At the hotel they were welcomed by Miss Carmichael. As the season was virtually over – only a few visitors remained in the hotel – half of the main restaurant was closed and she had given them a table by the fire in the cosy breakfast room, a privacy especially pleasing. The food, simple and unpretentious, was of the first quality: a Scotch broth, saddle of Lothian lamb with roast potatoes and garden beans, home-made trifle laced with sherry and topped with double country cream, then a native Dunlop cheese and hot oatcakes. Moray had hoped the parson and his spouse would enjoy this repast and they did, especially Mrs Fotheringay, who ate with hearty and honest appreciation of the good things. The more he saw of this plain, outspoken woman, the more he liked her. But what gave him most satisfaction was the fine blood that the nourishing meal – so different from the meagre fare which, he was convinced, awaited her at home – gradually brought to Kathy’s cheeks, making her eyes brighter, her smile warmer. Thank heaven, he thought, she isn’t all spirit, and pressing her to another helping of trifle, he set out to ensure that the flesh was not neglected. Indeed, with that flexibility which enabled him to attune himself to any society, he was the perfect host. Kindly and serious rather than gay, he charmed them all. Keeping the conversation moving with discretion, he spoke briefly of his business in America, of his early retirement and return to Europe, finally of the home he had made for himself above the Schwansee; and, since Kathy was listening with attentive interest, he took pains and, with feeling, described the lake, the village, the surrounding landscape.
‘You should see it under snow, as it will be soon.’ He concluded on a high note. ‘A mantle of the purest white.’
‘It sounds a braw spot,’ Mrs Fotheringay said. Assured that her first doubts had been unjustified, she had long since thawed towards him, revealing an unsuspected archness. ‘ You’re a lucky chiel to live amongst such beauty.’
‘Lucky, yes.’ He smiled. ‘But lonely, too.’
‘Then you’re not married?’
‘I have been a widower for some years.’
‘Oh, dear,’ she exclaimed, concerned. ‘But you have children?’
‘None.’ He raised his eyes, looked at her gravely. ‘ My marriage … was not a particularly joyful one.’
The painful words, so obviously the understatement of a perfect gentleman, produced a sudden silence. But before this became prolonged he rallied them.
‘That’s all past. And now I’m happy to be back in my own country and in this present company.’ He smiled. ‘Shall we go into the lounge for coffee?’
Regretfully the minister looked at his watch.
‘I’m afraid we must decline. Kathy has her Sunday School class at three. And it’s after half-past two.’
‘Good gracious,’ said Mrs Fotheringay. ‘How time has flown. And so very agreeably too. We’re most indebted to our new friend. Come, dear, we’ll leave the men for a wee minute.’ She rose and took Kathy’s arm, adding with her usual directness, ‘Miss Carmichael will show us where to tidy up.’
Left alone with the parson, who had also risen and was standing by the window viewing the sea, Moray seized the opportunity to take his cheque book from his inside pocket. A few strokes of his ballpoint pen and he got to his feet.
‘As a token of friendship and good will, permit me to offer you this so that your congregation may be summoned fittingly.’
Fotheringay turned sharply. A dejected little stick of a man, with more bile than blood in his veins, he was now completely overcome. Staring at the cheque, all taken aback, he stammered:
‘My dear sir … this is more than generous … it’s … it’s munificent.’
‘Not at all. It’s a pleasure. One I can well afford.’ Moray placed a finger on his lips. ‘And please – not a word to the others.’
As he spoke the two ladies returned and Mrs Fotheringay, struck by her husband’s attitude, cried out:
‘Matthew! What on earth’s the matter?’
He took a deep breath, swallowed the dry lump in his throat.
‘I cannot help it. I must speak. Mr Moray has just given me the eighty pounds to recast our bell!’
There was a sharp silence. A deeper colour had rushed into his wife’s cheeks, already flushed by the substantial meal.
