Mary Daheim - Scots on the Rocks

“I’ve changed my mind,” Mrs. Gunn said, eyeing the cousins with suspicion. “No pleats. Herringbone, not tweed.”

Judith and Renie took their parcels and left the shop.

“Definitely not pleats,” Renie said when they got outside. “Mrs. Gunn would look like a small ship sailing into port.”

“This stuff’s heavy,” Judith complained. “I don’t want to lug it all over the village. What were we thinking of? We should’ve left it at the shop and picked it up on the way back.”

“Here,” Renie said. “Give it to me. I’ll ask the clerk if that’s okay. You sit and wait.” She pointed to a stone bench in front of a crafts store.

Gratefully, Judith sat. The air was misty, but the sun peeked from behind gray clouds. Two cars and an ancient bus went by. There were still no more than a half dozen pedestrians. She considered what it would be like if they’d gone to Southern California: hordes of suntanned people, beach volleyball, endless sunshine, blaring rap and hip-hop music, cars everywhere, strip malls, outlet malls, supermalls…

Church bells rang the hour. Judith looked beyond the cluster of uneven roofs and spotted a steeple some fifty yards away. Maybe they could explore the church, as Harry had suggested. By the time they finished, it would be time for lunch. Across the street, Judith saw a green sign that read rose’s tea shop in flaking gold letters hanging above a canopied doorway. The windows on either side of the doorway had lace curtains. Judith watched two middle-aged women in sensible shoes enter. Yes, she thought, it was a perfect spot to eat.

Renie stomped out of the woolen shop. “Next time, I’ll bring a weapon!” she cried. “Mrs. Gunn is a real horror!”

“What happened?” Judith asked, surprised.

Renie rearranged her black trench coat and smoothed her short, disheveled hair. “She threw her purse at me. All because I interrupted her monologue about a present her ex-daughter-in-law had given her.”

“What happened to our new clothes?”

Renie checked her makeup in a compact mirror. “The clerk put them in the back while I held Mrs. Gunn down on a display case.”

“Good grief! You really went at it?”

Renie shrugged. “I didn’t have any choice. I couldn’t stand around listening to the old bag bad-mouth her ex in-law. If I’d had that woman for a mother-in-law, I’d have ditched Sonny Boy, too.”

“We’d better get out of here before Mrs. Gunn leaves the shop,” Judith said. “Or calls the cops. How about the church?”

“Seeking sanctuary sounds right,” Renie replied. “Where is it?”

Judith pointed to the steeple. “It must be off the village green.”

The cousins moved along, though Judith checked a couple of times to make sure that Mrs. Gunn—or the local constabulary—wasn’t in pursuit. They paused by the parklike green with its granite cross and memorial to various locals who’d fallen in battle from the days of Robert the Bruce through World War II. The list was mercifully short, considering that it spanned over eight hundred years.

The church, which bore the name of St. Fergna, looked almost as old as the castle. It was small and its stones were weathered, but, as Renie pointed out, it hadn’t suffered the cruel destruction that had befallen so many Scottish churches during the various wars of religion.

“It’s Protestant,” Judith remarked, noting the wooden sign that proclaimed united church of scotland. “We’ll have to find a Catholic church in Inverness for Sunday Mass.”

“Maybe they have a five o’clock today,” Renie said as they walked along a stone pathway that was partially covered by moss. “Then we could sleep in tomorrow.”

Judith paused halfway to the church entrance. “This cemetery is really ancient. You can hardly read some of the markers.” Several Celtic crosses were broken; many inscriptions had blurred with time.

Renie stopped by what looked to Judith like a worn gray slab. “This thing is really old,” Renie said. “It’s engraved with a late Pictish version of the Celtic cross. Eighth, even ninth century, about the time the Picts merged with the Scots. Look, you can hardly see the outline.”

“I wouldn’t know it was supposed to show a cross,” Judith admitted, but, as always, deferred to her cousin’s artistic eye.

“Crosses are fascinating. They’re one of the first symbols I studied in graphic design.” Renie took Judith’s arm and turned her to face the sea. “Did you notice the two flags at Grimloch when we came outside?”

Judith shook her head. As usual, she’d been more interested in people than things. “I can see the red and yellow national flag of Scotland,” she said. “What’s the black or blue one with white?”

“The yellow flag with the red lion is the national flag of the Scottish government and the Scottish monarchy,” Renie explained. “The national flag is blue with what looks like a white X but is a Saint Andrew’s cross.”

“Interesting,” Judith said, though her focus had been diverted by matters at hand. “On your right—someone’s putting flowers on a grave.”

Renie turned to see the tall, leggy redhead in a short fur-trimmed coat arranging red and white roses by a marker that looked quite new. Curiosity drew Judith like a moth to the flame. The young woman straightened up just as Judith got a few feet behind her.

“Are you lost?” the redhead asked in a lilting voice.

“You can tell we’re tourists?” Judith said with a smile.

“Oh yes,” she replied, pointing to Judith’s lightweight jacket. Her deep-set amber eyes seemed to miss nothing. “You must be freezing.”

“I am a bit chilly,” Judith admitted. “I bought warmer clothes at the woolen shop on the High Street. That’s what it’s called, isn’t it?”

“It usually is,” the young woman said with a charming smile. She was an inch taller than Judith’s five nine, and leaned gracefully when she spoke. Her manner might have been taken as condescending, but Judith assumed she was used to talking to people who were shorter. “At least in most Scots towns and villages. You’re American…or Canadian?”

“American,” Judith said. “I’m Mrs. Flynn and this is Mrs. Jones.”

The young woman put out a long white hand. “I’m Moira Gibbs.”

Judith shook Moira’s hand. “We’re staying at Grimloch Castle. We met your…relatives there.”

“My husband’s grandparents,” Moira said without enthusiasm. “However did you manage to go there? It’s off-season.”

“It’s a long story,” Judith said, “involving our husbands knowing a local fellow fisherman.”

“Who?” Moira asked a trifle sharply.

Judith was surprised at the blunt question. On previous visits to the United Kingdom she’d found most strangers to be reticent when it came to talking about themselves and consider it virtually taboo to exhibit anything that might be mistaken for nosiness.

“Hugh MacGowan,” Judith answered.

“Ah.” Moira nodded. “Our law enforcement chief. The MacGowan has a way with him.” She gave a last look at the roses by the grave. “I must go. My brother has come looking for me.” Moira made a face. “He thinks I’m scatterbrained and got lost in the graveyard.” She raised a hand and called out to the tall, bearded man who had entered through the lich gate. “I’m coming, Jimmy. Don’t get your knickers in a bunch!”

As Moira hurried off, Renie read the inscription aloud: “‘David Pietro Piazza. And Christ receive thy soul.’ He died last October first, at twenty-nine. An Italian in a remote village?”

“Americans aren’t the only ones who move around,” Judith said, gazing at some of the other graves. “There’s another new—and rather ostentatious—monument under that yew tree. It must be a local bigwig.”