offended him, thought Priscilla miserably, of course he wouldn’t come just to see me off but even if he did, I shouldn’t have said so. Then she noticed the travelling rug was thickly covered in dog hairs and it also smelt of dog. Poor Towser. Priscilla stroked the blanket. I hope he doesn’t miss his rug too much.
Hamish walked angrily out of the station. What on earth had made him drive all the way to Inverness just to say goodbye to Priscilla? The fact was, he suddenly thought, stopping dead in his tracks and oblivious to curious stares, he missed being in love with her. He had only been hoping to stir up a few embers. And imagine giving away poor old Towser’s favourite rug.
‘Better buy the smelly mongrel a new one,’ he said aloud, ‘or he’ll be mad at me for weeks.’
He looked down and found a small middle-aged woman looking up at him curiously.
‘Can I help you, madam?’ he demanded, awfully.
The woman sniffed and then said, ‘I’m thinking ye could do wi’ a bit o’ help yersel’, laddie, staunin’ there mumbling.’
Hamish walked on, pink with irritation.
Damn all women!
Chapter Four
I’d be a butterfly; living like a rover,
Dying when fair things are fading away.
– T.H. Bayly
Spring comes late to the highlands, turning Sutherland into a blue and misty landscape; light blue rain-washed skies, far away mountains of a darker blue, cobalt blue sea.
And always through the glory of the awakening world drove Alison Kerr, propelled by her obsession with the car. She kept away from Hamish Macbeth, being of the timid nature which prefers love long distance. It was all too easy to understand he was not interested in her when she was with him; but easy to dream that he really was in love with her after all when he was absent.
So Alison was happier than she had ever been in her life. There was the magnificent stark beauty of Sutherland, the car, the cosy, practical mothering of Mrs Todd, the car, Hamish Macbeth, the car, no Maggie, and the car, which she had come to regard as her own.
She privately called the car ‘Rover’, imagining it to be like a faithful and affectionate dog.
And then as spring gave way to early summer and great splashes of bell heather coloured the mountains and the nights were long and light, those northern nights where it hardly ever gets really dark, back into this paradise came Maggie Baird, although no one, not even Alison, recognized her at first.
She was svelte and beautiful with golden hair in a soft, clever style and a wardrobe of clothes by Jean Muir. She had high cheekbones and her
She sat down again and looked out of the window and there, strolling along the platform, came Hamish Macbeth. She waved to him and he climbed aboard the train and handed her a travelling rug. ‘Thought you might be cold,’ he said.
‘Oh, Hamish, how sweet of you!’ Priscilla put the rug over her knees. ‘Did you come all this way just to see me off?’
‘Och, no, I haff the police business in Inverness.’
‘And what police business do you have that the Inverness police cannot cope with?’
‘It’s a secret,’ said Hamish stiffly. ‘Have a good trip and I will be seeing you in the summer.’
He turned about and marched off the train.
I’ve offended him, thought Priscilla miserably, of course he wouldn’t come just to see me off but even if he did, I shouldn’t have said so. Then she noticed the travelling rug was thickly covered in dog hairs and it also smelt of dog. Poor Towser. Priscilla stroked the blanket. I hope he doesn’t miss his rug too much.
Hamish walked angrily out of the station. What on earth had made him drive all the way to Inverness just to say goodbye to Priscilla? The fact was, he suddenly thought, stopping dead in his tracks and oblivious to curious stares, he missed being in love with her. He had only been hoping to stir up a few embers. And imagine giving away poor old Towser’s favourite rug.
‘Better buy the smelly mongrel a new one,’ he said aloud, ‘or he’ll be mad at me for weeks.’
He looked down and found a small middle-aged woman looking up at him curiously.
‘Can I help you, madam?’ he demanded, awfully.
The woman sniffed and then said, ‘I’m thinking ye could do wi’ a bit o’ help yersel’, laddie, staunin’ there mumbling.’
Hamish walked on, pink with irritation.
Damn all women!
Chapter Four
I’d be a butterfly; living like a rover,
Dying when fair things are fading away.
– T.H. Bayly
Spring comes late to the highlands, turning Sutherland into a blue and misty landscape; light blue rain-washed skies, far away mountains of a darker blue, cobalt blue sea.
And always through the glory of the awakening world drove Alison Kerr, propelled by her obsession with the car. She kept away from Hamish Macbeth, being of the timid nature which prefers love long distance. It was all too easy to understand he was not interested in her when she was with him; but easy to dream that he really was in love with her after all when he was absent.
So Alison was happier than she had ever been in her life. There was the magnificent stark beauty of Sutherland, the car, the cosy, practical mothering of Mrs Todd, the car, Hamish Macbeth, the car, no Maggie, and the car, which she had come to regard as her own.
She privately called the car ‘Rover’, imagining it to be like a faithful and affectionate dog.
And then as spring gave way to early summer and great splashes of bell heather coloured the mountains and the nights were long and light, those northern nights where it hardly ever gets really dark, back into this paradise came Maggie Baird, although no one, not even Alison, recognized her at first.
She was svelte and beautiful with golden hair in a soft, clever style and a wardrobe of clothes by Jean Muir. She had high cheekbones and her
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