Down an English Lane (45 page)

There was only a half-day excursion the following morning, after which the clients had a free afternoon in which to shop or do their own sightseeing. Bob drove the coach around the countryside on the outskirts of Edinburgh, as far as the Royal Botanical Gardens, and then back to Arthur’s Seat. The eager tourists scrambled up the lower slopes of the extinct volcano, exclaiming at the magnificent views over the city, and standing in groups, or singly, to have their photographs taken. Maisie lost count of the number of times she was snapped, on her own, or with her arm around one or another of the passengers. Possibly some of the snaps would find their way back to Galaxy’s head office, as promised, and would certainly be passed
around friends and relations back home.

‘And that’s Maisie, our courier. A lovely girl she was; nothing was too much trouble…’ At least she hoped that was what they would say…

Maisie and Bob stayed in the lounge after the evening meal, chatting with some of the guests, mainly passengers from the coach, although there were a few private guests there as well. Bob was keen to show off the items he had bought that afternoon as presents for his family. His wife, Mavis, and his children, ten-year-old Susan and eight-year-old Eddie, featured a lot in his conversation. He had bought a large box of Edinburgh rock in several pastel colours. Maisie had tried it once and had found it to be a sickly sweet confection, not a patch on the proper Blackpool rock, the bright pink minty sort that you could buy at all the seaside resorts.

‘And this is for our Susan…’ A Scottish girl doll, complete with kilt, sporran, tam o’ shanter and frilly white blouse, scores of which were to be seen in the shop windows of Princes Street and the surrounding area. ‘And a red tartan tie for Eddie; Royal Stuart, it is… And this is for the wife, my Mavis…’ He opened a small box to reveal a Celtic brooch; stones of various muted colours in a silver setting in the shape of a round shield. It was only costume jewellery to be sure, but quite beautiful
and chosen with love and care, as were the other items. Just tourist souvenirs, but Maisie knew that the recipients would love them.

‘D’you think she’ll like it?’ he asked, a little anxiously.

‘Of course she will,’ replied Maisie. ‘There’s no doubt about that… She’s a very lucky lady,’ she added.

They said goodbye to Edinburgh the following morning. The journey to Callander would not be a long one, so they made a midday break at Stirling to visit the castle high above the Firth of Forth. After she had finished her talk – the first time she had done that particular one – about the castle… ‘It was lived in by the various King Jameses, but turned into the luxurious dwelling place you see today by King James the Sixth, or James the First for us Sassenachs…’ the passengers were given ample free time for lunch.

She did not mind too much when a few of them were five minutes’ late returning to the coach, the first time that this had happened. She didn’t think they could get lost here, and now that they had left Edinburgh there was a more free and easy atmosphere to the holiday. It may be a holiday for them, but it’s not for you! she reminded herself. All the same, she was conscious of a certain gaiety, a lifting of her spirits in anticipation as they took
the road north-west towards Callander.

The Cameron Hotel was a greystone building in its own grounds on the outskirts of the busy little town. No sooner had Bob pulled into the car park than a grey-haired man, holding a clipboard, came on board.

‘Hello there, Bob.’ He shook hands with him. ‘Nice to see you again. You’ve made good time. And good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen…’

There was a rousing greeting of ‘Good afternoon…’ from the travellers; they were all finding their feet now.

‘And good afternoon to you too… Maisie.’ He glanced at her badge. ‘You must be our new courier. A very special welcome to you…

‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Gordon Cameron – yes, you’ve guessed; I’m Scottish! – and I am the manager of the Cameron Hotel. My family and I will do our best to make sure you all have a happy and comfortable stay with us. I will read out the numbers of your rooms, then you can go to the desk and collect your keys from Moira, our receptionist. It won’t take long. Don’t worry about your luggage. Bob and I, and my son, will see that it is brought to your rooms as soon as possible…’

Maisie looked around the spacious foyer. It was rather dark – she guessed the building dated from the mid-Victorian era – but it was not gloomy. The windows were quite small and mullioned, although one of them was of stained glass depicting Bonny
Prince Charlie in his Stuart tartan kilt. The carpet was a serviceable green and black tartan and several green leather armchairs were grouped around two low tables. On the walls there were prints of Highland cattle and animal scenes that she thought were copies of Landseer. A stag’s head looked down from the alcove above the door, which was not really to her liking.

