‘If you’re waiting for the bus to Port Willow, I think it’s been cancelled.’
Neither of them moved.
‘Well, I’ll be going then,’ she said, aware there wasn’t much room to pass the great lump so she’d have to step onto the road.
Listening carefully for engine sounds and hearing only the dampened noises of stilling winds and the cow’s jaw working away, she stepped gingerly around her companion, but it moved to watch her, a big black eye revealing itself through its shifting hair-do.
‘Good cow,’ she told it, reaching out a tentative hand to pat the side of its neck below its pricked ears. This was her first mistake.
Feeling her touch, the beast leaned into her hand, tipping its head with a grumpy lowing.
‘You want scratches?’ She’d seen the inn dogs doing exactly the same thing with any passer-by who’d stoop to touch them. ‘Well, OK then.’ Grimacing at the thought of what might get trapped beneath her beautifully gel-polished nails, she clawed gently at the creature’s neck. It leaned heavily towards her, shifting its feet to get closer to the friendly human.
‘Woah, careful!’ Nina stepped back onto the black tarmac, scratching at the animal the whole time and finding she was actually smiling at the big monster, idly thinking through her whisky haze that she might christen her Gwyneth. It turned its great horns and snorted and snuffled as Nina scratched harder. ‘Well, it’s been nice meeting you, but I’ve got to find a way down off these hills…’
Gwyneth wasn’t interested in hearing this and turned her body fully to encourage more scratches, her hooves clopping heavily, and before Nina could do anything to prevent it, she felt herself winded and knocked flying by the beast’s great heavy haunches.
Nina’s ankle twisted with a sickening rip as her shoe slipped sideways.
‘Oww!’ She hit the road heavily. The cow stomped and jolted as Nina screamed in alarm.
Only then did she feel the vibrations through the tarmac, hear the thunder of an engine, and see the headlights penetrating the white cloud as her entire world reduced to the horrible realisation that she was lying in the path of a moving vehicle. The screeching of brakes silenced all other thoughts. She instinctively braced her body, it was too late to move out of its path.
This was it. She was going to die on a foggy Scottish roadside and the only witness would be a filthy touch-starved cow called Gwyneth. And why not? After everything else this winter, why the hell not?
But the impact never came. Instead there was a great crunch of rubber on gravel, a ratcheting handbrake, hooves clopping away into the mists, a door creaking open and a deep voice crying out, ‘Jesus Christ!’
‘I didn’t even get to say goodbye,’ Nina murmured, dazed and in shock. ‘Come back, Gwynnie!’
‘Oh my God, look at you! Your ankle! Is your back or neck hurt? I’ll have to lift you,’ the voice said through white fog, and Nina felt no pain – probably something to do with the whisky – as she was hoisted into the air and held against Mutt’s broad chest.
Chapter Twenty-one
Beatrice and the Research Vortex
‘Now the haar’s lifting, shall we take the train into Fort William? Go to the Pram Warehouse, maybe? Get a few wee things for the baby?’
Beatrice was at her command centre in the sun room, huddled in intense focus over her laptop. ‘No thanks,’ she replied, cheerily, but Atholl seemed to detect something false in it.
‘No thank you? You must have a list of pregnancy and baby things you’re needing? You, Beatrice Halliday, the queen of list-making?’
‘I’m going to keep working on this, if you don’t mind. Maybe another day,hmm?’
‘Right-o,’ he replied, as he watched her at her screen. He didn’t give in though. He’d seen first-hand what happened when Beatrice bottled up her feelings. He’d held her through the panic attacks that immobilised her with sudden fear, he’d listened when she broke down and blurted the story of her loss and how she’d felt none of her friends and family wanted to talk about the miscarriage anymore. He’d cradled her hands, taken his time, and let her know she was safe confiding in him. Atholl was a practical man. He learned from life’s lessons and kept them as close to his heart as he held Beatrice herself. He wasn’t about to let this silence of hers slide.
‘I was just,eh, thinking about how it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared. We havenae really talked about the baby since the scan the other day.’
Beatrice’s fingertips stilled on the keyboard.
‘It might be nice, gettin’ a few wee bits and pieces. Some clothes for you, maybe? You cannae keep wearing my shirts, I mean, you can if you want to, but you’d be comfier in real maternity clothes, would you no’?’
Beatrice touched a hand to the pocket of the orange and brown plaid shirt she’d buttoned over a t-shirt this morning. It was big and warm and smelled like Atholl. She couldn’t think of anything that would bring her more comfort, least of all a walk around a brightly lit baby superstore full of waddling pregnant women and young mums cooing over expensive car seats and breast pumps. She shook her head.
Atholl changed tack. ‘Is it organising the festival that’s got you so absorbed?’
Beatrice turned to face him now, smiling, a little strangely maybe, something only Atholl would be able to detect.
‘It is! I’ve got the ice cream van booked now, and all the local makers have been assigned an exhibition stand in the village hall. The church is opening specially to display Easter flower arrangements. Reverend Park from St Magnus’ is going to judge them and Mr and Mrs Shirlaw are donating a free Highland cream tea at the Kailyard cafe at the back of the General Stores for the winner. The school choir have agreed to sing some Gaelic fisher songs as well. Kitty’s along there now, handing in the song sheets. There’s still so much to do, though.’
