The Tartan Touch (4 page)

“Come on, Miss MacTaggart,” he said, “it’s time to get up!”

Miss MacTaggart indeed! And he alone with me in my bedroom! I was getting to be the next best thing to a scarlet woman!

“Yes, Mr. Fraser,” I said demurely
.

“It was Andrew earlier,” he reminded me quickly.

“Och, that was a slip o
f the tongue!”

“Was it indeed, Mrs. Fraser?”

I took fright. My sense of well-being depended entirely on Andrew Fraser’s goodness, I remembered uneasily. My position was more vulnerable than I cared to think about
.

“I—I’
ll;
try to remember,” I promised.

“See that you do,” he said.

I was in a subdued mood as I packed my new clothes in the bag I had brought with me from the manse. They were beautiful garments, very much what Mrs. Fraser would wear as a matter of course. Perhaps it was that that added to my sense of disquiet, for I was only Mrs. Fraser by pretence, and Kirsty MacTaggart had never worn anything other than a simple dress, or a skirt, with my plaid, or my winter coat, to keep me warm
.

Even so, my luggage came to the half of Mr. Fraser’s. He had a matching set of leather cases, all of them bulging with clothes of one sort and another. He wasn’t one to deny himself when it came to his own comfort, but then he was a different man from the one my father had been. It was all part of the quandary I was in, for I had an eye for such things like any woman, but I could still be shocked at squandering money on fine raiment.

The porter had to make two trips to our room. I thought we might well have carried some of the baggage down ourselves, but Mr. Fraser prevented me with a frown. Some friends of his had gathered in the foyer
of the hotel to say goodbye to him and he put his hand on my elbow and introduced me to them as his wife. Not one of them showed by so much as a look that they were surprised, or even that they thought he might have done better.

“
Good on yer, Andy!” one of them yelled across the muffled foyer suddenly.

Mr.
Fraser smiled at him. It was a shock to me, for I had never really seen him smile before. His face had been set by looking into the sun and long distances and he seldom saw the need to disarrange his expression for any reason.

“
Good on yer, mate,” the man said again, pumping Mr. Fraser’s arm up and down. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to the missus?”

“Too right I am!” Mr. Fraser agreed. He pushed me forward and the man ducked his head and gave me a smacking kiss on the cheek.

“That’s for the lovely bride!” he grinned at me.

I went scarlet, but I managed to mumble something suitable, and retreated closer to Mr. Fraser and, I hoped, his protection.

“Kirsty,” Mr. Fraser said gravely, “this is Frank Connor, one of our nearest neighbours in the Murchison.”

“I’ll be seeing you there!” the man assured me. “You can bet on it!”

“Would you be very far away from us?” I asked him huskily. It seemed all Australians bet on everything all the time.

He bent his head to hear me the better. “My word,” he said, “you’ll be a breath of Old Scotland in the Outback!” He smacked his lips in exaggerated satisfaction.
“
Most of us pastoral fellows are Irish by descent round the Murchison. Andy is the odd man out. But
it’s all in the family! My word, they’re going to love you, Mrs. Fraser!”

I glanced up with pride at Mr. Fraser, aware of his eyes watching me
.

“I’ll look forward to it, Mr. Connor,” I said, and blushed in case he should think that I was putting myself forward. But apparently Australians don’t worry about such things, for he kissed me again with some enthusiasm and said he would have to be going.

“So must we!” Mr. Fraser said cheerfully.

“See yer!” said Frank Connor, and was gone.

Mr. Fraser gave me an odd look and squeezed my arm gently. “Do
n
’t
mind
Frank,” he said. “He’s a fine fellow underneath all that bounce.”

I was surprised. “I like him,” I said. “I wish we were all as free and easy—” I broke off, blushing furiously as I realised that
Mr.
Fraser had been talking about Frank Connor kissing me. “It’s no more than his manner!” I exclaimed.

“And you didn’t mind it?”

I shook my head, “Why should I?” I said bravely. “I’m not a young girl to be fashed by a man’s ways!”

He escorted me carefully across the foyer and into the waiting taxi. “Is that so? I congratulate you, Mrs. Fraser!”

