Eleven Pipers Piping (8 page)

“Fuck!” A furious Aussie quack rose above their dying words, as the bright ping of shattering glass pierced the air.
“Jesus!”

I
t’s only a bloody glass, Will,” Nick boomed. “Get another one. We can’t sit with our arms in the air all night. Sod it, I’m having mine anyway.”

Nick tilted his head and took an inch of the amber liquid in one gulp. Everyone else hesitated while Will bent and tucked his arm under the table, producing the ruined glassware, a jagged half-moon piece vanished from the rim as if bitten off by some animal.

“That’s all right, Molly.” Will took the large piece she had retrieved near her feet and dropped it into the crystal shell. “The Hoover can get the bits in the morning.”

As Molly exited the room, Will rose awkwardly and turned to the sideboard, the containers on which twinkled and gleamed.

“C’mon, mate!” Nick began a slurred chorus to the tune of “O Come All Ye Faithful.” “Why are we waiting? Why are we … Will, there’s whisky right here on the bloody table.”

“There’s Oban here, Nick.”

“Then what’s this swill we’re drinking? Here I thought you were serving the best whisky first. It’s like that wedding in the Bible, eh, Vicar?”

“At Cana,” Tom responded. Will’s arms were raised like black wings as he poured scotch from bottle to fresh glass. “The custom was to serve the best wine first, but after they’d nearly run out and Jesus changed water into wine, the steward complimented the bridegroom on saving the best for last.”

“He turned the water into scotch.”
Nick mangled the Johnny Cash song.

“Nick,” John growled, setting his glass down, “have some bloody respect.”

“The first miracle, yes?” Mark twiddled his
sgian dubh
.

“There are no miracles.” Will turned back to them, gripping the crystal tumbler close to his chest, his expression overtaken by some emotion Tom couldn’t identify. A drop of scotch snaked down the side and dripped onto his jacket. “None.” Will raised his glass, which blazed like a bowl of fire in the candlelight.
“Gie her a haggis!”

“Gie her a haggis!”
they roared—again—in kind. As whisky slipped down a dozen throats, Kerra reappeared through the servery door, this time with a platter groaning with plates.

When she set his before him, Tom couldn’t help but stare. In the enormity of the white china sea sat three tiny balls, one brown, one creamy white, one yellowy white, daintily crowned with a sprig of green, possibly coriander, and artfully bordered by two puddles, one chocolate-coloured, one golden. Nonplussed, he glanced around the table at the others jawing their way through this mingy bit of nosh.
Is this it? Can this be supper?

Jesus wept.

Eschewing the two whitish balls, which could only be the tatties and neeps, he braved the brown ball, forking half of it into his mouth, while holding his breath against the unfamiliar aroma. Mealy, he thought. Dry. Not quite so nasty as he’d imagined, though.
The oats and onion helped, though the chopped liver gave the concoction an unpleasant mouth-feel. He reached for his whisky for a cleansing dram, then pushed the remainder of the haggis ball through the chocolate puddle, which he hoped was gravy. It was, and he was grateful. The potato ball and turnip ball he polished off in short order. The other puddle helped. An orange-honey reduction, it quite nicely disguised the bitterness of the neeps.

“Would you care for more?” Mark asked, gesturing towards the plattered haggis, from which curls of steam still rose.

“Oh, no, I’ve eaten heartily,” Tom lied preposterously. The whisky really was getting to him. He glanced at Mark’s plate. “You’ve hardly eaten any!”

“I love potatoes, but the rest …” He grimaced.

Tom looked around the table. Hardly anyone had finished his haggis ball.

“The haggis is just for show,” Mark confided. “Pretty horrible stuff. Nobody really likes it.”

Tom’s heart sank and stomach protested. Surely pudding would be glorious, and ample.

“I’ll have more,” Will said above the rumble of other voices.

“Except for Will,” Mark added. “Will always has more haggis. He—”

“Trying to prove something,” Nick interrupted, reaching for the platter and pushing it down a path past the candelabra, whisky decanters, and Roger’s plate towards his brother-in-law.

Will ignored the jibe and silently thrust his spoon into the innards of the haggis, scooping a sizable portion onto his plate. He ate with concentration.

“I forgot something.” John rose, dropped his napkin by his plate, and sidled behind the other diners to the corridor exit. At the same time, Kerra popped through the servery door and began removing the plates. John returned after a few moments and resumed his seat, wearing, Tom noted, a preoccupied frown.

“Problem?”

“Oh!” John started, rubbing at something in his left hand. “No … nothing. I … took a quick look outside. I think we’re in for it. I’ve never seen snow like this. Monday’s shoot will be cancelled for certain. It may be a task getting back to Noze tonight.”

“It looks like it might have been a task getting
into
Thornford.” Tom cast his eyes around the table. “I don’t know those gentlemen well”—he nodded towards those farther along the table—“but I think other than Nick you’re the only one here who doesn’t live right in the village.”

John followed his glance. “If Nick drinks much more, he won’t be able to drive anywhere. My Land Rover’s fit for most weather, but I’m not sure about this. It was getting icy when I came down a few hours ago and now the snow’s getting deep.” He opened his hand and removed what appeared to be a pink tablet. “Antacid,” he muttered, popping it into his mouth and chasing it with sip of whisky.

“I sympathise. Haggis is rather—”

“It’s not because of the haggis, Tom.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He knew some people suffered terribly from acid stomach. But John shot him a smile that seemed to invite enquiry.