She stood to one side, waiting till the end to claim her key. There was a young fair-haired man as well as the receptionist behind the desk, giving out the keys and welcoming the guests. Bob was already busy, heaving suitcases, one in each hand, from the boot of the coach into the foyer. He paused for a moment, putting the cases down and wiping his brow.

‘Here, Maisie… I want you to meet somebody. This is Andy Cameron, the young fellow I was telling you about, the one that sings so nicely. And not only that, he’s the chef an’ all! Andy…this is Maisie, our new courier.’

She stepped towards the desk, reaching for the young man’s outstretched hand.

‘Hello there, Maisie,’ he said. ‘I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance. You are, indeed…very welcome.’

She found herself looking into the pair of bluest eyes she had ever seen, shining with pleasure and good humour, and a wide smiling mouth.

‘Hello…’ she said, and her voice was almost a whisper. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, too.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

A
ndrew Cameron was the son of Gordon Cameron, the owner and manager of the hotel and, as Bob had said, the chef of whom she had already heard such glowing reports. After a few seconds, during which she felt as though she was drowning in his intense blue gaze, she pulled herself together and smiled.

‘Bob has been singing your praises ever since we left Leeds,’ she told him. ‘I’m sure we are in for a veritable feast.’

‘Aye, I’ve one or two wee surprises up my sleeve,’ he grinned. ‘I like to ring the changes and try out new ideas. And on Friday night we have our special Scottish banquet…’

‘Let me guess… Haggis, followed by roast venison?’

‘Wait and see…! You’ll be here for the rest of the season will you, Maisie? Every three weeks, I
mean, when the tour is here?’

‘I’m…not sure,’ she replied. ‘There will be a permanent replacement for Thelma eventually, but it’s not quite decided yet.’ It was intended, in fact, that she should fill in only for the next three weeks or so, but she was beginning to think that it might not be a bad idea to extend her time as courier…

Andy nodded and smiled. ‘You’ll see how you like us first, eh? Aye, well, that’s no’ a bad idea.’ His voice was easy on the ear, a gentle Scottish burr, not too pronounced, and with a friendly and sincere tone. She guessed he was in his mid-twenties, quite tall and reasonably handsome in a craggy sort of way; a younger edition of his father, with the same firm jawline and crinkly hair, the colour of pale corn.

‘Now – I mustn’t take up any more of your time. Here’s the key to your room, Maisie. It’s on the second floor. We’ve no lift, but the stairs are quite shallow and manageable for the older guests. Is that your bag? Very good; I’ll carry it up for you…’

She followed him up the stairs, carpeted, like the foyer, in the green and black tartan. The sun was shining through a stained-glass window on the first landing, depicting a Scottish warrior, casting shimmering lozenges of red, yellow and purple on the dark carpet.

‘That’s Rob Roy MacGregor,’ said Andy, following her gaze. ‘Somewhat stylised, no doubt, but he’s quite a hero round these parts, so he is. I
hope you’ve been brushing up on your Sir Walter Scott?’

‘I have indeed,’ replied Maisie. ‘
The Lady of the Lake
and all that…’

‘Aye, and we’ve a likeness of her as well on the next landing… There she is,’ he said, when they had climbed the remainder of the stairs. ‘Lady Ellen Douglas, the original Lady of the Lake. I say a likeness, but no one really knows, do they, what she looked like?’ The stained glass portrayed her in a blue gown looking out from the battlements of a castle.