I peeped up at him, anxious lest I had displeased him. “You like him too, don’t you?” I asked quickly.

“He’s okay,” he drawled.

The taxi drew away from the hotel and joined the streaming traffic, making its way to Victoria and the B.O
.
A.C. terminal. Once there, we would be well on our way to Heathrow and the aeroplane that was to carry us to Australia.

“Don’t be too friendly with Frank Connor,” Mr.
Fraser went on slowly. “He’s a bachelor—a rich one and he has a reputation with the ladies.”

“He’s a grand man
!
” I agreed with enthusiasm.

“The Murchison has little to do. Most people gossip about one another all the time—”

“I know,” I said impatiently. “They gossip in the glen too, but there’s small harm done by it!”

“Kirsty, I won’t have you talked about,” he said a great deal more ste
rn
ly
.

I shrugged my shoulders, a trifle uneasy myself.

“As my wife—”

My Scottish temper got the better of me. “But I’m not your wife!” I exclaimed angrily. “Not in any way that matters! It takes more than a few words to make a woman a wife—even words from a minister. I may be Mrs. Fraser in public, but to myself
I’ll
be Kirsty MacTaggart until I die!”

CHAPTER THREE

I
had
never seen an aeroplane close up, except once, and that one bore little relation to the gleaming monster which swallowed us up, like some all-enveloping nightmare, and disgorged us, only a couple of days later, on the opposite side of the world. We flew and we came down to refuel in romantic-sounding places whose airports all looked exactly the same, and then we flew again. I ticked off the places on the Southern Route that we had been to and never seen. There was New York, San Francisco, Honolulu, and Fiji, and then bang on time there was Sydney spread before us, full of red and green roofs, and the new Opera House, shaped like a boat in full sail, and the racecourse where Mr
.
Fraser said all the smart people gathered for the equivalent of the English Ascot and Derby, or something like that, for he talked of Melbourne and Adelaide and Alice too, and I was tired enough to be easily confused.

And Sydney itself was not an end to the journey. Together with a single lady, who had sat across the way from us in the aeroplane from England, and whose ankles had swollen badly in the long flight, we were shepherded along to be received by the Customs people, who asked far more questions than was good for them, and to be given a poor thing of a meal that gave us all indigestion
.

“Is this what they give you to eat in Australia?” I demanded of Mr. Fraser
.

“I’ve eaten better,” he grunted.

“One mustn’t complain,” Miss Rowlatt, as I discovered her name to be, said gently.

“I can’t abide waste!” I said with deep disgust.

Miss Rowlatt’s eyes twinkled. “You’re absolutely right, my dear, but it doesn’t sit well on a Pommy to say so!”

I hadn’t heard the term before. “Are you a Pommy?” I asked her.

“I suppose I am,” she admitted, “though I’ve lived at Geraldton for more than thirty years now.” She certainly had a fine tan to show for it. ‘You must come for a visit,” she added kindly.

“Is it far from the Murchison?” I asked her.

She laughed, though I couldn’t tell why, “Not too far. We’re on the coast at Gera
l
dton. A lot of the Murchison families come to us for holidays. You can bring Mary, if you like
.
”

I hesitated, not knowing the kind of thing Mr. Fraser’s ward would want to do. “If Mr. Fraser says we may,” I compromised.

Miss Rowlatt laughed again, “I’ll deal with Andy!” she promised.

“Ay, Andrew,” I amended hastily.

I liked Miss Rowlatt. I liked her as much as I had Mrs. MacGregor, she whose ham we had eaten on the drive down to London.

“I’ve not met Andrew’s ward yet,” I confided to her when we went to the Ladies’ together.

“And you want to know all about her?”

I wriggled with embarrassment. “Is she—fierce?” I asked.

“No more than any of the other Frasers!” she laughed at me, thus confirming the worst of my fears
.
“She’s a bit lost, poor lamb.”

It would have been disloyal to have asked her any further questions. Mr. Fraser had already told me eve
r
ything he wanted me to know and the rest I should have to find out for myself. But, even so, I couldn’t resist asking just one more thing.

“And Mrs. Fraser? Does she come to Mirrabooka often?”