‘Well, I never,’ she said in a low voice. ‘That is most extraordinar’ handsome.’ She came slowly towards Moray and took his hand tightly in both of hers. ‘That wretched bell has had my poor old man worried near out of his wits. I just cannot thank you enough. But there, I hadn’t been five minutes in your company before I kenned ye were one of the best.’
He was not often at a loss but now the genuine feeling in her voice unexpectedly embarrassed him.
‘Nothing … nothing,’ he said awkwardly. ‘ If I’m to get you back in time we ought to be on our way.’
Ignoring their protests he insisted on taking them back in the little car. This time the Fotheringays were in the rear seat, Kathy beside him. During the short run she did not speak, but as he said goodbye outside the manse she remained behind the others to thank him – quickly, shyly, but with unmistakable sincerity.
Chapter Six
On monday afternoon his golf clubs and two valises arrived by special delivery van from Prestwick Airport: he had known that the good Arturo would not fail him. The sight of his beautiful leather bag and shining true-temper clubs stimulated him, and although it was late in the day he went to the clubhouse, introduced himself to the secretary, and arranged for a temporary membership. Then he got hold of the professional and had just time to play twelve holes with him. The open, rolling course suited Moray, he was in excellent form, and when fading light forced them to stop he was actually one up on his opponent, a dour and stocky Scot, who had started with all the expert’s disdain of the amateur, but rapidly and rather comically changed his views.
‘Ye hit a verra sweet ball, sir,’ he conceded, as they walked back to the clubhouse for a drink. ‘ It’s not often I come up against a visitor that can beat me. Would ye care for a return tomorrow?’
Moray accepted.
‘Ten o’clock sharp,’ he said, slipping a pound note to the other. ‘And perhaps we’ll go out again in the afternoon.’
Firmly, he was controlling his persistent wish to go to Markinch. Not only was discretion imperative, lest his motives be misconstrued; he well knew the wisdom of delay, the advantage of an interlude in which expectation could develop and recollection could have its way.
He took no action until noon on Wednesday, when he wrote a note, which he dispatched by the hotel boots, a lad of seventeen.
My dear Kathy,
I have to go to Edinburgh to do some shopping tomorrow. As I believe you are off duty that afternoon, if you have nothing better to do would you care to come with me? Unless I hear to the contrary I will call for you at two o’clock.
Most sincerely yours, David Moray.
His fear that she might not be free was quickly removed; a verbal message of acceptance was brought back by the boy, and on the following afternoon when he drew up at the dispensary she was waiting for him outside, dressed in a clean white blouse, a speckled grey Harris tweed skirt which, at a glance, he decided she had made herself, and, as the breeze was keen, the rather shabby coat in which he had first seen her. Though her fresh young face redeemed everything, exhaling an innocent smell of brown soap, it was an unbecoming outfit, little better than that of a country maidservant on her day out. Nevertheless it pleased him, especially the worn coat, since it might present the opportunity he sought. She would be difficult to convince, but he meant to try.
How delightful it was to find her beside him after those three days of self-enforced abstinence. Not only had she been glad to see him, her mood was lighter than before, she seemed full of expectation for their expedition. He sensed that she was becoming less shy of him. After they had driven for some time in silence, she said:
‘This is much nicer than the bus. It was good of you to ask me. And convenient,
too. It so happens I have an errand in Edinburgh.’
‘Then we’ll do it whenever we arrive,’ he said heartily. ‘Just tell me where you want to go.’
‘Number 10a George Street,’ she told him. ‘The offices of the Central African Missionary Society.’
He glanced at her quickly. Their eyes met for only an instant before he returned his gaze to the road ahead, yet she had caught the blankness of his expression, and with a smile she said:
‘Did you not know? Uncle Willie is out there for the Society? It’s my fault for not showing you the photographs, but I thought you surely understood. He’s been working for years in the foreign missionary field.’
It took him a few moments to overcome his surprise.
‘No … I didn’t quite realise …’.
