∨ A Highland Christmas ∧
2
The following day, before he was due to talk to the local schoolchildren, he set out to call on Angus Macdonald. Angus was the local seer, credited with having the gift of second sight. Hamish was cynical about the seer’s alleged powers, guessing that Angus relied on a fund of local gossip to fuel his predictions.
He went out to the freezer in the shed at the back of the house and took out two trout he had poached in the summer. The seer always expected a present.
The day was cold and crisp and so he decided to walk up the hill at the back of the village to where Angus lived. Hamish thought cynically that Angus kept the interior of his cottage deliberately old–fashioned, from the oil lamps to the blackened kettle on its chain over the peat fire. His fame had spread far and wide. The dark, old–fashioned living room, Hamish was sure, added to the legends about Angus’s gifts.
“It’s yourself, Hamish,” said Angus, looking more than ever like one of the minor prophets with his shaggy grey hair and long beard.
“Brought you some trout for your tea, Angus.”
“Fine, fine. Chust put them down on the counter there. A dram?”
“Better not, Angus. I’m going to give a talk to the schoolchildren and I don’t want the smell o‘ whisky on my breath.”
“Sit yourself down and tell me what brings ye.”
“Now, now,” mocked Hamish, “I thought the grand seer like yourself wouldnae even have to ask.”
Angus leaned back and half closed his eyes. “She isnae coming back this Christmas.”
Hamish scowled horribly. He knew Angus was referring to the once love of his life, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe.
“I didn’t come about that,” said Hamish crossly. “Mrs. Gallagher’s cat is missing.” He opened his notebook, took out the black-and-white photograph of Smoky and handed it to the seer.
“It iss grey and white, that cat,” said the seer.
“You’ve seen it?”
“No, I chust know.”
“So tell me about Mrs. Gallagher. I wasn’t around when she came to Lochdubh. There’s something about her husband. Know anything about that?”
“I thought she was a widow.”
“So you don’t know everything, Angus.”
“No one can know everything,” said Angus huffily. “You will need to give me a bittie o‘ time to consult the spirits.”
“Aye, you do that,” said Hamish, heading for the door.
The seer’s voice followed him. “I find a bit o‘ steak does wonders for the memory.”
Hamish swung round. “I gave you two trout!”
“Aye, but there’s nothing like a bit of steak for helping an auld man’s memory.”
“Aren’t you frightened of the mad cow’s disease?”
“Not me,” said Angus with a grin.
“Aye, you’ve probably got it already,” muttered Hamish as he walked down the frosty hill.
The village school only catered for young children. The older ones were bused to the high school in Strathbane. There was a new schoolteacher, a Miss Maisie Pease, and it was she who had suggested that Hamish talk to the children. She was a small, neat woman with shiny black hair, a rather large prominent nose and fine brown eyes like peaty water. Hamish judged her to be in her thirties.
“Now, Officer,” she began.
“Hamish.”
“Well, Hamish it is, and I’m Maisie. I feel that children are never too young to learn about the perils of drugs, as well as all the usual cautions about not talking to strangers.”
“Right. Are the children ready for me?”
“They’re all in the main classroom.”
Hamish walked with her along a corridor to the classroom. As he neared it, he could hear the row of unsupervised children. When he pushed open the door, there came a frantic scrabbling of small pupils rushing back to their desks. Maisie followed him in.
“This is P.C. Macbeth, children,” she said. “I want you to sit quietly and pay attention.”
Hamish looked round the faces of twenty-four children, ranging in ages from five to eleven years old, rosy-cheeked Highland faces with bright eyes.
He started off by talking about the evils of bullying and of stealing. He warned them against talking to strangers or accepting lifts from strangers and then moved on to the subject of drugs. Not so very long ago, he reflected, such a talk would have been unnecessary. But drugs had found their way even up into the Highlands of Scotland. He then asked for questions.
After a polite silence, one little boy put up his hand. “Is wacky baccie bad?”
Hamish, identifying “wacky baccie” as pot, said, “Yes, it is. It’s against the law. But a lot of people will tell you there’s nothing to it. It’s better than booze. But it’s not. You can get sicker quicker and it destroys short-term memory. Just say no.”
Another boy put up his hand. “My brither wants to know where he can get Viagra.”
“Ask Dr. Brodie,” said Hamish. The boy relapsed, sniggering with his friends. So much for the innocence of youth, thought Hamish.
He then asked them what Santa Claus was bringing them. He was answered by a chorus of voices calling out that they wanted dolls or mountain bikes or dogs or cats. Hamish was glad that the children were not going to be denied Christmas, however Calvinistic the parents, although in the Lochdubh way, it would probably be celebrated behind closed doors.
