Highland Laddie Gone

CHAPTER FOUR

CLUNY, sprawled on the warm grass in feline oblivion, looked considerably more comfortable than Elizabeth felt. She was holding her third cup of ice water-trying to decide whether to drink it or pour it over her head-when Betty Carson appeared with a stranger in tow.

“Elizabeth! Wonderful to see you!” She gave Elizabeth the hug that Southern women substitute for a cordial nod. “I know everyone must be frantic because I’m so late.”

“They’ve managed to bear up,” said Elizabeth, glancing at the lawn-chair contingent. They were still discussing home computers without visible signs of distress.

Betty Carson’s steel-ribbed smile took in the idyllic scene and the half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker. “Leave them to me,” she said briskly. “I’ll get this bunch working. Oh, Elizabeth! This is Cameron Dawson, a new professor in Andy’s department, and you’ll never guess where he’s from!” The young man looked so embarrassed by this that Elizabeth decided not to try. When no answer was forthcoming, Betty said triumphantly, “Edinburgh! Isn’t it grand? He’s practically right off the plane. Anyway, I have a blue million things to do, so I’m leaving him in your charge. Cameron, you’ll be in good hands. She’s Maid of the Cat for your clan. I’ll find you later!”

Cameron watched his hostess march off toward the Chattan tent, with the sinking feeling of one who has been abandoned in the asylum. His new keeper was a frazzled young woman in what appeared to be a wool outfit, with a lynx on a chain lead. He wondered if she represented anybody famous; Morgan Le Fay came to mind, but it might be uncivil to ask. He thought she might be very pretty in a less ludicrous climate. What must the temperature be on this mountain? They’d measure it in Kelvin degrees, he was certain of that. Cameron dabbed at his forehead and endeavored to look pleasant.

“Hello,” said the young woman. “My name is Elizabeth. I guess you can tell my last name,” she added, pointing to her skirt.

What can she mean? thought Cameron. A last name from a skirt… Weaver? Taylor? Dirndl?

“I don’t understand,” he admitted.

“Didn’t you recognize the MacPherson tartan?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I don’t know much about that sort of thing.”

“I thought Betty said you were Clan MacPherson.”

“So she tells me,” sighed Cameron. “Actually, I’m a marine biologist, and I’m much more familiar with porpoises and seals than with history.”

“Seals! Oh, the Selkies! Banished to the sea for being neutral in the battle of good and evil. I am a man upon the land; I am a Selkie o-oon tha sea!” She hummed a bit of the tune. Elizabeth had finished her folk-medicine course and enrolled in Folklore 5270.

Cameron stared. He knew that there was an odd religious sect somewhere in Virginia; his hosts had mentioned it in passing. Perhaps she was a member. At any rate, she seemed to believe in animal transmutation. He nodded toward the bobcat. “What about him?”

“Cluny? He’s a bobcat. I’m Maid of the Cat.”

“Ah. He’s your father then?”

“Who?”

“The lynx.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Are you sure you’re a biologist?”

“Practically the only thing I’m certain of just now. Why?”

“Because, if you think people are descended from bobcats, you’ll be a novelty at the university.”

“Oh, that. I was humoring you. Selkies, indeed!”

Elizabeth smiled. “Folklore,” she said. “I’m doing graduate work in anthropology. Would you like me to show you around?”

“Might as well. I suppose I should see what these things are like.”

“I guess the ones in Scotland are much larger,” said Elizabeth.

“Don’t know. Never went to one.”

She glanced at his shorts and Save-the-Whales T-shirt. “And I suppose you thought it was too hot to wear your kilt today?”

“Haven’t got one.”

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Look,” she said, “do you speak Gaelic? Do you play a bagpipe? Do you read Walter Scott? Do you believe in the Loch Ness monster?”

“None of the above. Sorry.”

She grinned. “Well, come along. I’ll be your guide. God knows you’re going to need one.”

Lachlan Forsyth and his orange-kilted companion had stopped to watch the dancers practice, careful to be just out of earshot of the other spectators. Lachlan, nodding in time to the tape-recorded bagpipe music, seemed unaware of the other’s nervousness. “Lovely tune that,” he remarked. “It’s a doddle to dance to.”

Jerry Buchanan glanced nervously about. “Can we talk here?” he whispered.

“Aye, laddie, and we’d be that much safer if you would’na look sa guilty.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to jeopardize the Cause.”

“I know,” said Lachlan kindly.