“What?” he said, but before John could reply, the door from the servery opened yet again, and this time both Kerra and Molly Kaif stepped forth with trays of steaming china. Some wisp of aroma reached Tom’s nose. His heart soared. Yes! That whiff he had caught earlier! He hadn’t been wrong. Faces on the other side of the table beamed in the buttery light as heaped plates were placed before them. When Molly placed Nick’s before him, he shouted,

A roar of approval followed, fit to bring down the ceiling. Tom smiled upon the fare as he watched Kerra set Will’s plate down, then
John’s, then his own. Glory be! Curry! And it looked beyond splendid. Perfumy basmati rice and what looked like chicken jalfrezi swimming in red and green peppers. A creamy golden lamb korma. Dal with tomato and courgette, sprinkled with fresh-chopped coriander. This is what he had been missing. One of the middling deficits of village life was not being able to pop out for a curry takeaway. He lifted his fork and tried the dollop of tamarind chutney on the plate’s edge. Piquant. It was bliss.

Roger caught his eye and said across the table, “Surprised?”

“I am! And happily. Do you always have curry for your Burns Suppers?”

“It varies. But with the supper being here in Thornford this year and with the hotel staff being on … hiatus, right, Will? And, bless, with Molly being a dab hand with garam masala …”

Tom leaned over his plate to look down the table. “Cheers, Victor. This is brilliant. You’re a lucky man.”

But Victor returned only a doleful glance. Tom realised his indiscretion in an instant and felt a fool. Of course Victor mightn’t account himself a lucky man these days, not in the aftermath of his son’s death, not with a marriage strained and foundering.

By the end of the main course, having drunk much water along with the whisky to cool his tongue, Tom felt the need to—as his proper grannie in Sevenoaks would say—“spend a penny.” Crossing the lobby on the way to the men’s, he detected a shadow moving along the floor of the reception room, which was now dimly lit, the fire burning low. He peered in to investigate. What he saw was the back of a plump female figure in a pink ski jacket and black trousers, a bob of silvery hair brushing the exposed collar of a roll-neck jumper as her head tilted up towards the portrait of Josiah Stanhope.

“Hello,” he called.

“Oh, hello.” The woman turned, a slight jerk to her movements indicating that he had startled her from some reverie. The first thing Tom noticed were her cheeks, plump as red apples. She looked as
grandmotherly as a figure on a biscuit tin, but for the girlish set of her hair, parted to one side and pinned back with a pink butterfly hair slide, and the brassiness of her lipstick, almost as red as her cheeks. As he stepped towards her, he was further shaken from his grandmotherly imaginings. Behind her gold-rimmed spectacles he could see the sharp shrewd eyes.

“You’re not the manager, surely.”

Tom fingered his clerical collar, the object of her scrutiny. “No, I’m not.” He hesitated. “Are you wanting to stay at the hotel?”

“Well … yes.” Her puzzled frown told Tom she thought he was dim. “If it’s not a bother.”

“I think the hotel’s—”

“I did ring the little bell on the desk out in the lobby some time ago, but there was no response. I expect no one could hear it over the noise.”

“There’s a private function tonight. A Burns Supper, as it happens.”

“Really? For the staff?”

“Er, no … perhaps I should fetch the owner. He’s hosting the supper. If you’ll have a seat, Mrs.… Miss …?”

“Ingley. Judith Ingley. Mrs.”

“I’m Tom Christmas. I have to make a slight detour, Mrs. Ingley, then I’ll get Mr. Moir directly.”

“Moir? Then there are no Stanhopes?”

“Will Moir is married to a Stanhope, so, yes there are Stanhopes … You know the family, then?”

“A little.” Judith Ingley’s smile was indecipherable.

A few minutes later, Tom returned to the reception room with Will, who said: “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Ingley, the hotel is closed for renovations.”

“Oh, dear …”

“We haven’t been taking any reservations for the New Year. I hope someone on staff didn’t make a booking by mistake.”

“No, I … really, I drove down on a sort of whim. I didn’t think at this time of year …”

“Where did you come from?” Tom asked.

“From Stafford. I didn’t imagine the weather would turn so.”

“That’s a fair distance in these conditions.” Tom glanced at Will, wondering if he might make some accommodation at Thorn Court for the traveller. But Will’s attention seemed directed inwards. His large, bony hand pressed into the chintz fabric on the armchair set before the dying fire, as if he were making an effort to keep himself upright. Judith, too, was studying him.

“Are you well, Mr. Moir?” She reached down for the handle of a bulging handbag.

“I think maybe the curry hasn’t agreed with me.” Will placed his hand against his stomach.

“Discomfort or pain?”

“A little discomfort. It’s nothing.”

“Upper abdomen?” she persisted, opening the clasp of her bag. “Are you feeling any pain or discomfort in your chest, perhaps? I trained as a nurse,” she added with a look that brooked no argument.

“You do look a bit peaky, Will,” Tom added.

“Really, it’s nothing,” Will said, asperity rising in his voice. “All it is, is … wind.”

Judith peered at him coolly. “Well, if you say so.” She snapped the clasp shut. “Now, I wonder if there’s a bed-and-breakfast …?”

The few there were in the village—Weir House, the Moon and Stars, and Red Cottage—paraded across Tom’s mind, but he knew that in this, the lowest weeks of the low season, their owners had not unwisely flown off to the Caribbean or Florida or the Algarve for a bit of sun. Once upon a time the Church House Inn had a carriage trade, but Emily Swan had three siblings, a mother, and a
father who was the inn’s landlord. There were no rooms at that inn.

“You mightn’t get any joy.” He shot Will another prompting glance.

But Will was merely prompted to embellish the current condition of Thorn Court: “Much of the furniture has been moved to storage and the heat is off in the bedrooms, so you see …”