“I’m going to talk to you now about pets,” said Hamish. He thought briefly of his own dog, Towser, long dead, and felt a pang of sadness. “Don’t ask your parents for a dog or a cat unless you’re very sure what looking after an animal entails. A dog, for instance, has to be housetrained, walked and fed, possibly for the next fifteen years of your life. A cat even longer. It’s cruel to want an animal as a sort of toy. If I were you, I’d wait until you’re a bit older. Dogs have to be properly trained up here or you’ll have some animal worrying the sheep.
“While I remember,” he said, “someone or some people have stolen the Christmas lights that were meant to decorate the street in Cnothan. I want you to let me know if you hear anything about strangers in the Cnothan area. There’s a bit o‘ detective work for you. Ask your older brothers or sisters or your parents and if there’s anything at all, let me know. Also, Mrs. Gallagher has lost a cat. I’m going to pass round a photograph of the cat and I want you all to study it carefully and then search for this cat. There’ll be a reward.”
Schoolteacher Maisie then showed him out. “I see you don’t have the classroom decorated,” said Hamish.
“We were going to make some paper decorations but you know how it is. Some of the parents objected. They said they didn’t mind giving their children a present, but that they were against what they call pagan celebrations. It’s hard on the children because they all watch television and they are all in love with the idea of a Christmas tree and lights and all those things. Oh, well, it’s only at Christmas that they get stroppy. Other times, this must be the nicest place in the Highlands.”
“It is that,” said Hamish. “Maybe you’d like to have a bite of dinner with me one night?”
She looked startled and then smiled. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
Hamish thought gloomily about his unlucky love life and said quickly, “Chust a friendly meal.”
“Then that would be nice.”
“What about tomorrow evening? At the Italian restaurant? About eight?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Grand,” said Hamish, giving her a dazzling smile.
Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, was just arriving and heard the exchange. She waited until Hamish had left and then said in her booming voice, “I feel I should warn you against that man, Miss Pease.”
“Oh, why?” asked the schoolteacher. “He’s not married, is he?”
“No, more’s the pity. He is a philanderer.”
“Dear me.”
“He was engaged to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, daughter of Colonel Halburton-Smythe who owns the Tommel Castle Hotel. He broke off the engagement and broke her heart.”
Miss Pease had already heard quite a lot of Lochdubh gossip, and the gossips had it the other way round, that Priscilla had broken Hamish’s heart.
“Oh, well,” said Miss Pease, “he can’t do much to me over dinner.”
“That’s what you think,” said Mrs. Wellington awfully. “Now about the Sunday school…”
♦
Hamish walked along the waterfront and met one of the fishermen, Archie Maclean. The locals said that Archie’s wife boiled all his clothes, and certainly they always looked too tight for his small figure, as if every one had been shrunk and then starched and ironed. The creases in his trousers were like knife blades and his tweed jacket was stretched tightly across his stooped shoulders.
“Getting ready for Christmas, Archie?” Hamish hailed him.
“When wass there effer the Christmas in our house?” grumbled Archie.
“I didn’t think the wife was religious.”
“No, but herself says she’s having none of those nasty Christmas trees shedding needles in her house, nor any of that nasty tinsel. You ken we’ve the only washhouse left in Lochdubh?”
Hamish nodded. The washhouse at the back of Archie’s cottage had been used in the old days before washing machines. It contained a huge copper basin set in limestone brick where the clothes were once boiled on wash-day.
“Well, the neighbors have been dropping by tae use it tae boil up their cloutie dumplings. But dae ye think I’ll get a piece. Naw!”
Cloutie dumpling, that Scottish Christmas special, is a large pudding made of raisins, sultanas, dates, flour and suet, all boiled in a large cloth or pillowcase. Some families still kept silver sixpences from the old days before decimal coinage to drop into the pudding. Large and brown and steaming and rich, it was placed on the table at Christmas and decorated with a sprig of holly. It was so large it lasted for weeks, slices of it even being served fried with bacon for breakfast.
“In fact,” said Archie, “the only one what’s offered me a piece is Mrs. Brodie.”
“Angela? The doctor’s wife?”
“Herself.”
“But Angela can’t cook!”
“I know that fine. But herself says she’s going to try this year. Herself says it’s surely chust like a scientific experiment. You measure out the exact amounts.”
“It never works with Angela,” said Hamish. “Her cakes are like rocks. Come for a dram, Archie. I’ve been talking to the schoolchildren and it’s thirsty work.”
