A Highland Christmas (9 page)

T
hat afternoon, a group of children met outside Patel’s to share sweets and talk about what they hoped to get from Santa Claus. A red-haired
little boy called Sean Morrison said, ‘Folks say Morag has been visiting Mrs Gallagher.’

There was an amazed chorus, ‘That old witch! Maybe she’ll put a spell on her.’

Then Kirsty Taylor, a blonde who already had a flirtatious eye heralding trouble to come, said, ‘I bet you, Sean, you wouldn’t have the guts to go out there and ask for
Morag.’

‘Bet you I could.’

‘Bet you can’t.’

‘I’ll go if you all come wi’ me,’ said Sean.

Kirsty danced around him, singing, ‘Cowardy, cowardy custard.’

‘If you don’t come,’ shouted Sean, ‘you won’t know I’ve been there!’

So it was decided they would all go. Sean would knock at the door and they would hide.

‘Who can that be?’ asked Mrs Gallagher as she heard the knock at the door.

‘I’ll go if you like,’ said Morag.

‘No, it’s all right.’ Mrs Gallagher opened the door and looked down at the trembling figure of Sean. ‘Is Morag here?’ he asked.

‘Come in,’ said Mrs Gallagher.

‘He hasnae come out,’ whispered Kirsty. ‘Maybe she’s putting them both in the pot to boil them for her supper. I’ll creep up and peek in the
window.’

The others clutched one another as Kirsty crept up to the window. At last she came running back, blonde hair flying, cheeks red in the frosty air. ‘They’re sitting at the fire eating
fruitcake,’ she gasped. ‘Fruitcake with icing on top.’

Mrs Gallagher opened the door and saw the group of schoolchildren, all professing to be friends of Morag. Mrs Gallagher knew from Morag that the girl craved friends and was shrewd enough to know
why this lot had come round. She knew her local reputation.

‘Come in,’ she said. ‘There’s plenty of cake and lemonade. But first, you’ve got to give me your phone numbers and I’ll phone your parents and let them know
where you are.’ She wrote down the phone numbers and names and went to the phone in her parlour. When she returned to the kitchen, Morag was surrounded by chattering children.

‘I’ll give you all some cake,’ said Mrs Gallagher, ‘and then you can all help me to put up the Christmas decorations. I’m a bit late this year.’

When had she last put up decorations? she wondered, looking back down the years. She cut generous slices of fruitcake while Smoky purred on Morag’s lap.

Hamish phoned Maisie Pease. ‘I’ll be setting off from the war memorial tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Pick you up at one-thirty.’

‘Grand, Hamish, I’ll see you there.’

She rang off and then stared at the phone. How odd? Why wasn’t he picking her up at the school-house? She looked through to her neat kitchen where a large turkey lay waiting to be roasted.
She had bought a large one to make it look really Christmassy in a Dickensian way. It was too large, she thought. She would be eating turkey for a month.

Jessie and Nessie Currie set out arm in arm for their usual tour of the village. They liked to keep an eye on everything that was going on. As they passed Chisholm’s
garage, Ian was hosing down the minibus.

‘It’ll freeze in this weather,’ said Nessie.

‘Freeze in this weather,’ echoed the Greek chorus that was her twin sister.

‘Just getting it ready for Macbeth,’ said Ian.

‘And why would he want a bus?’ asked Nessie.

‘Don’t know. But he’s booked it for Christmas Day.’

The sisters headed for the police station, eyes gleaming with curiosity. Then Nessie grabbed her sister’s arm. ‘Look at that!’

Angela Brodie was pushing a pram along the waterfront. ‘Herself is past having the babies,’ exclaimed Nessie.

‘Herself has never been able to have the babies, the babies,’ said Jessie.

They crossed the road and stood in front of Angela. ‘Who does the little one belong to?’ asked Nessie.

‘Me!’ said Angela with a smile, and pushing the pram around them, headed for home.

‘It is the fertility treatment,’ said Nessie.

They went to the kitchen door of the police station. Jessie peered round Hamish’s tall figure. The kitchen seemed to be full of fishermen.

‘What’s going on, what’s going on?’ asked Jessie.

‘Crime prevention meeting,’ said Hamish curtly. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You hired a bus for the morrow,’ said Nessie. ‘Why?’

‘I’m taking some people down to an old folks home in Inverness for a Christmas Day concert.’

The sisters looked at each other. Then they said in unison. ‘We’ll come.’

Hamish wanted to be rid of them. All right,’ he said. ‘The bus leaves the war memorial at one-thirty.’

‘We’ll be there.’

I don’t want them, thought Hamish, but if that pair are determined to come, there’ll be no stopping them.

At two in the morning on Christmas Day, there was a wickedly hard frost, which turned the whole landscape white. Silently and quickly Hamish and the fishermen set to work.
Archie paused in his labours to whisper to Hamish, ‘What will you say if Strathbane finds you out?’

‘I’ll say I’m testing them,’ Hamish whispered back. ‘To see if they work. It’s the one day only.’

Christmas Day. Morag struggled awake and switched on her bedside light. She knew she should not hope that Santa had brought her anything, but she wistfully thought it would be
wonderful if just this year he had decided to stop at her home.

She climbed out of bed and drew back the curtains. Then she let out a gasp. It was snowing, large feathery flakes falling down from a black sky.

But not only that. She rubbed her eyes and looked again. The Anderson house was at an angle so that the windows faced down the waterfront. Fairy lights were winking and sparkling through the
snow, and by the memorial was a large Christmas tree, also bedecked in lights.

She hurriedly washed and dressed and was about to rush from her room when she saw a bulging stocking hanging on the end of her bed. Wondering, she tipped out the contents. There was a giant bar
of chocolate, a small racing car, nuts and oranges. Santa must have come. Her parents would never have allowed her chocolate.

