A Highland Christmas (3 page)

‘Slainte!’ said Hamish, raising his glass with the Gaelic toast.

‘Slainte,’ she echoed.

The peat fire sent out a puff of aromatic smoke and an old clock on the mantel gave an asthmatic wheeze before chiming out the hour.

‘So,’ said Hamish curiously, ‘what brought you up here?’

‘My father was a farmer. I was brought up on a farm.’

‘Where?’

‘Over near Oban. I knew I could make a go of it myself.’

‘You must know country people and country ways. Why all the security?’

A little sigh escaped her. ‘I always thought one day he would come back.’

‘He?’

‘My husband.’

‘I thought you were a widow.’

‘I hope I am. It’s been a long time.’

‘Was he violent?’

Again that sigh. ‘There you have it. Yes.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘No, it’s my business. Finish your drink and go.’

Hamish studied her. ‘Was he in prison?’

‘Get out of here, you tiresome man. I’m weary.’

Hamish finished his drink and stood up.

‘Think about it,’ he said. ‘There’s no use asking the police for help and then withholding information.’

But she did not reply or rise from her chair. He stood looking down at her for a few moments and then he put on his cap and let himself out.

His Highland curiosity was rampant. Why had he never stopped before to wonder about Mrs Gallagher? She would appear in the village from time to time to stock up on groceries. If someone tried to
speak to her she would be so cutting and rude that gradually she had come to be left alone. In the morning he would visit one of the older residents and see if he could find out some facts about
her mysterious husband.

T
he following day, before he was due to talk to the local schoolchildren, he set out to call on Angus Macdonald. Angus was the local seer, credited
with having the gift of second sight. Hamish was cynical about the seer’s alleged powers, guessing that Angus relied on a fund of local gossip to fuel his predictions.

He went out to the freezer in the shed at the back of the house and took out two trout he had poached in the summer. The seer always expected a present.

The day was cold and crisp and so he decided to walk up the hill at the back of the village to where Angus lived. Hamish thought cynically that Angus kept the interior of his cottage
deliberately old-fashioned, from the oil lamps to the blackened kettle on its chain over the peat fire. His fame had spread far and wide. The dark, old-fashioned living room, Hamish was sure, added
to the legends about Angus’s gifts.

‘It’s yourself, Hamish,’ said Angus, looking more than ever like one of the minor prophets with his shaggy grey hair and long beard.

‘Brought you some trout for your tea, Angus.’

‘Fine, fine. Chust put them down on the counter there. A dram?’

‘Better not, Angus. I’m going to give a talk to the schoolchildren and I don’t want the smell o’ whisky on my breath.’

‘Sit yourself down and tell me what brings ye.’

‘Now, now,’ mocked Hamish, ‘I thought the grand seer like yourself wouldnae even have to ask.’

Angus leaned back and half closed his eyes. ‘She isnae coming back this Christmas.’

Hamish scowled horribly. He knew Angus was referring to the once love of his life, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe.

‘I didn’t come about that,’ said Hamish crossly. ‘Mrs Gallagher’s cat is missing.’ He opened his notebook, took out the black-and-white photograph of Smoky
and handed it to the seer.

‘It iss grey and white, that cat,’ said the seer.

‘You’ve seen it?’

‘No, I chust know.’

‘So tell me about Mrs Gallagher. I wasn’t around when she came to Lochdubh. There’s something about her husband. Know anything about that?’

‘I thought she was a widow.’

‘So you don’t know everything, Angus.’

‘No one can know everything,’ said Angus huffily. ‘You will need to give me a bittie o’ time to consult the spirits.’

‘Aye, you do that,’ said Hamish, heading for the door.

The seer’s voice followed him. ‘I find a bit o’ steak does wonders for the memory.’

Hamish swung round. ‘I gave you two trout!’

‘Aye, but there’s nothing like a bit of steak for helping an auld man’s memory.’

‘Aren’t you frightened of the mad cow’s disease?’

‘Not me,’ said Angus with a grin.