They walked into the Lochdubh bar together.
When they were settled at a corner table with glasses of whisky, Hamish asked, “Do you know any gossip about Mrs. Gallagher?”
“Her, out the Cnothan road? Why?”
“I’ve been thinking. We all know her as a sour-faced bitch. But why?”
“Cos she’s a sour-faced bitch. Postman says she’s got the place like Fort Knox wi‘ locks and bolts.”
“I mean, what soured her? Was she always like that?”
“I think so. Good sheep. Doesn’t have dogs. She just whistles to the sheep, different whistles and they do what she wants. She had one friend.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know if the woman iss still alive. She bought the croft from her. Mrs. Dunwiddy. She went to live with a daughter in Inverness. Wait a bit. Maybe two years back now, someone says to me that Mrs. Dunwiddy had a stroke and she’s in an old folks home in Inverness. What’s she done?”
“She done nothing. She thinks someone’s pinched her cat.”
“Gone wild probably or the fox got it.”
“That’s what I told her.”
“So what d’ye want to know about her for?”
“Curious. That’s all. I think she’s a verra frightened woman.”
“Listen, Hamish, if I lived up there and never spoke to a body except to do a deal for sheep at the sales at Lairg, I’d get frightened as well.”
“I think there’s more to it than that. Oh, and if you hear of someone selling Christmas lights, let me know. Cnothan’s had theirs stolen.”
“There’s a lot o‘ Free Presbyterians o’er there.”
The great essayist Bernard Levin once described the Free Presbyterian as the sort of people who thought that if they did not keep the blankets tight over their feet at night, the pope would nip down the chimney and bite their toes.
“Maybe,” said Hamish. “But I doubt it. The lights were taken along with a tree out of that shed at the community hall. The padlock was smashed. Any loose elements roaming the countryside?”
“Haven’t heard. Don’t get them in the winter.”
“If you hear anything, let me know.”
♦
Hamish returned to the police station to collect the Land Rover and drive to Cnothan.
He was once more examining the shed when Mr. Sinclair came up to him. “You’re not wearing gloves,” he accused.
“Why should I?”
“You’ll be destroying fingerprints.”
Hamish sighed. He knew Strathbane would not send out a team of forensic experts to help solve the mere theft of a Christmas tree and lights.
Ignoring Mr. Sinclair, he set out, stooped over the ground, following the trail of pine needles. He went through the gate into the common grazing ground. No more needles. There must have been more than one. He could imagine them getting it over the gate and then lifting it onto their shoulders. He set off up the hill, doubled over, studying the ground. He guessed they would go fast and in a straight line.
Mr. Sinclair stood watching him until the tall figure had disappeared over the crest of the hill. “That man’s a useless fool,” he said to the frosty air. “It’s a pity Sergeant Macgregor is off ill.” He quite forgot that Sergeant Macgregor would have considered such a trivial theft not worth bothering about. Mr. Sinclair was feeling particularly righteous. He had supplied a new set of lights, which were being put up on the main street at that moment, and he had not charged for them.
Hamish spent the rest of the day searching over the common grazing ground until he came upon the peat stacks on the other side of the hill. There, in muddy, watery ground, he came across tire tracks. They could have been made by one of the locals, but as he studied them, he saw a little cluster of pine needles and some marks made by, he thought, running shoes. He counted the different footprints. Four sets of them. They’d probably come to thieve peats and then thought they might stroll over towards the village to see if there was anything they could lift. He stood studying the prints, trying to build up a mental picture of the robbers. There had been a lot of petty theft over towards Lairg, tools lifted from garden sheds, things like that. He decided to put a full report into headquarters and ask for a printout of areas of recent petty theft in Sutherland. That way he might find the area they were operating from. Because of the pettiness of the other thefts, not much police work had gone into finding the culprits. They would possibly be unemployed, hard drinkers, the sort who preyed on farmhouses and cottages during agricultural shows when they knew people would be away from home.
♦
As Hamish prepared a meal for himself that evening, he thought about the schoolteacher. It would be pleasant to talk to someone new. He stopped, about to drain the potatoes into the colander. There had been something wrong in that classroom. He had picked up at one point a little atmosphere of fear. Then he shrugged. He would ask Maisie Pease about it.
♦
The following morning, he decided to run down to Inverness and do some last–minute Christmas shopping. The presents he had already bought for his family were waiting at the police station, but he needed to buy a few little presents for his friends in the village. He would phone in regularly to his answering machine just in case anything cropped up.