Maisie’s room was just two steps away. ‘There you are,’ said Andy. ‘Bathroom and all the necessities down the corridor… We’ll be serving a cup of tea for the guests in about half an hour or so, in the downstairs lounge. So I’ll leave you in peace now, Maisie. See you later…’

The room, quite small but adequate, was at the back of the hotel, overlooking a pleasant garden area. There was a paved terrace and steps leading down to a lawn, and beyond that a stream and a wooded area. She stood there for a few moments, drinking in the view across to the distant hills. These mountains of the Trossachs were not particularly high, but impressive for all that, bathed in the sunlight of the late afternoon. It was all so lovely, so peaceful… Maisie felt an inexplicable surge of happiness seize hold of her.

She turned away from the window, flopping
down on the bed and shaking her head in bewilderment. If she were honest with herself she knew only too well the reason for the feeling of joy and light-heartedness that had come over her. A smile from a pair of blue eyes…

Eyes as blue as the bluebells in the woods in springtime, beyond Nixons’ farm; the blue of a summer sky; or cornflowers in the Rectory garden… Stop it, you silly fool! she admonished herself as all kinds of similes, the sort that you read in romantic stories, came into her mind. Whatever was she thinking about, allowing her head to be turned by a winning smile?

He was a good-looking young man, to be sure, very friendly and personable, but to be so suddenly smitten, as she felt she had been… It was ages since a member of the opposite sex had had that sort of effect on her. Not since… Bruce. The thought of Bruce Tremaine, coming into her mind unexpectedly – she didn’t often, consciously, think about him now – gave her a jolt; she wondered momentarily, how he was faring. Had he married again, or was he engaged? She did not think so, or word would have reached her via the Middlebeck grapevine. The other young men with whom she had spent some time over the past few years – Ted, Colin, Mike Palmer, who was still waiting and hoping that she might have a change of heart – had been pleasant enough companions. Occasionally she had felt the stirrings of what she supposed was
desire; it was good to be cherished and made a fuss of, and she had returned their kisses and embraces, but she had never felt, with any of them, that the friendship could ever develop into something more lasting.

You silly fool, Maisie Jackson! she told herself again. He will probably turn out to be married. He might even have a couple of kids; he was plenty old enough. Or, at the very least, a young man as attractive and agreeable as Andy Cameron was sure to have a fiancée or a steady girlfriend.

She had a quick ‘wash and brush-up’ in the bedroom washbasin, after locating the necessary little room down the corridor. Very few hotels had bedrooms with their own private baths and toilets, certainly not the hotels that Galaxy used on their tours. The cost of these rooms would be too expensive a price for clients to pay at the moment; but these ‘en suite’ facilities, as they were called, were gradually creeping into the larger, ‘posher’ establishments. It would be nice to have your own lav and bath, thought Maisie, but she could not see that happening in the near future.

She applied a fresh coating of cherry-red lipstick, the same colour as the stripes on her blouse, but did not change out of that and her navy skirt. She was still officially on duty, although it was customary to change later, for evening dinner. Then she went downstairs and located the lounge which opened off the entrance hall. It was a large room, much
lighter and brighter than the foyer, with a red tartan carpet around the sides and a polished wooden square in the centre which she guessed would be the dance floor. There was a baby grand piano on a small stage at one end of the room and all around the carpeted area there were groups of comfortable chairs and low glass-topped tables. Most of the guests, it seemed, were already assembled, drinking the tea being poured out by a couple of waitresses with gay tartan pinnies over their black skirts.

Maisie sat down at a table with two middle-aged ladies she had met earlier in the week. She had met and spoken to everyone, of course, but these two were nice and friendly without being too effusive. Some clients could be rather demanding and overfriendly, thinking it gave them a certain amount of kudos, being well in with the courier.

‘Have a shortbread biscuit,’ said Beattie, one of the ladies, pushing a doily-covered plate towards her. ‘They’re delicious, aren’t they, Gladys?’

‘Mmm… I’m on my second one already,’ said that lady. ‘But we shouldn’t really, not if we want to do justice to our meal tonight… Oh look – I think Mr Cameron is going to talk to us.’

