Anne Douglas (13 page)

‘And he comes from your neck of the woods,’ she added, as Lynette and Scott shook hands. ‘Yes, Edinburgh.’

‘Edinburgh?’ Lynette’s eyes shone. ‘Whereabouts?’

‘Och, no’ the New Town,’ he answered with a laugh. ‘Wee flat in Dalry. How about you?’

‘Old Town tenement.’ She too had laughed. ‘We’re not New Town, either.’

He’d grinned at that and then Mrs Atkinson had whisked her away, saying they’d lots more to see, but Lynette had known she’d be going back. Maybe to pretend she wanted to collect the day’s menus, really to soak up the atmosphere, smile at Scott and his three assistants – Hamish, Fergus and Brigid – and give herself a reminder that there still was a real world outside the comfort zone.

‘How’s it going?’ Monnie asked her at the end of the week. ‘Are you enjoying it?’

‘Sure. It’s a nice little number.’

‘Work no problem?’

‘None at all. Mrs A. says I’m a natural, whatever that means. Working the switchboard, being nice to the guests, or whatever, she seems to think I’m good at it, anyway. And Fionola’s sweet, and good at her job, which I was surprised about, though maybe I was just prejudiced because she’s so pretty.’

‘And how abut Mr Difficult?’

‘Never see him. In fact, he’s away this weekend at a managers’ conference, Mrs Atkinson will be standing in. She’s a bit sharp, but quite friendly, and very efficient.’

‘So, everything’s all right for you, then?’

‘For now.’ Lynette gave her sister a considering look. ‘And for you too, I take it?’

‘Me? I’m just working for Dad.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of work. I mean, seeing Torquil. You told me he’d asked you out again when he came on Tuesday.’

Monnie eyes were very bright. ‘That’s right. But not for this Saturday. He has to go to Inverness for some part for the boat’s engine.’

‘At least he’s not going to see his brother. So, when did you say you were going out, then?’

‘Wednesday week. We’re going to Kyle for a meal. Torquil’s going to try to finish early.’

‘And you’ll be coming back late. That’s better than last time, eh?’

‘Look, I just wish you’d stop going on, Lynette. Are you taking over from Dad, or what?’

‘Sorry.’ Lynette smiled apologetically. ‘I don’t mean to act the bossy sister. It’s just that I want everything to be all right for you. You understand?’

‘I suppose I do.’ Monnie smiled back. ‘I’d probably be the same with you, if you were going out with someone new.’

‘Nothing like that to worry about on my horizon at the moment. Only Mr Allan, coming back on Monday.’ Lynette yawned and stretched. ‘But I’m certainly not worrying about him. Maybe we’ll get on better than I thought.’

When Monday came, however, she changed her mind on that.

Twenty-One

Monday morning shone with such bright April sunshine, Lynette, taking out her dark suit again, decided to put it back.

‘Now, why should we all look like we’re going to a funeral?’ she asked Monnie, who was hastily dressing, ready to check on the hostellers at breakfast. ‘I mean, there’s Mrs Atkinson in black, Fiona in black, and Mr Allan, probably in black, too. Why don’t I bring a bit of spring into their lives, eh?’

‘And do what?’ asked Monnie, then stared as her sister took a familiar suit from the wardrobe. ‘Why, you’re never going to wear that red suit to work, are you? After all you said about being on the safe side?’

Lynette, fondly holding the suit against herself, was smiling. ‘I told you, I want to bring a bit of spring into the hotel, a bit of colour. I bet it’ll cheer the old buffers up no end.’

‘Put it on quick, then, or you’ll be missing your bus.’

‘Wish I could drive and had a car,’ Lynette said with a sigh. ‘Or, even a bike. Maybe I’ll get a second-hand one when the summer comes. Put a wee card in Mrs MacNicol’s window.’

For the present, she had to catch the old, lumbering bus, wearing a raincoat over her suit. She knew all the drivers now, Tim Maclean being one and on duty that day. He smiled and waved as he put her off at the hotel and she ran in through still cold air, even if the sun was shining.

‘Good morning, Lynette!’ called Mrs Atkinson, pausing on her way to her office. ‘You don’t mind my using your first name, now that you’re part of our family, so to speak?’

‘No, no, Mrs Atkinson,’ Lynette answered, noting that the other woman didn’t offer her own first name, which was known, in fact, to be Ailsa. ‘I prefer it.’

‘And you’re quite happy to be in charge of the desk now?’

‘Quite happy, thanks.’