‘Well, he is. And doing wonderfully under the most difficult conditions. You’ve no idea of what he’s been through.’
In spite of himself, and his lack of sympathy for Willie’s spiritual objectives, he was impressed by her glowing and ingenuous tone. A sentimental recollection of the bright-eyed little boy in Ardfillan thirty years ago came over him.
‘Well, well. Come to think of it, it’s just the thing I would have expected of Willie. I honour him for it.’
‘I knew you would,’ she said in a low voice.
‘I must admit …’. They were now in the outskirts of Edinburgh and a momentary difficulty in negotiating the traffic caused him to pause, before resuming. ‘Yes, I admit I was puzzled at your asking me to take you to the – to George Street. But I see it now. I suppose they keep you in touch with Willie’s movements.’
‘Indeed they do. And besides, the least I can do is to send him regular parcels. I arrange it through the Society. They know what he needs and are able to buy the right things at reasonable prices.’
‘You go in and leave the money?’
‘Why not?’ she answered light-heartedly. ‘ It’s little enough. Uncle Willie’s worth more than that. Besides, he’s the only relative I’ve got.’
He saw then the reason for her cheap clothes, poor lodging and indifferent food, saw the purpose of her sparing way of life. This devotion touched him, yet his main sensation was one of indignation that she should be denied the things that were due her, and he had a sudden impulse to speak of the resources at his command, of all that he could, and would, do for her. But his instinct warned him – no, no, he thought, not yet; above all he must avoid too sudden, too startling an advance.
They were now approaching the centre of the city and, following the directions she gave him, he turned off Princes Street at the Scott monument, drove for some distance along Craig Terrace, then, after crossing a wide square, arrived at a grey stone building marked by a well-polished brass plate bearing the name of the Society. It had the look of an old dwelling house, Victorian in character, which, he surmised, had been donated by some deceased benefactor, possibly the pious widow of a city merchant. In the windows several posters were displayed showing representations of what appeared to be, at this distance, distressing groups of emaciated native children.
‘Miss Arbuthnot will be expecting me,’ she told him as she stepped briskly from the car. ‘ I won’t be more than a few minutes.’
She was as good as her word. There was just time to smoke a Sobranie cigarette – he had been careful to bring a plentiful supply of his special brand from Switzerland – before she reappeared. The dashboard clock, which was actually going, showed only half-past three. But glancing at it she apologised, rather breathlessly.
‘Och, I have kept you waiting.’
‘Not a bit of it. Was everything all right?’
‘Oh, fine, thank you.’
‘Now then, Kathy,’ he said, decisively engaging gear, ‘you’ve done your good deed for the day and you’re in my hands for the rest of the afternoon. Let’s forget Central Africa for a bit and think a little about ourselves. First of all we’ll park the car, then we’ll go shopping together.’
He found a garage nearby and presently, taking her arm, he guided her back to Princes Street. The sun was shining as they walked along. In the gardens opposite roses were still blooming and a cool breeze fluttered the leaves of the plane trees. Above, the battlements of the Castle were as though cut clean by a knife against a wide swathe of luminous sky. He still held her arm protectively, steering her along the crowded pavement.
‘Isn’t Princes Street nice?’ she remarked. ‘They say it’s the bonniest street in Europe.’
‘It is a bonnie street, Kathy,’ he answered gaily, ‘and full of bonnie shops – all with lovely things in them.’
‘Ay,’ she nodded soberly, ‘and all dreadful expensive.’
He burst out laughing. A wonderful mood was descending upon him. The scene, the sun, the brisk invigorating air, all exhilarated him.
‘Kathy, Kathy,’ he exclaimed, pressing her elbow. ‘You’ll be the death of me. When you know me better you’ll realise that the one thing I really enjoy is spending money.’
She had to smile in sympathy, though a little doubtfully.
‘Well,’ she said practically, ‘so long as you don’t waste it.’
‘My dear, you’re the very one who ought to know that what’s spent on others is never wasted.’
