Ian Slater: World in Flames

Mrs. McRae suddenly emerged from the kitchen. “Now, who’d like some of Mr. Brentwood’s coffee?”

“I’d love a cup,” said the commercial traveler, rising eagerly, toast crumbs tumbling from his napkin.

“And,” said McRae, staring at Price, who was now looking rather sullen himself, “how old are you, laddie?”

“I’m a lecturer,” Price replied defiantly, quick to the intimation of McRae’s question. “LSE.”

Rosemary looked up. McRae’s chin jutted forward combatively. “Och, never heard of it.” He returned noisily to his mug of tea.

“London School of Economics,” said Price crisply.

“Perhaps,” put in Rosemary, half out of genuine interest, half in an effort to calm things down, “you know my sister— Georgina Spence?”

Price looked at her blankly. “I — can’t say I do. Sorry. I’m— I’m in political studies actually. Theory.”

“Oh, aye,” said McRae, “we certainly need that. A good dose of political theory. Essential war work, is it?”

“She’s in her final year,” Rosemary continued, Price trying to be polite to her while clearly furious at the Scot.

“Georgina… Spence — you said? Spence — yes — I do remember the name, I think. But can’t put a face to it, I’m afraid. It’s a big place. To tell you the truth—”

“Of course,” said Rosemary. “I know what it’s like. I’m a teacher myself and—”

“A lot of people studying politics then, are there?” cut in McRae, ignoring Rosemary and shoveling several more spoonfuls of sugar into his tea. “Special rations — along with exemptions from active duty, is it? For the important work at the university, I mean?” McRae’s gray eyes sparkled even in the dim light of the dining room.

“No,” said Price, hands clasped before him, “no, same ration as everyone else actually. Though we don’t have everything, of course. Sometimes we’ve no sugar at all.”

The door from the hallway opened and the young couple who had excused themselves earlier, as Rosemary and Robert had arrived, came into the dining room — a spot or two of confetti still on the woman’s lambswool coat. The husband, despite the civilian garb, was a young serviceman, Robert guessed as he watched the way the man pulled out and carefully counted the five-pound notes. The man, a little younger than his bride, Robert thought, had the look of a junior officer — anxious to take the lead in front of her but not quite sure of what he was doing. Turning to his wife, he whispered something, Robert detecting a distinctly New York accent as the man finally gave up trying to understand the British currency, handing his bride a clutch of ten-p notes.

By the time the couple had left, their interruption of the table conversation long enough to have cooled tempers, the Prices were completing their meal in silence and, seeing that Mrs. McRae wasn’t going to bring out any more “real” coffee packets, politely fended off further offers of tea. As he rose to leave, Price asked Robert, “You on holiday?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so. I suspect we’ll see you again. Joan and I are doing a spot of sight-seeing ourselves. Few weeks off till the new term.”

“Well,” said Robert, rising and offering his hand, “next time I hope you’ll have time for more coffee.”

“So do I ,” said Joan, an edge to her voice, smiling at Rosemary. “And not so much talk!”

There was a long silence after the couple left, Robert finishing his kipper, the commercial traveler sitting quietly, hands about the cup of coffee in a warm embrace, but looking as pained as McRae, who was now avidly reading the obituaries. Finally the traveler spoke. “Excuse me. All—” He had the look of a petty criminal. “Does anyone mind if I smoke?” He glanced awkwardly at Rosemary.

“Not at all,” she lied. Next, the salesman sought Mr. McRae’s permission, the Scot shifting in his chair again, pushing his tea mug to a new position. “I’ll not mind.” Mrs. McRae was busy in the kitchen. The commercial traveler sat back, eyes closed to luxuriate in the twin pleasures of smoke and coffee. Through the dining room window they could see the young newlyweds getting into a yellow Honda Civic, the faint remnant of “Just Married” visible across the passenger door.

“That’s a silly thing to do,” observed McRae. “Cost him a packet to get that painted over.”

Mrs. McRae put a new pot of tea before him, smoothing its cozy. “Perhaps they don’t want to paint it over, McRae.”

“Aye,” conceded McRae, knowing he’d gone too far for her liking with the Prices but still grumpily eager to get in a last salvo at the world. “Well, they certainly didn’t mind who heard ‘em during the night.”

Robert saw Rosemary blush. The commercial traveler had his eyes closed in a grin of contentment as he exhaled, the long stream of smoke swirling in the air, as gray and turbulent as the storm clouds scudding in from the Irish Sea.

“You’ll be heading north, then?” said McRae.

“Yes,” answered Robert, his hand beneath the table on Rosemary’s thigh. “Yes, we’re off to Mallaig.”

“What?” said McRae, as if they’d taken leave of their senses. “That’d be nigh on two hundred miles!”

It always amazed Brentwood how the British sense of what distance it was proper or possible to travel in a day was so different from how the Americans viewed it, even accounting for the fact that the long, lonely roads over the moors and through the highlands were often one-way and certainly a far cry from any freeway — or motorway, as the British called it. “We should be there by dark,” said Robert confidently.

“You’ll be seeing Robbie’s cottage first?” It sounded more like an order from Commander in Chief Atlantic than a question.

“Yes,” said Robert.

“And Glencoe?”

It didn’t ring a bell with Robert. Rosemary came to her husband’s rescue even as she was trying to fend off his groping beneath the table. “You remember, Robert. I told you — it was the site of a great battle between the Scots and the English.”

“Who won?” asked Robert, smiling. “The Scots, I guess.”

McRae’s face was swept by squall, eyes brooding and sullen as the clouds congealing over the sea. “It wasn’t a battle,” said McRae. “It was a massacre. Maclain Macdonald, his wife, and thirty-six of the clan. Slain by the English. And by men who had supped with them.” McRae paused. “You’ll not be calling into your Holy Loch then?”

Robert reacted quickly, trying to hide his surprise, turning the question back to McRae. “Holy Loch?”

“Aye. You’re a submariner, aren’t you?”

Robert didn’t answer.

“You’re American, aren’t you?” pressed McRae.

“Yes, but—”

“Your face, laddie,” said McRae. “Clean as a bairn’s bottom. You’ve no seen the sun or any kind of weather for a wee while, have you?”

“You’re very observant, Mr. McRae,” Robert complimented him. McRae came around the table, face grimacing, his limp favoring the stiff left leg. Then, quite unexpectedly, he offered his hand to Brentwood. “Mind how ye go.” Next, his steel-grey eyes shifted from Robert to Rosemary. “And take good care of the lassie.”

Robert nodded his head. “Thank you, sir. I will.”

After they’d packed their bags into the trunk or, as Rosemary insisted on calling it, the “boot” of the Morris and driven off, Rosemary waving back to the lone Mrs. McRae on the porch, Robert wondered aloud why, if McRae was such a determined Scot, he had bothered fighting for the British in the Falklands War.

“The Scots love to fight,” she said simply, winding up her window against the splatter of rain and taking out the map of Scotland’s west coast, looking down at the thin, solitary roads winding up past Ayre to the Highlands and beyond — to Cape Wrath.