“It’s going all right, isn’t it? I haven’t read anything about it in the newspapers.”

“I know.”

“Is that good?”

“Aye.”

“Have you been in touch with…” Jerry couldn’t think of any discreet way to phrase it. “With anybody?” he finished lamely.

“Aye. The secret is safe, but the progress is slow. It’s a matter of money. We’d get donations if we advertised, but we have to be particular about who we tell.”

“Is there going to be any kind of a sign here at the games? Some way that I can tell who’s with the Cause.”

“Aye, laddie. But if I tell you, you must swear not to discuss it with a soul. I would ken an enemy, but you couldna’. Do ya swear tae silence?”

Jerry nodded vigorously. “Oh, of course, Mr. Forsyth! Absolutely.”

“Well, since you’re a Buchanan…”

“I wish I weren’t,” sighed Jerry, glancing at his rainbow kilt.

“There’s worse things, laddie. There were Buchanans at Agincourt and Flodden, mind ye remember. But you asked for a sign. Will you be going to the Hill-Sing tonight?”

Jerry tried to remember when that cocktail party was being held in the Hutchesons’ camper. Had he promised to be there, or just said that he might drop by? It didn’t matter-not compared to this. “Of course I’ll be there if you want me to,” he said.

“Right. Good lad. Now, at the singing, when they begin ‘Flower of Scotland,’ you stand up. And look around to see who else is standing up, and there’s your sign.”

“ ‘Flower of Scotland’? It’s a folk song?”

The old man gave him a solemn stare. “It’s the national anthem of the Republic of Scotland.”

Jerry Buchanan gasped. “About donations,” he whispered. “Would another thousand help?”

Lachlan Forsyth smiled. “Aye.”

“That,” said Elizabeth, “is a bagpipe.”

“Oh, good!” cried Cameron. “Let’s borrow it and vacuum the cat!”

After an ominous pause, Elizabeth began to laugh. “Monty Python, I presume?”

“The Goon Show, I think.”

“I take it you don’t listen to this much at home?”

“I’m very fond of Scottish music. Sheena Easton, Rod Stewart… The porpoises love Rod Stewart.” His face brightened as it always did when he could get the subject around to marine biology. Elizabeth looked at him in his Save-the-Whales T-shirt, and beyond him at the kilted Americans playing bagpipes. He’s like a time traveler, she thought. But if he is now, then what time are we?

Aloud she said, “I’ll bet you’d like to see the refreshment tent. They have any amount of weird food there that you’re not going to find in the Shop-Rite near the university.”

“What, haggis with neeps and tatties followed by a clootie dumpling?”

Elizabeth frowned. “Clootie means the devil, doesn’t it?”

“Not on a menu. It’s a cloth-wrapped dumpling. What’s that?” She turned to look at a blue-kilted man wearing a khaki shirt and an Australian bush hat. “A Douglas, I think.”

“Kangaroo branch. He ought to have a wallaby in his sporran. Are we headed for the refreshment stand?”

“Keep going. It’s at the end of this row of tents, but if you keep turning around like that, it’ll take us two hours to get there.”

Cameron, who was staring at passersby, didn’t seem to have heard. “A cowboy hat? What’s that-the Highland cowboy?” Suddenly he noticed the tent of a regional Scottish society. “Piedmont Highlanders. Piedmont Highlanders? Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”

Their progress was slowed further. Having noticed the signs on each tent, Cameron began to use them as an exercise in free association. “Grant-that’s a furniture store in Glasgow… Menzies-John Menzies; I buy my books there… Barclay-the banking folks… and Gordon’s gin, of course.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “You’re going to be crushed when the MacDonald tent doesn’t have golden arches, aren’t you?”

Cameron wasn’t listening. “What is that great horde of people doing there?”

“That’s the refreshment tent.” Elizabeth sighed. “Pick a line.”

They edged their way past a collection of pipe-band members, and peered over the crowd to see what the menu offered.

“Bridies!” cried Cameron. “Mutton pies!”

What does one talk about to marine biologists, wondered Elizabeth, especially if one doesn’t know much about seals or porpoises. And a Scottish marine biologist, at that. Something clicked. “Loch Ness!” she cried.

“That’s up near Inverness. I went camping there with the Scouts once, though.”

“I don’t get it. I mention Loch Ness, and you think of Boy Scouts. As a marine biologist, shouldn’t you be interested in Nessie?”