‘Oh, you’re so right,’ she agreed, her expression clearing. ‘ That was the most splendid and generous thing you did, giving the bell to Mr Fotheringay.’
‘Yes, the old boy’s got his bell. But we mustn’t forget poor Mrs F., who got nothing – and I think she’s had plenty of that all her life. So we must find something pretty for her. But first of all,’ he had stopped opposite Ferguson’s, the confectioners, ‘I want to send some Edinburgh rock to two little friends of mine in Switzerland.’
He went in with her and ordered a large box of the famous sweet to be mailed to the children of the pier-master in Schwansee. Next he sought her advice and, in a neighbouring shop, purchased a fine capacious black lizard-skin handbag for the minister’s wife.
‘It’s a beauty.’ Kathy stroked the shining leather admiringly. ‘And I know it’s the very thing she’s wanting.’
‘Then you’ll have the pleasure of giving it to her.’
Emerging, he conveyed her further along the street towards an establishment which, as he drove in, he had observed to be of special merit.
‘Now,’ he announced in great good humour and with a rather mischievous air, ‘I’m going in here to do some real shopping.’
He took a step forward, but as he prepared to lead the way in she stopped him hurriedly.
‘Don’t you see – this isn’t a man’s shop.’
‘No,’ he replied, looking down at her seriously. ‘ It isn’t. But I’m going in – to buy you a new coat – and a few other things which I’m sure you need. Now, not a word. I’m an old family friend, you must learn to accept me as … well, someone like Uncle Willie. Or better still, as an older brother. And as such, I simply can’t have you sending all your money to Angola and doing without absolute necessities – a pretty girl like you.’
A warm colour had risen to her brow. She tried to speak but could not. Her eyes fell.
‘I never bother what I have on – not much, anyway.’ Then, to his relief, she looked at him again and, unable to resist, after a faint tremor of her lips, she smiled. ‘I mustn’t pretend. I suppose I like to be as nice as the rest.’
‘And you shall be, only nicer.’
They went into the shop which, as he had surmised, was of the first order. Aided by a discreet, mature saleswoman who rustled towards them, and ignoring all Kathy’s whispered protests, he selected a coat of fine Shetland material, warm yet light, new gloves and shoes, a hand-blocked silk scarf, and finally a restrained yet tasteful dark green lovat suit. He wished to do more, infinitely more: nothing would have given him greater joy than to have swathed her in those rich furs past which, with a speculative glance, the saleswoman had tentatively led him. But he dared not – not yet. While Kath
y retired to the fitting room upstairs he took an armchair in the elegant red-carpeted salon, stretched out his legs, and lit a cigarette, perfectly at home. Presently she came down, and, with lowered gaze, stood before him. He could not believe his eyes, so startling was the change. She looked ravishing.
‘Madame is rather different in the lovat, sir.’ The saleswoman, with an air of achievement, was studying him covertly.
Under that experienced gaze he restrained himself.
‘A great success,’ he said coolly. ‘It seems to fit.’
‘Naturally, sir. The young lady is a perfect thirty-four.’
He insisted that she wear the suit and the new coat: the other articles, elegantly wrapped, were easily portable, the old discarded coat could be sent to Markinch with her Harris skirt. When the bill was presented, though he was careful not to expose the total, she kept murmuring remorsefully in his ear, but as she left the shop in her new possessions he did not fail to notice the sparkle of pleasure in her eyes. He had done well, he reflected with an inward thrill, and this was only the beginning.
She remained silent as they walked back together along the street, where the low sun behind a bank of clouds cast a golden gleam, then looking straight ahead she said:
‘I think you are the kindest person, Mr Moray. I only hope you have not ruined yourself.’
He shook his head.
‘I told you I had something to repay. But it is you who are repaying me.’
She half turned, looking at him steadily.
‘That’s just about the nicest thing that’s ever been said to me.’
‘Then you will do a nice thing for me? Mr Moray is so stiff, won’t you please call me David?’