‘That’s excellent. Please don’t hesitate to ask, if you need any help.’

‘Thank you, I won’t.’

How well we’re getting on, thought Lynette, but as she slipped off her raincoat, did not miss the flash of surprise in Mrs Atkinson’s eyes as she took in the red suit. Surprise, was it, or disapproval? She made no comment, however, only nodded briefly as she moved away, leaving Lynette to speak to Fionola, who had just arrived at Reception.

‘Shan’t be a tick, I’m just going to hang my coat up.’

‘That’s all right.’ Fionola smiled. ‘Lynette, I like your suit. What a lovely colour.’

‘Think so? Hope everyone agrees with you.’

In the staff cloakroom, Lynette hung up her raincoat and combed her hair at the mirror, observing before she hurried back to Reception that she looked well, with a high colour and a sparkle to her eyes. Not as striking as Fionola, of course, but who was?

‘Is the boss in yet?’ Lynette asked, straightening the register, putting things in order as she liked.

‘Mr Allan? Oh, yes, I saw him going into his office.’

With no one around at that moment, most of the guests being still at breakfast, Lynette, perching herself on a stool, studied her assistant.

‘Listen – haven’t asked you before – but is he really as tough as he seems?’

Fionola’s lovely eyes widened. ‘Tough? No, he’s very nice. At least, he’s always been nice to me.’

‘Must be just me, then, that brings out the worst, eh?’

‘Why, you’ve hardly seen him, Lynette! When you get to know him, you’ll find out he’s OK.’

‘Hope you’re right.’

Suddenly, the entrance doors opened, as Ken and Barty, the day porters, appeared with luggage, followed by three new guests making for Reception, just as the phone began to ring, and an elderly man limped from the lift, asking for his bill.

Oh, joy, the day’s begun, thought Lynette, I think this is the way I’m going to like it, nice and busy.

‘If I can ask you to wait for a moment, sir, I shan’t keep you,’ she said to the elderly gentleman, picking up the phone and assuring the caller that she had confirmation for a Saturday booking. ‘Certainly, madam, I have the details right here—’

‘My bill is supposed to be ready,’ put in the elderly party. ‘Mr Rowlandson is my name.’

‘And it is ready, sir,’ Lynette told him, while Fionola booked in the new guests. ‘If you’d just like to check it through? And book you a taxi? Of course, sir. One moment . . .’

Nice and busy, Lynette had said she liked it, but really that Monday morning was almost too hectic, and when a slight lull did come, she was glad to take time to stretch and walk up and down the corridor, after shooing Fionola away for a coffee break. It was then that she saw Mr Allan’s tall figure moving deliberately towards her, for all the world like some sort of policeman.

Oh, Lord, what was he going to say? Hallo, Hallo, what have we here?

All he said was, ‘Good morning, Miss Forester. Having a quiet moment?’

‘Good morning, Mr Allan. As a matter of fact, it’s been very busy until now. I’m just snatching a moment while Fionola’s at coffee.’

‘I see.’ For some moments, his eyes rested on her, taking in the red suit as Mrs Atkinson had done, though with no flicker of reaction. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been able to speak to you before about your work here. Are you enjoying it? Finding it easy to cope?’

‘Yes, thank you, Mr Allan. I’m enjoying it very much. Haven’t found any problems so far.’

‘Good, good.’ He seemed to be hesitating, was even a little ill at ease. ‘I notice, Miss Forester, you have a change of outfit today from last week.’

‘Thought I’d provide a spot of colour.’

‘It is a colourful suit, certainly.’

Guessing what was coming, Lynette felt irritation rising. ‘You don’t think it’s appropriate?’

Again, he hesitated. ‘Perhaps I should just explain, here at the Talisman we have a staff dress code – everyone presenting a rather similar appearance, rather than being strikingly different.’

‘No one told me about a dress code.’

‘Perhaps it didn’t seem necessary. What you were wearing was exactly right.’

‘And now it’s exactly wrong?’ she flared up, turning scarlet. ‘Honestly, Mr Allan, I take exception to that!’

‘No, no, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with what you’ve chosen to wear. It’s most attractive, would be perfectly suitable for one of the smart London hotels, for instance, but we’re just a rather old-fashioned place with perhaps an older clientele—’

‘Who might just like to see a spot of colour. Please answer me this, Mr Allan, are you telling me not to wear my red suit again?’

He slightly shook his head. ‘I’m just saying I’d prefer you to have the look of the rest of the staff who serve the public directly.’

‘No dress code for the porters, I take it?’

