‘You can go join Bea and Atholl by their fire, if you’re that cold? They’ve nearly got it blazing,’ Mutt said.
She looked behind her at the couple with their shared blanket over their shoulders and Atholl feeding kindling into a smoking pit made out of beach pebbles and driftwood. She shook her head, not wanting to interrupt their cosy date, not now Beatrice was done talking with that other woman by the shore. The inn managers looked like they were in the first flush of love to Nina. She didn’t want to be a gooseberry.
‘You’re allowed to light fires on the beach?’ she said, changing the subject.
‘It has been known. There’s nobody to stop you doing anything you like at this beach. Here, at least let me take your wet boot over to the fire.’
Mutt looked all around his feet before finding a long stick and proffering it for Nina to slip her dripping boot onto the end, which she did.
She watched him turn away without either of them saying another word, his floppy dark hair blowing wildly in the breeze as he went. When he reached the fire he spoke unheard words with Beatrice and stuck the stick into the coral, leaving the boot dangling above the building flames where, no doubt, the suede would absorb all that black smoke and end up smelling like a barbequed dog’s bed.
She was surprised to see Mutt sit down by the fire too, and extremely surprised to find that she minded. Why had she assumed he’d come back to talk with her on her little rock? Why had she wanted him to? She’d given him no reason to like talking with her, that’s for sure. And, likewise, he hadn’t exactly made it his mission to charm her, apart from his kindness in leaving her that note. But still. Feelings are funny things. Nina quickly turned to look out to sea in case he saw her looking his way.
She’d found the note taped to her room door when she’d reached for her breakfast tray this morning.
No signature, no Dear Ninas, nothing but the words ‘All these folk will meet with you’.
She unfolded the paper now, shielding it from the others’ sight. Each name on the list was accompanied by a mobile number, a direct contact at a woollen mill, a distillery she hadn’t even heard of in her searches, a crystal works, a tartan designer, the leather worker – all locals, and all closed for the holidays but willing to talk with her because of a kind word put in from Mutt, on account of his being related to the Fergussons and living at the inn.
It couldn’t have been easy gathering all those numbers, not on Hogmanay. Had he rung around asking if they didn’t mind passing on their numbers to a green young woman who’d waltzed into town and completely failed to understand how Highland businesses conducted themselves? Whatever it had taken, he’d done it, and she couldn’t understand why.
In fact everyone around here seemed to want to help her. Gene was set upon finding things she’d like to eat, Beatrice had tried to give her a dating ticket – however misguided that was – and Atholl had come to find her this morning to invite her on this walk to the beach. She had a feeling that was also Beatrice’s idea. Yet, none of them expected anything in return. She’d only been in Luke’s company for three years, but that short time had been long enough to make her forget the kindness of a selfless favour.
If only these thoughts had made it through the sullen, grumpy clouds that had gathered around Nina in the last week, but she wasn’t perceiving things clearly at all.
She folded the paper again, slipping it into her pocket and she watched the dogs splashing and yipping, racing in and out of the water, feeling herself just a tiny bit warmer than she had been before.
Chapter Eighteen
Lessons at the Willow School
‘I’ll get the fire going. Beattie, you sit down there. Mutt, do you mind making the coffees? The new espresso machine’s easy enough to use.’
Atholl had made sure everyone was seated and comfortable inside the But and Ben, up above the coral beach.
Its low thatched roof was being buffeted by the increasingly chilly onshore wind that had chased them all indoors after an hour or so of beach combing, boot drying and sea staring.
Mark Firth had watched the party retreating, but had been too afraid of losing his phone signal to follow them. He was still down on the beach now, talking to his clients back home.
Mutt handed Ruth her coffee first, and she accepted it with an almost ethereal calmness. She was red-cheeked but pale everywhere else, and the red lipstick she’d applied this morning (it had been years since she’d worn her statement red lip and Mark had only looked at her, a little taken aback, and said nothing) made her appear paler still now that she was enclosed inside the gleaming whiteness of the cottage’s lime-washed walls and the white overhead beams that drew the eye up to the thatch’s exposed underside.
Ruth had left a space on the bench beside her for Mark and would glance at the closed cottage door every time the wind made it rattle. Did he really have clients desperate for financial advice on New Year’s Day? Her worst fears blanched her complexion even more.
Next, Mutt made sure Nina had a cup. She’d hopped her way up from the beach, rather huffily refusing his offer of a supporting arm. Mind you, he had found it hard not to smirk at the sight of her cursing the sharp coral and jagged sea hollies as she scrambled up the beach path to the cottage wearing only one boot.
Beatrice had whispered, ‘Be nice,’ to him as he’d followed in Nina’s furious, stumbling wake.
With everyone clasping steaming mugs to their chests, and the dogs settling down to sleep in front of the fire, Atholl took the opportunity to tell the little party about his craft. Even Nina, who was shivering beneath her cape – she’d returned Mutt’s coat – smiled to see Atholl’s enthusiasm as he demonstrated a simple basket weave and passed around hoops of willow so everyone could try working the supple rods, gleaming in shades of copper and red, yellow, orange and deep sappy green.
‘We’re no’ just making a basket, we’re practising an ancient art, the origins of which are lost to time. I may not know when it began, but I know willow growing has taken place here in Port Willow for generations. Many years ago our baskets sold all over the world, before the industry was crushed by mass production overseas, of course.’
‘Who buys your work?’ Ruth asked, concentrating on interlacing her willow whips across the framework that Atholl had started off for her and finding it far harder than the craftsman had made it look.
‘Well, it’s a fledgling business but now that I have the online shop, thanks to Beattie’s encouragement,’ he smiled at his girlfriend as he spoke, ‘we’re sending parcels off across the world every week now. No’ many, mind, but enough to show that folk still want something handmade and honest. They want one-of-a-kind creations, and there are plenty willing to pay handsomely for them too.’
Now Nina’s curiosity was sparked. ‘How much would you sell something like that for?’ She nodded to the corner of the room where Atholl’s unfinished stag sculpture stood, supported by wires and wooden blocks to keep it upright while he worked.
Everyone admired Atholl’s creation. The antlers and head were already complete, as was much of its neck and shoulders. When it was finished it would stand six feet tall.
