Кит Мори - Flotsam and Jetsam

‘I’ll feel safer about you here,’ he explained. ‘I was not liking the look of that big lad, Wee Hughie. He has his eye on you.’

‘But I thought that was what you wanted, Calum?’ Cora replied as she stood watching him with her arms across her chest. ‘You told him that I was always on duty.’

‘Of course I did. You are a carrot, Cora.’

‘A carrot! Thanks very much, tattie head!’

‘No, not a vegetable. The type that you dangle in front of donkeys to get them moving. There is a story here, my girl, and we’re going to get on to it. Now, this is going to be good experience for you. A journalist has to get used to sleeping on the job. You get yourself settled, I’ll grab a few cushions and I’ll bed down in the archives room. You’ll find new toothbrushes and toothpaste in the bathroom. In the morning we’ll make a plan of campaign.’

He yawned, then went to the filing cabinet, pulled it open and took out his bottle of Glen Corlan whisky. ‘I’ll just have a wee dram to help me sleep. Would you like one?’

‘Ugh!’ Cora replied, screwing up her face in distaste.

‘But whisky is OK for vegetarians,’ he said encouragingly.

‘I would rather drink engine oil. Good night, boss.’

Calum sighed as he stuffed a couple of cushions under his arm, grabbed a mug and made for the archive room. ‘Good night, Cora.’

He was troubled. He wondered how she would cope in the cut and thrust world of journalism unless she developed a taste for Glen Corlan.

The following morning Lachlan was up with the lark. As arranged the previous evening his plan was to meet the Reverend Kenneth Canfield at the church for prayers, then have a nine hole rematch before having a long discussion about a project concerning their ministries. He had left food for Crusoe and a note for Torquil, since he had retired the previous evening before his nephew had returned from his mysterious trip to see Ralph McLelland.

He saw Kenneth standing in the cemetery as he approached the church across the golf course.

‘You are up bright and early, Kenneth,’ he called, as he left his golf bag against the fence and pushed open the creaking wrought-iron gate into the cemetery.

‘I was keen to talk to the Lord before I take my revenge.’

Lachlan struck a light to his pipe and joined him at the grave of Heather McQueen.

‘It is a bit of a mystery who put these flowers on her grave,’ he said, as he puffed his pipe. ‘I mentioned it to my nephew.’

‘Why did you do that?’

Lachlan was slightly taken aback at the tone in his colleague’s voice. ‘Oh just because he’s a police officer and he deals in mysteries.’

‘They are only flowers, Lachlan. I have a mind to put some on her grave myself.’

‘It wasn’t you that put these on?’

Kenneth Canfield’s eyes seemed on the verge of watering. He stared at the flowers for a moment then shook his head. ‘No. I have a suspicion who did though.’

‘Oh! Who?’

‘Digby Dent. I think he might have put them here out of guilt.’ He smiled wistfully. ‘I know a lot about guilt.’

‘You were on the verge of saying something about that the other day, Kenneth. Is it something that you want to talk to me about now?’

Kenneth stared at his old friend. ‘About Dr Dent? No, not just yet.’

‘Or about guilt then?’

Kenneth gave a short laugh. ‘Like a confession, you mean?’

‘I am always here for that purpose, Kenneth, you know that.’

Kenneth patted his arm and wrinkled his eyes. ‘Thank you for the offer, Lachlan. I appreciate it, but for now let’s just go and say our prayers then let me get my revenge.’

Lachlan tapped out his pipe and ground the ashes in the gravel of the path. ‘After you then.’ He popped his pipe into his breast pocket and followed his guest. He felt slightly uncomfortable about the way that he had twice mentioned the word ‘revenge’.

Cora had slept badly. Although the camp-bed was comfortable enough she had been unable to cut out the sound of Calum’s snoring. When first light peeped through the shutters she rose, washed and dressed then searched the fridge and cupboards in search of breakfast. Finding only beer in the cupboard and a stack of mince pies and an assortment of things suitable for Calum’s beloved frying pan she decided to simply have a cup of tea. Upon fording the tea caddy empty she pouted with disappointment and decided that the place needed some sensible restocking. She grabbed her bag and headed off for some fresh supplies.

At Allardyce’s, she bought three butter rolls, a tub of low fat margarine and a small pot of honey. She positively skipped along Harbour Street enjoying the fresh sea air as she made her way to Anderson’s Emporium to buy tea-bags.

It was already busy as an assortment of fishermen, yachts folk and nature-loving holidaymakers were buying supplies for the day.

She joined the queue and noted that there was only Agnes Anderson to serve all of the customers.

‘What do you mean you have no paracetamol?’ a wiry young man in his late twenties complained to Agnes Anderson when it was his turn at the counter.

‘I am sorry, sir, but we have had a run on them. You could always try the chemist. It will be open at nine o’clock.’

‘Dash it! I haven’t time to wait. Look, I don’t like to ask this, but is there anything you can do? I just need about four of them. They aren’t for me; they’re for my bosses, Fergie and Chrissie Ferguson. They were – well, they were out having a drink or two last night.’

‘I can vouch for that, Agnes,’ a tall man standing behind them volunteered. ‘I was in the Bonnie Prince Charlie. They bought everybody a drink. I was coming to buy some paracetamol for myself.’

There was communal laughter from the rest of the queue.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Agnes. ‘Give me a minute and I’ll raid our medicine cabinet.’ She raised herself on tiptoe to address the rest of the customers. ‘Sorry, folk, I’ll get to you all as soon as I have taken care of this gentleman.’

When she had left, Geordie turned to the queue. ‘I apologize for this, ladies and gentlemen. That’s show-biz folk for you, I’m afraid. But please, don’t let anyone know that I was in here for this. You know what the media are like. A pack of animals the lot of them.’

The tall man was quick to agree. ‘Aye, and we have a real wee Rottweiler of a newshound here on West Uist. Calum Steele the editor of the Chronicle would hang out his own granny’s dirty washing if it sold more copies of his rag.’

‘He’s more of a Jack Russell in my opinion,’ chirped in someone else, much to the amusement of the rest.

‘I know the man,’ Geordie Innes confided. ‘You should hear what Fergie calls him.’

And, as the other customers joined in the ragging of Calum Steele, Cora felt her hackles rise. Part of her wanted to wade in to defend her boss, but the other part told her to keep her head down. No one knew that she was a member of his staff and that could be useful. She listened as Geordie Innes let one or two little nuggets of gossip about the Flotsam & Jetsam show slip out, much to the glee of the emporium customers.

As the shop gradually cleared and she took her turn at the counter, Agnes Anderson smiled at her.

‘Are you on holiday, miss?’ she asked.

‘No, I’ve moved here for a while.’

‘Working here are you?’

Cora began to feel uncomfortable with the questioning. It was time to be evasive. ‘Sort of. I’m a writer of sorts.’

‘Really? Are you writing a novel then?’

‘Well, I’m thinking about it. That’s why I need more tea.’