“An unverified creature in a freshwater lake? Why should I?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll bet you’re going to be asked about Nessie an awful lot while you’re over here.”

“Well, it’ll make a change from folks wanting to know if I’m Irish or asking what it’s like in Edinburg.” He shuddered. “And that was only in the bloody airport.”

“Well, you should feel better here,” said Elizabeth. “These folks know all about Scotland. There’ll probably be people here who vacationed in Inverness-”

“Inverness,” Cameron corrected her.

“Or Aberdeen-”

“Aberdeen.”

“And one of the Menzies is really a war buff. He’ll probably want to talk to you about…” Elizabeth took a deep breath and marshaled her linguistic forces. “Ban-noch-burrn!” She finished triumphantly. “You don’t have to go through all that,” said Cameron mildly. “It’s Ban-nockburn. A bannock is an oatmeal cake. Speaking of food, here we are at the counter. I’ll have a mutton pie and a sausage roll, please. Do y’have any Irn Bru?”

“Strictly non-alcoholic here,” whispered Elizabeth.

He laughed. “It’s a carbonated drink. Comes in a can.”

“Oh.”

“Would you like to get anything for your moggie?” Seeing her look of bewilderment, he pointed to Cluny. “For your dad there.”

“No, he’s already eaten.” Elizabeth smiled. “We could take this stuff up on the hill, if you like. From under the trees, we’ll be able to see the games.”

“Will they be throwing the hammer this way?”

“We won’t sit behind the Campbell tent. Come on.”

When they had settled under an oak tree, with sausage rolls balanced on their laps, Elizabeth said, “Are you over here to work on anything specific?”

It was an inspired question. Cameron launched into an animated explanation of seal migratory patterns, which might have been quite educational if Elizabeth had listened. She sat nibbling her pastry, and nodding occasionally with an expression of rapt interest. Cameron began to talk about manatees in the South Atlantic. Elizabeth hung on every syllable, listening to the vowel sounds, the trilled r’s and uvular l’s, and making no sense at all of the words.

Brown eyes, she was thinking. I thought Scots had blue eyes. And his hair is so pretty. What would you call that color? Russet? Sorrel?

“… which has interesting evolutionary implications, don’t you agree?”

Elizabeth sighed. “I love your r’s.”

Cameron blinked. “Er-ah-yours is quite nice, too.”

“No, I can’t make them sound at all the way you do. Ag-rree.” “Oh! r’s. I thought-never mind. Anyway, about the sound patterns-”

“Yes, they’re wonderful,” she murmured.

“You’ve heard whale songs, then?”

Elizabeth straightened up. “Whales? I was talking about your sound patterns.”

Cameron blushed. “That shouldn’t be a novelty here. What percentage of these people are from Scotland?”

“Just you, I imagine,” Elizabeth told him. “When the rest of us say we’re Scottish, we mean six generations back.”

“Hmmm.” Cameron studied the faces of the passersby. “Now that’s a Scottish face,” he announced. “Look at that old man in the souvenir stall. I’ll bet he’s the real thing.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Come on. Let’s go and find out. Maybe he has some Billy Connolly tapes.”

“Who’s Billy Connolly?”

Cameron considered it. Whom could you compare Billy Connolly to? Richard Pryor? Lenny Bruce? He grinned.

“He’s the Duke of Glasgow. Come on.”

Lachlan Forsyth, having finished his conference with Jerry Buchanan, returned to the stall to find Jimmy in conference with a man in full MacDonald regalia.

“How are you keeping, lad?” he asked pleasantly.

Jimmy froze, thinking for an instant that Lachlan’s ESP had told him about the extra twenty per cent he’d been pocketing; but he decided that it might just be a Scottish way of saying hello, so he answered carefully, “Just fine, sir. But this guy has a special request, and I don’t know what to do about him.”

“Och aye?” said Lachlan, turning his performance on the customer. “How can I help, Mr… MacDonald, wouldn’t it be?”

“Hutcheson, actually.” The man shook Lachlan’s hand. “Dr. Walter Hutcheson. I was looking for a tartan for my wife.”

“Well, we have the MacDonald hunting, which is a nice green, or perhaps a dress plaid in the ancient colors?”

“No. I don’t need MacDonald. You see, my wife is from Scotland. She’s the niece of the Duke of Rothesay, and I’d like to find out what tartan she’d take and get her a scarf in it. I don’t know much about these things myself.”

Lachlan Forsyth looked thoughtful. “The Duke of Rothesay, eh? I’d like very much to meet her.”