It was ten o’clock when he set off and the sun was just struggling up over the horizon. It was one of those unexpectedly mild winter days when a west wind blows in over the Gulf Stream.
As all the main stores in Inverness are crammed into the centre of the town, he found the main street as full of shoppers as ever. Inverness was always busy. Finally, when he had accumulated a supply of various presents, he returned to the police Land Rover. He phoned his answering machine but there were no messages. It was then he remembered Mrs. Gallagher’s friend, Mrs. Dunwiddy.
He went to the central police station and asked if he could use the phone. Hamish had his mobile phone with him, but he wanted to phone around to old folks homes in the area and so he wanted a warm desk, a phone book and a police phone where the cost would not appear on his own phone bill.
On the sixth try, he landed lucky. Yes, they had a Mrs. Dunwiddy, but she was very frail and rambled most of the time. Nonetheless, he said he would call and see her.
He found the old folks home out on old Beauly Road. What was it like, he wondered as he parked in the gravelled drive, to end up in one of these places when you were old? He walked inside. There was a lounge to the right where several elderly people sat staring at a television set. The lounge was decorated with glittering colored chains of tinsel. An overdecorated Christmas tree stood beside the television set, dripping with glass balls and tinsel. Somehow, the festive decorations made the television watchers seem older, more frail and forgotten.
He went to the reception desk, produced his identification and asked for Mrs. Dunwiddy. “She has a few good days still,” said a brisk woman, “but I don’t think this is one of them. She’s in her room. I’ll take you along.”
“Do any of her family visit her?” asked Hamish as he followed her along a thickly carpeted corridor.
“She’s got a son and a daughter. They don’t come often. You know how it is. This place is expensive and these days, people feel they’ve done their duty by paying out. Sad. Here we are. Visitor for you, dear.”
Mrs. Dunwiddy sat in a wheelchair by the window. She was staring out with blank eyes at a bleak winter lawn at the back of the building.
“I won’t be long,” said Hamish. He pulled up a chair and sat down next to Mrs. Dunwiddy. The woman who had ushered him in said, “There’s a bell on the wall if you need anything, Officer.” Then she left.
“Mrs. Dunwiddy,” began Hamish. Her old eyes did not flicker.
“I don’t know if you remember,” said Hamish, “but you sold your croft and house to a Mrs. Gallagher.”
Silence.
“I’m worried about Mrs. Gallagher,” said Hamish. “She lives up there by herself, been on her own since she moved in. She’s got the place bolted and barred. What is she frightened of?”
Silence.
“I thought you might know something, that she might have said something.”
She could have been carved out of rock.
Hamish gave a little sigh. He must ask if there was any pattern to her good days and try again. On the other hand, it was a lot of trouble to go to for a nasty woman. He decided there was nothing he could get out of her that day. He rose to leave.
“Cat,” she said suddenly.
Hamish turned. One frail trembling hand had risen and was pointing at the window. He looked out. A black cat was sliding slowly on its belly towards a starling which was tugging at a worm. Hamish banged on the window and the cat fled.
Hamish sat down again. “Mrs. Gallagher?” he said gently. “Remember her?”
“Alice,” she said, her voice like dry autumn leaves blowing across a tarmac road.
“Alice Gallagher?”
“Bastard.”
“Who?”
“Said he beat her. Said she ran away.”
“Her husband?”
“Have you washed your face, Johnny? You’re going to be late for school.”
Hamish tried to get more out of her but her brain had retreated to the past. He quietly left.
As he crossed the hall, he once more looked in the lounge. There they sat with the television set blaring. What a Christmas!
He had a sudden idea. He went back to the desk. “Miss – ?”
“Mrs. Kirk,” she said.
“Well, Mrs. Kirk, is anything ever done to brighten up those folks in the lounge?”
“They have the television.”
“I just thought of something. Could I arrange a wee concert for them, for Christmas day?”
“I don’t see why not. Could you wait and I’ll get our director.”
After a few moments, Hamish was ushered into an office where a small, bespectacled man was sitting behind a desk.
He rose and held out his hand. “I am John Wilson. You were saying something to Mrs. Kirk here about a concert?”
“Aye, just an idea. For Christmas.”
“What sort of concert?”
“I know a retired couple, used to be on the halls. They can still play and sing all the old songs. Old people like that.”
“I’ll need to look into our budget,” he began fussily.
“No charge.”
“Well, in that case, it does seem a good idea. In fact, we have other homes like this. If they’re any good, we might employ them to do the rounds.”
