Chloe (27 page)

‘And the undies?' asked Chloë, who thought the bride's hair and make-up very fine.

‘Well, Richie – he's my – oh gracious! My husband! Ha! He's my
hus
-band. Well, my husband – Richard – would never recognize me all trussed up in a tit sling. It could very well disappoint him – sorely – and you know how awful that would be.'

‘A disaster!' colluded Chloë, etching a look of abject horror on to the imagined face of Sally's groom in her mind's eye.

‘But the dratted thing is press-studded to my dress – and with all these buttons up and down the back, there's no way I can get to it.'

‘Which is where I come in?'

‘Precisely!' the bride declared placing her hand on Chloë's knee and giving it a gentle squeeze. ‘If you wouldn't mind!'

They knelt; Sally holding on to the bath chattering away nineteen to the dozen, Chloë unbuttoning the back of the dress carefully, admiring all the little details as she did. Sally told how they were from London but that Richard had proposed last spring very near Loch Lomond.

‘We thought of marrying on Mull initially, where it all happened really. But Aunt Celia, who lives there, advised us to keep the isle our sacred, secret haven. Her friend owned this place, you see, so that's how we're here.'

‘Fraser Buchanan,' Chloë marvelled.

‘Aunt Celia's here, of course,' the bride was continuing, ‘she's utterly wonderful. You must meet her – my mentor, my role model.'

‘I had one too,' rued Chloë. Sally noted the past tense with sympathy.

As she felt her way along the bra strap for the press-studs, Chloë told her of Jocelyn's legacy, that she was now in Scotland, third stop, that she had been to Wales and Ireland and was going to England next. In the autumn. To who knows where.

‘That's so exciting!' said the bride genuinely, drumming the edge of the bath lightly with her fists. ‘I wonder where you'll choose to end up!'

‘As yet,' confided Chloë, ‘I have absolutely no idea. But Scotland's looking promising.'

‘Ah,' laughed Sally, ‘the spell of Scotland, cast over you and woven deep within you in just twenty-four hours!'

‘Indeed,' agreed Chloë.

‘Wait until it rains,' warned Sally warmly.

‘I have a brolly,' countered Chloë, ‘and I
did
live in Islington.'

‘Well, wait for the midges!'

‘I don't think I'm that tasty,' said Chloë.

With the offending bra gently removed, Chloë buttoned up the bride and they sat on the side of the bath and chatted.

‘Had you known him for ages?' Chloë asked.

‘Who?'

‘Robert? No,
Richard
– your
hus
band.'

‘Oh!' shrieked Sally. ‘
Him!
Actually no, not really! A few months in fact – rather turbulent too!'

‘A whirlwind romance?' Chloë suggested.

‘Actually,' confided Sally, nudging up close to Chloë, ‘if I'd had my own way – and I'm eternally glad that I did not – there would not have been a scrap of romance in it at all!'

Chloë looked puzzled.

‘It's a long story,' Sally assured.

‘Oughtn't you to return to your guests?' said Chloë. ‘To your
hus
band?'

‘Gracious yes,' said Sally, ‘I've been up here for ages. Tell me, is it fairly warm outside now?'

‘It's lovely,' Chloë confirmed.

‘Great!' said Sally, more to herself than anyone. Scooping up the skirt of her gown, she wriggled with determination. And removed her lacy knickers which she folded neatly with the bra.

‘I may be Mrs Stonehill,' she said to Chloë, eyes dancing and cheeks blooming, ‘but I'm still his same old Sal beneath it all!' Solemnly, she handed the underwear to Chloë. ‘Would you mind hiding these for me?'

Chloë accepted them graciously and, after accompanying the bride downstairs, ensured that they were tucked out of sight in her rucksack.

‘Maggie, quick! I need the canapé plates washed and dried – we have to reuse them for the fresh fruit.' The young man's fawny hair was in disarray and flopped over his left eye and into the corner of his right. It made him blink a lot and, with his shirt now damp and clinging to his back and the tops of his arms, gave the impression that he had just performed a frenetic Highland fling.

‘Sure, sure!' encouraged Chloë as she backed away into the kitchen to yet another round of washing-up. The light outside was hazing and she reckoned it was nearing six o'clock. The afternoon had scuttled past her while she tended to the guests and shared a private wink or smile with the bride. Her groom was most handsome, his speech poetic and honest. Chloë felt softly envious and somewhat wistful but, being unable to conjure up a suitable groom – or even the notion – for herself, she let her heart be warmed unconditionally as she delivered platters of fresh fruit to the tables.

