Scots on the Rocks

4

It wasn’t surprising that Renie wasn’t on hand when Judith went down to breakfast at nine o’clock. The food, including kippers, toast, rashers of bacon, scrambled eggs, fruit, and flat, soft rolls was tasty. When Judith finished eating, she couldn’t resist seeking out the kitchen.

It wasn’t difficult. She opened the door Mrs. Gibbs had used, and faced a second baize door. Judith knocked. Mrs. Gibbs responded.

“Aye?” the cook said. “What would ye want?”

“I shouldn’t intrude,” Judith apologized, “but I run an inn. I was curious to see how you manage your kitchen. I serve only breakfast.”

“Come along,” Mrs. Gibbs said with a resigned air.

The kitchen was huge, with an open fireplace and a spit that looked as if it was used regularly. The cast-iron stove had eight round cooking spaces of varying sizes, not unlike the smaller version Grandma and Grandpa Grover had used for years in the family home.

“Wood-burning?” Judith inquired.

“Wood and coal,” Mrs. Gibbs replied.

The counters were made of old, well-worn wood, fragrant from decades of cutting fruit and vegetables. There were two sinks, both enamel with old-fashioned faucets like the ones in the guest bathroom. The big black refrigerator, however, looked new. The only hint of nonfunctional decor was a framed tartan on the far wall next to a glass-covered cupboard.

“You do all this yourself?” Judith said with admiration.

“Aye. That is,” Mrs. Gibbs explained, “except for summer when the regular guests come. I have a daily or two to help.”

“I should think so. What about cleaning? This place is vast.”

Mrs. Gibbs agreed. “Daily help for that, too, in summer.”

“Does your grandson live here all the time?” Judith asked, admiring the heavy cookware that hung from a circular rack.

Mrs. Gibbs frowned as she used a wooden spoon to stir what looked like cake batter. “He’s paying us a visit.”

“Oh.” Judith smiled. “That’s nice. Where does he live?”

The frown deepened. “Close by.”

“Do he and his wife have children?”

Mrs. Gibbs dropped the spoon and bent down to retrieve it. “He told you about his wife?”

“No,” Judith admitted. “But he’s married, isn’t he?”

“Aye.” Mrs. Gibbs wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “They had a wee bairn, Jamie, last November.”

“That’s wonderful. You must be thrilled.”

Mrs. Gibbs didn’t respond. Judith changed the subject. “What are those flat soft rolls? I ate two. They’re delicious.”

“They’re baps,” Mrs. Gibbs replied, “from an auld recipe. Tomorrow I’ll make bannocks. You call them…what?”

“Pancakes or flapjacks,” Judith said. “I remember bannocks from when my cousin and I were in Scotland many years ago.”

Mrs. Gibbs nodded once and stirred the mixture in the bowl. “No lunch. High tea at four, if you like.”

“My cousin and I will probably go into the village to explore,” Judith said. “We’ll eat there. What do you recommend?”

“A tearoom, a Chinese restaurant, a curry house, two pubs, pizza. Take your pick.” Mrs. Gibbs kept her eyes on the dough.

Judith pointed at the tartan on the wall and moved for a closer look. “That’s different from the Forbes and Fordyce green and blue plaid in the hallway. I like all the red. Is that the clan’s hunting colors?”

“Nae.” Mrs. Gibbs still didn’t look up. “That’s my family, the MacIver tartan.”

“Oh.” Judith peered at what she assumed was the clan motto. “Nunquam obliviscar. What does that mean?”

The other woman finally glanced up, her eyes narrowed and her tone bitter. “It means ‘I will never forget.’” She turned back to the dough and gave it a hard thump with her fist. “I must finish this.”

Judith sensed that she was being dismissed. “Thank you.” Without another word, she returned to the dining room. Renie was at the sideboard, heaping food onto her plate.

“I thought you’d run off with Chuckie,” she said.

“I was trying in vain to befriend Mrs. Gibbs,” Judith explained.

Renie was surprised. “If you flunked, she can’t be human.”

“The only thing I found out is that Harry is just visiting, and his wife had a baby boy last November,” Judith said, pouring herself a third cup of coffee. “He lives nearby, which, I assume, given the smaller distances between places in Scotland, could be the village.”

Renie topped her scrambled eggs with a couple of kippers. “So?”

Judith shrugged. “Nothing, I guess.”

“I’m more concerned that our husbands will be arrested for poaching,” Renie said, sitting down and sprinkling salt and pepper on her food. “Land along the UK’s rivers and such are usually owned privately.”

Judith had also sat at the long trestle table. “Joe mentioned that MacGowan had permission to fish in certain spots around here. He’s going to serve as their ghillie, which is what the locals call a guide. Apparently you don’t have to buy a fishing license, only some kind of permit that gives you the property owner’s approval.”

“Good. So what do we do for amusement?” Renie asked.

“Explore the village? We may need Gibbs to row us ashore.”

“You could make it up that hill?”

“I think so,” Judith said. “It isn’t very far, though I couldn’t see much in the fog. I found Joe’s castle layout and a local map. We’re close to several interesting places and not all that far from Inverness.”

When the cousins were ready to leave, they found Gibbs by accident. He was in the courtyard, armed with a trowel and a rake, doffing his cap when he spotted the cousins. “Bulbs coming up,” he said. “Got to make way for crocus and daffodils.”

“Ours are in bud at home,” Judith said. “They should be blooming by the time we get back. Do you do all the gardening?”

“Aye.” Mr. Gibbs straightened up, a hand pressing his back. “Stiff I get, o’ times.” He smiled at the low gray clouds. “Spring’s coming.”

“Also true where we live,” Judith said. “We’re going to St. Fergna. It looks as if the tide’s out.”

“It is,” Gibbs agreed. “Harry can drive ye. Here he comes now.”

Harry Gibbs was coming out through a door on the other side of the courtyard. He was dressed casually, if stylishly, in a black jacket that displayed a Burberry plaid lining, and well-cut corduroy slacks.

“Do ye mind passengers?” Gibbs called to his grandson. “These ladies want to plunder the shops in the village.”

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.”

“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.”

The cousins trudged closer to the old stone arch. “It’s the Gunn family plot,” Renie said. “Same name as the pushy old bag in the shop.”

“You’re right.” Judith studied the monument, noticing that some of the letters were chipped, and ivy crept up its twin columns. Still, it was obvious from the neatly clipped grass that the plot was well tended. “Here’s Eanruig Gunn, who died four years ago at fifty-five. Maybe your Mrs. Gunn is his widow. There’s a ship on the marker.” She looked to her left where a statue of an angel overlooked another grave. “This one’s from three years ago, maybe a son, Francis Gunn, twenty-two. No wonder Mrs. Gunn is crabby. She’s had her share of tragedies.”

“I’ve had my share of graves,” Renie said. “Let’s eat.”

The cousins strolled out of the cemetery through the lich gate. Judith smiled. “Weird, huh? Our first tourist stop is a cemetery.” She paused, waiting for a couple of bicyclists to pass. “Nice,” she went on, breathing in the sea-tinged air. “No heat, no hurry, no murders.”

“That’s a dumb thing to say,” Renie chided.

Judith grimaced. “Yes. I wonder why…” She gave herself a shake. “That’s what I get for standing on top of a bunch of bodies. Oh well.”

Renie refrained from saying the obvious.