Ann Cleeves: Blue Lightning

Angela stared at her. ‘That’s the point. I’m not sure we’ll need you at all next year.’

‘You won’t need a cook?’ Jane knew she was panicking and that was making her obtuse. She stared at the younger woman, whose hair was loose today, a black cape down her back.

‘Of course we’ll need a cook. But not you.’ Angela’s tone was amused, slightly impatient. She had better things to do.

‘I don’t understand.’ That at least was true. Jane knew she was the best cook the centre had ever employed. She didn’t need the compliments from the visitors to tell her, or Maurice’s comments after a particularly busy week: I don’t know what we’d do without you. I’m not sure how we functioned here before you arrived.

‘The chair of trustees wants us to employ his goddaughter. She’s just out of catering college. Fully qualified.’

‘Then she could come as my assistant.’ Though Jane knew it would be a pain. Jane liked an assistant who did as she was told, who was happy to prepare vegetables and concentrate on the basics. The last thing Jane wanted was an assistant who thought she knew it all. In fact, she preferred to have the kitchen to herself. It had been a great relief when the latest help, a jolly Orcadian called Mandy, had gone off on the Shepherd the week before.

‘We suggested that,’ Angela said smugly. ‘But it wouldn’t do.’

‘Surely that’s Maurice’s decision. Not the chair of trustees.’

‘In theory.’ Angela smiled. ‘But Christopher has offered to make a substantial donation to the centre. It would allow us to completely update the library and replace the old computer in the office. In those circumstances we can’t turn down his offer to find us a cook too.’

Christopher Miles had his own business in the north of England. Jane had met him briefly when the trustees came to the island for their annual meeting. She’d liked his enthusiasm and his lack of pomposity. She thought the offer of employment had come from Angela, a way of cementing the sponsorship deal. Nepotism wasn’t his style.

‘What does Maurice make of this?’

‘As I said before, it isn’t really Maurice’s decision. We’re appointed by the trustees.’ She looked at Jane. ‘You only have a short-term contract. We’re not obliged to have you back each year. You’re an educated woman. I’d have thought this sort of work would bore you eventually anyway.’

And Angela turned, her hair swinging, and strode out of the kitchen.

Automatically, Jane continued to arrange slices of quiche on a plate. It was some minutes later that she realized she was crying.

Usually Jane enjoyed the dances in the lighthouse. The experience reminded her a little of Dee’s parties in the old house. It wasn’t that Dee’s media friends had gone in for fiddle and accordion music and they didn’t dance eightsome reels or the Dashing White Sergeant, but Jane had the same sense that she was managing the event. She liked watching people having a good time and knowing that her cooking and her organization had made it happen.

Now she was determined that Angela shouldn’t know she was upset. This was a celebration and it wouldn’t do to spoil it. Besides, why should she allow an arrogant and manipulative woman any sense of victory? Jane couldn’t believe that Maurice would allow Angela to sack her. Jane made his life easy and Maurice was all for an easy life.

She watched Perez lead his fiancée on to the floor for the first dance, felt a moment of envy for the intimacy, the matching grins when Fran stumbled over a step. I never had that. Not even with Dee.

Maurice’s teenage daughter Poppy appeared in the break, just as the food was coming out. Throughout her troubles she’d always kept her appetite. She was dressed entirely in black and had intended to shock. The skirt was very short. Jane thought she didn’t have the legs to carry off the look and had made herself ridiculous, almost pitiable. She had a couple of young islanders with her – college students who’d got into Fair Isle for their reading week before the weather closed down. Jane thought Poppy had been entertaining them in her room; she’d got to know them on previous trips to the island. It was clear they’d all been drinking, but at the moment they were well behaved. The island kids wouldn’t cause a scene in front of their parents and grandparents and at the moment Poppy was taking her lead from them. They joined the queue for food. From behind the counter Jane watched the girl and felt sorry for her.

The music started again and Maurice asked Jane for a dance. For a man who was rather unfit, who took very little exercise, Maurice danced well. He dressed up for these occasions, a parody of himself, in a bow tie and shiny black shoes. Jane had realized during her first season what a part traditional music and dancing played in island life and had determined to master the steps. She’d watched, taken notes and practised in her room. Now she could do them automatically. She no longer had to count the beats in her head.

‘Angela says you don’t want me back next year,’ she said. They were in the middle of a circle of clapping people. They held hands, arms crossed, elbows bent, and began spinning, their bodies leaning out with the speed of the movement. He didn’t have time to answer before they separated and skipped out of the circle, but with some satisfaction she saw a flush of anger. A moment later they came together again, linked arms, and promenaded around the room, following all the other couples. Ahead of them Mary and James Perez were light and easy on their feet so you could believe they’d keep going all night.

‘Nothing’s been decided,’ Maurice said. ‘She had no right to discuss it with you.’

‘I think I have every right to know what’s going on.’ Jane thought she sounded very reasonable. ‘I have my own plans to make.’

‘Leave it to me. I’ll sort it out.’

The music stopped and the dancers clapped and laughed. Outside, the storm grew even more fierce.

Poppy lost her temper at the end of the evening when many of the guests were leaving; by then Jane had been thinking they’d get through the party without a problem. The tantrum had been brewing for days. Jane thought Poppy was like an enormous two-year-old, chubby, demanding and inarticulate. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see the girl lying on the floor kicking and screaming. How could you reach the age of sixteen and have so little self-control?

Angela had been taking her turn working behind the bar – all the field centre staff did a stint on open evenings – and had refused to serve Poppy a drink. Poppy had been clearly drunk, but Jane suspected the decision not to allow her one more can of lager had been a deliberate provocation. Angela disliked the girl and disliked Maurice’s attention being distracted by her. The evening was winding up and perhaps Angela was a little bored. She did like a drama.

So suddenly Poppy started shouting abuse. She leaned across the bar and yelled at her stepmother: ‘You have no fucking right to tell me what to do.’ She took a full glass of beer that had been standing next to her and flung it at Angela. Jane saw with some satisfaction that it went all over the famous hair.

The lingering guests moved quickly into the lobby to collect their coats and change their shoes. They were clearly embarrassed. Jane went with them to say goodbye, to hold the door and warn them to take care on the drive south. Jimmy Perez was the last to go. He seemed intrigued by the scene being played out in the common room and stood watching through the open door. It took Mary to call him away. There was a flurry of thanks. Mary shouted back to her: ‘You must come and have dinner with us in Springfield before Jimmy and Fran go home.’ Then came the sound of a car engine over the gale, headlights showing it was still pouring with rain.