‘This time, things might be perfect, OK?’ Angela said again.
‘OK,’ Beatrice echoed, realising she was shaking. The sisters leaned their foreheads together and Angela raised the test stick between them once more so they could both gaze at it, and through the strange dizziness and shock, Beatrice replayed her sister’s words. Things might be perfect this time.
In the end, telling Atholl hadn’t been as difficult as Beatrice feared. The words had just tumbled out. He’d watched her all through supper in the little private sun room that Beatrice had turned from a dusty and cluttered storeroom into their cosy, comfortable den. She’d been playing with Clara and asking questions of Vic and Angela but with a faraway look that had worried him. He’d seen Beatrice ill before, back in the summer, sick from secrecy and heartbreak. He couldn’t bear to see her suddenly so sad and had said so.
‘I’m sorry to spoil your reunion, but do you no’ agree Beattie’s sickening for something?’
‘I think you might be right,’ Angela had replied, pointedly, and the little family had hurried through dessert and said their goodnights, leaving the couple alone.
Atholl had guided Beatrice into their bedroom next door.
‘Sit yourself here,’ he told her, watching her settle on the bed and pressing a palm to her forehead. ‘You’re no’ hot, that’s good. You might be coming down with something though. Patrick the fishmonger had the flu last week, laid him out for three days, his faither told me.’
‘I don’t have flu,’ Beatrice said, but Atholl was out the room again, stopping only to switch on the lights on their little Christmas tree.
Alone, Beatrice looked around at what had once been Atholl’s bedroom and filled with willow projects and his designs lying around everywhere on paper. She’d worked hard making it a relaxing place for the two of them.
When he returned from the kitchens, Atholl was carrying a tray and laughing to himself.
‘What is it?’ she asked, glad he was happy, letting it lighten her mood too.
‘I stopped Gene in the kitchens and told him wee Clara would be needing some dry oats, a nip o’ whisky and a carrot, and maybe a mince pie. You should o’ seen his face. He says to me, “Would she no’ prefer some Weetabix?” I had to tell him it was for Father Christmas and his reindeer!’
He was still laughing when he reached the bed and presented her with a tray laden with black tea, honey and lemon, two bannocks, and a present wrapped in holly leaf paper.
‘What’s this?’ she’d smiled, opening his gift as Atholl joined her on the bed.
‘In case I dinnae hae time tomorrow to give you your present.’
Inside was a hinged frame of antique silver; on one side was a photo behind glass of the two of them, a selfie taken at the Coral Beach back at the end of summer with their heads pressed together and Echo peering over Atholl’s shoulder, making sure he wasn’t missing any fun.
Beatrice had laughed. ‘It’s lovely, thank you, Atholl.’ She touched the empty frame facing their picture. ‘What’s this one for?’
‘Whatever you wish. Maybe we’ll get a braw photo of us all tomorrow? Your first Christmas at the inn. Or put in one of you and Angela, Vic and Clara?’
Beatrice only hesitated a little. ‘Or a scan picture?’
Atholl didn’t say anything, thinking.
‘Because pretty soon we’ll be having a baby scan.’ Beatrice looked into Atholl’s face and watched his expression shifting. She had never seen anyone react with such unfettered, simple joy.
‘Beattie? Are we… are we having a baby?’ The tears were in his eyes and his arms around her body already. Pulling back, he checked again. ‘Are we?’ The laughter and hope in his eyes made Beatrice’s heart leap. She nodded and they sank into each other’s arms again. ‘And you’re both all right? That’s why you’ve been so pale!’ He spoke each thought as it came to him, holding nothing back. ‘I cannae believe it! My heart might burst! Have you told Angela? She must be made up for you. Areyouglad? You’re glad, are ye’ no?’
Beatrice let her happy tears fall, listening to him, nodding all the while, telling him that of course she was glad, very glad. And so, Beatrice and Atholl got under the covers and talked away what was left of Christmas Eve, making plans to call the doctor when the surgery re-opened after Christmas, Atholl throwing out ideas to shift the wardrobes to make room for a cot, and a hundred other lovely things, all while Beatrice rested her head on Atholl’s broad chest where his heart beat a wild ceilidh for happiness.
Chapter Twelve
A Christmas Gift
All along the waterfront at Port Willow Bay, the street is silent. Low tide and a hard frost have left slushy rock pools dotting the shoreline and all unexplored by the usual bands of dog walkers and happy children with crabbing nets and wellies, because today is Christmas day.
The sun has barely risen over the horizon, it seems, as the day holds onto its deep winter gloom and the snow still falls in flurries from a grey sky.
The morning church bells of St Magnus’ have long since rung out, drawing a few early risers to the morning service where they’d sat shivering amongst the pews, singing about a baby’s birth long ago and beneath a hot sun.
In the hills and meadows above the village every bird and wild creature now huddles for warmth somewhere unseen, and every farmer and fisherman takes their ease, enjoying their families and firesides. Yet for some, Christmas morning has brought not one ounce of solace and warmth.
Up in room seven, Nina sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, her knees drawn to her chest, preparing to make the call she’d been dreading.