“Oh, they’re good,” said Hamish. “I’ll arrange it for the afternoon of Christmas day.”
“That’s very kind of you, Officer. May I ask why you are doing this?”
Hamish smiled. “Because it’s Christmas.”
♦
He then drove to a housing estate at the north of the town, home of Charlie and Bella Underwood.
Bella answered the door. She was in her seventies, but her hair was dyed a flaming red and she was heavily made up. “Hamish!” she cried. “God, it’s been ages. Come in, darling! Charlie, it’s Hamish!”
A dapper little man came out to meet them. “What brings you, Hamish?”
“It should be a friendly call,” said Hamish when they were all seated over a fat teapot in the Underwoods’ kitchen. “But I’m afraid it’s because I’ve got a business proposition for you.”
“Business?” asked Bella. “We’ve been out of the business for a while.”
Hamish explained about the old folks home. “You see,” he said, “you know all the old sing-along songs. Can you still perform?”
“Course we can,” said Bella. “You’re a gem, Hamish.”
“I’ll be paying you for this myself, but if that Mr. Wilson likes you, you could get more work.”
“Keep your money, Hamish,” said Charlie. “We’ll do it for nothing.”
♦
Pleased with his outing, Hamish returned to Lochdubh. He would tackle Mrs. Gallagher in the morning. In the meantime, there was his dinner with Maisie to look forward to. He washed and dressed carefully in his one good suit, brushed his flaming red hair until it shone, and then strolled along the waterfront towards the Italian restaurant. Great stars burned in the Sutherland sky overhead and their reflections twinkled in the black sea loch like the missing Christmas decorations.
He pushed open the door of the restaurant and went in. He was greeted by the waiter, Willie Lamont. Willie, in the heady days when Hamish had been elevated to police sergeant before being demoted again, had been Hamish’s sidekick, but he had married the beautiful daughter of the restaurant owner and left the police force.
Willie conducted him to a table at the window. “I’m waiting for a lady,” said Hamish. “I’ll order when she arrives.”
Willie whipped out a bottle of cleaner and began scrubbing at the table. “The table was clean already,” protested Hamish, remembering how Willie, a fanatical cleaner, had scrubbed out the police station instead of paying attention to his duties.
“It’s a real grand cleaner,” said Willie. “It’s called ”SCCRUBB.“ I sent away for it.”
“Willie, Willie, it’s taking the polish off the table.”
“Oh, michty-me, so it iss. I’ll just get some polish.”
“No,” said Hamish firmly. “Leave it until we’ve eaten.”
Willie’s face twisted in anguish. “Just a wee scoosh o‘ wax,” he pleaded.
“Not even one.” Hamish rose to his feet. “Here’s my lady.”
Maisie Pease joined him. “This is very nice,” she said, looking around.
She sat down in a chair and then shrank back as Willie darted up to the table and shot a spray of liquid wax from a canister and then began polishing fiercely.
“Go away, Willie!” shouted Hamish. “And bring the menus.” Muttering, Willie went off.
“What a strange waiter,” said Maisie.
“Oh, he’s all right. Just a bit keen on cleaning.”
They were the only customers in the restaurant. They ordered food and wine, but the hovering presence of Willie unnerved Maisie. She knocked over a glass of wine, she dropped spaghetti on the table and dropped her bread roll on the floor, and there was Willie each time, mopping and polishing and complaining. Hamish at last stood up and marched Willie into the kitchen and threatened to punch his head if he came near the table again unless they called for him.
“I’m sorry about that,” said Hamish. “He’ll leave us alone now.”
“Tell me all about Lochdubh,” said Maisie. “I’m just getting to know it and the people.”
So Hamish told her about the people in the village, and she watched his thin attractive face and wondered if he was the philanderer that Mrs. Wellington had said he was.
Then Hamish said, “I had a feeling when I was giving that talk that someone was frightened. Just a feeling. Any bullying going on?”
“Not that I know of. But it’s early days for me. It could just be that maybe some of the children were lying.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know if it’s true, but some of them come from very strict religious homes. So when you asked them what Santa Claus was bringing them, they all replied, but in some of the homes, there won’t be any Christmas presents.”
“That’s sad. I know some of them are against Christmas but I didnae think they would take it out on their children.”
“I’ll ask about.”
They talked of other things and then Hamish walked her back to her cottage, which was attached to the schoolhouse. She smiled and thanked him for dinner. He smiled back and then turned and walked away.
Maisie went slowly indoors. He hadn’t even tried to kiss her. He hadn’t suggested a second date. Philanderer indeed!