‘Coffee!' hissed the young man. Chloë winked gravely at him and was rewarded with an astonished smile. He was flustered and sweaty but it did not detract from his kind, open face and beseeching hazel eyes. Though he was of medium height and fairly muscular build, Chloë chanced upon his hands which were slender, smooth and decidedly dainty. She realized she did not know where the coffee was, or how it was to be made. And then she realized she did not even know his name but, as she could see that he was engrossed in the
petit fours
, she hurried back to the kitchen and methodically went through the cupboards saying ‘It must be here somewhere' under her breath.

‘Maggie,' he said, clapping his hands against his temples and sliding down the kitchen wall until he sat on his heels, ‘what in the name of sweet Jesus!'

Making coffee for fifty with one
cafetière
was not feasible so Chloë had improvised with two large saucepans and a sieve.

‘Don't worry,' she assured, ‘all under control! I've tasted it too and it's absolutely fine.' With his mouth agape and a strangled squeak from his throat, he motioned to the side of the sink, and to a large steel urn. Chloë looked over to it and then down at her saucepans and the splashes of coffee on her shirt. She turned the gas off, walked over to the urn and placed her hands against it. Hot.

‘Coffee?' she mouthed at the man.

He nodded, closed his mouth and gulped.

‘Sorry,' she whispered though she could see he was not cross.

‘Och! Maybe they'll have two cups apiece! Let's get pouring – here, let me have a taste.' He spooned himself a sip from the saucepan before kissing his fingers and throwing them to the air. ‘Not half bad, Mags my girl, not bad at all – let's take from your saucepans first!'

The coffee was appreciated and most had refills. Evening was slipping into night and when Chloë stood on the doorstep for a breather, silence save the waterfall greeted her and told her that her stay would be good. Slowly, the guests filtered away, shooting a light show over the humpy field in which they had parked out of sight.

‘I'll be a wee while,' the young man told her with a shake of a bunch of keys. ‘I'm to take the bride and groom.'

‘Take them where?' asked Chloë, scraping trifle from the curtain.

‘To their hotel, their honeymoon suite!' he said in a matter-of-fact way. Chloë looked puzzled, having presumed that Braer House
was
a hotel.

‘Not here?' she queried.

‘Here!' he laughed heartily. ‘This was a one-off! Sweet Jesus that Braer should be an hotel!'

With that he chuckled off out of the house. Just the bride and groom remained, Chloë could hear them laughing softly and scuffling in the hallway. She bade them a very good-night and the best of luck and was rewarded with the bride's posy and another conspiring wink. Chloë tipped her head in the direction of her rucksack and winked back. Sally beamed her a smile and gave her a quick kiss.

‘Bye, Chloë,' she said. ‘I'll think of you galivanting around Britain! You should write it all down – just the sort of story that us fusty old married women enjoy!'

‘Goodbye, Mrs Stonehill,' smiled Chloë. She waved them off as the young man drove them away into the night.

Busying herself by tidying up, she felt suddenly too tired to analyse the day. Wiping the cutlery was far easier a task. The young man returned, smiled at Chloë, scowled at the roasting tins and donned apron and rubber gloves at once.

‘Do you know it's nearly half-past ten!'

No, Chloë did not, though her aching back would have suggested it was a whole hour or two later. The phone rang but the young man was arm-deep in soapsuds and side plates.

‘Could you?' he asked, cocking his head in the direction of the ringing.

‘Hullo?' Chloë said to the handset.

‘This is Maggie Campbell,' said the voice, ‘is he there?'

Chloë presumed ‘he' to be the man at the sink so she said, ‘Certainly, please hold a moment.' Placing her hand over the mouthpiece, she whispered in the direction of the bubbles, ‘Excuse me, it's for you.'

‘Who is it?' he hissed over his shoulder.

‘It's Maggie,' said Chloë.

‘Maggie?' he uttered, dripping foam on to the floor and scanning Chloë's face in a futile attempt to make sense of the situation. He took the phone from her, not bothered that he still wore his rubber gloves.