Gordon Cameron stood at the end of the room on the little dais to address them. ‘Once again, ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon to you. I hope you have all settled into your rooms. Any problems – extra pillows required, or if you would like an early morning wake-up knock at the door – just come and
see us at reception. As I said before, we will do all we can to make your stay here a very happy one.

‘This is a family concern…’ He pronounced it as ‘concairn’ with the Scottish intonation that Maisie was finding so pleasant to listen to. ‘…myself, my wife, Jeanette, and my son, Andrew. Then there is Moira, our receptionist, and our small team of waiters and waitresses, plus the two assistant chefs who help my son. We all work together as a happy family…’

Maisie glanced around unobtrusively as he was speaking. There was no sign of Andy, but she assumed he would already be hard at work in the kitchen; nor, as yet, of the wife that Gordon had mentioned. She noted, too, with interest, that there was no mention of any daughter-in-law…unless, of course, she reminded herself, there was one elsewhere who played no part in the running of the hotel.

Gordon Cameron was telling them that the Cameron Hotel had been in the family for several generations, handed down from father to son. ‘Aye, once we’d settled down and stopped fighting one another we decided on the more peaceful occupation of looking after tourists. The Camerons of old belonged to a warrior clan, you ken. Aye, we were loyal to the Stuart cause. No doubt you’ll have seen our window to Bonnie Prince Charlie. But I can assure you that we are now loyal subjects of His Majesty King George the Sixth, God bless him. There he is, to prove there’s no ill feeling…’

On the wall opposite the windows there were three large pictures; a portrait of King George and Queen Elizabeth in ceremonial dress; a photograph of Princess Elizabeth and the Duke of Edinburgh on their wedding day; and a painting of Balmoral Castle, Queen Victoria’s favourite Highland retreat.

They were informed of the times of breakfast and dinner and of the events that were planned for the evenings when they returned from their tours. This evening there would be an informal get-together in the lounge; Scottish dancing would take place on Thursday; and, to end the week, there would be a banquet on the Friday evening, followed by an entertainment of singing and dancing.

Maisie leaned back in her comfortable chair, sipping her orange juice and listening contentedly to the voices around her, all joining in heartily with the familiar Scottish songs and ballads. Andy was leading the singing, strolling round from table to table with a microphone in his hand, inviting people here and there to join in or sing a line or two on their own. Many were too inhibited to do so, but those who did were rewarded with a cheer from the folk sitting near them.

Jeanette, Gordon Cameron’s wife, was seated at the piano, and she seemed to be able to play anything that was requested. She was a bonny, plumpish woman with merry brown eyes, and hair
as dark as her husband’s and son’s was fair. Both of them, Mr and Mrs Cameron, appeared to be in their late rather than early fifties, putting them at well turned thirty, Maisie surmised, when their only son Andy was born.

Maisie joined in with the songs she knew, but not too enthusiastically at first. She didn’t want people to think she was showing off; although she knew she had a good voice and, what was more, that voice was longing to be heard. Singing was a pleasure she had not had much time or opportunity to indulge in of late. Oddly enough, as she heard the Scottish songs she had not heard for years, she was transported back in memory to the schoolroom in Middlebeck and the singing lessons with the headmistress.

Charity Foster had not been much of a pianist, but she had done her best. The children had sung along lustily from their little red books of words, their voices getting louder and louder to compete with Miss Foster’s heavy chords on the piano.

they had chorused, having little idea of what the words meant, but it was a good tune.

Or ‘Charlie is me darling…’ Maisie remembered the sly glances of the little girls to one another, as there had been a handsome lad in their class called
Charlie, and he had blushed crimson each time it was sung. And another favourite had been ‘The Bluebells of Scotland’…

Those must have been the warriors who had not supported the Stuart cause, she pondered now. But they had been given no inkling as children as to the history behind the words; she had picked that up much later through her own reading. But why was Andy singing it, she wondered, if his clan had supported the Stuarts? Probably because it was just a jolly good song, now, as it had been in the schoolroom.