A Highland Christmas (10 page)

‘One of her good days,’ Mrs Kirk whispered to Hamish.

They all sat down and were served with sweet sherry and slices of Christmas cake. The lights were switched off except for a light over the piano and the glittering lights on the tree.

Bella and Charlie were really good, thought Hamish as they belted out all the old songs, Charlie playing and both singing, their voices still full and strong. Elderly faces beamed, arthritic
fingers tapping out the rhythm on the arms of chairs.

Morag sat clutching her father’s hand and thought her heart would burst with happiness. In that moment, she decided that she would be a policewoman when she grew up and be as much like
Hamish Macbeth as possible.

Only Maisie felt let down. It was not that Hamish was ignoring her. It was just that he treated her with the same friendliness as the rest of the party. She thought of the large turkey that she
had cooked the night before so that it only needed to be heated. Would Hamish think it excessive? There had been a television programme on world famine, and then thinking of those stick-like people
and the sheer waste of that overlarge bird, Maisie felt guilty.

The concert finished at five and then after more sherry and cake, they all climbed back on the bus.

As Hamish drove out of Inverness on the A9, it began to snow again, great gusts of white whipping across his vision.

He wondered what on earth he would do with this busload if he got stuck. He called back to Mr McPhee, ‘Would you mind if I went straight to Lochdubh? I can put you up for the night.’
He remembered Maisie’s dinner and said over his shoulder, ‘Is that all right with you, Maisie?’

‘Oh, sure,’ said Maisie, sarcastic with bitter disappointment. ‘Why not bring everyone?’

Hamish missed the sarcasm in her voice and said warmly, ‘That’s really good of you.’

‘Yes, it is,’ said Angela. ‘I’ll drop off at our place and pick up the turkey and dumpling. Everything’s ready. We’ll have a feast.’

‘If we ever get there,’ said Hamish.

Morag crept down the bus and clutched her father’s arm. ‘Daddy, can we go, too?’

He looked down into her wide pleading eyes and bit back the angry refusal. ‘Well, just this once.’

And it will be just this once, thought Maisie angrily. She thought of the boyfriend down in Inverness that she had jilted. She had been cruel. She would phone him up and make amends.

Hamish was often to wonder afterwards how he had ever managed to drive that bus to Lochdubh or how the old vehicle had managed to plough up and down the hills as the storm increased in force. He
let out a slow sigh of relief as they lurched over the hump-backed bridge that led into the village and saw the Christmas lights dancing crazily in the wind.

It was only after Angela and Dr Brodie had collected their contributions to the meal that Maisie began to brighten up. As the women helped her in the kitchen and the men laid
the table and then went out into the storm to make forays to collect more chairs, she was surrounded by so many people thanking her that she began to get a warm glow. Her spirits sank a little as
Mr McPhee grabbed her under the mistletoe and gave her a smacking kiss, but lightened again as soon as everyone was seated round the table in front of large plates of turkey and stuffing, chipolata
sausages, steaming gravy and roast potatoes. Bowls of vegetables were passed from hand to hand. Wine was poured, although the Andersons and Morag stuck to cranberry juice.

Hamish rose to his feet. ‘A toast to Maisie for the best Christmas ever!’

Everyone raised their glasses. ‘To Maisie!’

When the turkey was finished and the plates cleared, Angela said brightly, ‘The dumpling’s heating in the oven. I’ll get it if some of you ladies will help me with the
plates.’

Hamish watched nervously as the large brown dumpling was carried in and placed reverently in the middle of the table. Angela’s lousy cooking was legendary.

‘Would you do the honours, Hamish?’ said Angela brightly.

Hamish reluctantly picked up a knife and sank it into the pudding. He cut the first slice and spooned it on to a plate and then filled the other plates. It looked good, but with Angela’s
cooking, you never could tell until you’d tasted it.

Custard was poured over the slices. Here goes, thought Hamish. He cautiously took a mouthful. It was delicious! What an odd Christmas, he thought. For once in her life, Angela’s got it
right.

Mrs Gallagher and Mr McPhee had discovered a mutual interest in bird watching and were chatting busily. The Currie sisters who had strict Christian beliefs were talking happily about the
iniquities of the world to the Andersons. Morag was telling Angela about her Christmas and Maisie was flushed and happy at the success of her dinner party.

‘Who can that be?’ demanded Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife.

