Kitty had pressed the glass into Mr Firth’s hand and the little party stood looking at one another in a brief moment of silence which Beatrice immediately filled, chattering about a storm being forecast late tomorrow evening but the forecasts could be unreliable in this little corner of the Highlands so they shouldn’t let it worry them. All the while, the pale, bedraggled woman with purple-rimmed specs and spiked white hair that gave her a vague rock-chick-in-their-late-fifties vibe glanced around at the wood-panelled walls (recently beeswaxed and shining now, thanks to Beatrice) and the great set of antlers above the reception desk.
‘So, you’re taking seafood cooking lessons with our head chef, Eugene Fergusson, Mrs Firth?’ trilled Kitty, her soothing Highland accent reaching the woman through her daze.
‘Supposed to be, yes,’ the woman replied. ‘And it’s just Ruth. Mrs Firth still makes me feel a hundred, even after nearly twenty-five years married.’
‘Ah, yes, it’s your anniversary later this year, isn’t it?’ Kitty smiled. ‘Congratulations. We’re glad you wanted to celebrate with us.’
Ruth smiled politely, but her husband didn’t seem to be listening.
‘And, Mr Firth, you’ve nothing booked at the moment?’ Beatrice asked.
‘Hmm?’ He raised his eyes from his phone. ‘No,um, no classes for me. I’ll most likely be working,’ the man confirmed with an admittedly apologetic smile which Beatrice recognised as a plea not to inveigle him in anything crafty.
He didn’t seem all that delighted to find himself holidaying in Port Willow. Being forced to do craft lessons might be enough to send him running home to Yorkshire.
‘Is there anywhere I can get a signal here?’ he said. He’d been searching for bars since he arrived.
‘Och, one’ll came along soon enough,’ Kitty shrugged in her usual happy-go-lucky way. ‘There’s the payphone in the bar corridor if you’re stuck.’
The man’s face fell even further, prompting his wife to pipe up. ‘Oh well, it’s not a problem, is it, Mark? We’re on a rather special holiday after all.’
Mark Firth didn’t reply or mirror his wife’s simpering smile. ‘There’s Wi-Fi?’ he asked Kitty. ‘A month is a very long time without Wi-Fi…’
Kitty interrupted what looked like could easily become an argument. ‘The password’s coral beach, no space, lower case.’ She quickly handed Ruth Firth the key. ‘Room one, double bed, full board. Evening meals start at seven usually. Hogmanay dinner’s at four today, mind. Then there’s haggis, neeps and tatties at midnight. Cookery lessons are daily at ten, starting on the second. Gene will come find you when it’s time for class, Mrs Firth, I mean Ruth, sorry. It’ll just be you and him for the time being. Hope that’s OK?’
‘That’s fine, thank you,’ she said politely, if a little nervously, clearly trying to make up for her husband’s abruptness.
Kitty had directed the couple to their room, the only guest room on the ground floor, directly opposite Atholl and Beatrice’s bedroom and the door to the managers’ little private sun room at the back of the building.
‘Ah,’ Beatrice had sighed once their new guests were in their room and Kitty returned. ‘I reckon we’ve got our work cut out with those two. I’d imagined a month with a sea-view, a few classes taken together here and there, and a little bit of winter Highland magic would be a dreamy second honeymoon for them, but now I see them together I wonder!’ She inhaled through gritted teeth.
‘They’ve had a long journey, poor things,’ Kitty replied. ‘Let them settle in a bit before you do your Cinderella’s fairy godmother thing, OK?’
Beatrice had been keeping an eye on them all through dinner and the speed dating. After sharing a meal together and barely saying anything to one another, Mrs Firth looked a little stricken again, like she had after her train journey, and Beatrice was sure she could detect a tense, regretful appearance in Mark Firth too.
Ruth had however been happy enough making small talk with the staff throughout the afternoon and had already been introduced to Gene, had a tour of his kitchen and covered a range of foody topics, telling him she wasn’t a cook, far from it, but she was excited to learn some new recipes.
At a little after ten, as Beatrice passed their table, she heard Mark announcing to his wife that he was heading to bed. She couldn’t help but say something.
‘You’re not leaving, are you? You have to stay up for the bells, otherwise it’s not a proper Scottish Hogmanay experience,’ Beatrice implored, but he mumbled about not being one for parties these days.
‘Well then, will you let me keep Ruth for a while?’
By then, she had her arm looped through Ruth’s and the pair were exchanging glances – Beatrice triumphant and Mrs Firth, a little alarmed. ‘I’ll take good care of her for you, see she’s back in the room by one.’ Mark hadn’t seemed to mind at all and bid them both good night and shuffled off without so much as a peck on his wife’s cheek.
‘Shall we have a drink? It’s about time I took a break,’ Beatrice asked Ruth when he’d gone, ineffectually kneading the small of her own back with both hands.
‘I think that’s a good idea,’ the older woman replied, eyeing Beatrice with concern. ‘You’ve been on your feet all night. Come on, sit down. I’ll get the drinks. A soft drink for you, yes?’
When Ruth returned from the bar with a cranberry juice for Beatrice and another fizzy wine for herself, Beatrice asked her how she’d known.
‘That you’re pregnant? I trained as a midwife once, and to be honest if your posture or pink cheeks didn’t give the game away, your bloke fussing all around you does – and that’s not to mention the fluffy slippers.’
Beatrice laughed. Ruth seemed brighter now than at check-in. She thought she’d be shy or awkward, but she wasn’t a bit, and Beatrice knew it couldn’t all be down to the fizzy wine she’d been sipping all evening. In fact, there was something quietly assured about the woman, something mature and grounded that reminded her of her own mum.
‘Your husband isn’t one for parties then?’
‘Parties?’ Ruth laughed. ‘I can’t remember the last time we were out together on a night like this.’ She looked as though she were searching her memory. ‘Children’s parties, yes. I’ve hosted plenty of those, but even those stopped about eighteen years ago.’
