M.C. Beaton - A Highland Christmas

They stopped in Cnothan and picked up Mr. McPhee. Maisie groaned inwardly. How many more?

The Currie sisters were flirting awfully with Mr. McPhee, whose old face was beginning to assume a hunted look.

He moved his seat to the back of the bus. Thwarted, the Currie sisters began to sing carols in high, reedy, churchy voices. Hamish was amused this time to hear Jessie repeating the last line of every lyric and falling behind her sister.

When they were finally silent, Hamish, his eyes twinkling with mischief, called to Mr. Anderson to give them a song. To his surprise he began to sing “The Road to the Isles” in a clear tenor. Morag sparkled when her father finished and was given a round of applause.

At last Hamish drew up outside the old folks home and they all climbed down.

A piano had been set up in the lounge. Residents of the home sat around. Bella and Charlie were already at the piano dressed in striped blazers and straw boaters.

Mrs. Dunwiddy exclaimed, “Is it really you, Alice?”

“One of her good days,” Mrs. Kirk whispered to Hamish.

They all sat down and were served with sweet sherry and slices of Christmas cake. The lights were switched off except for a light over the piano and the glittering lights on the tree.

Bella and Charlie were really good, thought Hamish as they belted out all the old songs, Charlie playing and both singing, their voices still full and strong. Elderly faces beamed, arthritic fingers tapping out the rhythm on the arms of chairs.

Morag sat clutching her father’s hand and thought her heart would burst with happiness. In that moment, she decided that she would be a policewoman when she grew up and be as much like Hamish Macbeth as possible.

Only Maisie felt let down. It was not that Hamish was ignoring her. It was just that he treated her with the same friendliness as the rest of the party. She thought of the large turkey that she had cooked the night before so that it only needed to be heated. Would Hamish think it excessive? There had been a television program on world famine, and then thinking of those sticklike people and the sheer waste of that overlarge bird, Maisie felt guilty.

The concert finished at five and then after more sherry and cake, they all climbed back on the bus.

As Hamish drove out of Inverness on the A-9, it began to snow again, great gusts of white whipping across his vision.

He wondered what on earth he would do with this busload if he got stuck. He called back to Mr. McPhee, “Would you mind if I went straight to Lochdubh? I can put you up for the night.” He remembered Maisie’s dinner and said over his shoulder, “Is that all right with you, Maisie?”

“Oh, sure,” said Maisie, sarcastic with bitter disappointment. “Why not bring everyone?”

Hamish missed the sarcasm in her voice and said warmly, “That’s really good of you.”

“Yes, it is,” said Angela. “I’ll drop off at our place and pick up the turkey and dumpling. Everything’s ready. We’ll have a feast.”

“If we ever get there,” said Hamish.

Morag crept down the bus and clutched her father’s arm. “Daddy, can we go, too?”

He looked down into her wide pleading eyes and bit back the angry refusal. “Well, just this once.”

And it will be just this once, thought Maisie angrily. She thought of the boyfriend down in Inverness that she had jilted. She had been cruel. She would phone him up and make amends.

Hamish was often to wonder afterwards how he had ever managed to drive that bus to Lochdubh or how the old vehicle had managed to plough up and down the hills as the storm increased in force. He let out a slow sigh of relief as they lurched over the humpbacked bridge that led into the village and saw the Christmas lights dancing crazily in the wind.

♦

It was only after Angela and Dr. Brodie had collected their contributions to the meal that Maisie began to brighten up. As the women helped her in the kitchen and the men laid the table and then went out into the storm to make forays to collect more chairs, she was surrounded by so many people thanking her that she began to get a warm glow. Her spirits sank a little as Mr. McPhee grabbed her under the mistletoe and gave her a smacking kiss, but lightened again as soon as everyone was seated round the table in front of large plates of turkey and stuffing, chipolatta sausages, steaming gravy and roast potatoes. Bowls of vegetables were passed from hand to hand. Wine was poured, although the Andersons and Morag stuck to cranberry juice.

Hamish rose to his feet. “A toast to Maisie for the best Christmas ever!”

Everyone raised their glasses. “To Maisie!”

When the turkey was finished and the plates cleared, Angela said brightly, “The dumpling’s heating in the oven. I’ll get it if some of you ladies will help me with the plates.”

Hamish watched nervously as the large brown dumpling was carried in and placed reverently in the middle of the table. Angela’s lousy cooking was legendary.

“Would you do the honours, Hamish?” said Angela brightly.

Hamish reluctantly picked up a knife and sank it into the pudding. He cut the first slice and spooned it onto a plate and then filled the other plates. It looked good, but with Angela’s cooking, you never could tell until you’d tasted it.

Custard was poured over the slices. Here goes, thought Hamish. He cautiously took a mouthful. It was delicious! What an odd Christmas, he thought. For once in her life, Angela’s got it right.

Mrs. Gallagher and Mr. McPhee had discovered a mutual interest in birdwatching and were chatting busily. The Currie sisters who had strict Christian beliefs were talking happily about the iniquities of the world to the Andersons. Morag was telling Angela about her Christmas and Maisie was flushed and happy at the success of her dinner party.

∨ A Highland Christmas ∧

6

“Who can that be?” demanded Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife.

“Why don’t you answer the phone and find out?” suggested her husband patiently.

Mrs. Wellington picked up the receiver.

“Hullo, Mrs. Wellington, this is Priscilla.”

“Merry Christmas. Where are you?”

“In New York.”

“Would you believe it? The line’s so clear you could be next door. Everything all right?”

“Yes, fine. Look, I’ve been phoning the police station. I’ve been trying to get hold of Hamish to wish him a happy Christmas. Do you know where he is?”

“You could try the schoolteacher’s place. He might be there.”

There was a long silence.

Then Priscilla said, “Have you her number?”

“Wait a minute. I’ll look in my book.”

“Who’s that?” asked the minister.

“It’s Priscilla. She wants to talk to Hamish. I’m getting her the schoolteacher’s number.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have suggested he might be there.”

“Oh, why?”

The minister sighed. “You wouldn’t understand.”

His wife gave him a baffled look and then located the number in her book and picked up the receiver again. “Are you still there? It’s Lochdubh six-o-seven-one.”

♦

At the schoolhouse the table had been cleared away and a ceilidh had started in the living room, that is, everyone performing something or other. The Currie sisters had taken up positions in front of the fire and were singing in high, shrill voices.

“I’ll get some coffee,” said Maisie.

“I’ll come and help you.”

One last try, thought Maisie. She stopped right under the sprig of mistletoe and smiled up at Hamish invitingly. He put his arms about her and smiled back. Maisie tilted back her head and closed her eyes. At that moment, the phone rang loudly and shrilly.