Page 36 of A Secret Scottish Escape

It was three days since Dad had barked at me about my Battalion reunion suggestion. I still suspected there was something he wasn’t telling me, but decided to choose my moment to broach the subject again. Waiting for a carpenter who was already fifteen minutes late on a cloudy Thursday evening at the start of June wasn’t the right time.

As if he had detected my irritation, Alec Carruthers, one of Dad’s old school friends, came barrelling up the road in his mud-splattered, bottle-green Land Rover. “Nice night for it,” he beamed, getting out of the car and striding towards us.

Alec hoisted his grey beanie further back on his head and surveyed the boathouse. “So it’s true then? Layla Devlin is the new owner of this?” As if to emphasise the point, he raised a finger and jabbed it.

“Guilty as charged.”

Dad directed a cocked eyebrow at Alec. “Are you ready to go in there?”

Alec performed a jokey bow. “Ladies first.”

Rolling his eyes good naturedly, Dad ushered me up the porch steps. I eased the key into the door and opened it. A musty draught coiled outward.

While Alec prowled up and down the empty boathouse, his timber boots thudding on the wooden floor, Dad offered me an encouraging smile. “Don’t you worry. Alec is the best. I know he looks like he couldn’t find his way to the end of the road, but he’s a bloody good chippie.”

I supressed any lingering doubts and talked Alec through the shelving we wanted behind the bar, and the broken wooden floorboards needing repair. As we meandered around, gilded rays of light fed in through the windows and pooled at our feet. All I could hear was the sensuous whispers from the Loch water.

Soon, there would be live music, fairy lights strung from the porch and looped all the way along the jetty, and intimate tables and chairs set outside, overlooking the rambling forests.

There would be small frosted bowls with candles on each table inside and out, quilted seats, thick checked curtains to give the interior a homely feel, a fireplace housing crackling logs, a small stage not far away from the bar – for the performers to feel close to the audience – an array of tangy local spirits that hit the back of your throat and melted the chill, a selection of snacks, and native produce of the area. But ultimately, it would be all about the atmosphere – a haven for music lovers, where bands and singers could feel appreciated.

“Oi! Layla!”

I jerked my head round, sending half my hair into my eyes. “Oh! Sorry Alec.”

He and Dad swapped grins. “Day dreaming about your little empire?”

Two pops of colour appeared on my cheeks. “Just … making plans.”

They nodded their understanding.

“Well, me and the boys will get cracking at 8.30 a.m. sharp tomorrow morning and, with a fair wind, we should be able to hand over to the painter and decorator chappies by the middle of next week.”

I clapped my hands together excitedly. “Oh, if you could, that would be wonderful.”

“We’ll do our best for you.”

The three of us began shuffling towards the door.

“Got any ideas for who you’re going to feature here then?” asked Alec, balancing his pencil back behind his ear.

“Well, it would be good to have an eclectic mix of artists – folk, rock, grunge…”

“It would be a real coup for you if you could get this Mask fella that’s rumoured to have moved here.”

“Who?” I asked, puzzled. “I’ve never heard of him.”

Alec puffed out his chest with self-importance. “Oh, my daughter, Heather, has been going on about him. He’s some new anonymous singer/songwriter.”

“Anonymous?” asked Dad. “How does that work?”

Alec hitched his hooded eyes upwards. “According to the fountain of all knowledge that is my sixteen-year-old, he won’t allow himself to be identified. The guy wears some massive hoodie and a black masquerade mask, hence the name.” Alec shook his head in mock exasperation. “I wish she’d show as much enthusiasm for her blasted studies as she does for this Mask character. She can recite his ruddy lyrics backwards, but ask her about Robert the Bruce and she’s lost.”

My curiosity rose. A musician like him would be a marketing dream. “Sorry to interrupt Alec,” I said. “I’m sensing a possible PR opportunity. How much do you know about this Mask?”

“Well, Heather has been playing his stuff on repeat for the last week. She said he started off uploading his music online and it’s really beginning to catch on. He’s got a great voice, mind you.”

Alec stepped outside, the setting sun casting a halo effect around his rotund frame. “Rumours are that he’s Australian. She keeps on about what amazing eyes he has. Teenage daughters, eh?”