Dr. Hutcheson smiled. “Heather’s back at the camper now. I’ll try to bring her by sometime, though. Do you have her plaid in stock?”

The old man produced a fringed scarf patterned in soft blues and beige. “Her ladyship would be entitled to wear this one,” he declared. “No one more so.”

“Oh, Heather doesn’t bother with all that title business,” said her husband with a touch of pride. “She hates for me to tell people about it. Now that she’s in America, she says she wants to be plain old Mrs. Hutcheson. I’ll bring her by.”

“Right. Do that. Oh, look-here comes the MacPhersons’ Maid of the Cat. Wonder what she’s about. Here, doctor, my assistant can take care of the purchase for you. He needs the practice.” Lachlan waved to the couple approaching the stall. “Hello, Moggie!” he called to the bobcat. “Who are your friends here?”

“Hi!” said Elizabeth. “Do you have any tapes by the Duke of Glasgow?”

Lachlan Forsyth looked puzzled. “Dukes again! Tapes, d’ye say? By the Duke of Glasgow?”

Behind Elizabeth, Cameron mouthed, “Bil-ly Con-nol-ly.”

Lachlan grinned. “Oh, aye! Is it him you’re wanting? Lassie, I’m truly sorry. Not many Americans appreciate His Grace, so I don’t carry his work. You come to see me at the Grandfather games next July, and I’ll see what I can do for you.” He turned to Cameron. “You should’ve brought some with you, laddie. Where are you from? Kelvinside, from the look of you.”

“Edinburgh,” said Cameron.

“Ah, Morningside, then. Just over, are you?”

Lachlan and Cameron began to talk animatedly about the Rangers. Elizabeth, deciding that she wasn’t interested in British military matters, began to look at the stall displays when she noticed the man at her side.

“Dr. Hutcheson!” she cried. “I’m so glad to see you. It’s been ages! I’m Elizabeth MacPherson, remember?”

“Ah, yes! The little girl who used to be so crazy about border collies. I see you’re still fond of livestock.” He nodded toward Cluny.

“Yes. He’s the Chattan mascot. I’ll leave him with my cousin when I go to see the collies. Is Marge out with them or back at the camper?”

Dr. Hutcheson reddened. “I guess most people here haven’t heard. Marge and I are no longer married.” Seeing Elizabeth’s look of astonishment, he hurried on. “We-ah-came to a parting of the ways about a year ago, and I’ve remarried. Is that your husband?” he asked, glancing at Cameron.

“No,” murmured Elizabeth. “He’s a professor from Scotland. I’m showing him around.”

“Scotland! Well, isn’t that something? Heather’s from Scodand too! Why don’t you bring him by the camper this evening for our get-together?”

“I’ll ask Cameron.” She wasn’t thinking clearly enough to come up with a glib excuse not to go. The news about the divorce had caught her off guard. Still, maybe Cameron would enjoy meeting another Scot. She should ask him, at least.

“You won’t have any trouble finding us in the campground,” Dr. Hutcheson was saying. “We’re flying the MacDonald banner, since I’m regional clan president. Of course, Heather isn’t a MacDonald by birth.” He pulled out a corner of the newly purchased scarf. “That’s her tartan.” He reeled off Heather’s pedigree as if she were a sheepdog. “But don’t mention to her that I told you. You know how people are about the aristocracy.”

“I think so,” said Elizabeth, giving him a meaningful stare. “Is Marge here on her own, do you think?”

Dr. Hutcheson’s lips tightened. “I haven’t seen her. Do stop by later, both of you.” He nodded curtly and walked away.

Cameron looked up from his discussion with Lachlan in time to hear the last few words. “Stop by?” he echoed.

“He’s the local chief of the MacDonalds,” Elizabeth explained. “And his new wife is Scottish, so he wants us to come by later and meet her.”

Cameron, detecting a note of bitterness in Elizabeth’s voice, said, “I don’t mind. Do you want to?”

“Maybe. I have to find somebody first. Can I meet you later? At the Chattan tent around seven?”

“Leave him with me!” boomed Lachlan. “I’m having a high time hearing about the Rangers bashing the Celtics.”

Elizabeth’s eyes flashed. “As a Gaelic people, I should think you’d be more sympathetic to the troubles in Northern Ireland!” Without waiting for an answer, she swept away.

Lachlan and Cameron exchanged puzzled glances. What did Belfast have to do with Scottish soccer matches?