Mary Daheim - Scots on the Rocks

Harry paused to survey the cousins. “Well…why not?”

“We passed muster,” Renie murmured.

“I need to buy warmer clothes,” Judith said, indicating her navy blue linen jacket and white cotton slacks.

Harry snickered. “You thought it’d be warm in the Highlands?”

“She thought it would be seasonably warm in California,” Renie responded. “The plane forgot to make a right-hand turn.”

“Awkward,” Harry remarked. “Follow me to the lift.”

In the daylight, Judith could see the sheer cliff below the castle and beyond the sandy beach to the village. She could hear the surf and smell the salt-scented air. There were no dolphins, but gulls swooped above them, coming to rest on the castle’s watchtowers and battlements.

Time seemed to recede, two thousand years a mere tick on the planet’s clock. The Romans moving north to build the barrier of Hadrian’s Wall; Saint Columba setting foot on a nearby shore, bringing Christianity to the Celtic tribes; the Vikings come to raid and plunder; Robert the Bruce and William Wallace fighting for Scotland’s sovereignty; union with England under King James; the religious wars, the clan wars, the foreign wars—so many battles, leaving the land soaked in blood to make way for oil rigs and distilleries and pizza parlors. Judith sensed the irony.

“This is quite a view,” she said as they stepped inside the lift.

“I find it bleak,” Harry said. “I prefer the city.”

“Inverness?” Judith said as they began the slow, noisy descent.

Harry laughed derisively. “London. I grew up there.”

“Oh. Is that where your parents live?” Judith asked.

“Yes. When they’re not traveling the globe.” He yawned, as if the subject—or the cousins—bored him.

Judith wondered how Harry’s mother and father seemed to be living a life of leisure while his grandparents toiled away as virtual servants at Grimloch Castle. But she thought it best not to bring up the subject. In any event, the lift had clattered to a stop.

“That’s my Range Rover,” Harry said, pointing to a metallic silver SUV parked on a stretch of concrete in front of a small wooden shed by the narrow road to the village. “Where shall I let you off?”

“What should we see?” Judith asked. “We drove through St. Fergna after dark last night.”

Harry opened the back door of the expensive vehicle. “There’s not much of interest, in my opinion.”

“Where are you going?” Renie inquired. “We could get out where you park.”

“I’m not stopping,” Harry replied as the cousins settled themselves into the comfortable leather seats. “I’m going beyond St. Fergna.” He closed the door with a click that was more like a whisper.

Judith and Renie exchanged bemused glances, but kept quiet as Harry got behind the wheel. “There’s a very old church,” he said, “if you’re into that sort of thing. Presbyters and all that.”

“We may explore it,” Judith said. She looked around the beach where a couple of wading birds foraged for food. “Are those sandpipers?”

“They’re called turnstones here,” Harry replied. He suddenly took a sharp turn to the right. “That’s odd,” he muttered.

“What’s odd?” Judith saw nothing except for a couple of people much farther down the beach.

Harry slowed down. “That bird on the rock beyond the castle cliffs is a great northern diver. They’re rare around here. They go north to the Orkney and Shetland Islands in the summer. I hate them.” He honked the horn, but the big bird didn’t move. Harry swore under his breath and turned the car back toward the track from the beach.

“It looks like a loon to me,” Renie remarked.

Harry didn’t respond. He seemed to tense at the wheel as he approached the steep bank.

Judith caught a glimpse of fishing boats at anchor about a hundred yards down the strand and decided to change the subject. “Do they fish commercially around here?”

“Some do,” Harry said, cresting the hill in less than a minute.

The cobbled street was narrow and fairly steep. Harry drove past several small old shops that featured fish, meat, and woolens. Judith also espied a cobbler, a confectioner, and a draper.

“You can let us off at the woolen store,” Judith said as they reached an unmarked intersection. “We haven’t changed our money yet. Do they take credit cards?”

“Yes. I never carry cash. Too much bother.” Harry put on the brake. “There you go,” he said, stopping in the middle of the street. The SUV wasn’t blocking traffic. There wasn’t any, except for a small car coming slowly from the opposite direction.

The cousins thanked Harry and got out. Only a handful of pedestrians strolled past the shops.

“Nice,” Judith remarked. “Nobody rushing, no heavy traffic, no vying for parking places.”

Renie smiled. “They have cell phones, though.” She nodded in the direction of a young woman pushing a pram with one hand and holding a phone to her ear with the other. “We aren’t living in medieval Scotland even if we are staying in a castle.”

Judith paused to look in the fishmonger’s window. Mussels, salmon, crab, oysters, and plaice were displayed on beds of ice. “I wonder if our husbands have caught anything,” she said.

The woolen shop was small but well stocked. Judith perused the tartan skirts, wool slacks, and various types of sweaters. “Not cheap,” she murmured. “Don’t you talk me into buying more than I need.”

“I won’t,” Renie said. “I feel guilty for not warning you.”

After half an hour, Judith had purchased a lamb’s wool baby blue twin set, two pairs of slacks, a heavy ecru turtleneck, an eggshell ruffled silk blouse, a forest green cashmere sweater, a black mid-calf skirt, and a dark plaid hooded cape.

“I’ve always wanted a cape,” Judith said as the sales clerk rang up the bill on an old-fashioned cash register. But she was aghast at the total, which came to almost eight hundred American dollars. “Maybe I don’t need the cape,” she said to Renie.

“Coz.” Renie looked severe. “You have to wear something warm around here. The cape’s lined. Its dark colors won’t show dirt. At home, it’d cost twice this much.”

The young sales clerk, who had dark brown streaks in her fair hair, giggled. “That’s so,” she agreed. “We don’t have many visitors, so our prices aren’t so dear.”

Judith reached into her black handbag and handed over her Visa card. “Oh well. It’s Joe’s fault for not warning me I might need warmer clothes. At least our lodging’s free.”

“Darn,” Renie said, tossing a couple of cashmere sweaters she’d been fondling on the counter. “I can’t not buy something.”

“You’ve friends in St. Fergna?” the clerk asked in a chipper voice.

“Our husbands know someone from around here,” Judith explained, “but we’re not staying with him. He’s put us up at the castle.”

The clerk’s blue eyes grew wide. “The castle!” She pursed her magenta lips. “It’s said to be haunted.”

“Really?” Judith responded. “Who’s the ghost?”

The clerk looked disappointed. “You Americans are skeptical.”

“Not all Americans are,” Renie pointed out. “We have some of our own ghosts. Does this one have a name?”

The clerk nodded. “Some say it’s Mary, Queen of Scots. Others describe a child. He’s prankish.”

“What sort of pranks?” Judith asked.

The clerk handed over the receipt. “I’m not sure…” She stopped, china blue eyes on the door. “It’s Mrs. Gunn. She’s fussy but spends her money. I’d best see to her.”

A small, stout woman with graying dark hair entered the shop. The clerk hurriedly rang up Renie’s sweaters and greeted Mrs. Gunn. “A fine day, ma’am! I put aside those items you took a fancy to last week.”