AGE: 80 years and 2 months
OCCUPATION: Retired boat man
ADDRESS: Port Willow, the blue hoose
HOBBIES: Taking my bike round the village and off to Skye, visiting my son’s place, bird watching, draining a dram at the Princess. I make a braw tablet as well.
HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOURSELF: Widower. Right handsome moustache. Maybe no’ awbody’s cup o’ tea but a gentleman.
LOOKING FOR: A companion. A hand to hold.
Own bike an advantage.
Kirstie only nodded and handed it back as Seth informed her sadly he’d had no takers yet but he lived in hope. ‘You see, we’ve always had the problem here in Port Willow of too many men and no’ enough lassies.’
‘How’d you mean?’ Kirstie wanted to know, signalling to the cameraman to order some drinks at the bar after all.
‘Our lassies are too bonny and too clever to stick around in the village. They’re drawn to the cities for work or for studies. Some o’ them end up married and living abroad like Mrs Mair’s daughter; she’s in Cape Town, I believe.’
‘That she is,’ called the white-haired housekeeper from behind the bar where she was pouring two half pints of shandy for the cameraman. ‘There’s no’ much to keep the young ones here.’
‘Except the farmin’, the fishin’; things the lads stay for,’ Seth added. ‘So for every lassie there’s at least two laddies and so few young folk. It doesnae make for many marriages, you see?’
‘Tell me more about the local dating scene, Seth,’ Kirstie said drawing him towards a bar stool before asking if he’d like a drink too.
Atholl and Beatrice watched on, bemused. ‘What’s goin’ on?’ Atholl asked, under his breath.
‘I think it’s called finding a better news angle,’ Beatrice whispered back, not entirely sure if Seth was the best person to fill the reporter in on the village singles’ scene, meagre though it was, in spite of her best efforts to encourage a little romance between the locals.
They could do nothing but watch on as Kirstie took notes on her phone underneath the bar’s coloured foil paperchains and tinsel which, along with the squeaky clean, polished glasses and spirit bottles, were sparkling in the dancing lights from the Christmas tree.
‘Young Beatrice hasnae had the success she’d hoped for wi’ the board; no’ yet anyway,’ Seth was telling the woman. ‘Our local laddies are shy, you see? I thought if I came forward first, they’d all follow suit, but it hasnae worked. That’s why she’s organised the,eh…what’s it called again, Beatrice?’ Seth turned to her on his barstool, stroking his whiskers, his eyes peering black and tiny through thick round specs.
‘Speed dating,’ Beatrice called over. ‘This Hogmanay. I thought it would bring an interesting twist to the New Year festivities if we kicked it all off with a speed-dating event.’
‘And you didn’t mention that in the interview?’ Kirstie looked between Atholl and Beatrice.
Atholl cut in. ‘Well, no, that’s more a thing for locals. We didnae think you’d be interested in…’
‘How many tickets have you sold?’ Kirstie interrupted, too excited by the story to wait. This was far more interesting than the opening of a new visitors’ carpark at the lobster hatchery she was supposed to be covering this afternoon.
‘Well,uh… seven,’ Beatrice conceded. ‘But there’s still time. You’re coming, aren’t you, Seth?’
‘Wouldnae miss it!’ he smiled, reaching for the Glenfiddich that Mrs Mair had laid before him.
Kirstie’s eyes sharpened. She turned to the cameraman. ‘Davie, get your equipment. Let’s film a segment before we leave. We can get this on tonight if we’re quick. Our viewers will love it. A return to traditional face-to-face dating in the Highlands. A rejection of the online apps with all their liars and fakers and that one from Kirkintilloch that says he’ll meet you by the steps of the library, but does he show up?’ Kirstie paused, suddenly self-conscious. She smoothed her skirt over her knees and smiled once more, composing herself after getting heated. ‘Anyway. Mr McVie, will you do a wee interview for me?’
‘Where do you want me?’ said Seth, all seriousness, smoothing his tweedy lapels.
‘Oh God!’ Beatrice cried, watching on helplessly, as Atholl turned away, stifling a laugh.
Chapter Six
Bumpy Landings
Everyone at the inn was so preoccupied watching Seth being interviewed in front of Beatrice’s dating board that they didn’t notice when the young blonde woman with big black sunglasses and the worst hangover of her life stumbled into the reception. Everyone except Gene Fergusson, that is, Atholl’s lanky brother and the inn’s resident chef.
‘Morning, are ye checking in?’ he asked, peering at the woman as though he might see through the black lenses. Had he been able to, he’d know her eyes were crusted and dry from the flight and smudged with yesterday’s make-up, and maybe he’d pick up on the signs this was a woman in survival mode, drowned in stress hormones and Diptyque eau de parfum.