‘Why don’t you answer the phone and find out?’ suggested her husband patiently.

Mrs Wellington picked up the receiver.

‘Hello, Mrs Wellington, this is Priscilla.’

‘Merry Christmas. Where are you?’

‘In New York.’

‘Would you believe it? The line’s so clear you could be next door. Everything all right?’

‘Yes, fine. Look, I’ve been phoning the police station. I’ve been trying to get hold of Hamish to wish him a happy Christmas. Do you know where he is?’

‘You could try the schoolteacher’s place. He might be there.’

There was a long silence.

Then Priscilla said, ‘Have you her number?’

‘Wait a minute. I’ll look in my book.’

‘Who’s that?’ asked the minister.

‘It’s Priscilla. She wants to talk to Hamish. I’m getting her the schoolteacher’s number.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t have suggested he might be there.’

‘Oh, why?’

The minister sighed. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

His wife gave him a baffled look and then located the number in her book and picked up the receiver again. ‘Are you still there? It’s Lochdubh six-o-seven-one.’

At the schoolhouse the table had been cleared away and a ceilidh had started in the living room, that is, everyone performing something or other. The Currie sisters had taken
up positions in front of the fire and were singing in high, shrill voices.

‘I’ll get some coffee,’ said Maisie.

‘I’ll come and help you.’

One last try, thought Maisie. She stopped right under the sprig of mistletoe and smiled up at Hamish invitingly. He put his arms about her and smiled back. Maisie tilted back her head and closed
her eyes. At that moment, the phone rang loudly and shrilly.

Hamish released her. ‘You’d better answer that. I’ll get the coffee.’

Cursing, Maisie picked up the phone.

‘Priscilla Halburton-Smythe here,’ said a voice as cold as the snow outside. ‘I wish to speak to Hamish Macbeth.’

‘I’ll see if he’s here,’ said Maisie haughtily.

‘Who is it?’ asked Hamish.

‘It’s for you.’ Maisie went back to join the others.

The phone was in the little cottage hall. Hamish picked it up. ‘Lochdubh Police,’ he said automatically.

‘It’s me, Priscilla.’

Hamish sank down on the floor, holding the phone.

‘It’s yourself. How’s New York?’

‘Oh, you know, very bustling, very energetic as usual. I’m just about to go out to have dinner with friends.’

‘Bit late, isn’t it?’

‘I’m five hours behind you, remember?’

‘So you are. Merry Christmas. How did you know where to find me?’

‘Merry Christmas, Hamish. Mr Johnston told me you were romancing the schoolteacher and so I assumed you’d be there.’

‘Why on earth would he say a thing like that? We’re just friends.’

‘Just a cosy evening for the two of you?’

‘No, there’s a lot of people here. I’m just one of the guests. I’ll tell you what happened.’ Hamish told her about the cat and the lights and the visit to the old
folks home.

‘Sounds like fun,’ said Priscilla.

‘Will you be back for the New Year?’

‘No, I’ll be here for another six months.’

‘Now what’ll I do if I get the murder case and havenae my Watson?’ teased Hamish.

‘I’ll give you my number. You can always phone me. Write it down, and the address.’

‘Wait a bit.’ Hamish found a notepad on a table in the hall with a pen. ‘Fire away,’ he said.

She gave him the number and address and then said, ‘There are a lot of cheap fares to the States nowadays, Hamish. You could always hop on a plane.’

‘I could always do that,’ said Hamish happily, forgetting in that moment all about the state of his bank balance.

‘Why aren’t you over at Rogart with the family?’

Hamish told her about the soap powder competition and Priscilla laughed. ‘It is good to hear you, Hamish, and it would be good to see you again.’

‘Aye, well, you never know.’

They wished each other a merry Christmas again and said goodbye.

Maisie looked up as Hamish came into the room. His face looked as if it were lit up from within. ‘We were just discussing sleeping arrangements,’ she said. ‘It’s too bad
a night for Mrs Gallagher to get back home so Mr and Mrs Anderson have kindly offered to put her and Mr McPhee up for the night.’

‘What about Smoky?’ asked Morag anxiously.

‘Smoky will be fine,’ said Mrs Gallagher. ‘I’ve left him plenty of food and water.’

So the party broke up. Hamish stood with the others outside the schoolhouse. The snow had stopped and lay white and glistening under the sparkling fairy lights.