The manager tightened his lips. ‘I think you understand me, Miss Forester.’

‘Perfectly.’ Lynette, breathing hard, stared at him with glittering eyes. ‘May I go for my coffee now? I see Fionola has returned.’

‘Certainly. I don’t wish to keep you.’

Turning on his heel, Mr Allan left her, and Lynette, trying to contain her simmering anger which was in danger of boiling over, ran, not to the staff dining room, but the kitchen, where she cried, ‘Quick, you folks, give me a strong coffee, before I explode!’

Twenty-Two

As his three assistants looked up with interest from their chopping, peeling and stirring, Scott Crosbie grinned and poured a strong black coffee from a pot on the stove.

‘Here, this’ll sort you out,’ he told Lynette, who took the coffee gratefully. ‘But what’s up, then? Has one of the guests been causing trouble?’

‘No, just the manager. Listen, would I be allowed a cigarette in here?’

‘A cigarette?’ Lanky young Fergus laughed. ‘Are you joking?’

‘No ciggies,’ Scott said firmly. ‘How about one of the breakfast croissants?’

‘With butter and jam? Oh, yes please!’

‘So what’s misery guts Allan been up to, then?’ asked Hamish, as Brigid left her chopping board to bring Lynette a large flaky croissant with butter and jam. ‘We all know what he can be like if he’s in one of his moods.’

‘Trouble is, we never hit it off from the start.’ Lynette was buttering her croissant with a sigh of pleasure. ‘This looks delicious – thanks very much. No, he seemed to take against me, just because I’m from the hostel. I ask you, why would he be like that?’

‘Do you not know?’ Brigid’s sweet Highland voice was becoming a squeak. A round-faced and apple-cheeked girl, with short black hair and dimples, she was clearly bursting now to tell Lynette all she knew. ‘He used to live at Conair House! It was his family home.’

‘Conair House was his family home?’ Lynette, brushing crumbs from her mouth, was incredulous. ‘You mean, he’s one of the folk who shot all those stags stuck up in the hall? I don’t believe it!’

‘No, no, it was the people who built the house did that and they were the MacDonalds. But they’d no heir and when old Miss MacDonald died in the thirties, Mr Allan’s father bought the house.’ Brigid, delighted to be the centre of attention, nodded her dark head.

‘I know all this because my mother used to be parlour maid at the house before she married, and she remembers Mr Allan’s family moving in. ‘Course Mr Allan was only a laddie then. Later on, he went away to school.’

‘But what happened?’ asked Lynette, deeply interested. ‘I mean, how did the house come to be a hostel?’

‘Why, Mr Allan’s father went bankrupt!’ Brigid answered. ‘Lost all his money in the war when his business went under. Think it was something to do with exporting stuff – or, was it importing? Anyway, he had to sell the house, and that’s when the hostel bought it.’

‘And Mr Allan’s had a dirty great chip on his shoulder ever since,’ Hamish remarked, returning his attention to a pan of stock bubbling on the stove. ‘Hates even to think of young folk tramping round his old home. So, I’ve heard.’

‘Aye, but what’s all this past history got to do with you?’ Scott asked Lynette, when she rose, dabbing her lips and preparing to leave. ‘Has Mr Allan said something today?’

‘Has he not!’ Lynette was flushing again, remembering her grievances. ‘Only told me I oughtn’t to wear this red suit, but dress for a funeral like everybody else. Well, wear dark colours, I mean, because that’s the dress code. As though it was 1909 instead of 1959!’

‘Told you not to wear that lovely suit?’ Brigid cried. ‘Why that’s ridiculous. I was just thinking how nice you looked!’

‘Very nice,’ Scott said seriously. ‘Very nice, indeed.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ Lynette murmured. ‘All I know is that I’ll have to do what he wants, or kiss my job goodbye, eh?’

‘It wouldn’t come to that. I’m sure he’d never sack you.’ Scott’s craggy face was still serious. ‘You’re too efficient.’

‘And how do you know that?’ she asked, laughing a little.

‘Och, I can tell. I can always tell. And so can Mr Allan. If it came to a showdown, I bet you’d win.’

‘I’d better not risk it. There aren’t many jobs around for people like me.’

‘You any good at cooking? Poor old Fergus here has to do his national service pretty soon. We could do with some temporary help.’

‘Macaroni cheese is my speciality.’ Lynette was laughing again and the kitchen staff laughed with her. ‘No, but I wouldn’t mind learning how to cook. Give me a few lessons, eh, Scott?’