Miss Rowlatt looked suddenly serious. “Hardly at all,” she said
.
Then she went on briskly. “You must remember that
you
are Mrs. Fraser now, my dear. Andy’s wife rates higher than Donald’s widow, which is part of Margaret’s trouble, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

I didn’t mind at all. I didn’t understand more than the half of what she was saying to me. She laughed delightedly to herself.

“My dear, we’re all so delighted that Andy’s got himself hitched at last! And so like him to do it on the spur of the moment
.
We all think it’s frightfully romantic! Are you very happy?”

I blushed and swallowed. “V-very,” I said miserably. She gave me a thoughtful look, but she said nothing more. Nothing to me at least. I heard her talking to Mr. Fraser though later, in a fierce undertone that I was sure boded me no good. Mr. Fraser would not like to know that I had been talking about his affairs,

“Andy, how could you?” she was saying. “She’s no match for Margaret and you know it!”

Mr. Fraser looked distant, as he often does when someone is treading on his toes. “Don’t underrate the tenacity of the Scots,” he advised her bleakly. “We’re bonny haters, as Kirsty would say.”

“And bonny lovers too?” Miss Rowlatt answered, not caring if the blow fell below the belt.

“Right,” said Mr. Fraser.

Miss Rowlatt sighed, “Margaret says she is planning to visit Mirrabooka as soon as you are home.”

Mr. Fraser started. “Thanks
,
” he muttered
.

Miss Rowlatt put her hand on his arm. “Look after
Kirsty, Andrew. She’s sweet! I don’t care how you induced her to come back with you, she’s exactly right for you and a
darling,
and Margaret could hurt her very badly.”

Mr. Fraser looked straight ahead, a set expression on his face. “Kirsty is my wife,” he said at last. He looked up and saw me approaching them, his grey eyes as cold as slate. “I know how to look after my own.”

I smiled diffidently at them both, sitting down on the nearest chair, the picture of misery.

“It’s odd to think it’s springtime here,” I remarked for something to say. “It’s the time of the heather back home.”

Mr. Fraser gave me a very gentle look, “Feeling homesick,
mo ghaoil
?”

The Gaelic endearment brought tears to my eyes. I shook my head. “It’s only looking back over my shoulder,” I explained pathetically. “It’s the waiting, you see.”

“You know what happened to Lot’s wife!” he shot at me.

Miss Rowlatt made a sound of protest, but I thought he was entitled to a more cheerful face than the one I had been presenting to him for the last hour or more.

“I doubt the glen will be flattered to be compared to Sodom and Gomorrah,” I smiled at him, with wry humour.

“Or that the Murchison is a land of wheat and honey,” he drawled sardonically.

“I’d say not!” Miss Rowlatt exclaimed with a relieved laugh.

Our plane to Perth was called soon after that. I mounted the steps up into the cabin of the aircraft that final time with a feeling of repugnance for the whole business of travel. It wasn’t a natural way of life, to be cooped up in space, with no chance to stretch one’s legs as one could on the earth where one was meant to be. To walk a league or so would have done me more good than to travel across the largest island in the world in a matter of a few hours, I had thought that travel would broaden the mind, but it does little more than cramp the body.

“I’ll never walk again after this!” Miss Rowlatt wailed, once we had climbed to our cruising height. She surveyed her swollen ankles with a face full of comic dismay.

“You must exercise them,” I told her seriously. “Bend them back and forth, like that!”

She glanced down at my own feet. “Perhaps it’s a matter of age,” she said sadly.

“Indeed, it is not!” I denied. “It’s a matter of exercise. The stewardess told me so herself.”

In fact I slept most of the way to Perth, despite it being daytime all the way. My body no longer knew which were the hours of light and which the hours of darkness, with the result that meals came only when I was not hungry, and night arrived just when I was waking up.

Then, a bare six hours after we had left Sydney, the plane began to come down. It being an internal flight, we had no Customs to contend with, though this was Western Australia and Sydney lies in New South Wales. What we had instead was an army of people wanting to speak to Mr. Fraser, to welcome him home, and all of them had been friends of his since he was a bairn,
calling him Andrew, or Andy, or even Drew, just as their fancy took them.