Maisie watched them all go and then went indoors to phone the boyfriend she had so cruelly jilted.

Hamish walked along to the police station. He felt very tired. He took out his key but as he bent to unlock the kitchen door, he heard a faint noise from inside. He went to the
police Land Rover and took out a hefty spanner to use as a weapon. Then he softly unlocked the door, threw it open and clicked on the kitchen light. A small dog trotted up to him and started
sniffing at his trousers. It had a label attached to its collar. He squatted down by the animal and read the label. ‘To Hamish from Archie. Merry Christmas.’

Hamish groaned. The fisherman knew there was a spare key to the police station kept in the gutter above the kitchen door. He must have let himself in with the dog while Hamish had been in
Inverness. Hamish didn’t want another dog. Once you’ve broken your heart over one dog, you don’t want another. And it was such an odd dog. It was a mongrel, small and rough haired
with floppy ears and blue eyes. Hamish could not remember ever having seen a dog with blue eyes. It licked his hand and jumped up to lick his face.

‘Have you eaten?’ asked Hamish. The dog wagged the stump of its tail energetically.

‘I’d better give ye something.’ Hamish poured a bowl of water and then searched in the cupboards. Then he remembered he had a steak out in the freezer. By the time he had
defrosted it, cooked it and chopped it up for the dog, he felt exhausted. He got ready for bed and then fell facedown and drifted off into a dream where he was walking along Fifth Avenue in New
York with Priscilla on his arm.

And then the phone rang from the police office. He came awake and sat up. The dog was sitting on the end of the bed looking at him with those odd eyes. He was tempted to let the phone ring and
let the answering machine pick up the call, but he remembered the weather and was frightened it might be a report of someone stranded up on the moors.

He went into the police office and picked up the phone. It was Detective Jimmy Anderson from Strathbane. ‘Is that you, Hamish?’ he said. ‘Well, you’d better move your
arse and get thae lights down.’

‘Why?’ asked Hamish, too sleepy to deny anything about the lights.

‘There’s a man called Sinclair over in Cnothan. Someone told him that Lochdubh was all lit up and he’s fuming that they’re his lights that the forensic boys said you took
to the station. Blair heard about it and he’s planning to get over there first thing in the morning.’

‘He won’t manage it,’ said Hamish. ‘The roads’ll be blocked.’

‘Hamish, he thinks he’s got you this time. He was talking about taking the helicopter. He was drinking all day and I tried to tell him the super would be furious at him for getting a
helicopter out, all that expense for some Christmas lights, but he’s determined.’

‘I’ll see to it.’ Hamish dressed hurriedly and then began to phone round the village.

Hamish and his army of fishermen worked all night, taking down the lights, carefully packing them back into the boxes, taking down the Christmas tree and propping it back up
against the wall of the police station. Other villagers came out to help. Word flew from house to house that Hamish Macbeth was in trouble and that his superior officer was about to descend from
the skies like the wrath of God.

Even Mr Patel set to work, making sure the lights were all correctly packed so there would be no sign they had ever been taken out of their boxes.

At last the work was finished and everyone crowded into the police station for a celebration party. Mr Patel presented Hamish with tins of dog food, for Hamish had told him about the dog.

‘What are ye going to call him?’ asked Archie.

Hamish longed to say that he didn’t want another dog, but the dog looked at him and he looked back at the dog and said instead, ‘I don’t know. Where did you find
him?’

‘I found the poor wee soul wandering up on the moors,’ said Archie, ‘and I thought, that’s the very dog for Hamish.’

‘But Archie, someone may be looking for it.’

‘Don’t think so. It was running up and down the road as if it had been dumped out of a car. Why not call it Frank?’

‘Why Frank?’

‘You know. Ol’ Blue Eyes.’

‘Frank,’ said Hamish to the dog.

He turned to Archie. ‘He doesn’t like it.’

Another of the fishermen laughed and said, ‘Look at the lugs on it,’ referring to the dog’s floppy ears.

‘What about it?’ said Hamish to the dog. ‘Like the name Lugs?’

The dog wagged its tail and put a paw on Hamish’s trouser leg.

They all raised their glasses. ‘To Lugs!’

‘Shh!’ said Hamish, holding up a hand for silence. He opened the kitchen door and stepped outside. The sky was turning pale grey. He could hear the sound of an approaching
helicopter.