‘Yes!' he announced into the receiver before falling silent while an excuse was obviously given. ‘Sorry? They did, did they?' He stamped and took a soapy, rubbered hand to his brow. ‘And you left it until now to phone? Well!' he declared and it sounded like ‘wheel' with the ‘h', ‘there's manners for you!' He tucked the receiver under his chin and raised his gloves and his eyebrows at Chloë. ‘Thank you so much for calling!' he cooed with sarcasm spiking every word, ‘and goodbye to you too!' he spat in the gentlest of voices.

Replacing the handset, he took off the rubber gloves, washed and wiped his hands thoroughly as if they were dirty, and then put the gloves back on.

‘Bloody Campbells,' he hollered at the ceiling, ‘always the traitors! Glencoe in the 1690s and now Braer in the 1990s!' He continued to glower at the ceiling a while longer before softening his expression and looking over at Chloë who stood at the door with one dishcloth over her shoulder, one over her arm and another in her hands, a concerned expression on her face.

‘That,' he said, looking exasperated, ‘was Maggie.'

Chloë nodded slowly and tried to look sympathetic.

He put his hands on his hips and regarded her quizzically.

‘So who, if you please, are
you
?'

‘I'm Chloë Cadwallader,' Chloë apologized, ‘and I'm looking for Fraser Buchanan.'

‘B
ut I
am
Fraser!' the young man said, walking over to Chloë with his hand outstretched, ‘Buchanan! 'Tis I! No other.'

Chloë backed away and looked suspicious. Of course he wasn't. How could he be? He was little older than she. He was lithe. He had good teeth. No whiskers. She understood what he said, though she could not comprehend a word of it.

‘Are you
sure
?' was all she could think to say. ‘Really?'

‘I am quite sure,' he assured. ‘I have my birth certificate upstairs if you wish!'

Chloë shook her head but still observed him cautiously.

‘Come,' he declared, putting his hand gently on her shoulders, ‘sit and have a wee dram with me.'

He took her back into the dining-room and they sat at the top table, sipping whisky and clinking glasses.

‘Chloë Cadwallader,' he said rolling her name around with pleasure, ‘of course!'

Chloë looked nonplussed but could think neither what to say nor ask.

‘I am indeed Fraser Buchanan. But I am
junior
, if you see. My
da
was Fraser too; Buchanan as well, of course. Senior, if you like. He knew
all
about Chloë Cadwallader! Och! He told me last autumn that we may have a woman called Miss Cadwallader come to stay, though he could not say when. I presumed you to be a wee grey-haired lady with a carpet-bag and a small dog till he explained!'

‘Where
is
your father?' asked Chloë, overlooking Fraser's past tense. The ensuing brief silence hung awkward for Fraser but innocent for Chloë.

‘He died, Chloë,' he seemed to apologize, ‘not two months ago.' He shook his head quickly with eyes closed, but placed a hand firmly over Chloë's to ensure her that it was OK, and not to be embarrassed.

‘It was sudden,' he explained, ‘a very good death – unlike your godmother's.'

‘I'm so sorry,' Chloë muttered. ‘I wish I'd known. Please forgive.'

Fraser tutted her unease away.

‘As I say, it was a good death – and in life, surely that's what one hopes for?'

Chloë agreed readily and smiled back, accepting a second measure of whisky and raising her glass to the memory of Fraser senior.

‘Did you know my godmother then?' she asked, the whisky catching her throat.

‘Jocelyn?' exclaimed Fraser. ‘Oh aye. And I knew she had an utterly cherished god-daughter but I never knew it was you, not until my da spelt it out last autumn. Carpet-bag and lap-dog indeed! Aye, I saw Jocelyn often when I was younger, but I had not seen her in recent years and I'm right sorry for that,' he rued, rotating the edge of his glass across his lips. ‘Da continued to meet her for lunch in Glasgow every now and then but I merely sent my lazy love via him. My mother died when I was a bairn, you see – but your Jocelyn, why, when I was sixteen, seventeen, she was perhaps more important to me than anyone.'

He watched a smile of recognition light Chloë's face.

‘She was?' she asked.

‘Aye, she was that,' Fraser sighed and fell silent for a while. He gazed into his whisky, swirling the tawny liquid, but Chloë could tell he was not looking at it. She had the feeling he was assessing something of considerable weight and that it somehow concerned Jocelyn. Her eagerness to know more, however, encouraged her to maintain a supportive silence.