‘Aye, you’ve probably got it already,’ muttered Hamish as he walked down the frosty hill.

The village school only catered for young children. The older ones were bused to the high school in Strathbane. There was a new schoolteacher, a Miss Maisie Pease, and it was she who had
suggested that Hamish talk to the children. She was a small, neat woman with shiny black hair, a rather large prominent nose and fine brown eyes like peaty water. Hamish judged her to be in her
thirties.

‘Now, Officer,’ she began.

‘Hamish.’

‘Well, Hamish it is, and I’m Maisie. I feel that children are never too young to learn about the perils of drugs, as well as all the usual cautions about not talking to
strangers.’

‘Right. Are the children ready for me?’

‘They’re all in the main classroom.’

Hamish walked with her along a corridor to the classroom. As he neared it, he could hear the row of unsupervised children. When he pushed open the door, there came a frantic scrabbling of small
pupils rushing back to their desks. Maisie followed him in.

‘This is PC Macbeth, children,’ she said. ‘I want you to sit quietly and pay attention.’

Hamish looked round the faces of twenty-four children, ranging in ages from five to eleven years old, rosy-cheeked Highland faces with bright eyes.

He started off by talking about the evils of bullying and of stealing. He warned them against talking to strangers or accepting lifts from strangers and then moved on to the subject of drugs.
Not so very long ago, he reflected, such a talk would have been unnecessary. But drugs had found their way even up into the Highlands of Scotland. He then asked for questions.

After a polite silence, one little boy put up his hand. ‘Is wacky baccie bad?’

Hamish, identifying ‘wacky baccie’ as pot, said, ‘Yes, it is. It’s against the law. But a lot of people will tell you there’s nothing to it. It’s better than
booze. But it’s not. You can get sicker quicker and it destroys short-term memory. Just say no.’

Another boy put up his hand. ‘My brither wants to know where he can get Viagra.’

‘Ask Dr Brodie,’ said Hamish. The boy relapsed, sniggering with his friends. So much for the innocence of youth, thought Hamish.

He then asked them what Santa Claus was bringing them. He was answered by a chorus of voices calling out that they wanted dolls or mountain bikes or dogs or cats. Hamish was glad that the
children were not going to be denied Christmas, however Calvinistic the parents, although in the Lochdubh way, it would probably be celebrated behind closed doors.

‘I’m going to talk to you now about pets,’ said Hamish. He thought briefly of his own dog, Towser, long dead, and felt a pang of sadness. ‘Don’t ask your parents
for a dog or a cat unless you’re very sure what looking after an animal entails. A dog, for instance, has to be house-trained, walked and fed, possibly for the next fifteen years of your
life. A cat even longer. It’s cruel to want an animal as a sort of toy. If I were you, I’d wait until you’re a bit older. Dogs have to be properly trained up here or you’ll
have some animal worrying the sheep.

‘While I remember,’ he continued, ‘someone or some people have stolen the Christmas lights that were meant to decorate the street in Cnothan. I want you to let me know if you
hear anything about strangers in the Cnothan area. There’s a bit o’ detective work for you. Ask your older brothers or sisters or your parents and if there’s anything at all, let
me know. Also, Mrs Gallagher has lost a cat. I’m going to pass round a photograph of the cat and I want you all to study it carefully and then search for this cat. There’ll be a
reward.’

Schoolteacher Maisie then showed him out. ‘I see you don’t have the classroom decorated,’ said Hamish.

‘We were going to make some paper decorations but you know how it is. Some of the parents objected. They said they didn’t mind giving their children a present, but that they were
against what they call pagan celebrations. It’s hard on the children because they all watch television and they are all in love with the idea of a Christmas tree and lights and all those
things. Oh, well, it’s only at Christmas that they get stroppy. Other times, this must be the nicest place in the Highlands.’

‘It is that,’ said Hamish. ‘Maybe you’d like to have a bite of dinner with me one night?’

She looked startled and then smiled. ‘Are you asking me out on a date?’

Hamish thought gloomily about his unlucky love life and said quickly, ‘Chust a friendly meal.’