She went into the sitting room. Four packages wrapped in Christmas paper stood on the coffee table. Eagerly, she opened them up. Three labels said TO MORAG FROM HER MOTHER AND FATHER. In one
package was a smoky blue Shetland scarf, in another, a bright red sweater, and in the third, a doll with blonde hair and blue eyes. The fourth package was from Mrs Gallagher and contained a
handsome wooden box of tubes of watercolours and brushes, and along with it came a large drawing book.

She was about to run and find her parents,

when she distinctly heard sleigh bells outside and a great voice crying, ‘Ho, ho, ho!’

‘Santa!’ Morag ran to the front door and jerked it open. The snow fell gently and the lights of a transformed Lochdubh glittered and sent their reflections across the black loch. She
looked up at the sky but there was no fleeing sleigh. Then she saw the parcel lying on the doorstep. The label said TO MORAG FROM SANTA WITH LOVE.

She carried it into the sitting room and squatted down on the floor with the parcel on her lap and opened it up. It was a large stuffed grey-and-white cat, like Smoky, with green glass eyes.

Morag ran up to her parents’ bedroom and threw open the door. Her parents struggled awake as the small figure of their daughter hurled herself on the bed, hugging them and kissing them and
saying, ‘It’s wonderful! I’ve never been so happy in all my life!’

And Mr Anderson, who had been prepared to break the news to his daughter that there was no such person as Santa Claus, followed by his usual lecture on the pagan flummery of Christmas, found his
eyes filling with tears as he hugged his daughter back and merely said gruffly, ‘Glad you’re happy.’

In the police station, Hamish Macbeth put the tape recorder with the sound of sleigh bells and ‘Santa’s’ voice along with the chain of small gilt bells he had
borrowed from Angela on the kitchen table. Time to get a few hours’ sleep before the journey to Inverness.

In the cottage next to the schoolhouse, Maisie Pease had a leisurely bath, and then began to dress with care, first in satin underwear and then in the cherry-red wool dress.
She looked thoughtfully at the large sprig of mistletoe hanging over the living room door. She would point at it shyly and he would gather her in his arms. ‘You’re looking
bonnie,’ he would say before his lips descended on hers. She gave a happy little sigh and went to look out of the window. Where had all the lights come from? They sparkled the length of the
waterfront. The snow was falling gently and she hoped it would not thicken and stop them from going.

She tried to eat breakfast, but excitement had taken her appetite away. How slow the hands of the clock moved. She waited and waited as the sky reluctantly lightened outside. She looked out of
the window again. The snow had stopped and a little red winter sun was struggling over the horizon. Ten o’clock in the morning. Three hours to wait. Maisie switched on the television set and
prayed for time to speed up.

Angela Brodie opened the door to the Currie sisters. ‘Happy Christmas!’ cried Angela. ‘Come in and have a glass of sherry.’

The sisters came in and sat down in Angela’s messy kitchen. Nessie handed Angela two small parcels. ‘For the baby,’ she said.

Angela looked at them in amazement. ‘What baby?’

‘Yours. The one you were pushing in the pram.’

Angela blushed with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry. I never thought for a moment you would believe me. It was a cloutie dumpling. I’d been using Mrs Maclean’s washhouse.
I’m sorry I’ve put you to expense. Let me pay you.’

‘That will not be necessary, not necessary,’ said Jessie. ‘We’ll just put them away. Someone’s always having a baby, a baby.’

‘Sherry?’

‘No,’ said Nessie, ‘we’re going down to Inverness with Macbeth. He’s taking us in Chisholm’s bus. It’s a concert he’s organized at an old folks
home.’

‘What a surprising man he is. Can anyone come? We’re not having dinner until this evening.’

‘The bus leaves the war memorial at one-thirty.’

‘I’ll see if my husband wants to come and maybe join you.’

Maisie Pease stared at the carnival-painted bus and then walked round it, looking for the police Land Rover. On the other side, she found Hamish with a group of people.

‘Maisie!’ he cried. ‘Are we all set?’

‘Yes,’ she said eagerly.

‘Right, I think that’s everyone,’ said Hamish. ‘All on the bus.’

Maisie watched in dismay as the Currie sisters, Dr Brodie and his wife, Angela, Mr and Mrs Anderson, Morag and Mrs Gallagher all climbed aboard. Hamish was at the wheel. There would be no chance
for any intimate talk.

Then she brightened up. They would be alone for dinner that evening.

Despite the odd assortment of villagers, there was a festive air on the bus. Angela laughed at the chintz-covered seats. The bus sped out of Loch-dubh under a now sunny sky. Snow lay in a gentle
blanket everywhere. It was a magic landscape, thought Morag, clutching the stuffed cat on her lap as she sat next to Mrs Gallagher.

They stopped in Cnothan and picked up Mr McPhee. Maisie groaned inwardly. How many more?

The Currie sisters were flirting awfully with Mr McPhee, whose old face was beginning to assume a hunted look.

He moved his seat to the back of the bus. Thwarted, the Currie sisters began to sing carols in high, reedy, churchy voices. Hamish was amused this time to hear Jessie repeating the last line of
every lyric and falling behind her sister.

When they were finally silent, Hamish, his eyes twinkling with mischief, called to Mr Anderson to give them a song. To his surprise he began to sing ‘The Road to the Isles’ in a
clear tenor. Morag sparkled when her father finished and was given a round of applause.

At last Hamish drew up outside the old folks home and they all climbed down.

A piano had been set up in the lounge. Residents of the home sat around. Bella and Charlie were already at the piano dressed in striped blazers and straw boaters.

Mrs Dunwiddy exclaimed, ‘Is it really you, Alice?’