‘Then that would be nice.’

‘What about tomorrow evening? At the Italian restaurant? About eight?’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Grand,’ said Hamish, giving her a dazzling smile.

Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, was just arriving and heard the exchange. She waited until Hamish had left and then said in her booming voice, ‘I feel I should warn you against
that man, Miss Pease.’

‘Oh, why?’ asked the schoolteacher. ‘He’s not married, is he?’

‘No, more’s the pity. He is a philanderer.’

‘Dear me.’

‘He was engaged to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, daughter of Colonel Halburton-Smythe who owns the Tommel Castle Hotel. He broke off the engagement and broke her heart.’

Miss Pease had already heard quite a lot of Lochdubh gossip, and the gossips had it the other way round, that Priscilla had broken Hamish’s heart.

‘Oh, well,’ said Miss Pease, ‘he can’t do much to me over dinner.’

‘That’s what you think,’ said Mrs Wellington awfully. ‘Now about the Sunday school . . .’

Hamish walked along the waterfront and met one of the fishermen, Archie Maclean. The locals said that Archie’s wife boiled all his clothes, and certainly they always
looked too tight for his small figure, as if every one had been shrunk and then starched and ironed. The creases in his trousers were like knife blades and his tweed jacket was stretched tightly
across his stooped shoulders.

‘Getting ready for Christmas, Archie?’ Hamish hailed him.

‘When wass there effer the Christmas in our house?’ grumbled Archie.

‘I didn’t think the wife was religious.’

‘No, but herself says she’s having none of those nasty Christmas trees shedding needles in her house, nor any of that nasty tinsel. You ken we’ve the only washhouse left in
Lochdubh?’

Hamish nodded. The washhouse at the back of Archie’s cottage had been used in the old days before washing machines. It contained a huge copper basin set in limestone brick where the
clothes were once boiled on wash-day.

‘Well, the neighbours have been dropping by tae use it tae boil up their cloutie dumplings. But dae ye think I’ll get a piece. Naw!’

Cloutie dumpling, that Scottish Christmas special, is a large pudding made of raisins, sultanas, dates, flour and suet, all boiled in a large cloth or pillowcase. Some families still kept silver
sixpences from the old days before decimal coinage to drop into the pudding. Large and brown and steaming and rich, it was placed on the table at Christmas and decorated with a sprig of holly. It
was so large it lasted for weeks, slices of it even being served fried with bacon for breakfast.

‘In fact,’ said Archie, ‘the only one what’s offered me a piece is Mrs Brodie.’

‘Angela? The doctor’s wife?’

‘Herself.’

‘But Angela can’t cook!’

‘I know that fine. But herself says she’s going to try this year. Herself says it’s surely chust like a scientific experiment. You measure out the exact amounts.’

‘It never works with Angela,’ said Hamish. ‘Her cakes are like rocks. Come for a dram, Archie. I’ve been talking to the schoolchildren and it’s thirsty
work.’

They walked into the Lochdubh bar together.

When they were settled at a corner table with glasses of whisky, Hamish asked, ‘Do you know any gossip about Mrs Gallagher?’

‘Her, out on the Cnothan road? Why?’

‘I’ve been thinking. We all know her as a sour-faced bitch. But why?’

‘’Cos she’s a sour-faced bitch. Postman says she’s got the place like Fort Knox wi’ locks and bolts.’

‘I mean, what soured her? Was she always like that?’

‘I think so. Good sheep. Doesn’t have dogs. She just whistles to the sheep, different whistles and they do what she wants. She had one friend.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know if the woman iss still alive. She bought the croft from her. Mrs Dunwiddy She went to live with a daughter in Inverness. Wait a bit. Maybe two years back now, someone
says to me that Mrs Dunwiddy had a stroke and she’s in an old folks home in Inverness. What’s she done?’

‘She done nothing. She thinks someone’s pinched her cat.’

‘Gone wild probably or the fox got it.’

‘That’s what I told her.’

‘So what d’ye want to know about her for?’